Daddy's Gone a Hunting

64

Lottie Schmidt could see from the caller identification on her phone that it was Gretchen. It was Wednesday midafternoon, which meant that Gretchen might have canceled yet another appointment with one of her massage clients. After she got back to Minnesota and was inside her beautiful home, it finally got through her thick skull that those fire marshals were so interested in her house because they wanted to know how she was able to pay for it, Lottie thought.

She folded her hands in her lap. She had been sitting at the table of their small dining room going through some photo albums when the phone rang. Then, not wanting to pick it up and wishing she had the courage to walk away, she listened to Gretchen’s frantic message. “Mama, I know you’re never out at this time so why aren’t you picking up? Mama, did Poppa do something funny to get the money to buy my house? If he did, why didn’t you tell me? I never would have shown those pictures to those marshals or cops or whoever they are. Why didn’t you say it straight? Mama, a lot of things went wrong in my life. You and Poppa were so strict. Never let me have any fun. Always telling me to study harder, that my marks were never good enough. I married Jeff to get out of the house and that was a nightmare. I waited on him hand and foot because that was the way you waited on Poppa. And-”

The thirty-second limit for leaving a message on the answering machine was up. Thank God, Lottie thought, then shrugged. What can you do? Buy the house for her and you’re a saint. Now her big mouth might cause her to lose it and it’s my fault.

She looked down at the photo album. She and Gus had both been twenty years old when they were married by the minister in her mother’s backyard in Baden-Baden, Germany. She was wearing a white blouse and skirt, and Gus a rented blue suit. The next day they had left Germany to go to America.

I was smiling, Lottie thought. I was so happy. Gus looked scared but happy, too. I knew how definite he was, and how rigid, but it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t matter. He loved me and he took good care of me. He was such a proud man. When we moved here to Little Neck, and our friends were so thrilled to buy new furniture and show it off, I would say to him, “Gus, don’t have that look on your face. I know what you’re thinking. That they paid too much for it. That it’s cheaply made. Let them enjoy it.”

He had made their own furniture himself. In all these years, they had only redone the upholstery twice and of course he had done the work in their garage.

For a craftsman like that to have been so insulted, so wounded. It explained everything.

The doorbell rang. Lottie had been so lost in reminiscing that the time had gone by more swiftly than she had realized. It was already three thirty, and Peter Callow, the young lawyer who had grown up in the house next door, was coming to talk to her.

She had called him after the fire marshals were at the house on Monday.

Lottie knew that this was going to be hard. It was embarrassing to put herself in the hands of someone whom she could still see as the kid who broke her living room window playing softball.

She got up, her hands pressing on the table to ease the weight on her knees, walked to the door, and opened it. The self-assured attorney in an overcoat, business suit, and tie still had the same warm smile of the eight-year-old who was so grateful when she had told him that she knew he didn’t mean to break her window.

As she took his coat and put it in the hall closet, and then as they walked into the living room, she was assuring Peter that, since Gus had died, she was doing all right, that she would be all right. After he refused coffee or tea or even water, they sat down. “How can I help you, Mrs. Schmidt?” he asked.

Lottie had decided that she would not beat around the bush. “Five years ago, Gus told me that he had won a lottery. That was all he said. He used the money to buy a house for Gretchen in Minnesota and an annuity so she could pay the overhead.”

Peter Callow did not say how wonderful that was. He knew immediately that there was more to the story.

“They’re trying to blame the Connelly explosion on Gus. The fire marshals were at the wake and came here Monday. They were asking about Gretchen’s house.”

“How did they know about it?”

“Because she couldn’t wait to talk about it,” Lottie snapped, bitterly.

“If Mr. Schmidt won a lottery and paid whatever taxes he owed, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Peter said. “The marshals will be able to check that out very easily.”

“I’m not sure Gus won a lottery,” Lottie said.

“Then where did he get the money for the house and annuity?”

“I don’t know. He never told me.”

Peter Callow could see, from the deep crimson blush that was enveloping the cheeks of the elderly woman who had been his former neighbor, that she was lying. “Mrs. Schmidt,” he said gently, “if they can’t find any record of Mr. Schmidt winning a lottery and paying his taxes, they’ll be back here questioning you. And I would have to assume that they’ll even go out to Minnesota and talk to Gretchen.”

“Gretchen hasn’t any idea where her father got the money to buy her house.”

“And Mr. Schmidt never gave you a hint?”

Lottie looked away. “No.”

“Mrs. Schmidt, I want to help you. But you know that the media is going as far as it can, without risking a lawsuit for libel, to speculate that Mr. Schmidt conspired with Kate Connelly to set off the explosion. How long has Gretchen had the house?”

“Five years.”

“Wasn’t that about the time that Mr. Schmidt was asked to retire?”

“Yes, it was.” Lottie hesitated. “Peter, will you be my lawyer? I mean, can you be with me when they are talking to me?”

“Yes, of course I can, Mrs. Schmidt.” Peter Callow got up. The way this seems to be going, he thought, my new client may soon have to invoke the Fifth Amendment and say nothing further to anybody.