Rochester is the “biggest small town” that I have ever known. It is vast in area and dense in population, but that doesn’t stop the common traits of small town from being evident within its boundaries. This can be a bit of a challenge in the fact that it means knowing anything and everything embarrassing you have done in public, will come to bite you in the ass one day. “Weren’t you that girl I saw dancing on the bar lip singing to I will survive at the last drag show?” You can try all you want to pretend that you knew no one that night and therefore you were protected by the shadow of unfamiliarity, but unfortunately someone knew someone etc. It also means having to vet each one of your possible suitors as if they were receiving clearance for entry into the CIA, FBI or another highly restricted government agency. Doing your do-diligence to check and double check that they are not related to, or friends with your girlfriends or past flings not that I had any of course. Because you can be sure that by six degrees of separation, there is some already established connection to your life, and you don’t want to go into that situation blind. Yes, there are some faults at the “small town” aspects that Rochester carries, but it can also be very lucrative. Because it is true, that we as humans are creatures of habit, and so becoming invisible, lost, or attempting to reinvent yourself in a small town society… well that would be difficult. This knowledge of information was of great assistance to me as I started on my next task of the day; finding Martin.
As I allowed the car some time to warm, I scrolled through my phone in search of Martin’s number. I hadn’t tried to call him in some time, but the great thing about a cell phone and the ever mysterious “cloud” is that your contacts even from long ago, remain visible to you. As my fingers landed on his name, I paused briefly to contemplate what I was going to say. Surely he had heard about my father’s passing, perhaps I could open with something about that. He wasn’t going to be a dick when it came to a loss, especially one so fresh. I could improvise from there. My goal was to get him talking, maybe even meet for coffee. That way I could gauge his reactions based on body language. If I played Steve off as a shitty husband (well not really played, because let’s face it… he was) then maybe I could make Martin think I was going to pin it solely on Steve. If he thought he was in the clear, he might just give up some good Intel. I pressed my finger down over his name and waited to hear the ringing connection, instead I heard a familiar female voice on the other end of the line. It was that unbelievably obnoxious woman who tells you “I’m sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” Yeah, I bet she is really fucking sorry. I am sure whoever Robo – Woman is felt sorry when she recorded her voice and knew it was going to be so irritating to people across the country. I am sure she continues to carry that burden with her to this very day! I was caught in a trance for a moment listening to the recording, you know because if you don’t hang up she just repeats herself like you are fucking stupid and couldn’t understand her the first time. I groaned aloud at having seemingly hit a wall with Martin until I remember when I knew about Rochester and the fact that is true what is said… humans are indeed creatures of habit. A smile formed across my lips, or course it was a little devious, but hey it was a smile ! Martin, or Martin Voss if we were using full names, became my friend in the past through that whole six degrees of separation thing. I told you, you have to vet everyone in this town! Well one of those degrees was that he played Volleyball with my father. In the same tournaments, same leagues, all hosted by the only indoor volleyball facility in the city. Hot Shots.  And as luck would have it, I was just one street over and about three blocks down from my Dad’s old stomping grounds. If Martin was true to his habits, and Rochester would live up to it’s small town stigma, well then someone in that building would know how to get in touch with Martin.

My drive was quick and I was sloshing my tires into the parking lot of the warehouse looking building in no time. It was exactly as I had remembered it to be, tall two-story brick building with a single entry door on the side wall. A small and outdated sign read HOT SHOTS VOLLEYBALL, in all capital letters above the door. It didn’t need to be flashy, if you were coming here then you already knew where to go. I gathered my purse and headed to the door, walking that same narrow path I had so many weekends in the past. Only this time I wasn’t able to hold my Dad’s hand for support, and ironically this was the one time I was going into Hot Shots when I thought I would need it the most.

To my surprise the inside of the facility had changed greatly. They had evolved beyond volleyball and now offered basketball and dodge ball leagues as well. The tiny snack stand that once offered popcorn you served yourself and a few select cans of domestic beer had morphed into a full bar that was the length of the entire first volleyball court. I was impressed. It was midday during the week so there was not much going on. A few kids rec leagues that were obviously offered over winter break and what I could only imagine were bar “regulars” were the only other patrons I could see. I took a seat at the bar, placing myself close to the pod of “regulars” in hopes that any and all conversations with the bartender might be overheard and added to if necessary. A nice looking guy about my age greeted me and placed a beverage napkin in front of me. I ordered a diet soda so that I wouldn’t have to endure the remnants of last nights binge being forced up with the taste of alcohol, and because I didn’t want to have a water and come across as cheap. Nothing is free, especially information. I chatted up the bartender for a few moments about how much the place had changed since I had been in last. He seemed eager to be involved in conversation as He didn’t have much else to do. And all my past years of bar tending told me he already knew the life stories of the gentlemen seated near me. I waited what I thought was an acceptable amount of time for the ice-breaker conversation before telling him about an old friend that I was hoping to run into there. “He played here all the time when I lived in Rochester, and I wasn’t able to get him on the phone. I recently lost my father that was going to earn me sympathy points, and I was hoping to tell him about it before I left town.” I gave both the bartender and the gaggle of men the sweetest damsel in distress smile I could muster. I reached into my purse and grabbed my phone. Scrolling through the pictures of my wedding puke, I landed on one of Martin and zoomed in on his face. Turning my phone around to be visible to all parties I asked “Maybe you know him? Martin Voss?” Was it my imagination or did the bartender looked shocked at my question? He looked right at the picture, yet it took him a solid minute to respond. “I guess you two really did loose touch.” He finally said. “Martin was a regular here, played on the Wednesday and Friday night leagues. He would even play pick up games sometimes.” My heart was in my stomach, fluttering with excitement. “Really? Great! So maybe I could get in touch with him Wednesday then, what time does their league start?” I was trying my best to maintain composure and not let the emotion escape within my voice. I finally had a lead! The bartender continued, “That’s why I said you must have really lost touch, Martin hasn’t played here in about a month. He actually had his going away party here just about three weeks ago. Apparently someone in his family passed away and he was needing to move to Florida in a bit of a hurry to take care of some things. There was some family business involved and it sounded as if he was going to take it over. Man, it’s like you guys just missed each other.” The bartender sounded as disappointed as I felt. Sure he was morning the loss of a reunited fictitious friendship, while I was grasping onto the last shred of hope I had at finding a lead to prove my theory. Okay, maybe our levels of disappointment didn’t compare, but he was nice enough to try. I tried one last grasp and asked “you don’t happen to know where in Florida he moved do you?” I was hoping a location might at least yield some success with an internet search. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t friends with him really, I just knew his drink order and worked his party.” I thanked the bartender for his help. Before I left I gave him a ten dollar bill to cover my soda and his time, and I left my number and first name just in case he discovered anything new. It couldn’t hurt. My legs felt heavy and each step felt like my shoes were made of concrete, as I heaved myself off the bar stool and made my way for the door. I couldn’t help but feel defeated that I had hit another dead end. Martin was going to be my only source of information to possibly expose Steve and McCrabben for their involvement in my father’s death. With him gone, I was not only back to where I started, I had actually started this race a lap behind.

I climbed into the car and dialed Mimi’s house. I had to tell someone about this and so far my only choices were my Mom and Kim. I felt like Kim could use an emotional break from the drama and so I opted to share the disappointment with my mom first. thankfully, she answered so I didn’t even have to fake the happy small talk with Mimi and find ways to avoid the where, when, who questions of the events of my day. My heart was heavy as I explained to my mom how I had lost all trails leading to Martin. I could feel the tears forming behind my eyelids and threatening to come crashing down with every word I spoke. “I’m sorry Mom, I really thought I had something here.” I choked the words out through sobs.

“Fib, you have to relax.” She said this like I was calling about having missed a deadline to a paper in college or gotten yet another speeding ticket, or crashed her car into a parked vehicle on our street when I was 16…. each and every one of these instances resulted in my tears and her calming voice telling me it was going to be okay. Although this time it didn’t feel the same, this time I didn’t automatically believe her because I wasn’t searching for her approval or forgiveness as I had before. This time I shed tears over loosing information about the people who conspired to murder my father. Even the calm, soothing voice of my Dali Lama Mother was no match for my sobs.

It took a while for me to calm my tears, and my mother waited with the patience of a saint. “Dana, you need to look at this with a different lens. Martin was born and raised in Rochester, lived here for 34 years and suddenly takes off to Florida three weeks before your Dad dies? You and I both know that people don’t leave here that easily, and people who are established, have jobs and own homes, they don’t get out in three weeks. If Martin is truly gone, then he didn’t leave to help a death in the family…. he ran.” As calm as my mother’s voice was, the shock to my brain as her words registered sent me yet again into “fight” mode. She was completely right! No one could sell a freaking house in Rochester in under 3 months, let alone 3 weeks! And as my brain caught up to what she was saying I went on to finish her thoughts for her.”So if he ran, then Steve and McCrabben are surely going to be flustered and worried that he might tell what he knows. Maybe they are even looking for him!” The excitement had started to build inside my stomach again but this time I was letting it all out through my shaking hands and trembling legs. “Maybe it’s time I start working a new angle, one that leaves Steve and McCrabben at odds. They murdered for money once, I am sure they each believe the other capable of it a second time around.”

“I have to stop at the post office to ship some stuff to Texas. I am going to send it to your house okay Mom? Then I will be home and we can work out the rest. Maybe we need to bring all of our brains together and see what Kim thinks.” If two heads were better than one, well then three would get us ahead in the race, even if I had started a lap behind.

When I researched this song title, I noticed that although it was part of the Christian influence that Dylan produced, he had some interesting insights at the time. He refused to do a second take on any of songs during production, claiming “I will not sing the same song twice in a row, that’s terrible.” -Dylan.

I fond myself feeling this way as I recited my recent discoveries to the people in my life. And I knew that in the end, I too would not sing the same song twice. I was going to get closure, and not be fooled again.

 

You know when you have to give a speech in high school or a presentation in your adult life, or any time when you have to be the sole conversationalist in front of a large group of people? Everyone gets nervous, I don’t care who you are… there are always nerves about something. And if you have ever shared your fears with someone, chances are they have told you to “picture them in their underwear.”  Not only does that completely fail to work EVER, but I really wish we would stop handing out that old line of advice because it really is weird. My fear is usually that someone I am giving a speech to will stare at me blankly, not even giving me the slightest nonverbal cue that everything was going to be okay. This same feeling washed over me when I sat for twenty whole minutes at the dining room table in Kim’s house. While I poured out my theories to her and justified them using my ever so technologically advanced beverage napkin. I waited for her to stop me mid sentence, to throw me out or worse, call for mental assistance. I worried she would never talk to me again, that I wouldn’t be allowed to be part of her life. All of these anxieties rushed through me as I spilled the words from my mouth, detailing my beliefs. In the end, she smiled, although it was not given solely to comfort me, as I could see the pain, disbelief and pity in her eyes. But she did not throw me out, she did not call to have me mental health arrested, and the hug she gave me, the tight embrace that lasted for several minutes; well that told me that I was going to be a part of her life forever. And that was it. I spoke, she listened, and we shared a hug that told me this was the right thing to do. A million pounds of worry and stress washed right off of me in that moment. I had told what I believed to be the truth, my truth, to the people closest to me in my life and they had both understood. In fact, they did more than offer their blessing, they got on board to help. I know, and interesting trio we were; the daughter of a deceased man and his two ex-wives going after suspected killers. Even in my mind now I can see the memes of us all dressed in black and snooping around alleyways. But I didn’t give a shit. This felt right, this felt necessary, this felt like saving my father’s legacy.

I told Kim about the plan I had made with my Mother to return back to Texas and stall the move as long as possible. I explained how we didn’t want Steve to get suspicious, and we certainly didn’t want him running off to California without seeing me first, so I had to leave Wednesday. I had 48 hours to take care of the immediate needs here in town, before I went off to catch a killer. Sounds dramatic right? But honestly, that is what we were doing. Kim asked me if there were any of Dad’s belongings that I already knew I wanted. She said she would be sure to check the inventory for them, and work with my already set platoon of Polish women to obtain them from the auction. “They are looking to inventory tomorrow or Wednesday and have the auction house booked for Friday.” she explained. “It’s such bullshit!” my words came out a bit stronger than I anticipated. “I’m sorry Kim, I just can’t believe that this is what he would have wanted. He was a smart man, I can’t believe he didn’t know this was going to happen by giving McCrabben a controlling percentage.” I had managed to lower my voice, but I couldn’t stop it from shaking as I spoke the words. “I agree with you Dana, but then again I can only speak of the man I was married to for all those years. He started to change when he left, and I don’t know what he could have been thinking when he drew up this will.” As she spoke, her gaze moved from me to the window. It was as if she was looking for the answer to just write itself in the fresh blanket of snow covering the back lawn.

“I would really like to have his iPOD and his guitar.” I told her. I know that Dad loved music and I think it would be great to have something that held all the songs he listened to and loved. Plus, the last time I saw him he was playing the guitar. It would mean a lot to me to have those things. Is that okay with you?” I asked the question because it was the right thing to do, but secretly I was crossing my toes that these were not items that she was already interested in. I would have given them up to her of course. ” That’s absolutely fine.” Kim agreed. “I was also hoping for his white English Laundry long sleeve button down. But when we were in the house picking out clothes that day, I couldn’t find it. ” It was true, I had already eyeballed the closet for this shirt. It was the shirt my father wore each time we went somewhere special together in my adult years. It was linen with some designs stitched into the front. I had many fond memories of him wearing that shirt. “It’s probably at the cleaners, she said. He used Julian’s Dry Cleaners on Blossom Road. I thought about this for a second. Wow, my father was gone and his clothes were sitting at the dry cleaners. I wonder how many orders they have compiled over time of people who just never cam back? Did the people at the cleaners ever wonder what happened to these people? Because let’s face it, if you aren’t dead you want your clothes. I had never thought about that before. Well I wasn’t going to let my father’s beautiful white linen sit among the other forgotten garments. I would visit Julian’s after leaving here.

Kim and I finished up a few more details and planned to talk again soon. She said she would let me know when the inventory was complete, and the time that the auction was finalized for. We said our goodbyes and hugged, just in case I didn’t get back over here before Wednesday. It wasn’t as sad as it had been in the past, because I knew I was going to be back here soon. Hopefully to testify against the conspiracy trio in court. Saying goodbye to Kiera was a bit more challenging. She was in her room playing and watching tv (a great multitasker that kid). I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hold back the floodgates of tears for long so I gave hugs and kisses and promised to see her soon. As I closed the door to Kim’s house behind me, I gave in to the emotion and allowed the sad tears to fall. Yes I hate the snow, yes there are NO jobs in Rochester, but I do miss my family.

As I walked to the car I noticed that yet another fresh blanket of snow had covered the windows. Fuck. Honestly, it is as if you never want to stop driving because it inevitably means you are going to have to brush your car off…AGAIN. I repeated the usual routine and hopped in the car to begin warming my extremities. I checked out my list about going to UPS and calling Steve. Finding Martin was another bullet listed, but none of these things appealed to me at the moment. I have time, I think I will head to Julian’s. I could use a little good in my day and having that linen shirt I coveted so much would be just the thing.

Julian’s on Blossom hasn’t moved in basically forever, so although I had never been there, I still knew right where to go. I pulled into the parking lot and swore to myself that this was going to be a quick stop. I was not in the mood to do the snow brush song and dance again. A bell on the front door announced my arrival, and a lovely Italian woman greeted me within moments. She had a small frame and thick auburn hair that was laced with grey. Perhaps she had tried to color it, but it really suited her. Glasses hung from her neck on a rose gold chain for easy access and her brown eyes were warm as she spoke. “Can I help you dear?” Her words were calm and soothing. “Yes please ma’am, I would like to pick up an order for Jeffrey Smith.” I tried to hide the anticipation in my voice, being this close to his shirt was the most excitement I had felt in over a week. “We don’t normally release clothing to anyone other than the owner dear, are you related?” Her voice remained polite and warm as she explained the rules to me. “I am his daughter, and he has recently passed. There is a shirt that I am hoping was laundered here recently and I was hoping to have it to remember him by.” I tried to keep my voice as matter of fact as possible. I didn’t want her eyes to change from warm to pity, I had experienced enough of that. “Why of course dear, do you have any identification bearing the same last name?” Was she fucking kidding? Seriously, is she trying to make a joke? Yes ma’am, I can prove to you I am related by showing you an ID with the last name of Smith. We are of course the only Smith family in Rochester, probably in the whole state of New York!. I pushed the thoughts from my head, no time for sarcasm now, I needed a favor and if she needed to see identification bearing the ever common last name of Smith to grant it, well then I was happy to oblige.  This was the first time that I would realize that my laziness of getting my ass to the Department of Motor Vehicles for a name chance was actually going to work in my favor. I reached into my purse and pulled out my drivers license. I handed it to the kind woman and she started typing in her computer. Since I obviously didn’t have a claim ticket, she was going to have to look one up. “Oh dear,” she said, almost in a whisper. My head snapped up to attention and I stared at her waiting for her to finish the words that would follow. “It seems that someone has already called about this order and asked that it be put on hold. She doesn’t have the same last name but she stated on the phone that she had paperwork to prove she could have it.” I sucked in a deep breath trying to calm the adrenaline that was beginning to pump through my veins. ” Her name wouldn’t happen to be Kim McCrabben, would it?” I asked the question even though I was certain it was probably rhetorical in a sense. “Why yes, ” the woman replied, “do you know her?” My body was shaking by now, from my trembling fingers to my wobbly knees that were threatening to give way at any moment. I was so close to having something, one fucking thing that was going to make me happy, and she was going to try and take this as well? The emotions of my recent discoveries and theories flooded through my brain fogging my vision to the point that I thought I was going to pass out. I reached out and grabbed onto the counter for support. It felt cold under my hand and I finally realized I was so angry I had started to sweat, or maybe it was all the layers, but the cold counter felt good against my bare hand. “Are you okay Ms. Smith?” I could hear the concern in the woman’s voice.”Should I be calling for medical assistance? You don’t look very well.” She reached across her register toward the phone. “No,” I breathed, “I will be fine.” I knew I had to say something, anything, to get my hands on that shirt before the bitch from beyond waltzed her double wide ass in here to take it. She would probably just throw it out anyways. Or re-gift it. Yes, she seemed like the type to re-gift.

I steadied myself back to standing position so that I could look the kind woman in the eyes. I explained to her that I was his daughter and (in the nicest way I could muster in front of my elder)  how McCrabben was a dirty little hooker who was trying everything in her power to make my life miserable. I told her about my connection to the shirt and how I just wanted to finally have something to remember him by. You know that weren’t golf clubs or beer steins. “I realize you have rules ma’am, but since I am here and I have proof that I am his daughter, couldn’t we just say that I got here first and there was nothing you could do?” I gave her the best smile I could at the moment, even though I was seething about my current situation. She paused for a moment, clearly contemplating the options. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and turned on her heel disappearing into the racks of clothes. When she finally emerged she was holding a bag containing four dress shirts. I held my breath as I reached for the hangers, hoping with everything I had that I would find my beloved white shirt mixed into the pile. I turned back the hangers to the middle and gasped. I sucked in the biggest amount of air and exhaled with relief and smile. There it was, the white shirt with the designs embroidered on the front. She shirt that made me think of my Dad in every positive way, the one that reminded me he too was a person. I peeled away a little bit of the bag at the top and stuck my nose inside the plastic. There it was, the distinct smell of his Clinique Happy cologne. It occurred to me for a brief second that it was odd to pay for “cleaning” of a garment if it was returned still smelling of the person, but for this particular time, I did not care. I was glad that whatever they do to dry clean a shirt clearly wasn’t washing. This meant I could keep the smell bottled inside the plastic bag for as long as I wanted. My day dreams were interrupted by the bell chiming from the door, announcing another customer. I quickly paid the woman for the clothes and collected the receipt. As she handed me the change I touched her hand and smiled. “Thank you,” I told her “you will never know what you have done for me.” She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to. I could read her kind response through her twinkling brown eyes.

I made my way back to the car and carefully hooked my treasure in the back seat. Whoever invented those hooks for cars truly was a genius. I stopped for a minute to gaze at my surroundings and take in the scene of triumph I had just won. I took a mental picture of the building and began to think that maybe in some moments the snow really wasn’t that bad, maybe in some moments it was even beautiful. My heart filled with warmth and victory I turned to open the drivers side door and for the first time since I left the building I noticed that the car was covered in snow, yet AGAIN. And in that instant I changed my mind, it wasn’t beautiful, it was still fucking snow. Cold, horrible, pain in the ass SNOW. And as victorious as I was against McCrabben in that moment, I was still a loser in the battle against mother nature.

 

As we made our way up the stairs to “my bedroom” to use the computer, I took a chance to look out the window for the first time. Snowing again. I wanted to blame the snow for my shitty mood, the lack of sunlight and the air that was so cold it hurt your face to go outside. I wanted to blame the weather and Mother Nature for the deepening feeling of despair that was growing inside my heart. I wanted to blame it all on the view form the window because…. well then because I wouldn’t have to actually acknowledge that my life had really gone to hell in a matter of a week. I wouldn’t be forced to face the fact that it was my current reality that was causing me so much pain, that I was actually about to find a flight home to my suspected murderer of a husband only so I could work to execute an iron clad plan that would land him and his co-conspirators in jail. Alas, as much as the weather truly does suck in Rochester, New York, I knew my mind would not allow me to blame my current state on seasonal depression.

The computer was ancient, and took forever to load. I am pretty sure there are mice in the back running on a wheel to fuel the computer with energy; and we had just woken them up. It was a slow start, but eventually we were perusing the airline websites in search of flights home. We had decided to travel together for comfort. Although a part of me still believes my mother didn’t want to take the chance that I would divert my flight to an alternate destination just to escape what had become my current reality. I wouldn’t have, but I won’t deny that the thought crossed my mind. You know the amazing thing? A week ago I couldn’t find a flight under $900 to get home for my father funeral. The airlines wouldn’t help me and they definitely wouldn’t honor discounts in accordance with bereavement flights. Still have to remember to write a letter thanking them for that.  But one week later and flights were available any day of the week for less than $200 one way. There were even some available today, you know in case I was in a rush to get back to my lying piece of shit husband. Now there is an emergency! Another joke on me; Universe- one point!

It was Monday, and a shitty day to travel. Add the snow and we were sure to get stuck somewhere. Plus I don’t think Mimi would have been to thrilled if we had met her at the bathroom door after her shower and told her we were packing to leave today. Who were we kidding, she wasn’t going to be happy no matter what day we left because, well, we were leaving. We decided on Wednesday afternoon. That would give us time to have another family dinner, say our goodbyes and tie up any loose ends. As I clicked the button to confirm our reservation I felt the nausea begin to rise in my stomach. At first I attributed it to the Gin that was being soaked up by, well nothing. But then it occurred to me that as true as the BAC of my body right now, was the feat that I was leaving things unfinished. That I was going to walk away and this whole thing was suddenly going to be forgotten about. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes once again, this was beginning to become an annoying habit. My Mom leaned over and draped her arm across my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay Fib, we are going to finish this.” She whispered these words in my ear and it was almost as if she was inside my head. She knew exactly where my pain was coming from without me even having to speak. I guess this must be another one of those “tricks” of motherhood.

We agreed not to tell Mimi anything for fear of sending her into an early grave. Mom said I could talk to Kim, and that I actually should because we might need her help in proving some things. As next of Kin, she had the most access to Dad’s estate and I was going to need her on my side to bring these people to justice. She would be my next call, or better yet, the next conversation I had face to face. Probably it was not best to tell someone your conspiracy theories over the phone. Mom went downstairs to talk to Mimi and let her know our travel plans. I checked my phone to see that the day had made it’s way into early afternoon, 1:00. It was time that I got myself together and started figuring out the things i absolutely needed to have done before I left. I sent Kim a quick text asking if she had time to talk today. She told me she was staying home and fielding phone calls from her attorney and the auction house and to come over anytime. Give me about an hour, I wrote back, and added a smiley face emoji to demonstrate that I was being positive and cheerful. I stole glance at the mirror that hung on the back of the door.  Okay, I was going to have to work on that one a little more. But it was nothing some makeup and little happy pill couldn’t fix for today.

I showered and dressed for the day. After my visual of outside, this meant layers… lots of layers. Ugh! Maybe some of my pissy mood could be blamed on Mother Nature; now she was affecting my wardrobe. I made a quick list before I left the house so that I knew what had to be done before I left. 1.) See Kim 2.) Go to UPS store (to ship all my “acquired” items from my Dad). 3.) Call Steve  4.) Find Martin

The third item on my list all but made me tear up again or maybe vomit; possibly both. But I held it together, reminding myself that this situation was temporary. And the one I was going to create for him, the punishment he was going to suffer for his heinous actions, well that was going to be permanent. I wonder if we could have him prosecuted in Texas so there would be the option for the death penalty. “An eye for an eye,” Right? As for Martin, well it had definitely been a while since I had spoken to him, but it was safe to say he more than likely remained in Rochester. It is rare that anyone leaves, and when they do, it is even more rare that they stay gone. Look at me? I was going to wind up right back here if I couldn’t put Steve away. No way was I living in the same state as that asshole unless he was under lock and key; preferably 23 hours a day in solitary confinement with the exception of one hour yard time to be granted only on good behavior, and only alone. Even in prison I worried he might hurt someone if left to his ways and allowed to interact with other people. Nope, in my day dream he was going to serve out his time alone as he counted down the days to his execution. Even if you are not normally a death row advocate, you can still sympathize with my point right?

Once I was layered up I checked to make sure none of my skin was exposed with the exception of my eyeballs. This was how I lived in Rochester, for about 5 months out of the year. One look at my get up in the mirror and I had yet more drive to get this plan going. The faster I had Steve put away, the faster I was going to get out of these layers and stay out of them. Man this weather sucks.

I made my way down the stairs and looped the car keys off the hook by the back door. I gave Mimi and Mom a kiss, made assurances and promises to drive slow and safe, and trudged through the snow out to the car. After I completed the song and dance of brushing the mountain of snow from the windows, I hopped in and began warming my appendages over the heater. I needed to be able to feel my fingers in order to keep my promise of driving safe. Once I felt the blood start to defrost and move through my body once again, I carefully eased out of the driveway and I was on my way. Armed with my ever wilting beverage napkin as a visual aid, I was going to deliver the same speech to Kim that I had to my mother just a few hours ago. Even though I had a trial run, I still felt sick about having to say it aloud again. I whispered a little prayer that she was going to respond well. I realize I had not always been a follower of Christ, but I thought maybe in this moment he would take pity on me and maybe offer some support, for Kim not for me. I had already made my peace with my theory, but Kim was going to hear this big ball of crazy for the first time. I let out a deep exhale and reached for the radio button, I could use a brief distraction from my own mind. Mimi had it set to Warm 101.3 as always and as I turned the volume up I felt a chill run up my arm and tingle my skin. It was the voice, the sound, the words; Tangeled Up In Blue was flowing from the speakers and Bob Dylan’s voice was ringing in my ears and warming my insides. I wiped a stray tear from my face and glanced up at the sky, “So you do hear me.”

Disclaimer: Up until this point of my writing, all of the events that I have talked about and the people included have been real and true (with the exception of name changes of those that requested or weren’t asked). Unfortunately, there was never truly an ending to the story that you have been reading, or definitive closure to this part of my life. And although my mother and I have spent many of nights talking about what we truly believe happened, no one was ever brought to justice based on our beliefs. As I move forward with the story, this is a depiction of what I believe would have happened if I had the ability and strength to continue on with this crusade. Alas, my victory may just have to settle on the pages of a novel  and justice be gained in the idea that it is for anyone and everyone to read. 

 

I found my mother and Mimi in the kitchen. They were chatting about life and the daily things they missed out on by not living in the same state. Mimi was steadied over the stove, stirring her infamous sauce. There is no recipe, and I couldn’t recreate it even if I watched a thousand times (which I had), but it was absolutely always delicious.

Even though I had managed to get myself a bit together, and I was feeling better than when I first woke, it was evident by their reaction that I hadn’t done the best job and making myself look presentable, and of course not hungover.

“Late night?” Mom asked, although I was pretty confident Papa had already told her the late hour in which I had come stumbling in, literally.

“Yeah, it was kind of late I guess. We were busy talking and time got away from us.” I tried to force my voice to sound more casual and less hysterical because I had so much I needed to say. “Mom, I need to talk to you, do you think we could have a few moments?”

“Of course,” she replied. “I actually need to talk to you as well. It is about time I get going and get back to work and I would like to know your plans before I go.”

Well, that was going to complicate things a bit, as I was not yet ready to burst into “I am not going back to my husband because I think he is  murderer.” I steadied myself for a moment and thought of the best way to approach this, especially with Mimi in the room… standing… over a hot stove. The events of the last week had been enough, I didn’t need this news to send her crashing into that delicious pot of sauce.

“Kim called,” I said suddenly. This seemed like a good transition into my news. “She told me that we were needing to prepare for an estate auction.” Mimi stopped stirring and Mom stopped talking. They both kind of stood there looking at me with these robotic eyes. It suddenly dawned on me that they were waiting for me to collapse! As if this news was going to be the part that finally sent me over the edge. “I’m okay,” I tried to assure them. “I just need to explain it to you so that we can have a system of support, a front line of troops, available should this take place beyond my current visit in Rochester. The three of us took our usual spots at the table and I explained to them the details that Kim had shared with me. We sent some messages to Aunt Becky, Aunt JJ and friends, inquiring if they would be interested in attending on my behalf if I was unable to go. It was reassuring to know that my family was going to stick by my through this, no matter what. We made the final arrangements and set up our platoon with smiles on our faces. All the while I sat with a damning piece of paper tucked under my leg, knowing I could not get up without bringing it forward. When Mimi excused herself to shower, I asked my mom to stay. I knew this was going to be my only opportunity to share my findings with her in confidence.

It took me a few minutes to start, pulling the paper from beneath my leg as if it weighed 2,000 pounds. But once I started to speak, and use the poorly designed diagram to assist me as a visual aid, the words began to flow from my mouth just as they had the evening before. I felt a touch of relief that it still made the same sense in a sober state as it had to my Gin infused brain last night. I would stop momentarily to gaze up at my mother for a reaction, but she sat perfectly still with her face a flat line. She was intently listening to every sound coming from my mouth, but there was no indication on what she was thinking. When I finally finished explaining my conspiracy to murder theory and informing her of Steve’s new plan and sense of urgency to move, I took a final deep breath and stopped. I just stopped talking. It felt like eternity that I sat there looking at her face, waiting for a response. After what seemed like hours, but was probably more on the scale of less than five minutes I saw her mouth begin to open and I knew the calming voice and infinite wisdom of my mother, the Dalai Lama, was going to settle over me.  “You cannot divorce him Dana, not yet anyways.” Her tone was firm, not calming. Her eyes were fiery, not kind. And her words, well they weren’t exactly what I was expecting.

“I’m sorry, what?!” I exclaimed slamming both of palms down on the kitchen table and instantly regretting it. I knew the noise would draw Mimi’s attention and concern and I didn’t want or need that right now. “I just told you that I am pretty sure my new husband conspired to murder my Dad for inheritance money and that he wants to move me completely away from everyone I know and love and your only response is telling me I CAN’T divorce him?!” I was trying to convey my building emotion in the tone of a whisper which was both difficult and did not exactly do justice to my words.

My mother continued, “I know this is difficult, but if you push for an immediate divorce, you will not be able to testify against him if this goes to court, under spousal privilege. The divorce process in the state of New York already takes forever, once Steve knows what you are trying to do he will do everything in his power to keep you married. That will be his only out.” I tried to let my mother’s response sink into my brain. Her words made sense in my head, but this was not the reaction I was expecting, at least not at first. Where were all of her questions, you know like the millions I asked aloud last night when I put this whole idea together. Why wasn’t she asking me more about Martin, Steve and McCrabben. Why wasn’t she asking me why I thought foul play to begin with? Why the hell wasn’t my mother trying to talk me out of these crazy delusions and convince me that my father’s death was indeed a suicide, as ruled by the medical examiner?! My head was going through the same spiral of thoughts and emotions and I again felt myself slipping away from reality when suddenly I was brought back to attention with a jolt of realization. “Holy shit,” I breathed almost silently. “You already knew.” My mom sat across from me and gave me that look, the kind where she spoke to me with her eyes and affirmed my words without having to speak. “You had already pieced this together and knew!” I was crazy with emotion and shock. “But how?”

“There are instincts that develop with motherhood Fib, those in which we cannot shake. I have learned to follow the ones that I cannot easily push aside, or make justifiable reasons for. Many of the events since your wedding and those leading up to and following your father’s death have given me these uneasy feelings. You should know by now that I would stop at nothing to protect you, and so I have worn my detective hat a few times in the last few months, but even more in the last week.” Her voice had returned to that calm tone that I was able to become lost in. Her eyes were pleading with me to understand her, and I sensed that she was silently hoping I would not be angry with her for not sharing her suspicions with me earlier. Angry? How could I possibly be angry? If nothing else in this moment I felt immense relief. That someone else could see beyond the physical and believe there was more to this saga than was present on the surface. I was not crazy. I was not delusional. And I was no longer alone.

“What now?” I asked, hoping Mom had an answer for this because I sure as hell didn’t know the next step.

My mother smiled, the one that showed me that not only did she have an answer, but that she was going to make it all okay again. “Now we plan to go home,” she said. “We both get back to Texas to present as normal as possible and we work on delaying that move of yours long enough to get us concrete evidence to support our working theories.”

“Seriously?” I asked surprised. We can’t just go to the police here and stop all of this before it gets any worse? I have to go back and share a home with that man? How can that be our only option?” I was hoping she would sense the pleading in my voice now, the part that was screaming that I just wanted this to be over now.

“Because Fib, if we want true justice, we are going to have to nail them all to the wall, and that is going to mean taking a bit more of a difficult path. Now let’s go look at flights home, we can talk more about how this is going to look exactly later.”

My already empty stomach that was lined solely with Gin and bile started to somersault. How could it be that there was so much evil in my life right now, and I was going to be the one suffering for just a little bit longer?

“An’ the silent night will shatter
From the sounds inside my mind
Yes, I’m one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind”

– Dylan

One of my favorite parts about telling this story is the opportunities to do continues research on Bob Dylan and his work. I am starting to understand why my father took such a liking to Mr. Dylan, and why their relationship was one rooted deeply in time and in emotion. This song, One Too Many Mornings, speaks perfectly to the emotions that I was experiencing with every sunrise. What was once what I thought to be a perfectly crafted future for myself was becoming more and more shattered with every morning sun that rose.  Enjoy.                  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGePitJxOyo

 

As I rode home in the passengers seat of my friends car my mind was spinning, or was that the actual world? The Gin had made it difficult to decipher the difference. I kept one eye closed in an effort to make the two striped lines in the middle of the road appear to be one as they should. I patted my purse gently, knowing all the nights recent discoveries were tucked away in the inside zipper pouch, safe to review in the morning. I worried that if I didn’t keep this receipt paper close I would be able to convince myself tomorrow that it was all a terrible dream. Hell, my whole damn life at the moment was a bad dream.

I was insistent on returning back to Mimi’s that night, although for the damn life of me I couldn’t tell you why. I already knew I was too shitfaced to make it past the front door, let alone the prying eyes of Papa who undoubtedly had some excuse to still be up watching TV. “I was catching the highlights of the hockey game,” or “this movie was just about over so I figured I would finish it.” I could hear him now. All sentences code for ” I was waiting up to make sure you were okay because I love you.”

My friend, bless her heart, knew better than to argue with me in my current condition, and because we had driven in Mimi’s car, she arranged for her boyfriend to pick her up. She was great.

I repeated what had become my usual song and dance with getting in the house half in bag and managed to get my contacts out and flop into bed, the brass groaned under my weight. As I drifted off to sleep (or started to pass out) I just kept thinking, what is my next move?

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing for what had sounded like an eternity. When I finally manged an eye open and a steady reach, I realized I had 27 missed calls. This got my attention and I braced myself to raise my head of the pillow. I was no rookie, I knew the day after effects of a good Gin buzz. As I willed my eyes to focus on the tiny screen, I clicked to see who was so urgently trying to reach me. Steve. All 27 calls were from my husband, the man I had just deemed to have played a key role in what was becoming more clear as a murder rather than a suicide. I had to talk myself down from the adrenaline that began pumping through my veins at the thought of having to talk to him. I could not let on that I suspected anything. I cleared my throat a few times and touched the screen to dial his number. He picked up after 2 rings. “Morning Baby,” his voice sounded cheerful. “It’s pretty late your time, are you okay?” I pulled the phone away from my ear to view the time, damn 10:00. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I managed to get out. “Just a long night talking with a friend and I think the recent events are catching up with me. You called so many times, are you okay?” I mustered every ounce of foe concern I could with my question. He continued on with his elated state as if he was eager and excited about something. A suspected fucking huge estate settlement I thought to myself. Not on your life buddy. I suddenly realized I hadn’t been listening as carefully as I should because I was lifted from my thoughts by his repetitive calling of my name, “Dana, are you still there?” I could sense a little irritation in his voice. “Oh yeah, I’m here, the reception can be tricky in Mimi’s house sometimes. Go Ahead, what were you saying?” “I was offered a new job,” he said excitedly. It is everything I have been waiting for. I am going to be a project manger for Orion construction. We are going to have a company car, great health insurance, opportunities for bonus’ and they are going to pay for top of the line moving expenses!” I had all but tuned out his bullshit until that last part. “Moving expenses?!?” I couldn’t hide the surprise and my own irritation with the conversation. “What are you talking about?”  Steve went on to explain that the job was in Southern California and that because they had a big project starting soon the move would have to be immediate. I don’t know if it was the booze from last night or the thought of traveling across the country to live alone with a proposed murderer, but I had to choke down the bile in my throat to respond. “Are you sure about this? I mean, Texas is a growing state and I am sure there are opportunities there. Can’t you use this offer to entice your current employer to make a similar offer?” My voice was shaky and I knew that I was internally battling tears of hatred and sadness for the whole ordeal. “I tried,” Steve responded flatly. “They didn’t go for it. This is the best thing for us, trust me. ” Those words speared my gut like a knife. Trust him? Was he fucking kidding? But I was able to calm my internal demons by reminding myself he knew not of my most recent discoveries and theories. He went on with his almost one sided conversation, “I know this is a difficult time for you and so I didn’t want to burden you with anything else. I have already hired movers and they will be here and have the house packed by the time you get back, all you will have to do is say your goodbyes.” His voice sounded as if he actually thought this was a comforting response, he really believed packing someone’s life up and moving them away from their entire family and every single person they knew was just fine, as long as I got to “say my goodbyes.” “By the way,” Steve continued, “When are you coming home?” I am already fucking home you piece of shit, I wanted to scream into the phone, but again controlling my demonic responses. “A few days I think. I am almost done here. I will look at flights and call you back tonight when I know for sure okay? I was now pushing hard to end this conversation for fear that I would not be able to hide my emotions much longer. He seemed agreeable to this solution and as I went to disconnect I could hear him him “Love you hun” from the other end of the receiver. I disconnected without response, I would blame it on the service in Mimi’s house later.

I sat there starring at the phone for a moment, Jesus this didn’t leave me much time. I had to get the proof I needed and quick because there was no way in hell I was moving to California with this man. The vibration of my phone startled me from my current state of shock. It was a text message from Kim, Hey can you call me please? We need to discuss the inventory of the estate and I want us all to be together. Not quite knowing what this meant exactly I typed a quick response. Sure, give me just a few minutes. This bought me some time to get myself together and finally brush my freaking teeth. The faint taste of Gin and thick saliva in my mouth told me this was not something I had accomplished last night and was long overdue.

It’s amazing what a little water splash to the face and some toothpaste in the mouth can do. I felt much more like a human after my quick trip to the restroom. I sat on the bed and started my call to Kim. She was cheery on the phone, she always was. I don’t actually know of a time outside the last few days when Kim was ever in a bad mood. Even if things weren’t perfect, she didn’t walk around letting everyone know it.  It seemed as if she had adorned this mantra for today as well. I told her that I didn’t exactly understand what she had meant by “inventory the estate,” and inquired for more information. After her explanation what I understood was this: Usually, when a person passes, the family has an opportunity to remove personal and sentimental items from the home that were not otherwise spoken for in the active will. Unfortunately this meant that all parties that were active beneficiaries had to agree to allow this to happen. Well when your life was normal and your father passed this would pose no problem, but when you are me then of course there is going to be a catch. In this case the “catch” was about 5’5″, brown curly hair, pale ass skin and the face of a witch to match her personality; McCrabben. Apparently she had decided that because she was a controlling member of the will she was going to make things as complicated as possible for everyone else. I am sure my private conversation with her at the funeral did not help my likeability status, now ask me if I give a shit? She was going to pull this garbage even if I had kissed her double wide ass. McCrabben’s decision remained that because she couldn’t have exactly what she wanted right away (cold hard cash), then she wasn’t going to allow myself or Kiera to take anything from our father’s house. The result of her witchery…. an auction.

I  guess was getting better at handling the news of McCrabben’s bullshit antics because this would have sent my flying through the roof with rage a few days earlier. Instead, I listened calmly as Kim explained further. We had to hire and pay a company to inventory the contents of the home in it’s entirety. If there were things I already knew I wanted to have, she advised it was best to write them down and check the inventory sheet once it was completed to ensure they were accounted for. Then, if the date of the auction was set after my scheduled return to Texas, friends and family could go and bid on these items for me. What a fucking joke. The things I knew I wanted to have of my father’s were nothing of monetary value. Off the top of my head, I knew that I wanted to have his guitar and his Ipod. My Dad was very musical and I wanted to have a compilation of all the songs he loved and used to sing. And the last image I have of my father is him playing a guitar in my wedding video singing you look wonderful tonight by Eric Clapton, the same song we danced to at my wedding….. the last time I saw him alive. I fought back the tears that were stabbing at the back of my eyeballs. Kim promised to send over the legal paperwork stating what this all “looked like’ from the legal prospective. “But basically,” she warned, “this is McCrabben’s attempt to withhold things from you and your sister while driving up the monetary value of the estate. Because the profits from the auction go into the estate and then get divided based on your percentage holdings; meaning as it stands now she will receive 50%.” I knew it pained Kim to speak these words, but I appreciated her honesty and always advocating for me. “Do you want to have a say in which company does the inventory?” She asked. “I trust you,” I replied. “I’ll let you know as soon as they give me an estimated date and we can pick a date for the auction from there.” This was the business side of Kim coming out, which we desperately needed because I was in no shape to function without emotion.

As I hung up the phone I started to realize that I needed to get my ass in gear. It seemed as if this auction was going to date far beyond the time I was planning to stay here. But then again, I am not sure what I was going back to? I knew I wasn’t going to move with Steve, even if he packed all my shit and headed to Cali. I would not be following. So I was left with the realization that I needed to: get evidence to prove my theories about the conspiracy involving Steve, Martin and McCrabben, find a way to delay this move as long as possible without raising suspicion, and then find a damn good divorce attorney. Well, I already had one on retainer for the estate, maybe he dabbled in both areas. Mental note to make that call. All of these items on my “to-do” list and I wasn’t quite sure where to begin. One thing was for sure, I needed coffee…. and my Mom. It was time to come clean to her, I couldn’t keep doing this on my own. If anyone would understand it would be my Mom….. right? I retrieved the paper drawn up last night from the safety of my purse. This was my only proof of sound thinking. I clutched in in my hand tightly as if holding it was going to make it more true in the eyes of another. As I started down the stairs I said a silent prayer that at the end of my lengthy explanation of conspiracy to murder, my mother wouldn’t have me committed and/or placed on a 72 hour hold.

One would think that the sudden loss of a parent was the most pain that could be felt. Add in a crazy girl with money on the brain and what was looking like some endless days in court and then you have the recipe for an immense amount of pain. Nothing else could possibly surpass that right? Well clearly I needed to stop asking myself these fucking questions because the answers never turned out to be quite what I was looking for. Apparently Fate had never heard of a rhetorical question; Fate’s a bitch.

The cocktails helped to bring the truth forward while numbing the pain of what I was coming to terms with. My husband, the person I shared a life with, the man I slept next to every night, the person I was so sure was my other half… this man had somehow played a hand in my father’s death. As the words rolled through my head over and over like the credits of a movie I became more aware of the current situation. “Holy Shit,” I muttered under my breath. I am sure this was not my first time making said comment because my friend just kept looking at me as if she was waiting for me to snap back to the moment. I could feel the glaze peel off my eyeballs as I finally made a feeble attempt at joining her in the present. “How do you think this played out?” I asked her. “I mean, it all makes perfect sense and it goes right along with the oddities of the scene from my fathers house on the night in question. But how in the hell did these two evil people find each other from across the country?” We need to get some paper and try and map this out, I am much better when I can literally see my train of thought.

There was no way in hell we were giving up our cozy spot in the corner of the bar, and like hell was I ready to close my tab, so my friend meandered up to the bar to ask for any scrap of paper they could muster and a writing utensil. I had worked in restaurants for many years so I knew that asking a bartender or server for a pen was like asking for a kidney. I prayed there was some over achiever on staff who had a SAM’s club pack of pens in their apron.

Luckily, my friend soon wandered back to the table with a pen and one of their paper take out menus. Perfect. I started to write down the players, I placed Steve’s name in one corner of the paper and McCrabben’s in the other. “This represents how far removed they are from one another, now we have to find the connections in between.” I said confidently. This was like a puzzle or a mystery to solve, which might be fun if it wasn’t the destruction of my life we were “playing” with. I placed my name in the center of the paper and Dad’s name right underneath. “We know that both of them knew myself and my father.” My friend suddenly straightened up in her chair like someone had pinched her. “We know it is not going to be family that makes the connections, so let’s start with your Dad’s friends. Do you remember ever hearing about or seeing McCrabben with any of his friends?” She asked.

“Well, she worked for him so there are the guys from Compson Development, but they are long time friends and I don’t see them being any part of this.” I drew a branch off my Dad’s name and wrote their names down anyways, just to cover all the bases. My head started to go through the activities my Dad participated in and I rattled them out loud to my friend. “He golfed at Ridgemont Country Club, had coffee at those trendy places like Spot, he liked to eat out.” Nothing was coming to mind or setting off any real alarms. “Keep thinking my friend urged, there has to be something. Let’s think about your wedding, there had to be people there from all walks of your life and his, and it was just recently.” I rolled my eyes so hard I thought that I would finally see the day when they really would “get stuck in the back of my head” as my mother had always warned. That’s so not what I wanted to think about right now, my wedding and my marriage to someone I was trying to prove to be a murderer! I knew she was right though, my wedding had been full of all of my friends family and acquaintances. Hell, half the guest list was complied of my father’s friends, co workers and business associates. Yep, you guessed it… as if this memory couldn’t get any fucking worse I was forced to recall that McCrabben was present at the event as well. The gold digging whore trying to take everything from me was sitting at table #9 at my wedding. #9, why the hell didn’t she end up at 15 or 16? You know like the one reserved for the band and photographers. I shook the thought from my head because that wasn’t important now. What was important was starting to put more lines of connections on this paper.

I wrote down the names of a few guys that my Dad had invited to my wedding that I could recall making small talk with McCrabben. I wasn’t sure if it was forced politeness or purposefully sought out but it was worth investigating; Frank, Dan, Carl. I started to describe them to my friend to see if she had any insight on the events of the evening that I didn’t. I mean after all, I was more focused on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, I was unaware that I was supposed to be looking for conspiring murderers that would later take my fathers life, stage a suicide and devise a plan to steal everything he had; silly me for not thinking of that!

My friend didn’t seem to recognize the men I described. “Well did you happen to notice anyone that McCrabben was talking to during the night?” I asked her.

“To be honest I didn’t take much notice of her, I knew she worked for your Dad and she was sitting with the rest of the Compson Development people so I just thought that is how she ended up at your wedding. And shortly after the dancing started…..” my friends voice trailed off as she spoke. ” I went outside to have a cigarette and I went out front because I didn’t want your family to see me standing on the veranda smoking among all the men. It’s a little hazy of a memory because the bartender had a heavy hand on my cosmopolitans but I do remember seeing her hurled over a bush throwing up. Classy. I was going to go over and see if I could get someone for her but she was already on the phone and I figured she was waiting for a ride so I finished my cigarette and headed back in.”

I was sitting on the edge of my seat now, hanging on to her every word hoping that something she said would reveal some truth to what we were thinking. “Did you pass anyone on your way in?” I asked.

“Yeah, I remember only because he held the door for me and well, let’s face it when the fuck does that happen in New York. It was that guy who was in your wedding party, that friend of yours…you know the tall one with the dark hair who lives here in Rochester.” My friend had just described half of the Italian population that made up the city of Rochester. Luckily, the men in my wedding party were all relatives of Steve’s with the exception of one; Martin.

I wrote his name down on the paper right above my name and my father’s.  My friend looked over at the paper curiously. “Who’s that? And what’s the connection?” I was going through the paces of my thoughts faster than I was even able to comprehend them, searching for how Martin ended up in my life in the first place and then a part of my wedding party. I knew him in a few ways but we weren’t fast friends.

“I don’t know that there is one,” I said to her. “But it’s worth walking through our connection to each other to see if it leads us somewhere.” I shrugged my shoulders in a manner that suggested I was asking her opinion. “Agreed” she said firmly. “Go for it.”

“My Dad played beach volleyball every weekend over the summer. Remember? You came with me a few times.” My friend nodded her head. I didn’t expect much more excitement that that, beach volleyball (especially tournaments) could be quite daunting as a child. There is only so much you can do with 12 hours at the beach. “Anyways,” I continued, ” I can remember Martin being at some of the tournaments. We weren’t friends at that time, Martin is about ten years older than I am, and well…. you met my Dad.” So I recall him being present in some of those weekend outing to the beach. A few years ago while I was waiting tables, a few of the girls invited me out for post work cocktails with their friends. I tagged along to see what they were all about. I was re-introduced to Martin through one of the girls from work. It took a while to place him but before the night was over we were able to talk about volleyball tournaments, wearing socks on the blazing hot sand and the obnoxious calls from the lifeguard tower that often interrupted play. He acknowledged that he knew my Dad, but we didn’t get into any details. ”

I hadn’t even noticed but my friend had grabbed the pen and paper from the middle of the table and was taking notes next to Martin’s name and drawing lines. One from me to Martin, and one from Martin to my Dad. “Okay,” I told her, I see how that all works, but how does he fit in with the two main players?”

“Dana, if you weren’t ever really friends with Martin how did he end up in your wedding?” I gasped, not at her question but at the realizations that were surfacing because of it. “Steve” I muttered. “Steve met Martin on one of his trips to San Antonio and they became like best buds overnight.”

“I need more,” my friend stated. ” How exactly did that happen?”

“Well, Martin called me completely out of the blue and told me he had earned a spot in a volleyball tournament in Austin. He said that since he had to come all the way to Texas, he would want to come and visit. The generosity that emanates from my body as a result of having the Dalai Lama for a mother caused me to invite him to stay with us the night before his tournament. Wen went out drinking that evening, showing Martin the Riverwalk and various sights of San Antonio and let’s just say we enjoyed ourselves to excess. The next morning everyone had a hangover that could kill and Martin never did make it to his tournament. At the time I didn’t think it strange because my head was pounding so terribly I wouldn’t have wanted to play a sport, much less in the heat. Martin left the next day back to Rochester.”

My friend continued to write notes on the paper, our connections web was beginning to look like a lot more than a few names written in various corners.

“I figured Steve and Martin had hit it off when we all went out, exchanged numbers and stayed friends. Steve didn’t have many friends, or any for that matter, so I didn’t think much of it when he asked for Martin to stand in our wedding.”

My friend spun the paper around so it was facing me. What my eyes were seeing was unbelievable. All I had done was sit and talk for an hour about a man I met twice through six degrees of separation and it had resulted in this interconnected web that was now visible to my eyes. There was a line from my name to Martin, one from Martin to my Dad and now one from Martin to Steve. “Fuck,” the word slipped out with my exhale. “How could all of that information go right under my nose?

My eyes began to fill with tears because as much as I wanted to know the truth, the pain was still quite evident, fresh and difficult to swallow. I forced back the tears with a deep breath in followed immediately by a big swig of Tanqueray. If someone was going to witness a tear fall, at least they would think it was because my drink was really strong. The thoughts of  true New Yorker, you can’t see my emotional side, but my alcoholic side is totally on parade.

My friend gave a welcomed interruption to my current thoughts. “So now we just need to figure out if Martin and McCrabben ever crossed paths before the wedding, or maybe Martin, Steve and McCrabben. Either way, I think Martin is the link. We just need to dig a little deeper.”

I forced a smile in agreement as my stomach did somersaults with anger, frustration and humiliation of not seeing this until now. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” I am pretty sure this quote was reserved for men that cheated on their wives. What about the men that conspired to kill their wife’s father and steal all of his money? Hell certainly cannot compete with that. And where I was going to take Steve for this, well it was much worse than Hell. In fact, I am pretty sure he was going to wish he had cheated; that is if he hadn’t already.

 

 

 

Duquesne Whistle

The bluesy song refers to the Duquesne (pronounced doo-kayne) train service that used to run between New York Penn and Pittsburgh Penn Stations. The interesting part about the song is that Dylan had a distaste for the Doquesne whistle of the train that would blow even when operated by the current daily Amtrack Pennsylvanian service. He states “Listen to that Duquesne whistle blowing, Blowing like it’s gonna sweep my world away.” This song can signify exactly how I felt in the moment of my realization of the truth. My world was sure to blow away with the most recent discoveries.

 

I cranked up the radio and started on my way to my friends. I had told my Mother and Mimi that we were going to get together for some girl talk… but I know they weren’t blind to the code that “girl talk” really meant group therapy with cocktails. They were kind enough not to judge; out loud anyways. As I mentioned before, the view from ym friends house was really lovely, and the drive complimented it well. Open  parkway with lots of trees that were decorated by mother nature in a blanket of snow, and that would finally open on the shores of the Great Lake Ontario (if you are from Rochester then I sense you picked up on the sarcasm of that comment with ease).

As I pulled into her drive beeping the horn for good measure, I saw her bright smile in the front bay window. This was exactly the kind of person I needed right now. I exited the car to meet her at the door, keys in her hand. “Before you lock up…” I started, “there is a little matter of storage I need to request of you.” My friend had a questioning look on her face, but without a word she turned the key back in the door and led me inside to her basement. This was why we were such good friends.

We didn’t exchange many words about the treasures I was asking her to store, I think she knew exactly what was going on. She had recently lost her father as well, and although it was not under the same circumstances, there was a level of understanding reached when you know what it feels like to want to hold onto things that provide you with memories.

After we loaded everything into her basement, she smiled at me and gave me a quick, yet heartfelt hug. “Ready to head out? I thought we would try one of our old stomping grounds, low key so we could talk. How about Hogans Hideaway?” I could feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile, something I hadn’t feel very often the last few weeks. This place had so many memories for me; all good. The atmosphere was calm and dim, the perfect setting for the gut spilling conversations I had to have with a dear friend. “Perfect,” I responded enthusiastically.

We had a bit of a drive to reach our destination. We filled it with small talk, mostly about my friend and what her new en devour of owning her home was really like. It was nice to hear someone else talk for a change, to listen to the problems and stress that should be facing a twenty something woman. It allowed me to let go of my own crazy mess for those few minutes, and forget that my life had become instantly complicated within the course of two weeks.

We arrived at Hogans Hideaway just in time to catch the end of happy hour. The bar was welcoming, lit dimly with candles scattered sporadically  around the room. Although this was also a thriving restaurant, the bar offered some seclusion from the restaurant buzz, one of my favorite characteristics of this spot. We chose a high top table that sat a bit away from the bar and contained one single votive candle placed in the center. After our last encounter at a bar complete with conversation, I felt that it wasn’t necessary to continue scarring the population of bartenders within the Rochester area; Mom always said that some things were better left unsaid, or in this case, unheard.

We grabbed a cocktail and took a seat. My friend was a beer drinker through and through, but myself I was still in the stage of random hankerings for specific drinks. Tonight was going to be a Tanquerary and tonic evening, something I could sip while I sorted out the ever unfolding mess of my life.

My friend sat patiently, waiting for me to open up about the current events; she could always see when I needed to talk. I started by explaining the conversation I had earlier that evening with Steve, stating to her how strange and aloof the whole thing was. I finished my short story and watched as my friends eyes began to glisten with tears. She was able to feel the things that I was feeling, just by listening to me talk. Another reason why we were true friends.

“So what do you really think?” She asked. “Deep down in the greatest depth of your heart and soul, what is your first thought?” Her question surprised me to some extent, I didn’t really have an answer planned. I don’t think I had taken a moment to even sort through what I was feeling. ” I don’t know,” I responded slowly. “Yes you do Dana, you know exactly what you think, that is one of your most endearing qualities. So just say it, out loud for only mine and your ears to hear, you NEED to do this.”

My head began to spin again, thinking of the conversation with Steve and how it had made me so angry. How he was my husband and hadn’t come to stand by my side through any of this. Fuck he didn’t even send flowers ! My father’s coffee shop sent fucking flowers! What was going on with this man? How could he not show the compassion that was truly needed during a time like this? Holy shit… my mind had landed on something big… my tongue began to twitch and my eyes filled with the fury and rage that was slowly creeping through my insides. “He had something to do with it.” My mouth said the words but my ears had not yet caught up to what I was saying. ” My father did not, and would not have taken my own life. There is too much evidence pointing against that. The computer in the snow, the two girlfriends that are friends, the wine spilled all over the apartment and the toxicology reporting 0% BAC.” The words were coming out of my mouth so fast that I didn’t even stop to notice my friends reaction. “Holy shit, my husband had something to do with my father’s death. That is why he was so interested in the will, and what the estate was valued at. That is why he has avoided all questions that are personal or emotional about the topic. He can’t bring himself to discuss the emotional distress that he had a hand in causing me. And THAT’S WHY he didn’t come to the funeral, or any part of this for that reason. He has to have the alibi to say that he was in California during the duration of all of these events. So then who was working with him? Who else had the most to gain from this? It was at this point that I looked up at my friend and finally took in her face, her reaction. Her eyes were set wide, an intent glare that glazed over her eyes. Her body was leaning so far forward that I thought she might knock the table over…. holding on to every word that I said as if she was watching the plot of the best movie unfold before her eyes. I repeated my previous comment, more for myself than for her; “Who had the most to gain from my father’s death that could have been the Rochester face for the crime?”

We stared at one another for a moment, eyes locked but minds elsewhere, traveling through the chain of events that I had just put forth. Taking another sip of the Tanquerary and tonic sitting on my beverage napkin I allowed my brain to slow for a moment, to come to terms with the most recent revelations and sort through the newly discovered information. I swallowed hard, partially because of the burn the Tanquerary as it traveled down my esophagus, and partially because my speeding mind had just slowed enough to display a still frame of what I was looking for. Locking eyes with my friend I opened my mouth to speak, and it was as if I had an echo. Because at the same exact moment that I heard the words come of out my mouth, I heard her voice within the same utterance… “McCrabben.” 

The unison of our voices sent chills throughout my entire body. I had been thinking for the last two weeks that this woman was a selfish piece of shit who was entirely focused on taking everything that didn’t belong to her. But the last 45 minutes of my life had brought an entirely different perspective, one that once I had realized I could not ignore. My husband and Kim McCrabben had somehow planned and executed the death of my father.

They say “God will only give you what you can handle.” Well then God must think I am fucking tank because the revelations that were coming to light were ones far beyond anything I could have ever imagined. But I was going to find the answers, the truth.

I downed the last of my drink and gave a small smile to my friend. “Another round?” I asked. She nodded in reply, but I think she knew we were going to need more than just one more round to sort out the things we had just discovered. I got our next round from the bar and brought it back to the table, placing the drinks on cocktail napkins that were already damp with condensation from the previous round. My friend held up her glass and I did the same, ” To finding the truth and letting it set us free.” her words we so cliche, yet the suited the moment so perfectly. “Salud” I said, as I clinked my glass to hers. I thought this ride was almost over, turns out it was just beginning.

I left my new found treasures in trunk as I strolled back into Mimi’s house, making a mental note not to let her or Papa take the wheel until the contraband was removed. I didn’t feel that now was the best time to bring up my recent trip to the five finger discount store.

Mom and Mimi were sitting at the table talking, their faces spread of worry with a slight hint of sorrow all directed at me.

“Sit with us,” Mimi said. This was more of a statement rather than  question. I did as I was told and waited for someone to speak next. I fiddled with the paper napkin left on the table from Papa’s morning coffee. I rubbed the brown stains between my fingers as I waited…. someone had to have something to say. I said a silent wish that it would be soon because the only thing I had to break the ice with at the current moment was the trunk full of “borrowed goods” and for some reason I didn’t feel they were quite ready for that.

Mom spoke first, “It’s time to start thinking about finishing up here and heading home Fib.” My mouth must have fallen open in my shocked reaction to her words because she continued speaking ever so gently. “What has happened here is a tragedy, one I wish I could have protected you from, but it cannot stop you from living your life and you cannot let it define who you are.” Although her words rang bells of truth in my mind, my heart felt differently. I knew something wasn’t right here, with this whole situation. If I walked away now, who would be left to go after the truth? Certainly not the RPD, as they had always proven their lack of worth on the night in question. Kim had too many other life events ot attend to, and Kiera to care for. How would the truth every be uncovered if I planned to leave now? I could tell that my mother was reading my thoughts through the changing expressions on my face. She laid her hand on mine, “I am going to help you Fib. We will get through this. But you have a life you just started in California, with a new husband a new home. All of that cannot cease to exist based on the current events. Have you even talked to Steve?

Ah, yes… Steve. As many of you may recall I was married and sleeping next to my husband on the night of the dreadful call. But yet he has not played a major role in this entire experience. In the moment I blamed myself, for being too busy and caught up in the events to be bothered to call and talk to him about it all. Hindsight tells me that there was much more to that than I had ever imagined.

“We have talked, and sent messages.” I explained to my mother. “But it has just been so busy and he has been working.” She nodded her head as if to show me that she understood. “But these are the things that you cannot let make sever changes to your life Dana,” she warned. “These are the moments you have to live for, for yourself and for your father. Take a few moments and go and call Steve, talk to him about your week and see what kind of a bond you can build from that kind of trust and honesty. “Okay Dalhi, ” I mumbled under my breath, although I don’t think she heard me.

I set up camp on the rickety bronze bed where I felt comfortable and home. I started to dial the number, my fingers sliding over the keys with the ease and familiarity of having done it a million times before.  He answered on the second ring, sounding happy to hear from me. I on the other hand felt guilty for not being able to return the happiness in my voice. We chatted about the events of the last week, I left out some of the details as not to worry him; breaking and entering, theft, the ugly verbal brawl with McCracken at the office, and then again at the funeral. The idea was not to worry him, not to make him think I was loosing my mind. Steve’s responses and answers sounded so blasé given the current situation and the lack of spousal support received. “Ya, probably about time to come home, I agree” he was saying as it was clear he was also doing something else while talking. I mean, what the fuck guy? I am your wife and I just went through the most traumatic event of my life to date and you can’t even give yourself over to one tiny conversation? My head began to spin thinking of all the things that were no longer adding up, coming now into the full view of the light.

Who in their right mind leaves their new wife to handle the death of a parent alone in another state? Even work would have allowed for a flight to make the service at very least. I mean, Billy flew from Vegas to be here, why the hell hadn’t my husband found his way to a plane? As he continued on about minuscule bullshit about the weather and his work I found myself becoming more and more angry… and suspicious. I couldn’t understand how he had removed himself so fully from this situation, I mean were we together or not? My head ran through the events of the last few days like a crack head on speed. His calls had been scarce, his messages of simple language, and his inquiries mostly about the will and the settlement. What the fuck was I really dealing with here? I couldn’t listen to the mindless chatter coming through the receiver any longer so I excused myself to end the call.

I had to sort this out, I needed to say it aloud and having someone present as a sounding board, but most of all I needed a drink. You would think after my massive hangover earlier this morning the thought and scent of alcohol would be enough to make me run for another trash can… but oddly enough I thought it would do the trick in this case. I dialed up my friend and asked her out for some cocktails and conversation. She happily agreed and started rattling off some of our favorite local dives. “Anywhere with vodka works for me,” I stated. Suddenly my mind flashed back to the trunk of Mimi’s car loaded with all of my rather illegally obtained treasures. ” I’ll drive,” I offered. “I will pick you up at six at your place. Oh, and by the way do you have a basement?

 

 

In the 1920’s Walter Cannon was the first to describe the psychological reaction of the acute stress response, better known today as the “fight or flight” reaction. If Mr. Cannon was still around to study my current case, I would bet that he would reconsider the term “acute stress” when naming his discovery. I now believe that we as humans can get to a point where the stress in our lives is so high that the sense of “fight” becomes all we know, a part of our everyday. That is the stage in which I was currently operating.

My trip to Mimi’s was quick, but did not come without questions. Fortunately, I was able to provide general answers that would forgo any suspicions they were having about my “errands.” This coupled with the promise to be back in 90 minutes or less made for an easier transition out the door, keys in hand.

Stoneridge Plaza was just around the corner from Mimi’s, and a place I had spent a good amount of my childhood in. My father was always there fixing something, helping a tenant, checking the parking lot for any damages. I have one memory of him becoming very angry with a female driver because she drove into the stop sign and cracked the large cement base that held it together. He just couldn’t understand how you hit a sign that was supposed to indicate stopping.  Another memory was when he took me up as a child on the scissor lift, you know just a typical Saturday afternoon outing. But in this case we were not going to fix a roof. My Dad took me up as high as that lift would allow just so that I could pet the face of Jeffrey the Giraffe, the cartoon character that was hanging on the face of the Toys R Us sign. I thought that was just the most amazing thing ever, and I still do. My father would go to great lengths, or heights, to make me happy; something that started when I was very young.

I had practically grown up on the roof of that plaza, and knew every inch of it inside and out. This is why it was so easy for me to locate the back doors of the plaza that would lead me down the to storage units that I was currently seeking. As I pulled the car around the back of the local coffee shop, I saw the double steel doors come into view. I parked along the side of the door (for easy escape should that become necessary) and climbed out of the car. A smile spread across my lips as I saw the left door to the unit had been left slightly ajar; accidentally of course. There was no need to come with a flashlight, this was my father we were talking about. He had wired the basement of this place with electricity for lighting and even installed a basic bathroom, there was nothing that man couldn’t do.

I flipped the switch and ascended the stairs slowly. The alcohol from last night was still fervently searching for escape from my body and I was careful not to become lightheaded. At the bottom I stopped to take a quick visual inventory. Although I knew that my father had used part of this storage for personal items, a large portion was still devoted to building materials necessary to the job. And this was no small space to be searching through, we were talking about 35,000 feet of endless mountains of lumber, toilets, bathroom fixtures, paint, electrical materials, plumbing pipes etc. If I was going to be successful, I had to work fast and effectively. I started to do a lap of the perimeter to get a better look at how things might be organized. Yes there was a lot of stuff to inventory, but because I knew my father, I knew there was some meaning behind this organized chaos.

In the back left corner, out of sight from the door, my eyes fell on a dismantled bike and some cardboard boxes. That had to be it, those must be the personal items together in that pile. I carefully maneuvered my way through the other materials toward the Mecca I was so desperately seeking. I didn’t much recognize the bike, but the golf clubs I did. A complete set of Callaway clubs held securely in their red and black bag. I recognized these from the few times my father took me golfing. Or I guess I should probably say the times he took me to the golf course to find and wash golf balls from the surrounding woods. I picked them up and set them in the aisle as if to start a new pile that was coming with me. I started opening boxes and found his collection of beer steins that were the contents of two of the boxes. They had no monetary value, and were not even all very pretty. But as I stoked my fingers across the cold metal tops I remembered the times when Dad would hide my Easter Eggs in them, making them nearly impossible to find without some of his clues. My insides felt warm with these thoughts and I moved these boxes to the “coming with me” pile as well. There were things I didn’t recognize, and various sports equipment that was part of his “try everything once” mantra. I left these things in their current place because I had no connection to them.

As I surveyed the rest of the pile, I became fixated on what appeared to be frames that were leaning against the back wall behind the boxes. There was a picture I had in mind that was this beautiful green painting that had hung in my father’s room; I coveted this painting and placed it on my list of desired items from my father. If it was one of these frames leaning against the wall I wouldn’t have to want any longer. I also wouldn’t have to fight that bitch McCrabben in court for a fucking painting. At this point I knew that anything and everything I expressed interest in was going to result in a battle in court. I held my breath and turned back the paintings to display their front images. I dusted off the fronts for better visuals. I found a beautiful picture of a woman in a garden. The brush strokes were small, but vibrant in color, and reminded me almost of a later dated Monet. Of course this was not a painting done by the infamous Monet, but rather famous in its own right. This was a painting I recognized from the living room, and previously the dining room I believe. I moved it to the pile that was going to be removed. The second frame I pulled back was a blueprint of the inside of an old ship, another picture I can recall from his home. I turned back the third frame to face me, desperately hoping that it was the green painting that had once adorned the walls of the bedroom. Unfortunately, what I found was a four season photography piece showing Letchworth State Park in all of its beauty for an entire year. Although not exactly what I was hoping for, I had some great pictures from Letchworth and thought this would be a perfect addition to my collection; I moved it to the center pile.

As I surveyed the area one last time it dawned on me that I had not been keeping track of the time. I glanced at my watch and saw that my 90 minutes was nearly up. I had but 15 minutes to get out of this place and definitely more than one trip up the steep stairs to the car. I grabbed what I cold carry in the first load and started to the door. No way was I going to get caught down here and risk getting Phil into any sort of trouble. Phil was such a wonderful man, so very easygoing. My Dad would always say “Phil is going to live forever, nothing bothers that guy.”

I closed the truck with a loud snap, locking in all my treasures I had recently secured. I glanced back at the steel doors, wishing I had some more time to go through the contents of that building. There was still a small part of me that was expecting to come across a note, or a poem, some sort of explanation. I thought if I turned over every rock in his life I would eventually discover the answers. Well, I hadn’t found them today, not here at least. I left the door ajar as I had found it, just in case someone noticed something missing. We could always blame it on an “unexpected robbery.”

As I pulled away from the storage unit and out of the plaza I took an extra minute at the final stop sign. I lingered here not only because it was the sign that told me to stop, but also because I had a great view of Jeffrey the Giraffe in my rear view mirror. That same smile spread across my lips again and I pointed the car in the direction of Mimi’s house. I felt good about the items I had secured, that they all had a meaning to a part of my life that  I treasured most. As I made the short drive to Mimi’s I thought about all of the wonderful things I had to remember about my Dad. I was lost in thought when I turned onto Laura Drive and suddenly hit the breaks hard. How the fuck was I going to explain golf clubs, boxes of beer steins and large canvas paintings? I thought for a moment and then crawled the car forward down the street. I would offer two rationals: the truth, which could make you an accomplice, or plausible deniability; which is exactly what I was going with these days.

I awoke to the feeling of the sun’s rays bouncing off the lake and pouring into the beautiful  bay window of my friends home. My mouth was so dry I feared that I would blow dust from it at any moment and my head felt as if someone was tapping out their new drum solo on my temples. One day I would become wise to the idea of drinking alcohol that contained less sugar, but until then I was stuck with the grueling pain that accompanied my current morning rise.

I leaned to my side to reach for my phone. In my alcohol induced state last night I had also forgotten to put my phone on the charger. The black screen starred back at me with every push of a button. I wandered to the kitchen, half balanced, searching for the cord that would bring my device to life. I plugged in my phone and poured a glass of water while I waited. I returned to the kitchen table to attempt the buttons once again. I was rocking the Blackberry in those days and I was waiting like an addict for the little red light at the top to start blinking, denoting that someone had made an attempt to contact me. It was several minutes before I was able to satisfy my addiction and there it was, the red blinking light. I had some text messages from various people, well wishes and condolences and a few missed calls from Mimi’s land line. I checked my voicemail to find that there was one from my mom, “Dana it’s me, call me when you get this.” The time stamp showed that she had left this about an hour ago. I knew I needed to call her soon, but I opted for a few more moments of silence to breathe. I sipped my water and let my fingers run across the floral arrangement on the kitchen table. Last night I had insisted that my friend bring home an arrangement from the viewing, and here it sat. It was truly beautiful and I didn’t even know who it was from. It was an all white mixed bouquet of lilies, roses and some small budding white variety of which I was not familiar. I starred for a minute more taking in it’s beauty and then, giving up, I reached for my phone. It was no use, I now fucking loathed flowers.

My mom answered in two short rings. “Hey Mom, what’s up?” I made a valiant effort to sound much better than I felt, or probably looked.   “Nothing much here,” she replied. “But I do need you to stop at Mimi’s before you go off today. We need to discuss your legal counsel and prepare for what is left to come. I have a few names, but if you know anyone we can look those over too.” It took me a minute to formulate words, I had not thought about how the rest of this was going to play out. Here I was thinking my work last night as Nancy Drew was going to result in answers, legal counsel had not even crossed my mind. “Mom, are you sure that I have to do this? I mean Kim and I can probably make McCrabben go away on our own don’t you think?” I could hear my mom swallow hard through the phone, giving me the sensation that she was struggling with her own words. “Kim has already retained an attorney” my Mom began slowly, “and it’s not because she wants to go against you in any way, it is just what we have to do in order to get through this. She was the one who called me this morning, she felt that I would be best to try and make you understand.” I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak a word. My mind started swirling with ideas and my heart filling again with emotion. How could it all have come to this overnight? How could we have just said a goodbye to him 12 hours ago and now all be talking lawyers, retainers and who was on each side? “Fib,” my Mom started again, “Don’t be scared, and please don’t be mad. This is not what anyone wanted, but we have to act on it now that we know the play McCrabben is making; she wants everything your father had and then some.” It took me a few minutes to find my words, and when I did they came out a few octaves higher than I anticipated. “She isn’t getting shit, I won’t let her. I’ll be there soon, and I will get some more names on the way. I love you Mom.” We disconnected and I sat there starring at the little red light that continued to blink. What had just moments ago made me happy to see, was now a threatening image that seemed to bring nothing but bad news and pain.

I scrolled through my list of contacts searching all of the names to see if anything jogged a memory of a friend having spoke of an attorney before. Finally my finger stopped on the M list and I saw “Martin” written across my screen. He was an old friend of mine, who had also known my Dad. We ad played beach volleyball together a few times and he always seemed to be a decent person. To top it all off, he had recently started a company and last I had spoken to him he was working with an attorney to get all of his corporation elements together. I started a quick message and in the subject line typed “soliciting advice.” I started the message with a quick hello and apologies for having not reached out recently. Then I jumped right into it. I typed a few lines about his business and asked what he thought of his attorney. I let him know I was seeking legal counsel for my father’s estate and was hopeful to find someone who came recommended. I asked him to contact me if he had anyone in mind.

I set my phone on the table and started a pot of coffee. If I had to wake my friend from her own alcohol induced sleep, I might as well come armed with some coffee to take off the edge. I poured a fresh cup and started up the stairs to her room. As much as I had enjoyed my few minutes of peace, I had opened Pandora’s box yet again today and I was going to need a whole lot more than a little hope to cure the evils that had recently been released.

It wasn’t long before we were on the road to Mimi’s. I had received an answer from Martin expressing his condolences and providing the name and phone number of his attorney with whom he had been very satisfied, Dave Tratta. I saved the message for easy access and began a new one to my Dad’s former colleges. My Dad had this tendency to maintain a lot of his personal belongings locked inside the storage units belonging to the commercial real estate company he ran in Rochester. Being as I was not allowed to enter the house, I figured I could at least check out the units without repercussions. My Dad’s colleagues, friends really, had worked with him and for him for many years. They were like a second family to us, surely they would let me in the units to look around. Or at least they would “accidentally” leave them open on their way to lunch, whichever. I made that call first. I figured it was best to get things out of the way that might be seen as borderline illegal before I retained an attorney. I didn’t really want to hear what I “should” be doing anyways. As it was, I had followed the rules this far and all it did was get me exiled from his house and office. This time I was going to try a different approach.

I got one of the guys, Phil, on the phone. He told me that he was hopeful I would call and that McCrabben had means to obtain the keys to these units as she was part of the office staff. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she had not tried to get in them yet. I asked him to lunch and he kindly thanked me but explained he had an appointment he had to take care of on his lunch hour. He said he would be leaving from the Stoneridge Plaza around noon and would probably be gone about an hour and a half. I could pick through his words and hear what he was really telling me; he was leaving for 90 minutes and there would be no accountability for the storage units in Stoneridge at that time. I thanked Phil for his kindness and told him we would have to get lunch another day.

As I clicked off my speaker I smiled to myself. I had a bit of satisfaction knowing I was going to have an opportunity to rummage on my own for a while. The clock on the dash of my friends car read 10:18. I had just enough time to get to Mimi’s, scrub the booze from my pours and excuse myself on an errand, one I would insist to do alone. I would call Mr. Tratta when I was finished, plausible deniability was definitely going to save my ass this time.