Jan Burke - Dear Irene

If, like Louisa Parker, you were one of the people who owned a house, you were suddenly living in a canyon. And with three walls of condo balconies surrounding you, you didn’t have much privacy. Not exactly conducive to things like nude sunbathing in your own yard. Not that I imagined Louisa Parker was into baring all.

“I wonder what the air quality is like when all those condo folks get out on their balconies and barbecue,” I said to Frank as we walked down the sidewalk toward her house. He just gave me one of those looks that said he would never understand how my mind works.

I like it that way.

He knocked on the front door, and it fairly flew open before his knuckles left the wood. He had his ID in hand, but she didn’t so much as glance at it. “Irene Kelly!” she said. “I can’t believe I’m going to have Irene Kelly right in my own home! Come in, come in!”

My photo will run next to one of my occasional commentary columns, so once in a while I’m recognized on the street. Although I’ll get mail or phone calls from readers, I rarely encounter people who are what you might call fans. Louisa Parker was a true fan. I would be a first-class liar if I said this wasn’t pleasing, but I’m never quite ready for it when it happens.

She was a bundle of energy. She was grinning from ear to ear as she shook my hand with a firm grip and ushered us inside. As she led us into the living room, I could see why Howard Parker thought she might outlive him. She was tall, like her son, but not as thin. She wore her gray hair like a crown of glory, and had a few wrinkles, but you wouldn’t find it easy to guess her age without missing by a couple of decades. She looked great.

The house wouldn’t tell her age, either. The furnishings were sleek and contemporary. Her son had far more old-fashioned furniture in his home.

“This whole Thanatos business stinks to high heaven,” she said with conviction. She had seated us on her black leather sofa and given us each a cup of coffee in about three minutes flat. “I don’t like it at all. Not at all.” She turned to Frank, giving him the look mothers reserve for children caught sticking their fingers in the frosting. “When do you suppose you police fellows are going to catch the bastard?”

“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Parker,” Frank said, managing somehow to maintain a serious expression.

“Well, you damn well better catch him soon.” She turned to me and smiled. “What can I tell you?”

“Do you remember much about the Olympus Child Care Center case?”

“Of course I do. I don’t mean to be a shameless braggart, but I have an excellent memory. At my age, that’s something to crow about. If you’re as gray headed as I am and you so much as misplace your keys, people think you’ve got Alzheimer’s.”

As she continued on, I noticed that she hardly spared Frank a glance. “Yes, I most certainly do remember it. And I think it was one of the saddest things ever to happen to someone I knew personally. Pauline Grant was a lovely young woman, and she truly did love children. I took the time to get to know her a little, since I wanted to know the person who would be caring for my child while I was at work.”

“That’s always wise,” Frank said, but she ignored him, and I could tell he was a little irked about it.

“The children who were Howie’s age went over to the Olympus Center right after school, at about two o’clock,” she said. “They stayed there until about five thirty, when we picked them up after work. I guess they call it extended day care.

“Well, Pauline was a woman trying to raise a child all by herself, just as I was. She doted on her son. I suppose that was her downfall. Try to understand. We were patriotic, but that side of the war, losing a loved one, was as painful for us as it ever has been for anybody. For those of us who had lost our husbands – well, that protectiveness of our children was hard to avoid. We were all our children had left, and quite often, the reverse was true as well. Pauline had no other family to turn to. She was all alone. So it was easy for her to become overprotective of her little boy.”

“So you knew both Pauline and Jimmy?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Jimmy, her son, was a sensitive child to begin with, and Pauline’s attitude just made him something of a whiner. Clung to her apron strings. I’m afraid the other children didn’t give him a very easy time of it. Maggie Robinson’s boy was a nasty little booger, if I may speak so ill of the dead. He had a temper on him. A born hell-raiser. And if you want my opinion, in another ten years he would have been one of the people Detective Harriman goes hunting for.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but he was only a child, just eight years old. He wasn’t much of a physical match for a grown woman, was he?”

“No,” she said quietly, “I suppose you’re right. But I tell you, that child was the kind of kid that could tempt Mother Theresa to knock the crap out of him.”

“Do you know what became of Jimmy Grant?” Frank asked.

She looked between us with wide eyes. “You mean you don’t know?”

“We’ve only known of his existence since yesterday, Mrs. Parker.” He caught himself, and quickly added, “We would appreciate any information you could give us.” He glanced over at me, then back at her.

She smiled, knowing she had nettled him. Suddenly she looked between us slyly. “Is something going on between you two?”

“Engagement,” I answered, noting Frank was slightly taken aback by my directness.

She brightened. “Well, congratulations! I’ve been married twice myself, and recommend it highly.” Now she was eyeing him from head to toe. “Well, well, well. Well, well, well!”

With each “well,” Frank apparently received a higher approval rating. He was embarrassed by the appraisal process, which in turn forced me into a hopeless struggle to keep a straight face.

“Jimmy Grant?” he asked, as if in pain.

“Oh, yes,” she sobered. “We were talking about poor little Jimmy. Well, I suppose that is exactly what makes the whole thing so sad. Sad and bizarre, if you ask me.”

“Bizarre?”

“Yes, Detective Harriman. Bizarre. A sign of the kind of corruption we had around here in those days. Pauline, as you know, was jailed almost immediately after the Robinson boy died. The mothers of the children at the Olympus Center were divided into two camps, you might say. Those that lined up behind Maggie Robinson were crying for blood. The rest of us felt that the whole thing had been an accident. Her lack of self-control meant Pauline should lose her job, but not her child. And certainly not her freedom.”

“Did Pauline have many supporters?” I asked.

“Oh no. By supporting Pauline, I was in the minority camp. None of us had the kind of money it would take to get her a good lawyer or to help her get out on bail. So she was in custody from the day of the incident on.”

“And Jimmy?”

“As I said, there were no relatives available, so Jimmy was placed into foster care. He was – oh, I hate to say it, but he was a difficult child. He didn’t accept what had happened at all. Blamed himself, in the way children will. When Pauline was sent to prison, he became totally uncontrollable, and there was doubt as to whether he could ever be placed anywhere for long. That’s when Maggie Robinson stepped in.”

“Maggie Robinson?”

“Yes. She somehow finagled it so that she became Jimmy’s foster mother.”

“What?” We asked it in chorus.

“Yes. She had some twisted notion that this was a just solution. I thought it stank. When Pauline was killed, Maggie adopted Jimmy.”

We sat in stunned silence for a moment.

“How was that possible?” I asked.