Zugzwang: A Valerie Urniak Mystery, #7

By Rebecca A. Engel

Valerie Urniak Cardonza never thought of herself as someone with a nemesis, but now she has two: one who is a threat to her marriage, and another who is a threat to her family.

It is Valerie, not her chess-savant son Bobby, who finds herself in a zugzwang, a chess term that means any move will only makes things worse. In Valerie's case, whatever she does may turn out deadly -- but for her, or for Bobby?

ZUGZWANG is Book 7 in the Valerie Urniak Mystery series. Other books in this series are:

PERMANENT DAMAGE, Book 1

CONTRIVE TO KILL, Book 2

VARIANTS OF DEJA VU, Book 3

A RING OF TRUTH, Book 4

TOO SOON, Book 5

DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS, Book 6

ALTERNATE LIVES, Book 8

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: Nov 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540173645

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Bobby looked at me with his blue eyes so filled with hope that my heart melted and made me consider that I might have fallen in love with this child before I fell in love with his father.

Of course we can, I said, and saw the hope in his eyes turn to happiness.

Thanks, Mom! he cried, flinging his arms around my waist. Can we go tomorrow?

Sure, I said, ruffling his blond hair, then smoothing it back down with my fingers. Want to see if Charlie can come along with us?

You mean it?! His smile of delight was enchanting, but then I had always found almost everything about my husband’s youngest son – my adopted son – endearing.

Go give him a call to see if he can make it, I suggested. If he can, I’ll want to talk to his mom, I called to Bobby who was racing for the phone.

When Vince entered the apartment that evening, Bobby made a beeline for him. Dad, Dad! he cried, sounding younger than his eleven years. Guess where we’re going tomorrow! He was bouncing up and down while he waited for his father’s answer.

With your level of excitement, Vince said, looking at Bobby, I’d say the moon.

Da—ad! Bobby drew the name out in an exasperated groan that made me realize Bobby’s teenage years weren’t that far away. Somehow I couldn’t see the sunny-dispositioned Bobby turning into a sullen or unruly teenager. I’d been lucky with my older son J.J. during that period of his life. There had been a few isolated incidents of questionable behavior. Otherwise, his teenage years had been largely without the kind of problems the media told parents to expect – and which many other parents unfortunately did experience.

Mom’s going to take me and Charlie to The T Times Three!

Vince looked at me over Bobby’s head, an eyebrow raised in surprise. Is that so?

Although I knew that question had been directed toward me, Bobby answered with an enthusiastic, Yes!

That’s great, son, Vince said, ruffling Bobby’s hair much the way I had earlier. There was something about his blond hair that made that action irresistible.

Could you meet us there? Bobby asked. Since he was staring up at his father, I couldn’t see his face, but I was sure that hopeful look Bobby had given me was once again in his eyes.

You know I’d love to, Vince said, sincerity in his voice, but I’ve got a new client meeting tomorrow afternoon.

Vince had tried hard to be a good father to his three oldest boys, but things hadn’t quite worked out with them the way he had hoped because, in part, his late wife had done her best to turn those boys against their father. She had seen parenting as a competitive sport rather than a team effort. Vince was determined to have a better relationship with the youngest of his four sons. For that reason, I knew his client meeting was an actual event, not an excuse to get out of this outing.

All I could see was the back of Bobby’s head, but I could imagine the crestfallen expression that passed over his face when he heard his father couldn’t join us. I knew, too, that Bobby had almost instantly replaced that expression with a smile, which I could hear in his voice when he said, That’s okay, Dad. We’ll tell you all about it.

As I got into bed that night, Vince extended an arm to welcome me next to him. I know you love Bobby, Val, he said, drawing me close, but isn’t taking him to The Taste going beyond the call of duty? It’s hardly something you’re going to enjoy.

It was true that I had never before been tempted to attend Chicago’s annual summer festival, which until this year had always been called The Taste of Chicago, a fair in downtown Grant Park in which area restaurants opened booths where attendees could try their specialties. I couldn’t remember exactly when the city had started holding the fair, but it was no doubt during my marriage to my late husband. Jacob Harris had been a renowned heart surgeon by profession, and a strong proponent of a healthy lifestyle in his personal life – which included a diet that was not quite what the average family ate, being heavy in vegetables and fruits and light on red meats, and excluded almost everything that was processed or made with white sugar. The Taste certainly had no culinary appeal to him, nor to me, as I had gradually adopted his eating habits when we’d first developed a relationship.

Then there was the matter of crowds. I wouldn’t consider myself shy or lacking in social skills. For the early part of my adult life, I’d been a hairdresser, and had opened a total of four salons. I dealt with both employees and the public regularly. But dealing with people one-on-one or a few at a time, and being part of a swarming mass were two different things. I didn’t like being part of a mob scene, be it at a carnival, a fair, or a crowded department store during the holiday season.

My lips twitched in a small smile. I had unexpectedly connected my aversion to crowds to when my older son J.J. was a preschooler. We’d gone downtown to see Santa at Marshall Field’s. Somehow I had lost my grip on his hand while we fought our way through the shoppers trying to get to the escalators. It had probably been no more than ten seconds before I had a firm grip on him again, but those ten seconds had felt like ten years.

Are you actually going to let Bobby eat anything there? Vince asked. He knew that I had instituted changes to his and Bobby’s diets since we were married, not that he was complaining, or at least not often. He’d lost a few pounds as a result of the change. Those few pounds had made quite a difference in his appearance. And his vitality was way, way up.

Of course I’ll let him eat there, I said. One day of eating things that aren’t exactly good for him won’t have a lasting effect.

This was his idea, right? Vince asked. I nodded. I wonder why he wants to go. Who’s the talent tomorrow, Bobby Fischer?

If that were the case, Bobby would probably insist we be down there waiting in line already. Vince’s youngest son had a gift for chess, uncovered by my late husband when we’d been babysitting Bobby when Vince was in a bind. Because of his natural talent, Bobby currently had regular chess lessons, attended chess camp in the summer, and had competed in – and won – some city-wide chess tournaments for his age group. I saw the schedule for the third T in the paper, but I don’t recall who it was for tomorrow, or for any of the days. They were all groups I’d never heard of.

This year The Taste had expanded its theme. Officially it hadn’t changed its name, but the papers had begun calling it The T Times Three, for Taste, Touch, and Talent. The Taste was self-explanatory, the restaurant fair it had always been. The second T, Touch, referred to the businesses of all sorts who were having booths to display their wares or promote the services they offered. The fair had always featured entertainment in years past, but this year it was acknowledged with a T of its own.

Yeah, we’re old and out of it, Vince grumbled.

Not that old, I protested, and not that out of it, I added, lifting my mouth to his.

Our kiss became heated. Is the door locked? Vince whispered after raising his lips a scant millimeter from my own.

Oh, yes, I breathed. I was hoping—

His mouth claimed mine again and I said no more. It became abundantly clear that all my hopes were going to be fulfilled.

In the morning I made sure I was up early enough to cook steel-cut oatmeal for Vince and Bobby for breakfast. Vince had grown to like it – a minor miracle. For years, he had ingested bacon or sausage – sometimes both! – and fried eggs for breakfast, along with most of a pot of coffee. Now he enjoyed oatmeal, and accepted tea, at least at home. I had agreed that he could drink coffee at his office after he’d pointed out to me that a tea-sipping private investigator wasn’t exactly the norm. These days, if he had an egg, it was poached or boiled.

I had also weaned Bobby from the assorted types of heavily sugared cereals his Aunt Ro, the youngest of Vince’s older sisters who had largely raised the boy, had plunked down on the table before him each morning. If Bobby was going to indulge in usually forbidden foods today, I definitely wanted him to have a nutritional start to the day.

When I heard the water turn on in Vince’s shower, I checked the oatmeal and determined it would be done about the time he was. I poured myself a cup of tea from the pot I had already brewed, and sat down at the kitchen table to await his appearance.

Bobby’s not up yet?

I startled at the sound of Vince’s voice. He’d padded in barefoot; I hadn’t heard his approach. I turned to throw a smile his way, and saw that he was wearing his robe; the hair on his bare legs beneath it and in the open V of its neckline was visibly damp. My smile died as I turned back to the stove to ladle a bowl of oatmeal for him. No, I said. I was smiling again when I turned to put the bowl on the table.

My dismay at the sight of Vince, freshly showered and in his bathrobe, had nothing to do with his appearance. Vince was a very attractive man. I’d seen for myself that he could turn quite a few heads wherever we went. What those heads didn’t know was that his put-together appearance in public left in its wake a not inconsiderable mess. Each morning I was faced with a wad of wet towels thrown on the floor and whiskers clinging to the basin. The mirror was always smeary from him wiping away the steam with his hand; for some reason the sound of the bathroom’s exhaust fan irritated him, which meant he never turned it on. I’d find at least one clean but crumpled shirt flung to the floor because he’d changed his mind about what he wanted to wear. I sometimes wondered if we had lived together before we married whether I would have been quite so eager to become his wife. If I were a more suspicious sort, I might have wondered if keeping me unaware of his true proclivities around the house was what made him insistent on our having an old-fashioned courtship, with no premarital cohabitation and no overnight stays. I was sure that was not the reasoning behind his insistence on outmoded values. The type of domesticity he had exhibited when he was a visitor to my home, doing things like picking up after himself and putting dishes in the dishwasher, had turned out to be a show of good manners, not deeply ingrained habits. Once we married and he moved in, he apparently no longer considered performing such tasks necessary.

Vince put a hand on my forearm when I put the bowl down in front of him, and with gentle strength had me on his lap in a nanosecond. His other hand brought my head to his. Our lips met, and I reminded myself once again that there were other compensations in this marriage that more than made up for my husband’s somewhat slovenly ways. I melted into him, this morning’s kisses and the memory of last night sparking a hope in me that Bobby would decide to sleep late, and we’d have time to hurry back to our bedroom and lock the door once more...

I’m here, you know. Bobby’s voice dashed my hopes.

Vince’s mouth broke away from mine, though he kissed his way up my cheek toward my ear, where he whispered, Next summer, he’s definitely going to sleep-away camp. I tried to suppress a giggle.

Want some oatmeal? I offered, though Vince kept his arm firmly around my waist, making it impossible for me to get up.

I’ll wait to eat until we’re at The T Times Three.

No, you won’t, I said sternly. We won’t be there for hours, and by that time you’ll be too hungry to enjoy yourself. If you don’t want oatmeal, I’ll make you some eggs.

Oatmeal’s fine, Mom.

Vince released me then, and a little reluctantly, I’ll admit, I pushed my way off his lap and went to the stove.

Vince ate, dressed, and left for work, looking like a million bucks. I went into his bathroom and wondered if it would do any good if I took a picture of it and showed it to him. Was he truly oblivious to the mess he created each morning and left for me to clean up? Was this what came of being the youngest of six children and the only boy? He had to have been spoiled and picked up after his entire life. I tried to remember the early days of his marriage to Claudia, his first wife, when she and I were friends. Had she complained about this habit of Vince’s? I couldn’t remember; that was more than twenty-five years ago.

I did a desultory cleaning of Vince’s bathroom, then showered and dressed. Bobby and I walked the two blocks to his friend Charlie’s building.

He’s so excited about this, he’s been ready for an hour, Charlie’s mother told me in a hushed aside. Are you sure you want to do this? Two boys and that crowd! They said on the news last night there’s been a record attendance this year.

It’ll be fun, I said, hoping I sounded like I meant it. I had made a promise that we’d go there, and I was not going to disappoint my son or his friend.

~ ~ ~

The crowds were what I had expected them to be, a sea of wall-to-wall people, jostling together and making little progress toward wherever they were headed. I stood across the street from the park with the two boys by my side, sorry that they were both too old to be willing to hold my hands.

Listen, Bobby, Charlie. We were waiting for the light to change to cross Michigan Avenue. If we get separated, walk down to the Art Institute. I pointed down the street. Wait by one of the lions. You see where I mean, don’t you?

Of course, Mom. Bobby wasn’t listening; his eyes were focused on the crowds across the street, and the long rows of food stands.

Yes, Mrs. Cardonza, Charlie said. I’ve been there lots of times.

Good. I hope we won’t need to meet there, but it’s always better to have a plan in place. The light changed and I had to stop myself from snatching their hands before stepping out onto the street. They thought they were almost grown up; I knew better. We approached what looked like a solid wall of people, and in my mind the two boys went from sturdy eleven-year-olds to swaddled babies who I wanted to clutch to me.

I resisted that urge. Let’s find the ticket booth, I said. I had never been to The Taste before, but I’d read enough about it in the paper to know that you bought tickets, which you then turned over to the vendors in lieu of cash. I also knew that one ticket rarely equaled one food item; multiples tickets were usually required. After that long, long wait to make it to the front of the line, I purchased an obscene amount of tickets. Bobby’s appetite was almost a match to my voracious older son’s ability to put away food, and Charlie could easily hold his own against either of them. I didn’t want to have to stand in this line again; if we should end up with extra tickets, I could find some street person who would accept their donation. While standing in line, I had seen some homeless people already rummaging through trashcans, looking for discarded food scraps.

What do you want to try first? I asked the two boys once the tickets were in my hands.

They exchanged a look and grinned. Everything! they said in unison, laughing.

They were so cute, I laughed too. That’s fine, but you’ve got to start somewhere. I saw Charlie’s eyes slide over to a booth selling ice cream cones with multiple scoops. Desserts last, I cautioned.

Ribs? Charlie suggested tentatively. They smell pretty good.

The smoke from the booth grilling ribs was permeating the entire park, and my eyes were already tearing from it. The ribs didn’t smell appetizing to me; they mostly smelled like burning grease. This outing was for them, though, and I was going to try my best not to interfere too much with their choices. Ribs it is, I said and led them to the already long line leading to the rib booth. By the time we’d inched our way to the front of the line, the boys had figured out what they wanted – ribs and an ear of corn roasted on a stick, with a soda for Charlie and a bottle of water for Bobby. I gave them enough tickets so they could place and pay for their orders themselves, in part to foster their feeling of maturity. I had been tempted momentarily by the corn myself; my father used to roast corn on a hibachi grill when I was growing up, but I had decided the taste of the corn wouldn’t compensate for the other, less pleasant memories it might raise. I was grateful when I saw a small sign indicating they also had salads. While the boys balanced their laden foam plates and drinks, I ordered and received a small salad, eschewing the proffered packet of processed salad dressing.

We found a place to sit, and the boys made short work of their plates. The next thing they wanted to try was within sight of where we were sitting. I handed over more tickets and let them wait in line on their own. They came back with mini-gyros this time. After a few bites, Charlie announced he needed another soda, and Bobby said he’d go with and get another bottle of water himself.

Need anything, Mom? he asked first, showing the thoughtful, mannerly side of his nature.

I’m fine, I assured him.

He leaned closer to my ear. Everything tastes awfully salty to me, he murmured before hurrying to follow his friend.

His remark pleased me, as did his manners. I believed Bobby’s courtly behavior was innate, although his older brothers had never displayed the type of consideration for others Bobby did. The fact he found the food here salty showed that the healthy eating I’d introduced to him since I’d married his father was having an effect on his taste buds. If it turned out he’d want to make The T Times Three – if that name stuck – an annual event, it would be more for the ambience than the food.

Once their immediate appetites had been sated, we strolled along to check out what else they might like to sample as the day progressed. Looking at the assortment of food items that were deep-fried, overly sugared, or both, it was clear to me why this country was having such a problem with obesity. I was lucky to have found the small green salad at the rib stand, because the other salads I saw, mostly of the pasta variety, were drowning in mayonnaise or oil.

By the time we’d reached the end of the food booths and the start of the Touch part of the fair, the boys’ appetites had returned full-force. We walked back through the food booths, collecting those things they had spied and decided in favor of during our stroll. It was an impressive array, worthy of a feast for Henry VIII – and were they to eat like that every day, capable of ballooning them to that man’s size. I’d always thought my son J.J. had a prodigious appetite, but perhaps I’d been in error, and all he had was a normal appetite for a boy. I’d had no brothers and hadn’t known prior to having a son how much a young male stomach could hold.

Can we get desserts now? Charlie asked hopefully. Bobby was taking their trash to the nearest can.

I didn’t know how he had room for anything else, but I nodded. If that’s what you want. Or would you rather wait a bit?

Nope. He said it firmly. I want some ice cream.

What about you? I asked Bobby when he returned to the table. Is it ice cream time for you, too?

He shook his head. I’m full.

Had I detected a hint of a moan in that statement? I hoped he hadn’t overindulged and was starting to feel sick.

I’m getting at triple-scoop cone, Charlie announced.

Do you need more tickets?

He patted his pocket. No, Mrs. Cardonza, I have plenty.

I’ll go with you to the ice cream stand, I said, starting to rise.

He shook his head. It’s getting pretty crowded here. We might not find seats again if you do that. You could wait here and save our seats. It’s not that far.

I looked past him and could barely see the ice cream vendor. All right, I said reluctantly.

For the ten minutes I waited for their return, my vocabulary consisted of two words: They’re saved. I must have said it fifty times when people spotted the empty seats by me and made their way toward them.

At last the boys were back, Charlie with a towering cone with far more than the three scoops he’d originally said he wanted. Bobby had broken down and got an ice cream cone for himself. His choice was more modest, however; he had a single scoop of what looked like plain vanilla.

It’s frozen yogurt, Mom, he told me when he slipped into his chair.

The boys busied themselves licking their cones, Bobby, naturally, finishing long before Charlie. I delved into my purse and pulled out some of the packets of wet-wipes I’d had the foresight to tuck in there and let the boys mop up their ice-cream smeared faces and sticky hands.

Can we walk by the other stuff, Mom? Bobby asked.

Sure. We barely got to our feet before our seats were grabbed by others. If the boys were hungry again when we walked back, they might have to eat standing up; the crowd seemed to be growing exponentially.

I didn’t think the Touch portion of the fair was going to be of much interest to them; boys their age didn’t have much use for storm windows or garage door openers or stepladders, which were the first booths we came upon. I had failed to take into account that boys – and many adults, it appeared – were interested in the little things the booths were handing out: keychains, pencils, and refrigerator magnets. Soon their pockets were bulging, and by their smiles, their reaction was the same as if they had received booty from a treasure chest.

I’d turned my head for what was no more than a few seconds to take in a booth that was selling vitamins and other health-related tonics, wondering if the boys would indulge me in a few minutes to look at those wares. When I turned back, I saw Charlie, but no Bobby.

Where’s Bobby? I asked him, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

He was here a minute ago. He stretched his neck, looking around. I swear, Mrs. C, we were just talking—

Bobby! I shouted. Bobby! This area was less crowded than the area near the food booths but it was noisy from the crowd and from the cacophony of music blaring from most of the booths. I didn’t think my voice had carried, but I shouted again. Bobby!

Charlie had sense enough to stay close to my side. Shall we go down to the lions? he asked, a hint of fear in his voice.

Bobby! I shouted, my heart beating hard, my eyes scanning the area for both my son and a policeman.

Over here, Mom! His voice wasn’t loud, but his waving arms drew my attention. I’m over here.

He was standing outside a booth whose sign read, Weight Loss – Safe and Steady. What in the world would have attracted an eleven-year-old boy – a skinny eleven-year-old boy – to that booth? I hurried toward it, keeping a firm hold on Charlie’s hand, and not caring if he thought he was too old for that. I’d had enough of a fright already; I wasn’t going to have it repeated with another boy.

Bobby, I didn’t know where you were, I cried when I got close enough for him to hear.

Yeah, Charlie piped up. We thought we were going to have to go to our spot to find you.

I looked at the display of before-and-after pictures at the entry to the tent, glum overweight men and women in the before pictures, with smiling and svelte versions of themselves in all the after photos. Why had Bobby gone in there? They certainly wouldn’t be giving away anything to eat, or if they were, it wouldn’t be anything that would tempt a child. His pockets were already flowing with the freebies he had picked up.

Then I realized what might have been the attraction. Claudia, Bobby’s birth mother, had run a diet and exercise center both before and after his birth. Was that what had prompted Bobby to go inside, looking for some kind of emotional connection to her? She’d been an indifferent mother to him at best, but the boy had taken her death hard enough for me to advise Vince – who was simply my friend at that time – that Bobby would benefit from some counseling. I had thought that with his treatment, Bobby had come to terms with her loss. He had readily accepted me into his and his father’s lives; in fact, Bobby had been the only one of Vince’s four sons who’d happily accepted our marriage. He’d been ecstatic that I’d wanted to adopt him – and I’d been ecstatic that he wanted me to become his mother – but there could be some issues remaining that he had not yet worked through.

Look, Mom. Bobby pointed within the tented area. I was a bit apprehensive before I peered inside. Would I see a woman who superficially resembled Claudia?

My first glimpse into the tent showed me no one who looked in the least like Bobby’s mother. I’d known her well at one time, or thought I did. She had been my employee at the first beauty salon I’d opened, and then she had managed my second salon. It was through me she had met Vince, who I thought would make a good match for her. She was ten years younger than Vince and I were; I thought he would be a steadying influence on her. With what I’d learned about their relationship after Claudia died, I discovered I’d been terribly wrong.

Claudia had been petite and blonde, though unlike her son, her hair color was not natural. None of the women within the tent were blonde, nor were they petite. They were tall, and lean in a way that spoke of genetics more than self-discipline. Somehow I doubted those women had needed the diet and exercise program they were there to promote.

But I saw at once that what had attracted Bobby