Chapter 23
Morning came all too soon. Duncan shook me awake around five, and I reluctantly let go of the idyllic dreamworld of my slumber.
“I need to leave while it’s still dark,” Duncan whispered in my ear. His breath was warm, his voice soothing, and the combination of the two made me taste sweet milk chocolate.
When I rolled over and blinked the sleep from my eyes, I was surprised to see that he was already dressed. He sat down on the bed beside me and brushed my hair back off my face. Then he kissed me.
“I wish I didn’t have to go,” he said.
“So do I.” I threw back the covers, donned my robe, and then grabbed my crutches. I followed him out to the main area of the apartment, and from there down the stairs, a journey made in silence . . . if you didn’t count the thumping of my crutches.
When we reached the bar’s back hallway, he turned to me and said, “Are you still planning on going to the cemetery today?”
I nodded. “Mal is going with me.”
“Good. I think,” he said with a slightly troubled expression. “Be careful and call me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
He kissed me again, a little longer this time, and had the kiss lasted a second or two more, I don’t think he would have made his escape in the dark. Not wanting him to see the disappointment on my face, I turned away and hobbled down the hall to my office, entered it, and disabled the back alley door alarm. I then headed back to the hallway, wondering if he would linger there until I returned for one last good-bye. But by the time I reached the hall, I could see the door closing and knew he was gone. My disappointment mounting, I went back into the office and turned the alarm back on.
I’d planned to return to bed, but by the time I hobbled back upstairs to my apartment, I knew that wasn’t going to work. I felt wide awake and buzzed, so I made my way to the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. Then I dragged out my laptop, launched the browser, and read everything I could find about Forest Home Cemetery. It was a fascinating place, rich with Milwaukee history, and the pictures of the grounds I saw online depicted a serene and lovely place landscaped with magnificent old trees, a small lake, and a picturesque stone bridge. Of course, most of that would be barren, gone, or frozen for my visit today, since it was the dead of winter, and I felt a tug of disappointment. I spent some time reading up on the green burial process and the Prairie Rest section of the cemetery, which housed those who chose that form of interment. Though the topic was admittedly a bit morbid, I found the idea of our bodies being returned to the earth kind of refreshing and nice. A childhood ditty played in my head a few times—the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout—and rather than being disturbed by it, I found it oddly humorous.
I became so absorbed in my research that the time passed by with startling speed. Before I knew it, it was time to shower, dress, and head downstairs to start prepping for my eleven o’clock opening. I abandoned the computer and headed for the shower after taping a plastic garbage bag over my cast. When I was done showering, I spent a good ten minutes debating what to wear, trying to decide what would be appropriate cemetery visitation garb and wondering if it really mattered. In the end I opted for black jeans, a turquoise sweater, and one sensible low-rider black boot. Over my casted foot I put on two pairs of my father’s heavy black wool socks. After a quick fix to my hair, I headed downstairs just before ten thirty.
Debra and my daytime bartender, Pete, were already at the bar, setting things up, and my daytime cook, Jon, was in the kitchen. I crutched my way to the customer side of the bar, sidled onto a stool, and told Debra to pass me over some fruit, a cutting board, and a knife so I could help her with prepping the garnishments. She did so, and I went to work while she made coffee and helped Pete stock behind the bar.
The chopping duty was a monotonous task but one I typically enjoyed, because the mind-numbing tedium lessened my synesthetic reactions. I was intimately familiar with the sounds and sensations touched off by the citrus smell of the limes, lemons, and oranges, and I could easily suppress them. I’d been chopping this stuff on a daily basis for so many years that my hands functioned robotically, performing the necessary movements in a rote manner that was blissfully mindless.
With my mind thereby freed from outside distractions, I went back to pondering my visit to the cemetery. I was glad Mal was coming with me, but I also worried that having someone accompany me might, at some point, make the letter writer mad, assuming I was being watched. I’d dragged Mal along on my previous excursions, and since no mention of his presence had been made in the letters, I assumed that it was either considered okay or was not known by whoever was sending them. I knew it was risky to keep bringing Mal along, but I felt so much safer with him at my side, and I was willing to push the envelope a little more. Even as the envelope metaphor danced through my mind, I chuckled at how appropriate it was. I was so deep into my thoughts, it took me a few seconds to realize that Debra was talking to me.
“Mack? Are you in there?”
“Sorry,” I said, looking at Debra with an apologetic smile. “My mind was wandering. What did you say?”
She made a pointed glance at her watch. “It’s two minutes after eleven. Do you want me to unlock the front door?”
I blinked and glanced at the digital clock on the back wall of the bar and saw she was right. In front of me was a pile of cut-up fruit that would probably last through today and all of tomorrow. “I’ll unlock it,” I said.
I grabbed a nearby bar towel and wiped my hands the best I could; then I grabbed my crutches and headed for the door. When I got there, I saw Joe and Frank Signoriello coming up the walk—their arrival was never more than five minutes past my opening time—quickly threw the locks, and opened the door.
A frigid blast of cold morning air rushed in, and Joe and Frank tottered in behind it. Neither of them moved all that fast these days. They were fit men for their age, but they were both in their seventies, and the cold weather, combined with the ravages of Father Time, had stiffened their joints.
“Good morning, Mack,” Joe said as the men shuffled their way to a table. Eventually, they would head upstairs to the Capone Club room, but for now they were content to rest from the several-block walk they’d already taken from their downtown apartment. “Perfect day for a couple of Irish coffees, I think. What do you say, Frank?”
“Sounds good to me. And I think we should have a couple of burgers to go with it.”
“Coming right up,” Debra said from behind the bar.
A moment later Cora came in, carrying her laptop. She greeted us all with a cheerful “Good morning!” and then headed for the Signoriello brothers’ table.
“Your usual, Cora?” Debra asked.
“Yes, please. And I’ll have one of Mack’s famous BLTs, too, while I’m at it.”
I settled into the fourth chair at the table and smiled at the trio. These three people were the closest thing I had to family these days. “What are you guys planning for today?”
Cora said, “I’ve been doing some searching on the Internet for Melanie Smithson, Tiffany’s BFF. I’ve perused her social media and a few other sites and didn’t come up with much.”
She paused as Debra delivered the drinks and then headed into the kitchen. After a glance at Pete, to make sure he wasn’t eavesdropping on our conversation, Cora lowered her voice and leaned into the table. “I’ve also been searching to see if I can find any other commonalities among the recipients of the letter writer’s packages. And I got nothing. They live in different neighborhoods, aren’t from the same places, don’t shop at the same stores or bank at the same banks . . . nothing. The only thing they all share in common is the university connection. I’m thinking that has to be it.”
The Signoriello brothers weren’t up to speed on this aspect of the investigation, so Cora and I quickly filled them in on Cora’s theory, the contents of the latest letter, and my planned trip to Forest Home Cemetery later today.
When we were done, Frank said, “If that’s the only thing they have in common, it makes sense to look into it. It might not lead to anything, but it would be dumb not to check it out.”
“I agree,” I said. “Keep looking, Cora, particularly at the financial office at the school. See if you can find any names that are familiar to us.”
The front door opened, and Tad came in, bringing a blast of cold air and a few flakes of snow with him.
Frank shivered. “Got that fireplace upstairs fired up, Mack?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said, “but you guys can do it. Why don’t you head up there, and I’ll have Debra bring your food up when it’s done.”
Tad walked over to us, did the greeting thing, and asked if anyone was heading upstairs.
“We were just about to go there,” Cora said, standing and grabbing her laptop with one hand and her glass of chardonnay with the other.
The brothers got up, too, and followed Cora. Tad shucked his coat off and started to head upstairs with them, but I stopped him.
“Tad, I wonder if you might be able to help us out with something on this Middleton case.”
“What?”
“Any chance you have financial info on the Gallagher family?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
This made me happy, but I knew Tad was a conscientious businessman, and revealing private information about his clients was something he wouldn’t do easily, if at all.
Hoping to appease his professional conscience, I said, “I don’t need you to reveal any numbers to me, but I wonder if you might be able to look over things and let me know if you find any unusual transactions that occurred during the time that Tiffany and Ben were married, particularly right around the time of her death. I’m interested in Tiffany’s money, of course, but also Colin Gallagher’s. I’m mainly looking for any large chunks of money that might have been spent on some unknown cause. And I’d also like to know if Colin Gallagher had any control over Tiffany’s purse strings.”
Not surprisingly, Tad frowned at my request. “I can’t betray my clients’ trust by revealing private and personal information.”
“I understand, and you don’t need to give me specifics. Just let me know if you find any unusual transactions, and let me know the date they occurred and any other details you’re comfortable revealing. Amounts would be helpful, but if you’re not comfortable revealing that information, that’s fine.”
“Can you give me an idea of what specifically you’re looking for?”
“Any monies that might have been a payment to a contract killer or used for an illegal gun purchase.”
Tad considered what I’d said, his face a mask of consternation. “I’ll take a look this afternoon, when I return to the office,” he said finally. “If I find any unusual cash withdrawals, all I’ll be able to give you is a date and an amount, and I’ll give you that only if you promise not to reveal where the information came from.”
“Not a problem.”
His cell phone rang then, and when he glanced at it, he scowled. “It’s Suzanne,” he said with an impatient sigh. “She’s really been on my case lately about all the time I’m spending in the office. I can only imagine how angry she’d be if she knew that half the time she thinks I’m in the office, I’m really here.” He turned and walked off, answering the call with a cheery “Yes, dear. What do you need?”
The front door opened again, letting more of Old Man Winter inside, and I saw it was Mal. He walked over and hugged me, greeting me with a cheery “Good morning,”
Debra came out, carrying the food orders for the group upstairs, and I told her and Pete that Mal and I were heading out for a while. “I should be back in an hour or two,” I told them.
To their credit, they didn’t ask where we were going, though I could tell from the look on Debra’s face that she was curious.
After I donned my coat—I ended up wearing the same one I’d worn the night before on my excursion to the impound lot and made a mental note to get my own coat back—Mal and I headed out to go clue hunting in a cemetery.