Murder as a Second Language (13 page)

“You're not planning dinner, are you?” asked Caron.

“Just thinking about Ludmila's murder.” The previous evening when I'd told the girls about the crime, I'd omitted my visit to Bartek's house. I repeated as much of the conversation as I could, then described my adventure at the senior citizens center. “I was lucky that I sat down next to Shirley,” I continued.

“Orange hair? Really?” Caron wrinkled her nose. “I would have run the other way. Some horny old guy tried to feel you up? That place doesn't sound very wholesome, if you ask me. They should all be sedated.”

“And sit in a stupor watching soap operas? Think of the money the center could save if it served only gruel and little cups of gelatin.”

Caron's eyes narrowed. “That's not what I meant.”

“I think it is,” I said. “Why don't you go offer to volunteer until the Literacy Council is open? You might discover that life doesn't end at sixty-five or seventy-five or ninety or a hundred and three.”

“Or so you hope.” She put her plate in the sink. “What's the name of this guy you're looking for? Maybe I can help.”

I realized her offer was an apology. “Dusan Kovac, also known as Duke. He lives on Belvedere Drive.”

She scampered upstairs. I put away food and stuck the plates in the dishwasher. I was refilling my glass with iced tea when Caron bounded downstairs like an overgrown puppy. “Got it!” she said. “I know where you can find the Duke guy.”

I must admit I was impressed.

 

7

According to something Caron called Facebook, Duke Kovac played in a darts tournament every Wednesday afternoon at Farberville's ersatz British pub. I parked behind Luanne's vintage clothing store and walked down the alley to the front entrance of the Tainted Frog. Since summer school was in session at Farber College, there were only a few students at the bar. I heard loud laughter from the back of the room. The booths were crowded and the tabletops littered with mugs and bottles. The middle area was clear so that the dart players were less likely to do physical damage to the onlookers. Several of said dart players were swaying as they stood behind a man with a plaid cap. I spotted an unoccupied table in the corner and hastily took refuge. Darts and drinks seemed like a potentially lethal combination.

I watched as the players, mostly older men with white hair and glasses, threw darts at a pockmarked dartboard. A couple of college boys attempted to show off their skill, resulting in brays of laughter and derisive hoots. One woman with waist-length gray hair nailed her dart, to laudatory whoops. I became aware that bull's-eyes were less vital than other spots, but the rules were as elusive as those of cricket. I doubted anyone wanted to explain them to me. Which is not to imply I wanted them explained.

I was considering how best to determine which player was Duke when the man in the plaid cap sat down. He had shaggy white hair, glasses, a red nose, and yellowed teeth below his trimmed mustache. “Looking for me?” he asked, grinning.

“I don't know.”

“I'm Duke, and you're a friend of Ludmila's, right? I found your note. What's the poor cow been up to these days? Don't tell me she wrote a threatening letter to the president. I warned her about that.”

“I'm afraid I have some bad news,” I said. “Ludmila died Monday night.”

He winced. “I'm sorry to hear that. Excuse me for a minute. I'm up after this guy from the Ukraine. He fancies himself to be the best in town, so I need to teach him a lesson.”

I paid more attention to the spectators. Most of them were elderly, dressed shabbily, and spoke with heavy accents. Farberville seemed to be a popular destination for immigrants of all ages, from the cheeky Asian girls at the Literacy Council to Duke and his buddies. I realized how insulated I was. The only books in a foreign language available at the Book Depot were on the reading lists at the college. Requests for them were almost always followed by pleas for the translations.

Duke plopped back down in the chair. “Nikita is only pretending to be drunk, damn his soul. Now what's this about Ludmila? What happened? Did she have a heart attack or a stroke?”

“The police suspect she was murdered.”

He mulled this over for a minute. “Why would I be surprised? Ludmila was very difficult to get along with. Somewhere deep in her subconscious she believed that everyone spoke Polish, but we'd all conspired to pretend we didn't. It's not so crazy as it sounds. When I came to this country fifty-three years ago, I spoke only Slovakian. I couldn't understand anybody, or read a newspaper, or go to a movie. I was convinced that as soon as I left the room, everybody reverted to Slovakian. I used to put down the newspaper, then snatch it up to catch it before it changed. When my English got better, so did I. Ludmila didn't want to learn more English. She thought she was too old. Maybe she was.”

I smiled sympathetically, but I was much more interested in what she had told him over the domino games. “Did she ever show you some photos?”

“One moment, please.” He returned to the dart game. This time he was cheerful when he resumed his seat. “My weary old eyes have not failed me. What were you asking me?”

“Old photos of a young child, possibly two years of age.”

“Little Jozef,” he said, nodding. “He was her friend's great-grandson back in Bialystok. The child died at a young age.” Duke pulled off his hat to scratch his head. “Some disease. I can't remember exactly what she said, and keep in mind that I don't speak Polish. Slovakian has many similar words. I got maybe seventy percent of what she said. I didn't recognize the word for this disease.” A group in front of the dart board began cheering, stomping their feet and poking other competitors. “It seems my team has won, so I must drink toasts and say rude things to the losers. Thank you for telling me about Ludmila. Is there to be a funeral?”

“I don't know, but I will get in touch with you if I find out.” I watched him join his teammates, who were as thrilled as Olympic gold medalists, and went back through the bar. I'd wasted most of the day trying to find out more about Ludmila and the source of her bad temper. I'd gotten nowhere. Maybe she was just plain mean.

It was the middle of the afternoon. I went into a coffee shop and emerged with a bag of pastries. I parked in the visitors lot at the Farberville Police Department and carried my offering inside. The desk sergeant gave me a startled look.

“Is there another problem, Ms. Malloy?” she asked.

“I dropped by to see my husband,” I said cheerfully. “I saw his car outside. Is he in his office?” She nodded. I walked to the back of the building, where the bigwigs had their offices. Middlewigs did not merit windows. Peter's door was closed, and he looked annoyed when I came inside.

“I thought you might need a break,” I said. “The pastries may be stale, but they're better than those chemical things in the vending machine.”

“You went to see Bartek Grabowski.”

I made myself as comfortable as possible in a straight-backed chair. “It was a condolence call. I took a covered dish and expressed my sympathy for his loss. Shortly after that, friends from his department began to arrive, so I left. Do you want the blueberry scone or the banana nut muffin?”

“Since when do you make condolence calls on strangers?” Peter said, waving away the bag. “You spoke to the man for all of two minutes yesterday morning.”

I was not amused. “I went there as a representative of the Literacy Council. I
am
on the board of directors, as you know. Do you have a problem with this?” It was a silly question, in that he was frowning at me in a most unfriendly fashion. I took the blueberry scone out of the bag and began to nibble on it.

“All you said was that you were sorry for his loss? I know you better than that, Claire. A lot better than that. Did you learn anything you might want to pass along?”

“He loathed his grandmother, but so did pretty much everybody else. Could he have killed her? He claimed he arrived at the Literacy Council after it had closed, assumed Ludmila took the bus home, and when she wasn't there, thought she had spent the night with a friend. I'd be curious to know who he had in mind. Ludmila wasn't up for any awards for congeniality. From what I've gathered, she was a holy terror.”

Peter relented enough to extract a muffin. “Leaving anything out?”

I shot back an offended look. “Why would you accuse me of that? Yesterday morning you admitted that I never interfere and have been quite helpful. Now you're asking me if I'm impeding the investigation?” I kept my chin up in a display of indignation until he began to chuckle. My facade collapsed. “Okay, she had a friend from the senior citizens center. His name is Dusan Kovac, and he goes by Duke. I have his address in my purse.” I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Surely Farberville's finest already know about Duke. That's why I didn't bother to mention him.”

“But you bothered to hunt him down,” Peter said.

“Well, yes, I wanted to save you the trouble. All he told me was Ludmila was very unhappy, which we already knew, and that she carries around old photos of a child who died in Poland years ago.”

“Her son?”

“The great-grandson of one of her friends. The child's name was Jozef. He died of an illness, but Duke couldn't translate the Polish word. I don't see how it can have anything to do with the murder, unless Jozef rose from the dead, applied for a travel visa, and found a fake passport.”

“Homeland Security would not allow an unescorted zombie toddler into the country. Those guys have no sense of whimsy. I need to get back to these statements. It's going to be another long night, so don't wait up.”

I went around the desk and sat down in his lap. A moment later he disengaged my arms and said, “Run along, Claire. By that, I mean go home, have a nice dinner, and pine for me until I stumble in at midnight.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I left the remaining pastries for him, smiled at the desk clerk, and went out to my car. It was too early to put on pajamas, I thought as I drove up Thurber Street. Since my husband was occupied, it might be time for a dalliance.

I took out my cell phone and the FLC brochure.

*   *   *

Rick Lester had an understandably puzzled expression as he sat down across from me at a picnic table in the beer garden. We exchanged greetings and then waited while he ordered a pitcher from the waitress. “This doesn't seem like your kind of place,” he said. “I can picture you in the bar of a fancy restaurant, drinking something pastel and eating caviar on toast points.” He traced a peace sign carved in the tabletop. “Is it possible you don't want any of your friends to see you drinking with an incredibly handsome younger man?”

I politely overlooked his presumption that I would be categorized as an older woman. “My husband happens to be an incredibly handsome man of a perfect age,” I said. “You might have met him if you went to the Literacy Council on Tuesday. Tall, curly hair, golden-brown eyes—and a shiny badge.”

“Deputy Chief Rosen? I had no idea.” He picked up the pitcher and filled the two mugs. “I agree with you about his looks. What's more, he was wearing very expensive Italian shoes. I was impressed. There was a time when I bought shoes in Milan and had my suits made on Savile Row. Now I'm living on an adequate salary, but I shop at the mall.”

“Because you want a picket fence and the chance to coach a T-ball team?”

“Maybe. In Hong Kong I met either executive cougars or agreeable Chinese women who wanted to get married and move to the United States. I hung out with the Brits. The eligible young women had titles and talked incessantly about polo and yachts. I was included because I play a mean game of bridge.” Rick held up his mug. “You didn't invite me here to talk about my shallow dreams, did you?” He gulped down the beer. “I don't know anything about what happened to the Polish woman. Austin and I left after the meeting was adjourned and went across the street for a beer. I was home in bed by ten.”

“I don't believe you,” I blurted out, then put my hand over my mouth. “Oops, I didn't mean to say that, but there's something fishy about your whole story.”

Rick propped his elbows on the table and cradled his face. “This is serious. We need to determine what it is that you don't believe. Immediately after I graduated from Harvard, I was offered a position in an international finance company. After eight years, I got tired of living overseas. I was extremely fond of a second cousin who lived here. She and I spent summers together at my grandparents' house on Nantucket. We were hooligans from the age of six. One summer we spray-painted mailboxes purple and pink. When we were teenagers, we scattered marijuana seeds in the flower beds of all the rich people. When she told me about Farberville, she made it sound idyllic. I made the decision to settle down. Better?”

I nodded, but without conviction. “Does she still live here? What's her name?”

“It doesn't matter,” he said grimly. “She committed suicide. We wrote each other letters on a regular basis, and e-mails later. I knew she was depressed, and I tried to convince her to seek counseling. I felt so damn helpless on the opposite side of the planet. Coming to Farberville is bittersweet, but I feel as though I'm doing it to honor her memory.”

“Was she living here when she … died?”

“Some place on the West Coast. I don't remember because it didn't make any difference at the time.” He gave me a rueful look. “Has my credibility score gone up a few points?”

I'd seen his eyes well with tears when he told me the story. “Yes, Rick. I'm sorry about your cousin. Sometimes there's nothing you can do.”

He tapped his glass with a manicured fingernail. “And sometimes there is. If you'll excuse me, what goes in must come out. I'll be back shortly.”