Being The Steel Drummer Part 16

At least Samson had the good grace to blush.

He said, "Lois is a good person and I loved her; I still love her. It would be unfair to pretend I didn't, but Suzanne was different. So different. She completed me. It was a whirlwind and we were riding it."

"But you never really told Suzanne you felt this way? Or did you?"

"No," he said forlornly. "She cared about me though; she said so. When she told me that, I couldn't think about anything else. I figured we could go away together and life would be perfect. As soon as she's back I'll tell her and we'll be all set."

"Samson, don't you think you're kind of putting all your eggs into a basket you don't even own?" I asked gently. I knew Suzanne Carbondale was the type of woman who sincerely cared about everyone. She was always a very nice person who developed close friends.h.i.+ps precisely because she did care. But it didn't mean she was in love with everyone.

He whirled on me and his voice became sharp. "No, that's not the way it is. I know that when she comes back we can just talk for a while and then it will be her and me together."

The plan seemed like a house of cards to me. After all, Suzanne left without even telling him. "Do you hear from her? Phone? Email? Anything?"

He calmed down a little and replied, "I texted her and she said she'd spoken with her publisher and was going out of the country for some research. She didn't know when she'd be back, but that when she did she'd be in touch."

"That's what it said exactly?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Here, I have it."

Samson showed me the text he'd received from Suzanne after she'd left. It said, < talked="" w="" pub.="" going="" mexico="" -="" research.="" back="" soon.="" will="" call="" u="" then.=""> "That's the only message you've had from her?" I asked.

"I've left a bunch of messages and texts, but she probably doesn't have a good signal in Mexico.

I knew that Jessie had gotten some texts from Suzanne from Mexico, which indicated Suzanne could get a connection at least part of the time. This relations.h.i.+p between Samson and Suzanne seemed to be mostly in his mind. But mentioning that to him, wasn't going to make him see the situation any more clearly.

"Samson, Lois is really concerned about you. Have you even thought about her?"

"I don't want to hurt her."

"You are hurting her every day by not talking honestly with her."

"I don't know what to do. I guess I'll just confess everything to Lois and move out. Hey, maybe I could hire you to find Suzanne?"

"Samson, when Suzanne comes back to the United States, what if she doesn't share your feelings?"

Samson looked like I'd thrown a bucket of water on him. He kind of woke up for a moment and gasped, but then he flickered back into his unrealistic world. He mumbled, "She said she cares about me."

"How long do you plan to wait for Suzanne? How long are you going to leave Lois in the dark?"

"I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should be honest."

"To Lois?"

"I was thinking more about being honest to yourself. Once you're able to do that, then you need to talk to Lois."

Chapter 12.

Samson had promised he'd talk to Lois in a day or two, and I'd figured that it would be in Lois's best interest if I let Samson talk to her, rather than telling her about Suzanne myself.

When I left Samson it was late lunchtime. I could go home for a dull nosh in my own kitchen or I could snag some fresh guacamole at La Casa Mexicana on 11th Street. Tortillas won out and I was on my way to mole.

La Mexicana Grill was bustling with a late lunch crowd. Mariana Estevez, the owner and family matriarch, was hard at work serving afternoon customers. She barely had a chance to wave to me as she sped by with a big tray. I not only got a little snack for myself, but I arranged for two large orders of fajitas to be delivered to the loft at dinnertime. We'd all be working on the drywall by then and would need the fuel.

Rafael told me at the cash register he'd call when he was about to bring the food over.

It was nearly 3 p.m. when I got back to my office. In the parking lot in front of the building was Farrel's full-sized van, two cars I didn't recognize, and Kathryn's little Mini Cooper.

I wanted to add a few quick notes to the Lois Henshaw file about my conversation with Samson. Maybe I should just get in touch with Suzanne Carbondale and ask her if she had any feelings for Samson. If she said "No," I'd let him know that the gra.s.s wasn't greener on the other side. He was living a fantasy, and Lois was the reality. I had a feeling that if Samson didn't choose reality soon, he was going to have to move into that apartment with no furniture in order to have a place to live.

Nora was at her new desk working on some kind of billing list that looked very dull. She perked up when I came in.

"What have you been doing since I saw you last? Catching criminals? Thinking up drag names?

"Confidential things," I smiled.

"Discretion is still the better part of valor."

"Is Sara here?"

"In her office but..." Nora noted the flas.h.i.+ng light on Sara's extension. "She's on the phone. Do you need to speak to her?"

"No, I was just wondering. Did Kathryn come by?"

"Dr. Anthony?" Nora's voice dropped to a whisper and picked up two degrees of brogue. "She was by a wee bit ago. Very dressed up she was, said she'd have to change her clothes tae work wit Farrel an some mates muckin' about upstairs and that it was faer chanking up there. I ken you'll both be stowed oot the rest o' the night. She wha swatchin for your ta come home."

"Why are you talking like we're in a pub in Glasgow?"

"Am I?"

"Aye," I smiled.

"Well, em, I get a bit fl.u.s.tered, sometimes."

"Kind of have a wee crush on her?"

"Just sussed that out, did ya? But dinna fas yersel." Nora cleared her throat and laughed, stepping it down. "She seems to bring that out in some people."

"Aye," I said.

"Lift it all the way to the ceiling. Push hard!" called Farrel, as I and one of her crew levered a horizontal sheet of drywall to the top of the wall frame. Farrel used her drill with the automatic screw-feed to tack the sheet into place. Then she and another crew member rapidly applied a line of screws to each edge, firmly attaching the whole sheet to the wall studs.

"Just three more sheets and we'll be done with this wall and we can take a dinner break," said Farrel.

Farrel and the crew had come in early and Kathryn had joined them. Three of the walls were just about done, but the last one, the one that had to fit around the open second floor, would take the longest. Kathryn, Jessie, and the other half of the young people in the crew were measuring and marking the irregular pieces that would go on that side.

I helped hold up the last two sheets, as Farrel and the others finished with the screws. When we were done, La Casa Mexicana called with the ETA on dinner.

"Rafael llegara en diez minutos," said Mariana.

Everyone was happy to hear that and went to wash hands and dusty faces in the top floor bathroom.

Kathryn came down with me to the loft to set the long dining table with plates.

"You don't realize how cold it is up there while you're working. Oh! I'm covered with dust!" said Kathryn, stretching her arms over her head and yawning. She looked at her watch. "Just a few hours ago it was a skeleton and now it's a room!"

She slipped her arms around me and gave me a dusty kiss and a hug that mixed joy with satisfaction. Her smile was so genuine I felt it too.

"Thank you for letting me do this!"

"We earned the money for it together. It's working out well, isn't it?" I asked.

"It's... it's very exciting," Kathryn nodded.

"Kind of a turn-on for you?"

"Well yes, as a matter of fact," she said in a low voice.

Jessie came down the big spiral staircase into the loft to help get drinks ready. She'd already set pitchers of iced tea in the fridge. We pulled some extra chairs around the table. We needed enough for the seven women and three men.

Farrel is always insistent that everyone dress safely for hard work. Long sleeves, long pants, hard hats if there's any overhead work. Respirators for toxic dust. Hearing protection if there's noise. Goggles. She'd even made Kathryn buy steel-toed shoes. Everyone in the room was wearing work boots and either denim overalls or jeans and flannel s.h.i.+rts. It looked like a cross between an Oshkosh commercial and an ad for the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival.

"Is there going to be anything for me to eat?" I heard one of Farrel's former students whisper.

"There are vegetarian fajitas along with the chicken, so yes, there will be plenty," nodded Farrel, just as the door bell rang. "Go help Maggie bring up the food, will you?"

He followed me down the two flights. We took the bags from Rafael's huge backpack.

"Espera Rafael, dejame darte una propina," I said.

"No, Maggie, no tienes que hacerlo. Esta bien."

"Pero quiero que lo cojas, por favor. Tu necesitas ahorrar para... cosas."

"Esta bien, de veras, y como quiera yo le doy todas las propinas a Mariana."

"Bueno pues llevaselo a ella entonces." [3]

I gave him twenty percent of the bill and hoped that he'd keep some of it but knew he wouldn't. My stepmother Juana told me long ago that I shouldn't try to figure out the dynamic of the Estevez family. Everyone who worked there was related in one way or another.

"It's another culture that you can learn about, but you'll never really understand, so just roll with it as best you can and try not to get in the way," she'd said.

We toted the bags back up to the loft. Jessie transferred everything to large bowls, stuck in big serving spoons, then set them on the table.

Everyone dug in like Amish carpenters after a barn raising. Aaron Copland could have scored it.

I turned to Farrel to ask how long the next wall would take, but she just held up her hand and said, "Can't talk... eating."

"About three hours-we should get it done tonight. Then we can clear out all the drywall sc.r.a.ps and begin taping this weekend. Don't you think?" said one of the crew members.

Farrel nodded. Everyone else seemed fine with it. I'd forgotten how hungry young people eat. Most of the food was gone already. I looked at my watch and it was only a quarter after seven. I heard Jessie say quietly to Kathryn, "Vacuum cleaners."

Farrel filled everyone's iced tea gla.s.s. She said, "Let's move the scaffolding to the other corner for the taping. It will be faster." Everyone nodded in agreement.

One of the guys said to Kathryn, "This is the highest ceiling we've ever done. What is it? Twenty feet?" Kathryn and I nodded.

The two crew women, Shar and Dawn, had been working with Farrel for several years. They had their own business creating faux finishes and detailed woodwork, but times were tough in the construction world so they still did work like this with Farrel when it came up.

Shar was short, had close-cut dark brown hair, dark attractive eyes, a compact body, and more energy than everyone else put together. Farrel always said that when Shar was on the job, it would be done twice as fast. Dawn was the quiet one of the group. Introspective and methodical but very detail-oriented. Occasionally she'd point out something that everyone else had missed. She had long light brown hair that she wore in a ponytail, was tall and on the willowy side, and had an understated way of talking. She was local; she'd met Shar when they'd both begun working on Farrel's crew.

Shar said to me, "I saw you on the WFEN news about the shooting of that guy in Skeleton Park on Sunday. What was his name?" All of the crew was interested.

"I have a picture of him. Maybe one of you've seen him around." I pulled the photos out of my bag. "I just want to warn you, I took this after he died," I cautioned. This made the older women all stand up and begin to carry plates to the sink, but the young people crowded around to look at a dead man who was just about their age. I had the yearbook photos out to show them too.

Dawn held the post-mortem photo closer. She said, "I think I know this guy from high school. His name is, um, Frankie something, I think."

I pushed the yearbook photo of Francis Kibbey over to her.

"Yes, that's him!" She read the name on the back. "Yes, Frankie Kibbey, that's who it is. I was in biology with him. I was a Junior when he was a senior. This is so sad."

"Did you know him well?" I asked.

"No, just had that one cla.s.s with him. Just an average guy... I don't really know anything else about him."

"Farrel, come here for a minute," said Kathryn staring at the high school photo Dawn had identified.

Farrel told the rest of the drywall crew to get to work and she'd join them when the dishes were all cleaned up.

When the young people were all upstairs, Farrel and Kathryn said in unison, "It's the dealer!"

"What?"

"It looks like the dealer we bought the sculpture from. It's hard to tell from the photo you took in the graveyard, but this high school portrait is more clear. The dealer had a scarf around part of his face, but it looks like the same guy," said Farrel.

"The eyes are just the same," said Kathryn.