Window of Guilt (27 page)

“Police say he’s due to be released later today,” Norman confirmed.

“Great,” said Laurie. The elevator smoothly slid to a stop. “I can make it from here,” she assured the attendant.

“Wheel you to front of building,” said the attendant with a determined smile.

“I’ll pull the car up,” said Norman. He kissed Laurie’s forehead, then strode quickly out the hospital doors.

As the attendant rolled her into the outer lobby, Laurie pondered why she’d never called her father-in-law “Dad.” He was always there in a pinch. He argued her side over his son’s at least seventy percent of the time. But even though her own father was dead, it felt like the ultimate betrayal. She already had enough experience with betrayals to write a book.

A silver Cadillac pulled into the circular driveway. Norman unlocked the passenger side and the attendant helped her in. “Thanks for your help,” said Laurie, signing off on his clipboard.

“Have a joyous life, Miss,” the attendant said. He slammed the passenger door.

Be it God’s will,
prayed Laurie. She couldn’t wait to see Rory and Rocky. Norman slowly started to pull out of the driveway.

Suddenly, a woman stepped into the driveway, wildly waving her arms at them. It was Detective O’Connor. “Stop the car,” said Laurie. Then she pressed the window lever.

*

For the first time in twenty-five years, Gerald fit a key into the lock of his secretary’s coat closet. He was still reeling from his sister’s unsettling letter, followed by his secretary’s abrupt departure from the company. Was there some strange connection between the two occurrences or a mere coincidence? Griselda’s only explanation entailed a cryptic one-line note left atop his desk:
I can no longer live this charade.
Curious, thought Gerald. Griselda had never lobbied for higher pay over the years. She had neither requested promotion, nor balked at performing her professional duties. A valued, trusted employee. Why this? Why now?

Griselda’s coat closet appeared empty. Gerald was just about to bid it adieu when he noted a carved square on the raised floor of the closet. He retrieved an envelope opener from his desk, then knelt by the carving and wedged the tool along its borders. Carefully, he lifted the top of the carved square and peeked beneath the oak flooring. Stacks of rubber-banded envelopes greeted him. How odd. His secretary had been obsessive about efficiency and order.

Gerald had never actually visited Griselda’s apartment. Yet a picture graced her desk of a short-haired cat lounging on a green sofa sleeper. The sofa sleeper leaned against a wall whose windows reflected the back stairway of a neighbor’s porch. Even if a studio apartment was her choice of lodging, she still would have room for her tax returns or letters. Yet, twenty-five years of documents would call for a lot of storage.

Sighing deeply, Gerald reached into the open floor and extracted the first stack of envelopes. Then he laid the unwieldy pack on his desk and severed the rubber band with a letter opener. The array of envelopes cascaded across his desk.

Gerald haphazardly chose an envelope to view. He registered the address block typed on the first envelope. Frowning, he raised a second
envelope to eye level. This address block was handwritten, yet the contact information was identical to the first.

Gerald leaped out of his chair and rushed back to his secretary’s closet. He reached into the dark hole and extracted yet another bundle of envelopes. Tearing through the rubber-banded mass, he pulled out the next to the last envelope. Through tearing eyes, he glimpsed the address block, then the return address block. The addresses were completed in calligraphy, however they were carbon copies of those in the first bunch.

Groaning from his very core, Gerald stumbled back to the open sore and pulled a third stack from its pit. Again, both the address label and the return address label broadcast the revolting truth. Gerald thrashed around for an explanation, but his excuses inventory turned up empty. His heart plummeted at the realization that his trusted secretary had systematically hidden his love letters and cards to Elizabeth for twenty-three years. In one fell swoop, he’d been betrayed. Handcuffed, stripped naked, and whipped. Unlike the domination club Gerald frequented when he needed to be “punished,” this torture was not his choice.

Gerald seriously considered lowering himself into the black hole in the coat closet, then pulling down the hatch. He’d devoted his whole life to being a class act. As a soldier in the Korean War, he’d won the Bronze Medal for Valor. In the beginning of his insurance career, he’d followed every rule and regulation to its zenith. He’d futilely attempted to dissuade his partner’s son from swindling their insurance clients in order to make a profit.

Most important, he had repulsed the marriage claws of a number of lovely heiresses because of his intense devotion to one woman. Gerald sincerely believed that someday he and Elizabeth would reunite. Yet tampering with her marriage or daily life was beneath his moral code. Secure in the fact that in the first ten years of their break-up, Elizabeth had received each of his correspondences—although she had not responded to even one—Gerald had confined himself to sharing
her life vicariously. He only regretted that not one of his three private investigators had mentioned Elizabeth had borne a child.

And now to learn his secretary had secreted his correspondences. That all these years, Elizabeth had lived her life, completely unaware of his love for her. A pain worse than twelve cancers.

Why? He lamented aloud, his words echoing into the empty office. Griselda’s typewritten words sprang to mind:
I can no longer live this charade.
What if Griselda Jones, as moral and ethical as she’d appeared, had funneled her own reports on Brad Jr.’s shenanigans straight to the Illinois Department of Insurance, then left before the company fell apart? He needed to seek her out and demand an explanation.

*

They were seated in a hospital conference room.

“First you harass my son,” said Norman Atkins. “Now you harass my daughter-in-law. What do you people want?”

“The truth,” said Detective Maggie O’Connor.

“What makes you think I knew anything about this microcassette?” Laurie asked fitfully.

“After the ambulance took you to the hospital, we searched your house for DNA evidence on Brad Hamilton, Jr.”

“And you found it, right?” said Laurie. “The orange juice carton, the sponge, his semen.”

“Colleague of mine discovered something we didn’t expect.”

“What was that?” Norman asked snidely. “An ice cream cone?”

“An intact micro video cassette buried in the kitchen trash.”

“You searched my garbage?” Laurie asked in disbelief.

“The contents of the videocassette were disconcerting.”

“The last video we took was of my son’s eighth birthday party celebration,” said Laurie. “I certainly wouldn’t have thrown that away.”

“The video shows your husband loading a body into a wheelbarrow and carting it off.”

Laurie paled. That video. With everything that had been going on, she’d totally forgotten she’d finally tossed the offensive video into the trash. Norman looked at her strangely. “What’s going on?”

“Transferring a dead body from one location to another is considered a misdemeanor,” Laurie said defensively. “I researched it out on the Web. Ryan wouldn’t do jail time.”

“That isn’t your decision to make,” said the detective.

“My son transported a dead body?” Norman asked, his voice dazed.

“The victim found on Helga Beckermann’s driveway,” said the detective.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” said Norman.

“When I found out, I kicked your son out of the house,” said Laurie.

Norman frowned. “Ryan didn’t mention you kids were having problems.”

“He denied moving the body,” said Laurie.

“Did your husband kill that boy?” asked the detective.

“That’s ridiculous. Ryan’s a pacifist,” said Laurie.

“That’s why he bent your assailant’s head into a pretzel,” said the detective.

“Animal instinct,” Laurie said.

“We’ve taken Ryan into custody.”

“You can’t do that without just cause,” Norman protested.

“We’ll be in touch,” said the detective.

*

Thanksgiving. A time for giving thanks, for feeding the homeless. This time, a take-out meal from Boston Market consumed in seclusion with her son and dog.

Sure, they’d had invitations. Mitzy had invited them to her mom’s condo. Ryan’s father had offered to take them out to a restaurant. At the last minute, Laurie’s mother had phoned from Arizona with an invitation to stay the week. Laurie wondered if she’d read about her ordeal in the
Phoenix Sun.
She politely turned down that invitation.

Even Rory had been subdued since her return from the hospital two days ago. Laurie questioned her son about the fateful afternoon his dad had brought him home from school. She’d steeled herself for some heavy revelations, but Rory mumbled that Ryan’s legs blocked his view of the hallway.

Her son hesitantly admitted seeing two paramedics wheel a sheet-covered board into an ambulance. Yes, he knew the body on the board was not his dad. Yes, he saw a police officer push his handcuffed father into a squad car. No, he did not have any questions. “The police took Daddy away because he slammed the door on me and Rocky and left us out in the cold.”

And Rocky? Thankfully, neither his organs nor his limbs had been injured. Since Laurie arrived home from the hospital, the Bichon had slunk around her legs. Normally he’d be begging for food at the dinner table. But during this pre-packaged Thanksgiving meal, he lay morosely at Rory’s feet.

The doorbell broke the silence in the darkened house. Laurie shivered as she arose from the kitchen table. Would that stimulus response forever remind her of her unwelcome visitor? She tentatively headed into the hallway.

Laurie squeaked open the front door. “Yes?” she said through the
crack.

“Laurie Atkins?” asked a British-speaking female voice. A tall, thin woman in a black floor-length wool coat stood on the front stoop, her gray hair done up in an old-fashioned bun. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Can I help you?” said Laurie, her foot holding the door slightly ajar.

“Actually I’ve come to help you,” the woman said kindly. Her clear blue eyes appeared guileless in the waning daylight.

The British voice sounded so familiar. “Do I know you?” she
asked.

“We’ve spoken on the telephone.”

“Mom?” Rory’s frightened voice echoed from the kitchen.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Laurie called back. “Eat your dinner.”

Laurie mentally scanned the repertoire of phone calls she’d received since returning home from the hospital. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken, dear. It’s quite chilly out here. Would you mind if I come inside?”

Visions of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
flashed through her memory, accompanied by her mother’s entrancing voice. Together they’d acted out all the characters of her favorite fairy tale. Now she was faced with whether or not to open her door to this complete stranger with an elegant sounding lilt to her speech. Would she, like Snow White, fall deathly asleep from taking a bite of the proverbial apple, she wondered.

“Mrs. Atkins?” Late afternoon sunlight had progressed into darkness. The woman’s teeth were chattering.

Laurie swung open the door.

“My name is Griselda Jones,” the woman said, her clipped English enunciation piercing the brisk fall air.

“Can’t say I recognize the name.”

“I apologize for not introducing myself to you on the telephone when we last spoke.”

“Seriously, Ms. Jones, I think you’ve mistaken me for a different Laurie Atkins.”

“You are married to a gentleman by the name of Ryan Atkins. He worked as a health insurance adjuster for Great Harvest until he abruptly quit the company fifteen months ago. Shortly thereafter, he suffered a heart attack. He’s functioning quite well now, due to twelve months of rehab exercise at a local health club.”

A chill ran through Laurie’s body. “You’re the private investigator who’s been following my family?”

“Could I trouble you for a spot of tea? It’s quite frigid out here.”

“Mom! More turkey,” Rory whined from the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, Laurie gestured for the woman to enter. “I don’t want my son upset by anything you say.”

The woman crossed the threshold. “Fair enough.”

Laurie led her down the ceramic tiled hallway and into the kitchen.

Rory peeked his head in from the family room. “Third quarter’s almost over. Can I finish eating in front of the TV?”

Laurie nodded. Waving the woman to a kitchen seat, she carved a turkey leg for her son.

“Who are you?” Rory asked the woman as she shrugged off her raincoat.

“I’m a friend of your parents.”

“Nice meeting you.” Taking his plate, he headed back into the family room.