Dead Guy's Stuff (9 page)

"Nope. The photographs are for Susie. She's the one who needs to make sense of her past. It was thoughtless of me to let all the pictures of her mom go. I should have given her a chance at them before I waved good-bye."

"I'll pack them up for her," Jane said. "There are wedding pictures in there that I'm sure she'd like."

"Maybe so," Mary said, closing her makeup bag. She drilled her blue eyes into Jane's. "Not me, though. I couldn't care less about the whole mess."

As Jane drove home, she tried to organize her thoughts about Mary Bateman. Mary had gone on to tell Jane that if she ever got sprung from assisted living, she wanted a loft. "Just a big open space with some simple, straight-back chairs and a new record player, CD player, whatever they've got that's the best. Music and a phone to order takeout Chinese. And a good bed, simple, new, and clean. I don't want to be one of them old-timers who can't throw out the garbage," Mary said, wrinkling her nose.

Dot and Ollie both giggled when Mary mentioned the good bed. Raised eyebrows and winks passed among them.

Jane wasn't sure whether or not Mary was entirely forthcoming. She might have talked the clean and uncluttered talk, but a few things in her room belied her walking the walk. Jane had noticed the book by her bed, a romance novel that lay open. Mary's bookmark was a photo strip, the old-fashioned, black-and-white kind where people posed in a dime store booth. The four photos on Mary's bookmark were pictures of her with Bateman, their heads touching, smiling first at the camera, next at each other, and in the last two kissing. Mary's head was tilted back, and she kept one hand on the top of her small feathered hat to prevent it from falling off. The photo was wrapped in clear plastic and taped on its sides. Home-made lamination. It was done with the kind of care that someone uses to protect something precious; yet the fact that it was clumsy and makeshift told Jane it was done by someone who covered up all sentiment, someone who professed to the world that the past was past, someone who didn't want to ask her granddaughter where you got something laminated, someone private, so protective of her memories that she could not frame the photo and display it for the world.

Jane also noted that Dot and Ollie referred to Bateman by name in all their talk about the Shangri-La. And although Mary might say a few words about the bowling league or the Christmas decorations they put up every year, she never spoke Bateman's name. It was a deafening omission.

And then, of course, there was the lipstick, a nearly new tube of Clinique Earth Red Jane had noted before Mary had put it back into her bag. But the gold case she'd slipped it into! Vintage Cartier. Thirties? Mary might have a little curator in her after all.

11

Jane threw together some dinner from what she could find in the cabinet. Pasta with a sauce made up of artichokes, black olives, roasted red peppers, and a jar of pesto. She hadn't wanted to cook at all, just make the announcement, "Animals in the Jungle," which meant that it was every Wheel for him or herself— you find it, you kill it, you eat it.

Nick had been pleased to see her home a few days earlier than expected. Happy to sit at the kitchen table and talk about his day, his homework, the teacher who hated him, the teacher he hated. Jane knew if she didn't cook, didn't busy herself around the kitchen counter, she'd lose him to television. As long as she could pour things into pans and stir, she seemed to be able to hold him there. She rummaged for cookie ingredients.

"I'll break the eggs," Nick offered.

He was almost as tall as she was, but he still liked to do those "first" chores, those little jobs that every child started on, standing on a stool, wrapped in an apron at the kitchen counter. His voice had deepened, and he spent a long time combing his hair every morning, sure signs that he was growing up and away; but still, Jane thought, he still likes being here with me.

"Dad's coming home for dinner, right?" Nick asked.

Us,
Jane corrected herself,
he likes being here with us.

"I suppose," Jane said. "I didn't tell him I was coming back, so he'll be coming home to you."

"And we'll surprise him with this great dinner," Nick said.

"Whatever you say, Nick."

Jane felt hope rise off Nick's body like steam.

"Dad and I are always going to be together for you, Nick, even if we're not always together for us. Know what I mean?"

"Sure, whatever," Nick said, shrugging and not looking at her while breaking up the egg yolks with a fork. "Can I do the mixer?"

Later, after dinner, Jane went over a schedule with Charley while she inventoried their kitchen. She knew that much of what she would use for the McFlea House could come from her own store of supplies. Tim wanted assurances from everyone that they hadn't gone over their spending limit, but he wasn't too worried with Jane.

"I know you're a nickel-dimer, dearie," Tim said. "When you start hauling in the rummage, folks will be throwing money at you to go out and buy something new and real, for god's sake."

Still, Jane knew that stuff added up. It used to be that those sweet little crocheted pot holders cost a nickel or dime. That's how she'd got hooked on them. She remembered her grandmother sitting in front of television, small needle clicking away. No one ever used these handmade treasures. They sat in a drawer, hung on a wall. Now she picked them up out of other people's drawers and cast-off boxes, thinking of herself as the conservator of crochet. All that work and no granddaughters or grandsons wanted to at least make room in their own drawers in order to let the color brighten their day. Sure, they were too small to be useful and too delicate to handle one of those heavy enameled cast-iron pans that the foodies nowadays hefted onto the stove for their bouillabaisse, but couldn't these yups just tuck them into a drawer?

"Great-grandma made those," they could say to their own kids, when they asked to crack the eggs or do the mixer.

Charley rinsed the dishes as he always did when she cooked. A pale blue scalloped-edge platter of still warm cookies sat on the counter. The scene was domestic bliss and Jane, sorting through boxes of stored kitchen collectibles at the table, realized she could have sold any number of household products had this been a commercial she had produced.

"Nick's in a tournament in Wisconsin this weekend, and the Conners offered, so I was thinking of just letting him go and stay at the motel with them," Charley said. "Okay with you?"

"I guess, but…"

Jane stopped counting out place settings of red and green and butterscotch Bakelite flatware and looked at Charley. "Don't you like going to those? I thought you…"

"Of course. Love it. But this weekend there's a little get together with all the people who were on the dig this summer, and I wanted to… you know… go," Charley said.

Was he blushing?

"Sure, of course," Jane said. "I'll call Jill and ask her the details and help Nick pack a bag and all that," Jane said.

"I talked to her already, and we're all set. They have a half day of school on Friday, so they're leaving then. If you want to go to Kankakee for the whole weekend, you're free."

Jane nodded.

"Free as a bird," Charley added, cursing himself for sounding so stupid. Perhaps he should have made a neon sign that flashed, "I'm going to go to a party and flirt with graduate students."

Jane smiled and turned back to the flatware.

"Okeydokey, then," Charley said, wondering where that expression had come from, wanting to slap himself in the forehead. "P.S.," the neon would say, "it's just so I can remember who I was."

When Jane was about to call Detective Oh to tell him that she had learned nothing and something from Mary Bateman, the phone rang.

"Jane, my little sleuth, you're going to love my news," Tim said, singsonging the last part.

"You've decided to give me that Roseville vase that you never liked anyway?"

"Better."

"Lily called and admitted that she had never had an allergy in her life and that she killed Duncan?"

"Better."

"Give."

"Duncan had a nephew; he's the only living relative. And Duncan had already put two of the shanties in the nephew's name. The only thing Duncan owned when he kicked was the shack he lived in."

"How is this so good?" Jane asked.

"The nephew, Bill Crandell, stopped in at the shop and asked T & T Sales to empty out the shanties. He took one peek and said he wanted to torch them, but thought better of it and hired Tiny Tim."

Tim was crowing, and Jane was confused. She knew that there were three shanties in the block south of the EZ Way Inn. Duncan lived in one, and, she assumed, he rented the others.

"Nah, Duncan lived in one until it was filled up with crap, then moved to the next one. He lived in the first one about ten years, the second one six, and he had lived in the one where you and your dad found him about three."

"What kind of crap? He died in the middle of garbage. Was that what he left behind in the other houses?" Jane asked. Despite her negative words to Tim, she noticed she was feeling a small tingle of excitement at the back of her neck.

"Lots of garbage, but according to Crandall, there're boxes of papers, dishes, letters, books, you name it. When he bought buildings… you know, taverns and restaurants and whatever, previous owners left lots of stuff. Crandall says Gus never threw anything away, just boxed it all up and brought it home," Tim said. "So I thought you and me, baby, might…"

"We can't do a house sale at a crime scene," Jane said.

"My poor, sweet deluded Jane," Tim began, "no one, not one police person, civilian, enemy, or friend of Duncan has suggested foul play."

"He had no friends."

"Doesn't mean he was murdered, oh daughter of Nellie," said Tim. "You're sounding more like your mother every day."

"He did not slice his own finger to the bone while…"

Jane stopped. What had the police, her father, Lilly, Tim all said? They'd all insisted that he was making a sandwich and accidentally cut his finger while slicing a something, probably a tomato, had a heart attack, and collapsed. Or had a heart attack and, as a kind of bizarre reflex, kept slicing away. Okay, maybe it was possible.
It wasn't,
she thought,
but if it was…

"Tim, I'm not guessing; I know I'm right about this."

"I'm listening."

"No tomato."

* * *

"No tomato?" asked Bruce Oh. He was admiring the three-compartment dish Jane had set out with blue cheese– stuffed olives, pickled onions, and lemon slices. Oh knew nothing about barware or kitchenware per se. Claire tried to educate him on what was collectible and what was junk. Jane Wheel, on the other hand, preached that nothing was junk; all was collectible. He liked this snack dish, with its shiny chrome and modern shape. The handles, solid bars on each side, were rich red, line carved. He tapped one with his index finger.

"Bakelite?"

"Chase," Jane said, nodding.

Why did he often feel that a conversation with Mrs. Wheel might not always take place in English?

"Not Bakelite?"

"Sorry, yes, the handles are Bakelite. It's a Chase chrome tray," Jane said, picking it up and holding it high enough for Oh to see the Chase symbol, the archer, half-man, half-horse, etched into the bottom. She picked up two olives that had spilled out and popped them into her mouth.

"I probably wouldn't bother with martinis if they didn't come with so many accessories," Jane said.

Charley was going to say that what Jane drank— Grey Goose vodka on the rocks with a toothpick full of olives soaking in it— was hardly a martini since it contained no vermouth, but thought better of it. It had been such a pleasant evening, coming home to find Jane and Nick making dinner, the smell of home-baked cookies in the air. And even if they were doing this upside down, having martinis after dinner, it was a comforting ritual, wasn't it? Jane would say it was more fun to do it this way, upside down, and Charley knew that it was what he had found so charming in the first years of their marriage. Jane liked conventions; she just didn't like to perform them conventionally. Why now, after years of adoring her quirky charm, did he hear his own voice, impatient and weary, correcting, scolding, lecturing?

"What is this missing tomato?" asked Oh again. He had hurried over when Mrs. Wheel called. A drink would be nice. Claire was working at her stall at the antique mall, unearthing all her Halloween and Thanksgiving collectibles and rearranging displays.

"Munson or one of the detectives dismissed Duncan's cut finger, saying he was cutting a tomato or something when he had a heart attack. He was on the floor in front of the sink, holding the knife, and his finger was nearly cut off. But there was no tomato out on the counter. No food. The sink was piled with crusty dishes, looked like a lot of unrinsed cereal bowls or something, some moldy. Lots of glasses. This place was a shrine to filth, so a tomato, a fresh red tomato, would stand out."

"I know you have the eye for observing details, Mrs. Wheel, but it didn't really have to be a tomato. The policeman there might have just meant, because it was a serrated knife and he was found where he was found, that he was preparing to slice something, to fix some kind of food," said Oh.

"Tomato as metaphor?" offered Charley. He had been gathering papers to take back to the apartment for the night but found himself drawn to the discussion.

Oh nodded.

"Metaphor for what? Lettuce? That's the first thing I saw when I went into the dump. There were fast-food sandwich wrappings all over the place, on the floor, covering the coffee table and chair arms. The 'works'— you know, lettuce, tomato, pickle— all that stuff had been peeled off the sandwiches and lay rotting in the wrappers," Jane said.

She took a long, thoughtful sip of her drink and set it down.

Jane turned to Charley and Oh. "Look at this bar," she said.

"Charming," said Oh. In spite of his protests to his wife that he abhorred objects, too many things cluttering up their house, he had to admit that the tableaus set up by Mrs. Wheel were quite seductive. On this wooden table, with the black cast-iron base, she had set out three brass and Bakelite trays. Chase, she called them. A round ice bucket with penguins circling its middle sat between the trays. Cocktail forks with tiny Bakelite dice attached to the handles poked out of a red-and-butterscotch Bakelite deck of cards base. The olives and onions and lemon peel all seemed more delectable in their surroundings. A drawer in the bar was open, overflowing with an appealing stack of mismatched, embroidered cocktail napkins. Detective Oh noticed with a start that the bar was really an old sewing machine table. Mrs. Wheel had removed the sewing machine that would have unfolded from the top and saved the life of this outmoded piece of equipment.

"If all the olives were left in the dish, and if you saw my glass with my fingerprints on it over there on the table with the drink gone, but the olives on a toothpick thrown out next to it, you'd probably figure I didn't eat olives, right?" Jane didn't wait for an answer. "So if you found me dead with my hand stuck in an olive jar, trying to get the last one out, wouldn't you find that strange?"

Neither Charley nor Oh said anything. Nick had come in to say good night around the time of
the tomato as metaphor
and had been puzzled enough to stay quietly in the corner and listen. Now he forgot that he was being silent so no one would notice him and send him to bed. "No, Dad likes olives," Nick said.

The three adults turned to look at him.

"We'd just figure you were getting the last olive for Dad. Or Detective Oh," Nick said. He came over and leaned in toward his mother, brushing her slightly. It was this year's version of a hug. "Night."