Ice Cap (7 page)

I found a convenient slot to park the car, and after shutting off the engine, rummaged around in the pile on the passenger seat for a pen and my little spiral-bound notebook. When I found it and went to open the door, there was a guy standing there looking in my driver's-side window. I yelped, then rolled down the window.

“Sorry for yelping,” I said. “You startled me.”

He had a round face with cheekbones so plump they seemed to squeeze his eyes into narrow slits. Tufts of gray hair squirted out from a baseball hat. Mets. Not a good sign.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in a hoarse, high-pitched voice.

“Is Mrs. Buczek home? I need to talk to her.”

“What's it about?”

“I'd rather discuss it with Mrs. Buczek. Is she here?”

I started to open the door and smiled politely until he stepped out of the way.

“Are you Freddy?” I asked, guessing it was Saline's husband, though I barely remembered him.

His slitty eyes narrowed, but he put out his hand. “Fred Lumsden.”

I felt like I was shaking an inflated version of the human hand.

“Jackie Swaitkowski. I'm Franco's attorney.”

“So I heard. You was Tad's niece?”

“By marriage. To the late Pete.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Pete was a fun'un.”

“He was indeed. So about Zina, I'm assuming she's in the house.”

“Couldn't tell you. Hardly ever talks to me. Saline oughtta know. Don't know where she is, either.”

And what, in fact, do you know? I thought uncharitably.

“Okay, thanks,” I said, and crunched over the icy snow to the front door of the house and rang the doorbell.

I waited awhile, but finally the door opened, although just a crack.

“Yes?”

I knew it was Zina by the accent, though I couldn't see her.

“This is Jackie Swaitkowski, Tad's niece.” I thought I'd open with that. “And Franco's defense attorney. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Talk about what?”

“You were Tad's wife. Anything you have to say is important.”

“That's what you think. You weren't married to Tad.”

“Can I come in?” I asked. “It's very important.” There was a long pause and the door started to creep closed. “I'm a fair person, Zina. I only want to get at the truth. For everyone's sake.”

Not an entirely true statement, but it could still turn out that way. The door started to open again, though still no sight of Zina.

“I need to change into something more decent,” she said. “Wait there.”

Then she closed the door and I got to stand there for ten minutes thinking I'd just been given the bum's rush. I was about to ring the doorbell again when the door swung open.

It was Zina in a burgundy fleece outfit—nominally workout gear, though more the decorative variety. There were elastic bands at the wrists, waist, and ankles, and the zipperless top fit with little capacity to spare. The most striking feature was the neckline, which took a steep plunge, leaving much of Zina's boobs on display. Though they were seemingly unsupported, I strongly suspected some superstructure was cleverly concealed under the fleece. I hoped so, for my own self-esteem.

On her feet were black slipper socks made of knit wool with black canvas on the soles, which made a scraping sound as she led me from the foyer into the living-room area.

I wondered what the hell she'd changed out of. A corset, heels, and thigh-highs?

She slid into the corner of a sofa with her feet up, supported by the sofa arm. I'd seen similar poses in high-end fashion magazines. I plopped straight down on the opposite couch, leaning slightly forward with both feet on the ground.

“Should I be calling my lawyer?” she asked. “I've already spoken to the police. Twice. I don't know what is expected of me in this country.”

“You can if you want,” I said. “Nothing you tell me is legally binding. It's just a conversation.”

She found that amusing. “Nothing's just a conversation, Jackie. In America or anywhere else.”

“We have a thing over here called a deposition, where they come to your house and you have to swear an oath that you're telling the truth, just like you would in court. That's not what I'm here for. I just feel like I should get your take on things. You know Franco, and Tad was your husband. What do you think happened?”

She looked down at her hands, not her fingernails exactly, since it wasn't preening. It was stalling for time.

She looked up and locked onto my eyes. “I don't know what happened, and that's the truth. I'll swear an oath to it.”

I broke free of the stare and looked down at my empty notebook page.

“So tell me what you do know about the night he died,” I said.

“There's nothing to tell. Franco called to say he was worried about the roof on the woodshed. I tell Tad, who don't want to deal with this and would rather watch basketball game. But then he curses and tells me he better go shovel snow off the roof. He takes the phone and tells Franco to meet him at the shed. Then he leave. An hour later, I'm wondering what's happening, so I call Tad's mobile, but he doesn't answer. Neither does Franco. Next thing I know, you people are telling me Tad is dead.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have been angry at Tad, who might have wished him harm?”

This was also amusing.

“You're kidding, right? Everybody wish Tad harm. Even some of his own family.” She looked at me pointedly.

“But no one person or persons who stand out, who might actually be mad enough to commit this crime.”

She shook her head slowly, contemplatively.

“I don't know that many people here. Tad hardly ever take me anywhere. Do you think he would go around and introduce me to his enemies?”

Good point, I thought.

“So how'd you guys meet?” I asked, trying to sound like we were just hanging together at a cocktail party.

She cast her eyes back toward her hands.

“The Internet,” she said, turning the
r
into a trill. “Polish-American chat room. Probably disgust you.”

She smoothed the tops of her fleece pants as if they needed smoothing.

“Not at all. Why should it? Everyone likes to chat with people from the same background.”

She relaxed into the sofa as if her body had given off a sigh. I'd said the right thing.

“It's lonely when there's so many people all around and none of them you like talking to. Tad was easy to talk to. On the Internet. His Polish not so good, but my English better. I like the artistic conversation. I wanted to be an artist. Not so good as Tad, but I'm young yet. I could learn.”

Even with a more confining definition of art than what prevails today, Tad's crazy sculpture clearly fit the criteria. Just because they were objects of controversy didn't mean they weren't legitimate artistic expressions. It was Tad's brutish, hulking ways that probably caused people, including me, to assume it was all just belligerent lunacy.

“It must have been tough to live with an artist,” I said. “I've read biographies of people like Picasso and Gauguin. Bastards all.”

She telegraphed a blend of ruefulness and resentment, although I might have overinterpreted her meager body language.

“It was harder after the marriage. Tad was not so much around anymore. Business, he said. I understand business. My father was a businessman in Kraków. Not see him too much either. But when he come home, it was Christmas and birthday all in one. With Tad, it was sports on television and dirty clothes. That's okay. People are different. You want something to eat? To drink? I can call for it.”

I hate to let people put themselves out for me in these situations, yet I always do, the lurking need always overpowering the social inhibition.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Zina got up from the couch and walked out of the room through a dark passageway. Abruptly alone, I took the time to look around, noting the heavy furniture, earthy colors, and dismal art on the walls. The windows were large, however, giving a nice view of the ice-lacquered snow gripping the landscape beyond.

Zina came back in short order, walking into the room with a languid saunter more appropriate to the catwalk or casting studio.

“It's coming soon, with some snacks,” she said. “You'd think I'd ordered up the moon.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It's nothing for me. I just have to ask Saline. I don't have to lift a finger. Like I'm not able to? It's what Tad wanted. He had Saline here long before me. Didn't matter if I didn't want another person doing my work for me. But it's not too bad. You get used to it. Stupid thing to complain about, yes?”

I disagreed. “That some may find this a nice setup doesn't devalue the quality of the complaint.”

She brightened at that. “That sounded so nice. I want to learn to speak like you. Do they teach you that in legal school?”

“I was an English major in college. And it helps to be born here. But there's no reason why you couldn't improve your language skills. With your resources you could hire a private tutor. Or just go back to school.”

“I have a college degree. In economics. That surprises you?”

It did, but I wasn't going to let it show.

“Not at all. Explains why Franco said you were so bored. And lonely.”

Technically, I'd just violated my client's confidence, but she'd served up too good an opening to pass up. Franco wouldn't be the only one who could make the same observation. It was only a teeny little violation to ascribe it to him.

“He tell you that?” she asked, I thought warmly.

“So, did you and Franco talk much?”

Her expression stayed close to neutral, but she didn't answer right away. She did, however, rub the top of her thigh again as if flattening invisible creases in her synthetic pants. I tried not to read too much into it.

“A little. Franco is a very intelligent man with a fine education. Only, you wouldn't know that. He keep a low profile.”

“Okay, Zina, I have to ask this if we're going to talk about Franco.” As if she was the one who brought him up. “Do you think he could have killed Tad?”

She shook her head very slowly, though without hesitation.

“No reason. He was grateful for the job. And Tad was not a bad boss. You can ask Freddy. He's worked for Tad for twenty years. Tough, but fair. They always knew where they stood.”

“Sometimes the reason's not so obvious.”

“I thought you were on his side?” she said with a hint of levity. “No, no reason. I think he almost liked Tad. They got drunk together a few times. Freddy can't. He's triple-A.”

“Two A's. Alcoholics Anonymous.”

This would have been an appropriate time to bring up her affair with Franco, but I was afraid that might shut down the conversation. It would have to come out eventually, since the cops had the same story. I just didn't want her to associate the disclosure with me if I could avoid it. Not when I wanted her to keep talking.

“The night Tad was killed, you said there was no place for you. Nowhere to hide.”

She stiffened, not unlike the way she had that night, and looked away from me, toward one of the big living-room windows.

“It was just silly talk,” she said. “I was unhappy in Kraków. I never thought I belong there. And now I don't belong here, either. It means nothing.”

I still considered myself a newcomer to the legal game, even though I'd been at it for almost fifteen years. But that was long enough to know that when a client or witness says something means nothing, it usually means something.

I was still loath to push her beyond her limits, but not all of me was on the side of restraint. So I just said it.

“If you're sure Franco didn't kill Tad, who did?” I asked.

She didn't like the question, but took little time to answer.

“The whole world knows Tad had many enemies. This is what happens when a man enjoys making other people angry. The more enemies he could get, the happier he was. He told me that himself.”

“Would you share that in court?” I asked.

That one slowed her down, but she finally said, “You just tell the truth, right?”

I said that was right, though I spared her the details of cross-examination. That could also come in due time.

I heard the sound of clattering dinnerware coming from the hall Zina had just been down. It was a tea cart, transporting wine bottles and glasses and a tray filled with biszkopty and paluszki, the Polish equivalent of finger food. It was pushed by a tall woman with long, poorly attended, wavy brown hair. She had large hands at the end of long arms, an effect reinforced by her sloping posture. She wore a blue cotton dress—not quite a uniform, but leaning that way. Slim on the whole, she had a little potbelly that seemed to match her slouch.

Obviously Saline, but as with Freddy, I wasn't sure if I remembered her.

Zina ignored her until she'd wheeled the cart up to the coffee table and disgorged some of the load. When she offered me a glass of wine, I demurred but introduced myself.

“I'm Jackie Swaitkowski,” I said, holding out my hand. She took it.

“I know. Peter's wife. I'm Saline Lumsden,” she said, casting a sidelong glance at Zina. “We talked a long time ago. You don't remember.”

I could see echoes of Pete's father drifting around her face. Even a bit of Pete himself, which was a little unnerving.

“His widow, technically,” I said with a weak smile.

“Sure. I knew that. I liked Pete.”

“Everybody liked Pete.”

“Thank you, Saline,” said Zina. “Everything looks very good.”

It was a tidy balance between acknowledgement and dismissal. Saline kept her attention on me as she took a few more things off the cart. With no coffee in sight, I accepted a cup of black tea that looked, in fact, black.