In the Drink (27 page)

He was right, and I felt ashamed. “I know. I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't know what came over me. I never should have put you in that position.” Perversely, his moral high ground made me want him even more. “It's just that Duncan and I seem to be at a crossroads and I'm feeling a little lost. And I find myself drawn to you, Mal.” I sighed and shook my head hard, trying to shake loose the cobwebs that I literally felt there. “I'm so confused right now.”

“You're under a lot of stress, what with this letter writer thing and working on Tiny's case. I'm sure that doesn't help. It's hard to think straight under that kind of pressure. You need to give your relationship with Duncan more time. Wait and see what develops when the stressors are gone.”

“If they ever are,” I said, feeling irritated.

“Things will get better. Give it time. And in the end if you still decide that you and Duncan aren't going to work out, I'll be here.”

His words made my heart ache. He was such a thoughtful, sweet, decent man, and that drew me to him even more. “Your kindness and understanding doesn't make this any easier, you know.”

“I know. I'm a beast,” he said in a joking tone. Then he reached up and caressed my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “If it's meant to be, it will happen,” he said, looking deep into my eyes.

I sighed with frustration. Every fiber of my being at that moment wanted to take him upstairs to my bedroom and seal this deal once and for all. But then, like a jack-in-the-box, Duncan's face popped into my head, and a mini-montage of shared moments with him played in my mind. With it came a longing to be with him.

I cursed under my breath. After years of relationship drought, I'd managed to get myself into a horribly tangled mess. I feared I was falling in love with two different men at the same time.

In the end, I sent Mal home. It took some arguing, but I managed to convince him, and myself, that I was in no immediate danger. “It's obvious that whoever is writing these letters is toying with me, playing a game,” I told him. “If he or she wanted me dead, I'd be dead by now. And to be honest, I need my space, Mal. I appreciate you putting your life on hold as you have for me these past few days, but I don't think it's necessary any longer. I'm quite secure here between the locks and the alarms, and I think it's best if you go home.”

It was obvious he didn't like this idea, though whether it was concern for my safety, a desire to be with me, or some combination of these that bothered him, I didn't know. In the end, he called Duncan, explained that I was adamant about being alone for the night, and after some discussion they both agreed. Or perhaps they simply caved. I think both men knew at that point that once I had my mind made up, I wasn't going to back down. Mal left reluctantly, hollering at me through the door as soon as he stepped outside to make sure I locked all the locks and set all the alarms. His concern for my welfare was sweet, and as I watched him turn away, looking sad and disappointed, I almost changed my mind. But I stuck to my guns knowing it was the wisest thing to do, at least until I could get my head on straighter with regard to Duncan and me. I came to regret my insistence. I tossed and turned all night, haunted by dreams of some vague, shadowy shape that followed me everywhere I went, never getting too close, never letting me see a face, but relentlessly there.

My alarm went off at nine, and I dragged my weary bones out of bed and hopped in the shower to wash the sleep off me. After I was dressed, I headed out to the living room and stared at my couch, wondering how Mal had slept. And as I brewed myself a cup of coffee, I realized I missed him.

I shoved thoughts of Mal from my mind and focused on the day ahead. I called Joe, Frank, and Cora, and asked them to please be at the bar by eleven. Then I headed downstairs to start the opening prep work.

Pete and Jon came in just after ten, and Missy showed up at 10:45. We unlocked the doors a minute or two before eleven and, as planned, Joe, Frank, and Cora arrived minutes later. I ushered them into my office, locking the door behind us.

“Did you tell Joe and Frank about the contents of the latest letter?” I asked Cora.

She shook her head.

“Hell, no, she didn't,” Frank said. “And we've been dying of curiosity.”

I satisfied their curiosity by describing the letter's contents in more detail and showing them the pictures I had on my phone. Then I told them Cora's theory about the church and how my trip there yesterday had been a bust. “I'm meeting with Father Manx at noon,” I concluded, “but I have my doubts about this church being the right solution. And if we are wrong, time is running out. So I need you guys to focus on these items and try to come up with some alternatives.” I told them about the pollen that Duncan's lab tech had found in the cinnamon, and how it was from a stargazer lily. “So maybe think along the lines of florist shops,” I told them.

“Happy to help,” Joe said.

“Thanks, guys. And please keep it between yourselves. You're welcome to hang out here in my office if you want, so you'll have some privacy. You can use my computer. I'll check back with you once I get done with Father Manx.”

With that taken care of, I grabbed my coat and headed for St. Paul's Church.

I expected Mary Fromme to cast a dubious eye my way after yesterday's encounter, but she greeted me like I was an old friend. “Father Manx isn't here yet, but I expect him any minute. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”

“No, thanks.”

“How about a cookie then?” She gestured toward a platter of yummy-smelling, iced sugar cookies on a plate on her desk. “I went a little overboard with the Christmas baking this year.”

I graciously accepted a cookie and took a bite. It was sweet, soft, buttery, and had a hint of almond flavoring that made me hear the faint ping of water drops.

Father Manx arrived just as I finished my cookie, and Mary introduced us. He was tall, gangly, and like me, a redhead. He greeted me with a warm smile and led me into his office, which was next door to Mary's. Once inside he gestured for me to have a seat in one of two chairs that sat in a corner. I chose one and he settled into the other. Aside from the clerical collar he was wearing, he could have been any guy on the street. He was wearing khakis and a dark blue pullover sweater with a black shirt underneath.

He leaned back, crossed his legs and his hands, and said, “Ms. Dalton, how may I be of assistance to you today?”

I'd thought about how to handle my meeting with him during my drive over and had decided to stick with the story I'd been using all along. “I wasn't totally honest with Mary about the reason I was here yesterday. You see, I'm participating in a treasure hunt with some friends and I received some clues that made me think my next clue might be here in your church.”

His smile faltered a little. “I see. So when you told Mrs. Fromme you were interested in joining our church, that wasn't true?”

“It's not the real reason I came here, no,” I admitted. Then, feeling like a callous cad, I added a caveat. “But that doesn't mean it won't happen.” I tried a smile, but it felt forced and fake to me, so I'm sure it looked so to him.

He nodded solemnly, steepled his hands, and tapped them against his chin. He looked skeptical but indulgent, and his demeanor was friendly, open, and accepting. I felt ashamed for lying to him and I was stricken with a sudden and desperate need to unburden myself.

“Okay, here's the real story,” I said, and then I spent the next hour telling him everything, starting with my father's murder, Ginny's murder, Duncan, Mal, my synesthesia, the Capone Club, and finally, the letters and where they had taken me so far. Some part of my mind told me I was being foolish to open up this way to a complete stranger, but I couldn't stop myself. I justified it by thinking that at least this person was someone I could trust to keep the information confidential, and someone I wouldn't be putting in jeopardy by sharing it.

When I had finished my story, I concluded by saying, “So you see, Father Manx, while I may have deceived you and Mrs. Fromme about why Mal and I came here yesterday, our real reason wasn't as frivolous as some fun treasure hunt game. This is a very serious, life-and-death situation.”

“I can see that,” he said, looking solemn. “And if I understand the situation correctly, you think that this person who is sending you the letters has used me or my church as the next stop in this game.”

“Yes,” I said. “So many of the clues in the last letter pointed to here: the spice reference, the bread, the wine, the water, the flower petal, the
Cats
marquee, and the map piece. . . .”

“But the coffee?”

“There's the rub,” I said, frowning. “I can't figure out how the coffee fits in here.”

“Neither can I. We do have a meeting room downstairs with a small kitchenette, and there are coffee urns there, but other than that, I'm at a loss.”

“Does that mean you don't have anything for me? No package that was delivered with instructions and money?”

“I'm afraid not.”

I closed my eyes and felt dread settle over me as if a heavy, wet blanket had been dropped on my shoulders.

“I'll be happy to take you downstairs to look around in the kitchen area,” Father Manx said.

“We saw it yesterday with Mrs. Fromme, but we didn't search it as thoroughly as we could have. So if you wouldn't mind . . .”

“I'm happy to oblige.”

I followed Father Manx back down to the basement kitchen area and he watched as I searched the cupboards, looked at the coffee urns again, including the insides, checked the refrigerator and freezer, and peeked in the oven and microwave. I came up empty.

I remembered the Bible study class Cora had mentioned and asked Father Manx about it, referencing the time deadline in the letter.

“We do have a Bible study on Wednesday evenings that typically runs from seven to eight,” he said. “And sometimes they make coffee. But the classes are suspended right now until after the first of the year. We always suspend them during the Christmas season.”

“Is there anything else going on here tonight?”

He shook his head.

“Then I'm afraid I've wasted your time. But thank you for being so understanding about this.”

“I'm sorry, too. I wish I could help you. Might I suggest something?”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug.

“Do you believe in God?”

I sighed, not sure I had the patience for the typical religious rhetoric I was about to hear. “I don't know,” I said honestly. “My father was a practicing Catholic before he married my mother, and she converted after they met. But when she died, he seemed to lose all faith in that sort of stuff. And I understand that, because I have to confess, it's hard to believe in some sort of all powerful and loving being who allows people to suffer so much.”

“There is a lot of evil in the world, but . . .”

I must have rolled my eyes because he paused, held up a hand, and said, “It doesn't matter who or what you believe, or don't believe. If you have faith in nothing else, have faith in yourself. You were given this disorder you have, this syna. . . .”

“Synesthesia.”

“Yes, synesthesia,” he said with an abashed smile.

“And regardless of what you believe,
I
believe God gave you this gift for a reason. Sometimes it's hard to understand the trials we face, and even using the most basic, pragmatic, and secular type of thinking, it's hard to make sense of it. So my suggestion is simply that you open your mind to the possibilities. Have faith, Ms. Dalton.”

“I'll try,” I said with a wan smile. “Thank you for giving me your time today.”

I headed back upstairs, and he fell into step behind me. As I approached the exit, he said, “Please come back anytime. All manner of people and beliefs are welcome to worship with us.”

“Thank you.”

“And remember, Ms. Dalton. Have faith.”

I walked back to my car, feeling scared and worried. With the church idea proving to be a bust in terms of solving the latest puzzle, the clock was ticking, counting down the hours and minutes left to the latest deadline. Time was running out and if it did, someone was going to die.

As I started my car and pulled out onto the street, a sense of dread filled me and tears burned at my eyes.

My phone rang then, and when I answered it I saw it was Duncan.

“Hey, stranger,” I said when I answered.

There were a few seconds of silence and then Duncan said, “Are you okay, Mack? You sound down.”

“I am.” I then told him about my trip to the church and my failure to find the next clue. “I'm scared, Duncan. I only have a few hours left to figure this thing out. What if I don't?”

He hesitated before he answered. “A few hours are a few hours. We aren't beaten yet. We'll put our heads together and come up with something.”

I desperately wanted to believe him, but it was hard, even though I kept hearing Father Manx's words in my mind:
Have faith
.

“If it helps,” Duncan went on, “I think we may have solved the case involving Tiny's sister and her friend.”

That got my attention. “What? How?”

“Erik Hermann committed suicide last night. His wife found him around five this morning, dead in his car in the garage. He left the engine running and ran a garden hose from the exhaust pipe through a window, sealing it with duct tape. The ME said is looked like a clear-cut case of suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. He left a note.”

“What did it say?”

“He asked his sister and Lori for forgiveness, and then said that he couldn't bear to live with his guilt any longer after twelve years of living in hell.”

“Twelve years? He said that specifically?”

“He did.”

“Wow. Does Tiny know yet?”

“He should. Jimmy and I told his parents early this morning. They were going to call Tiny as soon as we left.”

“Are you sure that the note is legit?” I asked, remembering another case not too long ago that I worked with Duncan.

“Yeah, we had a handwriting expert look at it and compare it to other samples of Hermann's writing.”

“How is his wife, Marie, doing?”

“Okay, considering. To be honest, I suspect she wasn't all that surprised. Several people we talked to said that Hermann had a serious drinking problem and has for years, and that he always seemed depressed. If they knew it, she had to know it, too.”

I knew what Duncan said was true—I was able to discern as much in the brief visits I'd had with Erik Hermann. Still, I couldn't help but wonder if he would have killed himself if we hadn't come sniffing around to let him know that someone was looking into the case again.

“Can I tell the others?” I asked.

“Wait a bit if you would. We're planning on releasing a statement to the press in about an hour.”

“Does this mean you'll have to cancel our plans to get together today?”

“Not at all. We've already cleared the case. I have some paperwork to finish up so I might be a little later than planned, but other than that we should be good to go.”

I was glad to hear that Duncan and I would still be able to get together, but when I hung up the phone, I was plagued by an overwhelming sense of guilt, wondering if I had somehow played a role in Erik Hermann's death.

I drove aimlessly for a while, not wanting to go back to the bar yet. Christmas decorations had started springing up around the city, and normally the light displays would have cheered me. But today they only depressed me. What a horrible time of year for a family to lose someone.

I kept replaying my meeting with Erik the day before, wondering if something I had said had pushed him over the edge. Hard as I tried, I still found it tough to believe that Erik Hermann had killed those girls. I recalled the yearbook he'd had on his desk and wondered why he'd had it out. Had he known then that he was going to kill himself? I wished now that I'd had a chance to read some of the things his classmates had written in the book. Would they have provided some extra insight into his character?

Though I wasn't conscious of having a particular destination in mind, I realized I had driven to the UWM campus. The student evacuation for Christmas break was evident everywhere: piles of trash and furnishings along the curbs, parking lots that had once been filled to the brim were now empty, and where once there would have been students bustling back and forth between classes, the sidewalks were now nearly deserted.

I flashed back on Father Manx's words to me:
Have faith
. My gut had led me here, so maybe I'd do what he said and have faith in the idea that it had done so for a reason. I parked and headed for the chemistry building, not sure it would even be open. It was, though the hallways were eerily empty, making my footsteps sound hollow. I headed for Erik Hermann's office.

I wouldn't have been surprised to find it locked, but luck was with me once again. The door was closed, but when I turned the knob it opened.

The outer office looked much the same as it had before except there was a stack of empty boxes in one corner. The door to Erik's office was open and when I entered I saw that it, too, looked much the same.

I looked at the top of Erik's desk and then at the stacks on the credenza, searching for the yearbook, but it wasn't there. I recalled my suspicion that Erik might have a bottle of liquor hidden in his office somewhere, and curious, I searched the drawers of the credenza. They were filled with hanging files and miscellaneous stacks of paper, but no yearbook and no liquor bottles. Next, I moved to the desk and started searching those drawers. The top right one was filled with office supplies: pens, pencils, sticky notepads, staples, extra rolls of tape, paper clips, a staple remover, and bulldog clamps. I shut it and opened the larger drawer beneath it. There it was, a half-empty bottle of vodka. Propped up next to it was the yearbook. I took it out and opened it. This time there was something else tucked inside the front cover: an open envelope with what looked like a folded letter inside. Both the envelope and the paper appeared yellowed with age. I carefully removed the letter and gently unfolded it. It was a letter addressed to Erik, written in a girlish, flowery style with purple ink.

The letter
i
in both Erik's and Lori's names were dotted with little hearts.
So much for Erik's motive,
I thought, setting the letter on top of the desk
.
Then another thought occurred to me. Had he gotten the letter before or after the girls were killed? Had he killed Lori because she rejected him, only to come home and find the note? That would explain the depth of his pain and anguish.

I picked up the yearbook again and started reading the handwritten notes and signatures on the inside cover from Erik's friends and classmates. They were the typical stuff:
Good luck
.
Glad we survived Mr. G's Algebra class
.
See you next year
. That sort of thing.

I moved on and paged through to the start of the freshman class pictures.

Lori and Anna were in the same grade and given that their last names were close alphabetically, I found both of their pictures on the same page. I recognized Anna's picture immediately—it was the same one that had been in Tiny's file—but when I looked for Lori's picture, I didn't recognize it right away. Had it not been for the name typed beneath it, I wouldn't have known it was her. The eyes had been exed out with a ballpoint pen, and it had been done with such viciousness that the scoring had torn through the page. In addition, a gash had been drawn across Lori's neck with red ink, and devil horns had been drawn atop her head.

Typed beneath both girls' names were brief epitaphs:
Forever in our hearts
beneath Anna's picture, and
Your light will shine forever
beneath Lori's. There was an arrow drawn from Lori's epitaph to the side of the page, and there, also written in red ink, was
Lights out, bitch!!!
I flipped back to the front of the book and looked at where Erik Hermann had written his name on the inside of the cover to identify the book as his. The writing was tight, heavy, and angular with a strong left slant. Then I flipped back and took another look at the writing next to Lori's picture. This writing was round and light, with a right slant and a distinctively feminine style.

An idea came to me. I set the book on the desk next to the letter, and reached into my pocket to take out my cell phone to call Duncan. I felt something else in there and when I pulled it out, I realized it was the recorder I'd had from my visit to Erik the day before. As I slid it back into my pocket, I heard a voice behind me.

“What are you doing in here?”

I whirled around, and saw Marie Hermann standing in the doorway to Erik's office, holding an empty box. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, her skin blotchy.

“The door was open,” I said evasively.

She cocked her head to the side and gave me an impatient look. “I had to go to the bathroom. I probably should have locked the office behind me when I did, but there wasn't anyone around so I didn't see a need. Why are you here?”

“I . . . I felt awful about Erik . . . I wanted . . . I thought . . . I'm sorry.”

She gave me a hateful look. “Are you? It's because of you and that stupid writer friend of yours that this happened. You just had to go dredging up painful memories.” She set the box atop a stack of papers on the credenza and walked around to see what I was doing behind the desk. When she saw the drawer open, and what was in it, her eyes widened. Then she looked at the yearbook, and the letter and envelope on the desk. Something in her face shifted, and when she looked at me again, I felt my blood literally run cold. It was as if I had ice water coursing through my veins.

“What are
you
doing here?” I asked Marie.

“I'm packing up my dead husband's office,” she snapped. Then she narrowed her eyes at the desktop. “Where did you find that letter? Erik told me he destroyed it.”

Puzzle pieces in my mind began to slip into place, and the picture they were forming was unsettling. My hand was still in my pocket, still on the recorder, and I fumbled and felt the button to turn it on. “Erik didn't kill Lori and Anna, did he?” I said, slowly sliding my hand out of my pocket.

“Of course he didn't. Erik was a good guy, a sweetheart. He was much too good for that bitch Lori. But it took me to open his eyes to that fact.” She turned then, walked over to the door, and closed it. Then she spun around and faced me again, leaning back against it. She smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it.