The Reading Garden - Mystery

Important notice: All excerpts have been submitted by the author.

Sharon Zukowski


A private investigator's estranged brother is charged with murder. An excerpt from the latest Blaine Stewart mystery.

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday was winding down to a lazy end. Dennis and I were spending the last hours of our weekend in bed. Dennis slowly made his way through the New York Times, a chore he'd started early that morning but never finished. I rested on my side, watching him, admiring the way his chest rose and fell with each steady breath.

Dennis broke the spell. He folded the newspaper and draped it over his chest, spoiling the view. Then he really ruined the mood--he started an old argument. Even though we'd been married for less than three months, the discussion was already old.

"Blaine, let's look at apartments. I think we should move." He looked at me and said, "I really mean it."

The feeling of contentment that I'd been trying to hang on to slipped away. "Not again. I thought we settled this before we got married."

Rolling over onto my stomach, I covered my head with a pillow, closed my eyes, and thought about our wedding. Not very romantic, sneaking off in the middle of the day to get in line at City Hall, but it was what we wanted: quick, no fuss. No families exclaiming over us--or comparing the ceremony to my first wedding.

Dennis continued talking about moving. The pillow muffled his voice but didn't distort the message. I tried to listen without losing my temper. "...we didn't settle a thing. We only postponed the debate. Every time I try to talk to you about it, you stop me. Blaine, listen to me. I want to move. I don't feel comfortable living here."

"This was my house before it was Jeff's. It's our house now. I don't understand. You didn't mind staying here before we got married."

As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I knew I'd gone too far. I lifted a corner of the pillow and peeked at Dennis. A flush of anger spread across his face. I waited for the anger to reach his mouth. The ringing telephone saved me.

Dennis is an FBI agent. I'm a private investigator. When the phone rings at eleven forty-five on a Sunday night, it's usually business. Dennis reached for the phone. I dropped the pillow back on my head and waited. Was it business for Dennis? Or for me? Dennis asked the caller to wait. He nudged my back with the receiver and said, "It's for you--collect."

"Collect? Who is it?"

Dennis didn't answer. He lifted the pillow from my head and held the phone out in front of my face.

Propping my head up with one hand, I grabbed the receiver with the other and said hello. An impersonal operator's voice answered. "Collect call for Blaine Stewart from Dick Aldridge. Will you accept the charges?"

I stammered surprised yes. The operator said, "Go ahead, sir." Then I heard my brother's voice. It hadn't changed much in the two years since my last call from Dick.

"Hi, Blaine. Your new husband didn't sound too happy to hear from me. Hope I'm not interrupting the honeymoon. Sorry I didn't send a card; I haven't had time. Hope you understand."

The lack of a card didn't bother me; there were other things that bothered me. Things like why he had cut himself off from the rest of the family. Why he had self-destructed and spent the years floating from one dead-end job to another. Why he was always one small step ahead of trouble.

Dick has a habit of hanging up on people who challenge him, so I didn't ask any of those questions. I said, "Sure, I understand. Hey, Dick, last I heard, you were in Key West. You still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still in Key West." Dick's voice turned somber. "Blaine, I need your help."

That didn't surprise me. I knew my brother hadn't called with belated congratulations on my wedding. Deliberately keeping a light tone to my voice, I said, "Sounds serious. What's up?"

"This isn't funny. You have to help me. I can't trust anyone else."

Dennis was getting bored. He ran his index finger along my backbone, attempting to hurry me off the phone. I shivered and tried to ignore the goosebumps his finger raised.

Anticipating a request for money, I asked, "What kind of help do you need?"

"You have to come down here. As soon as you can."

"I'd love to see you, but I can't just drop everything and fly down for a visit. What's so urgent?"

"I'm in jail. Is that urgent enough for you?"

Over the years, as Dick moved from job to job and city to city, I had expected a call for help. I had never dreamed that Dick's call would come from inside a jail. My throat tightened. I had trouble keeping my voice calm. "What's the charge?"

Dennis's finger stopped moving and gently rested against my skin. He didn't make any attempt to hide his interest in my conversation.

"Murder."

Dick had a history of skating around serious trouble--but murder? I didn't believe him. I laughed and felt some of the tension leave my body. "Dick, you have the wrong sister. You need an attorney, not a private investigator. Call Eileen. She's the one who can help you."

"If I were guilty, I'd need a lawyer. But I'm innocent. I need you. You're the only one I can trust."

I stopped laughing. My throat tightened; the tension came rushing back. "You're serious. You're really in jail? For murder?"

"Yes. I'm not fooling around, Blaine. I need your help."

The tremor in Dick's voice convinced me. Despite the warning pressure of Dennis's finger, I agreed. "Okay. I'll be there tomorrow. I'll take the first flight I can get."

Dennis gurgled as he strangled on a protest. I continued to ignore him.

"I knew you'd--"

"Save it. Do you have an attorney. What about bail?"

"Yeah, the cops let me call somebody. I don't know about bail. The arraignment's in the morning."

"Who was murdered? And why were you arrested?"

"Well. . . " The hair on the back of my neck rose. "Well" has always been Dick's favorite lead-in to really bad news.

"We were living together. I guess that makes me the number one suspect."

Disbelief that we were having such an outlandish conversation mixed with annoyance at the way information crept out of Dick's mouth. I impatiently asked, "Who was killed?"

"Corrye Edwards."

"Corrye Edwards. Am I supposed to recognize that name?"

"You've never heard of her? Corrye is--was--a famous poet down here. Not just here, all over the country. She even won a Pulitzer prize."

"Sorry, I haven't kept up on Pulitzer prize-winning poets. When was she killed?"

"The cops say it happened early Friday morning. They arrested me yesterday."

I was about to ask why he hadn't called sooner when Dick asked, "Aren't you going to ask if I'm innocent or guilty?"

"Should I? You said you were innocent."

"I'm surprised, that's all. Everyone else thinks I'm guilty."

I squeezed the receiver and counted. By the time my silent count reached four, Dick got the message. He laughed. Maybe it was the long distance, maybe it was the echoes of childhood battles that made the laughter sound brittle and harsh. The muscles in the back of my neck tightened.

"Ready to fight. Just like old times, isn't it?"

"Yeah, just like old times. I'll see you tomorrow."

Dick thanked me. I grunted, said goodbye, and passed the telephone to Dennis. Then I buried my head under the pillow again. I was beginning to enjoy hiding under its soft darkness.

"I have to go to Florida."

"So I heard. Corrye Edwards..." Papers rustled as Dennis snatched the Times from the floor and flipped through it. "The obituary doesn't mention murder." When I didn't respond, Dennis asked, "Do you want to hear this?"

"Not really."

"She was fifty-three. How old's your brother?"

"Thirty. Does the article mention Dick? Give me the phone--I should call the family."

Dennis tossed the paper on the floor and leaned over me. He pulled the pillow away from my head and kissed my neck. "Listen to me. You don't have to call your family. Even if your brother's name was on the front page in three-inch type, you do not have to call your family. Let someone else handle those chores for once."

"Give me the phone. I should call Eileen."

"Call her in the morning. Someone should get a good night's sleep. I know we won't."

I couldn't let go of the idea that I had to call someone. After thinking for a few seconds, I said, "I have to call the airlines. Who flies to Key West?"

Dennis, who always knows the fastest way to get anywhere, mentioned a few airlines. When I didn't move to pick up the phone, Dennis did. He dialed; I drifted away thinking about my brother.

I'm the middle child in what most people consider an all-American family. Eileen's the oldest; Dick's the youngest. Like most all-American families, we have our problems. Up until tonight, my drinking had been the biggest problem--and I hadn't had a drink for more than three years.

A finger jabbed me, bringing me back to the bedroom. I looked at Dennis. He was smiling. "Your flight leaves JFK at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. First class. You change planes in Miami and get into Key West at one. There will be a car at Avis. Take your fishing pole--the reservation agent said June is when Key West holds its Hemingway Fishing Tournament. What about a hotel?"

I felt too drained, too tired, to do more than say thanks and that I'd find a hotel room when I got there. I closed my eyes and started dreading the morning.

Dennis pushed my hair aside. He kissed the back of my neck and started down my spine. "I wish I could go with you."

By the time his lips reached the base of my spine, I was in complete agreement.

* * *

Flying first class has two advantages: quick check-ins and extra room between the seats. Since I'm a very tall, very impatient person, I'm willing to pay extra for both.

The clerk at the check-in counter took my credit card and my bag. In exchange, he gave me a ticket, a boarding pass, and my used credit card. Done. Check in. Twenty minutes until they'd let me on the plane. Just enough time to get a cup of coffee and call the office. That's the order I followed: coffee first, office second.

Eileen answered, as I knew she would. She's always the first one in. I tried to sound cheerful. "Hey, Eileen--"

"Hi, where are you? I thought we were meeting this morning for breakfast and to plan--"

I cut her off. "Sorry. You know what that cliche` about the best-laid plans? Well, it happened. Mine have gone astray. I'm on my way to Florida. I don't know how long I'll be gone." I heard a sharp intake of breath and quickly said, "Dick called late last night. He's in trouble."

"So you're going to bail him out."

Eileen's courtroom voice didn't betray any emotion. The cool tone didn't bother me; it's her way of maintaining control.

"Exactly. If the judge allows bail."

Even after a dozen years of delivering bad news, I still get sweaty palms when I face that unpleasant chore. My wet palms slipped on the receiver. I tightened my grip, took a deep breath, and repeated my conversation with Dick.

Eileen listened, then crisply said, "I'll handle the rest of the family. I'll also see if I know anyone in Florida who can help you. Call me when you land."

I knew what Eileen would do. As soon as we hung up, she'd pull a battered address book from her briefcase and start making calls. By the time I phoned from Florida, she'd have a list of law school buddies who were waiting to hear from me. I hoped they'd be able to help.

On my way to the gate, I stopped to buy the New York papers. Tucking them under my arm, I went to the gate and joined the line of impatient travelers inching down the passageway to the plane. While we shuffled along, I scanned the front pages.

The News and the Post featured pictures of the corpse du jour--a headless cadaver found floating in the pond in Central Park. The head was still missing. Neither paper mentioned Corrye Edwards. New York City provides enough bodies; they didn't waste space on one found in Key West.

A small box on the front page of the Times noted Corrye's death and promised a full obituary inside. After settling in my seat and buckling my seat belt, I opened the paper and found the article.

Pulitzer prize winner. Unofficial poet of the Keys. Famous for reading poems at the last presidential inauguration. Widow of a famous painter and Cuban expatriate who had committed suicide on their tenth anniversary. Police sources say death occurred during a late-night mugging. A private memorial service would be held in Key West later in the week. No children. Ten volumes of poetry left behind.

I read the short obituary over and over again, searching for hidden nuances that would explain Dick's role. By the time the plane touched down in Miami, I had a pounding headache. It started at the base of my neck, ended at my eyebrows, and was accompanied by strong feelings of doom. As I hurried to the terminal for my Key West flight, the headache intensified.

CHAPTER TWO

I shared the plane with one family: Mommy, Daddy, one crying baby, two fighting children. The plane had only a dozen seats--I couldn't get away from the noise. I sat as far away as possible, closed my eyes, and made believe I was asleep. I woke up when the wheels touch ground in Key West.

I climbed down the short ladder from the plane to the tarmac and wiped sweat from my forehead. By the time I had walked to the air-conditioned terminal, a journey of less than one hundred steps, the back of my head and blouse were uncomfortably wet.

In my drinking days the Conch Traveler, a bar set off to one side of the terminal would have been my first stop. A cold beer . . . I pushed the memories of icy beer sliding down my throat and hurried to the row of telephones lining the front wall.

"Hi--where are you?"

Eileen's voice was still too even, too unemotional. I didn't ask if she was okay because I didn't want to worry. Long-distance worrying is pointless.

"I'm in Key West. What do you have for me?"

"I've been waiting for your call. You have a meeting with Dick's attorney in half an hour. Reginald Brown is his name. He's going to meet you in front of the Key West police station. He'll get you in to see Dick." Eileen hesitated, then quickly said, "Blaine, I want to be there. I'm going to fly down in the morning."

"What are you going to do when you get here? Are you going to follow me around and get in my way? Or are you going to sit in the jail and lecture Dick? Let's handle this like we would any case--"

"This isn't just any case."

"I know," I said soothingly. "But remember all those lectures you've given me about not letting emotions cloud your judgement. I'll do the investigation. You stay home--until we need you down here."

Eileen flatly said, "You mean until it's time for the trial."

We were silent for a moment. I pictured myself sitting in a courtroom watching my sister defend my brother. My voice shook a little as I answered, "If I do my job right it won't get to a trial. What do you know about this Reginald Brown? Is he any good?"

"He's from a large Miami firm that specializes in criminal law. Where are you staying? I'll fax his complete bio as soon as we put it together."

I rested my head against the top of the telephone. "I don't know yet. I'll call you when I find a place." I glanced at my watch. "Eileen, I'd better get going if I'm going to make this meeting. I promise to call you as soon as I can."

I'd never been to Key West before; I probably would have liked the town better if I had been there on vacation. As I followed the Avis lady's directions to the center of town, I found myself vaguely disappointed by the narrow strips of sand--I had expected wide beaches. After turning off the road that ran along the ocean, I drove through a stretch of grocery stores, bars, and houses. As I sat waiting for a light to change, I nervously drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

I parked in the shade of a palm tree and trotted across the street to Whitehead Street to the jail. I should have taken my time--no one was waiting for mer. I paced up and down the sidewalk, feeling my nerves stretching tighter with each minute.

A few months ago, I would have smoked a few cigarettes and enjoy the sights. Now that I was a nonsmoker, waiting was intolerable.

Giving up smoking was proving to be as difficult as giving up drinking had been. I wake up every morning craving a cigarette, then a drink. Some mornings the order of my urges reverse themselves: I want a drink, then a cigarette. I found three socially acceptable ways to overcome the cravings: work, exercise, and sex.

Whenever I complain about missing smoking, Dennis smiles. Eileen's happy about my increased working hours--our billings have climbed to record levels. I was the only unhappy person. I wanted a carton of cigarettes and a liter of scotch. Instead of giving in, I walked around the block, counted tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts, and finally stopped in a store to buy the local papers. I spent the rest of my waiting time reading about Corrye Edwards and her death.

* * *

Sometimes you take an instant and irrational dislike to a person just because of the way she says hello or because the smell of his cologne gives you a headache. This was one of those times. From the moment the man in the wheelchair approached me, dislike raced through me. Reminding myself to be fair, I fought it down and tried to smile.

"Laska Brown. You must be Blaine. You and Dick look alike." He ignored my outstretched hand and pointed to a bench near the curb. "Why don't you sit over there? It's easier to talk when I'm eye-to-eye with people."

Reginald Brown--Laska, as he called himself--might have been an attractive man; I couldn't tell. His blond hair hung in greasy strands that flopped around his ears and in his eyes. Two or three days of stubble grew out of the pockmarks on his face.

I followed Brown's instructions and sat. He parked his wheelchair next to the bench and squinted at me. "What, no questions about the chair? Don't you want to know how a cripple got through law school?"

The antagonism I felt rushed to the surface. I took my sunglasses off and stared into his eyes. "Nope. I'm assuming you managed to get through law school. My questions concern your experience with murder cases and your track record. How good are you?"

Either Laska didn't understand me or he was too intent on telling his story to hold it back. "It happened two days after I graduated college. I got drunk and drove my Camaro into a concrete pillar. The overpass is still standing--I'm not."

"That's too bad. I used to drink too. Dumb drunken luck kept me in one piece." The bright sunlight aggravated my headache. I put my sunglasses on again and said, "Now that we have our sordid stories told, let's get on to business. How much experience do you have with murder cases? What's your track record? How much do you charge and who's paying you?"

Brown's quick grin masked a flash of annoyance. "Is that it? A brief AA meeting, then let's discuss my resume?"

"Listen, Mr. Brown, Key West might be paradise for a lot of people, but not for me. I've been here for an hour and I'm not impressed. It's too hot and too crowded. I have a headache and I don't know where I'm sleeping tonight. All in all, I'd rather be in Manhattan."

"That's good. We don't need any more tourists retiring down here, clogging our streets and sewers. So you dropped everything and rushed down here to rescue your brother." He made it sound like an insult. I clenched my teeth and waited. "You ever been inside a jail?"

"As a visitor or inmate?"

"And I was hoping your brother was the only asshole in your family. But I see they sent in reinforcements."

"I've been called worse. Is this your typical get-acquainted consultation?"

"Ms. Aldridge--"

"Stewart." The blank look on his face set me off. "Listen carefully, I'm only going to explain it once. I got married and changed my name. Are you this dense about the law too? If so, when Dick's convicted we'll be able to appeal because of incompetent representation."

Brown shook his head. "Nonhandicapped bias. It happens all the time. People can't see beyond the chair."

"You're wrong. I don't mind your wheelchair. I have a better reason to dislike you: your personality sucks. Now can we go see my brother? Maybe he'll be able to answer my questions."

"In a minute. I'm not finished. Do you work, Ms. Stewart?" I nodded, he nodded. "What kind of work do you do?"

"Why?"

"I'm not a public defender wasting time on some poor slob because I can't get a job at a real firm. I'm expensive. I did some work for your brother once, so when he called, I came down. I'd like to know if I have any chance of getting paid."

"What kind of work did you do for Dick? Who paid you then?"

"I can't tell you that. Attorney-client privilege. But I do have some experience with murder trials. Did the Webster case get much airplay up north?"

"Is that the one where the husband killed his wife and her lover and tried to feed them to the sharks? The details appealed to the New York City tabloids, and the trial made headlines for weeks. It was impossible to avoid it."

A grin of satisfaction flew across his face. He nodded happily. "My case. I got him off, you know. I specialize in jealous lovers who are accused of murder."

"So, my brother's a murderous, jealous lover. Is that what you think?"

"It's all the police have come up with. I haven't found anything to shake their theory."

"Where do you practice?"

"Mostly Miami. My firm has a small office here that I use sometimes. I flew down wh en Dick called. Enough about me--back to you."

"I'm not very interesting. I'd rather talk about my brother."

For the first time, Brown's cool demeanor wavered. He snapped, "We'll get to your brother when I'm ready. I'm running the show. Not you."

The God Complex. Don't question my authority, just follow my instructions. Attorneys are famous for it. So are doctors and accountants (at tax time). I've had enough experience with Eileen's displays of omnipotence to not be impressed.

I shrugged my shoulders. "That could be a problem--if we were working together. Since the chance of that happening is remote, I'm not worried."

"Your brother tells me you do a little investigating for a living. How good are you?"

"Good enough to pay the bills."

I sat back against the warm wooden backrest, crossed my legs, and smiled the smug grin that always sets Eileen off. The attorney's face and neck turned crimson. My grin deepened. I love getting attorneys mad. Brown teetered on the edge of losing his temper but managed to hang on--with great effort.

"Let's be blunt here." He tapped the armrest of his wheelchair and said, "One, as you can see, I'm not exactly inconspicuous. I need someone to be my legs. Two, your brother doesn't have a hell of a lot of money. Three, you have more experience than anyone we can afford to hire."

I laughed until tears slid from the corners of my eyes. "I'm sorry. . . " I took my sunglasses off and rubbed my eyes. "Your enthusiasm is underwhelming. I'm flattered by your belief in my abilities. Let's see if I can sum up my qualifications: I can walk. I'm cheap. And you hope I learned something from the little investigating I've done."

"That's it. Deal?"

"I don't know what my brother's been telling you about me, but let me set this warped record straight. I run a business that booked seven million dollars in fees last year. There are half a dozen investigators and another half a dozen lawyers on my staff. I'll work with you, not for you. Equal partners or we don't have a deal."

"Headstrong."

"People who know me prefer to call me pigheaded. Fill me in on what's going on down here, then let's go inside. It's too hot to sit out here and wrangle with you."

"No, let's visit your brother first. Then we'll talk. I want you to listen to his story and make up your mind without any prompting from me. I want to hear what you think."

My stomach dipped. Laska's tone of voice did nothing to inspire confidence in Dick's claims of innocence. Could he do better when he was facing a judge and jury?
* * *

I waited in a barren room that wasn't much bigger than a small closet and watch the ceiling fan struggle to move the humid air. The fan lost the battle. Sweat dripped down my back and soaked my cotton shirt.

The door opened. Dick stood in the doorway and stared at me. I sat, incapable of doing anything but stare back. In the two years since we'd last seen each other, Dick's hair had thinned. Constant exposure to the sun had turned his hair golden and his skin bronze. The fluorescent coverall that's become haute couture in jails all over the country gave his face a sallow tint that reminded me of a rotting pumpkin.

Dick stepped into the room. Mindful of his duties, the guard followed my brother--or tried to follow him. Laska Brown sharply maneuvered his wheelchair to block the entrance. The attorney looked at me over his shoulder and nodded. With a faint smile on his face, Brown pushed himself, and the cop, out to the corridor. He pulled the door closed. I was alone with my brother.

I pushed myself to my feet and rushed across the tiny space. Dick and I awkwardly hugged, then broke away.

Dick backed up until he was against the wall. "Calling you was a mistake. Go home."

It's difficult to argue with a carbon copy of yourself, but I tried. My jaw snapped into the same intractable pose as my brother's. "I didn't volunteer for this assignment. Remember? You called me. Here I am. I can't leave; I just signed on as your lawyer's errand girl."

"I'll tell you to fire him."

Before the words "Grow up" could escape my mouth, I sat at the narrow fake wood table. Instead of looking at Dick, I carefully traced a cigarette burn with my index finger.

When we were kids, I'd get so mad at Dick that I'd pound him on his chest or head with my fists until an adult tore us apart. I knew Dick half expected me to rush across the room and hit him. I didn't get up; I delivered my knockout punch from my seat.

"Do you know that Florida has the death penalty? The district attorney says he's going to plunk you down in the electric chair." ©1996


***


*About the author:Sharon Zukowski's varied professional life -- a stockbroker, founder of group homes for mentally retarded adults, temporary secretary, and others -- gives her a unique perspective on life in today's America. A unique view that flavors her fiction.

Beginning with The Hour of the Knife, and continuing through Dancing in the Dark, Leap of Faith, and her latest, Prelude to Death, Zukowski has tackled tough contemporary issues in a manner that leaves readers entertained -- and thinking. Issues such as surrogate mothers, fertility clinics, animal rights, covert government operations, and terrorism. Her work in progress, Jungleland, focuses on the world of Wall Street, once again putting Zukowski's professional life to good use.

The Blaine Stewart series also gives Zukowski an outlet for her penchant for travel. Although her protagonist is based in Manhattan, she has travelled to the Carolinas, Key West, Washington, DC, and other locales in search of the truth.

Sharon lives in New Jersey. Write to Sharon Zukowski

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