Set the Night on Fire (28 page)

M
avis Dietrich had no illusions about the nursing home. Her kids considered her a problem, and a nursing home was the easiest way to solve it. As far as they were concerned, she was a doddering half-wit put out to pasture. She sniffed. Her children always thought they knew best. Part of the baby boomer generation. No respect for their elders. Or anyone who disagreed with them.

She stared at the TV. Damn thing was always on, even when no one was watching. Just noise and light, like ugly wallpaper you tried to ignore. She’d worked full-time after Samuel had the accident, and in those thirty-five years, she’d never whined like they did on TV: “It’s because I was poor that I slept around” . . . “cheated on my husband” . . . “murdered my sister-in-law.” Just fill in the blank.

She picked up her knitting. She was making mufflers for her grandchildren. It was comforting, doing something with her hands. Although the arthritis was slowing her down. She wondered how long it would be until she had to give it up, like Marion, who, bless her soul, left this world two months ago. During the entire year before she passed, she just sat. Couldn’t knit, crochet, or draw. Near the end, she couldn’t even talk. Mavis hoped like hell that didn’t happen to her. Better to end it somehow, before it got that bad.

The clack of footsteps made her look up. One of the aides was coming down the hall with a young woman. She had long dark hair, dark eyes, and except for too much make-up, she was attractive. Mavis wasn’t sure but she thought the make-up might be covering up bruises. Was she one of those abused women she’d seen on TV? At least she was dressed properly. Navy pants, jacket, low-heeled shoes. Mavis approved.

“Mrs. Dietrich, you have a visitor,” the aide said with a cheery smile.

* *

Lila stepped into a large square room with linoleum floors and cheap paneled walls. It smelled of urine and lemon-scented air freshener. A sign announced that Bingo would be moved from Friday to Sunday because the caller had suffered a heart attack. The TV was on, but the sound was low. Otherwise it was quiet, many of the residents in chairs staring into space.

Now that she was here, she felt nervous. What if she couldn’t pull it off? They’d talked it over, decided how to approach things. She’d driven Cece’s car, although they were reluctant to let her, in case Markham’s goons were on her tail. But she insisted—it would only be for a few hours. She’d be back that evening.

She wanted to go back to Danny’s to retrieve some of her clothes, her cell, and the HideAway knife, but Dar and Benny refused. The police were still looking for her. If she unexpectedly showed up, alive and healthy, they’d bring her in for questioning. Hell, they might decide she had something to do with the blast, even her own disappearance.

So she went to Target and bought an outfit, then stopped by a phone store and bought a disposable cell. One of Benny’s friends made her a fake driver’s license, and they all chipped in some cash. Reba loaned her the HideAway.

Now she walked toward the old woman on the sofa. The woman had to be almost ninety. Her hair was snow white, her skin crepy. Her fingers were gnarled, and her back stooped, but her eyes were intelligent, and they were studying Lila with suspicion. Lila had picked up a small bouquet of flowers: daisies, baby’s breath, and a lily or two.

“Hello, Mrs. Dietrich. These are for you.”

The woman grabbed them so tightly Lila thought they might wilt before they hit water. “Have we met?”

“No, but I know you used to work at Kerr’s department store. You were the Chicago manager’s secretary.”

“How do you know that? Who are you?”

“I called the store. My name is Lila Hilliard.”

Mavis’s lips pursed into a petulant frown. “They’re not supposed to give out that information.”

“I got lucky.” Lila smiled. It was the truth. When she’d called the store’s Human Resources Department the day before, the phone was answered by a young girl who apparently had just started at the store. When Lila asked her to look up the records of clerical staff in 1970, the girl promptly tapped a few keys and came up with three people. Two of them were now dead, but after hours of phone calls and Internet searches, Lila located Mavis Dietrich.

“You’re probably one of the few people still alive who worked at Kerr’s when the bomb exploded,” Lila said.

Mavis nodded. “Estelle passed about ten years ago, and then Helene . . . about three or four now, I think.” A distant look came over her. Then she roused herself and focused on Lila. Frown lines creased her forehead. “Who are you again? Why are you here?”

“My name is Lila Hilliard, and I was hoping you could give me some information.”

Mavis sniffed the flowers. “Are you a reporter? Because if you are, I have nothing to say.”

“No, I’m not a reporter.” She forced herself to smile. People tended to let their guard down when you did. But Mavis’s expression didn’t change.

“What do you want?”

Lila sat down. “I’m Sebastian Kerr’s granddaughter.”

She and Dar had debated about whether Lila should reveal herself. It was a calculated risk, but she decided to go ahead, reasoning that most people wouldn’t talk to her otherwise. Of all the potential dangers Lila would be facing, identifying herself to a woman in a nursing home seemed to be on the low end.

Still, Mavis’s eyebrows rose. “Mr. Kerr had grandchildren?”

“Two. My brother and me. Unfortunately, my brother died two months ago.”

“Really? I thought Philip didn’t have any children.”

“Philip?”

“Mr. Kerr’s son.”

“Of course.” Lila hastily tried to cover her mistake. “I just found out myself. I . . . I was adopted.” She braced for Mavis’s reaction. She’d blown it. Big.

But to Lila’s surprise, Mavis nodded and a knowing expression came across her face. “My aunt Isabel had an illegitimate child when she was sixteen. Had to put her up for adoption. Wouldn’t you know . . . the girl showed up at Christmas eighteen years later. Nearly gave my aunt a heart attack.”

Lila gave her a sad smile. “You are very compassionate.”

Mavis straightened. “Well now, of course, it’s none of my business . . . ” She threw her a glance, clearly hoping Lila would decide it was.

Lila went back to the script. “You worked at the store when they were investigating—after the bomb.”

“Oh, yes. There were interviews and meetings, then more interviews and meetings. We were all devastated. Especially Mr. Kerr. Such a waste.”

“Mrs. Dietrich, I’m looking for the names of any police officers or FBI officials who were part of the investigation. Would you happen to remember any?”

“Why?”

“Maybe for the same reason your aunt’s illegitimate daughter showed up at her house. It was a volatile time for my family. I want to understand it. Make peace with the past.”

“Why don’t you call the police? They must have records.”

“I . . . I’d rather not.”

Mavis threw her a cagey look. “Why?”

“Because . . . well . . . ” Lila leaned forward. “They’re only going to tell me what they want me to know. Not what really happened. And . . . ” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They said at the office you knew everything about everyone.”

Mavis looked away, as if she was thinking about it.

Lila held her breath.

Then, “As it happens, part of my job was to manage the conference rooms—make sure they were available. And that there was fresh coffee. I kept track of all the meetings in a Day-Timer. You know, one of those little black spiral-bound books. Had one every year I was there. Almost thirty of them, all told, by the end.”

“Would you have jotted down any names in those books?”

“Maybe.” A gleam came into her eyes. “But no more cock and bull stories about your past. You didn’t go to all the trouble of tracking me down after forty years—and bringing me flowers—because of family history. Who are you, and what do you really want?”

Mavis Dietrich was no pushover. Lila chose her words carefully, “I’m trying to right a wrong that was committed.”

“What kind of wrong?”

“The man who was charged with the crime, Dar Gantner, may not have acted alone. I have reason to believe others were involved and equally culpable.”

“Why is that important after all this time?”

Lila folded her hands. This she couldn’t—wouldn’t—reveal. “From everything I know about my grandfather, he wouldn’t have approved of a rush to justice. I want to make sure that didn’t happen, or, if it did, to undo the damage. I don’t believe his daughter would have approved either, if she’d lived.”

Mavis sat back and crossed her arms. She was quiet for a moment. “I always respected your grandfather, but he wasn’t an easy man to work for.” She paused.

Lila met Mavis Dietrich’s gaze.

Finally, the older woman said, “I might . . . I say might . . . help you. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

Mavis took her time standing up. “Most of my things are in storage. Over on Elston Avenue. But you have to take me with you. I need to get out of this place.”

* *

To Lila’s surprise, she enjoyed Mavis Dietrich’s company. First they drove to the storage locker where Mavis easily found the 1970 Day-Timer in a cardboard box labeled “Kerr’s.” “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for in here,” she said.

Lila wanted to pore through it right away, but Mavis slipped it into a large purse she’d brought with her. “First things first.” She directed Lila to a tavern a few blocks away. Inside, Mavis tossed down a shot of Johnnie Walker Black. Neat. Lila ordered a glass of wine.

An hour later, Lila knew all about Mavis’s marriage to Samuel and the automobile accident that paralyzed him. Mavis had gone to work full time, raised two kids, and taken care of Samuel. “I got no truck with women on the TV who complain about doing it all,” she sniffed. “Or look for excuses why they did something wrong. They don’t have a clue.”

Lila sipped her wine.

“Now you . . . ,” Mavis squinted, “ . . . I got a feeling you’re different. Am I right?”

“I won’t be going on Jerry Springer, if that’s what you mean.”

Mavis laughed, as if Lila had just cracked the funniest joke in the world. A few minutes later, she pulled out the Day-Timer and handed it to Lila. “I hope this helps. Whatever you want it for.” She wiggled her shoulders cheerfully. “This has been a good day.”

After Lila dropped off Mavis, she automatically checked her rearview mirror. She couldn’t spot a tail, but she made a wide loop around the block anyway, then headed north on Pulaski. Satisfied that no one was following her, she headed to a Walgreen’s on Foster and turned into the parking lot.

The Day-Timer, about five-by-eight inches, was on the front seat. She opened it. The spiral binding and black leather-like cover were intact, and the paper, while musty and fragile, wasn’t as yellow as she’d expected.

She carefully turned the pages. Most of the notations were in black or blue ink. Fountain pen, not ball point. The penmanship was a careful, delicate cursive rarely seen anymore. Lila remembered laboring for hours in school over swirls of O’s and A’s and capital G’s. Mavis Dietrich had it down.

She skimmed the pages up to June 3
^rd
, the morning the bomb went off. There was no reference to the explosion, but where there’d been, perhaps, one or two meetings a day in the conference room before the 3
^rd
, afterwards there were four or five. She pored over the rest of the week. Emergency staff meeting. Emergency board meeting. Then something indecipherable, in a different penmanship. Someone besides Mavis must have entered a meeting. The careful penmanship returned the next day:  At 10:00 a.m., Special Agent Dalton, FBI. At 2:00, Detective Liotta, CPD Bomb and Arson.

Lila closed the book and slipped it into the bag she’d bought at Target. Were either of those men still alive? Maybe she should try to find them. She pulled out her cell. She was about to call Benny’s to check in, when it occurred to her she hadn’t checked her own messages in weeks. New York seemed like another universe now. She probably wouldn’t go back to Peabody Stern. Still, Manhattan had been her world for ten years.

She started to tap in her phone number, then remembered Benny’s warning to use the cell only in an emergency. She pressed “end” and slipped the cell back into her bag. A pay phone stood at the edge of the parking lot. She climbed out of the Honda and went to it. She didn’t have any change and had to reverse charges, which took some persuasion, but at last, she heard her voice, clipped. Brisk. All business. “It’s Lila. Let me hear from you.”

She punched in her code. The machine beeped twice, then started to play back her messages. Two hang-ups, a call from the cleaners reminding her two suits hadn’t been picked up since December. Then a message. From two weeks ago.

“Lila Hilliard, my name is Joanna Kerr. I used to be married to Philip Kerr, whom you may have heard of. I’d appreciate a call back at your earliest convenience.” A number with a 619 area code followed. Lila memorized the number. Philip Kerr was her uncle. Alix’s older brother. What did his ex-wife want with her? How had she found her? She disconnected and dug around in her pockets. No change. But Kerr had called Lila—she’d call the woman back collect.