The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (5 page)

There are surely memories associated with them.

I once asked Martin, her son, if his mother had been in the military. Some of my early work was with war veterans, and I know what combat wounds look like. To me, it appeared that Judy Talbot had been through a war. There are numerous scars on her skin, including a large one on her right shoulder that goes down to the top of her breast. I'm certain it was caused by a knife of some kind. Who-ever did the stitching was an amateur. It's the kind of job that's done on the battlefield when no professional doctors are at hand. More disturbing are two old gunshot wounds. One is on her left shoulder, just below the collarbone, and the other is on the left side of her abdomen.

Now, if Judy Talbot didn't get those kinds of wounds in military combat, then how did a suburban single mother acquire them?

Martin claims he doesn't have a clue.

I don't believe him.

In the past couple of months, I've grown to like Martin a lot. We've started dating—I guess that's what you'd call it—and we enjoy each other's company. When I first met him I found him to be a bit
nebech
, to use a term my Jewish grandfather used to say. He's not an unattractive man; if he lost twenty pounds, he'd look great. At first he was unemployed and he seemed to be very nervous around me. Now I know it's because he found me attractive, which is flattering, because I don't consider myself as such. Martin has a job now, and he's less nervous, but he tends to become stressed and anxious. I understand his job as caretaker for his mother isn't easy. Alzheimer's can be harder on the family than on the patient. But, to be honest, I believe there's more to his mother's story than what he's told me. I think that's the cause of Martin's stress, not so much his mother's illness. Something happened to her—and maybe to him—that was traumatic. I once suspected Judy Talbot had been abused by a spouse or someone else. Martin assured me that wasn't the case, but he also never knew his father. Martin's father was an early casualty
in Vietnam, or so he claims. I'm not sure I believe that, either. Is Martin lying or does he not know himself?

The other possibility is that Judy was somehow involved in criminal activity. Could she be a wanted fugitive who has hidden under an assumed identity for years? If so, I feel it's my duty to find out the truth.

Martin and I have a dinner date tonight. There's nothing wrong with that—I'm not officially his mother's primary care doctor, although she doesn't really see him anymore. I like Judy, and I like Martin. I want to get closer to him, but that's not going to happen until I can fully trust him.

I met Martin at a place called Kona Grill in Lincolnshire. They serve American Asian cuisine and sushi, and they have a great happy hour from five to seven. The appetizers are half price then, and you can make a meal of them. We'd been there together once before and enjoyed it. It's convenient, too, as I can pop over from Woodlands, and he can stop there on his way home to Buffalo Grove from his office in Deerfield.

He was already there, working on a margarita. I'm not a happy hour-drink person and only occasionally consume alcohol, usually wine with a nice dinner. Martin, from what I gather, tends to have a daily cocktail. I refuse to nag him about it, though. It's how I lost my last boyfriend. He accused me of treating him more like I was his doctor than his lover.

“You look nice,” he said after he kissed my cheek.

“Thanks, but you say that every time you see me,” I replied with a laugh.

“Well, it's true.”

“Martin, I've been working all day. I imagine I look tired.”

“That's why you could use one of these.” He lifted his glass. “Picks you right up.”

“Coffee picks me right up. Have you ordered food?”

“Not yet.”

When the waitress came, I asked for water. Martin and I decided to split a pizza, which they call “flatbread,” and a California roll. That was plenty for me.

“I just saw your mother,” I told him.

“I was there yesterday, but you weren't.”

“I know.”

“How was she today?”

“About the same. I think she likes me. She perks up when she sees me.”

“She does that with any visitor. Wait until you see how she acts when she sees Gina. Mom really brightens up. I wish Gina could see her more often. You don't think Mom won't recognize her, do you? When Gina comes home for Christmas, it'll be four months or so since she saw her.”

“If the bond is as strong as you say, then she'll remember. Your daughter's picture is right there on her dresser, so your mother sees that every day.”

“I hope you're right.”

“How's your job going?”

Martin shrugged. “You know, like I told you before. It's not what I'm best at or what I enjoy doing the most, but it's work. It beats collecting unemployment. Sam was in today. He's such a character. All he did was complain about all the Christmas stuff—Christmas music, Christmas decorations, Christmas this and that. He thinks Hanukkah should get as much attention.”

“It does around here, doesn't it? This whole area has a large Jewish population.”

“I know. He's just being funny.”

“My grandfather was Jewish.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But my grandmother wasn't, so it didn't stick. He was a character, too. He'd send me chocolate coins—‘Hanukkah gelt'—for my Christmas stocking.”

The food came and we dived in. It was then that I could tell something was bothering him. He usually ate fast and talked a lot. He was rather quiet this time and picked at his food.

“Something wrong, Martin? Are you okay?” I asked.

“I don't know. I told you about it before. I have these weird dreams sometimes. When I wake up, I feel anxious and crummy the rest of the day.” He waved a hand at me. “I'm all right.”

“Have you ever had any history with depression? Not just you, but your mother, too?”

“Hmm, I haven't. Well, not what I'd call clinical depression. Everybody gets depressed now and then, right? After my divorce I was depressed. I was depressed while I was unemployed. But I'm okay now. That was normal. Wasn't it?”

“Sure, unless it starts affecting your day-to-day functioning. What about your mother?”

“She drank quite a bit while I was growing up. I think me going off to college really set her off. That's when our house kind of went into decline. I noticed she was drinking more when I came back to visit. But, you know? She still kept fit. She had a punching bag in the basement and whaled on that thing every day of her life. She used to run, too. I don't know if she was a true alcoholic or not, because she never seemed drunk, you know what I mean? She held it very well.”

“That doesn't mean she wasn't—isn't—an alcoholic.”

“So, yeah, I think Mom might have been depressed for a few years.”

I took a chance and asked him again. “Martin, her behavior could be tied to however she got all those scars.”

“Maggie. Not that again.”

“But it could be important! Martin, she has
gunshot wounds
! No ordinary suburban Mom has gunshot wounds.”

“I told you I don't know how she got them. It was before I was born, and she never said. I didn't know she had them until you told me.”

I knew he was lying. He averted his eyes and kept eating. So I said, “Then I don't understand why you're not more interested in finding out what the story is. If she was
my
mother—”

“
Okay
,” he snapped. “Geez, Maggie. Don't you think it bothers me, too? I'm pretty freaked out about my mom, you know. Just the fact that she's in a nursing home is distressing.”

“I know.” I put a hand on his forearm. “I'm sorry.”

He started getting jittery and distracted. He placed a hand on his chest and breathed heavily.

“Martin?”

He didn't answer me. The poor man had an expression of absolute
despair
.

“Martin, what's wrong? Are you all right?”

He nodded furiously and reached for his glass of water—and knocked it over, spilling it all over the table, and a little on my dress.

“Oh, crap, I'm so sorry,” he said, but the inflection was one of someone about to start crying. I told him it was all right, and started wiping up the mess and dabbing my wet clothes with my napkin.

Then he said, “I'll be right back,” and abruptly got up from the table and walked quickly toward the restrooms. I knew something was terribly wrong. From what he's told me, I've suspected he has some genuine problems with depression and anxiety, and now I'm convinced.

After ten minutes I became worried. I got up and was prepared to approach a manager and ask that he check the men's room, and then Martin appeared. He looked pale. His eyes were red, as if he'd been crying.

“Martin, come with me.” I took his hand and led him back to the table. “Tell me what you're feeling.”

He described heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and intense anxiety. A feeling of “impending doom,” he said. I told him he was probably having a panic attack and that it would subside. For the next five minutes I talked to him soothingly.

“You're not dying, you're not having a heart attack, you're only
experiencing a rush of adrenaline that isn't supposed to happen. It will pass, Martin. Just breathe deeply and try to relax. Would you like to leave the restaurant?”

He shook his head.

After a while he did indeed calm down.

“I'm sorry, Maggie.”

“Don't be silly. I'm very familiar with the symptoms of an anxiety disorder. Many of my patients have it.”

“What do you do for them?”

“I send them to a psychiatrist. Someone you can talk to, and who can prescribe the appropriate medication to help you.”

He shook his head. “A shrink? I don't want to see a shrink. Can't you prescribe something?”

“Nope. I'm not a psychiatrist. I don't know that family of drugs well enough. The regimen needs to be custom tailored to the patient, and only a qualified psychiatrist can do that. And besides, I shouldn't be treating you if we're going to be seeing each other.”

I swear he did a double take. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“We're going to be seeing each other? Really?”

“This is our, what, fourth date? I'd say we're seeing each other.”

He took my hand. There was such a cute look on his face. “Maggie, that . . . that makes me happy.”

“Feel better?”

He laughed a little. “Yeah.”

The rest of the meal went well. I didn't bring up his mother again. When we left the restaurant, we agreed that he'd call me soon. We parted with a kiss, and I told him not to worry. I said that if he had another attack, to just remember it would pass and there were things he could do about it.

As I drove home, I thought about what I'd said and hoped it wasn't premature. Yes, I did like him. He could be very sweet. He was smart, although he tended to denigrate himself at times. He could make me laugh. Most of the time he was good natured, and it
was obvious he loved his mother and daughter. But there was a wall between us, and that was his mother's past. I was determined to solve the big mystery, or else I couldn't really commit to Martin. Not in any long-term, meaningful way.

When I got to my little house in Deerfield, I looked up a friend who worked as a private investigator.

J
ANUARY 4, 1960

I'm a mess, dear diary. I'm sore all over and my face looks like I got hit by a waffle iron. I have a busted lip, a bruised right cheekbone, and my right eye is swollen. The vision in that eye is blurry. My abdomen screams when I move too sharply, my forearms ache from all the blocking I did, my collarbone feels like an elephant stepped on it, and my neck hurts. On top of all that, I got my period today, so I'm not the most agreeable girl in the world.

But nothing was broken. The damage isn't as bad as it could have been.

I kept the “closed” sign up yesterday so I could sleep in. I didn't get up until after noon, which is unusual for me. When I saw myself in the mirror, I wanted to cry. Actually, I did a little. But I examined every inch of my body, tested my limbs and movement, and determined I would be all right without having to see a doctor. It looked worse than it actually was.

Everyone at Bellevue Hospital stared at me when I went to see Freddie in the afternoon. I guess they figured I
belonged
there, ha ha. I was afraid Freddie would have another heart attack when he saw me. His jaw dropped and tears came to his eyes, but I quickly told him I was fine.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, you know me, boss,” I answered with a whisper. “The Stiletto ran into some trouble last night.”

He winced like he was in pain. “Oh, Judy. When are you gonna stop all that? You're gonna get yourself killed.”

I shook my head. “You know better than to ask me that. Last night I saved two people's lives, but it cost me. That's all. I'm glad about it. But what about you? How do you feel today?”

I sat with him for an hour or so. He was still weak and grew tired quickly. We did talk about what to do about the gym. I had to admit I would need some help running it, at least temporarily, until he was able to come home.

“I was thinking of asking Jimmy if he'd like to be an assistant manager for a while,” I said. Jimmy's the really nice Negro who was a gym regular even before I started working there. You know, dear diary, I've known him for years. I guess he's in his late thirties. Freddie thought that was a good idea. He told me what I should pay Jimmy and left it up to me to work out his schedule. I didn't know what else Jimmy did for a job, but if he didn't accept I wasn't sure who my second choice would be.