Flinch Factor, The Page 5

  “You’re a riot, Gold. Hey, one more thing—and this is important.” He leaned over his desk and lifted his Post-Dispatch newspaper, which was folded back to the New York Times crossword puzzle. He’d become a Times crosswords addict back in his stakeout days.

  “Here we go. Eight letters.” He was frowning at the clue. “Three word phrase. Sounds legal to me. First two words are ‘Res’ and ‘Ipsa.’”

  “Loquitur,” I said, and spelled it for him.

  “What a gal. Res Ipsa Loquitur. What the hell does that mean?”

  “The thing itself speaks.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means that the proof is self-evident. You don’t need any additional evidence.”

  “Res Ipsa Loquitur.” He grinned. “Like my heart for you, eh?”

  “Go to your meeting, Bertie. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Eight

  The credits to the motion picture Airplane identify one character simply as Hanging Lady. She is the elderly woman seated next to the gloomy ex-fighter pilot Ted Striker in the scene where he tells her the interminable story of his decline and disgrace. When the camera finally pulls back, we discover the poor woman has committed suicide, hanging herself from the luggage compartment.

  After forty minutes of Brenda Gutterman’s yakking, I felt like the Hanging Lady’s understudy. I’d heard detailed accounts of her children (including dance and French lessons for Rosalind, club hockey for Roland, school musical try-outs for Regan), her husband, her in-laws, her parents, her siblings and spouses and incomes, her last vacation, her physical trainer, her hairdresser, her colorist (source of her blond hair), and other topics of no possible interest to anyone but Brenda. She’d been babbling nonstop from the moment I met her at the entrance to Briarcliff Country Club.

  Her choice of venue.

  Talk about starting off on the wrong foot.

  I am no fan of country clubs. Even so, Briarcliff is the worst of the worst: an exclusive Jewish country club—and thus a place where my people, victims of discrimination and exclusion throughout their history, can discriminate and exclude their own people. There are men in St. Louis—accomplished men, wealthy men, otherwise distinguished men—whose membership applications to Briarcliff have languished for years. Even decades. Some eventually give up and join the other Jewish country club in town, Golden Bough (a.k.a. Goldenberg)—land of pinky rings, Mercedes SUVs, and Vegas vacations. Others die with their applications still pending before the dreaded and inscrutable Membership Committee.

  Brenda and her husband were members for one reason: she was a legacy. Her great-grandfather, Stanley Fine, was one of the founders of Briarcliff Country Club back in 1919. While I had waited for her in the main hall at noon, I’d perused with amusement the large brass plaque that lists the five esteemed founders:

  Jerome Brown

  Stanley Fine

  Harold Marshall

  Yadi Olson

  Philip Gold

  On the immigration ledgers at Ellis Island, those same five are listed as:

  Yacov Bronkowitz

  Schmuel Finkel

  Heschel Marx

  Avram Olshovansky

  Pinchus Goldenberg

  No matter. The Ellis Island Era is as relevant to Briarcliff as the Jurassic Era. The club strives for a Wonder Bread version of Judaism—where corned beef is available only on St. Patrick’s Day, the menu lists lox as smoked King salmon, the Friday night seafood buffet features a full array of shellfish, and the golf course is packed on Rosh Hashanah. As the men in their tennis whites sip their single malts on the veranda after a game of doubles, they can pretend that they aren’t stuck in a Yiddish minstrel version of a real country club.

  We were having lunch in the Great Hall, a kitsch homage to King Arthur. You could gaze up at the overhanging rows of flags emblazoned with English heraldry and pretend that your family coat of arms was something more regal than, say, a gefilte fish rampant on a field of chopped liver.

  “Can you believe that?” Brenda said. “Can you?”

  I tried to rewind the last segment of her monologue, to patch together what was apparently so hard to believe. I came up empty.

  Assuming that her question was merely rhetorical, I said, “I can’t believe it.”

  “No one could, Rachel. People were so—oh, look, it’s Sheri Bronson. Hello, Sheri,” she called in a lilting voice a full octave higher than normal.

  A red-haired woman—presumably Sheri—paused on her way to her table.

  “Love the suit,” Brenda said, still in a cheerful falsetto.

  Sheri was wearing a dark pinstripe pants suit and pumps. She had an enormous leather purse slung from her shoulder. She smiled and put her hand on her hip in a runway pose.

  “Thanks.”

  “Neiman Marcus?”

  Sheri nodded.

  After she’d moved on, Brenda leaned forward.

  “She better enjoy this lunch,” she said in a stage whisper. “Do you know her husband? Jim Bronson? The liquor distributor? He’s divorcing her. Once that decree is final” —she made a throat-slicing gesture with her hand— “she’s history at Briarcliff.”

  Our waiter arrived with our lunches—the daily low-carb salad special for Brenda, a turkey club for me. As I watched Brenda issue additional orders to the poor guy, I finally realized what had seemed so odd about her face. The entire upper half, from eyebrows to hairline, was immobile. Presumably the result of a recent round of Botox. Along with the forehead wrinkles, the injections had eliminated all facial expression. Brenda was no plastic surgery novice. Judging from the way she filled out her turtleneck sweater top, I was guessing a fairly recent boob job as well. Her nose job—the turned-up Debbie Reynolds style—had been a popular style during her high school days and mine. I’ve read that women these days opt for a more natural, less obvious version. I assumed that her blue eyes owed their eerie radiance to tinted contact lens.

  I couldn’t understand how Brenda and my sister Ann were good friends. But there were many things about my younger sister that I couldn’t understand—and I’m certain she was equally baffled by me. Long ago we’d decided to just love one another and forget the rest.

  But I also couldn’t understand what Nick Moran had found romantic or alluring about this self-absorbed woman. It was like discovering that Prince Charming had been sleeping with one of Cinderella’s stepsisters the whole time.

  Maybe Nick’s sister was wrong about Brenda. Maybe their relationship was not a romantic one. Regardless, I needed to find out.

  As Brenda paused to take in a forkful of salad, I said, “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

  She nodded.

  “You knew Nick Moran.”

  Her face remained blank as she chewed.

  “He redid your master bathroom about a year ago.”

  She stared. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve looked through his files. His sister retained me to help wrap up some things after his death.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Just things. We should leave it at that.”

  I’d realized ten minutes into our meeting that telling Brenda Gutterman anything was the equivalent of broadcasting it on the airwaves.

  “Well, well, well,” she said with sarcasm. “Top secret, eh?”

  “Just attorney-client privilege. The same if you retained me to handle something for you.”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  “The reason I asked to meet today. I want to ask you about your relationship with Nick.”

  “My relationship?”

  Judging by her voice, she was trying to feign confusion. Her face, of course, remained blank.

  “According to Nick’s sister, your relationship with Nick extended beyond his renovation work.”

  “Meaning ex
actly what?”

  “Meaning exactly what you think it means, Brenda.”

  “He told her about me?”

  “Yes.” I decided to gamble. “Everything.”

  She sat back in her chair and placed her hand over her heart.

  “I am shocked. I am outraged. I cannot believe he would do that. That he would betray me. Would betray us. This was our secret.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “How can I say? Apparently, he is a member of the kiss-and-tell club. Serves me right for sleeping with the help.”

  I wanted to reach across the table and slap her in the face. Instead, I tried to keep my face as blank as hers.

  “I don’t believe he told anyone,” I said.

  “He obviously told his sister.”

  “He didn’t tell her about the sex part.”

  “Then who did?”

  “No one.”

  “How did she know?”

  “She didn’t. All she knew is that one of the women Nick talked to her about was named Brenda. I figured out that you were that Brenda when I looked through his work files.”

  “He talked to her about me?” She sounded flattered.

  “Yes. And had nothing negative to say about you.” Which was true, I supposed.

  “So he cared about me?”

  “That’s what it sounds like. Tell me about your relationship.”

  She sighed. “There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid. We were lovers for barely two months. When he started working on our master bathroom, it felt like a scene out of one of those trashy romance novels. Phil and I moved into the guest bedroom downstairs because the workers arrived every morning at seven. I started coming up with excuses to visit with him during the day. I knew he was attracted to me. A girl can tell. I started wearing sexier clothes each time I dropped in on him. Well, it finally happened one morning. I hauled him into the bedroom and—Oh My God—it was unbelievable, Rachel. I had more orgasms that morning than Phil’s given me in a year.”

  Poor Phil.

  “What happened after that?”

  She leaned forward, her voice low. “Imagine your perfect sexual fantasy. That was us. I’d get Phil off to work and the kids off to school each morning, come back upstairs, put on something sexy, and fetch him from the bathroom. If he had other workers there that day, he’d find some excuse to meet me in the exercise room in the basement.”

  “Every day?”

  “In the beginning. But even toward the end we’d do it three or four times a week.” She smiled. “He was an awesome lover. He knew what I liked.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It was too good to be true.” She shook her head. “He finished the job, got his final payment, and, poof, the bastard disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Went on to the next job and that was it. I tried to call him. I went to the new job site. Nothing.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The usual crap. Time to move on. Fun while it lasted. I was deeply hurt. A man like that—a blue-collar worker—doesn’t just use a woman like me and walk away.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Plenty. I was furious. I even threatened to tell my husband.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That I’d been taken advantage of. Used and discarded.”

  “Did you?”

  She gave me a look—or at least appeared to be trying to give me a look with that blank face. “Of course not. Oh, I hinted around some. I wanted Nick to feel my pain. But I never came out and told Phil what had happened.”

  “Do you think he suspected anything?”

  “I don’t know. Frankly, he isn’t the best communicator.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “My therapist, of course. I had to talk with someone. I felt so demeaned.”

  “When did your relationship with Nick end?”

  “About six months ago. No, seven months. Right before I had my breasts done. That was my gift to myself. After all that pain and suffering, I deserved something special.”

  She glanced at my boobs.

  “You’d be surprised at how good it makes you feel about yourself. Every girl should consider it.”

  Poor Phil.

  Chapter Nine

  “It’s unlocked,” I called.

  The door slowly opened, and Barbara Weiss peered into Benny Goldberg’s office. I was seated behind his desk.

  I stood. “Come on in, Barb.”

  She was the fifth and final woman on my list. After my lunch with Brenda Gutterman I’d been able to meet with Robin Emerson and Judy Bussman, the two women Nick’s secretary had flagged for me. She’d selected them because of the number of times each had called the office looking for Nick. As I quickly determined, however, there was no romantic motive behind those calls. Instead, each woman fit into that category of client dreaded by professionals of all stripes: the obnoxious complainer who feels entitled to call day and night regarding any issue, no matter how trivial. Each woman conceded satisfaction with the renovation work and seemed oblivious to any other aspect of Nick Moran.

  BarbaraWeiss stepped into Benny’s office, closed the door, and gazed around, eyes wide. “Wow. I’ve never been in a law professor’s office before.”

  “Trust me, Barb, this in not your typical law professor office.”

  Framed on one wall were tributes to what Benny claimed were his two childhood heroes: a Spiderman poster signed by Stan Lee and a New York Knicks #22 jersey signed by Dave DeBusschere. On the facing wall was a zany array of framed photographs and memorabilia, including the item that Barb was leaning forward to study: the infamous page 127 of a deposition Benny took in the Allied Chemicals case many years ago when we were associates in the Chicago headquarters of Abbott & Windsor. Though Benny’s years at that firm had included several notable litigation misadventures, the encounter memorialized on page 127 of the Reynolds deposition—eventually reprinted verbatim in a Chicago Bar Journal article on the decline of professional courtesy—was, depending upon your perspective, his zenith or his nadir. The exchange occurred after Benny expressed exasperation with his adversary, who had just made his fifty-third objection of the day:

  Mr. Klemper: That’s too bad, Mr. Goldberg. As you know, I have a perfect right under the Federal Rules of —

  Mr. Goldberg: Forget the Federal Rules, Norman. From here on out we’re operating under the Goldberg Rules. Here’s Rule Number One: You open that pie hole of yours one more time and I’m going to rip off your head and shit in your lungs. You read me?

  Mr. Klemper: I—you—I cannot believe—do you—this deposition is over.

  Mr. Goldberg: Excellent. Then get your sorry ass out of here before I throw you through that window.

  “Oh, my.” Barb straightened up. “He sounds like a real character.”

  “That he is.”

  I pointed at the framed photograph of our T-ball team, which was taken right before the first game. “Here’s your son.”

  She stepped over to look. “Barrett just loved being on that team, Rachel. He was so devastated when he had to stop playing because of his asthma.”

  “Let’s hope he’s all better by next season.” I gestured toward the small round table in front of the bookcase. “Let’s sit.”

  Benny’s office was the perfect meeting place. Barb worked in the Center for the Humanities, which was just across the Quad from the law school. While she was willing to meet with me, she was uncomfortable doing so in her building and clearly preferred a more private venue. Her day ended at four o’clock, which is when Benny’s antitrust class started. He suggested that we meet at his office.

  I had liked Barb from the very first meeting of our T-ball team parents last year. She was unpretentious and unassuming despite her wealth, the sc
ope of which I discovered when I dropped her son off after practice one day. She lived in an impressive Tudor-style mansion in an affluent older neighborhood. Nevertheless, she drove a Chevy minivan, wore little jewelry and less makeup, and dressed in Standard Soccer Mom Attire that could have come off the rack at Macy’s, and probably did. Today’s outfit was a green long sleeve cardigan sweater over a matching green shell, beige cargo slacks, tan loafers, and simple pearl earrings. She wore glasses and had straight brown hair that she parted in the middle and wore to her shoulders.

  “So?” She raised her eyebrows. “What’s going on? This all seems mysterious.”

  “I wanted to talk with you about Nick Moran.”

  “Nick?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “That’s why I wanted this to be private, Barb.”

  She nodded, head still down.

  “Nick has a sister. She asked me to look into his death. He had mentioned your name to her.”

  She looked up, her eyes red. “He told her about me?”

  “Nothing private, but enough for her to conclude that you and he were close.”

  “We were,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “According to his secretary, he did work on your kitchen, den, and guest bathroom on the first floor. Took almost three months in total. He finished about two months before he died.”

  She nodded.

  “Actually,” I said, “I was a little surprised to discover that Nick had done work on your house.”

  “So was my husband.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s convinced that new is always better than renovating. He wanted to sell our house and move us into one of the new mansions out in Chesterfield. I refused.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want to move. I love our house. It just needed some updating. I love our neighborhood. So do the children. I didn’t want to be stuck in a gated community twenty miles west.”

  I smiled. “So you won that battle.”

  “Hard to say. My husband and I are separated.”

  “Because of that?”

  “No.” She sighed. “It’s complicated. We’ve tried to keep it private. He moved out several months ago. Now he’s trying to move back in—trying to pretend like everything’s back to normal.”