Falling Plaster: A Novel

By Laura J Jenski

Some murders are best left buried.

Monica Klimek doesn’t believe her mother’s car crash was an accident. Or suicide. Her brother would think so, too, if only she could find him. He left an indelible bruise on her heart when he walked out of her life twenty-seven years earlier.

An old friend of Monica&rsqu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snowbound Stories, LLC
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734009415

Laura J Jenski

Laura Jenski is the author of dozens of scientific research articles, but she now writes what she loves to read: mystery, suspense, and humor. Laura has a Ph.D. in oncology and postdoctoral training in immunology and is the author of the adult mystery "Falling Plaster" and the humorous "Cooked Goose." She lives in Boise, Idaho, with her husband, a slightly spoiled rescue dog, and three pampered cats.

Book preview

Chapter 1

WEDNESDAY, MAY 21, 1980

Ida Klimek forced her foot onto the brake with all the might her five-foot frame allowed, but the Buick sped unabated toward the cement barrier along the Indiana Toll Road. Her last thought on this earth was that she had her hands on the wheel at ten and two like she had been taught forty-seven years earlier.

FRIDAY MAY 23, 1980

Tired and numb, Monica Klimek sat in the car for a moment and surveyed the two-flat apartment in her old Chicago neighborhood. Its exterior was a study in geometric shapes: rectangular bricks, deep red and ivy-pitted; square window panes stacked vertically, the glass marred from decades of harsh winters; round edges on crumbling cement stairs. Between the first and second floors, eight white stones decorated the bricks. Years ago, in her girlish imagination, their oval pattern looked like an open mouth—a scream. She flinched when her godmother touched her arm.

Monica, I know what you’re thinking, Helen Eggleston said. You abandoned your mother when she needed you like you felt abandoned by your brother and father—

That’s not what I’m thinking. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’m not one of your patients. I was glad when Dad left. At least then, the arguments stopped.

Helen withdrew her hand and switched to her professional voice. The police said Ida failed to slow for construction at an exit on the Indiana Toll Road, near the Illinois state line. It was fortunate no other cars were involved.

What was Mom doing there? She hated to drive. She rode the bus more than anyone else in the city.

A doctor’s appointment, perhaps? She may have been referred for additional evaluation.

But we don’t know that. Mom didn’t say anything about her chemotherapy not working or refusing radiation, did she? She didn’t tell me very much. She never did. You don’t think she—

Committed suicide? I can’t answer that, of course, but she gave no such indication.

Mom was supposed to get better. She wasn’t supposed to die this soon. Monica wiped away the single tear that rolled down her cheek. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry. What could be so important that she’d drive to Indiana alone?

I’m sure things will be clearer once the police finish their investigation. Let me help carry your things inside. We should talk about laying your mother to rest and seeing to her personal effects.

Her feet leaden, Monica stepped from the car. She had planned to rent a flat near her new job in Chicago, not live here, in their old apartment, among her mother’s things and the sad memories. She didn’t feel welcome here.

Helen handed her a keychain with a heavy pendant shaped like the Old Chicago Water Tower, a castle-like projection capped by a pointed dome. Its sharp tip dug into Monica’s palm as she unlocked the door and stepped into the gloom. The staircase facing her led to the second-floor apartment, the one her family had rented during her early childhood. Even the odor hadn’t changed over the years, that distinctive smell of mold hiding in the crevices and under the worn linoleum. To Monica’s right, an interior door led to the first-floor apartment. When her mother bought the building years ago with money from the divorce settlement, the two of them moved from the second floor to the first. Monica’s hand trembled as she opened the lock.

Inside, cool air mingled with the scent of lilacs. A bouquet drooped over the edge of a vase on the coffee table. Pale green carpeting hushed the women’s footfalls, as though chastising them for disturbing the rooms’ usual tranquility. Without further conversation, Monica and Helen carried in suitcases and several crates. After they delivered the last crate to the dining room, Helen stopped to rest.

"I see you’ve brought only two small suitcases but a half-dozen boxes marked fragile, she said. What’s in them that is so urgent you’d pay to ship by air?"

Computer hardware. It’s important to me. I can depend on it to do what it’s supposed to do. Unlike people.

Helen rose and pressed her lips into a tight, coral-colored line. With their tasks completed, they stood at the front door, a generation apart.

I’ll go with you to the funeral parlor, Helen said. When Monica nodded absently, she continued in a firmer tone, I could make the arrangements myself if you prefer. I know what Ida wanted. Nothing elaborate. Close friends and family only.

Monica met her godmother’s gaze and then looked away. Her mother had shared intimate details with this woman, thoughts she hadn’t even mentioned to her daughter. I should make the arrangements.

I expect the authorities will complete the autopsy by early next week and release Ida’s body to the funeral home then. Helen waited a few seconds, then continued, I think Friday would be the best choice. No wake, just a graveside service.

I suppose that’s okay if that’s what Mom wanted.

I’m certain it is. I’ll see that the obituary is submitted and call Ida’s closest friends, but you should contact your aunt and uncles—and other family.

Skin prickled under the collar of Monica’s white cotton shirt, and she brushed her brown bobbed hair off her neck. I’m not calling Dad if that’s what you mean. He can read the obituary in the newspaper.

That’s your decision, of course. I know this is difficult for you.

Monica sank onto the top step and hugged her knees close. I wish I could contact Richie. He’d think Mom’s death was suspicious, too. At least, I think he would. It’s been such a long time.

We’ve talked about this before, Monica. Your brother’s absence may feel like a betrayal, but he chose to live his adult life privately somewhere else. You shouldn’t continue to use his decision as an excuse not to trust anyone.

Helen’s stinging words drove back the tears that had sprung to Monica’s eyes and tightened the muscles around her jaws. He didn’t even write or call. I was only ten. He should’ve known how much I’d miss him. When Mom got her cancer diagnosis last fall, I hired a private investigator to find Richie in California.

Your mother told me. She didn’t want you to do that, you know. It upset her a great deal.

I should have done it sooner. I should’ve done it years ago when I got the job at Boston University. Monica felt her chest contract, squeezed by an unseen vise. The pain of being denied tenure at BU had not lessened, not even by the position awaiting her in a local start-up company.

Helen withdrew car keys from a sleek leather bag. I’ll call you tomorrow. Ida’s phone is still connected. Let me know if you need anything. She paused at the bottom of the cement stairs. You shouldn’t blame yourself for not having been here. Ida understood that your career comes first.

Monica stood up and occupied herself with brushing off her black slacks. Helen was self-confident and straightforward, the antithesis of her mother, but the two had been life-long friends. When she was younger, Monica had admired her godmother, but now she chafed at the woman’s condescension. I don’t need anything. Thanks for the ride from the airport. She turned and trudged through the doorway, glancing back only once before Helen drove away.

Once she left to pursue a career in math and science, Monica had rarely visited her mother—a deliberate choice on her part. Now, after such a long absence, Monica felt on edge in the apartment, as though her unexpected presence had upset the furniture itself. In the front room, a reupholstered sofa lined one wall. Fresh eggshell-white paint on the walls cheered the apartment’s cramped spaces, but its surfaces were unadorned: no photographs, no paintings, no sentimental knick-knacks.

After carrying her suitcases into the spare bedroom where she would sleep, Monica telephoned the private investigator, Vernon Stiles. Vern’s last phone message had sparked Monica’s hope that he might be able to locate Richie despite her brother’s twenty-seven-year absence. She had memorized the words: We need to talk a-s-a-p. I got a lead I think will break this case open. A credible source. Call me.

Vern had left the message on Monday, on the tape recorder fitted to her phone in Boston. But Monica hadn’t listened to the message until Thursday. She’d spent days in a mental fog, dealing with the usual end-of-the-semester crunch coupled with last-minute plans for the new job in Chicago and the crushing denial of her final tenure appeal. Then she received Helen’s news that her mother had died.

Her call rang through to Vern’s answering service, and Monica left yet another message. Her hand still rested on the telephone when a plaintive meow came through the back screen door. A black cat sat outside the door, watching her with fiery gold eyes. It cried again, louder.

Mom never said anything about having a cat. The cat limped in, holding one front paw off the floor. What’s wrong with your foot? Monica took the cat’s foot into her hand as the animal sat stoically. A rubber band? What jerk put a rubber band around your paw? She used scissors from a kitchen drawer to snip the tight band and examined the cat’s front paw. I don’t think there’s permanent damage. It could’ve been much worse.

The cat gingerly lowered its pads onto the floor and stood with care. After a few tentative steps, it sniffed the edges of the counter and wandered, tail high, around the corner into the dining room. Before Monica could retrieve the animal, a baritone voice drifted from the gangway next to the house. She recognized the song, Blue Skies, and the singer. Her father had a pleasing voice, and the times he sang for her mother were the rare moments they seemed happy together.

The lyrics ended, and spoken words came through the door. This is a sight I haven’t seen in years: my daughter standing in our old home.

At first, Monica focused only on Henry Klimek’s gray fedora. A charcoal gray grosgrain ribbon encircled the brim, and a blue sapphire stickpin pierced the flat bow. The pin had belonged to her grandmother, Ida’s mother, but for reasons unknown to her, her father received it in the divorce settlement. Monica suspected her father had wanted the pin simply because her mother valued it.

Why are you here? Despite her sharp retort, Monica felt the jumbled rush of emotions—eagerness, anger, and uncertainty—that she had as a child when her father came home after unexplained absences.

To help with your mother’s funeral, of course.

I don’t need your help.

Still the headstrong monkey, I see. I want to make sure it’s done right. Ida deserves a proper send-off, not some cheap pine box and quickie service over the grave. As color crept up his daughter’s cheeks, Henry’s stern expression eased. Were you going to tell me that my wife died?

Ex-wife. It seems you didn’t need to hear it from me. Monica inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She found it difficult to match her father’s attempt at civility.

A friend on the police force told me. I still have friends there, you know.

I don’t care where you have friends. Mom wanted you out of her life—our lives. There’s no reason for you to be involved now.

You’ll need a good funeral home. I know a guy—

I’m taking care of the arrangements.

Henry stepped into the kitchen. You should order calla lilies for the service. Your mother always loved calla lilies. You probably didn’t know that about her.

Mom didn’t have a favorite flower. Monica clenched her fists. She should have stopped him before he came inside. I want you to leave now.

That’s no way to speak to your father. Henry placed his hat on the counter and took a deep breath. You need me. We need each other. Let me help with Ida’s funeral. I’ll get a good price for the coffin and a discount on the hearse. You choose the rest, even the music.

Monica studied her father’s face. Although his tone was light, his lips pressed into a thin line. Perhaps her mother’s death upset him more than she realized. You can choose the music, she said. You always knew what songs Mom liked best. But I’ll do everything else, including ordering the flowers.

Nodding, Henry moved through the kitchen toward the dining room. I like the color Ida painted—

With a hiss, the cat sprang around the corner, landing in the doorway, its back arched. A deep, guttural yowl rumbled in its throat and burst forth into a scream that made them jump. Henry slammed his elbow against the counter and muttered as he rubbed his arm, You shouldn’t have a cat in the house. Cats carry diseases, you know. He grabbed his hat and called to her from the porch, I’ll come back after I go to the funeral home. Ida deserves something nice.

Once her father disappeared from view, Monica sank onto the kitchen floor. Memories of her childhood flooded back: the savage arguments, her father’s drunken rants, her mother’s bitter tears. During those times, she survived in the oasis her brother created. She could almost feel his warm arm around her shoulder and hear the silly stories he whispered into her ear while their mother wept in the bedroom. At night, his protective silhouette tucked her under the covers. She didn’t need her father, or Helen, or anyone except her brother.

I have to find Richie, she said, stroking the cat’s head as it crawled onto her lap.

Chapter 2

Cory Kostelecky looked up when he heard the name the police sergeant repeated, Monica Klimek. He hadn’t seen her in twenty years, but in the last week he’d been reminded of her three times—by an article in the Sunday paper, when he arrested Willie Olofsdotter, and now at the end of his shift. It was fate, he was sure. Cory believed in fate.

The desk sergeant drummed a pencil on a pad of paper as he listened to Monica on the other end of the line. A crash on the Indiana Toll Road would be Indiana State Police jurisdiction, he said, but I can have someone give ISP a buzz and call you back. We’re pretty busy right now, it being Friday night and all, but I’ll let them know that you’re her daughter and just got in from Boston. About the missing person report, I gotta say I don’t see how we can do much for you. Since your brother is an adult and not what we’d call high risk, I don’t think anyone will be assigned to the case any time soon. And, if he’s been gone for twenty-seven years, well, you gotta understand there’s not much we can do. The officer twirled the pencil between his fingers. Yes, ma’am, I got your name and the address and phone number where you’re staying. I’m real sorry about your mother, and I wish there was more we could do to locate your brother, but, you know . . .

You need someone to follow up on that call? Cory asked the sergeant when the man hung up. I’ve clocked out, but I can swing by. It’s not far out of my way.

The sergeant eyed him, a smirk forming on his lips. Sure, Kostelecky, be a patsy, work extra hours for no overtime pay. If you’re trying to make the rest of us look bad, it ain’t gonna work.

No, that’s not what . . . I mean, I know that person. Monica and I went to high school together. I thought it’d be nice to see her again.

The sergeant flipped a sheet of paper to Cory. Ask Reilly to get you the crash report from Indiana. The deceased is her mother. And forget about the missing person report. The captain’s not gonna assign you to that time suck.

Cory made his way through the crowded precinct station to Frank Reilly’s desk in the corner. It seemed the closer an officer got to retirement, the farther his assigned desk got from the action. Frank was lucky to still have a desk at all.

Hey, Frank, I need you to sweet-talk one of your buddies in Indiana to rush us a crash report. Here’s what we got. Cory handed Frank the sheet from the police log.

The man slipped his reading glasses from the top of his shiny scalp and scanned the page. What’s your hurry, kid? This doesn’t look like an emergency to me. He stretched back, pulled the glasses down his nose, and studied Cory from beneath his droopy eyelids.

I know the deceased’s daughter. Cory put his hands on Frank’s desk and leaned forward, lowering his voice. She might be able to help us with the, you know, stuff we need to figure out.

What makes you think she can help? I’ve been working my ass off for years and haven’t got shit. Frank chortled. That’s pure poetry, ain’t it, kid?

The Sunday newspaper had an article about a computer company starting up here. It said the company’s recruiting Monica from Boston because she’s some sort of specialist. She’s smart. Brilliant, I guess.

Frank’s eyebrows shot up, dragging the droopy lids with them, and then settled back into their tired sag. Brilliant, huh? Not much of a looker then. Be careful. The fewer who know about what we got, the better.

We can trust Monica. I’m sure of it. I think a computer could really be the ticket to figuring out, you know, the common thread, who’s behind the corruption.

Shit, we got a pretty good idea who’s behind it, we just can’t prove it. How’s a computer gonna do us any good?

How about all those suspicious break-ins on the night before the Democratic primary in March? Maybe with a computer program, we could figure out some pattern—like the route the perps took or what the targets had in common or who else could’ve handled the reports or . . .

Frank shook his head. We looked at all that and came up empty.

Well, a computer could help break the code in that ledger you swiped. We’re never gonna figure that out on our own. I hope I can talk her into helping. Geez, I wonder if she even remembers me.

Frank chuckled and pushed his glasses back up. Turn on your boyish charm, kid. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll have that crash report for you.

CORY STOOD IN THE DOORWAY as Monica opened the door. I saw your report in the police log and thought I’d come by after my shift.

Monica blinked at the gap between the policeman’s front teeth, read the man’s name badge, and smiled. Cory Kostelecky, I didn’t expect to find you at my door. And in a Chicago police uniform, yet. I thought you joined the Marines.

Aw, I thought about the Marines, but I served my two years in the army, stateside, repairing electronics. I wanted to stay close to home. Not like you. I saw in the newspaper that you were living in Boston.

Newspaper? Creases burrowed into Monica’s forehead.

"Yeah, a guy was interviewed in the Trib, said you were coming to work here."

Monica’s frown deepened. The guy he spoke of must be Don Delaney, the high-flying, self-proclaimed serial entrepreneur and CEO of Donald Delaney Technologies, D-Squared, Inc. His company recruited her, and she accepted the job on the condition it was kept quiet. For academics, working in the private sector was a stain on their record. Delaney had reneged on his promise of confidentiality.

Cory scanned the vacant building to his left and the sparsely populated block to his right, and his grin faded. I’ve got the crash report. I’m really sorry about your mom.

She gestured to the first-floor apartment. Come in.

As he sat on the edge of the sofa, Cory brightened. I gotta say, it’s really good to see you again. Remember when we both had fifth-period lunch in high school?

The corners of Monica’s mouth curled up, and she settled into a chair. We’d sit in the cafeteria and talk about the radios you were taking apart and putting back together.

And I always had parts left over. Good thing you were able to figure out where they went, or I’d have a house full of loose transistors.

Richie let me help with his radios. Monica straightened and pressed against the chair’s wooden back. Speaking her brother’s name aloud made her miss him even more. You said you read the police log, so you probably know I not only called for details on my mother’s accident, but I also filed a missing person report on Richie.

Yeah, but it’s gonna be tough to get the captain’s blessing for that one. You know, it’s been a long time, and, uh, there’s no new evidence or anything. He pulled a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket. I got some information on the crash. ISP faxed us their SF 23558. It’s kinda hard to read, but it looks like your mother was heading north on I-90 and crashed at the last exit before the Chicago Skyway.

So, she was driving back to Chicago.

"Yeah, looks that way. The officer filling out the form marked both brake failure and driver distracted as contributing circumstances, but we don’t have the narrative report, so there aren’t any details."

Can you get the entire report?

One of the old-timers on the force has got buddies all over the enforcement community. I’m supposed to see him about, uh, something else, so I’ll tell him it’s important that we get the rest of the report.

Monica leaned forward, her voice probing. Does the report say why the brakes failed? Were there skid marks? Did Mom try to stop? A cold shiver snaked down her spine. Brake failure could also mean someone tampered with the car, couldn’t it? The crash may not have been an accident.

Cory looked up from the paper, his eyes first widening and then settling into a squint. I suppose. The narrative report would have details, like about skid marks. Why’d you think someone tampered with the car?

The ceramic clock sitting on the television console ticked off the seconds. Monica didn’t have an answer for him and wasn’t sure how much to trust him with her racing thoughts. He might be a useful resource for getting information about her mother and in her search for Richie, but what did she know about Cory now, as an adult? She tucked her feet under the chair and arranged her hands in her lap. Oh, I’m just considering all the possibilities. Thanks for getting the rest of the report. I’m eager to see it. Her fingers tightened into a knot.

Forensics will go over your mother’s car, figure out why the brakes failed and whether there was, uh, operator error. It wasn’t a very old car—

Eighteen years old.

But it only had about twenty-thousand miles on it, not enough that the brakes would’ve needed replacing.

Mom didn’t like to drive.

It’s possible that she made a mistake, put her foot on the gas instead of the brake. That happens more than you’d think.

My mother didn’t drive often, but she was a careful driver. Something had to be wrong with her brakes. And, as you just pointed out, it’s unlikely they were worn out.

Cory shifted his weight on the sofa and cleared his throat. Can you think of any reason why your mother might have deliberately hit the concrete barrier? Maybe she received bad news or had health problems?

My mother was not suicidal if that’s what you’re implying.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad about your mom. You know, it’s like you said, we gotta consider all the possibilities.

Before Monica could reply, the black cat strolled into the front room and curled itself around Cory’s legs. He stroked its back, and a purr saturated the air.

"Is this your mom’s cat? She looks like one of the strays I see when I’m patrolling the area. They sit