A Death in Pilsen

Chapter 20

Peter got in from Champaign on the Illinois Central train Friday afternoon. He took the Lake Street El straight to our house, where he would spend the Easter weekend. On most holidays, he alternated his time between Oak Park and the big co-op apartment along North Lake Shore Drive where my ex-wife, Norma, lived with her husband, Martin Baer.

But this particular week, the Baers were vacationing in Biloxi, Miss., which gave me more time with my son. This was just fine as far as Catherine was concerned. She and Peter got along wonderfully, which didn’t surprise me, but it did please me. I knew of several divorces where offspring did not take to the second spouses of their parents.

Peter, however, liked both Catherine and Baer. He and Catherine liked to talk about the arts, particularly painting, which generally meant that I was left out of the conversation, having nothing of substance to add. Catherine also was interested in architecture, and the two of them had some spirited discussions about the International School of Design represented by Mies van der Rohe, among others. She was a fan of his work; Peter was not. For the record, I had no opinion.

At Peter’s request, I had gotten tickets through our sports department to Saturday afternoon’s Cubs-Cardinals game at Wrigley Field, which turned out to be a sellout — 40,000 in the stands. As defending National League champs, our Cubs were off to a fast start in the brand new season, sweeping their first three games down in Cincinnati. This was the home opener for the pennant winners, and we had box seats about ten rows behind the Cubs dugout.

Both teams lined up along the foul lines before the game for the opening ceremonies at home plate, which were aired over the public-address system.

“On behalf of the National League, I present to you your championship pennant,” League president Ford Frick said to the Cubs manager, Charlie Grimm, handing him the banner at home plate. “I’m supposed to be neutral, so I’m not suggesting that I hope you win it again,” Frick said. “But the next time, whoever wins, I hope to present a World Series flag along with it.”

“I hope you’re here at home plate next year,” Grimm said, accepting the flag. A small tractor used by the grounds crew then took the pennant out to the right-field foul pole, where it was hoisted to the top as a band played “God Bless America” and we all sang along.

“This is a piece of history,” I told Peter. “Remember it — you may not see anything like it again for awhile.”

Unfortunately, when the game started the local boys didn’t look like they were the defending champs. They ran into the left-handed St. Louis pitcher Harry “the Cat” Brecheen, who shut them out, 2–0. As the season was to unfold, there was no shame in this... Brecheen went on to win 15 games as the Cardinals won both the National League pennant and the World Series. They defeated the Boston Red Sox and Ted Williams in seven games, with Brecheen tying a World Series record by winning three of the Cardinals’ four games.

In spite of the result of our game, both Peter and I had a good time at the ballpark. In what had become a father-son tradition, we had gone to at least one game at Wrigley Field every year since 1938, the year we saw Dizzy Dean pitch against the Yankees in the World Series.

“Well, we didn’t win today, Dad, but it was fun just the same,” Peter said as we left the ballpark and moved with the crowd toward the Elevated station on Addison Street. “That guy Brecheen looks really tough. Think the Cubs have a chance to take the pennant again this year?”

“I wouldn’t hold out a lot of hope. It seems to me that St. Louis and Brooklyn both have better lineups, particularly the Cardinals with Musial, Slaughter, and Moore, along with that good pitching staff of theirs. I hope you don’t think I’m disloyal, but I picked our boys to finish only third in the office pool. Where money is concerned — even small amounts — I play with my head and not my heart.”

Peter laughed and talked about how, down at the University of Illinois, there were at least as many Cardinal fans as Cubs fans. “These guys from places like Springfield seem to all root for the Cards. Wouldn’t you think that they’d be loyal to their home state?”

“Maybe, but Springfield’s quite a bit closer to St. Louis than it is to Chicago,” I pointed out.

Peter allowed as to how this was true, but it still bothered him. “I’ll bet you won’t find any Cub fans at the University of Missouri,” he countered, and I agreed. We spent the rest of the two El rides back to Oak Park discussing the loyalties of baseball fans around the country.

The three of us had Easter dinner in the dining room of the big stucco house on Scoville Avenue — ham, of course, sliced thin the way I like it. I filled Peter in on my conversation with Frank Lloyd Wright about the possibility of a summer internship for him at Taliesin.

“What’s he like, Dad? The profs don’t much like him down at school.”

“Catherine, give Peter your impression of the great man, and then I’ll wade in with my thoughts.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t lack in self confidence,” she said with a laugh. “He strides around with that cape, hat, and cane like he owns the world. To hear him talk, you’d think he practically invented architecture. And Peter, based on reading about him and hearing him speak that one time, I have to wonder just how difficult he would be to work with. That’s something you probably should be thinking about.” She turned to me with a “you’re next” expression.

“I pretty much agree with that assessment. I’m not qualified to judge his architectural ability; I’ll leave that to you and your professors and others who know something about design, although I do like the houses he’s built all around this town and I enjoy being in the Unity Temple, even if I don’t always understand the church’s services as well as I should.

“Regarding his personality... as Catherine says, he seems incredibly opinionated, in particular when it comes to other well-known architects, none of whom he thinks is worth much. Get him going on guys like Mies van der Rohe and this Saarinen fellow, and he’s off to the races with his snide comments. He’s got one damn big ego, that’s for sure. I don’t know what he’s like to work for, but I, too, can only imagine that he’d be difficult. What do you think of his work?”

Peter finished a slice of lemon pie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I like it more than a lot of my profs do, and I also like the fact that he tries to make his buildings blend in with their settings. Maybe that’s what he means by ‘organic architecture,’ which is a favorite term of his. As far as egos, one of my profs claims they all have big ones. ‘Show me an architect without an ego, and I’ll show you an architect who doesn’t have any confidence in his work,’ the prof says.”

“Do you still think you’d like to work for Wright, even if only for the summer?” I asked.

“Absolutely. What a terrific experience that would be!”

“Given the man’s irascibility, the idea of just a summer makes sense,” Catherine put in. “That way, you’ve only made a short-term commitment. You may end up hating the guy.”

“I may,” Peter said. “But I’m willing to give it a shot. Nothing ventured...”

“Well, if his word is worth anything, I think we may be able to pull it off,” I said. “I’ve talked to Kennedy, the Trib’s Sunday Editor, and he likes the idea of my doing a long piece on the great man, who, you won’t be surprised to learn, is very much the publicity hound.”

“Now tell us something that we don’t know,” Catherine shot back.

“Just so you are aware, Peter,” I cautioned, “he seems to have a fairly low opinion of university architectural schools in general.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that. It may be because he had a bad experience early on as a student up at the U. of Wisconsin, or so I’ve heard.”

“Well, as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Do you mind having to write an article about him?” he asked me.

“No, not at all, son. I think it would be great fun, and I’ll be getting some extra money for doing it as well. He may not like everything I write — in fact, he almost surely won’t — but that’s okay. And I’m positive I can get some great quotes from others about him.”

“Sure, all you’ve got to do is call some of my profs,” Peter chuckled. “On second thought, maybe you’d better not. That could queer the deal for sure.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll try not to jeopardize your chances to work for a living legend.”

“Yeah, a living legend especially in his own mind,” Peter said, and we all broke into laughter.

“How’s work going?” Peter asked me, changing the subject. “And what’s happening with Cousin Charlie? I’ve been meaning to ask about him ever since I got home.”

“Since I wrote you about Edwina’s murder, not much has occurred,” I answered. “He’s still in jail, of course, although I’ve hired a top defense lawyer for him, name of Liam McCafferty.”

“Not much has happened, you say?” Catherine interjected, raising an eyebrow. “I think you ought to tell Peter just what you’ve been up to these last days.”

“Yeah, Dad, fill me in.”

“Well, I’ve been looking into the case a little bit here and there.”

Catherine couldn’t contain herself. “Peter, ‘looking into the case a little bit’ is your father’s way of saying that he’s been playing detective again. You know how he gets. And you must have noticed the bruise over his eye, which you were too polite to ask about.” I sent her a glare, but she just shrugged and gave me an unapologetic smile.

Peter set his jaw. “Uh-huh, I did wonder about that bruise. Okay, Dad, come on, out with it.”

I was stuck, so I unloaded the whole shebang right there at the dining room table amid the debris of a great Easter feast. I put it all in, from my doubts about Charlie’s guilt to my multiple visits to Horvath’s and my set-to with Sulski out in the street. I discussed Marge Blazek, Maury the bartender, and the four guys who all seemed to have carried a torch for Edwina. I didn’t leave out anything that I thought was pertinent.

And when Peter asked how Charlie had felt about the state of his marriage, I answered as honestly as I could: “I think Charlie knew intellectually that it was over between him and Edwina, but emotionally he just wasn’t able to let go of it.”

“Well, in the last few minutes I’ve learned more about this situation than in all our conversations before,” Catherine said, pretending to pout. “Peter, you need to come and stay with us more often so that I can find out what’s really going on with this guy.” She gestured toward me dismissively with her thumb.

“You could’ve gotten really hurt in that fight,” Peter said, his expression somber.

“I know what you’re going to say next,” I put in with a rueful grin. “That I’m no kid anymore, right?”

He laughed. “You know I would never say such a thing. Back to the murder... it sounds like you’ve got several good suspects. The guy who attacked that secretary, for sure, and the one who got into that knife fight. And what about the character — what was his name, Sulski — you butted heads with? Seems like the only one of the four who doesn’t sound suspicious is that ex-boxer, Barnstable.”

“How about the woman, Marge?” Catherine put in.

“What about her?” I answered.

“What’s to say she didn’t do it?”

I looked at her and shook my head. “But why? What possible motive could she have?”

“Perhaps she was in love with one of those four guys — Barnstable, if I were to guess — and she figured that if she got rid of her competition in the form of Edwina, maybe he would start paying more attention to her.”

“Seems awfully far-fetched,” Peter volunteered, “to think that one woman would kill another woman over a man that she had met in some tavern.”

“You stole my line, almost verbatim!” I said to my son. “I can’t imagine Marge Blazek feeling so strongly about any one of those four that she’d be driven to stick a knife into Edwina.”

“Ah, leave it to you males to underestimate the passions of a woman in love,” Catherine said with mock solemnity. “Although on reflection, I’m forced to admit that my suggestion is something of a stretch, alright.”

She turned toward me. “Based on what you’ve said about those four men and their personalities — and their escapades — I would nominate Voyczak as the likely candidate.”

“Nah,” Peter said, brushing that choice away with a hand. “I’d say it’s the one Dad got into the scrape with, Sulski. Sounds like he’s got a hair-trigger temper, and that’s the kind of person who would end up doing something like what happened to Charlie’s wife.”

“But wouldn’t somebody like that be more likely to kill her with his hands, not with a knife?” I said, playing the devil’s advocate.

“True,” Catherine said, “but as you mentioned to me the other night, you theorized that whichever of them did the killing might have tried to sexually assault Edwina in her apartment, upon which she ran to the kitchen for a knife to protect herself, and—”

“And there was a struggle, right?” Peter interrupted. “Sure, that’s it. They wrestled for the knife, and in the turmoil, she got stabbed. That makes complete sense to me.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Now to figure out just who did the attacking and the stabbing, and find a way to prove it.”

We all looked at one another as though we had question marks over our heads.