Grave Designs Page 10

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “Is what true?”

  “Your shirt.”

  My T-shirt was a gift from a doctor I had lived with for almost a year while he was a resident at Michael Reese Hospital. He had moved back home to Cleveland to go into private practice after begging me to marry him and settle in Cleveland. It just wasn’t the right time for me. I was still the young professional woman with dragons to slay. We gradually lost touch after several increasingly sporadic weekend trips. The T-shirt had a legend on the front: ALL THIS…AND BRAINS TOO.

  “Absolutely,” I said, smiling. “I even have an affidavit from the man who gave it to me.”

  He laughed.

  “Are you a Spenser fan?” he asked, pointing to my Robert Parker mystery.

  “Actually, I’m a Hawk fan,” I said.

  “I like Susan Silverman.”

  “So you’re a mystery fan?”

  “Have to be,” he said. “Occupational hazard. I teach a seminar at Northwestern on the detective in American literature. My name’s Paul Mason.”

  “Professor, huh?”

  “American lit. I was out at U.C.L.A. for the last five years. I just joined the faculty here.”

  We watched a big yacht pass by. “Are you here alone?” he finally asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’m here with my friend Ozzie.”

  “Oh.” A flicker of disappointment.

  He was a damn good-looking guy. I took special note of the gold chai hanging from his neck.

  “He’s out there swimming.” I pointed to where Ozzie was paddling in the lake.

  Paul lowered his sunglasses and looked. “Ah.” He smiled and then turned back to me, pushing his sunglasses up on his head again. “You thirsty?”

  “A little,” I said.

  “I’m renting a house just across Sheridan. My fridge is stocked with beer. I’m sure I could find some water for your friend.”

  I looked at him for a moment and then shrugged. “Sounds great.”

  We walked back to his house. I had a beer, Ozzie knocked off a bowl of water, and I agreed to meet Paul at Dave’s Italian Kitchen for dinner. After dinner we walked along the lake and then went back to his house, where—after two more beers—I broke one of my cardinal rules: Never sleep with a man on a first date. I told myself maybe some rules are meant to be broken. Within two weeks I had moved enough of my things to Paul’s house to start spending the weekends there.

  I loved everything about Paul Mason: his tastes in movies (Annie Hall, The Big Chill, Chinatown), his sense of humor, his favorite authors (Jane Austen, Wallace Stevens), his trim muscular torso, his beard, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, his smell, his uncanny sense of the romantic. I was, for the first time, passionately in love. The erotic voltage between us seemed to grow in force with each passing week. One night, at a dull faculty cocktail party, we snuck upstairs and made love, fully dressed, standing up against the tiled wall in the guest bathroom. The mirror was fogged by the time we slumped to the cold floor.

  It remained wonderful for almost eight months. And then it happened. Looking back, it seems like a scene lifted—clichés still intact—out of a formula romance novel. Paul had office hours every Thursday morning from ten until noon. He usually held them at his house, and was free the rest of the day. I had decided to give him a romantic surprise one Thursday, when a deposition scheduled for that day was canceled. I walked into the house about twelve-thirty that afternoon, carrying a grocery bag containing a loaf of French bread, a couple of wedges of cheese, and a bottle of chilled white wine. We’d build a fire in the fireplace and start with a picnic on the rug by the fire.

  There was a red down jacket and a leather purse on the dining room table, along with a copy of Moby Dick. I paused for a moment, but then—trusting to the end—decided Paul’s office hours had run over. I put the grocery bag on the kitchen counter, hung my coat up in the closet, and tossed my briefcase onto the couch in the living room. Then I heard the shower. And it all clicked. The shower. Paul’s most irritating habit. He took a shower after making love. Always. It could be four in the morning, after we’d come home from a party and had drunkenly made love, half dressed, on the couch. Nevertheless, Paul would stagger into the bathroom for his shower.

  I walked slowly up the stairs, the pain turning to rage and then back to pain. I went into the bedroom first, where a terrified college girl with long blond hair was pulling on her faded blue jeans. She was hopping on one leg, her naked breasts wobbling.

  “Get out of this house,” I said.

  She grabbed her blouse and shoes in one hand and, with the other hand covering her breasts, hurried past me and stumbled down the stairs.

  I pulled my suitcase out of the closet, heaved it onto the bed, flipped it open, and stomped over to the dresser. I threw my blouses and jeans and sweaters and underwear into the suitcase. Then I went to the closet and, in one sweep, pulled my clothes out of the closet, still on their hangers. Carrying them over one arm, I reached down, picked up my shoes, and tossed them into the suitcase. All the while—even as I was muttering curses under my breath—I knew I was acting out a scene I’d watched performed in dozens of bad movies over the years. Which only made me angrier, and more humiliated.

  “Rachel, honey, I can explain.”

  I spun around. Paul stood at the door, wet and naked, a towel slung around his shoulders. He stepped toward me, his genitals swaying. “It’s not what you think,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Save your breath, you son of a bitch.” I slapped him hard across the face and then spun around, picked up my suitcase and other clothes, and stomped out of the house.

  He called that night. I hung up as soon as I heard his voice. He called again. And again. Finally, I let him talk. He apologized, told me he’d never do it again, promised he’d change, told me he loved me.

  “How many?” I asked.

  “How many what?” he responded.

  “Office hours. Jesus. How many of those little girls have you screwed in that house?”

  “C’mon, Rachel. I promise it’ll all be different from now on.”

  “Listen,” I said, my voice rising, “you can do whatever you want. Invite your little coeds over and screw their brains out. But don’t you ever call me again, because—”

  “But Rachel—”

  “Because the next time you do, I’m calling the police. I’ll tell them you’re harassing me, and they’ll throw your butt in jail so fast you won’t know what hit you.” I slammed down the receiver.

  He stopped calling. Eventually, I felt sorry—or, more precisely, embarrassed—about the slap in the face, but not about anything else.

  And now the postcard.

  I sighed and picked up my book from the coffee table, where it lay facedown, open to where I had left off last night. Pride and Prejudice. I read it again every two or three years. Back when Paul and I were together, I used to read him passages aloud. I read for an hour, clicked off the living room light, and went into my bedroom. Slipping off my robe, I stepped over Ozzie (who was asleep on the floor near my bed) and climbed into bed.

  I stared at the ceiling, rolled on my side, and then back on my back. “Damn,” I mumbled, and got out of bed. I stepped over Ozzie, went back to the living room, picked up the postcard, and walked slowly back to the bedroom.

  Chapter Twelve

  I saw the article in the Tribune on the ride downtown Wednesday morning. On page three of the City section:

  ZOO TO GIVE POPULAR

  HIPPO PROPER BURIAL

  A spokesperson for the Brookfield Zoo announced yesterday afternoon that the zoo had decided to bury Gus, the popular hippopotamus who died last Saturday, at Wagging Tail Estates, a pet cemetery on the southwest side of Chicago.

  “This way Gus’s many fans can have the opportunity to pay their l
ast respects to him,” announced Harmon Brown, assistant keeper of the suburban zoo.

  Final funeral arrangements have not been announced.

  “We expect the funeral will take place a week from Saturday,” explained Maggie Sullivan, owner of Wagging Tail Estates. “It will be a simple and tasteful ceremony. That’s the way Gus would have wanted it.”

  The hippopotamus died three weeks after his 41st birthday. A team of veterinarians is scheduled to perform an autopsy later in the week. Zoo officials say he was one of the oldest hippopotamuses in captivity.

  I was pleased for Maggie’s sake, and for mine. The funeral would be a boost for business, and it would keep her mind off the grave robbery, at least until after the funeral.

  I spent most of the morning in the courtroom of Judge Harry Wilson on the twenty-second floor of the Federal Courts building. It was the morning motion call, and there were about two dozen lawyers scattered around the courtroom waiting for their cases to be called. Some were skimming their pleadings, some reading newspapers. I took a seat in one of the rows of benches in the gallery. While I waited for my case to be called, I read through Graham Marshall’s codicil again. I compared the four dates specified for delivery of flowers to the grave with the four dates of the newspaper articles listed in code on the computer printout. In each case, the flowers were to be delivered one day before the anniversary of the newspaper article. I was baffled for a moment, but then the two sets of dates lined up. It was obvious.

  The motion call started at 9:30 a.m. My case was finally called at 10:30 a.m. The arguments lasted fifteen minutes, and the judge granted my motion, ordering my opponent to produce certain medical records within fifteen days.

  I called my office from the phone outside the courtroom.

  “Any messages?” I asked.

  “Benny wants you to meet him for lunch at one at the Bar-Double-R.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there. Do you have Cindi Reynolds’s phone number?”

  I called Cindi. She said she could meet me down at her condominium pool in fifteen minutes.

  “I got the swimsuit layout,” she said. “They’re going to shoot it down at the Indiana Dunes tomorrow. So I have to catch some rays.”

  ***

  Cindi was on a chaise longue on the pebbled-concrete deck of the condominium pool. Two kids were splashing and shouting in the shallow end of the pool, and an elderly man wearing a black bathing cap and green goggles was swimming laps in slow motion. A middle-aged woman in a red one-piece swimsuit was sitting on a chair on the far side of the pool, smoking a cigarette and reading a paperback.

  Cindi was wearing a white string bikini and sunglasses. I pulled up a deck chair and sat down beside her. The sun felt good.

  “You models sure have a tough life,” I said.

  Cindi smiled. “It’s a swimsuit layout for a winter resort-wear catalogue. They told me to get a little sun this morning. No more than an hour. All the models have to meet at this motel down in Indiana tonight. They’ll start the shooting tomorrow. It might take two days.”

  “What’s it for,” I asked, “Frederick’s of Hollywood?”

  She giggled. “Kind of skimpy, huh?”

  I nodded. The bikini top ended just above the nipples, and the bikini bottom was cut high on her hips and scooped low below her belly button.

  “They told me no visible tan lines. I wasn’t going to lie out here naked. The catalogue is for Carsons, I think. I can’t believe they’ll have me pose in anything skimpier than this.”

  “You’re probably safe,” I said.

  Cindi leaned back and put on her sunglasses. “So, what’s up?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, frowning. “I found a list filed under Canaan at Abbott and Windsor. It turned out to be a code for newspaper articles.”

  “Newspaper articles?”

  “Four of them. All from 1985. I read the articles last night.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re in one of them.”

  “Me?” Cindi raised her sunglasses. “What do you mean?”

  “The article about the Ms. United States Pageant. The same one you have in your scrapbook. It was one of the four articles listed in code on the sheet.”

  “Really?” Cindi sat up.

  I nodded. “Along with three other articles having nothing to do with you or beauty pageants.”

  “Was it Graham’s list?”

  “It looks that way, but I don’t know for sure. His secretary remembered that he worked on something called Canaan back in 1985. But she doesn’t know what it was. She had the firm check the files and they turned up just one document. The page with the codes. You can’t tell who compiled the list.”

  “Is it handwritten?”

  “No. A computer printout.”

  “Is it run on an Abbott and Windsor computer?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “At least not on the firm’s main computer. I’ve got a hunch, though, and I’m going to get back there tomorrow to see if I can turn up anything.”

  I checked my notes. “What do you know about two businessmen named Carswell or Framingham? Did you know them?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Congressman Barnett? Or a Park Ridge couple named Byron?”

  “No. Are they in the other articles?”

  I nodded. “The two businessmen died in a plane crash. Private plane. Congressman Barnett’s autobiography got published with a big typo on the first page. And the Byrons found a lot of money in an old filing cabinet they bought at a police auction.”

  Cindi frowned. “Those were the other articles?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s my article doing in there?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. But those articles are just about the only clue I have so far.”

  “And you think they have something to do with this pet, Canaan?”

  “I think it’s all related somehow.” I told her about the codicil.

  “I don’t get it, Rachel.”

  “I don’t either. But match up the dates. Your article appeared on July twenty-eighth. According to Marshall’s codicil, two dozen roses are supposed to be placed on the grave on July twenty-seventh. It’s the same with the other three articles. The roses are supposed to be delivered the day before the anniversary of the date the articles appeared.”

  “Why the day before?”

  “That had me stumped at first. But think about it. Each newspaper article appeared the day after the event it described. He wanted the roses delivered on the date the event actually occurred. The beauty contest occurred on July twenty-seventh, not the twenty-eighth. As I said, the dates match up. It can’t be just a coincidence. Besides, the title of that computer page was Canaan log. And whatever is buried in that grave was named Canaan.”

  Cindi stared at the pool. “Okay,” she finally said. “But what’s the relationship between those events and the pet’s grave?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I came back to see you. Maybe you can help. Did you know Marshall before 1985?”

  “No. I didn’t start seeing him until the summer of 1986.”

  “Are you sure he never talked to you about anything personal?”

  Cindi reached down for her Virginia Slims. She took out a cigarette and lit it with a butane lighter. I waited. She exhaled slowly and turned to me.

  “I wasn’t totally honest with you yesterday,” she said. “I mean, I had just met you and all.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Graham and I weren’t close at all the first year. Strictly business. But during the last six months he started opening up a little, sharing things with me. That article about the plane crash-well, it reminded me of something Graham told me a couple of months ago.”

  “What was it?”

  “His sister. She used to be in beauty pag
eants too. The way he talked about her, I guess she must have been really beautiful. She was two years older than him.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Cindi shook her head. “God, it was terrible. Graham was just eighteen when it happened. During the summer before he started college. It was 1955, I think.” Cindi paused to stub out her cigarette. “That summer his mother and sister were killed on their way to a beauty pageant down in Springfield.”

  “In a plane crash?”

  Cindi shook her head. “Not in a plane. By a plane. A small private plane had engine trouble. The pilot tried to land it on the highway. He landed it right on top of their car as they were going down the highway.”

  “My God.”

  Cindi sighed. “Yeah. Everyone was killed. Can you imagine that? Getting killed on a highway by a plane dropping out of the sky?”

  “Graham told you all this?”

  She nodded. “And more. I guess his father never recovered from the shock of it. His dad started drinking heavily that summer and died of a heart attack that winter. It really shook him up. First he loses his mother and his sister. Then he watches his dad disintegrate before his eyes.”

  “Was she his only sister?”

  “Yes. And I could tell he loved her very much. The night he told me—well, he was really choked up by the time he reached the end.”

  I was genuinely touched by the story, more than I would have imagined. The Graham Marshall I knew—the arrogant and domineering senior partner—bore no resemblance to the boy who lost his entire family during his eighteenth year back in 1955.

  Cindi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He never talked about it again. And I was actually kind of relieved. There was one part of the story that—I don’t know—kind of made me uncomfortable.”

  “What was that?”

  Cindi shrugged. “Maybe I read too much into it. His sister. Her name was Cynthia.”