C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

Eddie accepted the mysterious truck as a gift from the gods, just as Jeannie figured. No questions asked lest he be struck dead by a torrent of scruple-sized hail. He used the truck when he needed it. He wasn’t the least bit territorial when others in the neighborhood did, too. Every year Jeannie bought new license stickers and stuck them on the plates when Eddie wasn’t looking. “I know it wasn’t exactly right,” she told Grant. “But it wasn’t exactly wrong either. He’s my brother and, well, what can I say? I love him.”

Ike poured our lemonade. We clinked our plastic tumblers together and sipped. It was not the sweetest lemonade. While I puckered like a goldfish, and Ike frantically searched for a sugar bowl, Eddie sauntered toward us. He had a bashful grin on his face. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts. A baggy blue and green Hawaiian shirt was hanging off his shoulders. Instead of his orange ball cap, he was wearing a white straw fedora with a tiny Budweiser can stapled on the crown. He tipped it and gave me a cross-legged curtsy. “Quite an extravaganza, eh, Mrs. Sprowls?”

“The party or your shirt?”

He twirled slowly for me, like a model. “My sister insisted that I be dressed to the nines tonight,” he said. “And how could I not oblige her wishes, me being the guest of honor, et al., and her picking up the freight credit card wise.”

“She must be proud.”

He laughed and twirled again. “She was appalled. But I said, ‘Sis, you weren’t exactly Grace Kelley before you became a Salapardi.’”

He was certainly right about that. According to Eric’s research, Jeannie and Eddie had grown up in a working class family on Hannawa’s east side. Their father worked in the city’s sewer department. Their mother was an LPN at Hannawa General. While Eddie spent his youth getting in trouble, Jeannie spent hers getting As. That effort was rewarded with a scholarship to Kent State and an invitation to join one of the university’s top sororities. After trying out majors in elementary education and English, she wisely switched to business. In one of her accounting classes she sat next to a Vietnam veteran named David Salapardi who had big plans for turning his father’s used car lot into an empire. Unlike brother Eddie, she’d only had one scrape with the law. A speeding ticket in 1983. “Your sister obviously loves you very much,” I told Eddie. “The way she’s stood behind you through all this.”

Ike had found some sugar cubes by the coffee maker. He gave us both three lumps. I introduced him to Eddie. “You’re doing the honorable thing,” Ike assured him as they shook hands.

“It’s not like I haven’t been in prison before,” Eddie said. “Two measlies behind the Venetians will be a slice.”

I could see that Eddie’s choice of words had Ike’s brain tied in knots. “Two years in a jail cell,” I explained. “Piece of cake.”

“I intend to mind my Ps and Qs in there, too,” Eddie said. “Come out clean and live happily ever after, like a well-scrubbed clam in a fairy tale.”

Ike looked at me for another interpretation. “You’re on you own,” I said.

All three of us laughed. Then Eddie’s tough guy facade fell away. “I know you were forced into helping me,” he said. “And for all your sneaking around and such, came up with pretty much nada el grande. ”

He was right. I hadn’t uncovered anything that helped exonerate him. Except for realizing that Violeta Bell’s antiques might be fakes, I’d simply confirmed what Detective Grant already knew. “I was happy to try.”

His apology-if that’s what it was-apparently was just beginning. “And all you got from me was a hard time. Capital H. Capital T.”

“I can understand your being a bit defensive.”

“Defensive? I was the epitome of despicability. My only hope now is that my remorsefulness seems genuine.”

“It does.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “Because all I did that day you showed up unannounced at my abode was blow smoke in your face. Both literally and figuratively at the same time. My sister, too.”

“She was just protecting you.”

“And you were just trying to help,” he said. He took an awkward step toward me. He took both of my hands in his hands. He rubbed his sweat all over my fingers. “The sappier moments in life don’t come easy for me,” he said. “But if it hadn’t been for you, Mrs. Sprowls, I never would’ve given the police an accurate account of my who, what, when, where, and whys.”

“I’m sure you would have eventually.”

Said Eddie, “No I wouldn’t’ve.”

Ike tried to intervene on my behalf. “I’m sure you would have, too.”

“Neither of you know me like I know me,” Eddie said. He pulled me toward him, in a sweet, innocent way. He lowered his face until it was level with mine. His eyes were watering. Instead of the beer and cigarettes on his breath I expected, there was a powerful blast of Listerine. “You remember what you said to my sister that day, Mrs. Sprowls? ‘Your brother is going to be twiddling his thumbs on death row if he doesn’t start telling a more forthcoming version of the truth.’”

It was a pretty good line. I was impressed with myself. “I said that, did I?”

“I remember it word for word,” he said. “Like it was one of those dirty parts in Deuteronomy or something.” He let go of my hands. Stuffed his own hands back in the pockets of his baggy shorts. “It didn’t turn me around right away, of course. I’ve been my own worst enemy for a long time. A real self-destructive sonofabitch. Capital S. Capital O. Capital B. But your words of wisdom eventually put my noodle in question mode. What if they don’t find the real killer? What if I’m the best they can do?”

I patted his shoulder. “I’m just glad it’s gone well for you.”

Eddie the tough guy was back. “Damn friggin’ straight! Those two measlies behind the Venetians will be a slice.”

I liked Eddie French. But I also wanted to get away from him. Talk to a few other people before they brought out the steakburgers, or chicken legs, or whatever they were serving. “There is one little thing I’m still curious about,” I began. “About Violeta.”

Eddie blushed. “Like I’ve told you more than once, I truly never-ever expected that she’d been born with the male accouterments.”

Smoke was rolling across the patio. The Democrats were taking things off the barbecue racks. Piling it on platters. We’d be eating soon. “It’s not that,” I told him. “I’ve reluctantly accepted the possibility that nobody had a clue about her previous gender. It’s the fake antiques.”

Eddie showed a little worry. “I’ve already told the gendarmes the brutal truth about that.”

And for all I knew he had. According to the story Dale Marabout wrote about Eddie’s change of heart, Violeta Bell didn’t start trafficking in fake antiques until after she retired from her shop and moved into the Carmichael House. Dale quoted Eddie’s statement to the police: “She was already hiring me to haul things around. Real things left over from her shop. Then every once in a while she’d sneak in something fake. Before long it was all fake. Some of the dealers called her on it. But others ate it up. Wanted all she could get.” Eddie also opined that, “It’s been my experience that there’s good and bad in everybody, usually simultaneously, but sometimes sequentially.”

“I know the facts,” I said. “I was wondering how she felt about it.”

Eddie shrugged. “She did it.”

I tried to cool off my impatience with a long drink of lemonade. It was too sweet now. “But did she feel guilty about it? Some criminals do feel guilty about the things they do, don’t they?”