Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

The two women stepped forward to shake Flo’s hand.

“And this,” said Sally, “is Edna Stockbridge. She’ll talk to Mrs. Zink in my supervisor’s office. She’s at a conference.”

“This way,” said Edna Stockbridge, motioning to Flo.

Flo followed, after looking at me. There was warning in my look. I hoped she read that warning.

When they were gone I sat in the chair next to Sally.

“She’ll be fine,” Sally said. “And we need foster homes so badly that she’d have to be an ax murderer to be rejected. She’s rich. She wants to deal with Adele. What more can we ask for? All she has to do is convince Edna that she can handle Adele.”

“She can handle Adele,” I said. “Dwight Handford.”

I watched her face for a sign. I didn’t see one as she said,

“I talked to our lawyer this morning. She thinks there’s a fifty-fifty chance at best of keeping Adele from him. The power of a mistaken belief that children should be with their parents whenever possible combined with the likelihood of a really expensive lawyer representing Handford make fifty-fifty look optimistic.”

“Handford’s dead,” I said.

“What?”

“Dead.”

“Really? When? Where?”

“His house. The real one in Palmetto. You want to know how he died?”

“Not really,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that I suddenly feel relieved and I don’t feel guilty.”

“Why should you feel guilty?” I asked.

She looked at me. It was a very serious look.

“Because a man is dead and and I’m troubled because I don’t care. Why else would I feel guilty?”

“He was murdered,” I said flatly.

“I’m not surprised, though death in an alcoholic stupor or a bar fight wouldn’t surprise me either. I’ve got to think about what this means to Adele, how to tell her. I’ll have to call our lawyer. Sometimes death is good news.”

“You wanted him dead,” I said. “You said you could kill him.”

She was silent. Her mouth opened slightly.

“Lewis, you think I killed him?”

“It’s possible,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

“You’re offender. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m not offended. I guess it’s a reasonable question. Do I need an alibi? When did he die?”

“My guess is early this morning, very early.”

“I was home with the kids.”

“When did they get up?”

“About eight,” she said.

“You could have gone out, killed Handford and gotten back before they got up.”

“I could have, but I didn’t. Lewis, are you trying to back away from me, from-for want of a better word at the moment-our friendship?”

“No. I’m asking you questions the police might ask you, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. There’s a smart detective named Vivaise who-”

I stopped in midsentence. I had another suspect. Ed Vivaise had a daughter. He had said something about the benefit to the world of Dwight Handford’s death.

“Too many suspects,” I said, leaning back. “The only way I’m ahead of the police is that I can eliminate me from the list. Are we still going out Saturday?”

“We’re still going out,” she said, touching my arm. “You pick a place to eat. I pick the movie.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Being honest with me? Now the hard part of my day,” she said. “The downside of Dwight Handford’s death. I’m the one who’ll have to tell Adele her father’s dead and I have no idea how she’ll react.

I think I’ll do it now. I don’t want to carry it around all day.”

“Let me know how she takes it,” I said.

“I will. Saturday. That was interesting,” she said. “Being a suspect. Am I clear now?”

“Yes,” I said, but I lied.

Flo had to stay with Edna, get papers filled out. Edna would drive her home. She came out of the supervisor’s office and told me this. She was nervous and glowing. They were hurrying the process.

I told Sally what Harvey had told me about the Buga-Buga-Boo virus. She made a note to E-mail everyone in her computer address-book to warn them. I left.

I was sure Handford had murdered Beryl, but I wasn’t too sure about who had killed Tony Spiltz and Dwight Handford. The loss mankind would suffer due to their deaths was nonexistent.

My vote went to John Pirannes. Had a fight with Spiltz, who was doing his part to train Adele. Pirannes wanted Handford out of the way because he was probably a witness to the Spiltz murder and because he was a loose blunderbuss, ready to explode, dangerous. Pirannes probably knew Dwight had killed Beryl. My vote definitely went to John Pirannes.

That should have closed the file for me, but it didn’t.

I had to know for sure. I knew why I had to know.

My wife had been killed by a drunken hit-and-run driver. The driver hadn’t been found. There was no closure. I needed closure, certainty, in my life. I’d talk about it with Ann Horowitz as soon as I could.

The blue Buick followed me back to the DQ parking lot. I went to see Dave, who leaned out the window.

“How’s business?” I asked.

“Slow,” he said. “Rain always makes it slow. I don’t mind. You went to see Pirannes?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You survived. Congratulations. The Fair Maiden pulled out this morning, headed who knows where,” said Dave.

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“You want a burger, Blizzard?”

“Had a big salad for lunch. Diet Coke.”

Dave nodded over my left shoulder. I turned and found myself facing two policemen. Their car was in the lot a few feet away.

“Lewis Fonesca?” one cop said.

Both cops were young. There was a thin one with a smooth face and a heavyset one with an amber mustache.

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you come with us, please? Detective Vivaise would like to talk to you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, sir,” said the thin cop.

I knew better than to ask if I could drive my rented Geo. I climbed into the backseat of the police car. Until recently, the Sarasota police car insignia on the door was a picture of the statue of Michelangelo’s David. A copy of the statue stood in the courtyard gardens of the Ringling Museums. A copy of a copy had graced the doors and hallways and official vehicles of the city. Many of these tributes to distant art still remained. I don’t know much about art but, I liked the Ringling, the polished dark wood floors, the old-worldliness of the galleries of ornately framed paintings Ringling had collected in his European travels. I had been told by someone who should know that the paintings on display were the worst of the great masters-Rembrandt, Titian, that whole gang.

“You ever go to the Ringling Museum?” I asked the young thin cop at my side as we drove.

“When I was a kid, once,” he said.

“You?” I asked the driver.

“No,” he said. “My wife has.”

“She like it?”

“Said she did.”

I considered asking Vivaise about the Ringling Museum, but when I stepped into his office he was seated and patting his desk with his left hand.

“Dwight Handford is dead,” he said.

I sat across from him.

“Not sorry to hear that,” I said.

“I’m not either, but it’s my problem.”

“Where did he die?” I asked.

“You know damn well he died in his house in Palmetto.”

“Why would I know?”

“Don’t wear me out,” he said.

He had stopped drumming.

“A neighbor saw two men going into Handford’s house this morning. Tall man with a yellow raincoat and a short bald man. They came in a little white car and left in it a few minutes after they went in. Sound familiar?”

“Anything else?”