The New Black Mask (No 8)

Looking for Lauren Joseph Lisowski

Joseph Lisowski teaches English at the College of the Virgin Islands on St. Thomas. He has had poems and translations of Chinese poetry published in over one hundred periodicals, and his first published story, an abridged version of an unpublished novel, appeared in 1984.

About “Looking for Lauren,” Mr. Lisowski commented: “The story is an attempt to explore character in a short form of detective fiction. I like it, but I think I’ll have to do three or four more Wilcox stories before I’m satisfied. He has to face the long run and changing circumstances, a changing sense of self.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t let you go.” Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and across my chest as she looked down at me. Her gray eyes were determined yet filled with longing. Her hands were on my shoulders.

I turned over and groaned, slowly opening my eyes. It was already light outside, which meant that I had overslept again. I would only have time to check my post-office box before going to work. No time for jogging this morning. Just as well. I was really too old for exercise anyway. Besides, I had enough trouble managing to sit erect on the bed. I looked down at the small mountain where my waist should have been, shook my head, and lit a cigarette.

It was the third time in a week that I had that dream. Made no sense to me at all except that it was some time since I had been involved with a woman. Years. I tried to rub the sleep from my face.

After a shower, I made a cup of instant coffee and got the morning paper. As it had been for the past three weeks, my ad was in the personal section: “Discreet inquiries — reasonable rates, P.O. Box 1904.” Pretending to be an investigator took the edge off loneliness; it gave me something to look forward to, even though not much ever came from it. There had to be more to life than what I was doing. All the TV programs showed that it was so. Being a bookkeeper for Martin Ross Manufacturing wasn’t exactly a high-risk occupation.

I stopped by my post-office box before work to see if anyone had responded to my ad. I had almost given up hope that anyone ever would, but checking the box each morning was at least a chance, a chance that this day might not be a duplicate of yesterday, and the day before that, and the months and years before that.

When I opened the box, it was there. I stared at the envelope in disbelief and thought that there must be some sort of ritual to go with opening the letter. What it was, though, I couldn’t figure out. I put the letter in my pocket. I’d prolong the suspense until coffee break. I hadn’t felt so good in years. It was my chance.

At 10:15 A.M., I opened the letter to find only a name and a phone number. I waited an hour before I called. It was delicious. A woman answered on the first ring, and she sounded anxious. I made an appointment to see her during my lunch hour. She lived just north of the city, not far from my office.

Hawthorne Street was wide and lined with large sycamores. The houses were set back a good forty yards from the curb. When I walked to the door of 3905, I adjusted my rates accordingly. This was going to be money.

“My name’s Wilcox,” I said. “I believe we talked earlier.”

“Oh,” she registered surprise. “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

“A lot of people think that, ma’am. Helps me get the job done.”

She hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, come on in.”

I followed her into the living room. She was an attractive woman about thirty who looked like she had a lifetime membership to a health spa. She wore a simple beige dress with heels. Very little makeup, no jewelry.

After we sat down, she studied me for a moment. “Yes, I guess so,” she said. “Not many people would ever think of you as a detective.”

I smiled. I would never be mistaken for Magnum. When I hit fifty, I let my weight go, not that I was ever really in good shape, but two hundred pounds is a bit much for my five-foot-five-inch frame. That’s why I took up jogging. Jogging, to me, meant once around the block. So far I had made the distance only twice. I always have the feeling that I’m going to fall when I jog, which is easy to understand because I can never see my feet. Actually, I get enough exercise just getting dressed each morning, but it got to the point that I couldn’t read a paper without seeing some article about how jogging is good for the heart. So, it’s me and Jim Ryun from now on.

“What is it that I can do for you?” I asked.

“I want you to find my sister. She’s been missing for three days. All her clothes are still here. And not one word from her. I’m worried. It’s not like her at all.” She wrung her hands. Her nails were long and tapered. Clear fingernail polish and no rings.

“My fee is one hundred fifty dollars a day plus expenses. In a case like this, I usually get paid three days in advance. If I don’t find her in a week, I work the next week free, or until I find her.”

She was silent for so long that I got uncomfortable. I started checking to see if my shirttail was hanging out. It was. And there was no way I could be discreet about tucking it back in. How could she not notice? I began to fidget.

“OK,” she finally said. “When do you begin?”

“Right now,” I said as I opened my notebook and clicked my pen. I couldn’t believe that she bought it.

A half-hour later I was back on the street with a check for $450 and a photograph of a girl in my pocket. My entire shirttail was out now, but I couldn’t care less. I couldn’t have been happier. My first real case! The first thing I did was stop at a public phone and call in sick. I had 780 hours of sick leave accumulated. There would never be a better time to use some of it. I couldn’t believe it. Someone actually hired me; something was actually happening to me!

Lauren Wright, until three years ago, had been a fashion model for the Miller & Rhoads Department Stores. She got bored with it, or so her sister said, and frustrated by the fact that she would never make the New York modeling scene — her legs were too thin and slightly bowed. After she quit her job, she moved in with her sister, let her body hair grow, and didn’t do much more than watch soap operas for about a year.

Two years ago she started attending the local college, and five months ago took a part-time waitressing job at a place called Berrini’s. She had no steady boyfriend, dated occasionally, but never spent the night away from home. Sometimes her male friends would sleep over, but no one ever spent more than two nights, and she hadn’t dated anyone in at least a half a year.

Sara Wright, my employer, was a lawyer with McGraw and Litman who specialized in accident cases. When I asked her why she didn’t hire an investigator that she knew, she said that she wanted to keep her private affairs private. That didn’t make much sense to me, but I wasn’t about to give her money back.

I looked at Lauren’s picture. There was something familiar about her. High cheekbones, fleshy mouth, expertly applied makeup. It was taken when she worked as a model. I wished that I had a more recent photo.

I figured that I’d try the college first. After all, she may have had an argument with her sister that Sara didn’t tell me about and decided to cool it for a while, or maybe she had fallen in love and was on one of those in-town honeymoons. Anyway, Sara said that she was very serious about school, so maybe she could be missing from home but not from school. The idea was pretty weak, but I had to start somewhere. I had her class schedule, and besides, I was hungry. The college snack-bar would be as good a place as any to have lunch.

Before I went to the school, I stopped at the bank. Once again they had changed tellers, and they wouldn’t cash the check. Rather, I had to deposit it and then write a check for cash. And once again, I threatened to close my account. Fifteen years at the same bank entitles you to some respect, but apparently I was the only one who thought so.

At the snack bar, I ordered three hamburgers and smothered them with mayonnaise and onions. As an afterthought, I got a large Diet Coke. I figured that it would make up for not jogging that morning.

There was an empty table near the far window that gave a pretty complete view of the place. It didn’t occur to me until after I was seated that nobody paid much attention to me. I didn’t look like a professor, and certainly not a student. A book salesman, that was it. Luckily, I had my briefcase.

They served the kind of hamburgers that are best eaten fast — if you took your time, you’d wonder what kind of meat was used — so I had to be inconspicuous for the next thirty minutes. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t have stood out more if I was Babe the Blue Ox. I removed the morning paper from my case, spread it on the table before me and then started to study the clientele. Most of the students looked like students — young, loud, sloppy. Lauren would have stuck out in this crowd, especially if she still dressed like a model, which would probably be unlikely.

After two cigarettes, a familiar pain in my chest returned. Before I started jogging, I thought I was having a heart attack when it came. But now I usually felt that the most it could be was heartburn. While walking across campus to Oliver Hall where Lauren’s American Lit class was, I broke wind and felt much better. If Lauren was at school, chances were good that she’d show up there. Sara said that Lit was her favorite subject.

At 1:45, I was outside the door. Class would dismiss in five minutes. A few professors passing in the hall eyed me suspiciously. There were not many students about. Maybe nobody took a class after two o’clock.

The door opened and six students came out. I could still hear voices inside the classroom. I waited a while longer before I looked in. Three students were gathered around the professor’s podium. None of them was Lauren. I smiled and waited in the hall. Very shortly, a man came out and stopped in front of me. I smiled again.

“May I help you?” He sounded like Lee Marvin. I guessed he was the Lit professor, though he certainly didn’t look like one to me. About thirty-five, longish blond hair and a big mustache, he was wearing one of those Hawaiian shirts with jeans and boots. He was big and looked like a TV private eye. He did not smile.

“Do you have a Lauren Wright registered in this class?”

“Who are you?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“I, ah...” I felt my smile grow and my face flush. “I’m her father.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for my quick mind. “I’m only in town for the day. I haven’t seen Lauren for quite a while, and, ah, her sister told me that she was at school. Do I have the wrong class?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed him a few yards until he opened the door to his office.

“Have a seat.” He sat behind his desk. The room was dimly lit, almost dark. He lit a cigarette. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Lauren never mentioned a father to me,” he finally said.

Who was this guy, I thought. What does he do, take a case history of his students? Seems more than just a professor to Lauren.

“Well, I hardly ever see her,” I said. “You see, me and her mother split up about fifteen years ago, and...” then it struck me why he was so suspicious — Lauren looked about as much like me as a quarter horse does a buffalo. “I, well, you know how things are.” I smiled again. “Thank God the girls look like their mother,” I added. The words seemed out of place. I felt that he didn’t believe me.

“No, she wasn’t in class today. The first class she missed all term. Didn’t call either.” He paused. “I ask the students to call if they are not coming to class. Sorry, I can’t help you. I’ll tell her that you stopped by when I see her.” He rose. The interview was over.

On the way to my car I debated whether or not to follow that guy. He knew a lot more than he let on. When I got to the parking lot, I had no idea what to do next. I had only one other place to check out and that was Berrini’s, where Lauren worked. It was pointless going there before dark, however. I had the whole afternoon ahead of me.

I sat in my car and thought about killing time. I could go home and take a nap. It was a sunny, warm fall day; it would be a shame to sleep on a day like that. I could go for a long walk in the park, but my Diet Coke was my one concession to fitness for the day. I went to the library instead.

College libraries don’t, as a rule, carry many mysteries, but I got lucky. The browsing room had Ross MacDonald’s The Zebra-Striped Hearse. I first read it fifteen years ago, a time when I read about private eyes without thought of being one. I found a comfortable chair in a comer near the window and began reading. Lew Archer would show me the way.

“Sir, sir!” I felt someone nudging my shoulder. “You’re disturbing the others,” the voice sternly warned.

“Huh, ah...” My mouth felt like wax. I opened my eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, very sorry,” I tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I must have dozed off.” The librarian turned and walked away. Students at a nearby table snickered. I blinked a few times and realized it was close to sunset. How could I just fall asleep like that? Looking at the book, I saw that I only got to page fifty-seven. Oh, brother, I thought. Well, at least I won’t be too tired tonight.

After putting the book on a table, I went to the water fountain. No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t get the dryness out of my mouth. I must have sucked an awful lot of air.

Back in my car, my stomach started growling and I headed for the Blue River Rib Company for their special — all the ribs you can eat for $8.95. I knew that I’d feel a lot more like myself after dinner.

The ribs were spicy, just the way I like them, and they served beer in quart mason jars. After three plates and two beers, I was content. Singles were filing into the bar’s lounge as I was leaving. I checked my watch: 7:20, a little too early for Berrini’s, so I sauntered through the double western doors and looked for a seat at the bar. All the scats had backs with wraparound arms. Just great, I thought. Even if I could have fit into one of them, which was doubtful, they’d have to call the rescue squad to get me out. I stood at the bar and ordered a schnapps.

The waitresses there wore short shorts with flowered blouses; their midriffs and backs were exposed. Some people would think that to wear an outfit like that, the girls would have to be thin. These weren’t. They looked fine to me, but I liked the way they dressed before — a black leotard top, a dark red skirt slit up to the waist, black stockings and heels. Almost anyone would look good dressed like that. No, I reconsidered, let me take that back.

I looked around the lounge. It was nothing special — hardwood floors, ceiling fans, a lot of instruments set up in a far corner on what could be a small stage, vinyl booths, and a good many small Formica tables. A woman, about thirty, sat at one near me. She looked like she had been crying. I never could understand why people cried. Maybe it had something to do with hormones, which reminded me of an old joke. I smiled. The woman at the table looked at me and scowled. Maybe she thought I was smiling at her.

I ordered another drink. The place got to be about half-full. I tried to spot a smiling face without having much luck. Maybe frowning was in. I wondered if people practiced in front of mirrors. It was not a happy thought. I finished my drink, paid my chit, and headed across town to Berrini’s.

I had never been there, before and took two wrong turns, which I didn’t mind. It was still early. When I did find it, I thought I was at the wrong place. It sat on a quiet part of Broad Street, and there were nothing but empty parking spaces in front of it. I parked and went in.

The place was chic, at least compared to where I’d been. The cut-glass doors opened to a solid walnut bar. Behind it was the biggest mirror I’ve ever seen topped by a panel of dim orange lights. At the bar were stools — no backs, no arms. Maybe my luck had changed. I took a seat and ordered a schnapps. No sense in mixing drinks unnecessarily. The bartender smiled. She was about forty, short cropped blond hair, and wore a black dress with short-heeled black shoes. She had on a string of pearls as white as her teeth. Her smile was warm. I hoped she would smile again.

There were only a few people seated at the twenty or thirty small tables that extended a good way back to the stage. They were covered with white linen, and white linen napkins rested like crowns in the center of the place settings. A single, live carnation in a small glass vase dotted the center of each table.

On the stage, a large, three-part mirror like those old changing screens covered the back wall. In front of it was a baby grand with large bouquets of pink flowers on it. They were too far away for me to tell what kind they were. Both walls had the kind of lights I remembered theaters having when I was a boy.

“What do you call this decor?” I asked.

“Art deco,” the bartender replied smiling and then quickly went to a table almost directly behind me. A kingdom for that smile, I thought.

I was the only one at the bar. I looked at the man at the table through the minor. He was talking to the bartender, and she was paying close attention. Maybe he was the owner. He looked about my age but was a little taller, and his gray suit fit him well. My suit always looked like I slept in it. He wore what I imagined was an old school tie and had the habit of looking at her over the top of his half glasses as he spoke. A large, partly smoked cigar lay in the ashtray in front of him. He caught my reflection in the mirror and held my eyes for an instant before I turned away. I felt a pain rise in my chest. Schnapps usually took care of that. Give it time, I told myself, but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was gallstones. My hands became clammy. I had to concentrate on my case, gallstones or not.

Maybe I could ask that man, if he was the owner, or the bartender if Lauren would be in tonight. I took out her picture and looked at it again. I began rehearsing my pitch about being her father, but then gave it up. Fathers just don’t go searching for their daughters these days. Or do they? I always wanted to have a daughter, a grownup daughter. One that would meet her old dad for a drink in a place like this and tell him about how great things were going for her. Yeah, I could almost see her talking excitedly, forgetting the time and then remembering that she had to rush to catch a plane to go to a UN reception. She’d smile like sunshine, kiss me on the cheek, squeeze my arm, and then be off.

“Another drink?” the bartender asked.

I looked up startled.

“Must be a fascinating picture,” she said.

“It’s my daughter,” I replied automatically. “I guess you caught me reminiscing.” I smiled and put the photo back in my pocket. I don’t think that she saw it. “Sure, I’d love to have another drink.”

“Coming right up.”

Two black men, about forty or so, came in and sat at the other end of the bar. She brought me my drink and then took their order. I’ve seen a lot of bartenders before, and this one was a real pro. She mixed the drinks in front of them with speed and aplomb, if not style. They were drinking those funny-looking drinks that took four different kinds of liqueur.

A few younger couples came in and took tables near the stage. The bartender served dinner to the man behind me. Whatever it was, it sure smelled good. No, I just couldn’t eat again, I managed to convince myself. A tuxedoed waiter took orders from the tables.

A man stepped on stage and began playing the piano. It sounded like a mix of classical and jazz. The music was faintly familiar; in fact, the whole place seemed that way. After two tunes, he was joined by another man who sat across the stage from him and started playing saxophone in a bluesy tone. After the first sixteen bars I recognized it. It was “Blue Moon.” “Moon River” followed that and then “You Send Me.” I was aware of other people coming in but didn’t really pay attention. The music, lighting, maybe my drinks, and especially the bartender’s smile were pushing me off the edge of a daydream.

When the set was over, I looked around the room. I didn’t get far. There she was at the end of the bar holding the telephone. She punched out the numbers with the back of a pencil. She wore her hair up, away from her face. No jewelry, a simple black blouse, dark gray pin-striped pants that stopped at her calves, black stockings, and black heels. My heart skipped a beat. She hung up the phone and looked pensively at some spot on the bar. I rose and almost lost my balance.

Steadying myself, I walked over to her.

“Lauren,” I said with a smile. She looked up quizzically. “Lauren,” I continued, “your sister is very concerned about you. Could you please call her?”

“I don’t have a sister. Who are you anyway?” There was a note of rising anger in her voice. “How...” she stopped abruptly and stared over my shoulder. I glanced into the mirror. The man at the table peered at her and then rose. He walked toward her but didn’t stop. He seemed to be going to the men’s room.

Lauren looked as if she was about to say something but turned instead and walked out the door.

Great, I thought. Way to go, Wilcox. You find her and then spook her. And you know how great you’d be on a chase.

I gave the bartender a ten and told her to keep the change and was out on the street in time to see Lauren get into a small, dark sports car. I ran to my car. That would be my exercise for the month. I hoped that I would spot her at a nearby intersection.

Three times around the block and no sight of the car. I lost her that fast. Without much hope, I decided to cruise to Sara’s house. Maybe the wayward sister had a change of heart and went home.

There was a light on in the living room but no dark sports car in the driveway or on the street. I parked across the street, slouched in my seat, and waited. Maybe she would show up.

After about a half hour, I’d given up hope. Besides, I was sleepy. Just as I was about to start the ignition, a car pulled behind me. It stopped abruptly and then the red lights flashed.

“OK, buddy. Let’s see your license. Real easy now.” He was nervous. I gave him my license slowly.

“Any problem, officer?” It seemed that the neighborhood watch watched this block.

“Stay right where you are.” He took my license back to his car. A few minutes later he returned, considerably less nervous but not at ease.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Well, you see, officer, I used to live in that house,” I pointed to Sara’s. “Me and my family. My wife divorced me fifteen years ago and left the state. I hardly ever see my daughter anymore, and I guess I had a few drinks tonight and was feeling lonely. Well, you know how it is. I just stopped here to look at the house and remember.” I practically believed it myself. “I’ll be moving on.”

He studied me for a moment, decided that I wasn’t worth the bother, and gave me back my license. I started my car and drove off. He followed me for five blocks before turning off. It was past time to call it a night.

I had no trouble falling asleep, but when I woke, I was still tired. I couldn’t remember my dreams. It was cloudy outside and felt like it might rain for days. My head throbbed, and I called in sick again. Three cups of coffee didn’t help matters any. What I discovered next made my head feel a lot worse.

“WOMAN FOUND DEAD” read the headline on page twenty. “Lauren Wright, 24, was found dead in her car at the 1700 block of Seddon Rd. in the city’s northside section by Officer G. Kugler at 12:22 A.M. Suicide is suspected. Police are investigating.”

I reread the article. It must have just made the press deadline. My first real case, and she’s dead. My daughter’s dead, I thought. “You’re crazy,” I said aloud, got up, and took a long, hot shower. My head felt only slightly better. As I dressed, I knew that Lauren was murdered and that I had to find the killer. Nothing could be more important.

Two cars were parked in Sara Wright’s driveway when I arrived. Neither looked like an unmarked police car, so I parked and went to the door.

I rang the bell three times before the door opened. Sara looked as if she had been up all night.

“I read this morning’s paper, I’m sorry.”

She stared at me.

“If there’s anything I can do...” I waited for a response.

“Just leave me alone,” she finally said. “You can keep the advance.” And she closed the door. Dumbfounded, I looked at the brass knocker.

I felt like I needed more consoling than she did. Something was definitely wrong. I circled the block and parked on the street six houses up from hers. There was at least one other person in there. It may have been only a relative. I asked myself what Lew Archer would do in a situation like this. Wait. So I waited.

Twenty minutes later, a man came out of the house. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. It was the college professor.

He pulled out of the driveway. I waited until he turned the corner before I followed. He then turned on Brook Road, headed for the city. And I was three cars behind him. When he took the college exit, I relaxed. If only Lauren had been as easy to follow, she wouldn’t be dead now. If only I had been quicker... I slowed down. No need to risk him seeing me.

I parked in a pay lot three blocks from his college building and waited until ten o’clock before going in. I remembered that there was a directory on his floor that listed the names and offices of the faculty. I didn’t know his name but I remembered his office number. There it was, big as life, Room 322, Dr. J. Stone. I then took the stairwell down to the first floor where the admissions office was. He was listed in the college catalog as having been at the school since 1974, the same year he got a Ph.D. from the State University of New York at Binghamton.

The city phone directory listed a Dr. J. Stone at 3106A Hanover Avenue. In spite of being hungry enough to eat New York, I decided not to eat in the snack bar. It was just too risky.

A Waffle House was only two blocks away, and by the time I finished a steak-and-eggs special, my headache was completely gone. I always could think better on a full stomach, but I questioned the wisdom of breaking into Stone’s apartment.

As I walked to his front door, credit card in hand, I was glad that the street was empty of people. After fidgeting with the lock for a minute, I started to sweat. How did they do it so easily on TV? Finally, my credit card snapped. Great. I wiped my brow and turned around to see if anyone was watching. The street was deserted as before. I looked into his mailbox, checked under the welcome mat, and then ran my hand over the doorsill. No luck. I knew that there had to be a spare key. I was really sweating now. My shirt stuck to my back. Someone was bound to see me. Then I remembered seeing a display of fake rocks at the drugstore — the kind you put a key under. At the time I couldn’t understand why anyone would buy such an obviously phony and useless product. I walked down the front steps and looked in the shrubbery. No plastic rocks. I began turning over stones with my foot. And, sure enough, there it was, the key. I picked it up.

Stone’s apartment was the second floor of a two-story house — two bedrooms, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen. It was undistinguished except that it looked like it had never seen a broom. Dust was pretty thick everywhere. I wondered if he actually lived there. One bedroom was used as an office, with a large black table as its desk; it was littered with papers and books. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Most of the papers were either memos or student work, an occasional letter. Nothing very promising. I then went through the wastebasket. The third paper I uncrumpled was it: “Jerry, I need to talk to you. Come to Berrini’s tonight at eleven. VERY IMPORTANT! Lauren.” It was undated. I put it into my pocket and walked into the kitchen. Suddenly, a big black dog barked and bounded against the outside door. I almost lost my breakfast. He kept barking and pawing at the glass. Apparently, he was asleep on the back porch when I was fiddling around out front. Thank God the kitchen door was locked. I left fast.

At a loss for what to do next, I drove aimlessly, stopping once at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a cream puff. There it occurred to me that I ought to stop at the morgue. It really didn’t make much sense, but I felt that I had to do it.

The attendant looked at my I.D. suspiciously when I told him that I was Lauren’s father. The body had already been identified. Why was my name different than hers? Why did I want to see the body now? Etcetera. I had to do a lot of talking, but the attendant finally let me in. What I saw and especially what I smelled made me regret the steak-and-egg special, and I cursed whoever invented the cream puff. The attendant sensed my discomfort and pointed the way to the rest room.

The rest room was closet size and only had a commode. There was no way I could comfortably bend over, and standing up, there was no way I could heave over my stomach. I started to sweat. Just before complete panic set in, I found the solution. I raised the lid of the tank, braced myself against the back wall, leaned forward, and lost it all. When I finished, I wiped the tank lid with toilet paper, regained my composure, and promised myself that I would go on a diet.

The attendant was waiting at the drawers when I came out. He pulled out a slab and uncovered her face. Her hair was down over her shoulders, and her complexion was bright pink. I wanted to touch her but didn’t. I shook my head, put my hands on my face, and started to turn away. The attendant was about to cover her face when I looked back. Then it struck me. It was her. The girl in my dreams. I felt faint.

I left the morgue more determined than ever to find Lauren’s killer. Maybe I could bully some answers out of her sister. I had to have more information. I drove to Sara’s house with a single purpose. No cars were in the drive. I parked, walked to the door, and banged the knocker instead of ringing the bell.

“What do you want? I told you, the case is over!” She was more than mildly irritated by my presence.

“I don’t quit until I’m finished, Ms. Wright.”

She turned in disgust and began to close the door. I stuck my foot in. She saw it and slammed. I let out a scream and pushed forward. It caught her off balance and she stumbled backward. I was in, though, and closed the door behind me.

“Get out of here or I’ll call the police!” She reached for the phone. “Get out!” she repeated.

“Look, Ms. Wright,” I began, and she dialed 911. “OK, OK, I’m leaving.” My foot throbbed and I felt foolish. She hung up and glared at me.

“Ms. Wright, your sister was murdered, and I want to find the murderer. Please cooperate.”

“Get out!” She picked up the phone again. I turned and opened the door.

“I only want to help.”

“Out! You, you sack of cow turds!”

I closed the door behind me and limped to my car. I thought I heard them all — a sack of cow turds...? I almost smiled.

I didn’t know what to do, so I drove to Joe’s Inn for lunch. When in doubt, eat. It didn’t work very well this time, though. A half hour later, I was still staring at the half-empty plate of spaghetti before me. What did I expect to find out? Obviously, who killed Lauren. Why did Sara hire me? Seeing Lauren in the morgue clouded my mind and rushing to Sara’s house without a plan only got me a sore foot. I’d have to be more careful when I saw Stone. He was certain to know by now that I wasn’t Lauren’s father. What ever made me think I could be a detective? I ordered another half liter of wine and asked the waitress to take my plate.

Male menopause. Maybe that was it, I sighed. The wine didn’t help me think any clearer, but I did feel less anxious. I took out Lauren’s picture and stared at it.

With my wine finished and the picture still before me, I wasn’t any better off than before. No closer to a plan, no idea where to go next. I yawned, paid my chit, and drove home to take a nap.

By the time I arrived there, I was feeling pretty miserable. This playing detective was an old man’s folly. Yet, if not for Lauren, what would my life be? I tossed and turned, it seemed endlessly, before I fell asleep.

“No,” she said. “I won’t let you go.” Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and across my chest as she looked down at me. Her gray eyes were determined yet filled with longing. Her hands were on my shoulders.

I awoke trembling and in a cold sweat. It was evening and the sun had already set. Dusk filtered through my bedroom and covered me like a shroud. I was chilled to the bone.

A hot shower revived my body but not my spirits. I had to find out who killed Lauren. Even if it was the last thing I’d ever do.

Berrini’s was even less crowded that it had been the night before. I took the same stool at the bar. Only yesterday, I thought. It seemed like a month had passed since then. The same bartender was on duty, wearing the same dress, the same smile. I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks. She raised her eyebrows. She remembered what I drank last night.

“Miss, I’m Lauren’s father,” I said when she returned with my drink, “and...”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Wright.” Her face saddened. “Lauren was such a sweet, sensitive girl. I’m really sorry.”

“Can you help me, Miss uh...” I paused and held her gaze. My eyes inadvertently filled with tears.

“Sandra. My name is Sandra. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“You see,” I stared into my drink, “I hadn’t seen Lauren for years, and I’m afraid that I never was a very good father. Now that she’s gone, well...” I looked at her. “Could you tell me something about her, please. You know, what she was like, her friends?”

She reached out and touched my hand. “Everybody liked her. She was quiet and...” she paused. I could see her thinking about what she should or shouldn’t say.

“I don’t even know if she had a boyfriend or who her friends were,” I prompted. She removed her hand from mine and started to dry a glass.

“She’d come back to my apartment some nights after work,” she said. “And we’d make a fire, have a hot toddy, and talk. She was moody at times but kept what was bothering her pretty much to herself. The past week or so, we hardly said hello. She seemed nervous and preoccupied. If only I had known! I would have made a point to draw her out. Nobody would have ever guessed that she would do what she did last night.”

“Did she break up with her boyfriend recently?”

“As far as I know, she didn’t have one.” She hesitated. “School was real important to her. Come to think of it, one of her professors came in here one night, and she asked to have the rest of the evening off. I said sure. He was the only man I ever saw her with.”

The man with the cigar who was there last night came out of the side room and stopped at the end of the bar. He then walked toward us.

“Mr. Gray,” the bartender said, “this is Lauren’s father.”

I smiled and extended my hand.

“Like hell he is,” he said peering at me over his glasses. “What do you want here, pal? Who are you?”

I finished my drink in one gulp, put five dollars on the bar, and walked toward the door.

“Don’t come back, if you know what’s good for you,” he said to my back. Outside, I took a deep breath and looked back into the bar. The bartender was gesturing and talking rapidly to him.

I took a chance and drove to Stone’s house. There was a light on upstairs. I walked to the door and rang the bell. The porch light clicked on, and I could hear him come down the steps. He opened the door.

“Mr. Stone, I’m a private detective investigating the death of Lauren Wright and...”

“Get the hell out of here! And quit harassing Sara!” he yelled, giving me a stiff push. I fell backward and down the concrete steps. “Stay away, fat old man!” He emphasized the last three words, pointing his finger after saying each one. Then he slammed the door.

My pants were tom, and my scraped knee began to bleed. I had broken the fall with my hand, and my wrist throbbed and started to swell. I could hear the dog barking and then saw him jumping at the side gate.

I hobbled back to my car and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He was at the window watching me. I couldn’t believe how things went from bad to worse.

After my third drink at the Hob Nob, I finally stopped trembling. At least I’m safe here, I thought. Keep smiling, I told myself. I must have gone crazy. What I’ll do is go back to work and forget that this whole thing happened. “Stupid old man,” I mumbled. Fixed assets don’t push or threaten. You can’t change what you are. In six years you’ll have a pension. Have it made. Give up. Give it up...

When I woke up the next morning, I knew that I wasn’t going to work. I was bruised and ached all over, but I didn’t feel sorry for myself. My job wasn’t finished. Lauren was counting on me. I called in sick again.

After a steak-and-egg special at the Waffle House, I drove to Southern Gun World. I was surprised how easy it was to buy a gun. They were running a 25-percent-off sale on handguns in stock. If I had told them that I wanted to buy a gun to shoot my son-in-law, they probably would have suggested a higher-caliber (and higher-priced) model to make sure I got the job done. I left with a .38 police special and a box of bullets.

I debated whether or not to load the weapon and finally decided to do it and then placed it in the glove compartment. I drove to Stone’s house, took the gun out and put it behind my belt and walked slowly to his door. Not even the light falling rain could dampen my spirits. I rang the bell and soon heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“You again!” he said as he opened the door. He started toward me.

“Think about it,” I said as I held the gun on him. He stopped dead in his tracks. I started to sweat. “Mr. Stone, I think we need to have a little talk. Upstairs.” I pointed the gun. My hand was shaking. He turned and walked up. I followed three steps behind.

Then it happened. Two steps from the top, I tripped. I tried to break my fall and my wrist surged with pain. The gun went sliding across the kitchen floor. Stone stomped on my hand — I screamed so loud the sound scared me.

“Get up, you sack of shit!” he ordered. I looked at him standing over me, gun in hand.

It wasn’t easy getting up; my knee felt like it was sprained, and my wrist was too tender to take any pressure.

“Sit down,” he motioned with the gun to the living room. I hobbled over to the couch.

“I ought to call the cops on you, you meddling old fool!”

I took the crumpled note out of my pocket and threw it toward him. “What did Lauren need to see you about?”

“You asshole!” he yelled. “I don’t believe this!” He took a few steps toward me, turned, and then walked toward the window. He rubbed his brow with the hand not holding the gun.

“I got to find out who killed Lauren. I don’t care if it kills me.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that.

“You pathetic old piece of shit.” He shook his head, no longer holding the gun on me. He held it loosely at his side as he paced.

“Look,” he finally said. “Nobody killed Lauren; she killed herself. You got that.” He looked at me, unsure of what to say next. He started unloading the gun; the bullets fell on the floor.

“Something happened that she couldn’t handle. That’s all. She couldn’t handle it. She killed herself.” He shook his head again rubbing his eyebrows.

“I loved her,” he said, taking me completely by surprise. “I know I shouldn’t have, especially after being practically married to Sara...” He stopped abruptly. I squirmed in my seat. It seemed like years passed in his pause.

“Get out!” he yelled and threw the empty gun at me. It hit me in the stomach and bounced on the floor. He came over to me in a rage, grabbing me by my coat, trying to lift me from the couch. “Get out! Get out!” He yelled, “and leave me alone!”

Realizing that he couldn’t lift me, he shook me instead but then suddenly stopped. I slipped off the couch. He walked back to the window. I picked up the gun and, with greater effort, myself. He kept staring out the window. I walked out.

Once I was on the street, it all made sense to me. I locked the gun in the glove compartment and drove directly to Sara’s house. This time I parked in the driveway, blocking the garage. I didn’t think that I would need the gun. Besides, it certainly didn’t do me any good at Stone’s house.

When she opened the door and saw me, she began to slam it. This time, instead of jamming my foot, I pushed my way in.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Oh, brother, I’ve had it! This time I am going to call the police!” She walked to the phone.

“Go right ahead,” I said. “I’m sure they’d be interested in knowing where you were when Lauren died.”

“What! You’re crazy!”

“I know you did it, Sara, and I know why. You were always jealous of her, weren’t you? And when she stole Stone away from you, right under your nose, you couldn’t take it!”

“You can’t prove...” She blurted out and then stopped herself. She stared at me.

I was sure now. She was guilty. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. Her eyes flashed for a moment, and I was scared. She opened a drawer of the telephone stand and pulled out a small, silver revolver. She pointed it at me. It went pop! And my stomach felt hot. I slid to the floor. I heard her talking on the phone before I passed out. She sounded hysterical and was talking to the police about a man who broke into her house. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

The police came, and shortly afterward, an ambulance. I only caught snatches of her explanation; she seemed to be giving an academy-award performance.

When I fully regained consciousness, I was in a hospital room with a tube up my nose. My head felt like it had been kicked by a Clydesdale. The objects in the room seemed to be floating.

Some time later, a man came in and introduced himself as Sergeant Ed Lewis.

“Mr. Wilcox,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions but before I do, I must remind you that you have the right to remain silent...”

I was so stunned, I almost passed out. The objects in the room — the lamp, the chair, the dresser, seemed like they were moving. “But, but, but...” I stammered, “she killed her sister!”

“Take it easy, Mr. Wilcox. Officer Kugler’s report of you loitering near the Wright residence could be construed as confirming your intent to break and enter. Would you care to explain why you, a bookkeeper close to retirement and financially secure, would want to burgle? You thought no one was home, and she surprised you, didn’t she?”

“She killed her sister!” I screamed and felt my head pound so loudly that I had to put my hands to it to try to keep it from exploding.

“Look, friend,” he said. “I checked your record. You never even got a traffic ticket. The woman feels so bad about shooting you, she probably won’t even testify. Now, what were you doing there?”

The room started to spin.

“Looking for my daughter...”