Mistress

Chapter 13

George Hotchkiss is retired, a former middle manager with Madison Gas and Electric. He was born in pre-World War II London and came to America in the 1950s to study engineering at Purdue University. There he met Bonnie Sturgis, whom he married on November 23, 1963, the day after JFK’s assassination.

He’s also a domineering, violent prick, according to Diana.

“George Hotchkiss,” he says to me with a dour expression, slowly extending his hand. He looks like he once had significant upper body strength, probably pumped iron, but now has about twenty pounds layered over that flabby muscle.

“Ben Casper, Mr. Hotchkiss. I’m very-”

“Say the name again?”

That stops me a moment. “Benjamin…Casper.”

It doesn’t register with him. “How did you know Di?”

Cognizant of Emma, whom I’d just told that I worked with Diana, I keep it vague. “I was a friend of hers in DC,” I say. “She was wonderful,” I add, to change the subject. “The best.”

He takes the measure of me. I don’t get the sense he’s coming back with a positive read. The feeling is mutual.

“She never mentioned you,” he informs me, which is sweet of him.

“Well, she loved you very much, sir.” That’s a lie. Diana couldn’t wait to get out of Madison. It had nothing to do with the town and everything to do with her parents.

Moving right along. Diana’s mother, Bonnie, is no picnic, either. She appears to be a couple of vodka martinis past the intersection of sober and appropriate. Her eyes are bloodshot and her words are a bit slurred. I’m offended for Diana’s sake. A mother should be strong for her daughter at a time like this, right?

We have to be strong today, Ben. It’s what Mother would have wanted.

Well, maybe I’m being too judgmental. Everyone grieves differently.

“I don’t remember ever hearing your name,” Bonnie tells me.

“Right, your husband mentioned.”

Next up, brother Randy. Diana had a weakness for the kid. He had a rough patch in his early twenties. He’s supposedly interning now at a local TV news station in the sports department, though as I look at him-short, rough complexion, small, liquid eyes, hair in all directions-I see that he has a face for radio.

“She talked about you all the time,” I say, which is a stretch. “All good.”

“I doubt that.”

I almost laugh. “It’s a very nice visitation.”

“Wake,” he says.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a wake. We’re Catholic. We call it a wake.”

Well, then. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

His eyes narrow. “You knew her how?”

“We were friends.”

“Good friends?”

I think of many ways to answer that but just say, “Yeah.”

“Hmph.” He nods slowly. “Well, if you were good friends with her, Mike-”

Ben. My name’s Ben.

“-then maybe you can tell me why she would kill herself.”

Another one I could answer many ways. What does he expect me to say? How about, Murder can be made to look like suicide, and suicide can be made to look like murder. I opt for respectful silence instead.

“So maybe not such a good friend.” He dismisses me with a pat on the arm. “Thanks for coming, Mike.”

I don’t say anything in response, though I’d like to. This guy just lost his sister, so he gets a long rope.

So! That was the family. Can’t imagine why Diana didn’t like coming back home.

The fortyish woman in the stylish black suit is still loitering at the other end of the room. She looks up every time someone new enters the parlor and studies him or her a moment. She finally catches on that I’m watching her, but she still won’t lock eyes with me.

Detective LaTaglia did the same thing at Mother’s visitation. Except she didn’t watch the other people entering and exiting the funeral home in Rockville, Maryland. She didn’t even watch my father.

She watched only me.

You’re a strong little boy, Benjamin. Eight years old and all grown up! Your mother would be proud.

She loved you a lot, didn’t she?

You loved her, too, right?

“They’re grieving.”

I spin around. It’s Emma again, the possibly pregnant high school friend. She likes to sneak up on me.

“The family,” she says. “Especially Randy. He can be nice, believe it or not. But it’s gotta be tough for him right now.”

It must be tough, Ben. Not being able to give your mother a proper Christian burial. They say your soul doesn’t go to heaven until your body is buried.

“Yeah,” I tell Emma. “It must be tough.”

But here’s the thing, Ben. We can’t let your mother be buried until we figure out what happened to her.

Do you know what happened to her, Ben? I kinda think you do.

Emma smiles at me, subdued for the occasion. “A bunch of people are getting together later,” she says. “Someone rented a room at Jack’s. If you want to stop by?”

I glance back at black-suit lady. For the moment, at least, she is gone.

“I just might do that,” I tell Emma.