Grave Designs Page 9
“Yep. And then Marshall sets up a trust fund for the care and maintenance of the grave. Sets it up in a secret codicil even though the firm did his will. Nothing happens until five weeks after he dies and one day after Abbott and Windsor retains me and I visit the grave. Then someone digs up the grave in the middle of the night and steals the coffin. Meanwhile, Marshall’s secretary vaguely remembers working on a secret project involving Canaan for Marshall back in 1985. But she doesn’t know what it was about, because he handled even the filing himself. She just knows she never heard him mention a pet. She ran a search through the firm’s files for anything having to do with Canaan and turned up one page from a computer printout. The one I showed you today.” I paused while the waitress put down our food. “I visited Cindi Reynolds today. You were right. She was with Marshall when he died. She’s actually very nice. Smart too.”
“Do you have the paper?” Benny asked.
“What paper?”
“That computer printout.”
I pulled my copy out of my briefcase and smoothed it onto the table. “I’ve been studying it on and off all afternoon,” I said. “Something’s familiar about it, but nothing’s clicked yet.”
“Let’s take them one at a time,” Benny said. “Three, dash, twenty, dash, CN, dash, seventeen, dash, three.” He studied the list. “Each line has the same pattern: two numbers, then two or three letters, then two more numbers. They aren’t license plate numbers—at least not Illinois license plate numbers. Wait a minute, maybe they have something to do with the dog. Don’t you need a license for your dog? Maybe these are the dog’s license numbers?”
“I already thought of that. I had Mary check with City Hall. No luck. Dog licenses don’t have that pattern of numbers and letters. And anyway, there are four rows of stuff on this page. He didn’t bury four pets in that coffin.”
“What else have you thought of?” Benny asked between bites of his chicken. “You know, this stuff isn’t bad.”
I ran through my list of possibilities: check numbers, charge numbers, bank account numbers, safety deposit box numbers. All the while I was looking down the list of entries on the computer printout:
3-20-CN-17-3
7-28-CHT-4-3
9-12-CP-23-6
11-30-CHT-4-2
Suddenly it clicked. “That’s it!” I said. “I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got what?”
“Look at the second row. Read it.”
“Okay. Seven, dash, twenty-eight, dash, CHT, dash, four, dash, three. Yeah?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Mazel tov, Rachel. Happy birthday.”
“No, no. Look at it, you clown. Seven, dash, twenty-eight. July twenty-eighth. That’s my birthday. And then CHT. Don’t you see? It’s the newspaper. The Chicago Herald Tribune. Get it? Something appeared in the Chicago Herald-Tribune on July twenty-eight. On July 28, 1985. And I think I know what that something is.”
“Wait a minute. Where do you get 1985?”
“A hunch,” I said. “Remember I told you about Cindi Reynolds’s scrapbook? Each newspaper clipping had the date and the name of the newspaper. One of those dates stuck in my head because it was on my birthday. July twenty-eighth. That was the article about the Ms. United States Pageant. July 28, 1985. In the Chicago Herald-Tribune. It’s gotta be 1985. Everything points to 1985. The tombstone, Helen Marston’s memories, the newspaper article.”
“What about the last two numbers?” Benny asked. “Four, dash, three?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see the article.”
“I think you’re on to something. Look at the rest of the entries,” Benny said. “Three, dash, twenty. March twentieth. What about CN?”
“Chicago News,” I said.
“Maybe so. Then CP. Uh, Chicago Post?”
“Might be.”
“Wow!” said Benny. “I think that’s it, Rachel.”
“Finish your meal and let’s get out of here. Loyola’s library is still open. We can look up the articles.”
***
Benny threaded the microfilm into the reader, advanced the reel to the first frame, and focused the viewer. We were staring at the front page of the Chicago Herald-Tribune for Monday, July 22, 1985. Benny pushed the fast-forward button and advanced the film in jerks and blurs to July 28, 1985. Nothing on the first page. He advanced the film slowly, page by page.
“Hold it,” I said. “That’s it.”
Page four of the first section of the Herald-Tribune was projected onto the screen. In the middle of the page was the same article I had seen in Cindi Reynolds’s scrapbook:
NEW MS. UNITED STATES CROWNED;
MS. ILLINOIS THIRD RUNNER-UP
ATLANTA—As a nationwide audience looked on last night, Miss Betty Jo Johnson of Austin, Texas, was crowned Ms. United States at the Ninth Annual Ms. United States Pageant. Ms. Illinois, Cynthia Ann Reynolds (Peoria), was named third runner-up.
“I thank the good Lord for the role He has chosen for me,” said the tearful Miss Johnson during the post-crowning press conference. “I hope to spread God’s word during my reign as Ms. United States.”
Illinois’s Miss Reynolds told the Herald-Tribune that she had hoped to bring the crown back to Illinois. “But I’m so happy for Betty Jo,” she said. “She’ll be a wonderful Ms. United States.”
The newly crowned Ms. United States is the second Ms. Texas to receive that honor in the nine-year history of the beauty pageant. During the talent portion of the pageant she impressed the judges by singing “The Impossible Dream” while twirling two fire-tipped batons.
“If there’s a clue in that,” I finally said, “I sure missed it.”
“She thanks God.” Benny shook his head. “As if God gave two shits who won that pageant.”
“Let’s figure this out. Read me the entry for this article.”
“Okay.” Benny unfolded the computer printout. “Let’s see…seven, dash, twenty-eight. That’s July 28, 1985, I guess. CHT. Chicago Herald-Tribune. Four, dash, three. Hmmm.”
We both studied the article again.
“I’ve got it!” he said. “It’s obvious. Page four, column three.”
“You’re right. Third column. Fourth page, third column. That’s the code. The date, the newspaper, the page, and the column.”
“Yep.”
“What else is on the list?” I asked, picking up the printout.
“Here’s another CHT,” Benny said, pointing. “Eleven, dash, thirty. November thirtieth. Page four, second column.”
“I’ll get it.” I walked over to the filing cabinet and found the roll of microfilm for the week of November 24.
“Another beauty pageant?” Benny asked as I threaded the film.
“Who knows. Maybe he’s got a thing for beauty queens. You should see Cindi Reynolds,” I said.
“Nice, huh?”
“A knockout. Gorgeous.” I wound the film forward to November 30 and stopped at page four.
“My God,” Benny mumbled.
The headline read TWO KILLED IN PLANE CRASH. The article was short:
ROSEMONT (AP)—Two Carbondale business partners perished yesterday when their single-engine airplane crashed in a soybean field in northwest Illinois. Killed were William Carswell of 2120 Maple Lane and Peter Framingham of 15 Greybridge Avenue.
A spokesman for the National Transportation Safety Board said an investigator from the board’s field office in Chicago had been dispatched to look into the crash. Preliminary findings indicate engine failure, according to investigators at the scene.
The victims of the crash were en route from Chicago’s Midway Airport to a Rockford trade shown when the accident occurred.
“What do you make of it?” Benny asked.
“I don’t know.” I copied down the names and addresses of the vict
ims. “Maybe Cindi Reynolds knows them. Let’s find the rest of these articles.”
Benny was studying the computer printout. “Chicago News, March twentieth. Chicago Post, September twelfth.”
He walked over to the file drawers, poked around for a while, and came back with two rolls of microfilm. I threaded the first roll of film and advanced it to the seventeenth page of the March twentieth edition of the Chicago News. The headline at the top of the third column read: TYPO CAUSES EMBARRASSMENT. Beneath that headline appeared a five-paragraph story:
CHICAGO (UPI)—The publishers of For the People, the autobiography of crusading Congressman Ralph Barnett (D.-Ill.), were red-faced today when they discovered an embarrassing pair of typographical errors in the opening sentence of the just-published autobiography.
As originally written, the autobiography began with the words: “At the age of fourteen, I happily dove, headfirst, into the public arena of Sharon.” (Congressman Barnett was born in Sharon, Illinois.) As published, however, the word public was printed without the letter l and the word arena was printed without the letter n—i.e., pubic area.
The publisher, Athena Publications, Inc., of Oak Park, declined comment. Congressman Barnett could not be reached for his reaction.
Sources at the publishing house said that the initial printing of 10,000 copies of the autobiography is already in the bookstores and that the company will be forced to undertake an expensive recall of those books.
“You can be sure heads will roll at Athena,” said one source, who asked that his identity not be disclosed.
“A beauty pageant, a plane crash, and a typographical error,” Benny mumbled as he rewound the microfilm and then threaded the next one:
PARK FOREST COUPLE
DISCOVERS $$ IN USED CABINET
Robert and Lois Byron of Park Forest bid $15 for a used filing cabinet at a police auction last Saturday in Evanston. They thought it was a good deal. It turned out to be a good deal more.
On Sunday, Mr. Byron went down to his basement to sand and paint the cabinet. He came back upstairs two hours later with a fat manila envelope he had found taped to the underside of one of the drawers. As his wife looked on in amazement, Mr. Byron opened the envelope and dumped out 142 $100 bills, totaling $14,200.
“Bob and I were absolutely stunned,” Mrs. Byron explained. “Just that morning at breakfast we were trying to figure out how we could afford to have a baby if I had to quit my job. And then we discovered $14,200 in that cabinet.”
The Byrons contacted the Evanston police later that day. The police have taken temporary custody of the cabinet and the money pending further investigation.
“We’ve checked our records,” stated Detective James Moran, “and it appears that we came into custody of the filing cabinet after the city had condemned an old vacant warehouse on Church Street. This was abandoned property. Unless we discover something unexpected, we will return custody of the property and the money to the Byrons.”
“Hell, maybe Cindi was banging Barnett and these two businessmen,” Benny said. “This whole thing is getting even weirder.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled. “I’ll see if Cindi knows anything about these stories.”
Chapter Eleven
I live on the top floor of a three-story apartment building in East Rogers Park, just a block away from the Heartland Cafe, where Benny had left his car. Benny walked me back from Loyola. On the way I told him about my telephone call from Kent Charles and my agreement to meet him at the Yacht Club tomorrow afternoon.
Benny frowned. “A new case, huh? Well, maybe. If you ask me, I think Kent’s just trying to get you in bed. You’d better watch out for that guy, Rachel.”
“Don’t worry, Benny. I’m a big girl.” I kissed him on the cheek.
“So call me tomorrow, Rachel.”
“Take care, Benny.”
He lumbered down the street into the darkness, and I walked into the entranceway of my building. First the mail. Bills from Illinois Bell and Marshall Field’s, a letter from the Harvard Club of Chicago, a New Yorker, and a postcard from San Francisco. The front of the postcard was a photograph of Alcatraz Island. I read the message written on the back in that neat and all-too-familiar script:
Dear Rachel-
Sorry I missed your B-day. The seminar ended last Wednesday. I’ll be home by the time you get this. Maybe?
Love, Paul
I stuffed the mail into my briefcase, unlocked the inside door, and walked down the hallway to the first-floor apartment. Ozzie must have heard me, because he was already scratching against the other side of the door.
Ozzie is my golden retriever. He spends part of most days with the owners of the building, John and Linda Burns. John plays trombone in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Linda was a social worker until she had her first baby five years ago. They have two kids: a five-year-old girl named Katie and a two-year-old boy named Ben. Linda stays home with the kids, and Ozzie keeps them company during the day. It’s a nice arrangement for all of us: I have someone to walk Ozzie, Linda has a big friendly dog to help watch the kids, and Ozzie loves all the attention.
“Rachel?” Linda’s voice was muffled by the door.
“It’s me.”
The door locks clicked one by one, and then Linda pulled open the door. Ozzie wedged his way past Linda and jumped up, resting his front paws gently on my bent arms.
“Hey, Oz, how you doing, buddy?”
Ozzie licked my right cheek and then sat down in front of me, his tail flopping.
“Everything okay today?” I asked Linda.
“Great day,” she said. Linda had on a red robe. Her long black hair was gathered on top of her head and rolled around an empty orange juice can. “I took the kids and Ozzie down to the beach. Ozzie loved it. He spent the whole morning in the water.” She patted Ozzie’s head. “Isn’t that right, Ozzie?”
Ozzie’s tail flopped twice.
“Are the kids asleep?” I asked.
“Ben is. I don’t know about Katie. She drew you a picture today and told me she was going to wait up until you came home.”
“Let’s see if she made it. Do you mind?”
“Heavens, no. Go ahead.”
I walked down the hall to Katie’s room. She was in her bed, facing the wall with her thumb in her mouth. Her eyes were half closed. On the bedspread was a sheet of construction paper with a stick-figure crayon drawing of a girl and a dog. I bent over and kissed her softly on her nose. “Hello, cutie,” I whispered.
Katie rolled slowly onto her back. “Hi, Rachel,” she said hoarsely, her thumb still in her mouth.
“Your mommy told me you made me a special picture.”
Katie slowly nodded her head, her eyes widening.
“Is this it?” I asked, lifting up the picture.
Katie nodded again.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s beautiful, Katie. I love it. Thank you.”
Katie smiled and took her thumb out of her mouth. “Will you put it in your office, Rachel?”
“I sure will. First thing tomorrow. Right next to your other pictures. And I’ll tell everyone that my special friend Katie made it for me.”
“I wrote my name on it. Katie. See?”
“I do.” I bent over, kissed her on the forehead, and then stood up. “Thanks, sweetie. Good night.”
“Good night, Rachel.” She put her thumb back into her mouth.
I walked back down the hall carrying Katie’s picture.
“She was still up,” I said, holding up the picture.
Linda smiled.
“Is John playing with the symphony at Ravinia?” I asked.
“Every night this week.”
“Come on, Ozzie,” I said. He scrambled to his feet. “See you tomorrow, Linda.”
“Good night, Rachel.”
“Hungry, huh?”
He wagged his tail.
I took out two cans of dog food and emptied them into his bowl. I tossed in a few handfuls of cereal and set the bowl on the hardwood floor. “Bon appetit.” I patted Ozzie on the back.
I went into the bedroom, undressed, slipped on my purple and gold boxing robe (a Valentine’s gift from Paul), stopped in the kitchen for a glass of white wine, and walked into the living room. I pulled the postcard out of my briefcase, clicked on the lamp, and settled down on the couch.
I read the postcard again. So he was back home. After teaching his annual one-month summer seminar at Stanford University on the detective in American fiction. “I’ll be home by the time you get this. Maybe?” Maybe? Jesus. “Love, Paul.” I sailed the postcard across the living room toward the bay window. It bounced off the rubber plant and fluttered to the floor.
Paul Mason. Professor Paul Mason. The dark-haired, green-eyed Young Turk of American literature. We had met last summer, just after Paul had joined the faculty of Northwestern University. I had ridden my bike up to Northwestern’s Evanston campus, followed by Ozzie. Ozzie went swimming in the lake and I sat down on the boulders overlooking the water near the observatory. I was reading a Robert Parker mystery when Paul made his move.
“Mind if I share your boulder?”
“Help yourself,” I mumbled, looking up from my book.
He was tall, tanned, and—from the look of him in his dark blue tank swimsuit—in excellent shape. Benny Goldberg calls men’s tank suits “marble bags.” Not so in Paul’s case. He hoisted himself up onto the boulder with easy grace. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and had a trim dark beard.
“Beautiful day, huh?” he said, pushing his sunglasses back onto his head, where they almost disappeared in the thick curly hair.
I looked into his dark green eyes and nodded. I was wearing what Paul would later describe as my wet-dream outfit: a snug pink cotton tank top and black satiny jogging shorts cut high on the hips. It had seemed a sensible and comfortable outfit for a hot afternoon—or at least that’s what I told myself that morning when I looked at my reflection in the bedroom mirror.