Chris DiLeo
Chapter Three: Grief Ritual, Part 2
CHAPTER THREE
Shelly handed her a glass with a few teaspoons of white wine in it. “Keeping it together?”
“All shits and giggles,” she said. One of Dad’s expressions from childhood they had mocked and then, without realizing, adopted themselves.
“You look ready to snap,” Shelly said. “Everyone’s waiting for you to throw something and crumple to the floor.”
“How comforting.”
“I’m concerned. You’re a bottler.”
Bri swallowed the few sips of wine and twirled the glass. Maybe she should throw this against the wall. Would everyone be satisfied then? Shelly touched Bri’s wrist and the glass stopped twirling. “I’ll get you more,” she said.
For a wonderful moment, nothing gnawed at her mind with rat teeth. Those thoughts were there—in her brain a room had been constructed for All Things Ward—but they stayed back, lurking in shadows. She would love to remain in this state, nearly mindless, drifting as if cast out alone on the ocean.
But now there was the dark cloud of that letter, refolded in the envelope and tucked in her pocket. She felt it there, pressing against her, weighing her down, insisting she stop ignoring it.
A man with broad shoulders that stretched his black sport coat stood near her. She almost turned away from him.
He had patchy skin like badly blended makeup and a wide forehead made all the larger from a military haircut. He was freshly shaved but had missed a few needles of dark hair beneath the corners of his square jaw. She waited and when he didn’t say anything, she said, “Yes?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you were, you looked, well, lost.”
“Sorry.”
His hand was up, head shaking back and forth. “Please, don’t apologize. I should be doing that. I’m Steven Russell. I’m a Deputy Chief with the Warrenville PD. I knew your husband. He was a good man. Helped me with a lot of deals.”
“Oh?” She tried to sound interested but if this small-town cop had made some extra money because of Ward’s “financial genius” or whatever, she didn’t give a shit.
“I have some news that might ease your grief.”
She fought a rising burp of laughter.
“The man who,” Russell started and paused. “The drunk driver, Ray Samuelson, died last night.”
“What? How?”
“Suicide. Pill overdose.”
“Wasn’t he in jail?”
Russell’s jaw firmed up. “He was out on bail. I’m sorry he won’t know the justice of prison, but you can find comfort knowing he’s not breathing anymore.”
Actually, she wanted to find the bastard’s dead body and beat the shit out of it until life flickered back into his eyes and then she could choke him until his face turned purple and he died gawking up at her grin.
“I’m not sure what to say.”
“The man was a worthless drunk. You don’t need to say anything.”
Bri nodded, looked away. Everyone busied in conversations.
“He was an alcoholic,” Russell said. “What compelled him to get behind the wheel of that thing drunk out of his gourd is beyond me. I wish he stayed home, passed out on the bathroom floor and choked on his vomit.”
She smiled, the fake kind with a touch of please-get-away-from-me.
“He was working for some small company, trying to get by,” Russell said. “He had a probationary license. He’d had his other suspended for ‘suspicions of inappropriate conduct,’ which means the company that hired him knew he was a drunk but looked the other way. I’ll be looking into the matter.”
“Thank you,” she said. She wished for that glass of wine, something to hold in her hands so they wouldn’t start flapping like wings or drift over her head like helium balloons.
“Spellman over in Montgomery is in charge, but he’s very cooperative.” His hands went to his belt, traced along it. “The bitch of it is that he was driving an old rig. One of those with twin gear shifts. It’s called a five by three. Point is, truck driving isn’t easy, you have to be vigilant, but driving one of those old rust buckets, you have to be really with it.” Russell leaned in and again Bri struggled not to laugh. “What makes a drunkard decide he’s going to get behind the wheel of this ancient truck when he’s two sheets?”
Bri waited. Let the guy play cop. Whatever made people feel better during such trying, emotional times.
“I’m sure there’s money behind it somewhere. Eventually, you dig deep enough, there’s always money.”
Bri touched the pocket of her black pants. The envelope crinkled.
It wasn’t an accident. Be careful.
“Thank you, Officer Russell.” She left him stranded, staring around for fellow conspiracy theorists.