“Ouch. Jesus! Hard to imagine someone as agile as Boom Boom doing something like that … Look, as an old fan of his, I’ll be glad to help you out. But I’ve got dibs if anything turns up. Paige Carrington … What’s her father’s name?”
“I don’t know. She did mention something about growing up in Lake Bluff.”
“Okay, Vic. I’ll call you in two, three days.”
I unwrapped Janet’s tidy package and pulled out the papers. Three big accordion files marked June, July, and August were filled with hundreds of flimsies, each a carbon of a computer printout. Before going through them I went downstairs to Johnnie’s Steak Joynt, where I had a Fresca and a gyros sandwich. Thumbing through the Herald-Star, I saw a notice about Kelvin’s wake. It was today, starting at four, in a funeral home on the South Side. Maybe I should go.
Back in my office I cleared off the desktop by putting everything into the bottom drawer and spread the files out in front of me. They were computer reports, all arranged in the same way. Each showed a transaction date, a point of origin, a destination, a carrier, volume, weight, type, cost per bushel, and date of arrival. They reflected Eudora Grain’s shipments of grain over a three-month period. They weren’t legal documents but records of legal transactions. Each report was actually titled “Contract Verification Form.”
I scratched my head but started reading through them. Some showed more than one carrier, many three or four. Thus, I’d find Thunder Bay of St. Catherines on June 15 via GSL, canceled, via PSL, canceled, and finally picked up by a third carrier at a different rate. I should have brought my cousin’s list of the Great Lakes steamship lines. I frowned. PSL might be Bledsoe’s outfit, the Pole Star Line. GSL was perhaps Grafalk Steamship. But there were dozens of initials. I’d need a guide.
I looked at Boom Boom’s diary and pulled the forms that matched the dates he’d marked for last summer. There were fourteen for those three days. Since the forms were all in date order it was easy to pick out the ones I wanted, although frequently there was more than one report for each date. There were thirty-two records altogether. Twenty-one were multiple-contract shipments, eight of which ended up with GSL. Of the other eleven, five were with GSL. What did that mean? If GSL was Grafalk’s line, Eudora did a lot of business with him. But he had told me he had the biggest fleet on the lakes, so that wasn’t too surprising. PSL had lost seven shipments to GSL but had gotten two of its own in August. Their August rates were lower than the June rates; that might be the reason.
I looked at my watch. It was almost three o’clock. If I was going to Kelvin’s wake I’d have to go home and put on a dress. I gathered up all the files and took them to an office service shop on the building’s fifth floor where they do clerical jobs for one-person offices like mine. I asked them to make me a copy of each of the forms and refile them in date order. The man behind the counter was pleased but someone in the background groaned.
I drove home and changed quickly into the navy suit I’d worn to Boom Boom’s funeral. I made good time going back south—it was only four-thirty when I got to the funeral home. A tan brick bungalow at 71st and Damen with a tiny lawn manicured within an inch of the ground had been converted to a funeral parlor. A vacant lot on its south side was packed with cars. I found a place for the Lynx on 71st Place and went into the home. I was the only white person there.
Kelvin’s body was displayed in an open casket surrounded with waxy lilies and candles. I made the obligatory stop to look. He was laid out in his best suit; his face in repose had the same unresponsive stare I’d encountered Tuesday night.
I turned to condole with the family. Mrs. Kelvin was standing in quiet dignity, wearing a black wool dress and surrounded by her children. I shook hands with a woman my own age in a black suit and pearls, two younger men, and with Mrs. Kelvin.
“Thank you for coming down, Miss Warshawski,” the widow said in her deep voice. “These are my children and my grandchildren.” She gave me their names and I told them how sorry I was.
The little room was crowded with friends and relations, heavy-bosomed women clutching handkerchiefs, dark-suited men, and preternaturally quiet children. They moved a little closer to the grieving family as I stood there—protection against the white woman who drove Kelvin to his death.
“I was a little hasty in how I spoke to you yesterday,” Mrs. Kelvin said. “I believed you must have known something was going to happen in that apartment.”
There was a little murmur of assent from the group behind me.
“I still think you must have known something was going on. But blaming people won’t bring my husband back to life.” She gave the ghost of a smile. “He was a very stubborn man. He could have called for help if he knew someone was going into that place—he should have called for help, called the police.” Again the murmur of assent from the people around her. “But once he knew someone was breaking in, he wanted to handle it by himself. And that’s not your fault.”