What the Dead Leave Behind Page 10

  This is one emotional woman, my inner voice said.

  “Diane Dauria told me that you founded the New Brighton Hotdish,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s just silly. How can one person found a club?”

  “Was it your idea?”

  “Noooooah. What happened—I’m a freelance writer, mostly advertising, but some journalism, too. I worked at Carmichael Lynch, Campbell Mithun, but when Critter was born—do you know how Critter got his name?”

  “Jayne Harris told me.”

  “Critterfur—that still cracks me up. Anyway, when Chris was born I decided to go freelance so I could stay home with the youngsters. Agency work—the hours can be so brutal, no kidding—and back then, freelance, if you had a track record, experience working in the agencies, you could do pretty well. I did. ’Course now, the economy, the agencies downsizing, laying off staff, everyone that used to be a copywriter, art director, suddenly they’re working freelance out of necessity, which has flooded the market, making it tougher to earn a living. Anyway…”

  Katie adjusted her glasses and took a sip from the cardboard cup.

  “Anyway, I had pretty flexible hours while the kids were growing up, so I would go to the ballpark early, wherever we were playing that week, and scope out a picnic table or bring one of my own and set up something for the players, snacks and juice boxes, that sort of thing. They were fourteen years old that final season, thirteen and fourteen, freshmen in high school. Now look at them. College juniors every one, scattered hither and yon. Only the parents—it started getting pretty elaborate, especially that last year. We started having dinners at the ballparks, the other parents bringing all kinds of dishes, which was way better than doing fast food because that’s what happened, the games starting at six and everyone rushing to get there after work and then ending after seven, seven thirty, and us running out to get burgers or tacos or something because it was too late to cook a decent meal. We kept at it even after the season ended, the championship season, because we liked each other and the food was really good, some of the members showing off, always trying to outdo each other and the rest of us—McKenzie, you can’t bring a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa when someone is bringing fifteen pounds of baby-back ribs and someone else has a slow cooker filled with jambalaya.”

  She paused to take a deep breath and another sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?”

  “The truth about Frank and Jayne Harris.”

  “You want to know the truth?”

  “The group being so close for so long, you must know each other’s secrets.”

  “The truth and secrets, too? McKenzie, I’m pretty naïve when to comes to stuff like that. I always have been. When I was a sophomore in college, well, sophomore and the beginning of my junior year, I dated a grad student who was studying child psychology, and I loved him. Everybody loved him. He was kind and generous and caring, and he made me laugh right up until he was arrested for—he was a pedophile, McKenzie. He abused the kids he worked with while getting his degree, he had child pornography in his apartment, and I didn’t know. I spent a lot of time in that apartment, McKenzie. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t—even today, we’re talking twenty-five years later, and I still don’t believe it. I mean I believe it—the evidence was pretty overwhelming, but I still wonder—how come I didn’t know? Now you’re asking about Frank and Jaynie. I saw the bruises, I saw the cast on Jayne’s arm, but she and Frank said they were accidents, and I believed them just like I believed my boyfriend. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “What about the others?”

  “The members of Hotdish that weren’t as dumb as I was? Whatever they thought they kept to themselves. Or at least they kept it from me.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “So do I. Why are men so cruel?”

  I don’t think she expected a reply, so I didn’t offer one. I didn’t have a satisfying answer anyway.

  She removed her glasses and became still, her eyes locked on her hands, her hands wrapped around the coffee cup, thinking thoughts that twisted her mouth into a kind of angry pout. I gave her as much privacy as I could, turning my attention to the window. Traffic on Silver Lake Road was light. I noticed a black Acura drive past. I didn’t give it much thought until it cruised by a second time and pulled in to the Bru House lot. I was able to read the license plate, confirming that it was the same car that had followed me the evening before. I told myself it would be nice to have a gun and then dismissed the notion. Too many people carry guns these days, including me.

  The Acura parked at a diagonal in the only empty slot on the side of the building. I could see its passenger-side taillight from where I sat but nothing else, which meant the driver shouldn’t be able to see me; wouldn’t see me actually leaving the coffeehouse until I stepped into the lot and walked to my car. I waited for someone to enter the building, yet no one did.

  Katie’s head came up; she put her black-rimmed glasses back on. For a moment she actually looked her age.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “S’okay.”

  “I don’t know why I’ve been so emotional lately. The holidays, I guess. Throwing a New Year’s Eve party, what was I thinking? But no. No, no. You know what? It’s you, McKenzie. You’re the reason I’m upset, dredging up painful stuff like you are. Jayne’s upset, too. She wishes you would stop what you’re doing. So does Diane. As for Malcolm, poor Malcolm—what happened to his father, I can see how that might be upsetting, and not knowing why it happened … it must be so very hard for him. I saw him a few times during summer vacation, gave him a big hug. He seemed to be handling it better than he did when it first happened; he was smiling a lot and joking around with Critter and the other boys. Now, though … Christmas is what does it. For some people it’s the most depressing time of year. More people kill themselves during the holidays than at any other time, did you know that?”

  “Actually, that’s not true.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “People are offered some protection around Christmas by the proximity of their families, and also it’s winter, and no matter how hard the winter, people tell themselves things will get better. I call it the promise of spring. When spring comes along, though, and people with suicidal thoughts see that nothing has changed…”

  “More people commit suicide in the spring?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I used to be a police officer. I used to respond to a lot of those kinds of calls.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “It was.”

  Katie stared for a few beats as if she were trying to reconcile that version of me with the person sitting across from her.

  “What were we talking about?” she asked.

  “You’re upset.”

  “Yes, I am, and usually I’m not, upset I mean. Usually I’m the opposite of upset. My friends, my family, they like to make fun of me because they say I’m so cheerful all the time. It’s very annoying. I can be earthy when I want to, really.”

  “Earthy?”

  Katie leaned in close, said, “I use the F-word all the time,” and nodded her head solemnly.

  “I’d love to read your poetry sometime,” I said.

  “Dark, dark stuff,” she said. “Makes Sylvia Plath look like Shel Silverstein.” She pulled her head back and laughed. “No, it doesn’t. What do I have to be dark about?”

  “Jayne Harris,” I said. “I can understand her being upset, dredging up bad memories near the anniversary of her husband’s murder, as you said, although—she did seem to appreciate that I was trying to help her son. Diane Dauria, though, has me baffled. Why does she care if I try to find out who killed Frank?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she did it and she’s ’fraid of getting caught, have you ever thought of that?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  An expression of horror crossed Katie’s face.

  “Oh my God, McKenzie, h
ow can you think that? Diane is just the nicest person ever, even if she is the most serious. Besides, she wasn’t here when it happened. She was in Chicago. The police said.”

  “You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “I was kidding. I was—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It isn’t something you should joke about, is it?”

  Pretty much what Dauria said, my inner voice reminded me.

  “The rest of Hotdish—what are they saying about it?” I asked.

  “I doubt most of them know what’s going on. Heck, I don’t even know what’s going on. Probably it’ll come up tonight at the party, but … We’re friends, McKenzie, except it’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. It’s a social thing, after all. Some of the families have dropped out over the years, a couple of others have joined in; friends of friends. Dwayne Phillips, he and his son, Jalen—they called him Philly—they were members, but then they quit right after the championship party. I heard they moved to New Ulm a couple of weeks after the game; didn’t even bother to say good-bye. Kinda sad. ’Course, they were African Americans. Philly was the only person of color on the team. Could’ve been the only family of color in New Brighton for all I know; we’re not nearly as diverse as we could be. They might have been uncomfortable around us. I liked them, though. Liked them a lot. Nice people. And the others. Sometimes everyone shows up at the monthly Hotdish, sometimes it’s only a couple of families, depending on what’s going on. We all have our own lives to live is what I’m trying to tell you. People still care about what happened to Frank, don’t get me wrong. Only it’s starting to be a long time ago and they don’t care as much.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that I’m being followed by members of your Hotdish?”

  Katie blinked at me from behind her glasses.

  “No,” she said. “What? Being followed?”

  “Ever since I took the case.”

  “That’s, that’s—why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “McKenzie, I told you that Jayne and Diane are upset, and so am I, but we all want to see Frank’s killer arrested.”

  Katie’s expression and body language suggested that she was genuinely shocked by my announcement. Either that or she was the best actress I’ve come across in a long while. Because I wasn’t a hundred percent sure either way, I stood up.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  “McKenzie…”

  I slipped on my jacket but did not zipper it.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I left the table and went out the front door of the coffeehouse, staying close to the wall; Katie watched me through the window, a puzzled expression on her face. I circled around the far side of the building, keeping it between the Acura and me. I moved cautiously past the drive-thru and came up on the black vehicle from its side, hoping the driver wasn’t letting his attention wander, that his eyes were firmly fixed on the front of the Bru House. I managed to get next to the car without him noticing.

  I yanked open the driver’s door. His head pivoted toward me. Not Jerome Geddings, I told myself. A young man instead. College age. An expression of alarm on his face.

  Geddings’s son, my inner voice announced, driving the old man’s car.

  I said it aloud. “Does your father know what you’re doing?”

  “What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him out from behind the steering wheel.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “You know who I am.”

  “I wasn’t doing anything. I was just sitting here. You have no right.”

  “Shut up.”

  I pulled him away from the vehicle, hip-checked the door closed, and shoved him toward the Bru House.

  “Who do you think you are?” he said. “You can’t do this.” He turned toward me. I noticed he was favoring his right knee. “I’ll call the police.”

  I gave him the look, the one that dared him, just dared him, to do something stupid.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, although I noticed he didn’t raise his hands like he wanted to make a fight of it.

  “You want to talk to the cops?” I slipped the cell from my jacket pocket. “Fine, let’s talk to the cops.”

  “Wait,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police.”

  “Wait a sec.”

  “Make up your mind.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “See, you do know who I am.” I moved him along. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I took the kid’s arm when we entered the coffeehouse, spun him until he was facing Katie, and gave him another shove. He nearly fell in the woman’s lap but caught himself in time. Katie adjusted her glasses as she stared at him.

  “Steven?” she asked

  “Mrs. Meyer,” he said. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “He was waiting for me in the parking lot,” I said. “I caught him following me yesterday, too.”

  Geddings’s eyes darted from me to Katie as if he wanted to deny it but was afraid of being caught lying in front of her.

  “Steven, is this true?” Katie said.

  “You know it’s true,” I told her. I reclaimed my chair. “How else would he know to come here unless you told him?”

  “I didn’t—”

  I held up a finger.

  “Or someone else in the Hotdish told him,” I said. “Jayne Harris knew you were meeting me. How ’bout Diane Dauria?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Katie told me.

  “How ’bout you, kid? What do you have to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Steven,” Katie said.

  “I was just sitting in the car waiting for my friends. We come here for coffee, you know that. It’s our hangout.”

  “That’s true, McKenzie. Critter comes here all the time, too.”

  “Were you here when Critter got into a fight with Malcolm Harris?” I asked.

  “Chris and Malcolm were fighting?” Katie said. “Why?”

  “Mrs. Meyer…”

  “The young woman who was with Malcolm,” I said. “Were you the one she punched and then kicked in the knee?”

  Geddings’s fingers flew to a spot just to the left of his chin where I was sure the blow must have landed.

  “She caught me by surprise,” he said.

  That’s our girl, my inner voice said.

  “Why were Chris and Malcolm fighting?” Katie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said.

  “I really don’t,” Geddings said. “Mrs. Meyer, honestly. You’ll have to ask Critter.”

  “Why were you following me?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You knew my name.”

  “I was guessing.”

  I turned toward the woman. “See what I have to deal with?” I said.

  “Leave me alone,” Geddings said.

  “You were following me,” I said.

  “Why would I?”

  “Because someone told you to. Who? Was it Diane Dauria?”

  “This is nuts,”

  “What does she want to know?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  I asked Katie, “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Can I go now?” Geddings asked.

  What was I going to do, slap him around? Waterboard him until he told me what I wanted to hear?

  “Beat it,” I said.

  Katie reached out and took Geddings by the wrist.

  “How’s your mother?” she asked. “How’s her cold?”

  “Better. She said she’ll be at the party tonight for sure.”

  “Tell her I’m going to call later.”

  Geddings saw something in her expression that made him swallow hard.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He left i
n a hurry.

  “Nice boy,” Katie said.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  “You didn’t need to be so mean.”

  “I get cranky when people lie to my face.”

  “He said he wasn’t following you. He said he was here to meet his friends.”

  “You believed him?”

  “I’ve known Steven since he was twelve years old. Yes, I believe him.”

  “If he was waiting for his friends, why did he just leave?”

  I threw a thumb at the window. Katie adjusted her glasses yet again as she gazed out just in time to see the Acura pull onto Silver Lake Road and drive off.

  “You frightened him,” she said.

  “He frightened me.”

  “I don’t understand anything that’s going on.”

  “I’m going to take your word for that, too. I’m doing it for the worst possible reason, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Because I think you’re adorable and I’m sexist enough to let it make a difference.”

  Katie’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “But only to a point,” I added.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You know what? I think Jayne is right. You do look a little like Bradley Cooper.”

  *   *   *

  I started the Mustang, told my onboard computer to call Erica, and canceled the call when I remembered she rarely answers her phone. Instead, I pulled out my own phone and sent a text: I want to meet with Malcolm. Arrange it.

  *   *   *

  Malcolm and Erica were sitting opposite each other on stools at the island in the kitchen area when I returned to the condominium. There was a box of vanilla wafers and a plastic tub of cake frosting between them. I watched as they took turns dipping wafers into the frosting, sliding them into their mouths, and chasing them with swigs from the same two-liter bottle of orange pop, apparently rendered germ-free by—was it love? Say it isn’t so, I told myself.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Live in a college dorm for a while, this becomes a delicacy,” Erica said. “Try it.”

  I did, and thought, This is pretty good.

  Stop it! my inner voice said. Don’t encourage them.

  “Not particularly nutritious, though,” I said aloud.