What the Dead Leave Behind Read online

  “Yes, it was, although your mother didn’t think so at the time.”

  “Which is another thing—she has a much better sense of humor since she hooked up with you; she’s more relaxed, too. Anyway, my friends—half my friends have parents who are divorced, and they tell me horror stories about stepmothers and stepfathers and whatever, and I always feel left out because I don’t have one to share. They’re like, what about Nina’s boyfriend, and I’m like, I wish he would marry the woman and adopt me.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Geez, your face,” Erica said. “You are such a lost cause. I’d give you a hug, but wow…”

  She left the chair and moved toward her bedroom. I called after her.

  “Erica, I love you, too,” I said.

  “Too late. The moment’s passed.”

  What a dumb ass, my inner voice said. Only I didn’t feel like a dumb ass. I felt pretty good.

  *   *   *

  Malcolm Harris’s mother was pretty. Not nearly as pretty as Erica’s mother, but handsome enough that if she wanted company she’d have her share. She lived in New Brighton, which was neither pretty nor ugly, just sort of ordinary—a plain-Jane suburb located thirty minutes from both downtown St. Paul and downtown Minneapolis. She greeted me at the door with a smile, an odd thing to do, I thought, considering the circumstances.

  “You’re McKenzie,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Malcolm said you agreed to help him, us, and let’s have no more of that ma’am stuff. Call me Jayne.”

  She held the door open, and I passed through it. Her living room was in full-blown Christmas mode. Opened gifts were still stashed beneath a frighteningly realistic-looking artificial tree that stood in front of her big window, and there was holly and garlands hanging around door frames and arches; four stockings hung from the fireplace mantel.

  “They said it was going to snow, but now it looks like it won’t,” I said just to be friendly.

  “I met a meteorologist once who gave me a ten-minute lecture on all the science that goes into predicting the weather,” Jayne said. “I think he was joking me. I think they just flip a coin. McKenzie, I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “Now that we have that out of the way…”

  “Let me take your coat.”

  I gave it to her. Jayne draped it over the back of a chair near the door and gestured at me to take a seat. She did the same.

  “You spent a lot of time in the emergency room,” I said.

  “Just unlucky, I guess.”

  “Have you been unlucky since your husband was killed?”

  “Nope.”

  “You can see how it looks.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Like you were beaten up regularly.”

  “That’s what Detective … What was his name?”

  “Clark Downing.”

  “That’s what Detective Downing thought, too. He kept asking me if I had anything to tell him. McKenzie, if I said I had been abused, that would be like admitting I had a motive for killing my husband, wouldn’t it? So why would I say such a thing?”

  “Good question, ma’am.”

  “Jayne.”

  “Jayne, it’s entirely possible that someone who had the same suspicions about your situation as Downing might have killed your husband on your behalf.”

  “Then someone did me a favor.”

  “Your son doesn’t think so.”

  The smile left Jayne’s face. “No, he doesn’t,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t either. It’s just…”

  Jayne moved from her chair to the mantel above the fireplace. Along with Christmas decorations, there were a lot of photographs, most of them of Malcolm. In one he was wearing Yankee pinstripes and a baseball glove. The one next to it had him posing with twelve other teenage ballplayers, all dressed in the same uniform, along with three grown-up coaches. The caption at the bottom read NEW BRIGHTON YANKEES. It was dated seven years ago.

  “The reason Mal played baseball was because his father played baseball,” Jayne said. “Frank pushed him into it, and Malcolm went willingly because—he loved his father. So did I until those last few years. We were happy, a happy family, until those last few years. Losing him the way we did—it’s different than if Frank died in a car accident or from lung cancer or something like that. I don’t even know how to describe the trauma it caused Mal. That’s why I let you into my home, McKenzie, why I’m answering your questions. If it’ll help him, give him some closure, let him get on with his life … I didn’t kill Frank. Detective Downing probably doesn’t believe me, but it’s true. Let’s start there.”

  “You were abused.”

  “Yes, but only during the last year and a half of our marriage. He never even raised his voice until … The first time he hit me, I was more shocked than hurt. I tried to hide it from Malcolm, hide it from everyone. I don’t know how successful I was. Mal must have heard the arguments. ’Course, he was away at school most of that time.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know for sure. It was as if Frank lost faith in humanity. Or himself. He worked for a large company that made furniture. When the housing market collapsed, the company downsized three hundred and fifty employees.”

  “Was he one of them?”

  “No, but he worked in human resources, so he had to do the exit interviews, explain severance packages, all that. Since the employees never had a chance to confront the bankers and Wall Streeters who caused the collapse, or even the managers of the furniture company, they all vented to him. Frank became the face of their despair and received the brunt of their fury. It wore him out. If the company had done the layoffs all at once it might have been different, but they took over a year, firing people a few at a time. Somewhere along the line he assumed their anger; became angry himself. He took it out on me.

  “Eventually he quit and went to work for the Szereto Corporation. I thought that would cheer him up. Szereto was a thriving company. Still is thriving. A friend of ours, Diane Dauria, is the president. Only his mood grew worse and worse. He became—he became very physical. I’ve spoken to people, and they told me that violence is something you learn; you need to be taught to be violent. He didn’t have that in his background, his family growing up, yet somehow he learned.”

  “If you didn’t kill your husband or have him killed…”

  “McKenzie, please.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think he went to the park to meet a woman and she killed him.”

  “Why a woman?”

  “They told me he was stabbed with a kitchen knife, and that just makes me think it was a woman. Besides, the last eighteen months—he wasn’t satisfied with me, McKenzie. Frank wouldn’t touch me except to hurt me. I suppose he could have found someone else, someone at Szereto maybe, and maybe he tried to hurt her…”

  It was possible, I reminded myself. According to Downing’s notes, Harris made a lot of calls to women that last year of his life, but also to men, mostly Szereto employees and job seekers. Downing couldn’t prove any of the calls weren’t job related—but how hard did he try?

  “Do you suspect anyone in particular?” I asked.

  “No. I mean, it couldn’t have been someone I knew; I’m pretty sure of that—assuming he was cheating. Truth is, McKenzie, I have no idea why he went to that park. I’m just guessing. Those last few months, I avoided Frank as much as it was possible to avoid someone who lived in the same house.”

  “I understand.”

  “No you don’t.”

  A knock on the front door interrupted our conversation. Jayne left her spot at the mantel and looked out the window. There was a decade-old black Toyota Camry parked in front of my Ford Mustang on the street, the engine running; the exhaust from the tailpipe curled upward and was snatched away by the wind. There were people in the car, although I was unable to tell who or how many.

/>   Jayne went to the door and pulled it open.

  “Critter,” she said.

  “Mrs. Harris,” he replied.

  She stepped aside, and a boy of college age moved into the foyer. He was wearing a winter coat zipped to his throat, but no hat or gloves.

  “What happened to your face?” Jayne asked.

  Critter’s hand went to his cheek; fingers gently massaged a swollen nose and bruised lip.

  “Believe it or not, I ran into a door,” he said.

  By then I had stepped behind Jayne. My presence seemed to startle him.

  “I’m sorry,” Critter said. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all,” Jayne replied. “It’s always good to see you.” She gave him a hug just to prove it. “This is Mr. McKenzie. He’s a private investigator that Mal hired to look into his father’s murder.”

  Critter stepped out of Jayne’s embrace. An expression of alarm crossed his face. He paused for a few beats to think.

  “Malcolm hired you?” he asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said. I had no intention of correcting Jayne’s misconceptions.

  Critter thought some more. Thinking seemed to come hard to him. After a few moments of awkward silence, Jayne spoke.

  “What can I do for you, Critter?”

  “Oh, yeah. I just came by to see if Malcolm wanted to hang out, you know, before he goes back to New Orleans.”

  “I’m sorry. He left about … must have been an hour or so ago. Said he was going to meet a girl. He had his skates with him, if that helps.”

  “The Oval, do you think?”

  The Guidant John Rose Minnesota Oval, a 400-meter speed-skating track in Roseville, I reminded myself, probably the best ice in Minnesota. When Olympic hopefuls weren’t using it, it was open to the public.

  “I don’t know,” Jayne said.

  “He’s not replying to my texts.”

  “If he’s skating, he might not know you’re trying to reach him.”

  “Tell him we stopped by.”

  “I will. You know, he doesn’t leave for school until January fourteenth, so you should have plenty of time to get together.”

  “Plenty of time. Bye, Mrs. Harris.”

  Critter left without looking at me. Jayne closed the door and stared at the wood as if she were deep in thought. I moved to the big window and, looking around the Christmas tree, watched as Critter moved down the shoveled sidewalk to his car. He opened the driver’s side door after first pausing long enough to remove his cell from his pocket and take a pic of the front of my Mustang.

  Clever boy, my inner voice said.

  “Jayne,” I said aloud, “who was that young man?”

  “Christopher Meyer. A friend of Malcolm’s. They played baseball together.”

  “They call him Critter?”

  “His little brother couldn’t pronounce his name when they were kids. It came out Critterfur, and the name stuck. Why do you ask?”

  “He just took a photograph of my license plate.”

  Jayne left the door and hurried deeper into the room. Critter’s car was driving off as she reached the window.

  “Why would he do that?” she asked.

  “So he can find out about me without my knowing.”

  “But—he could just ask, couldn’t he?”

  “You’d think so.”

  Jayne stared at the empty spot where Critter’s car had been.

  “He was always an odd duck,” she said. “Nice, though. A nice boy. I know his family through Hotdish.”

  “Tell me about Hotdish.”

  “It grew out of the baseball team. Most of the parents, we decided we enjoyed each other’s company, so we kept meeting once a month even after the team disbanded. Potluck dinners, mostly. Barbecues.”

  “Supposedly you were with them when your husband was stabbed.”

  “Supposedly?” Jayne looked at me as if she were thinking of something that she didn’t want to say. “They’re my friends.”

  “Yes, ma’am—Jayne.”

  “Like I said before, I’m willing to go through all this again if it’ll help Malcolm, but I’m getting tired of people accusing me of murder. Truthfully—look at me, McKenzie. Truthfully, there were times when I did want to kill Frank; there were nights when I dreamt of killing him. Only while I might have wanted to kill my husband, I would never have killed Malcolm’s father.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ve been involved in this case for a day,” I said. “I’m just stumbling around looking for something that will take me somewhere else.”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “An explanation.”

  “I’ll accept that—for Malcolm’s sake. One thing, though, for what it’s worth…” She gestured at the window, and I followed her gaze to the space where the Toyota Camry had been parked. “Critter’s face. I’ve used the excuse myself, so I know—nobody runs into a door.”

  *   *   *

  I thanked Mrs. Harris for her time, courtesy, and patience and went to the Mustang. I started it up yet did not drive off. Instead I worked my cell, sending Erica a text message because she usually refused to answer when someone actually called—something about phone conversations being so twentieth century.

  R U skating @oval with Malcolm?

  Her reply came thirty seconds later: no skating @depot with mal why

  The Depot was an indoor ice rink built into what was once the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul & Pacific Depot Freight House and Train Shed in Minneapolis, I reminded myself. About half a mile from the condo.

  I texted: Met kid looking for Malcolm doesn’t seem happy—might have been the something stupid he hit yesterday.

  Erica’s reply: ?

  Wouldn’t hurt to stay close to home, I told her.

  beware of strangers with candy I get it

  THREE

  The reception area’s outer wall was made of tinted glass. I looked through it, watching the vehicles below moving at a brisk pace along Interstate 394. It was midafternoon, though, and they would slow considerably as rush hour approached. I wondered if that might not have been the real reason Harris lost it. New Brighton to St. Louis Park and back on our highway system—he could have been stuck in traffic for as much as two hours a day if not longer, enough to drive anyone into a rage.

  Behind me a receptionist answered phones and directed visitors to their destinations inside the offices of the Szereto Corporation. If there had been Christmas decorations hanging there or along the corridors, they had been well scrubbed away by the time I arrived. All I found was comfy chairs and plenty of reading material on the tables, all of it business related, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall tuned to CNBC. The market had closed down 237 points, and the pundits were forecasting catastrophe as we approached the new year. ’Course, the market had been up 118 points the day before, and they had predicted the same thing.

  I heard a woman call my name, and I turned toward her. She was older and stern-looking and, like the receptionist, was dressed in chic business attire. She spoke in a clipped just-the-facts tone of voice that reminded me of the nuns who taught at St. Mark’s Elementary School when I was a kid. I had been a great disappointment to them.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” she repeated. “Ms. Dauria will see you now. This way.”

  She spun abruptly and began walking. She didn’t stop until she realized I wasn’t following her.

  “Something, yes?” she asked.

  “Do you have a name?”

  Her expression suggested that she rarely heard that question. “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “Of course it matters.”

  “Groot,” she said. “Candace Groot. I’m Ms. Dauria’s personal assistant.”

  I made sure I was smiling when I offered my hand. She seemed surprised by both gestures.

  “Call me McKenzie,” I said. “No mister required.”

>   She smiled in return, but it had a tentative quality as if she were trying it on to see if it fit.

  Being the boss’s right-hand woman, she might not have the chance to wear it very often, my inner voice told me. Being her friend could prove useful.

  “Candace,” I said. “That’s an uncommon name.”

  “Not when I was born. Call me Candy.”

  It took me a few beats to wrap my head around it—calling a woman her age by what some might consider a stripper’s non de plume—but I did what I was told.

  “Have you been here long, Candy?”

  “I was Mr. Szereto’s personal assistant when he founded the company. And his son’s. And now I assist Ms. Dauria.”

  “Actually, I meant Szereto’s offices. But good to know.”

  Candy smiled some more and led me down one corridor and up another toward a corner of the building.

  “We finished remodeling about a month ago,” she said. “That’s why everything looks brand-new. Do you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  “I like it, too. It was so dark before. Ms. Dauria wanted to brighten up the place and make it as comfortable as possible. Our employees might be a little too comfortable if you ask me, but whatever works.”

  Candy strode the corridors as if she owned the place, or at least had rights to it. People nodded as we passed, yet she didn’t seem to notice them. ’Course, that might have been because she was so engrossed in telling me about the birth of the Szereto Corporation forty-three years ago and how she got her job not because of her business degree but because she could type ninety words a minute.

  “That was on a manual typewriter, too, not even electric,” Candy said. “I’m probably the only person in the building who knows what Wite-Out is.”

  “Working here so long, I bet you know where all the bodies are buried.”

  “I should hope so. I buried most of them.”

  She smiled at her own joke and led me into an office that resembled the reception area. There was an open door on the far side, a desk and chair strategically located near it so that Candy could block anyone from entering without permission. She passed me through the door with the words “Ms. Diane Dauria, Mr. McKenzie.”