An Eye for Murder (26 page)

She lifted a cucumber sandwich from the tray. Patches of satin on the brocade sofa gleamed in the sun.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Heading home after the interview, I sped past a blur of signs, stores, and parking lots on Skokie Boulevard. In corporate doublespeak a nondenial is considered a tacit confirmation of fact. Exactly what Frances Iverson gave me.

I ran a hand through my hair. Iverson and Lisle had an affair, starting late in ’42, give or take a few months. She moved to Douglas Avenue shortly after that, and a year later, ’44 if Rick Feld was right, Iverson moved in. By ’45 she was pregnant. Then Kurt came home from the war. Lisle broke up with Iverson, Kurt was murdered, Iverson killed himself.

Was Paul Iverson involved in Kurt Weiss’s death? Did he kill Kurt in a jealous rage, and then, unable to deal with his crime, kill himself? It had started as a crazy, far-fetched theory, but now I wasn’t so sure.

Turning south on Sunset Ridge Road, I rolled down the window. Hot air shot across the front seat. I rolled it up again. That might explain why the Iverson family circulated the story about a heart attack. The family didn’t want even a breath of scandal, however softly it was whispered, to be associated with the name of Paul Iverson.

It would also explain why Marian clung to the pretense.

The idea that the father of the leading candidate for the Illinois Senate might be involved, however indirectly, in the sordid murder of a GI could be damaging. Irresistible fodder for the press. It might not cause a major scandal, but it would be good copy for a day or two. It might even trigger a dip in the polls. It made sense to prevaricate.

I turned onto Happ Road, the sun behind the trees. No wonder Marian was becoming tense around me. I was on her payroll, supposedly a loyal employee. Yet I’d unearthed film that hinted of an illicit affair between her father and another woman. I’d even flaunted David, the product of that relationship, in her face. She was probably wondering whose side I was on. And what I planned to do with the information.

She and I needed to have a quiet little talk. She needed to know I wouldn’t betray her. No Judas reporter me. I would never make that information public. I pulled into the driveway, pleased with my strategy. It was the right thing to do.

Opening the garage door with the remote, I remembered the tan car. Clearly someone was stalking me, keeping close tabs, but not closing in. Why? What did they want? And why was the seat of the chair in Frances’s living room warm? I climbed out of the car, feeling like I was skidding on ice, about to smash into oncoming traffic.

“How’s Rachel?”

“David?”

“Did she get off okay?”

“Fine.” Why was he calling? His behavior the other night had been pretty definitive. “She’s already faxed me twice. She wants to come home.”

“No.”

I laughed. “Not to worry. She’s right on schedule.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the first couple of days, I always get tearful faxes and letters demanding I drop everything and bring her home. Then, after a week or so, I only hear from her when she wants gum, CDs, or money.”

“Oh.” Silence.

Okay. Small talk’s over. I’ve done my part.

“Ellie, I…I’ve been doing some research since we last talked, and I wanted to get together. There are some things I’d like to go over with you. I could come by.”

So I can risk another rejection? I don’t think so.

“You were right, you know,” he was saying. “The police weren’t very cooperative. But I got a lead in spite of them.”

“A lead?” He sounded like a detective.

“I went downtown to the library to look over old newspapers, thinking I might find some mention of the murder. I must have scrolled through hours of microfilm, but other than a couple of lines in the
Daily News
, there was nothing. Then I happened to strike up a conversation with one of the librarians, and she gave me the name of this woman who’s supposed to be an expert on the history of the steel mills in Chicago. Her name is Jorgenson. I’m going to call her.”

Shit. If he hooked up with her, he might find out about his mother and the newsreel. And Paul. “How, uh, interesting. But, uh, what do you think she can tell you? Your father didn’t have anything to do with the steel industry.”

“No, but my mother did. And this woman might be able to put me in touch with someone from Iverson’s who knew her. Who knows what they might remember?”

Who knew indeed? I groped for something to say.

“Do…do you really think anyone from that time is still alive?”

“Of course. They’d only be about as old as your father, no more.”

“I suppose.” I chewed my lip. Weak. Very weak. “But…is that really the best use of your time?”

“You wouldn’t do it that way?” He sounded uncertain.

Actually, that’s exactly how I’d do it. “It seems like you’re hunting for a needle in a haystack. I’m not sure I’d waste my time. Or the woman’s.” I sighed audibly. “But then, what do I know?”

“A lot. You were right about the police,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it. So, what about it? Can we get together?”

“David, I have to get up early tomorrow to fly downstate. How about the day after?”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

As we hung up, I heard another click on the line, but it barely penetrated my guilt. I’d lied, dissembled, and tried to manipulate a man I cared about. I was wrong about one thing. Judas was my middle name.

I called Dad to tell him where I’d be. There was no answer. He was probably out with the guys. I left a message.

Chapter Thirty-eight

The roar of the engine stung my ears. Patches of color flashed past the window. The ground tore away from us, and we hurtled into the air. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the fiery plunge to earth. Instead, we lifted straight up. I opened my eyes. The plane was banking over the lake.

The sound of the engine changed from a hardworking drone to a hum. My stomach lurched to my chest. Now we would fall out of the sky. We hit a bump, and the plane lifted, as if soaring over a bubble. I waited for the corresponding drop. It didn’t come.

A flat, tinny voice broke through my terror. “Are you all right?”

I’d almost forgotten Mac was strapped in next to me. I gulped recycled air.

“Nice take-off.” He grinned.

Through the window I saw buildings the size of dollhouses, cars that crawled like ants. I looked the other way. Marian and Roger were crammed into the first row of the ten-seat Cessna. Stephen Lamont was next, sitting next to a young woman I’d never seen before. Roger introduced her as his assistant, but it wasn’t Dory Sanchez. In fact, the only word to describe this girl-woman with blond hair and a button nose was
perky
. Mac and I were behind them, Mac’s crew behind us. Lamont and the assistant were into an animated conversation, and I heard Marian laugh from the front.

Everyone except me seemed calm. If they knew they were going to die, they were hiding it well.

We landed in Carbondale, “the best small city in Illinois,” according to a poster at the airport. At one time, the town, situated near the state’s southern border, had been a shipping hub for the transport of coal and fruit. Now it was known as the home of Southern Illinois University.

An advance team from the Republicans of Jackson County met us at the gate. As we left the air-conditioned chill of the tiny terminal to pile into cars, waves of heat eddied over us. Four hundred miles south of Chicago, we were closer to Kentucky than Wisconsin. I didn’t mind; I was grateful to be alive.

Outside the city we turned into the Shawnee National Forest and Giant City State Park. The whine of the air conditioning eased as the shade from a thousand maples, firs, and oaks cooled the air. Surrounded by enormous sandstone bluffs, Giant City got its name from a portion of the forest where huge rock formations mimic walls, streets and alleys so precisely that they resemble a city made of stone. Climbers come from all over the Midwest to scale the rocks, though the Southern alums I know insist you have to be stoned to enjoy it.

The cars wound past woodland trails, fishing ponds, and scenic look-out points, ending at the center of the park, where a lodge occupied a clearing. Adjoining it was a sheltered swimming pool. A podium festooned with red, white, and blue draping stood in front of the lodge, and more than a dozen tables covered with red and white checked cloths were lined up on the grass.

More than two hundred people had already gathered. As Marian’s car rolled to a stop, I heard a smattering of applause. She stepped out and was immediately escorted inside to freshen up. Roger and his new assistant buzzed around the crowd. I followed Mac, but he waved me off.

“I’ve got it covered, Ellie. Go commune with nature and get yourself centered. I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

Still queasy from the flight, I wandered toward the edge of the clearing, looking back on the scene in longshot. A bench on one side of the tables groaned with tubs of potato salad, drinks, and trays of fried chicken. On the other side a trio of musicians in striped shirts and straw hats plucked a banjo, guitar, and bass. The scent of chicken mingled with woodland pines.

I grabbed a soda from one of the tubs and rolled the cold can over my forehead. I didn’t want to shoot more video of enthusiastic crowds and patriotic speeches. I wanted to disappear down one of the trails, drink in the cool quiet of the woods, and plan how to broach the Paul Iverson issue with Marian.

Instead, I slowly worked my way back toward the crowd.

Stephen Lamont and Roger had their heads together. Lamont hadn’t mentioned his proposed story on the video since Milk Days. I didn’t want to remind him. Veering in the opposite direction, I introduced myself to a blowsy brunette in a flag shirt, red shorts, and heavy makeup. She turned out to be the wife of the chairman of the Jackson County Republicans, and she complimented me on how smart we were to choose Carbondale for a visit, given that Southern Republicans were so influential in Springfield. I sipped my soda, swallowing a grimace at being lumped in with the “we’s.” I was a hired hand, not one of the team.

While the flag lady confided that her husband, in line for a gubernatorial appointment, was checking out real estate in Springfield, I spotted Roger and Lamont heading my way. Roger crooked his finger at me. “Excuse me,” I said, almost grateful, and trotted over like one of the team.

“Ellie.” Roger draped an arm around my shoulder. “Didn’t you tell us you were doing research on Marian’s father?”

“Uh, yeah. A little. Why?”

“Lamont’s looking into Marian’s background.” He waved a finger. “You two should hook up together.”

“All I did was download some articles,” I turned to Lamont. “I’m sure you already have them. About the labor unions, mostly.” I shrugged, as if to apologize for wasting his time. Lamont stroked his beard.

“Didn’t you track down a newsreel with Marian’s father in it?” Roger said.

I rolled the empty pop can between my hand, stalling for time. I had the stor y Lamont was searching for. The candidate’s father: a philanderer who fathered a child out of wedlock and then took his own life after his mistress’s husband was murdered. It was sordid. Sensational. Lamont would be all over it. I answered cautiously. “I found a few seconds of footage. Sandwiched between some stories about war bonds.”

“Listen, babe. Make sure he sees whatever you got, okay?”

Roger squeezed my shoulder.

“Sure.” I backed away. “Babe.”

Roger dropped his arm. Lamont smiled.

I wasn’t paying for the footage. It belonged to Marian, and if she wanted Lamont to see it, I couldn’t stand in his way. I could hope he wouldn’t pick up on the Lisle-Iverson relationship, but given that he was a professional observer, I wasn’t optimistic.

Roger’s new aide interrupted us. “They’re ready for Marian,” she said, pronouncing Marian’s name almost reverently. As she headed back toward the podium, hips swaying, Roger studied her ass. He licked his lips unconsciously, and then, as if just remembering I was there, bit down.

“Where’s Dory?” I asked.

Irritation flashed across his face. “She…she left.”

“Left what? The campaign?”

He nodded. “When? Why?”

He hesitated. “She…we decided she really wasn’t cut out for campaign work.”

I frowned, unable to hide my dismay. “I got the impression she was doing a great job.”

“No. She wasn’t.” He started after Ms. Perky, his curt tone indicating the subject was closed. Halfway across the lawn he turned around. “Ellie, speaking of labor, Marian’s doing a rally on Labor Day downtown. There’s gonna be a fund-raiser at the Palmer House the night before, and she wants to show the video at it. We’ll rent large screens and put them all around the ballroom. Terrific, huh?”

Marian’s speech was mercifully short. Once it was in the can and we’d shot cutaways, Mac wrapped up. I called Dad. He still didn’t answer. I felt a twinge of concern. I didn’t like not knowing where he was. I ducked inside to the lodge.

I’d expected a rustic, rough-hewn décor, maybe with sandstone walls and quarry tile floor. But the carpeted hallways, gift shop, and nondescript bar were just like every other hotel on the rubber chicken circuit. I padded down the hall, looking for the ladies’ room, and stopped at a closed door. I twisted it open and found a large parlor with a parquet floor and small groupings of furniture artfully placed around the room. A fireplace was at one end of the room, a bar at the other. A few tables had checkers and backgammon sets on them.

I wandered in, scanning the perimeter for the ladies’ room but quickly realized I’d opened the wrong door. I was about to back out when a familiar voice stopped me. I glanced over my shoulder. Marian stood in the corridor, talking in low tones to a man whose back was to me.

“I told you never to approach me.” Her stage whisper was laced with tension.