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Thomas J. Watson, Sr.
ePub
A4Chapter 9
A
RRIVING AT THE HOUSE, I DID TWENTY MINUTES OF YOGA, THEN took a very hot bath.While immersed in bubbles up to my chin, I pondered a plan for Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot. I decided to call only after I’d finished with the bones and determined positively that 287JUL05 was Lassie. Hopefully, at that point I’d also be able to explain what had killed him.
I also considered my strategy for dealing with Jurmain. After some thought I settled on a home visit. I’d go directly from the CCME. Suppertime. I might take the old coot by surprise. What the hell? All he could do was have the butler throw me out.
The water was lukewarm when the doorbell started bonging.
Emerging from the tub, I pulled on jeans and a long red sweater. No blow-dryer. No makeup. Ain’t family grand?
Between the stretching and the soaking, the knot in my stomach had eased and the headache had yielded.
Or maybe it was the aspirin. Whatever. I was feeling relaxed and rejuvenated. No corpses tonight. No accusations of professional misconduct. No double-edged teasing from Ryan.
Happily, this evening’s gathering would be small. Perhaps that, too, was contributing to my newfound serenity.
Andrejs and Brigita were coming, though their parents would be absent for reasons of health. According to Vecamamma, Emilija’s hemorrhoids had gained a quick fifteen pounds overnight. Gordie’s ailment remained undisclosed.
Regina and Terry were committed to Thursday-night bingo at St. Ignatius. Ted was on duty at his night job. Bea had a paper due. Allie had a class. I’d not been looped in on other excuses.
Uncle Juris and Aunt Klara would, of course, be present. She was bringing pineapple Cool Whip Jell-O salad.
While tubbing, I’d also weighed the pros and cons of phoning Ryan. The cons won. Ryan was home now. My number was on his speed dial.
Muffled chimes continued, announcing the arrival of diners. I recognized voices by cadence and volume.
Following the fourth bong, Aunt Klara’s alto bellowed up through the floorboards.
All present or accounted for. Time to socialize.
I was on the top step when, surprisingly, the bell sounded again. I heard the door open, then Gordie’s voice.
“Sveiki, Vecamamma.”
“Vai tev iet labak?” Was Vecamamma flustered? Gordie was about as bilingual as George Bush. Why query his health in Latvian?
“Couldn’t miss your roast lamb,” Gordie replied.
Vecamamma said something I didn’t catch. Gordie answered. Laughter was followed by a second male voice.
“Sveiki, Vecamamma.”
No.
“Sveiki, monsieur.”
“Tabarnac, something smells good.”
“Tabarnac, monsieur.” Now Vecamamma sounded flirtatious.
Sighing theatrically, I trudged downstairs. Ryan and Gordie were coming up the hall, each wearing a mile-wide smile.
Gordie pistol-pointed two fingers at me. “Men are from earth. Women are from earth. Deal with it.”
“George Carlin.”
Ryan and Gordie smacked raised palms.
“Do vegetarians eat animal crackers?” Gordie.
“Carlin again,” Ryan said. “Damn, I was bummed when he died.” Pause. “If God didn’t intend for us to eat animals, why did he make them out of meat?”
“Woody Allen?” Gordie guessed.
“John Cleese.”
“Andy, my man. You know your comedy.”
“You two spent the day playing Guess the Comic?” I was the only one not cracking up.
“Billy Goat!”
“Billy Goat!”
Tipsy high five.
“Lower, not upper!”
Palm smack.
When public road development began in Chicago in 1910, city planners came up with the idea of double- and triple-deck streets. Sound nuts? Not really. The arrangement was dictated by geography and traffic flow. This was the deal.
Many Loop streets crossed the river as bascule bridges, movable spans operated by complex counterweight systems. Bascule bridges accommodate boats nicely but require height clearance at their approaches to and over the river.
Railroad tracks were another complicating factor. Some ran along, others dead-ended at the water. Tracks also need clearance.
Thus, at points of closely spaced river crossings, a clearance zone was created. Many multilevel streets came into being as a result of falling within that zone. The idea was that local traffic would use the upper deck, while commercial vehicles and through traffic would travel below.
The longest and most famous multidecker is Wacker Drive, running along the south side of the main branch and the east side of the south branch of the Chicago River. Michigan Avenue is another.
The Billy Goat Tavern is located on Michigan’s lower level. Apparently, Bud and Lou had experienced some confusion in navigating to their chosen watering hole. But they’d definitely found it.
“Did you know the Billy Goat inspired Belushi’s ‘Cheez-borger-Pepsi’ sketch on Saturday Night Live?” Ryan asked me.
“Yes.” Fake smile. “May I speak to you alone?”
“Sure.”
“Please excuse us,” I said to Gordie.
Without waiting for an answer, I turned and walked into the living room. Footsteps assured me that Ryan was following.
“What are you doing here?” Church-voice fortissimo.
“Gordie and I played racquetball. Then we had a few beers. The guy’s a hoot, by the way.”
“Why aren’t you in Montreal?”
“Because I’m in Chicago.”
“You know what I mean. I’m trying to spend quality time with Pete’s family.”
“They’re great. Vecamamma’s a—”
“I know. A hoot. You were supposed to go home today.”
“The only flight I could get was at eight p.m. Vecamamma said I was welcome to stay for as long as I needed. Gordie offered racquetball, then a tour of the Loop. Ever been to Navy Pier?”
“Yes.” My molars weren’t clamped, but they were close.
Ryan shrugged. “Sounded good so I decided to hang for a while.”
“A while?”
“I’ll check with headquarters again tonight. See if anything’s come up since I called in this morning. Otherwise, what the hell? I’m off duty until Monday.”
“Your behavior is totally inappropriate.”
“You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”
“Yo. Andy.” Gordie was standing in the doorway. “Glass of wine?”
“A woman drove me to drink.” Ryan opened the quote.
“I never had the courtesy to thank her.” Gordie closed it.
“W. C. Fields,” I said to an empty room.
Dinner went as you’d imagine.
When I retired at eleven, Gordie and Ryan were smoking cigars and doing stand-up. Vecamamma was flashing numbered signs to score their performances.
I descended at eight the next morning. Ryan was already in the kitchen, eating French toast as fast as my mother-in-law could slap it on his plate. Both he and she greeted me with Bonjour.
As we ate, I told Ryan about 287JUL05. In French. I wasn’t yet ready to share what I suspected concerning Lassie Tot, and doubted Vecamamma’s newly acquired linguistic skills would allow her to comprendre.
“You’re convinced it’s him?”
“Everything fits. Age, sex, race, height, time of disappearance. How many twentysomething white males standing six foot one vanish in any given year?”
I heard tsking from the vicinity of the range.
“Who did the original anthropology?”
“Corcoran didn’t know.”
“How’d the kid die?”
“I don’t know. There are multiple fractures, but they may all be explained by the fall.”
“How deep is the quarry?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’d he end up in it?”
“I don’t know.”
Tsk. From the stove.
I switched to English.
“This is delicious, Vecamamma.”
“Pot roast tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I poured syrup on the refill she’d spatulaed onto my plate. “I’m really sorry about the photo albums.” Too late for cookies. She’d made a zillion on her own.
“We’ll do it another day. You help Cukura Kundze.”
Reverting to French, Ryan delivered my first bad news of the day.
“Remember the old lady bludgeoned in her home a year and a half back?”
“In Pointe-Calumet?”
Ryan nodded. “Anne-Isabelle Villejoin. She was eighty-six. Lived with her eighty-three-year-old sister, Christelle. Christelle was never found.”
Though I hadn’t been involved, I remembered the case. All of Montreal was horrified by the brutality of the crime. And by the cold-blooded killing of such elderly victims. The search for Christelle had been exhaustive but fruitless.
“I got a call about an hour ago,” Ryan continued. “Last night a guy named Florian Grellier was pulled doing one-forty on the TransCanada. A records check showed Monsieur Grellier had skipped the formality of actually purchasing the Volvo XC90 he was piloting.
“Grellier lawyered up with a courthouse crawler name of Damien Abadi. Abadi claimed his client had information on a missing old lady. After heated negotiation, in exchange for the crown prosecutor’s absolute ‘maybe,’ Grellier decided it was in his best interest to share what he knew.
“Long story short, this morning they ran a nose around a field near Parc d’Oka.”
Oh, no.
“The dog alerted?”
“Brayed like a goat in a grate.”
“Cadaver dogs don’t bark. They sit.”
“OK. Fido parked his ass on the snow and signaled foul.”
Please, no. I’d just left Montreal. I wanted to go to Charlotte. To see Katy and Birdie. To walk gloveless and bootless and need sunblock on my face.
“Did my name come up?”
“I was told Hubert would be contacting you.”
Jean-Claude Hubert is Quebec’s chief coroner and, currently, my main point of contact. If there was to be a disinterment, I knew Hubert would want me to direct it.
“What do you have going today?” Ryan switched topics.
“I plan to finish at the CCME. If the quarry skeleton is Lassie, I’ll visit Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot to break it to them personally. Then I’ll drive up to Winnetka to see what I can charm out of Old Man Jurmain.”
“Would you like company?”
“Oprah’s tied up.”
“I can be very charming.” Ryan actually winked.
“Haven’t you and your new best friend scheduled a field trip?” A creeping certainty that I wouldn’t be going home to Charlotte was making me churlish.
“I fly out at six.” Ryan also knew what Hubert would request. “Here’s what I’m thinking. While you look at bones, I deal with changing your airline ticketing. Then, after visiting Cukura Kundze, we charm the jockeys off Jurmain, and head straight to O’Hare.”
After breakfast I phoned the Bureau du coroner. We were both right.
Damn.
On the way to the car, I snatched the Tribune from the front steps.
My mood was so black, I allowed Ryan to drive. Wanting to avoid conversation, I unrolled the paper and glanced through the headlines.
And got my second wallop of bad news.
