Dead Boyfriends Read online

  The maid guided me through French doors and onto a sprawling patio of red tile and salmon-colored marble that was surrounded by lush garden flowers, a low hedge, and several trees that couldn’t have been more than a few years old. In the center of the patio was a huge swimming pool, its walls and floor painted sky blue. Deck furniture of rich redwood with wide arms and lacquered patio furniture with thick cushions were mixed together and scattered around the pool in no discernible pattern.

  I heard the thumping sound of a diving board and looked up just in time to see a young woman wearing a bright yellow one-piece swimsuit twisting, turning, somersaulting, straightening, and slicing into the water. An ice cube dropped into a tumbler of scotch made a bigger splash than she did.

  Between the pool and the house was a round table with a glass top, an immense opened umbrella protruding from the center of it. On top of the table was a half-filled pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a single glass, also half filled. An enormous white towel was draped over one of the chairs. The maid stopped in the shadow of the umbrella and announced, “Ms. St. Ana will be with you in a moment.”

  I sat down and watched the young woman climb out of the pool. She went back to the board and made another dive and then another and another. Not once did she acknowledge my presence. After her fifth dive, she used the ladder to pull herself out of the pool and walked to the table. She reached for the towel, moving close enough for me to see that her sun-drenched skin was flawless and to smell the chlorine in her fine auburn hair. I watched her use the towel to buff her body; the swimsuit stretched tight over taunt muscles and gentle curves.

  She glanced at me with chocolate-colored eyes that glittered with intelligence.

  “I’m Silk,” she said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You’re here to see Priscilla.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I answered yes just the same.

  She squeezed her long tresses between the folds of the towel, breathing lightly with the effort. Beyond question, she was a lovely girl, and she looked almost exactly like her mother had in the photograph I discovered in Merodie’s house—the one of Merodie holding an infant.

  Silk casually tossed the towel over her shoulder and reached for the pitcher, performing each task with a fluid grace and sensuality that I usually associate with music, something by Gershwin perhaps. She filled the glass with orange juice and drank it down slowly, but I had stopped watching her long before then, turning my attention instead to a foursome of golfers lofting their second shots toward an elevated green beyond St. Ana’s backyard. I knew when I was being played, and while I usually didn’t mind, my inner voice kept repeating, She’s only a child.

  A few minutes later a woman stepped through the French doors onto the patio. Priscilla St. Ana was handsomely approaching forty-five. Not quite as young and attractive as her air-brushed photo would suggest, I thought, but pretty enough that she could pass for younger. The fact that she had changed her hairstyle helped. Piled high in the photo I had downloaded, it was now cut short. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, tailored to accentuate her generous bosom and slender waist, and a long, thin black skirt with a silver buckle—two swans with necks intertwined. The skirt’s front slit revealed a graceful leg.

  Silk took her towel and her orange juice and moved past her as she approached the table. “Your guest,” she said as she passed.

  “So I see,” Priscilla said. “Mr. McKenzie.” She extended her hand. Her eyes were neither warm nor cold, and they didn’t give much away—a poker player’s eyes. I shook her hand.

  “Can I offer you something?” The maid seemed to materialize out of thin air behind Priscilla’s shoulder. “Caroline makes an outstanding iced tea.”

  “Tea will be fine.”

  “Thank you, Caroline,” Priscilla said.

  The maid disappeared into the house.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” I said.

  “Not at all. Please, sit.”

  I sat. “You have a lovely home, Ms. St. Ana.”

  “Thank you. Please, call me Cilia. I was christened Priscilla by my parents, but I prefer Cilia, the name of my favorite character in Johnny Tremain. No one would call me that while my father was alive. Now everyone does.”

  A moment later, Caroline reappeared carrying a silver tray with both hands. The tray supported a glass pitcher filled with tea, a bowl of ice, a dish of sliced lemons, a sugar bowl, and two crystal tumblers.

  “Thank you, Caroline,” Cilia said.

  The maid departed, leaving Cilia to fill both glasses herself, offering me one. The umbrella protected us from the hard afternoon sun but not from the heat, and I found myself drinking the tea much too fast.

  “Please, help yourself,” Cilia said in a voice that was more polite than friendly.

  I poured another glass.

  Cilia tossed her head a little so that her blond hair swung and I could see the auburn under the chemicals, close to the scalp. She smiled easily. The heat didn’t seem to bother her at all.

  “I was pleased before to notice you not noticing my niece,” she said.

  “Oh, I noticed her.”

  “You weren’t ogling. Most men do. I find it distasteful.”

  “I make it a point not to ogle women who haven’t voted in at least three presidential elections.”

  “Then you are an exception to most men.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  She regarded me carefully over the rim of her glass. “How may I help you?” she asked. Her tone reminded me of my high school math teacher—not antagonistic, merely commanding. I refused to be intimated, as I had been by the math teacher.

  “I want to talk about Merodie Davies.”

  “So you said over the phone. I knew, of course, that Merodie was in trouble. I assumed she would seek my help. I am a bit bewildered that she hasn’t.” Cilia topped off my glass with iced tea. “What would you like to know?”

  I gestured toward the pool.

  “Silk is Merodie’s daughter.”

  “Yes. How did you guess?”

  “I saw a photo of her mother when she was about Silk’s age.”

  “There is a resemblance.”

  “What exactly is your relationship with Merodie Davies?”

  “Simple question. The answer is a bit more complicated. Why is it important that you know?”

  “Ms. St. Ana, your personal check in the amount of forty-one hundred dollars and change was discovered in Merodie’s house.”

  Cilia’s eyebrows seemed to knit together as she gazed past the patio and adjacent pool toward the golf course, not seeing any of it. She said nothing.

  “Cilia?” I said.

  More nothing.

  “Cilia. The check.”

  “I have been paying Merodie an allowance for quite some time now,” she said. “Why does that matter?”

  “Can you tell me why you’ve been paying her an allowance?”

  “She is the mother of my niece. I can’t just let her go homeless, can I?”

  “Is that what you told the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department when they questioned you?”

  “They haven’t questioned me. Why would they?”

  My inner voice was shouting at me. The cops haven’t pressed Vonnie Lou Lowman or questioned Priscilla St. Ana? What gives?

  “Cilia, the check was dated August first.”

  “That is correct.”

  “It wasn’t mailed; the envelope had no postmark. You must have hand-delivered it.”

  “Yes.”

  “On August first.”

  “Probably. Why is that significant?”

  “That’s the day Eli Jefferson was killed.”

  Cilia’s voice rose in protest. “Are you suggesting . . .?” She stopped herself. A puzzled expression crossed her face.

  “What time did you take the check to Merodie’s?” I asked.

  Cilia hesitated before answering. “I honestly don’t recall.” Sh
e might have said more, except a voice coming from behind startled her.

  “Aunt Cil, I’m taking off now.”

  “Silk.” Cilia nearly shouted the name. She gestured for her niece to join us at the table.

  Silk St. Ana was now wearing a navy blue one-piece swimsuit under blue shorts; red letters with a white border spelled USA across her chest. She was carrying a gold and maroon equipment bag with UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA GOLDEN GOPHERS Stamped On it.

  “Have you met Mr. McKenzie?”

  “Not formally,” Silk said.

  I offered my hand. She squeezed it just enough to be polite.

  “My niece, Silk,” Cilia said by way of introduction. “She’s going to be an Olympic diving champion.”

  “Aunt Cil,” Silk said between gritted teeth. “She’s always bragging to people about that,” she told me.

  “Are you going to be an Olympic diving champion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s not bragging.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Mr. McKenzie is a private detective,” Cilia added. It wasn’t true, but I didn’t correct her.

  “Really? That is so cool.”

  “It sounds more exciting than it is,” I said without actually knowing if it was or wasn’t.

  “Mr. McKenzie is helping our investment firm on a land acquisition project.”

  “Really? I thought maybe he was involved in my mother’s murder case.”

  Cilia sighed heavily, slumping in her chair. “I was lying,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”

  Silk gripped Cilia’s shoulder reassuringly. “My aunt still thinks I’m four years old,” Silk told me. “She still thinks I need to be protected from the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Who and what my mother is.”

  “Who and what is that?”

  “A selfish drunk.”

  Silk looked into my eyes when she spoke, deliberately trying to make me feel as uncomfortable as she did.

  “When did you last see your mother?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Eons ago. I doubt she would even recognize me.”

  She didn’t so much as blink when she said that, but Cilia sure did.

  “I’m sure you’re wrong,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Aren’t you awfully young to be an Olympic diving champion?” I asked.

  “Actually, no. The Chinese girl who won gold in ‘92 was thirteen. She won again in ‘96 and 2000.”

  “How long have you been diving?”

  “I started when I was four years old—on the same day I came to live with my aunt. She had a swimming pool, and I couldn’t get enough of it.”

  “This one?” I gestured at the pool in the center of the patio.

  “No. We were living in Andover up in Anoka County back then. Actually, I think it’s hereditary. I inherited my love of swimming from my aunt.”

  Silk was standing directly behind Cilia now, her hands resting on the older woman’s shoulders.

  “She set a state high school record for women in the breaststroke that stood for six years,” Silk said. “How long ago was that, Aunt Cil?”

  “Never mind how long ago that was. Don’t you have practice?”

  “I’m going to work off the ten-meter diving platform at the university aquatic center. Coach is going to videotape me again.”

  “Is that helping?”

  Silk nodded. “Helps with visualization. I’m getting much better control of my take-offs.”

  “My niece, the Olympian.” Cilia smiled.

  Silk smiled right back. “If I keep progressing, if I don’t get hurt, if I do well at the nationals . . .”

  “No problem.”

  “Whatever you say, Aunt Cilia. May I take the Mazda?”

  “You always do.”

  “That’s because I look so good in it.”

  Silk pecked her aunt’s cheek, said, “See ya,” then added, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McKenzie.”

  She moved away from the table, hesitated, and turned back, her smile fading. “How much trouble is my mother in?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “The fact she hasn’t been charged yet is a good sign. It means the county attorney’s case isn’t even strong enough to take before a grand jury.”

  Cilia reached up from her chair and stroked the girl’s bare arm. “It’ll be all right,” she said softly.

  “I know, I know.”

  The girl nodded another good-bye and moved across the patio toward the French doors. “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “I won’t be home for dinner. I’m meeting Mark.”

  “Wait a minute.” Cilia was on her feet now. “Excuse me,” she said before crossing the patio. Both her face and her voice were stern while she spoke to her niece. I pretended not to listen.

  “Who’s Mark?” Cilia asked.

  “A junior at the University of St. Thomas.”

  “Diver?”

  Silk shook her head.

  “JO major. Remember when I did that exhibition last spring, the school newspaper ran a story about me? He wrote it.”

  “College junior. That makes him what, twenty, twenty-one?”

  “Twenty.”

  “You’re sixteen.”

  “I look twenty.”

  “A fact that has kept me sleepless many a night.”

  “Don’t worry, Auntie Cil. I’m not my mother.” Silk bussed her aunt’s cheek. “Something I want you to remember.” She backed toward the French doors. “You know how athletes are always waving at TV cameras and saying, ‘Hi, Mom’? If I ever get the chance to say ‘Hi, Mom,’ I’ll be talking to you.”

  A few moments later Cilia returned to the table, but not before brushing both eyes with a knuckle, leaving a nearly imperceptible smear of mascara behind.

  “Raising children,” she said. “You try to do the best you can. You worry that you’re making mistakes.”

  “How long have you been raising Silk?” I asked.

  “Twelve years.”

  “From what I can see, you’ve done a pretty fair job.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. McKenzie, how would you know?”

  “She doesn’t act dreary and tired and hopeless, as if her life were already behind her, like so many teenagers do. She smiles as if she has a lot to smile about, and when she speaks she looks you in the eye.”

  The way she nodded, I got the impression that Cilia was pleased with my answer.

  “We should find out soon, in any case,” she said. She tapped the top of the glass table with a fingernail. “Now is when you learn what kind of parent you are. Now, when your children are fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and they’re faced with real choices—when they have to decide for themselves what’s right and wrong, what’s important and what isn’t, what they’ll do and what they won’t. Now, when they have to decide what kind of people they’re going to be.”

  I took a sip of tea. What did my choices say about my own parents? I wondered.

  “Sorry,” Cilia said. “I don’t mean to sound so . . .”

  “Maternal?”

  She nodded. “I’m not worried. Silk’s a good kid. A smart kid. She’ll do the right thing. Still, you try to protect her. All parents feel that way, I suppose.”

  “Tell me about Merodie. Silk is her daughter.”

  Cilia drank more tea and slowly set her glass down as if she were afraid it might shatter. “Mr. McKenzie, I do not believe things happen accidentally. I believe you earn the life you live. Merodie . . . Where do we begin? Before the alcohol took its toll, she was stunningly beautiful. The most beautiful young woman I have ever known, with the possible exception of her daughter. Unlike her daughter, however, Merodie had no self-esteem, no sense of self-worth. None. If you’ve met her parents . . .”

  “I’ve met her mother.”

  “Then you know some of the reason why. Something else happened, as well. I believe behaviorists refer to it as a significant emotional event.
When Merodie was far too young to make sense of it, she met a man—a man with good manners, a pleasant appearance, and plenty of money. This man took her to exclusive restaurants and smuggled her into elegant bars. He gave her expensive gifts. He not only told her that she was beautiful and special, he treated her as if she were. I know because the man was my brother, Robert. He was twenty-four and she was fifteen. My brother didn’t care about the age difference. Nor did he care about Merodie. Not really. My brother cared only about what was pretty. He used it and abused it and often he broke it. The fact that he was corrupting a minor, that he was making love to a child, meant nothing to him. Eventually, Merodie became pregnant. She went to him with thoughts of marriage. My brother rejected her without a moment’s hesitation. It’s an old story, I’m afraid, and not particularly interesting.

  “Like a lot of men, my brother thought doing the right thing meant offering money for a doctor. However, before arrangements could be made, Robert was killed in an accident. He drove his car off River Road in a snowstorm while under the influence of alcohol.

  “I met Merodie at Robert’s funeral,” Cilia continued. “I admit I disliked her immediately, and not just because she was so preternaturally beautiful. I detest weakness, and Merodie was weak—physically, mentally, emotionally. Like my brother, she was a drunk, although I don’t believe alcohol gripped her quite as tightly then as it would in later years. She told me about the pregnancy, told me that her parents had disowned her and barred her from her home. She begged for help. I gave it to her. Not because I felt sympathy for her, which I suppose is a failing on my part. I did it for the baby who probably would be the last of the St. Ana line—Lord knows I have no intention of ever marrying and having children.

  “I gave Merodie money. I helped her hire an attorney so she could file suit against the bar where Robert became drunk the night he died. I arranged to pay for her hospital care when the child was delivered. A few months later, not long after Merodie herself had turned a mere sixteen, the child was born. Merodie’s labor was surprisingly quick and painless. Fifty-seven minutes. Exactly. She had barely made it to the hospital in time. The doctor said it was the smoothest delivery in which he had ever been involved. He said it was ‘smooth as silk,’ and thus Silk was christened.