Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
Ads: Link
right.
“Years ago,” she said, “Well, really not that many years ago, I used to do this for Simon Weisenthal.”
Her dappled fingers danced over the keys of the laptop and images, lists popped up and then stopped.
“Thirty-seven-thousand six-hundred and seven hits,” she said. “Not an unusually high number even for as obscure a fictional character as Andrej Posnitki. Colley Cibber, a very minor actor, poet and playwright, has more than ninety-nine-thousand hits. Cibber was an actor known most for the fact that Alexander Pope ridiculed him in The Dunciad .”
“Posno,” Lew said. “Are there any hits for Posno?”
Her fingers danced again.
“More than eighty-eight thousand,” she said. “It seems to be a Dutch name. Let us see. Posno Flowers, Posno Sporting Goods. Is it possible to narrow the search?”
“We don’t want to keep you from Dante,” Lew said.
“Dante has waited more than six hundred years,” she said. “He can wait and the students can wait a few minutes longer. Narrow the search.”
Lew knew what that meant.
“Posno, crime, murder, trial,” Lew said.
She tapped in the words, clicked on search, narrowed and said, “One Web site devoted specifically to what appears to be your Posno. Look.”
On the screen in the upper left-hand corner in boldface was Posnitki, Andrej (Posno).
It was followed by three paragraphs. Lew and Franco leaned forward to read, but Rebecca Strum said, “I’ll print it for you.”
She pushed a button, and then another and a rumbling sound came from under her desk. A few seconds later she reached down and came up with a printed sheet. She handed it to Lew and got up, a little more slowly than she had from the green chair.
“Thank you,” said Lew.
“One more thing,” she said, and with her book moved across the room and through a slightly open door.
It took her no more than ten seconds. When she came out, she held a different, thicker book in one hand, a pen in the other.
“Your wife’s name?” she asked Franco.
“Angie.”
“Angela,” Lew said.
Rebecca Strum nodded, opened the book, wrote something in it and handed it to Franco.
“I just had a box of them delivered yesterday,” she said. “I don’t have room and I’d rather it go to someone who will read it than have it lay in a box in the darkness of a storage room.”
“Thank you,” said Franco. “You’re … she thinks you’re great.”
Rebecca Strum shook her head and let out a two-note laugh.
“My two children think I’m a petty tyrant posing as a
martyr. My husband, long dead, resented my notoriety and I never noticed. I’ve been frequently duped by emotional and financial criminals and used by frauds I didn’t even recognize who played on my ego. A full list of my indiscretions, omissions and petty vices would compare with anyone who has lived as long as I have. I’m not great. It’s enough that I’ve lived this long and can still speak out and write and have visitors, especially those who don’t expect wisdom and don’t expect me to remember when I do not wish to remember.”
She touched Lew’s arm and Lew and Franco left, the door closing gently behind them.
“Can you fucking believe that?” asked Franco, looking at the book.
He opened it as they moved to the elevator.
“Listen to this,” he said. “‘To Angela, Imagine that we are holding each other’s hand and walking together through the forest of the night.’ And she signed it.”
“Nice.”
No one was inside the elevator when the door opened and they stepped in.
“What do you know about Rebecca Strum?” asked Franco.
“Not much.”
“Come on, Lewis. Work with me here. I’ve got a point.”
The elevator dropped slowly, a slight metallic clatter beneath their feet.
“Husband’s dead,” Lew said.
“And?”
Lew looked away, felt the sheet of paper in his hand.
“She’s hiding her grief with a smile. She’s resigned herself to the unfairness of life and she’s dedicated
“Years ago,” she said, “Well, really not that many years ago, I used to do this for Simon Weisenthal.”
Her dappled fingers danced over the keys of the laptop and images, lists popped up and then stopped.
“Thirty-seven-thousand six-hundred and seven hits,” she said. “Not an unusually high number even for as obscure a fictional character as Andrej Posnitki. Colley Cibber, a very minor actor, poet and playwright, has more than ninety-nine-thousand hits. Cibber was an actor known most for the fact that Alexander Pope ridiculed him in The Dunciad .”
“Posno,” Lew said. “Are there any hits for Posno?”
Her fingers danced again.
“More than eighty-eight thousand,” she said. “It seems to be a Dutch name. Let us see. Posno Flowers, Posno Sporting Goods. Is it possible to narrow the search?”
“We don’t want to keep you from Dante,” Lew said.
“Dante has waited more than six hundred years,” she said. “He can wait and the students can wait a few minutes longer. Narrow the search.”
Lew knew what that meant.
“Posno, crime, murder, trial,” Lew said.
She tapped in the words, clicked on search, narrowed and said, “One Web site devoted specifically to what appears to be your Posno. Look.”
On the screen in the upper left-hand corner in boldface was Posnitki, Andrej (Posno).
It was followed by three paragraphs. Lew and Franco leaned forward to read, but Rebecca Strum said, “I’ll print it for you.”
She pushed a button, and then another and a rumbling sound came from under her desk. A few seconds later she reached down and came up with a printed sheet. She handed it to Lew and got up, a little more slowly than she had from the green chair.
“Thank you,” said Lew.
“One more thing,” she said, and with her book moved across the room and through a slightly open door.
It took her no more than ten seconds. When she came out, she held a different, thicker book in one hand, a pen in the other.
“Your wife’s name?” she asked Franco.
“Angie.”
“Angela,” Lew said.
Rebecca Strum nodded, opened the book, wrote something in it and handed it to Franco.
“I just had a box of them delivered yesterday,” she said. “I don’t have room and I’d rather it go to someone who will read it than have it lay in a box in the darkness of a storage room.”
“Thank you,” said Franco. “You’re … she thinks you’re great.”
Rebecca Strum shook her head and let out a two-note laugh.
“My two children think I’m a petty tyrant posing as a
martyr. My husband, long dead, resented my notoriety and I never noticed. I’ve been frequently duped by emotional and financial criminals and used by frauds I didn’t even recognize who played on my ego. A full list of my indiscretions, omissions and petty vices would compare with anyone who has lived as long as I have. I’m not great. It’s enough that I’ve lived this long and can still speak out and write and have visitors, especially those who don’t expect wisdom and don’t expect me to remember when I do not wish to remember.”
She touched Lew’s arm and Lew and Franco left, the door closing gently behind them.
“Can you fucking believe that?” asked Franco, looking at the book.
He opened it as they moved to the elevator.
“Listen to this,” he said. “‘To Angela, Imagine that we are holding each other’s hand and walking together through the forest of the night.’ And she signed it.”
“Nice.”
No one was inside the elevator when the door opened and they stepped in.
“What do you know about Rebecca Strum?” asked Franco.
“Not much.”
“Come on, Lewis. Work with me here. I’ve got a point.”
The elevator dropped slowly, a slight metallic clatter beneath their feet.
“Husband’s dead,” Lew said.
“And?”
Lew looked away, felt the sheet of paper in his hand.
“She’s hiding her grief with a smile. She’s resigned herself to the unfairness of life and she’s dedicated
Similar Books
