Six

  “Crap, crap, crap.” I got louder with each repetition as I ran from room to room. “Where did I put it?”

  On the night Frank had left, after he’d calmly told me he was in love with someone else and would prefer—that was his phrase—not to be married to me anymore, I’d taken off my wedding ring and thrown it at him. I’d never bothered to go in search of it until now. I was heading to meet his parents at the funeral home and I knew his mother would look at my hand to see if it was there. I knew everyone would look. I stood in the kitchen and relived every humiliating moment of that conversation, trying to remember where he had been standing when I finally had my turn to speak.

  I wish I’d said something pithy and sophisticated, like a character in some movie from the 1930s where divorce was the plot of a screwball comedy, the husband was Cary Grant, and everyone drank constantly. I could have used a drink that night.

  What I actually said was both incomprehensible and slightly crazy, and something I would prefer never to repeat. It was also the last time Frank and I had ever been alone in a room together. He’d made sure of that. The coward.

  “The refrigerator,” I suddenly remembered.

  I lay on the floor, which desperately needed sweeping, and reached my hand into gunk and crumbs and whatever evil things live under a refrigerator, until my fingers reached a hard, round object. I pulled it out, rinsed it off, and put it back on my finger. It felt a little tight.

  By the time I got to the funeral home, I was late. And just as I was about to walk in, my phone rang. I almost didn’t answer, but it was Ripper Productions, my best client. They produced mostly true crime and some medical mystery shows. The money they offered was nothing special, but they paid within two weeks. Getting paid quickly, sometimes getting paid at all, is something of a battle for freelancers like myself, so I always worked for Ripper whenever they could use me.

  “Kate, it’s Mike. You are going to love me.”

  “I already do,” I said. I was lying. Mike was slimy and annoying, and he thought he was creating a masterpiece with each half hour of his sensation-heavy shows. He was based in New York, so we’d never actually met, but even with eight hundred miles between us, he made my skin crawl.

  “Remember the last time we talked, I told you about this new show I was pitching? I just sold it to Crime TV. It’s called Missing Persons. Each episode centers on some ordinary idiot, just living his life, when—for no reason—he just vanishes. Police can’t figure it out, family is beside themselves, his life seemed perfect but maybe it wasn’t. That kind of thing. We talk to the police, the families, the friends. It’s all about their frustration and how they just want to know what happened. It’s a mystery show but the drama is still playing out. We end each episode with a voice-over asking for the public’s help in solving the case. Great stuff.”

  “It sounds interesting. Can we talk about it next week?”

  “I need you to start Monday.”

  I hesitated. I work mainly the cable television circuit—documentaries and informational programs—so it’s anything from an exposé on gang violence to a food contest. I’m contracted to work for a day or a week or whatever it takes to make one episode, but rarely longer. I might work twenty days one month and none the next. I never know. Which means if I get called for jobs, I do them. Mostly no questions asked, because if you ask too many questions, the job goes to someone else. I imagine it’s the same for hit men.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mike. My husband died Wednesday.”

  “I thought you were divorced.”

  “I was in the process of getting a divorce.”

  “Lucky you. Now you get out of paying the lawyers. My last divorce cost me a bundle,” he said. “Was he insured?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Life insurance?”

  “Yeah. We both had it.”

  “Ka-ching.”

  I started to explain that I couldn’t remember if I’d even kept up the payments, but I was beginning to feel a little sick. “I’m on my way into the funeral home,” I said.

  “Right. Bad time. I’ll call you later.”

  “I don’t think I can start Monday.”

  That was painful. I needed the work to make the mortgage.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Mike said. “It’s a great story: missing girl just out of college, brokenhearted family. It’s in Chicago, so no travel for you. Plus, the family will love talking to someone who just lost her husband. It’ll make them feel like you get their pain. They’ll spill their guts.”

  I hung up, tried not to vomit on my shoes, and went inside.

  “Hey, sweetie.” My sister, Ellen, wrapped her arms around me just inside the doors of the funeral home. Ellen was only two years older than me but had always treated me like a child. Like me, she had spent her entire life in the Chicago area, gotten married young, and never left the country, but somehow she saw herself as more worldly than I was. Tougher and more cynical. Even my job didn’t win me points for being a hard ass. Ellen taught seventh grade, a job, she frequently pointed out, I would never be able to handle.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You can’t go through this alone.”

  “Frank’s parents are supposed to be here.”

  “They’re in the director’s office,” she whispered. “Have you seen them since the separation?”

  I shook my head. “They were paying Frank’s legal fees, so that pretty much cut off all contact between us.”

  “His mother is practically hysterical. She blames you, I think.”

  I took a deep breath and headed toward the director’s office. “This just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

  Seven

  Frank’s mother, Lynette Conway, had never been a big fan of mine. She thought her son was meant for better things than an ordinary girl from his high school. She had had visions that Frank would go on to Harvard, maybe run for Senate someday. It was like she had never met her own son, who was so disinterested in politics that he’d never even registered to vote. It didn’t matter. In her mind, I’d kept him from a life of influence and glory.

  His father, Alex Conway, on the other hand, had seen firsthand that Frank had the ambition of a well-fed cat. Though he’d never directly said it, I’d felt he understood my frustrations and was a little embarrassed that his son hadn’t done more with his life.

  “Hi,” I said as Ellen and I entered the office. “I’m Mrs. Conway,” I told the director. I heard a disparaging sigh from Frank’s mother.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” the director said. He looked like a man who spent his days with the dead. His slight, almost skeletal, body was covered by an expensive three-piece suit in a somber gray. What hair he had was slicked back, and a pair of bifocals was perched dangerously close to the end of his nose.

  “We’ve been making the plans while we waited for you,” Alex said.

  “I’m sorry about that.” I smiled apologetically. “I’ve been getting a lot of phone calls from Frank’s friends.”

  “He had so many friends.” Lynette buried her head in her tissue and cried. I wanted to go over and comfort her, but I knew I wouldn’t be welcome.

  “I’m so sorry, Alex.” I hugged his dad. “It’s not supposed to happen this way, is it? A parent isn’t supposed to bury his child.”

  “These last few months have been surreal. How are you holding up, kiddo?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what to feel, it’s just so unbelievable.”

  So was standing with my in-laws, or ex-in-laws, or whatever they were, making polite conversation. Alex moved toward his wife. Ellen took my hand. We all stood awkwardly for a minute.

  “If I might suggest some options for you, Mrs. Conway.” The director broke the silence.

  “I’m Mrs. Conway,” Lynette said.

  “So is Kate,” Ellen told her.

  The director nodded patiently. It was clear from his demeanor this wasn’t the first long-standing family argument to play out its final scene in his office. “Every one of Mr. Conway’s loved ones is to be included in the decisions, obviously.”

  “We’re paying for it, so we’re making the decisions,” Lynette said.

  For a moment I considered arguing the point, but I had less than a thousand dollars in my bank account so I couldn’t fight them even if I wanted to. And did I want to? Was it really my responsibility anymore? I sat quietly while Frank’s parents picked the most expensive package there was and made arrangements for his burial in a plot they already owned.

  When they bought the plots, there were three adjoining ones available, and Lynette suggested they get a fourth for me “nearby.” We turned them down, but Frank and I used to joke that his mother would figure out a way to spend eternity next to her favorite child. Sitting there, I realized she’d gotten what she wanted.

  “All that’s left now,” the director said, “is for the next of kin to sign the papers allowing for the transfer of his body to our custody.” He held up a pen and, after a moment’s hesitation, Alex leaned forward.

  Ellen grabbed it. “She’s the next of kin,” she said and gave the pen to me.

  “Only legally,” Lynette said.

  “Legally is what counts,” Ellen told her.

  “He died of stress.” Lynette spat the words at her. “Stress caused by the divorce.”

  “Frank cheated on Kate. Frank left Kate.” Ellen was barely containing her anger. “If Frank died of stress, it’s stress he caused.”

  “Men don’t cheat if they’re getting what they need at home,” Lynette shouted.

  “That’s enough.” Frank’s father jumped out of his seat. “We’re all emotional. We’re not thinking. Lynette and I will handle the rest of the arrangements. Kate will, of course, be presented as Frank’s wife at the wake and funeral. Most of our friends didn’t even know they were separated. There’s no point in bringing up that ugliness now and dragging our family name through the mud.”

  I suppressed a laugh. There’s nothing like a death in the family to make everyone realize what’s truly important, is there?

  “Are we done?” I asked the director.

  “As soon as you sign this form.”

  I signed.

  “I’ll see you at the wake,” I said and walked out of the room without looking at any of them.

  Eight

  The next morning I took a bath, stared at my wedding ring, took it off because I felt like a fraud wearing it, then put it on again, and stayed in the tub until the water turned cold. My sister had left me a message about how I needed to stand up to “those people” who had raised “a good-for-nothing son” who had “ruined” my life. I didn’t know which part was more offensive: that I should yell at people who had lost their oldest child or that, in my sister’s eyes, my life was ruined.

  At about noon, the doorbell rang. News had begun to trickle out to the neighbors, and I’d already received two casseroles, an apple pie, and something unidentifiable that combined noodles and blueberries. I assumed this was another well-intentioned dish I didn’t feel like eating.

  Instead, I opened the door to a large man holding a package. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dark-brown suit, with a yellowing, but once white, shirt and a blue tie. I’m not much for fashion, but he looked to be wearing something the Salvation Army would reject. Behind him was another man, younger and dressed better. Neither of them looked all that happy to be there.

  “You Kathleen Conway?” the large man asked.

  “Yes.”

  He handed me the package. “This is for you. It was on your doorstep. Can we come in?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  He wearily reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge. “Detective Scott Podeski.” With that he pushed past me into the house. His friend followed in his footsteps, leaving me at the front door wondering if I should run. Probably not, but I knew I didn’t want to hear whatever bad news these guys had obviously brought with them.

  “This isn’t a good time,” I said.

  “We’re with homicide.”

  “Seriously?” It was a stupid comment, but I couldn’t imagine why homicide detectives would show up at my door.

  Podeski didn’t care for my surprise. “You were married to Francis John Conway.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you asking about Frank?”

  “Ma’am, if you could just answer the question. The last time you saw him?”

  “It was three weeks ago, at my lawyer’s office.”

  As we spoke I noticed the other man, the younger one, was taking notes.

  “Is this about Frank’s death? It wasn’t a homicide. He died of a heart attack,” I told them.

  “Maybe, ma’am. A Dr. Milton requested an autopsy.”

  “I requested one,” I corrected him.

  That surprised him. “Why?” he asked.

  “Frank was only thirty-seven and he was in good health.”

  “His death seemed suspicious to you?”

  “Not suspicious, just unexpected. What’s this about?”

  I wanted to get control of the conversation, but Podeski eyeballed me, making it clear he wasn’t interested in letting go.

  “Detective, do you have information I don’t have?”

  “You weren’t the one who brought him to the hospital.”

  “No.”

  “Who was?”

  “Vera . . . something. I don’t remember her last name.”

  “Bingham.”

  “If you knew, why ask me?” I was sounding defensive. I tried to calm down and change the tone of the conversation. I hadn’t done anything, but homicide detectives questioning me about the death of my husband made me feel guilty. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, ma’am. We won’t take up any more of your time. Are you sure you hadn’t been in contact with your husband since the meeting at your lawyer’s office?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t in contact with him. I said I hadn’t seen him. He came by the house the other day . . .”

  “The day he died?”

  “I suppose so, yes. He left me a note.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “No.”

  “You got rid of it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s just, why would I keep a note from my estranged husband?”

  “What did it say?”

  “That he stopped by to pick up some of his things.”

  “The divorce, was it amicable?”

  “Are they ever amicable?”

  He smiled a little at that. “No, I guess not,” he conceded. “You weren’t home?”

  “That’s why he left me a note.”

  “Which you don’t have.”

  “No.”

  “But you admit he was here.”

  “Admit? No. I’m telling you he was here. There’s nothing to admit.” I was arguing semantics with a homicide detective. That would look good to a jury.

  Podeski looked around the living room. “Nice little house. Just the two of you?”

  “We don’t have children.”

  “But you had insurance.”

  “Are you asking me if I killed Frank?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said.

  “You’re a homicide detective. You must think someone killed Frank or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Not true, actually. The doctor had some concerns. We were called in to ask some questions.”

  “What kind of concerns?”

  Podeski handed me a business card with his name and a phone number imprinted under the logo of the Chicago Police Department. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Conway.”

  Then he and his silent note-taking partner left.

  I stood at the door, taking it all in. Frank wasn’t just dead. Possibly someone had murdered him. It didn’t make sense. Everyone loved Frank. The only person with even the slightest motive to kill him was me.

  Nine

  After they left I thought about calling a criminal lawyer, just in case, but I didn’t know one, and anyway, it seemed an overreaction. They had to be wrong. No one had killed Frank. I knew that sometimes the police investigated deaths like Frank’s, ones that were sudden and unexpected. I’d done stories about it. It was routine. I wasn’t going to drive myself crazy imagining otherwise.

  After about ten minutes of standing in my living room, I noticed that I was still holding the package. I went into the kitchen, sat at the small Formica table we had inherited from Frank’s grandmother, and opened it. It was something to do, something that would keep me from thinking about Detective Podeski.

  The package was from Mike, or rather the associate producer who worked for Mike. The associate producer, or A.P., did all the initial legwork: finding stories, conducting pre-interviews, and sending out information to the field producer.

  I was supposed to read through everything and come up with a list of questions for each interview subject. The interviews weren’t designed to find out the truth about the missing woman or get any answers as to why she had disappeared. That really didn’t matter. What mattered was what story we wanted to tell: the one that would interest the viewers. She was a good girl who crossed paths with a killer or a bad girl who brought it on herself. She was a saint or a con artist or a whore. And the people around her were either heartbroken because of her disappearance or they were the cause of it—or, most likely, a combination of both.

  Once I had the story, I would write the questions that would be most likely to get me the answers I needed. Sometimes I wrote questions that could take me in two directions—she was good, she was bad—so I could change my mind in editing.

  I hadn’t accepted the job, but I guess Mike knew I would. He’d included hard copies of e-mail correspondence he and the A.P. had had with each potential interview subject, giving them my name and cellphone number as the person to contact and making ridiculous statements about how we hoped that the show would uncover the truth and lead to some resolution in the case.

 

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