I looked at the room with jaundiced eyes. Eight drawers full of papers. Sorting and cleaning have always been my worst skills on aptitude tests.
I sat on the desk and patted Paige’s shoulder. “Look. This is going to be totally boring to sort through. I’m going to have to examine even the stuff you’ve looked at because I have to see anything that might affect the estate. So why don’t you leave me to it? I promise you if I see any personal letters to Boom Boom I won’t read them—I’ll put them in an envelope for you.”
She smiled up at me, but the smile wobbled. “Maybe I’m just being vain, but if he saved a bunch of letters from kids he never met I thought he’d keep what I wrote him.” She looked away.
I gripped her shoulder for a minute. “Don’t worry, Paige. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
She sniffed a tiny, elegant sniff. “I think I’m just fixating on them because they keep me from thinking, ‘Yes, he’s really … gone.’ ”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m cursing him for being such a damned pack rat. And I can’t even get back at him by making him my executor.”
She laughed a little at that. “I brought a suitcase with me. I might as well pack up the clothes and makeup I left over here and get going.”
She went to the master bedroom to pull out her things. I puttered around aimlessly, trying to take stock of my task. Paige was right: Boom Boom had saved everything. Every inch of wall space was covered with hockey photographs, starting with the peewee team my cousin belonged to in second grade. There were group photos of him with the Black Hawks, locker-room pictures filled with champagne after Stanley Cup triumphs, solo shots of Boom Boom making difficult plays, signed pictures from Esposito, Howe, Hull—even one from Boom-Boom Geoffrion inscribed, “To the little cannon.”
In the middle of the collection, incongruous, was a picture of me in my maroon robes getting my law degree from the University of Chicago. The sun was shining behind me and I was grinning at the camera. My cousin had never gone to college and he set inordinate store by my education. I frowned at this younger, happy V. I. Warshawski and went into the master bedroom to see if Paige needed any help.
The case sat open on the bed, clothes folded neatly. As I came in she was rummaging through a dresser drawer, pulling out a bright red pullover.
“Are you going through all his clothes and everything? I think I’ve got all my stuff, but let me know if you find anything—size sixes are probably mine, not his.” She went into the bathroom where I heard her opening cabinets.
The bedroom was masculine but homey. A king-size bed dominated the middle of the floor, covered with a black and white quilt. Floor-length drapes in a heavy off-white cloth were pulled back, showing the lake. Boom Boom’s hockey stick was mounted over the severe walnut bureau. A purple and red painting provided a splash of color and a couple of rugs picked it up again in the same red. He’d avoided the mirrors that so many bachelors think make the complete singles apartment.
A bedside table held a few magazines. I sat on the bed to see what my cousin had read before going to sleep—Sports Illustrated, Hockey World, and a densely printed paper called Grain News. I looked at this with interest. Published in Kansas City, it was filled with information about grain—the size of various crops, prices on different options exchanges, rates for shipping by rail and boat, contracts awarded to different transporters. It was pretty interesting if grain was important to you.
“Is that something special?”
I’d gotten so absorbed I hadn’t noticed Paige come out of the bathroom to finish her packing. I hesitated, then said, “I’ve been worried about whether Boom Boom went under that propeller—deliberately. This thing”—I waved the paper at her—“tells you everything you’d ever want to know about grains and shipping them. It apparently comes out twice a month, weekly during the harvest. If Boom Boom was involved enough at Eudora Grain to study something like this, it gives me some reassurance.”
Paige looked at me intently. She took Grain News and flipped through it. Looking at the pages, she said, “I know losing hockey upset him—I can imagine how I’d feel if I couldn’t dance, and I’m not nearly as good a ballerina as he was a hockey player. But I think his involvement with me—kept him from being too depressed. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“Not at all. If it’s true, I’m pleased.”
Her thin, penciled brows rose. “If it’s true? Do you mind explaining that?”