David A. Schwinghammer
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· Mengele's Double, Chapter 10
· Honest Thief, Tender Murderer, Chapter 10
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Dewey suspects his friend Gordy may by guilty of Andy's murder and begins to investigate.
Chapter 9
Carolyn’s Complaint
“Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister.”
-Irving Berlin
The next few days were an avalanche of meetings with the power brokers in the parish, which Dewey spent trying to reassure the local burghers that he could indeed handle parish responsibilities; explaining that Father Czech had been directed by the Bishop to take a vacation for health reasons. He’d met with Father Albers across the river, who’d agreed to help whenever he could; he’d contacted the retired priest from Holdingford who’d assisted with Saturday confessions, who’d also promised to be there at a moment’s notice. And then there was the matter of the tornado and its aftermath, which had also sucked up most of the money he’d received from the sale of the Mantle rookie card. It wasn’t until the following Tuesday, when his Uncle Mike had arrived unannounced, that he’d been able to find the time to pursue his suspicions about Gordy.
Dewey angled right at Bank Square, the golden retriever fighting the leash when a UPS truck got within range. They turned left at Second Street, and he and the frisky dog trotted another two blocks, past the old junior high to a saltbox on the corner where Dewey rang the bell. Pete Wielinski, who’d agreed to keep Mutt while Dewey was away, answered the door.
“Morning, Father,” Pete said. “Got the dog, huh?” Pete plowed the parking lot at St. Boniface during the winter, cut grass during the summer, and raked leaves during the fall. He also served as a handyman whenever the plumbing acted up or a window needed sealing.
“I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience,” Dewey said, folding a tenner into Pete’s callused outstretched palm. “My uncle could watch the dog, but he has rheumatoid arthritis and I don’t want to take a chance.”
Pete gawked stupidly at the money. “Didn’t expect this much,” he said. “Want me to get you some change?” The man hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and a non-filtered cigarette jutted from the corner of his mouth. Dewey smelled alcohol.
“Nah, just take good care of Mutt. Get him the good dog food. He likes Gravy Train.”
“I’ll do that.” Behind the man, Pete’s wife cleared the breakfast dishes. Was that a mouse under her eye? Suddenly Dewey wasn’t so sure about leaving Mutt with Pete. He could take the dog to the vet’s clinic where Viktorija was now working part-time.
“Never thought the old priest would part with this dog,” Pete said, dropping the cigarette on the linoleum and grinding it under his work shoe. “Never saw him without the dog, except in church of course.”
Dewey studied the cigarette butt and the worn linoleum, a leafy design in a kind of vanilla with a red border, trying to think of a way to beg off. Nothing came. Some people were kinder to animals than they were to humans. Mutt would probably be all right. Probably. Besides, the man’s livelihood depended on the church. One false move and he’d be scrubbing bathrooms at the Brass Rail. As Dewey handed Pete the leash, and spun round to leave, Mutt let out a don’t-leave-me-with-this-murderer whimper, but there was nothing for it if Dewey wanted to be on his way to Anoka by ten. He still had to fill Uncle Mike in on his duties.
Back at the rectory Uncle Mike was on the phone calling people and businesses from the list Dewey had given him, soliciting money for the church roof.
“How’s it going?” Dewey said, tossing his windbreaker on a chair near the desk Uncle Mike was working at. Uncle Mike had shown up that morning at eight o’clock, just as Dewey was about to head over to the church for mass. “Bored out my skull in Arizona,” Uncle Mike had said. “Thought you could use some help.”
Dewey’s uncle had lost a good twenty pounds since he’d seen him last. His arthritic hands could barely grasp a cane, and his face had taken on the countenance of the Ramses II mummy Dewey had seen on the Discovery channel, all angles and veins. But he’d convinced Dewey that he’d be able to handle things at St. Boniface until he got back that night, or tomorrow morning if things got complicated with Erica’s sister.
“We’ll have this thing paid for in no time,” Uncle Mike said, rubbing his hands together in that washing gesture he always used.
“I’ve already got pledges for over a thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” Dewey said. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“Not really. I just ask them what percentage of their earnings they’ve donated to the church. They don’t dare tell me to mind my own business. If that doesn’t work, I remind them of the tithes the church used to get. There’s no way the cheapskates are donating any ten percent like the Mormons demand. I always get something. I won’t get off the phone until I do, and they don’t have the marbles to hang up on me.”
“You’d make a great telemarketer.”
“God forbid.”
“I’ll be going then. You’ve got the phone number where I’ll be?”
Uncle Mike patted his plaid shirt pocket, awfully spiffy for someone who’d worn black most of his life.
#
Once on the road, Dewey dialed up the PBS station on his car radio. Some kind of Gershwin retrospective was on. Instrumental versions of “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “Embraceable You,” and “I’ve Got a Crush on You” helped the time pass as he sped toward the Cities on Highway 10, then took Interstate 94 when he reached the Clearwater turnoff. That last song, “I’ve Got a Crush on You” set him to pondering about whether he was going to see Carolyn because he was jealous of Gordy. “But Viktorija said Gordy wasn’t deep enough for her,” he told himself in accompaniment to the music and the hacking and wheezing of the ancient Renault. Dr. Booker would be the one to worry about. She’d taken that job, hadn’t she?
By the time he got to Anoka, James Galway, the flutist, had replaced Gerschwin and Dewey had been whistling along. He’d enjoy seeing Carolyn Kane again--Cookie he’d always called her; she’d been best friends with his girlfriend Abby, and maybe she’d have the latest news about her and her family.
Dewey parked the Renault in the driveway behind a cobalt-blue Lexus, strolled up the walk, and leaned on the bell of the Georgian manse.
Carolyn answered the door, and they immediately fell into a clinch. When they separated, she said, “How do you like the place? Snagged a doctor, would you believe, just like mom always wanted. Bill is an obstetrician.”
Her hair was shorter than it used to be, kind of Audrey Hepburn style and she had the swan-like neck to go with it. She smelled like rosewater.
“You’re looking well,” he said.
“I’m looking well?” she trilled. “Doesn’t sound like you, Dewey. You and me used to be best buds. Lighten up, why don’t you. You want a drink?”
She led him into a kind of atrium area with a jungle of plants, the kind with pinchers big enough to swallow a priest.
“Ah, if you’ve got any beer, that would be nice.”
“Park yourself on the bench there, why don’t you, while I get it.”
The bench was a piece of modern furniture that could’ve been carved out of rock. She was gone for at least five minutes. When she returned with a bottle of Bud, she said: “Had to take a phone call. I’m sorry. You know I’m into investments, don’t you?”
He crossed his legs, took a slug of beer. “Nobody told me. How’s Abby?”
“Let’s see. She lives in Denver. She’s got two kids, twins would you believe. And . . .” The "and" was stretched like an especially resilient rubber band. “And she always asks about you.”
He set the beer on a table that looked like a coatrack. Carolyn immediately scooped it up and replaced it with a coaster. “I’m such a Felix,” she said. “Anyway, the twins are fraternal, a boy, Kelly I think, and a girl named Kim. I tried to tell her the names were sooo not happening. Too rhymey-dimey for moi.”
“What’s he do?” he said.
“Engineer I think. Civil kind.”
“I’d’ve been a bum if she’d married me. She’d’a had to support me. She still a nurse?”
“You knew that, huh?”
“Yup. I’m proud of her. I’ve never met a nurse who wasn’t a real person, a real nice person, that is.”
Carolyn took a sip of what looked like Scotch but could have been diet Coke. “Yup. Well, let’s get to it, shall we? You don’t want to have sex, and I’m out of small talk. You want to know about Erica and Gordy the Magnificent. Saw the jerk on TV with that Blom person the other day and almost coughed up a lung I was so revolted.”
He gave her what he hoped was an I-don’t-like-to-hear-people-dis-my-friend expression.
“You’re still so baby-faced,” she said. “You could be in junior high you’re so young-looking. I could just eat you up.” She reached over and pinched his cheek.
“Ow!” he said. “Look but don’t touch, Cookie.”
“Cookie. No one has called me that since high school. Except Abby, and I barely talk to her once a year. My best friend ever. Why does life have to go down the crapper, Dewey?”
“You were going to tell me about Erica’s accident?”
She sighed, rattled the ice cubes in her drink, drained most of it. “The bastard was taking dope. Sis wouldn’t believe it until I proved it to her. Followed him around like a bloodhound at a party one night and took a polaroid of him tooting coke in the bathroom.”
Dewey cringed. “Ah, he said she didn’t like him smoking pot.”
“That’s Gordy for yah. It’s a curse to be that good-looking, really it is. Do you know anybody handsome who can handle it? Gordy can’t walk by a mirror without clouding the glass with his hot breath.”
“So, what gave you the idea he spooked the horse?”
She rolled her eyes toward the skylight. “You are so naive. One little touchdown pass and you practically wash his feet every time you see him I’ll bet.”
“Mea Culpa.”
“Don’t give me that Latin mumbo jumbo. If you must know, I bedded the fellow once myself. Now you’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t know any delicate way of saying this. I might as well come right out and say it.”
“You know you enjoy taunting me, Cookie.”
She gave him a dimpled smile. “You know me too well. Anyway, Studley Do-Right was a bum fuck. I told him so and he tried to kill me. Blackened both my eyes, chipped a couple of teeth. If I hadn’t hit him over the head with a bottle of Seagram’s, I’d be pushin’ daisies myself. I tried to talk Erica out of that last ride, but would she listen to her big sis? Fat chance of that. The bastard spooked her horse, I tell you.”
“What did the cops think of all this?”
“Couldn’t prove Gordy spurred the horse. The D.A. said he had no case. What’s this about, Dewey? Do you think he’s killed someone else?”
Dewey rested his chin in his hands. Suddenly he was very tired and he still had to stop and see Mom and Dad who wouldn’t let him leave for a good three, four hours. “I don’t know, Cookie. This just may be jealousy on my part. I hired this young girl from Kosova and . . .”
“Oh, My God. I told Abby you’d never be able to handle it. What has it been, a month?
“I’m fighting it, Cookie. She’s got this other guy. The local veterinarian. That’s what she did in Kosova.”
“Sounds like a hustler to me. Playing both ends against the middle. She flash her tits at yah?”
“No, nothing like that. She’s a Moslem. She dresses very modestly.”
“I’ll bet. Rachel Welch in a turtle neck is more provocative than a naked Playboy model. Who’s this other girl he whacked?”
“I don’t know that yet, but the girl I think he may have whacked, as you put it, was a young high school girl from St. Gervais. That’s where I work.”
“I think I read about that. She was inline skating, right? Tell you what you do. You find out if he knew her. Then you get the goods on him about his temper. If he murdered her, I know it was the cretin’s losing his cool that caused it. How’d she buy it?”
“Run down with a car. The medical examiner says she hit a rock in the ditch. But it looks like the perp raped her afterwards.”
“Raped her dead body?”
“That’s why I don’t really believe . . . He can get any girl he wants.”
“Not any girl. If one turned him down, or dissed him like I did, I’ll bet you money he’d come unglued. You just get yourself some evidence that he knew this girl and that she’d spurned him.”
Carolyn’s cell phone buzzed and she drew it from her pocket like a six-shooter. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be down in a minute. Bye. That’s my broker. Got in with Microsoft when it was fifty-two dollars, would you believe? Anyway, it’s down because of the court case Gates is in, so he wants to sell.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Maybe you’re not so naive after all.”
#
Mom had emptied her freezer on him and the Renault was listing to one side as he finally hit the road at seven that night, his belt loosened by two notches after the Lasagna dinner his mother had served.
Dewey listened to PBS again on the way home. This time it was Gregorian Chant: the Choir of the Vienna Hofburgkapelle, with Josef Schabasser directing, performing an Alleluia: Dies sanctificatus; Ave maria, gratia plena; and Regina caeli laetare. He felt like enlisting in the monastery by the time he parked the Renault in the rectory parking lot.
#
Mutt, his nose pointed toward the glowering rain clouds, in that pose humans sometimes feign when they like you but want you to know they’re angry with you, refused to acknowledge Dewey when they jogged back to the rectory. Dewey didn’t think the dog was any worse for wear, though, and he had other smelt to deep fry. Mrs. Wielinski for one thing. And Erin Reese. He had to speak with Erin Reese.
When they got back to the residence, Dewey strode straight to Father Czech’s office where Uncle Mike was still soliciting recalcitrant parishioners. “That’ll be just fine, Mrs. Deering,” Uncle Mike said. “We can’t ask for more than you can afford.” He checked off a name on his list with a fine point Papermate, then hung up the phone. Scribbling a numeral under a long column of numbers, he glanced up a Dewey. “Five dollars is five dollars,” he said.
Dewey put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You’re not overdoing it, are you?”
Uncle Mike snorted. “I’ve never felt more useful. Got a call from your Bishop, though. Wanted to know what I was doing here. You’ve definitely got a leak. If I were you, I’d have the place swept for a bug.”
“I have another task for you if you’re sure you’re up to it. Would you mind paying a visit to Mrs. Culp tomorrow? She’s the lumber heiress we’re trying to convince to absorb most of the roof repair.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a fat cat? Could’ve saved some calluses on my dialin’ flipper.” Uncle Mike waggled his arthritic hands in the air, which indeed did resemble flippers. “She any relation to Gordy Culp?”
Dewey stretched his arms, felt his back crick. Driving always made him feel incredibly tired. “His grandmother. That reminds me. While you’re there, I need you to check the picture on the piano. I need to know the color and make of the car in the photo.”
“Mine is not to question why, mine is but to do or die.”
“You’re a good soldier, Uncle Mike.”
“I see Gordy’s got a big case on his hands.”
“And he could be involved in an even bigger one if what I think is true.”
“You don’t suspect--”
“I’ve just been talking to Cookie, Erica’s sister. You remember her?”
“Little slut. Of course I remember her. What did she have to say?”
“Says Gordy beat her up once after sex.”
“I always did think that boy was spoiled rotten. Thanks to athletics most likely. You hear about this big tall goofus who played for the ‘U’ basketball team?”
“No, what?”
“Got suspended for not going to class, and instead of taking it like a man, he quit on his teammates. When I was teaching high school, I tried to convince the board to switch to intramural. Interscholastic sports is an elitist program. Only a few kids get to play, and the others feel like dirt, especially when they get cut from the team. That big tall goofus has a hat size three sizes bigger than your typical kid. And now they’re going to pay him millions when he turns pro. What he needs is a good kick in his bony seven-foot behind, and I’m just the fellow to do it.”
“You sound fierce,” Dewey said, chuckling. He sat down in the easy chair next to the window. Pete Wielinski was out there pushing the leaves into piles, “Speaking of kicking someone’s behind,” he said. “I have a feeling Pete out there, he’s the groundskeeper, has been bashing his wife. When I took Mutt over there, I noticed she had a black eye.”
“Why don’t you call social services?”
“He’ll know I squealed.”
“So what?”
“He seems the type who might not take it lying down, if you catch my drift.”
“Does look rather like a serial killer, doesn’t he? I’ve always found that if you’re square with people, they’ll do the right thing. Want me to talk to him?”
“Nah. I better do it. I’ll need to put it on the back burner for now, though. I hope he doesn’t beat her up again while I’m dillydallying with this murder case.”
“That’s a possibility. You sure you don’t want me to take care of it?”
“Are you as good at derailing spousal abuse as you are at fund-raising?”
“I’m a regular Sigmund Hogan, if I do say so myself.”
“Well, just watch out for him. You’re an old man and it’s apparent that you probably don’t handle your dukes the way you once did. His type likes to pick on the weak.”
“I’ll put 911 on my speed dial. What’s your next move?”
“I’ve gotta talk to Erin Reese. She’s a girl who worked with Andrea Leyk. Says she saw this guy trying to hustle Andrea before she was killed.”
Dewey checked his Seiko. Nine-thirty already. “Have to wait till morning. Perhaps I can run her down after class. What do you think about maybe teaching a religion class? Could you handle that?”
“I’d love that. I miss the young people more than anything.”
“Good, you’ll take the juniors and the seniors then. Look for an Erin Reese and tell me what you think of her. Come on then, I’ll heat up some of Mom’s soup. We’ll leave all of these problems for tomorrow.”
“I hope you mean her turtle soup.”
“That I do. I remembered how much you love your turtle soup.”
#
Too much caffeine to close to bedtime kept Dewey awake that night and so he went down to the kitchen to heat up some milk, something that always did the trick when the travails of the day prevented Morpheus from making his appointed rounds.
As he turned the knob on the relic of a stove, the bluish-yellow flame burst to life. He stood there in his bare feet, listening to the quiet, watching the milk begin to bubble like something under a microscope back in his high school biology days. Then he heard sobbing coming from the other room. He poured the milk into a tumbler and padded back into the sitting room where the weeping grew louder.
Viktorija.
He rapped gently on her bedroom door and she said, “Come in.”
“I heard you crying, Vicky. What’s the matter?”
She wore a long nightshirt reminiscent of nightwear from the Christmas Carol. It had a v-neck opening and he couldn’t help but notice her cleavage. He was definitely getting aroused again. First a dead girl and now a rape victim. “I should be horsewhipped,” he thought.
“I have been having that dream again about the shka. It is getting worse.”
“Here, take this,” he said, handing her the milk. “Then you’ll tell me about it. We know each other well enough now, don’t we?”
She drank the milk as if it were her first taste of liquid after wandering the desert for days. Several times she made false starts, but finally she began: “I am being raped again. And when he is finished, another man takes his place. He has dirty fingernails and yellow teeth. He bites down on my breast and I gag and gag. This goes on for hours, one man finishing, another man taking his place, until I’m numb down there. There’s blood and semen, and I have never felt so dirty. I pray to Allah, but he does not hear. I begin to bite and scratch and kick and call them filthy names. They beat me, but I do not surrender. This is when I curse them and they become the snakes, which are somehow worse.”
For some reason he’d assumed the rape had been one man and one incident. Should have known. At first the frog in his throat prevented him from talking. He held her in his arms patting her back, saying, “There, there,” as his mother had when he’d had bad dreams as a boy. And he was inhaling her scent, a kind of musky, child-of-the-earth essence he would smell the rest of the night when he lay awake in his bed on the third floor, praying that the Bishop was right about the new pope and the vow of celibacy.
#
Some crazed teacher had decorated the windows of Room 211 with Halloween decorations. Witches on broomsticks darting across an azure sky. Gap-toothed pumpkins snarling their disgust. Dewey’d have to speak with Mrs. Cooper about this materialistic version of All Soul’s Day. Besides, Halloween was over a month from now.
Dewey paced in front of the ninth grade girls, dressed in his Anoka High wrestling warm-up top and jeans, regaling them about the good old days when the church insisted that all Catholics refrain from eating meat on Fridays. His topic for the day was meant as much for himself as it was for his students.
“Protestants called us mackerel snappers,” he said. “At the time some Catholics thought fasting was an awful pain in the posterior. But I see what the church had in mind. Self-denial. You don’t purchase that Backstreet Boys CD just because you have the money. You don’t buy that ‘Scream III’ video you may only watch once.” He hitched up his pants and continued. “If I were you, I would take my birthday money, or whatever, and spend it on a gift for a friend.”
Cindy Nelson raised her hand. “Is the church that friend?” Today she had her kinky blond hair embellished with little blue ribbons.
“You’re too smart for me, Cindy,” he said, and they all laughed their lilting, musical laughs. “While we’re on the topic of self-denial, let’s talk about Sunday mass.”
This was met with a low groan, building to a crescendo.
He ignored them. “I don’t see a lot of you in church on Sundays is what I’m saying. It’s important to haul your a--, to haul yourself out of that warm, snug bed on Sundays and make it to mass, and not just to worship the Lord. It’s for you as well. The Church is a kind of psychic laxative.”
This last word elicited sputtering laughter, chipped pink and red fingernails trying to hold it in.
“That was maybe a poor choice of words,” he said. “You should feel as though you’ve let God down if you don’t make it to church. And that kind of loyalty will lead to further fidelity when it comes to personal relationships.”
After class he felt as though he’d just given a Father Emil type lecture. That one was a little low on class participation, he told himself. You’ll have to do better next time.
He was at the counter where he’d been standing the first day when Mrs. Cooper had mistaken him for a student gone astray. She was at the computer, pretending she hadn’t noticed him, as usual.
“Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “I need you to page Erin Reese for me.”
She glanced up as if she noticed some sort of bothersome fly buzzing about her head. “Who?” she asked.
“Erin Reese. I’ll be in the little office in the library. And Mrs. Cooper . . .”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do something about the Halloween decorations in Room 211.”
“There are Halloween decorations in Room 211?”
“Yes there are. I was just in there for my religion class.”
She puffed up like a blow fish. “Drat those secular teachers. This never would have happened when the nuns--”
#
Raven-haired Erin Reese was wearing a rather modest blue dress with a white Peter Pan collar and black tights, her feet encased in black, silver-buckled flats.
Dewey rocked in the librarian’s leather chair as she took a seat opposite him. “How you been, Erin?” he said.
“Copacetic.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s a three-dollar word.”
“Had to study vocab for the PSAT. I retained some of it. Besides, my Ma says that was a hippy word once.”
“Yeah, I guess it was, but that was before my time.”
She seemed to measure him. “Really? I thought you would have been around then.”
“Nope. I’m only twenty-seven.”
“Sooo, what’s this about?”
“I want to apologize is all. For the way the sheriff treated you. I have some information that what you said about the sophisticated stranger bothering Andy Leyk is true.”
Suddenly the ebony eyes glared; she knew he was aware she’d confessed to having slept with Trace.
He tossed a picture in her lap. She picked it up, squinting at the senior photo of Gordy Dewey had dug out of an old annual.
“Does that look anything like the man you saw?”
“Could be. Even with the shades, I could tell he was a sheik.”
“A sheik, huh? What else do you know that you haven’t told anybody?”
“Trace and the guy they had a little dustup. If you want to know if this is the guy, you oughta talk to Trace. Speaking of lowdown, reprehensible vermin. Even pronouncing the name gives me trench mouth.”
“He ditched you, huh?”
“Yeah.” She snapped her bubble gum at him. “Says I embarrassed him, would you believe it?”
“You’re too good for him, Erin. You oughta check out the PSAT results. Find yourself an athletically-challenged geek, like Bill Gates.”
“Yah think?”
“Yeah, I think. If I were ten years younger, you’d be the chick I’d set my sights on.”
Her face lit up like the IDS Building on a dark night. “Yah sweet talker you,” she said. She got up and did a wiggle walk out the door that would have aroused a palace eunuch.
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Web Site:
Mystery
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While I'm quite familiar with the vocabulary, I found it a bit over-the-top in all of the conversations, perhaps because I'm highly educated, and while I know those terms, I don't ordinarily use them in conversation. However, as a writer, I can see why using that wild and humorous language continuously makes it more interesting for the reader, it's not realistic in life. And I'm more of a realist than a hook writer.
Then again, I did not grow up and spend my entire life in the same community. I think that breeds this kind of familiarity and small talk. Like when my cousin who lived in Anoka told me once after she lost her job, "I guess I'll have to go and hinge my heels on Hennepin Avenue." She didn't. But did go to work for the University of Phoenix, almost as bad. ;-)
Ron
Love ya!
Jane
interesting read