Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 01 - The Legitimate Way (18 page)

David refused to believe he could not teach himself Chinese long before she met him. So he had. Donna piled the numerous Chinese, Latin, Hebrew and Yiddish orphaned texts into separate corners of the office. Perhaps a library might adopt them. She filled a trash basket with exams from the year before, and then used the box they were stored in to pack David’s sweater and pictures. Donna went next door to visit Sally in Harry’s office. “Sally, may I borrow a wastebasket to throw David’s articles away?”

“Oh bring them in here. Harry will know what to do with them.” Sally was sitting at Harry’s computer terminal. “I went downstairs to get the systems guy to open Harry’s email. Should I call him for David’s computer? He can probably help you send a closing message to David’s correspondents.”

After they finished the final task, Donna’s wristwatch claimed two hours had passed. Was she ready to close David’s door? Sally carried one of the boxes filled with David’s personal belongings.

A cop with a roll of yellow tape around his elbow strolled towards them. “Officer Sam Tedler,” Donna introduced, “This is my art agent, Sally Bianco.”

“We already know each other,” Sam said. “Sally and John were at your house when Sergeant Cramer and I came over. But you’ll have to excuse me. I’ll need to look in those boxes before you remove any evidence.”

“Nonsense.” Donna said not breaking stride toward the exit.

“Ma’am?” Sam called.

Sally stopped and set her box on the floor. “Could you go through them now? We need to get home for a late dinner.”

While concentrating on the role of yellow ‘caution’ tape on his arm, Sam seemed to consider his options within the realm of police discretion.  “Okay.”

Donna felt like kicking the boxes or the handsome cop, but she restrained herself. All of this would be over, end soon. And then what? Life stretched out before her with unrelieved loneliness.

Sally chatted with the young officer. “Is your brother happy with Mary Jo in
Missouri?”

Sam grinned as he continued unpacking each of the boxes. “She mothers him as much as the children. I think they were meant for each other.” He leaned over to help Donna repack a box and they bumped heads as she stood up.

Donna laughed. “Police brutality,” she cried, holding her hand over one eye.

Sam apologized and drew her hand away from her face. He gulped as he looked down into Donna’s gray eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Donna brushed him away from her. “Are we released from your custody?”

“Absolutely.” Sam held both his hands in the air. “You’re free to go.” Donna laughed, giving Sam a teasing grin. They watched as Sam proceeded to tape an ‘x’ across both David and Harry’s office doors.

Sally shook her head at the madness. “Let’s get you home.”

When Sally got behind the steering wheel of Donna’s car, Donna said. “Your police friend is kind of cute.”

“Nice unmarried man,” Sally said, as if to set the record straight.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Saturday, very late

Donna’s house smelt of baked bread and chicken soup. Zelda was busying herself in the kitchen. “Who let you in?” Donna asked.

“You forgot to lock the door. Come and eat you two.”

The soup was good, but Donna whispered to Sally, “I distinctly remember locking the door.”

“When you mentioned Norman,” Sally whispered back, “I watched you try the locked door.”

“Zelda,” Donna called sweetly, “bring a bowl for yourself.”

Zelda overheard the comment about the lock. “I confess. I took David’s key from his desk. I was so worried about you.” Donna held out her hand, palm up. Zelda covered any embarrassment with chatter, as she turned over the key. “I evaluated your paintings after I started the soup. The farmland is charming, but the red shipwreck and the broken heart are saleable. After the memorial service, I want to take you to New York. Get your work set up in my gallery. Sally, give your protégé some good advice.”

“Please don’t go,” Sally said, “until we get Harry Terkle cleared.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Third Sunday in November

In the early hours of Sunday, Donna faced another blank canvass. Sleep beckoned but she refused to enter the master bedroom. In the painting studio, her hands could not recall where she
stored her favorite brush. She ventured into the hall; but avoided facing the beauty of all the flowers waiting for her in the bedroom. She stalled outside the open bedroom doorway. The white eyelet skirt of their bed picked up lighting from the hall. Donna took a step backward and returned to the studio, but the paint tubes remained unopened. Throughout the long morning, nothing, no fleeting idea, no hint of creativity called to her from the universal void. Her future stretched out before her as blank as the untouched canvas.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sunday Memorial Service

Donna could not remember who drove her to the art museum. Sally and John were sitting on either side of her. She wondered if her own face was as immobile as Sally’s stony expression. She touched Sally’s hand and watched her try to smile.

Sally whispered. “Hang on, dear. This will be over soon.”

Joseph and Norman escorted their mother and an older man to the seating area on the opposite side of the central table.

Donna avoided looking at the scattered photographs. Each one refreshed her memory. David’s unsmiling face now lay where the hands and eyes of strangers could dissect his features, view his nakedness in the county morgue. She counted the release of her breath slowly, one, two, remember to inhale, slowly, unchanged, three, exhale, four. Soon, soon the world would end this meaningless charade of insincere attention.

Joseph made his way among the fairly cheerful mourners to Donna’s side of the room. John gave Joseph his chair so he could sit down next to the widow. Joseph said, “I want to clear up a horrible impression
Norman may have left with you.” Donna stared at him. He was not an evil person and David loved him, so she agreed to listen with a short nod. “My mother told Norman he was wrong to bring her up during his visit. I think he’s evil and mean. Dad never contacted my mother after she deserted him for Chester.”

Donna understood Joseph wanted her to know David loved her, but she could not speak. Sally leaned over Donna’s lap and shook Joseph’s hand. “Tell Norman Donna sends her condolences to your family.” She looked at Donna before adding, “But Norman needn’t come to the house to check on how she is handling her grief.”

“I understand,” Joseph said and withdrew.

Usually, Donna made an attempt to memorize the names of David’s colleagues and their spouses. There wasn’t much point now. She nodded to the sea of faces, responding as closely to the questions as possible.

One of the mourners asked if food was being served in another room. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe David’s sons arranged for food to be served. Thank you for coming.”

Donna recognized a tall, zaftig dame from the synagogue, where she attended with David on high holy days. Her litany continued. “David spoke of you often,” was repeated to more than one graduate student.

To all the faculty wives with husbands to go home to, she said, “Yes, we should spend more time together.” Donna knew the invitations would not be forthcoming. She did not blame anyone. Who wanted to share precious time with an available, maybe even attractive female?

“David hadn’t told me the story,” Donna said to an ancient teacher of David’s as well as “Thank you,” to more than fifty unfamiliar persons. Also insincere thank you’s to the gorgeous women whom David would be proud to see at any gathering on his behalf. Why was she thanking them, for acknowledging David disappeared from their world, from her bed? His cold body was broken, stretched out on an exposed table. Or worse, David’s body might have been slid onto a metal slab and then pushed into a dark drawer.

Donna spread her hands on the lap of her black skirt. She was through with shaking the hands of people assembled because David was beyond her reach. Her wedding ring sparkled from the overhead lighting. “Sally,” she whispered. “Should I not be wearing my wedding ring?”

“You wear David’s ring until you decide the time has come to take it off.” Sally covered Donna’s ring hand with her own.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Third Sunday in November

Zelda Cameron was very busy Sunday morning before the memorial service. The rental truck was positioned in the alley behind Donna’s condo. A row of picturesque trees hid the van from early morning occupants of the row of condominiums, who might have looked out their back windows. The temporary haulers sat quietly in the truck sipping coffee. Between the three of them, they finished the dozen donuts Zelda provided with an added explanation for the delay. “We need to wait until my friend leaves. The university doesn’t want to disturb her.”

But once the deed was done, the file cabinets and computer safely removed and the rental key for the storage unit handed over along with an extra fifty-dollar bill to the driver, Zelda decided to add a few touches to the staged robbery. She enjoyed throwing the books and papers around David’s study. Inspired with energizing feelings of revenge, she removed several pieces of cloisonné along with a heavy brass horse. Zelda knew where to market the items in
New York. Part of her investment in St. Claire was finally paying off.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sunday Memorial Service

Arriving late to the service, Zelda thrust her mitt at Donna. “I’m late. Sorry.”

Donna didn’t shake Zelda’s hand, didn’t want to acknowledge the woman she had taken into her confidence. Why did she decide to complain about David the day after he died? For fourteen years, not one negative word passed her lips about her husband’s business or their lives. Not even to Sally, whom she trusted with her creative output. Donna looked directly into Zelda’s eyes, wondering if the woman invited her to criticize David. She remembered Zelda’s comments about overspending. Zelda nearly asked David to get angry about the stupid money she spent.

Sally shook Zelda’s outstretched hand.

Without speaking, Donna focused on her wedding ring. Her hands seemed helpless, even useless. Then an expensive pair of black shoes in front of Donna’s field of vision did not move on, so that the next person could greet her.

“I’m Sam Tedler,” he repeated, when she looked up at him. “Remember me?”

“Tedler?” Donna asked the well-fitting suit.

“My name,” Sam insisted. “I’m the police officer, you know.” Donna cocked her head. From her seated position, the man, about her own age, appeared unusually tall. The gentleman formally bent at his waist, took her hand right out of her lap. “Sam,” he insisted.

Donna suppressed a giggle. “Sam?”

Sally shoved her. “Do you remember Officer Tedler?”

“You were not at our wedding.” Donna said, trying to remember. The expression on the man’s face was all wrong. Too happy to be a mourner for David’s soul. And way too much blond hair.

“I am an officer,” Sam insisted.

“Are not.” Donna was sure she would have remembered this man. Where was his uniform?

“I Am.” Sam didn’t let go of her hand.

Donna noticed his tie was a subdued blue, reflecting in the blue of his eyes, nicely.

“Samuel,” Sally intervened, “Could you continue this argument at the house? Donna needs to greet all the mourners. I’m sure you’re welcome to come to the house.”

“Count on it.” Sam kissed the palm of Donna’s hand.

When Donna finally moved her concentration away from the warmth in her hand, the new face of a secretary loomed before her. “Thank you for coming,” she remembered to say. “Where did he go?” She whispered to Sally.

“You’ll see him at the house. Get a grip. People will think you’ve lost your senses.” Sally waved for Donna’s brother, Steve. “Help. Could Donna leave now?”

Steve apologized. “I think there are a string of speakers.”

“I think everything is catching up to me,” Donna said. “I don’t appear to be in the proper mood.”

“There is no proper mood for these affairs.” Sally defended her, waving the line of greeters away. “Donna’s not feeling well.”

Sam Tedler appeared next to Steve. “We should take her home,” Sam said. “She looks ready to cave in.”

Donna liked him. He was awfully sympathetic. She really was exhausted. She tried to stand to tell him how glad she was he attended David’s service; but the room spun out of control. The canvas blurred and someone caught her in his strong arms.

“I’ll go with them.” Donna heard Sally say from very far away.

Third Sunday in November

Sam leaned against the doorframe of Donna’s bedroom. The lovely widow awoke when Dr. Linda Lorell, stuck a needle in her arm.

“I can smell them.” Donna meant the funeral flowers surrounding her.

The scents were overpowering, almost adding warmth to the air. Carnations, roses and lilies combined to perfume the room. The flowers covered every available surface. The wall spaces between the dressers and the bed were lined with more of the floral homage. Sam could only imagine the range of colors in the dimmed light. Donna’s long hair darkened the pillow next to her, probably her husband’s pillow. Sam felt an eerie sensation climb his spine when he imagined shadows intermingling with her black hair. They created a force threatening to pull Donna to David’s side of the cosmos.

Sam asked the doctor, “Should we take these tributes away?”

“No,” Sally Nelson was sitting on the bed holding Donna’s hand. “Donna wants them all in here. Could you wait downstairs?”

“Don’t,” Donna called out, trying to rise, “don’t let him leave me.”

“Donna!” Sally shared the surprise Sam felt.

“I need to wait downstairs for the robbery squad, anyway.” Sam let Sally Bianco bully him into the hall. He ignored his detective partner’s unusual display of unfriendliness. Donna wanted him to stay. A tornado would find it difficult to move him from the house. He glanced back into the bedroom where a sweet-scented and temporary oblivion descended on Donna. Sam offered up his gratitude to the Lord for Donna friendship.

Donna’s house needed to be secured to investigate the crime scene they witnessed when they brought her home. David’s papers were strewn throughout the house, pillows were slashed, file cabinets silhouettes in the rug, and missing computer and media equipment told the old story. The memorial’s announcement alerted robbers to clean out the place. Sam was surprised at the trashing of the house, usually thieves made better use of their time.

“Try not to disturb her,” Dr. Lorell said. The doctor’s professionalism negated her good looks. “I’m hoping the sedatives will let her sleep.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The room was dark when Donna stirred again. She wondered if days had passed. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Only three hours,” Sally answered. “Try to rest.”

“Oh, I cannot lay here any longer with only gloomy thoughts to keep me company.”

“If you’re up to it, Sam Tedler is still here. He called for backup when we found the front door was standing open.”

“Was anything taken?” Donna sat up carefully. She felt strong. “My paintings?”

“They are all safe. After you wash your face, we can go down and talk to Sam.”

Before Donna closed the bathroom door she asked, “So, Sam is still here.”

Sally sounded exasperated. “He won’t leave.”

Good
, Donna thought. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she did not look guilty. She should be, according to Sally’s tonal censure. But the truth was she was glad someone interested in her waited downstairs. True blood, she thought. “I’ve slipped over the line of sanity,” she whispered to herself in the mirror.

Please, Lord, what was wrong with her? Widows did not plan to replace husbands two days after the death of their life-long mate. She wondered how long she should wait. Her father repeated a saying when her mother attacked a widower who re-married, too soon. He said a quick second marriage was almost a monument to the success of the first marriage. Donna was heartened by the adage, but still ashamed of her fixation on Sam. Remarriage was not the issue, if she wanted to be entirely honest. She named the fear of
never sharing her sexual being with another man. She didn’t want to resemble black swans who died twenty-four hours after their mate. She hoped Sally would forget about her momentary lapse of decorum. Grief demanded release in all sorts of directions.

Downstairs, Sam and John were sharing some joke. They stopped their laughter mid-syllable when they noticed Donna coming down the stairs. “Do I look that awful?” Donna ran her hand through her waist long hair.

“We’re surprised to see you up.” John took her arm, leading her into the front room as if she were a queen.

“Why are you still here?” she asked Sam.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sam felt like a mute giant sent to protect a frail, porcelain princess. The scent of flowers lingered on Donna’s breath, or the sedative sweetened her tongue. Her gray eyes enlarged as she tipped her head up to get a better picture of him.

“I requested he stay,” John said. “Sam and I solved a murder case with Sally recently. John looked from Sam to Donna before adding, “We’re part of his detective agency’s team.”

“Dead husband,” Donna said, as if that needed clearing up.

Sam smiled at her. He could see why David was enthralled with her beauty. He already knew he cared for her, anyone would. What he could
not
understand was how to interpreted the facts. Was David’s fatal fall strange enough to arrest the man’s best friend? Was this robbery was too specific, too much of a coincidence? He briefly examined his prejudices. The world of academe was not above serious intrigues, enough to make this attractive woman a widow. “Could you possibly tell me what is missing in this room?” Sam’s pen stood at the ready over his notepad.

“David’s cloisonné pieces on the bookshelves.” Donna pointed to an empty pedestal near the patio doors. “And the bronze horse.”

“David’s den was ransacked,” Sally told Donna.

Donna rose. Holding onto the back of the couch, she steadied herself then made her way into David’s office, where books were strewn on top of papers practically covering the floor. “His computer,” she stated the obvious, and then pointed to the
indentations on the floor, “and two of his file cabinets. One held his computer discs.”

Sally reached for John’s arm. “Why did they want his research? I thought St. Claire told him the results were useless?”

“Paul St. Claire told you David’s research failed?” Donna asked.

“No, Harry was there when St. Claire told David.” Sally pushed Sam to the side so she could stand next to Donna.

“Sit down,” Sam suggested. “See if anything is missing from his desk.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Donna sat in David’s desk chair. “I’ve
never opened his desk.”

John reached over her shoulder to pull out a drawer.

“Don’t.” Sam raised his voice. “We need to dust for fingerprints.”

Donna looked at her hands. Sam noticed her wedding ring was still in place. “I did realign the drawer yesterday.”

“Zelda,” Sally said.

“Who?” Sam asked.

“Zelda Cameron was cleaning in here yesterday. Seems so long ago. I guess it was two days ago.” Donna rubbed her forehead.

“Saturday, yesterday.” Sally said. “She told us she took a key out of David’s desk.”“She’s been over-helping me cope,” Donna explained to Sam.

“I met her,” Sam said. “We were both late for the memorial service.”

“Who would want to rob us?” Donna asked Sam.

“The obituary notice notifies thieves everyone will be out of the house. Of course, because of the upcoming inquest, the police department will look for evidence of more than a simple robbery.”

Donna turned to Sally. “It seems to me Harry should be released. He certainly wasn’t involved with this.”

“Maybe Steve could try again, for bail,” Sally said.

“He should be here shortly,” Donna said. “Sam, could you go with Steve. The police, you, arrested Harry because he was with David when he fell. You’re holding him for no good reason.”

“He hasn’t been cleared.” Sam wished he could return her husband’s friend to her side.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sally watched Donna focus on Sam as the four of them returned to the front room. He was taller than John, and his proportions were pleasing for a young man. Donna licked her lips. Sally sighed. This child bride certainly had not died with her husband. Sally chastised herself for judging Donna. Perhaps she viewed Sam as an object to paint. Sally finished pouring Sam a cup of coffee. He sat down next to Donna.

Donna asked him, “You know I’m an artist?”

“Yes,” Sam shook his head to Sally’s offer of a cookie. “We itemized your paintings after I arrived.”

“I’m not upset about the thievery.” Donna smiled at him. “I’ve already lost everything important to me.”

Sally noticed John was frowning. Sam coughed breaking away from the intimate exchange, as if embarrassed. “None. No paintings were stolen.”

Sally wondered if she needed to speak to Sam about how vulnerable a widow might be. She felt somewhat divided on the issue. She wanted to comfort Donna, too; besides, Sam would be of help on the case. The three of them were a successful team previously.

When the phone rang, John answered. “Leonard residence.” He motioned for Sam to take the phone. “Sergeant Cramer is on the line.”

John returned to the couch moving close to Sally. He laid his arm in her lap. She held onto John’s hand, but she couldn’t control her tears. She wanted to apologize to Donna, but her emotions wouldn’t let her speak. She felt so guilty to own so much love from a living husband, while wanting to deny Donna any contact with Sam.

Sam returned to Donna’s side. “My boss wants me to file a report. They’re too busy to send over a crime team.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Third Monday in November

Donna dipped her favorite brush into the mixture of blue-grey paint. If dreams were seeded by reality, she needed to re-examine her life as a married woman. In her nightmare Sunday night, an earthquake was survived by a brother and sister in their early teens.

In the midnight dream the boy, Sepal, two years older, was the same height as his twelve-year-old sister, Naia. Sepal let Naia’s knees embrace him as he sat a step lower on the broken stairs outside their father’s place of refuge with their uncles.

Seven men waved them away when the children tried to enter the heated, lit room. The glass windows of a bamboo porch were not broken, even though the house behind was now a heap of gray rubble. Dust covered the windows making the crowded scene appear in a removed, misty world. Brass cups steamed with freshly brewed tea and the circles of hookah smoke rose above the gathered hoary heads. Soft cold rain dripped down Naia’s hair unto the boot tops of Sepal. He shivered closer to his sister’s offered warmth.

Tang, just sixteen, agreed to marry Naia. Tang dug a cellar under the heated remnant of the porch. Naia’s father agreed to the marriage of words, not ceremony. Naia was thankful to lie on the flat, dry blanket next to a travel poster of their country. In the torn advertisement, the mountains were pictured green with flowers dominating half the view, delicate in their soft pink hues. Outside the wind howled and a landslide frightened Tang at the moment of his ejaculation. His cry woke her brother.

Naia did not agree when Tang pulled her hand along the rocky paths to the refugee camps. She did not count the dollar bills Tang pocketed and closed her mind after he ripped the buttons off her blouse to show her budding chest to the giant strangers.

Tang bought a bed and three soft chairs and there was a table, tea and food. Naia awoke from her months of catatonic horror to hold out her hand for some of the money Tang was handing Sepal. “I want a pencil sharpener,” Naia said. The boys laughed at her childishness.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Donna studied the empty paintbrush in her hand. Gold flecks added illumination to the canvas scene of a precariously positioned porch on the cliff of mountainous rubble. The amber was also reflected in the brass object in a young girl’s palm outstretched in the foreground as well as the subtle tones of a cloud-dimmed sun, high above the shattered hills.

What price did she pay? Donna wondered. Did she sell any part of herself to David by accepting his marital fortune? Did she freely give her love to him? Or did she reluctantly share his bed; too lazy to demand a life afforded by her own hands? Guilt for the days of luxury with David, for not appreciating his generosity, his love, hung in the air.

Donna dropped the offending brush into the soap-filled jar of paintbrushes. “One problem at a time,” Donna whispered to herself as she rolled back into bed, exhausted. The painting of her night’s offering glistened in the north light of a fresh dawn.

She awoke late on Monday to the sound of pounding on her front door. She looked down at the front step only to see her distraught friends, Sally and John Nelson, pacing up and down the sidewalk. Without donning a robe or brushing her hair and still in pajamas, Donna nearly ran down the stairwell to open the door. “What is it? Come in, come in.”

“I’m all right.” Sally withdrew from Donna’s hug. “I’m not all right.”

John added to the conversation. “The university sent Harry a telegram. They are rescinding his tenure.”

“Can they do that? Steve was no help?”

“He recommended a good lawyer.” Sally patted her white hair as if primping would save the day.

“Come up while I get dressed. You can critique last night’s painting. I’ll go to the police station with you.”