Grave Designs (10 page)

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.”

Ozzie and I climbed the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I walked in after Ozzie. Tossing my briefcase on the couch, I stepped out of my shoes and went into the kitchen, where Ozzie was waiting by the pantry.

“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.

“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.