A Midsummer Night's Scream Part 10

"Will he remember what happened?"

"Probably not. He may not really know anyway. The blow was to the back of his head. Most head injuries, I'm told, cause temporary or permanent amnesia. That's all I know now. I'm interviewing his supervisor in the morning about the janitor's normal schedule."

"You have thought about blackmail, haven't you?"

There was a long silence before Mel said curtly, "Of course I have."

"Sorry to ask. I presumed you had," she said cheerfully. "And don't forget, you owe me a really good dinner."

Thirteen.

Early Monday, Mel had finally run down the woman in charge of the cleaning staff for the college. She was a surprisingly young Hispanic woman named Rose Havana. She had her dark hair in a neat bun and was dressed in a flattering blue suit.

"Ms. Havana, I presume that you know that one of your janitors, Sven Turner, has been seriously injured," Mel said.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry about it. He's a good worker. Is he expected to live?"

"He might. The doctors aren't committing themselves yet. He's gone through a long operation and is still unconscious. His vital signs are improving slightly. That's all I know. Could you tell me about him?"

"Please take a seat. My coffee is ready. Would you like a cup?"

Mel nodded.

When she'd poured them both a steaming cup, she sat down behind her desk and said, "I don'tknow him well. I don't think many people do. I know he's good at his job. I frequently follow my staff members on their rounds to check that they're doing what they're supposed to. He is-or was-one of the most efficient."

"How long had he been employed by the college?"

She went to a file cabinet and brought back a folder. "He's been here for almost twenty years."

"Is there anything personal you could tell me about him? Family? Background?"

"Not really. He was probably the quietest person on my staff. That's why he liked being on the night s.h.i.+ft. He didn't have to converse with much of anyone. He was very shy. If somebody on his rounds was working late, he'd call in to alert me that he was s.h.i.+fting the order of cleaning. Most of his work was here at the college. He only recently took on the job at the theater. I'm probably the only person he felt comfortable talking to."

"Did he call in at any time about the theater?"

"Yes, he did. A couple of days ago, he said he was at the theater. He'd let himself in and heard two men talking, so he was going back to the college and would do the theater cleanup early the next morning."

"Do you remember what night that was?"

"I'm sorry. I don't exactly recall. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. I don't keep records of things like that. Unless I know someone didn't show up to do their work, and the department that was neglected reports it."

She went on, "I guess the only other thing I know about him is that he always liked to get everything cleaned up early on Friday. He once told me he liked spending most of his weekends driving around in his car and visiting small towns."

Mel already knew that Sven Turner was forty-seven years old, and where he lived. The janitor hadn't been robbed and the information was all on his driver's license. Mel had already left a message for the local cop on that beat about going to Turner's home.

"Thank you, Ms. Havana. If you think of anything else we should know about Mr. Turner, please let me know." He handed her his card with his office telephone number.

She, in exchange, gave him hers and said, "Please let me know how he's doing, if you would. And would you get our van back to us? We're shorthanded with Sven gone and need it for what I hope will be a short-term replacement."

"As soon as it's been checked for fingerprints." As Mel left her office, Police Officer Don Jones rang through on Mel's cell phone.

"Detective VanDyne, your office gave me your number. I've called on Sven Turner's sister and need your help. Or rather, she does.""I'll be right there. I have the address."

It was in an old but fairly well-cared-for neighborhood near the college. When Mel arrived, Officer Jones was sitting on the front porch. Mel guessed Jones was probably in his late thirties and wondered why he was still on a routine neighborhood job. He was a tall, slightly overweight man, with a nice smile and very well-s.h.i.+ned shoes. His uniform was perfection. Not a wrinkle to be seen.

Jones had risen hurriedly and opened the front gate. "Let me fill you in. I know Sven slightly. I know his sister better. She's homebound. She lost her lower legs several years ago to diabetes. I check on them from time to time."

"How's she taking the news?"

"Badly. She's dependent on him to cook for her. She's a single woman. We'll need Meals on Wheels and someone to clean and shop for her."

"Can she dress herself, get in the shower and bed by herself ?"

"I'm not sure. You need to talk to her." "Come in with me, then."

Hilda Turner was in her chair in the living room, which was spotless. Mel guessed this had probably been their parents' home. The wallpaper and carpet spoke of age. There were pictures of family members on side tables. She'd obviously been crying. Apparently Officer Jones had brought her a box of tissues and a wastebasket.

"I'm Detective VanDyne, Miss Turner. I'm sorry about your brother."

"Someone from the hospital told me a little bit about what happened to him. But not much. Could you tell me more?"

"He has broken bones in his skull and they've injured his brain. I don't know how seriously. The bones have been removed. He's still not conscious. I have to be honest with you-he could recover but not be entirely 'there,' if you know what I mean."

She looked a little confused.

Mel was forced to be blunt. "He might have permanent brain damage."

She started crying again, then made a bitter laughing noise. "What a pair we'll make."

"I'm going to get social services to visit you," Mel said. "They'll take care of you until we know more about your brother's condition."

She pulled herself together and said with dignity, "I'm not going on welfare."

"You will need help for at least a while. And it's not charity. It's what you pay taxes for. While I'm here, could I take a look at your brother's room? I don't know very much about him and it might help me find out who did this to him."

"n.o.body but me knew him. He was terribly shy. Yes, you may look in his room if it would be useful." She pointed the way.

Jane spent Monday morning working on her book. She was enjoying writing this one much more than the first one, because she'd planned ahead instead of sitting down at random intervals and winging it over a long period of years. That technique had caused her an enormous amount of tedious rewriting. There had been times she hadn't even looked or thought about the book for weeks. Then she had to reread it all over again just to remember what she'd already done.

Of course, that time, she didn't know she needed to turn it into a murder mystery until she'd attended a mystery conference nearby and had the good luck to meet an encouraging successful writer, and an editor who urged her to send in the final draft.

She realized to her surprise that she'd spent several hours on it so far today. She also knew she had nothing to feed the kids or herself that evening. Even if she and Mel ended up going out for the good dinner they'd planned, she'd still have to leave something for the kids to eat. Or hand out a wad of money for Mike or Katie to get take-out. She hated going to the closest grocery store over the noon hour. There was a breakfast and lunch place next to it and parking places were at a premium.

Parking turned out not to be quite as horrible as she'd expected, and she came home loaded down with bread, sliced ham, premade tuna salad, several boxes of frozen mac and cheese, salad, and a really good, gummy iced chocolate fudge cake. That would last them for at least a couple of days.

She was on a countdown to school's starting. Katie would be in her first year of college, albeit close to home at the junior college for the first year. She had chosen it because it had several culinary cla.s.ses. She'd still be living at home, but she could practice making dinners. Mike would go back for his third year of college, out of town, and Todd would become a soph.o.m.ore in high school.

She loved her kids. She'd done a good job of raising them herself after her husband was killed on an icy overpa.s.s while leaving her to marry someone else. She seldom even thought about him anymore. After the first horrible months of grief and fury, she realized he'd freed her to live her own life, however inadvertently.

His life insurance included a rider that had paid off the mortgage on the house she loved. And due to her having given his family's pharmacy her small inheritance from a spinster great-aunt early in their marriage, he'd written in his will that she would forever earn his one-third share of the pharmacy profits. His widowed mother and his younger brother Ted received the other shares.

She realized much later that he'd been smartand canny about financial matters. It was morals that took him away.

The pharmacy had thrived and now had branches all over Chicago and far into the suburbs. Her share had allowed her to be a stay-at-home mom. This could have changed if he'd lived to marry the other woman. With years of parsimony and good investment advice, she'd put away enough to be able to get all three kids through college and finally, a year or two ago, had become financially secure enough to pamper herself a bit.

She was, she had to admit, proud of herself. And now that she believed that she'd eventually be published, she was prouder still.

Struggling inside with the groceries, then disposing of a few things that were past their prime in order to make room in the freezer, fridge, and pantry, she managed to clear the decks and go back to her needlepoint as a nice break. She realized, as she was getting out her threads to do the next section of her sampler, that she hadn't really thought about her deceased husband for years, and wondered why he'd come to mind today. She probably wouldn't think of him again for a good long time.

With luck, perhaps never.

Fourteen.

As Mel was looking around Sven's room, which he wasn't surprised to find extremely clean, Officer Jones was conversing with Sven's sister. Mel couldn't hear what they were saying, except that Hilda was doing most of the talking.

The bedroom, besides being tidy, was revealing in other ways, too. It must have been his room when he was a boy. The wallpaper still had faded cowboys and horses. Even the single bed looked vaguely bunkhouse. It was probably the house both Sven and Hilda grew up in. Long ago paid off.

Sven was a serious jigsaw puzzle fan. There was a card table set up near the window with a half-done thousand-piece picture of a cathedral. The entire bottom of his closet was triple stacked with puzzle boxes, leaving only enough room for his s.h.i.+rts and trousers to hang above. His shoes were on a rack on the back of the closet door. They all looked as clean as if they were brand new.

So much for Jane's theory of blackmail, which he had briefly considered himself. This was a shy, retiring, compulsively neat man with a shoe and jigsaw puzzle obsession. And he didn't like working with people watching him. Mel simply couldn't imagine such a timid man repeatedly approaching strangers and firmly demanding that they pay him for what he knew they'd done that was worth keeping secret. From what little Mel knew of him, Sven would be hard-pressed to work out the details of how to repeatedly receive the cash from someone.

Out of idle curiosity, Mel pulled out a loafer, its sole facing out. The shoe didn't look as if it had ever been worn. Something fell out of it that astonished him. He put the shoe and the object back. Next, he went to the upright chest that presumably held sweaters, socks, and underwear. He found more of what he'd seen in the loafers.

He was aware that although he'd been given permission to look at the room by the janitor's next of kin, he'd need a warrant to do more searching. He closed the dresser drawers and the closet door and went back to the living room. "I see that your brother really likes hard jigsaw puzzles, Miss Turner."

"He always has. He's always trying to get me interested in them, but they're all too hard for me to enjoy."

Mel said, "You gave me permission to look in your brother's room. Would you jot down a note saying so and sign it? Just as a formality?" He went on chummily, "So much paperwork is required these days, even by the police department."

He handed her his notebook, opened to the back page, and gave her his pen. He dictated, "To whom it may concern, I, Hilda Turner, gave Detective Mel VanDyne permission to search my brother's room."

The doorbell rang and Officer Jones went to open it. It was a neighbor woman with a brisket that smelled fabulous.

"Hilda, I heard about Sven. You poor dear. Nice to see you, Officer Jones. Hilda, I'll slice this up for you and bring back a salad and bread. Do you need anything from the grocery store?"

"Nothing yet, thanks, Susan. These nice men are going to see that I get Meals on Wheels. Oh, this is Detective VanDyne. He's going to keep me posted on Sven's condition." She handed the notebook back to Mel.

Mel noticed that Officer Don Jones was easing his way toward the front door, waggling his eyebrows in a peculiar manner and nodding subtly toward the door.

Mel knew what this meant. "Miss Turner, Officer Jones and I need to go start arranging help for you and checking again with the doctors. We'll both be back."

As they left, Mel heard the neighbor Susan say, "That detective is a good-looking man and a snappy dresser. I could go for him."

Once outside, Jones said, "Come sit in my car and we'll drive around the corner. I have things to tell you."

"So do I," Mel said.

"Miss Turner started telling me about their finances," Officer Jones said. "She had a good job for years, and when she became ill, she was given an excellent severance package. She's also getting money from her social security for disability. But get this-she says Sven is a professional gambler. Almost every weekend, he leaves her prepared meals and goes to Indian reservation casinos in Minnesota or the casino boats in Iowa or St. Louis."

He went on, "She says he's good at blackjack and bingo. And he always stays under the limit of winnings that have to be reported to the IRS."