Dig (21 page)

“Just out of curiosity—exactly what did your trophies say?” I asked.

Either Bud was staring directly at his trophy or his memory was very good: “First Place, State of Ohio Collegiate Debate Tournament, Columbus, 1956-57.”

I jotted that down. “And did they also put your name on it?”

“Not the same day we won them of course,” he said. “But later Professor Cook collected them and had our names engraved.”

“All four of them?”

“No. Just our separate names.”

“I mean did he have all four trophies engraved?”

“I suppose he did.”

“But you don’t remember for sure?”

***

Tuesday, June 12

I called the Greyhound station as soon as I got to work. In the sweetest voice I could muster I asked the sleepy man on the other end if he had any bus schedules from 1957 lying around. He questioned my sanity in the sweetest voice he could muster. He also suggested that I call the Western Reserve Historical Society in Cleveland. “They got a whole bunch of old train and bus memorabilia up there,” he said. The word
memorabilia
stumbled off his tongue as if he’d never had the opportunity to use the word before.

I took his advice. The librarian at the historical society, out of some sense of sisterhood I suppose, spent the next four hours digging through the files. She called me back at two o’clock, just as I was heading toward the cafeteria with my empty mug. “I’ve got some good news for you,” she said.

Chapter 23

Friday, June 15

I could have driven over there Tuesday night. Or Wednesday night. But I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t face the ugliness of it all.

But by Thursday night my curiosity was back in the driver’s seat. I watched the midnight repeat of Larry King on CNN—he was doing his umpteenth show on the Scott Peterson murder trial—and then I watched some silly half-hour infomercial on a gizmo that peels hardboiled eggs perfectly every time. Then I loaded James into the backseat and headed for Hemphill College. It was a quarter to two in the morning. West Tuckman was absolutely empty. As if the rapture had sucked everybody up to heaven but James and me.

I reached the college in ten quick minutes. I pulled over in front of Mueller Hall. It sits right on the corner of West Tuckman and Balch Avenue. It’s where Greyhound used to have its campus bus stop. Hannawa was on the north-south route between Cleveland and Columbus. In addition to the main station downtown, the buses would make a curbside stop here for college students. That campus stop was eliminated years ago. These days even the poorest students have cars. But in the fifties the big noisy Greyhounds would pull over right where James and I were now standing.

“I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing here at this ungodly hour,” I whispered to James. He was preoccupied with the glorious smells along the curb but I told him anyway. “According to the old bus schedule that the librarian at the historical society found for me, the overnight bus left Columbus at ten-fifteen. It made its way up Route 42, through Mansfield and Ashland and a dozen other towns. It reached the college at two, and then headed downtown before continuing on to Cleveland.”

I gave James’ leash a tug and we started up the sidewalk. “There’s no way to know now if Rollie got off the bus exactly at two. But it was spring. No snow or ice on the roads. So more than likely the bus arrived on time. And more than likely he was the only one who got off. It was Easter week. Nobody would be coming back
to
the college that week. Anyway, Rollie got off the bus with his suitcase and his big first place trophy.”

James found a nice forsythia bush to lift his leg on. I gave him all the time he needed. “We can’t say for certain that Rollie came this way. But even if he cut across the lawn between Mueller Hall and the field house, he still would have ended up on Hester Street. And Hester is the only sensible way to get to the apartment building on Liberty Street where Gwen lived her senior year. She’d talked her father into renting it for her, even though he’d already bought her that pink Buick.”

James finished. We walked on in the dark. The streetlights looked like dim, faraway flying saucers. “Rollie could have gone straight to his dorm on the other side of Tuckman, of course. But the reason he took the overnight bus was to see Gwen, wasn’t it? That’s what Bud Wetzel figured and I’m sure that’s right. He was anxious to show Gwen his trophy. Reap whatever romantic reward it might bring.”

We reached Hester Street and headed east. “It’s impossible to know which side of the street Rollie walked on. He could have crossed here and walked along the north side. Or he could have stayed on this side until he reached Liberty. But it doesn’t matter. If Rollie saw what I think he saw, then he could have seen it from either side of the street.”

We crossed Mortuary Street and then Church Street. The big, turn-of-the-century houses along Hester gave way to two blocks of Tudor-style apartment buildings. They had brown brick façades and green tile roofs. I stopped and gave James a biscuit, a reward for his patience. I pointed my chin at the building directly across the street from us. “See that building,” I said. “That’s where David Delarosa was killed. Early Thursday morning. Easter week 1957. Well, you can see what I’m thinking, can’t you, James?” I painted the picture for him in case he didn’t. “The street is dark and empty just like it is tonight. And Rollie is hurrying along on his way to Gwen’s. No doubt he’s exhausted. It’s been a rough couple of days and he’s had a long bus ride. But he’s also a man with not just one big trophy, but two. Never in his life did he think a classy girl like Gwen Moffitt would fall in love with him. But she had. She’d looked beyond his family’s embarrassing working-class status. She’d recognized his potential. Just that past fall she’d accepted the modest diamond ring he’d bought with his grocery packing money. So Rollie is a tired but happy young man that morning. Then he sees it. A pink Buick convertible. As bright as neon under the street light. Parked in front of that apartment building where all the athletes stay.”

In my hazy imagination I could see that pink Buick, too. I could see the anguish on Rollie’s face. I could see him walk slowly to the apartment building door. I could see his cloudy eyes and the debate that was raging behind them, his anger taking the affirmative, his better judgment vainly arguing the negative. I could see his trembling hand try the heavy latch. See him wince when the latch depressed with a quiet click. I could see him slip inside and stare up the steps. I could see his fingers tighten around the neck of his trophy, the bones of his knuckles pushing hard against the stretched white skin.

I gave James a tug and headed back down Hester Street. “Now remember,” I said, as if he’d seen all of the imaginary things I’d seen. “This is only a scenario. And you know what a scenario is, don’t you, James? It’s a theory unencumbered by evidence.” I looked back at the apartment building and in my imagination saw Gwen’s pink Buick make a wild U-turn and speed off into the fuzzy night. “And I don’t have any evidence, James. Not any real evidence. All I have is that old letter from David Delarosa and a whole truckload of cockamamie assumptions.”

***

Monday, June 18

I learned long ago not to give story ideas to reporters. They smile at you like you’re five years old, give you a sickly, “Oh, that’s a great idea!” and then they never do them. And if by some miracle they do write the story, they never do it right. So I just keep my mouth shut and let them come up with their own brilliant ideas.

That’s why Louise Lewendowski was more than a little surprised when I ambushed her in the cafeteria. “I’ve got the neatest idea for a feature,” I began. I’d made sure I had an extra cinnamon twist on my tray.

The kolachky lady yodeled at me. “You do?”

I slid the sweet roll across the table and made my pitch. “The other day I was visiting my old friend Gwen Moffitt-Stumpf and—”

Louise took the sweet roll and the bait. “You know Gwendolyn Moffitt-Stumpf?”

I pawed the air. “Oh, yes. We ran around with the same crowd in college. We still see each other every now and again.”

She was leaning forward on her elbows, nibbling on the cinnamon twist like a rabbit. “I hear her new house is a regular palace.”

“Nothing regular about it,” I said. “Which strangely enough leads me to the idea I had. Her husband, Rollie, you see, has the most incredible den. It’s just spectacular. And I was thinking, wouldn’t that make a great Sunday feature for Louise? The dens of Hannawa’s powerful men. You could do Rollie’s den, the mayor’s, some of the corporate presidents. Our readers would just eat it up, don’t you think?”

“That is such a great idea,” Louise said. I could tell by the size of her eyes that she really meant it.

And so by the time we headed back toward the newsroom the story idea was firmly planted. “I just hope they’ll go for it,” Louise worried. “You know how private men can be.”

I was brimming with good advice. “I wouldn’t go directly to the men themselves,” I suggested. “Go to their wives. They’ll see it as a great way to show off their husbands as well as their decorating talents. And their husbands won’t be able to say no.”

“You’re right—that’s the way to do it.”

“Of course you’ll want to get the men in the photos. Ties off. Feet up.”

“Of course.”

I pretended to have a sudden brilliant thought. “You know who you should get to shoot it? Chuck Weideman.”

Louise’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “Weedy?”

“Absolutely. He’s been shooting the city’s bigwigs for a million years. He wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by them or their wives. I bet he’d get some terrific candids. They might even start your story on Page One.”

Louise was not exactly known for her hard-hitting journalism. I’m sure she could count the number of Page One stories she’d had on one finger. “You think he’d do it?”

“He just might,” I said.

We reached the newsroom. I felt like a skunk. A very happy skunk. “If you do go ahead with the story,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Gwen it was my idea. I wouldn’t want her to think I was taking advantage of our friendship.”

Louise gave my shoulder an empathetic squeeze, like it was a fresh roll of toilet paper. “Of course, Maddy.”

An hour later I slipped back to the photographers’ studio, the windowless bunker where the paper’s photographers pretend to work. Weedy was busy playing solitaire on his computer.

Weedy has as much professional integrity as anyone else at
The Herald-Union
. He’d also sell his own grandmother into white slavery if it meant a Page One photo credit. And of course that’s why I put that bug in Louise’s ear about him.

I sat on his desk and spun his monitor around so he’d pay attention. “Weedy,” I said, “you know I’m not the kind of woman who wallows in frivolity.”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Or plays bullshit games.”

“If you say so.”

“So if I were to give you a tip—as murky as it sounded—you’d take my word for it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Good. Because if Louise Lewendowski asks you to shoot a story for her, I would strongly recommend that you don’t try to pawn it off on somebody else.”

Weedy winced. “And why’s that?”

“Just happily accept the assignment and keep my name out of it. Okay?”

He studied my face. “Okay.”

I handed him the Post-it I had pinched between my thumb and index finger. “And should you by chance find yourself in a room with a mantel full of trophies, discreetly see if there’s one with this engraved on the front.”

He read the Post-it aloud: “First Place, State of Ohio Collegiate Debate Tournament, Columbus, 1956-57.” He put the tiny square of sticky paper in his shirt pocket. “Not to sound like the glory grubbing bastard I am, but what exactly might I gain from this despicable act of subterfuge?”

I allowed myself a grin. “Either nothing—or just maybe the most important photo you’ve ever taken.”

***

Thursday, June 21

When I got to work I found a big sack of kolachkys on my desk. Good gravy! I could have danced around the morgue like Ginger Rogers. I divided the kolachkys into three piles. Six for me, six for Eric—a necessary bribe so I could enjoy my six—and twelve for Weedy. I headed straight for his desk with his share.

“Good news for Morgue Mama?” I asked, dangling the bag in front of his face.

Weedy did have good news for me. The features editor had given Louise the go-ahead and he’d been assigned to do the photos. In fact he was going to do two of the shoots that afternoon: Mayor Flynn in his den. Rollie Stumpf in his. I dropped the bag in his waiting hands.

The rest of the day was absolute torture. I marked up that morning’s paper. I had lunch at Ike’s. I dug out the files Doneta Deetz needed on the 1927 Apple Creek Bridge disaster—the county engineer was warning it could happen again if commissioners didn’t come through with the budget increases he’d requested—and I watched the elevator for Weedy and Louise.

Finally they appeared, at ten minutes after four, carrying big red cartons of McDonald’s French fries, giggling like a couple of fifth graders returning from a field trip to the local mental hospital. I wanted to charge at Weedy like a bull, screaming “Well? Well?” Instead I got busy clipping meaningless squares out of the sports section with my black-handled scissors. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Weedy flirt his way through the newsroom. With Carol Voinovich. With Cheryl Presselo. Even with Margaret Newman. I watched him wash down his fries at the water fountain. I watched him turn toward the morgue. I watched him wipe his greasy fingers on his pants. Reach into his shirt pocket. He finally reached my desk. He smiled and handed me the Post-it. He headed for the men’s room. I pulled my reading glasses to the end of my nose, lifted my chin and read. Scribbled below the inscription I’d given him were these three words:
No such trophy
.

I didn’t know whether to be delighted or depressed. I did know that I needed more information before going to Detective Grant. “Eric,” I said sweetly, “how about I buy your supper tonight?”

Thirty minutes later we were sitting in my Shadow outside the office building in Brinkley where Rollie Stumpf had his insurance agency. I had a fish sandwich inside of me. Eric had a Whopper inside of him. He was still protesting.

Right at five the three women who worked in Rollie’s office hurried out to their cars and drove off. “I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Eric whined.

“Nobody is,” I assured him. “Now go!”

So Eric went inside. My instructions to him couldn’t have been clearer: Under the guise of seeking information on insurance rates for his pickup, he was to scour every desk, table and shelf for that debate trophy.