Jan Burke - Dear Irene

“With the Karmann Ghia?” she asked. “You’ve driven it since college.” She was watching me carefully now, giving me the same look she might have given a strange dog that came trotting toward her, wagging its tail and growling at the same time.

By then we had reached the car. There was no one lurking in the small interior. The doors were locked. The windows were up. No visible damage to the ragtop. I tried not to shake as I opened the door and got inside.

The car started right up.

Lydia smiled.

“I guess I won’t be needing those jumper cables,” I said. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Any time.” She started to walk off, then turned back. “Are you all right?”

I don’t know, I wanted to answer. But I nodded and waved, then drove off.

As I drove, I tried to tell myself that maybe I did accidentally turn them on. I looked at the switch for the lights. No. Not something anyone would do “accidentally.” And not something I did and then forgot. It had been a sunny morning. If it had been foggy or dark, I would have turned the headlights on, not the parking lights – in California, it’s illegal to drive around with only your parking lights on. And I would have noticed that the parking lights were on when I pulled the top back up.

At home, I debated with myself about telling Frank about the lights. He had so much on his mind – did he need this? But what if Thanatos had been near my car?

The issue was decided for me when Frank came in the front door.

“What a day,” he said. “Okay if I go for a run before dinner? I need to do something to get my mind off lunatics and assholes.”

Not wanting to fall into either category, I told him dinner could wait and stayed silent on the subject of parking lights.

On Tuesday, Kevin called to say he had searched his files but hadn’t found anyone that he could connect to the Thanatos letter. The people I had worked for had no strong ties to the college or the zoo, even if some of them belonged in the latter.

I pestered Mark Baker into giving me the phone numbers for the professor’s old boyfriends. The one I most wanted to talk to was a man by the name of Steven Kincaid, who appeared to be Dr. Blaylock’s most recent conquest. But Kincaid was either out or didn’t answer his phone. That was further than I got with four of the remaining five, who had disconnected the numbers Mark had for them. Fleeing media attention, I thought, until I reached a fellow by the name of Henry Taylor.

“A few more minutes and you would have missed me,” he said in a pleasant voice. “Does the paper want to interview me again?”

“I just had a few more questions,” I said. “Could we meet somewhere?”

“Gee, no, I’m sorry, that’s what I was trying to say. The semester’s over. My girlfriend will be here any minute now. We’re going to be flying back to Michigan, to her parents’ house. I’m going to pop the question at Christmas.”

“Pop the question?”

“You know, ask her to marry me.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Taylor, if I sound a little confused. It’s just that your name has been associated with-”

“Edna, yeah, I know. Really sad. Oh, you mean, is Connie upset about that? No, hell, she knows it was years ago.”

“Years ago?”

“Yeah. Edna and I had a brief little fling about two years ago. My senior year, before I started the MBA program.”

“You’re not a history major?”

“Hell no. History major? No money in it. All undergraduates have to take a semester of U.S. history. I took a history class from Edna to satisfy the bachelor’s degree requirements. I was expecting to be totally bored, but she made it interesting. And something about the lady attracted me, I guess, but nothing came of it then. I was seeing somebody else. But then I broke up with that girl, and the next semester, I saw Edna in a local club one night… and I don’t know, I guess we just decided to go for it.”

“How old were you then?”

“Twenty-six.” He paused then added, “I work and go to school, so it’s taking me a little longer.”

He sounded embarrassed about it, so I told him I had taken more than four years, and not just because I worked. “But listen – about Dr. Blaylock – can you tell me if she ever mentioned anything about Greek mythology, or the zoo?”

He laughed. “We didn’t really do a whole lot of talking when we got together, if you know what I mean. It was just a brief affair. Nothing very involved. I think we both realized that it wasn’t for the best – not for either of us.”

“Did she ever mention anyone who might be angry with her, or seeking revenge?”

“The cops and the other reporters asked me about this kind of stuff,” he said easily. “I’ve got nothing to say, really.”

“I won’t quote you. I just need to get a lead on this.”

“You’re a little late on the story, aren’t you?”

“I’m the one he mailed the letter to.”

“Oh.” The chipper attitude seemed to drop away.

I waited.

“I guess I can understand why you’re still looking into it, then.”

“Can you help me out?”

“Look, Miss…”

“Kelly. Irene Kelly.”

“Okay, Irene Kelly. I don’t like to be so blunt about it, especially talking to a woman, but I can’t see any other way to get this across before Connie comes walking in here – at which point I will definitely not discuss it any further. Edna Blaylock and I got together for sex. That’s all. Just sex. That’s all either of us wanted at the time.”

“But if she talked to you…”

“I don’t think you could type up more than ten sentences if you quoted every word we said to each other that wasn’t just small talk. We’d go out to a bar, drink, dance and then go home and have terrific sex. At least, it was terrific at first. I guess I felt sort of turned on by the idea of having sex with this sophisticated older woman. A professor, for godsakes. But the thrill wore off pretty quickly, for her as well as for me. I didn’t learn her secrets, and she didn’t learn mine. I was sort of on the rebound, I guess you’d say. Some clown from school remembered seeing Edna and me together once, and told the cops I was her boyfriend.”

I heard noise in the background, and he excused himself then covered the phone. I could hear him say, “In here. I’m on the phone. No, some reporter. Aw, Connie, for godsakes, she’s dead. Give it a rest, would you?” He came back to me. “That’s Connie. I’ve got to go.”

“Look, Mr. Taylor, I need to talk to you a little more. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“How about when you get back?”

“Maybe. But I’m pretty busy. Gotta go.”

He hung up. Connie didn’t sound so forgiving. But there was no chance of talking to Henry Taylor or Connie until they came back from Michigan. I wondered if she would say yes to his proposal.

I tried Steven Kincaid again. No luck.

John came by my desk and talked me into going down to City Hall to cover the first reading of a zoning proposal. So much for Thanatos. But I agreed with John that the proposal might turn out to be more than the routine issue it appeared to be. I learned long ago that sometimes the most important issues in the city were decided in the most boring meetings.

Sure enough, by Wednesday morning there was a story on the front page of the Express that would guarantee a handsome turnout for the second reading of the proposal. It was my first story on page A-1 since the Thanatos letter, and I was working very hard at not showing how pleased I was by it.

The proposal would have changed the extent and type of building that could take place on the site of a Las Piernas landmark that had been destroyed by a fire. The council was already reneging on promises made in the last election. My phone was ringing off the hook. I felt like a kid who had just aimed a water hose at a hornet’s nest. Better yet, I felt like I was back to being a reporter. At times, the two sensations are not unalike.