Emperor of Ocean Park

CHAPTER 31

“That’s an interesting story,” says John Brown.

“It’s not a story. ”

“It’s still interesting.” He sets himself in the middle of the driveway, shoots the basketball, misses badly. I grab the rebound, dribble to the edge of the grass, try a jumper.

Swish. I point my finger at him. He laughs and slaps it away, then high-fives me.

It is Friday afternoon, three days after Christmas, although Kimmer sometimes insists on celebrating Kwanzaa, too. Two nights ago it snowed three inches, but the unpredictable Elm Harbor weather has once again turned fair, warm enough for this Saturday barbecue. The slushy remainder of the storm splashes and runs under our feet. Not quite a white Christmas, but we didn’t miss it by much.

The Christmases of my childhood were grand and joyous affairs, the Shepard Street house decorated by my mother with freshly cut garlands and poinsettias and mistletoe, a tree of intimidating size glowing in the two-story foyer, the downstairs full of boisterous relatives and friends, with more reciprocal visits to come in the days to follow. We children dozed through midnight mass at Trinity and St. Michael and rose early the next morning to find the gigantic tree surrounded, as if through wizardry, by a small mountain of gifts. Even though we knew the greater part of the festively wrapped packages would turn out to hold clothing and books, we always imagined them full of beautiful toys, which some of them were. And the Judge-in those early days, merely Daddy-would sit in his favorite armchair in slippers and robe, the pipe he smoked back then held fast between his teeth, relishing our love and gratitude, rubbing our backs as we hugged his strong legs.

At Number 41 Hobby Road, Christmas has always been a more staid affair, as Kimmer and I exchange token gifts in front of the small artificial tree on which my practical wife insists, pointing to the time, trouble, and what she calls the risk- Water and electricity together? Forget it! -of the real thing. With Bentley, at three years and nine months, old enough to appreciate what is going on (although it is Santa, not Jesus, he seems to appreciate), Kimmer and I both tried to be a little more upbeat this year. Wrapping our son’s gifts together on Christmas Eve was actually a joy, and, in bed later on, as we lay awake listening to the wind, my wife kissed my cheek and told me she is glad we are still together. I told her I am glad, too, which is the truth. I have worked hard over the past couple of weeks to keep my promise to Morris Young by treating my wife to love rather than suspicion, and she has responded with a lighter, happier mood. I have the unexpected but reassuring sense that whatever man she was involved with she has put behind her, perhaps as a New Year’s resolution, or even a Christmas gift to her husband. At the same time, belowdecks, I have tried to think of a way to move forward on cleaning up the mess into which the Judge has drawn me.

Telling John Brown a little of what has been going on, as I promised last month I would, seems to me a sensible start.

“So, what do you think I should do?” I ask John as I shoot again. The ball clangs off the rim and crashes down on his dark blue Town amp; Country minivan. He scoops up the ball before it has the chance to knock over my rusty but trusty grill, where orange flames frolic over freshly lighted charcoal.

“Nothing. Leave it to the FBI. There’s nothing to be done. Interesting shot.” As laconic as always. John does not believe in using two words when one will do, and will never substitute three syllables when two are sufficient. We have been shooting hoops so that we can talk without fear of interruption. John has been urging me to tell the authorities about everything, but I have not committed myself to anything. “You need an expert, Misha. And they’re the experts.”

I nod thoughtfully. I am not the sort of man who easily befriends other men, but my relationship with John has been an oddly enduring thing. I have known him and his wife, Janice, since we were all college freshmen together, Janice the most sought-after among the black women in the class, John easily the most studious of the black men. Today John is an electrical engineer, which is what he always planned, and Janice is a full-time mother, which is what she always wanted. Now that he is at Ohio State, they live in Columbus, we see them only once or twice a year, usually just after classes end for the holiday. They are wonderful people. Kimmer likes them, too: Even though you brought them into the marriage, she likes to quip.

“I don’t know,” I say finally, the Hamlet of Hobby Road.

John’s eyebrows go up. “What, you don’t trust the FBI?” Another shot. Bumps around the rim, then drops through, bounces on the pavement, and rolls into the wet snow that still obscures most of the lawn.

“What if the FBI is part of it?” asks Mariah sharply from behind us, taking us by surprise. “How can we leave it to the FBI?”

I smile uneasily. I do not know how long my sister has been listening. I have not told her about the pawn or the note, both of which I have just finished disclosing to John. He nods slightly: he will keep his mouth shut.

John turns to Mariah. “You gotta trust somebody,” he says, which is likely a code for: Once you go down that road, you might as well move to one of those survivalist compounds in Montana. John possesses a respect for authority that I wish I still shared, but the events of the past few weeks have shaken my faith in many human institutions.

I toss the basketball to my sister: “Come on, kiddo, take a shot.”

She catches it smoothly and throws it back hard enough to wind me at this close distance.

“No, thanks.”

“You used to love to play.”

“I used to love a lot of things.”

I glance over at John, who has developed a sudden interest in the little paper sticker glued to the side of the post holding the hoop, filled with small-print warnings in the fruitless hope that the manufacturer will be protected from liability in the event that some child manages to topple the thing over. John once protected the university hospital from possible liability too: when Kimmer and Bentley both almost died, John and Janice flew out at once. Janice held me while I cried, but it was John who talked me around, both as a scientist and as a Christian, to the view that I should be grateful to the doctors for saving my family, not angry that they almost didn’t.

“Come on, Mariah,” I say softly, extending a hand. “Don’t be down.”

“Don’t be down,” she repeats. “Like there’s nothing to be down about.”

I manage not to groan. In her current mood, Mariah will ruin everything.

John and Janice and their children are in Elm Harbor for our regular time together, always during the quiet week before the New Year dawns, sometimes out in Ohio, usually here. Kimmer and I celebrated, if that is the word, our ninth anniversary yesterday; John and Janice, who have been married seven years longer, will celebrate theirs tomorrow; the nearly common wedding dates are what got the tradition started five or six years ago. Our annual get-together tends to be a delightfully rambunctious affair, but this time it is quite solemn, acknowledging not only the death of my father but also the mood in my household, for, if Kimmer is no longer sneaking out, she is not precisely loving her husband either. The Browns believe that every marriage can be as perfect as theirs and are often uncomfortable in the presence of living refutation of their theory; but they are good friends and refuse to abandon the dream that our marriage is reparable.

My sister is a last-minute addition to Brown Week, as we like to call these occasions. Kimmer was surprisingly gentle in responding to the news that Mariah would be joining us, but it was the gentleness we reserve for the mentally ill. Of course, Misha, she is your sister after all, she murmured, patting my hand. I understand, I do -contriving, through this emphasis, to make clear that she does not. I am not sure I do either. The truth is that I would rather not have Mariah visiting during Brown Week, even if just for the day. (She is alone, having left her brood in Darien with the au pair. Howard, I believe, is in Tokyo.) Her fidgety presence is bound to wreck the comfortable chemistry of our two families, the Browns and the Madison-Garlands. I would rather have met Mariah at some other time, alone, but she refuses to discuss her news, whatever it is, on the telephone, perhaps afraid of a tap, and today turns out to be the earliest date on which we can make our calendars match.

Janice and Kimmer are in the kitchen, cooking and conspiring and snubbing Mariah. John and I are splitting our time between the driveway and the yard, fiddling with the grill on which we shortly plan to burn some expensive steaks, and, just now, listening with every appearance of credulity to Mariah’s ramblings. Over by the high hedge wall separating our property from the Felsenfelds’, Bentley is playing happily with John’s younger daughter, Faith, three years older than he, and together they are doing something clever and mysterious with Faith’s Nigerian Barbie and her hot-pink Barbie sports car, which is missing a wheel. Faith’s sister, Constance, has reached the age of nine, and is therefore above such pursuits; the last time I saw her, she was at the kitchen table, listlessly playing Boggle on her mother’s laptop. She clamors for the new version of Riven, which everybody else at school has, but her evangelical parents forbid it. Their oldest child, Luke, is fifteen, and he is somewhere in the house with his nose in an Agatha Christie novel.

“Sometimes the FBI is on the wrong side,” Mariah insists. “I mean, look at what they did to Dr. King.”

John and I exchange a glance. John is a small, tough man who grew up in a housing project in the state capital and scholarshipped his way to Elm Harbor. His dusky skin seems darker in the sinking light, but his eyes are bright and concerned.

“That’s one part of what I wanted to talk to you about, Tal,” my sister continues, walking between us so that we cannot continue the game until we have heard her out. She drove up today not in the Navigator, but in her Mercedes-hubby has his own-and is wearing a fancy brown tweed pantsuit with an Anne Klein air about it, probably the right attire for an autumn cocktail party in Darien, but not precisely what we tend to don for December backyard barbecues in Elm Harbor. I have no doubt that Kimmer is making this very point to Janice in the kitchen. “We need to decide what we’re gonna do.”

“About what, kiddo?” I ask gently.

“About the whole thing.”

John takes another shot and misses. The rebound arches into my hands. I lift the ball as though to shoot, but Mariah takes the ball from me and tucks it under her arm, a parent correcting a child. No more basketball, she is signaling, until we have heard her out.

“You remember that Sally and I have been going through Daddy’s papers, right? So let me tell you what we’ve found, and you’ll see why we have to do something.”

I almost interrupt, but I catch John’s look and subside. He plainly wants her to get it all out, and I decide to follow his example. Like a good lawyer, John knows when to avoid leading questions and let the client ramble.

“Okay, shoot.”

Tossing the basketball onto the snow-crusted grass, Mariah walks to her sparkling sea-green car and rummages in the front seat, pulling out a shiny brown briefcase, which she proceeds to set on the hood. “Wait a second,” she adds, setting the combination and opening the lid. A locked briefcase, I register, half amused and half alarmed. I glance at the back yard, worrying about the coals. Mariah returns with several folders. As she shuffles through the files, I remember the black-and-white covered ledger where she used to record the evidence of conspiracy. I tease her about the volume of her discoveries in the attic outgrowing the book.

“No, I just can’t find it,” she says, distracted.

“Maybe the bad guys stole it.”

Taking the point seriously, Mariah points to the briefcase. “That’s why I have a lock now.” Before I can digest this, she is holding one of the folders out. “Look at this,” she orders.

I take the folder, and John and I examine the neatly typed but fading label: DETECTIVE’S REPORT-ABIGAIL, it reads. I am suddenly excited. Except that the folder is empty.

“Where’s the report?” I ask.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Tal. It isn’t there. Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird?”

“A little.” But I am thinking that there are about two million reasons the report could be missing, one of them being that Mariah took it herself, or even created the empty folder as a prop for her fantasy.

On the other hand, that scrapbook did disappear, and an enchanted pawn made its way from the heart of the Gold Coast to an Elm Harbor soup kitchen, and a book that was stolen by the men who beat me up rematerialized on the seat of my car. So lots of things are possible.

“Then I remembered. When Daddy got the report from the detective, he turned it over to the police. You remember? Hoping they would do something.”

I do remember, with fresh pain. The Judge was so pleased with himself: hiring a private investigator, producing new leads. He had engaged somebody fancy, he assured us, from out in Potomac, even in those days an exclusive little town. Somebody, said the Judge, who was highly recommended and very expensive. He seemed proud to be paying so much.

“Villard,” I murmur. “That was his name, wasn’t it? Something-or-other Villard.”

“That’s right.” Mariah smiles. “Jonathan Villard.” I shake my head, for I was half hoping she would correct me, telling me the PI’s name was really Scott. But my memory has no trouble supplying the rest of the story. When the Judge received the report, he came out of his funk, told the family that he was sure we would soon see the killer punished. That was what he always said, the killer. And then he settled back to wait. And wait. And wait. As despair settled in once more.

“The police never followed up his leads,” I say softly, as much to myself as to John or my sister. I am far behind her, still wondering what really happened to her ledger. First the scrapbook vanishes, then the ledger. A chilly breeze stirs the hedges. “Or, if they did, they never found anything.”

“Right,” says Mariah, congratulating a slow pupil on finally getting it. “But they had a copy of the report. So I called up Uncle Mal and talked to that woman, Meadows. I asked her if she could get a copy from the police files. She said it might take a while, because they would have to go look in the archives or something. Then she called me back a few days ago, and, guess what? The police don’t have a copy of the report either.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I admit. John might be a statue, for all his contribution to the conversation. Then a thought strikes me. “But I’ll bet you can get a copy from Villard himself. He has to be around somewhere.”

Mariah seems almost gleeful. “I guess all you lawyers think alike. Meadows tried that, Tal, and-guess what?-Villard died of colon cancer fifteen years ago.”

The words escape me before I can think: “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Tal, I’m not stupid. Meadows even got a copy of his medical records. He really was sick, and he really is dead.”

“Oh.” I am a bit deflated: until the cancer news, I was still ready to bet that Villard was another alias of Colin Scott. Then I brighten: “But even if he’s dead, his investigative files have to be somewhere…”

“I’m sure they do, but nobody knows where. That’s my point. Now, look at this,” Mariah continues, like a lawyer building a case, or a magician pleasing a crowd. From another folder, she draws a couple of pages torn from a yellow legal pad. I immediately recognize my father’s cramped handwriting. She handles the papers carefully, as though worried they might ignite. “This is all I can find about the report,” she explains.

I scan the pages, which are creased as though folded several times. The ink is old and smeary; V’S REPORT is scribbled at the top, followed by a column of seemingly random notations: Virginia plate?. .. Must be front-end damage, V checked shops already… V says police work shoddy re paint etc… No ID driver, no ID passenger. .. I stop, go back, look at the last line again.

“Passenger?” I ask.

Mariah nods. “There was somebody else in the car that killed Abby. Interesting, huh?”

“The Judge never mentioned it,” I say distantly, remembering something else. “And neither did Mom.”

Mariah is excited now. “The notes were folded up in the back of one of his chess books. I guess whoever took the report didn’t know that.” I am about to ask which book, wondering about secret messages, but Mariah is already dealing the next card. “And look at this.” A manila envelope emerges from her briefcase. She hands it over. I open the flap and pull out a sheaf of check registers. A quick glance confirms what I have already guessed: they are from the period when the private detective was working on the case. “Look at it,” she instructs me.

“And what exactly am I looking for?” I ask as John watches in interested silence.

“The name Villard! Daddy said he was expensive, right?”

“Uh, right. Yes.” Said it with pride: nothing but the best to track down Abby’s killer, he was suggesting.

“Right. Now, look at the list of checks.” I look, still not sure where this is going. “Tal, these are all the checks Daddy wrote for the four years after Abby died. There is not a single check written to anybody named Villard, and there is not a single check written to anything that sounds like a detective agency.”

“So he was careless. He didn’t record the check.”

“I have all the canceled checks, Tal. And you know how Daddy was. Everything is perfectly organized. Just to make sure, I did the math. There isn’t a single one missing.”

I have a disturbing vision of Mariah hunched over a calculator in the attic, punching in numbers, obsessively checking the Judge’s subtraction as her kids run all over the house and Sally does… well, whatever Sally does when they are together.

“So he paid cash.” Yet this seems odd to me as well.

“No,” says Mariah, flourishing another folder. She has lost none of her investigative skill. “This is a list of every single cash withdrawal Daddy made from his accounts during those years, and not a one of them, Tal, not a one of them is enough to pay for anything more than groceries.”

“His brokerage accounts-”

“Come on, Tal. He didn’t have any brokerage accounts in those days. He didn’t have enough money. That came later.” After he left the bench, she means.

“So what are you saying? That there never was a detective?” I shake my head, trying to escape the mists of painful memory. John is looking on like a bystander at a car wreck, fascinated by the carnage but unable to help. “That Villard was… some kind of figment of the Judge’s imagination?”

“No, Tal. Listen to me. Of course Villard was real. No, what I’m telling you is that somebody else paid for the detective. Don’t you see? Either Daddy borrowed the money or-well, I don’t know what. But the money came from somebody else. And if we find out who that somebody else is, we’ll find out who killed Daddy.”

I am not quite believing any of this, but not quite rejecting it either. Emotionally, I am in no fit state for rational judgments just now.

“And you think that the somebody was…” I leave the rest hanging, inviting the response we both know is coming.

“It was Jack Ziegler, Tal-who else? Come on. It had to be Uncle Jack. I was right the first time, Tal. Daddy was afraid of Uncle Jack. That’s why he had the gun. But it didn’t do him any good. Jack Ziegler killed him and took the report.”

So the Mariahan conspiracy theory, as I suspected, has not changed. Yet it occurs to me that my sister might be on to something, whether or not she knows it. Because at the heart of her reconstruction is a simple truth that frightens me… frightens me because I know some facts that she does not.

“But wait a minute. I still don’t see why Jack Ziegler would do it.” I do, of course. I am objecting, probably, just to keep the conversation going.

“Yes, you do! There was something in the report he didn’t want anybody to know, so he had to get the only copy. Why else would he have killed Daddy in the house?”

“Then why did he leave the empty folder?” I object.

“I don’t know all of it! That’s why I need your help!”

A thought strikes me. “That public call for an investigation you mentioned…”

“Somebody talked them out of it, Tal. Somebody got to them, don’t you see? And Addison’s useless,” she adds, mysteriously, while I am still busily exulting over the fact that somebody talked them out of it. “You and I are the only ones left who care. So you and I have to prove what really happened.”

“We don’t have enough information.”

“Exactly! That’s why we need to work together! Oh, Tal, can’t you see?” She turns to John Brown. “You understand, John. I know you do. Explain it to him.”

“Well,” John begins. “Maybe it would be better if…”

An interruption. The other two women, broad, fair Kimmer and dark, slender Janice, come outside with the steaks, all seasoned and ready for the grill. There is corn on the cob, wrapped in foil, and a small plate of sliced greens, which will also receive a light touch of flame. And two Cokes, because neither John nor I drink alcohol: John out of religious conviction, I out of simple fear, given my father’s history. We dutifully exclaim over the food, which does look awfully good. There is some ritual teasing about how the men are so busy playing basketball that we do not yet have a decent fire going. Kimmer is still irritated at me about Mariah’s presence, but with our friends around, she is being a good sport. Last night I told her finally about the call from the agency about my father’s speaking dates; she was furious at their presumption, and I loved her more for it. You’re not your father, and they have no right to pretend you are! I told her I had already said no, and she told me I did the right thing. If they ever call me back, I will say no again.

“You want me to put them on the grill?” Kimmer asks, hands on her hips in mock irritation.

“No, darling.”

“Then you guys get to work.” She swats my bottom playfully. Surprised, I tickle her. She grins and pushes me away. “Work!” she repeats.

“Mariah, we could use some help in the kitchen,” adds Janice, to my sister’s astonishment, for she has been feeling like a fifth wheel.

Mariah turns her sullen gaze toward me. “Just think about it,” she says. Kimmer and Janice return to the house, Mariah sulking in their wake.

“Your sister’s a trip,” John murmurs as we walk back into the yard.

“Hmmm? Oh. I’m sorry about that.” Taking a second or two to find my place in the conversation once more, because I am still a bit dazed to be on such good terms with my wife, even if it is just for show. “Mariah has-well, she hasn’t been herself since our father died. I want to thank you, you and Janice, for being so nice to her.”

“Janice is nice to everybody.” As though he himself is not.

“That’s true.”

“I don’t know how she does it.” He shakes his head, but there is pride in his voice: he loves his wife so, and she obviously loves him right back. I try to remember exactly how that sensation feels, only to decide I have never felt it. “Mariah could be right, though,” John adds thoughtfully.

“Oh, come on. You don’t think the autopsy results were faked.”

“No, not about the autopsy. And not about your father being murdered.” John shrugs. “But what I’m saying is, she could be right about the private detective. That somebody else paid him.”

“You’re not serious.”

“You think he worked for free? Mariah said he was expensive.”

“Hmmmph.” My usual intelligent response.

John waits while I examine the steaks and lay them, one by one, on the long grill. He is wearing loose, clean blue jeans and a New York Athletic Club windbreaker over a white dress-shirt. His shoulders are remarkably broad for so short a man, but the start of a paunch is evidence that he no longer works out regularly.

“Add her story to yours, Msha.” John balances on the balls of his feet, his hands behind his back, letting me do the work. “The combination is interesting.”

“Hmmmph,” I repeat, not wanting John to take Mariah seriously.

“Maybe the report is what the fake FBI guys were looking for.” When I do not rise to this, John murmurs: “You haven’t told her everything, have you?”

“No.”

“She doesn’t know about the note from your dad, right? Or the pawn?”

“No.”

“She’s your sister, Misha. You really should share that stuff.”

I give him a look. “The way she’s been acting?”

John is hardly interested. He is no longer looking at either me or the steaks, but instead is gazing off toward the trees beyond the fence marking the border of our property and the beginning of the two acres owned by the president of the First Bank of Elm Harbor. Can I be boring my friend? “John?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m listening. Go on.”

“You have to understand about Mariah. It isn’t just this one thing. She, um, she has always been… excitable. She has always had a tendency to jump to conclusions. I mean, okay, she’s smarter than I am, but she’s not always, um, reasonable. She… I guess she’s a little bit passionate, you know?”

“Yes.” Absently. He continues to study the fence.

“I have this friend. Eddie Dozier. You remember Dana? Dana Worth? I’ve told you about her, right? Well, Eddie is her ex-husband. He’s black, but he’s pretty far to the right. Into all this anti-government stuff. Anyway, Dana told me the other day that Eddie and Mariah have been talking, that he’s the one who convinced her that the autopsy results were faked. You know, those specks in the photo? I’ve tried to convince her not to talk to him any more, but she just-”

“Misha.” Softly.

“-won’t listen to anything I tell her. I don’t know. I have to find some way to get her to back off, to stop all of this before it gets out of-”

“Misha!”

“What?” Annoyed that John, who never interrupts, has broken in.

“Misha, there’s somebody in the woods. On the hill. Don’t turn around.”

From what seems a very great distance, I hear my voice, answering calmly with the Gospel according to Kimmer: “It’s just my neighbor. I told you, the president of the bank lives over there-”

John’s laugh is cold. “Not unless the president of the bank is tall and black. And, besides, he has a pair of binoculars. He’s watching us.” Pause. “It could be that Foreman guy.”

I turn around at last. I cannot help myself.

“I don’t see anybody,” I whisper.

“He’s gone. We must have spooked him.”

John Brown is as level-headed a man as I know. He is not given to hallucinations. If he says somebody was there, somebody was there.

We warn our mystified wives that we have to go check something out. Then we leave the steaks and go into the woods. I suppose I should be worried-the watcher, if there was one, had to be Foreman-but if the late Mr. Scott turned out to be harmless, how dangerous can his sidekick be? Besides, being part of a team increases courage remarkably.

“Over here,” John murmurs, pointing to the spot where he thinks the man he saw was standing, between two barren trees. But we find only a few tracks in the melting snow, neither one of us outdoorsman enough to know how long they have been there, or even where they lead, for they vanish quickly in the brambles. My old friend and I look at each other. He shakes his head and shrugs, the message clear. We are trespassing and cannot linger long.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I think we missed him.”

“I think so, too.”

“But if he scares so easily, Misha, I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

“Neither do I. I’d still like to know who he is.” I do not want to remain up here. A neighbor could see two black men creeping through the woods and get the wrong idea, and I have already had my obligatory once-a-decade encounter with the law.

“You don’t think it was that Foreman guy?”

I turn toward him. “You saw him. I didn’t.”

John frowns. He is disappointed in me. “I don’t think you’re telling me everything, Misha.”

“I don’t know what you think I’m leaving out.”

His voice remains milder than mine. “You can’t play games with your friends.”

“I’m not,” I snap. John shrugs. As we prepare to return to my property, we hear a car growl into life on the adjoining street, which runs parallel to Hobby Road. Racing over the slushy ground, we reach the sidewalk in time to see a powder-blue Porsche disappear into the distance. But this is the ritzy part of town, and it could belong to anybody.

Although the driver looks black, and we are the only black family on Hobby Hill.

“I think you should call somebody,” says John.

“I’m going to sound silly,” I sigh, thinking of Meadows’s warning about the risk to my wife’s potential nomination. But I know that on Monday I will make the call anyway, just to be on the safe side, and that Cassie Meadows, down in Washington, will roll her eyes and make another note in the conspiracy file.

I also know something else, which I do not share with my friend as we trudge back down the snowy, leaf-strewn hill. Hidden within Mariah’s ramblings was a tiny nugget of hard information, a new and troubling fact over which she skipped too lightly because she was searching for an epic conspiracy to end our father’s life. I know who has read the missing report.