Jan Burke: Remember Me, Irene

“Sure, I’d be happy to give you a lift,” I said. “Just let me go back into the hotel and call Frank. He’s turned into a real worrywart.”

“Please, use mine,” she said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a cellular phone.

I started to say “A pay phone would be cheaper,” but realized what a ludicrous remark that would seem to Claire. I called home. I also got an answering machine, and left a brief message saying I’d be later than expected.

“Frank must have been called out,” I said, handing the phone back to her. “Come on. I’m parked in the self-parking lot-I’m too cheap for valet.” I paused, wondering again why she would want to ride with me. Even though Claire was one of the women who had survived Andre Selman, I usually only saw her at the annual dinner. But in the next moment, I thought of the last time I had turned my back on someone. “I’ve only been to your house for a couple of fund-raisers,” I said. “Seaside Estates, right?’

“Yes. I hope it’s not too far?”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t get to talk to you much tonight. This will be our chance to catch up.”

“Yes,” she said, but didn’t say more as we walked to the car.

As I started the Karmann Ghia, she asked, “What did you mean, ‘called out’?”

“Pardon?”

“About your husband. You said he must have been called out.”

“These are his prime business hours. He’s on call tonight.”

“On call? Is he a doctor?”

“He’s a homicide detective.”

She made a face. After a moment she said, “Doesn’t it bother you that he spends his time around dead bodies?”

“Cuts down on the office sex.”

“Irene!”

“Sorry. No, the dead ones don’t bother me. In general, bodies don’t tend to be dangerous. It’s the folks who left them that way that worry me.”

Her perfect brows drew together. “Yes, I suppose the fact that he’s out looking for killers is more frightening.”

“Right. I begin to feel relieved if it’s a suicide case.”

She was silent for a time, then suddenly asked, “Who’s Lucas Monroe?”

Good question, I thought. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Lucas Monroe was a drunk on a bus bench, partly because I couldn’t understand how it could be that Lucas was that man. “I’m not who I used to be,” he had told me. No kidding.

“An old friend,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years. I met him in college.” When he was strong, good-looking, and dressed more neatly than about 98 percent of the student body. So clean-cut, he wore a suit and tie every day. “He was a graduate student, a teaching assistant in sociology. I took a statistics class from him.”

“Statistics?” She was openly puzzled. “I thought you majored in journalism.”

“I did. And Introduction to Statistics wasn’t required for my degree. I took the class at my father’s urging.”

“Your father must have been a cruel man.”

I laughed. “I fought the suggestion. But my father argued that government decisions were constantly being made on the basis of statistical studies, and that I would be a better reporter if I could analyze those studies on my own.”

“Statistics was the most boring class I ever took,” she said.

“I told my dad that I had heard that complaint from lots of stat students. He pooh-poohed that, told me to ask around the various departments until I found someone who had a reputation for teaching the subject well. Lucas Monroe had that reputation.”

“You must have really loved your father to take that class.”

“My father and I were close, but we weren’t getting along very well at that time. Growth pains, I suppose.”

“But you took the statistics class anyway.”

“To prove him wrong. When I later reported that Lucas Monroe made a convert out of me, my father was pleased. When I graduated, Dad ignored my journalism professors and sought out Lucas.” I shook my head, remembering. “He made his way through the commencement crowd to shake Lucas’s hand. They talked for a while, and later my father said, ‘That young man is destined for great things.’”

“Was he right?”

I swallowed hard, pretended fascination with the road for a moment. “My father’s prediction wasn’t remarkable. Just about everyone who knew Lucas saw the same bright future. Lucas had won scholarships and awards, and he had obtained his bachelor’s summa cum laude. He was doing well in his graduate studies-had a gift for both teaching and research.”

“What does he do for a living? Is he a professor at Las Piernas?”

“I don’t know what he’s doing now,” I said, thinking that was at least partly true. “Like I said, I lost track of him. Lucas was gone from the college by the time I returned to Las Piernas. Later, when I was working at the Express, I ran into some complex studies that were far beyond my abilities. I called and asked for him, and was told that he was no longer with the department of sociology. I wasn’t surprised, really, because he had talked of going on for a doctorate at one of the big universities. He told me he wanted to try to get on the faculty at Las Piernas, but I just figured he found something elsewhere.”

“You said he was a graduate assistant in sociology? Andre Selman’s department?”

“Yes. Lucas was one of the researchers on one of Andre’s first well-known studies. In fact, I met Andre while sitting in Lucas’s office.”

“You know, Andre really is a rat, but he knows some great people.” She was quiet, then added softly, “I met Ben through Andre.”

Claire came earlier in Andre’s lineup than I did. As I recalled, she had one of the more short-lived encounters with him. I was an intern at the Express the year she married Ben; I remember the sensation caused by Claire’s courtship with him. Ben was widowed, had no children, and was her senior by a quarter of a century. They had now been married for over fifteen years, and all but the most vicious tongues had stopped wagging.

I glanced back over at her. To my surprise, she looked like she was about to cry.

“Claire? What’s wrong?”

She bit her lower lip, hesitating. Claire and I weren’t close friends, partly because we moved in such different circles. I wasn’t sure she would confide in me.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m worried about Ben. He says he wants to retire.”

“Why are you upset? You’ve been trying to get him to retire for at least five years now.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “And he hasn’t wanted to. So why now?”

I made the turn on to the road that leads to Seaside Estates, one of Las Piernas’s upper-crust enclaves. The Seaside Country Club golf course was on our right, huge houses on our left. “What does Ben say about it?”

“He says exactly what you said. ‘You’ve wanted me to retire, so I’m retiring.’”

I laughed. “That’s a pretty good imitation of Ben’s voice.”

She smiled a little. “Lots of time listening to him. I suppose I’d be happier about this retirement if he seemed happier about it.”

“Most people have mixed feelings about retiring. Ben’s been at the Bank of Las Piernas for a long time-and in a very powerful position in the community. President of a bank that has helped businesses get started, financed much of the growth and development of the city.” I thought of the one person I knew who worked for the Bank of Las Piernas. “The people who work with Ben respect him. My friend Guy St. Germain speaks very highly of Ben as a boss.”

“Guy is an exceptional employee.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m borrowing trouble. It will be great to have Ben all to myself. I don’t know why it bothers me.”