Sins of the Father

Tom Jurgen’s client is looking for the artist of a 30-year-old portrait—an artist who may be murdering the people closest to him from beyond the grave. 

Sins of the Father, Part One

The man in the painting was in his 30s, wearing a gray double-breasted suit and a tightly knotted red necktie, sitting on nothing, hands at his sides, with thick black hair and an almost hidden smile on his face. The background was black, a cloud of indistinct shapes in the darkness like a storm gathering in the distance.  

            The same man in front of me was in his 70s, but he the same sharp blue eyes and thick chin. Instead of a half-smile, his mouth curled down in a fixed frown. He wore an almost identical suit and necktie, but now he was balding, and he sat in a wheelchair in the living room of his Arlington Heights house. His name was Myles Vollmer.

            Me? I’m Tom Jurgen. Ex-reporter, private detective. 

“That painting is from 30 years ago,” Vollmer told me, taking a sip of expensive scotch. “I’d like you to locate the artist for me.”

            The painting, in an ornate brass frame, sat propped up next to a gas fireplace with bright flames burning behind a glass screen. I leaned for a closer look, feeling the heat on my forehead. No signature that I could see. “So who’s the artist?”

            “Carla Ransom. Carrie.” He pronounced it like a bad taste in his mouth. “She went to the Andreas Academy of Art here in Chicago. It’s no longer there. Downtown. I bought a painting from her at an art gallery called Orbit Three, where I met her, and she gave it to me in 1996.” 

            The dark background behind him in the painting seemed to shift as I looked at it, changing shape like black sand running through an hourglass. “May I ask why?”

            He sipped his scotch again. “I’d rather not say right now. But it’s important to me.”

            I was curious now, more curious than before. But he was the client, after all, and it probably didn’t matter. “I’ll do what I can. After 30 years, she may be difficult to track down.”

            “Do your best. You come highly recommended.” That made me feel good. The check he handed over made me feel even better.

            I gave him a receipt and put the check into my wallet, then stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

            He lifted his drink. I left him staring at the portrait.

 

Back home I deposited the check, went through my email, and then started looking for Carrie Ransom. Twenty minutes later I heard Rachel drop her backpack in the living room.

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, slender, smart—plus, she’s a little psychic. Which comes in handy when my cases veer into supernatural territory, which happens more often than I like. For the last year or so she’s been in graduating school, studying for a psych degree. And she was almost finished. Almost—

She walked into the office. “Finished with my last final.” She sighed. “I’m having a drink. Possibly several. What time is it? I don’t care. Last final!” She raised a fist in the air.

            “You go, girl.” I lifted my own fist in a salute.

            “Never say that to me.” She left the office but came back in five minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Don’t get any ideas, most of this is for me.” She poured.

            We toasted. “Now what? Graduation, ‘Pomp and Circumstance,’ throw your cap in the air?”

            “They’ll mail the diploma. I’m not doing the ceremony.” She took a drink, then poured herself more.

            “Why not? I was looking forward to hearing them say your full name.”

            Rachel grimaced. “I only went to high school graduation because my mother made me. I’m not risking her showing up for this.”

            Rachel still doesn’t talk about her life growing up much, but I know it was difficult, if not actively abusive. I’d learned not to push. “Whatever you want. I’m just happy for you.”

            “Yeah. Now I have to get a job.” She carried the bottle over to her desk. “What was filing unemployment like when you got fired? Was it a literal line you had to stand in?”

            Years ago I was fired from my job as a reporter for insisting that the supernatural creatures I was seeing were real, and newsworthy. “Yeah, but I think it’s mostly online these days.”

            “Good.” She sat down. “Maybe I can start my own practice. ‘Psychic shrink—I already know your problem.’”

            We focused on work. Rachel’s been a graphic designer since I first met her, and she’d been juggling it with grad school for a long time. With her degree I figured she’d phase that out, but right now she wanted to keep her current clients so we had money flowing in. My job isn’t very consistent moneywise, and the internet isn’t free.

            So Rachel worked on whatever project she had, and I went back to searching for Carrie Ransom.

            She didn’t have any social media presence that I could find. Several people had that name, but none of them seemed to have any history as an artist. I didn’t know what she looked like, so I emailed Vollmer to ask if he had any pictures of her. He didn’t respond immediately, and I kept looking.

            The name popped up on some of the public information databases—real estate transactions, arrest records—but nothing that was an obvious match. I took a different approach and tried tracking down someone from the art gallery Vollmer had mentioned—Orbit Three. 

            It had gone out of business in the early 2000s, but it earned a decent amount of press in art magazines and local papers during its lifetime, and occasionally got mentioned in more recent articles—some relatively well-known local artists got their start showing their work there. So I was able to get some names of people to track down.

            After an hour or so of talking to artists who didn’t remember anyone named Carla or Carrie Ransom, I connected with one person who had a number for the son of one of Orbit Three’s partners. The mother had died years ago, the artist said, but the son had helped out at the gallery. So I took down the information and called him. 

            His name was Paul Greenberg, and his mother, Iris Stallworth, had been one of three owners of Orbit Three. “Yeah, I remember Carrie a little. It was a long time ago.” He had a low, raspy voice. “She was really talented—and kinda weird.”

            “Weird how?”

            “You know, I didn’t work with the artists that much. My job was mostly sweeping up and cleaning the restrooms and taking out the trash, and sometimes serving wine at the openings. But I helped sometimes installing exhibitions. Most of the artists were nice, some were a little fussy about stuff. I mean, Carrie was pretty nice, she just—did some weird stuff.”

            I’ve learned to be patient and let people tell their stories at their own pace. “What kind of weird stuff?”

            “One time she was part of a three-person show, and in the section where her stuff was, she had to do this ritual before the opening. There were candles and incense, and there was—I swear to God, it was a dead bird in a plastic bag.”

            “Yuck.”

            “Yeah. She did this little ceremony, chanting something. It was only about five minutes, and then she was done. At least she cleaned it up herself, she didn’t make me do it. She took the bird with her.”

            “Did she do that a lot?”

            “She never brought the bird. I talked to my mom, and I guess she talked to Carrie. There was another artist who complained about the incense and the chanting too. That’s when she stopped showing at Orbit. That was in, uh, 1999 or so.”

            “What happened to her after that?”

            “I’m not real sure. I think I saw some of her stuff at other galleries, so I guess she kept working, but I haven’t even thought about her in years.”

            “Do you have any idea where she is right now?”

            “No. You could ask—no, he’s dead. Oh yeah, ask Simon. He was a critic. He followed her for years. I guess he thought she was a genius or something. Or maybe—” He chuckled. “I don’t know.”

            “Simon who?”

            Simon Almeida was a retired critic. He’d covered art, music, theater, and even video games for the Sun-Times and lots of local and national magazines, and then on the web when print went onto life support. He seemed eager to talk, like someone who missed having an audience. But when I mentioned Carrie Ransom, he got quiet. 

            “I haven’t seen Carrie in years,” he finally said. “The last I heard, she was going to Mexico. That was in 2012 or so. I don’t know if she ever came back.”

            “Did something happen?”

            “She got sick. I don’t know—cancer? Maybe. I just—we didn’t see each other for a while, and then she just disappeared. Someone told me about Mexico.”

            “Who?”

            “A friend of hers, Nicole. Nicole Gersen. An artist. But she died a couple of years ago.”

            I didn’t get anything more out of him, aside from the feeling that he was afraid to talk about Carrie Ransom. Bad breakup? That was my guess, but it could have been anything.

            I looked into Nicole Gersen and found that her son was also an artist. He lived in New York, but I gave him a call and left a message.

            I kept working until 5:30, when I ran out of leads. Then I had to start dinner. 

            “There’s a pre-graduation party tomorrow night,” Rachel told me as she dumped some parmesan cheese over her spaghetti. “Want to come?”

            “You and all your grad school friends?” I’d met a few people in her program. But I’m not much of a party person. “You’d have more fun without me.”

            “Suit yourself. It’d be fun to prove I really have a boyfriend.” She smirked.

            I scanned her body up and down. “They think someone who looks like you would have to make up an imaginary boyfriend?”

            “They don’t always believe I’m working on cases with you. When I ask them to take notes for me, or tell them I was up all night fighting demons.”

            I shrugged. “Maybe I will. People will wonder what you see in me. It’ll keep them guessing.”

            “Oh, they already wonder that.” But she squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fun.”

            I nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Lewis Brannick sat up in his chair. What the hell?

            Nothing. He saw nothing. No sound. But he’d heard something. His name.

            He sat facing the TV in the corner of the condo. The TV was big. The bookcase behind him was wider and taller, crammed with books and antiques, with a bronze bust of Napoleon perched on top as if surveying the room. He’d bought that years ago, when he’d hoped to become the Napoleon of finance. 

He’d done well—well enough to own this penthouse condo overlooking Lake Shore Drive, a 32-year-old second wife and two Porches and a Mercedes in the parking garage below. Maybe he wasn’t Napoleon, but his life was good. 

            Something whispered his name again. Lewis . . .

            The TV was muted. His young wife was gone tonight, out with girlfriends at a play, she said. What time was it? Maybe she came back? “Hilly!” His voice was a croak. He reached for his water, took a swallow. “Hillary?”

            No answer. He picked up the remote, turned the TV off. He turned his head, looking back toward the window. The blinds were up. He could see lights glowing on the waters of Lake Michigan, yachts and ships gliding through the night. 

            He turned back to the TV and switched it on. Whatever. 

            Then again: Lewisss . . .

            Behind him, the bookcase lurched. It tilted forward, settled back, then rocked forward again, silently. He never heard it. He didn’t see the bronze bust fall from its perch at the top, just a shadow tumbling down over him, what the hell, what the—

            Pain slammed into his skull. For a second he fought to understand what was going on. It couldn’t—how could it—oh my God—

            Lewisss . . . 

            Blackness.

Sins of the Father, Part Two

Rachel slept in the next morning. No classes, no deadlines. I sent some emails and made some phone calls on a second case, a corporate fraud affair, but my phone buzzed at 11:17 with a return call from Tony Gersen.

            “Yeah, I remember Carrie.” His voice was steady and cheerful. “She was—weird.”

            That was turning out to be the general opinion. “In what way?”

            “She was a good artist. She had talent, and she had a—unique point of view. Even when she was doing conventional work, she could really make a painting come alive—shadows and texture, light and dark, all that. But she was—unique in her own way too. She was into conspiracy theories about the government and corporations spying on you, she was into all sorts of spirituality, alternative medicine, that sort of thing.”

            Alternative medicine—“I’m told she had cancer and went to Mexico. Looking for a cure, perhaps?”

            “Maybe. When was that? I saw her here in New York, must have been nine or 10 years ago.”

            “It was in 2011 or thereabouts, I was told.” So maybe it worked. “What happened when you saw her?”

            “Nothing. I just noticed her inside an art gallery I was walking by. I stopped and made sure it was her, and I started to go in, but I was late for an appointment, so I changed my mind. It wasn’t like I was ever good friends with her. Or my mother.”

            “So you have no idea where she is right now?” 

            “Honestly? I assume she’s dead.” He paused. “Wait a minute here . . .”

            “What is it?” 

            “Probably nothing. I was just thinking—my mom died five years ago, and—”

            “I’m sorry.” It was the kind of thing you have to say. “I was aware of that, but—”

            “Yeah, thanks. No, right before she died, she was in hospice care, and one night I heard her talking to herself, and she was looking at this small box on her table. It was made out of porcelain, and it had feathers and a pearl and part of a leaf stuck inside. She talked to it for a while, and then she went to sleep. Anyway, she died a few days later, and when I was cleaning up after the funeral, I looked at the box. The initials on it were C.R.”

            “Okay—”

            “Wait, I know how that sounds, It’s probably just a coincidence. Just, now that we’re talking about—I think she did say the name Carrie once when she was talking that night.”

            Interesting, even though I didn’t know what it meant. If it meant anything. “Were they especially close?”

            He laughed. “Not lovers, if that’s what you mean. I mean, I think for a short time they were good friends, but then something happened, and suddenly my mom wouldn’t admit she’d ever existed. I don’t know what it was. She stopped doing business with her, got rid of all her art. I don’t know what happened.”

            I thought for a moment. “You said it was five years ago?”

            “Yeah. Mom’s kidneys failed. It was pretty—awful.”

            I hated having to remind him. “I’m sorry again. Thanks for your time.”

            “Sure thing. Good luck.”

            Rachel came in a little later, carrying her Wonder Woman coffee mug. “Feels weirds not having to study psychoses, or design any web pages, or think about mice running around in mazes.” She sat at her desk. “Got any cases for your hot psychic co-detective?”

            I thought about Nicole Gersen’s box. “Maybe. Don’t you have any work?”

            “You’re no fun.” She turned on her computer. 

            My phone buzzed. Myles Vollmer. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen?” He sounded hoarse. “It’s Myles Vollmer. I need—I wonder if you could come here. I need—I have to talk to you about something.”

            I looked over at Rachel. “Is it okay if I bring an associate?”

            “Whatever. Can you come?”

            “Give me an hour.” I hung up. “Rach, do you want to—”

            “Yes, yes, God yes!” She jumped up. “Where are we going?”

            “Arlington Heights. I’m not sure what it’s about. It might be nothing.”

            “I don’t care.” She gulped her coffee. “What’s taking you so long? Let’s roll!”

 

Vollmer sat in his wheelchair, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a glass of scotch in his hand. The maid who’d ledus to his study left as fast as she could manage while still retaining some decorum.

            An Asian woman in a nurse’s uniform ushered us in, then left silently after closing the doors. The gas fire crackled silently behind the glass screen. The painting still sat next to it, but turned to face away from the room.

Vollmer looked up and blinked. “Oh. You came.”

            “This is Rachel. She’s my associate.” 

            Vollmer’s eyes flickered over her. “Fine. Listen—sit down. Drink? Okay.”

            We sat together on the leather sofa. Vollmer slid his chair to face us.

            “My brother—died last night.” He took a gulp of his scotch.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Rachel murmured the same sentiment.

            “Lewis. Lewis Brannick. My stepbrother, but I’ve known him since I was 10 and he was eight, so . . .” His voice faded away and for a moment his stare came back. “A bust fell off a bookcase and hit him in the head. It’s incredible. His wife was out with friends, there were no intruders. A freak accident. But I know.” He set his glass down on a table next to today’s folded up newspaper. 

            “My nephew died a week ago,” he said, looking straight at us. “My sister’s son, Stewart. He was 39, good health, no smoking, drinking . . .” He gazed at his glass. “A bus lost its brakes. He was just standing there, and—gone. No reason.”

            Rachel and I looked at each other. “Sir, what are you trying to tell us?” I asked.

            I wasn’t sure he heard. Then his head popped up. “That painting. I had it for years, in the basement. Two weeks ago, I—I heard a noise coming from the basement. A voice. It was her. I had them bring it up, unwrap it after 30 years. And when I looked at it . . .”

            He wheeled himself over to the drinks cart in the corner of the room and refilled his glass. After another sip, he came back, set his glass down again, and looked at us, his eyes now clear and alert.

            “I know I sound crazy,” he said carefully. “I may sound drunk. Maybe I am crazy, I don’t know. I just want you to listen to me. You saw the picture, remember? It’s me on a shadowy black background. But when I looked at it for the first time in 30 years, I saw . . . her. Standing right behind me. Her, Carrie. For the first time in 30 years.”

            He crossed his arms and waited for us to tell him he was insane.

            I looked at Rachel. She nodded. I stood up. “May I?”

            Vollmer nodded.

            I walked to the fireplace and lifted the painting. It was about a foot wide and a foot and a half tall, but heavy with its brass frame. I turned it so Rachel could see.

            She walked over.

            The dark clouds behind Vollmer were active now—swirling slowly like dust in gentle breeze. I leaned in and caught a flash of something. Lightning? White, with a hint of blue at the center. It blinked and then it was gone.

            I looked at Rachel. Her eyes were narrow, and she was breathing slowly, so I just waited. After a moment she looked away, running her fingers through her hair with a shudder. “Oh yeah,” she whispered.

            Vollmer looked puzzled as we sat down. “Are you all right?”

            “Fine.” She smiled. “I’m psychic. And you’re not crazy. There’s something in there. Someone. And it—well, it hates you.”

            Vollmer seemed frozen for a second. Then he sighed, nodding slowly. He picked up his glass, looked at it, and set it down again without drinking.

            “I have cancer.” He shifted in his chair. “Pancreas. It’s too advanced for treatment.” He glanced at his glass. “I found out just two weeks ago—right before I heard Carrie’s voice from the painting. Like she knew . . .” He shrugged. 

            I thought for a moment. “Is this connected to your brother? Your nephew?”

            He didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “First she was just calling my name. Then—the night my nephew died—I heard her whispering. I couldn’t make it out at first, but after a while it got clear. I’m coming for them . . . I’m coming for all of them. I didn’t know what she meant, not then, but when I heard about Stewart—my nephew—I thought, that’s who. That’s who.”

            “And now your brother,” Rachel said.

            Vollmer nodded. 

            “So you’re trying to find Carrie to stop her?” I asked.

            “Of course. If she’s still alive.” He glanced at the painting. “If not—I don’t know what I can do.”

            Vollmer closed his eyes. “The thing is—my nephew, and Lewis, that’s bad enough. My wife died 10 years ago. But I have a daughter. One child. My daughter. If Carrie is really trying to wipe us all out, to get back at me—” His voice cracked. “I’m afraid. She can’t do anything to me now, but—Sabrina . . .”

            He looked down at the floor and went silent.

            I waited. Vollmer was in pain, but I had question that needed to be asked. “Why does she hate you?”

            With a deep breath he forced himself to face us again. “We had—a relationship. She made that painting after we broke up. Left it for me in her apartment, with a note. ‘You can,’ uh, ‘F— me, but you can’t forget me,’ it said.”

            “Do you still have the note?” Rachel asked before I could follow up.

            “What? No. I threw it away, I think. Why?”

            She shrugged. “I can pick things up from all kinds of stuff.”

            “Why did you break up?” I asked.

            Vollmer looked at Rachel, not me, as if in shame only a woman would understand. “I only pretended to like her art, so I could get her into bed. I did that with—several women who were artists. I never liked Carrie’s paintings, or her sculptures, or those little boxes she made, I never understood the. She painted that—” He gestured toward the portrait—“to mock me, as a sort of revenge for me lying to her. It was something so banal, so prosaic, I could finally appreciate her work, that’s what she said when she gave it to me.”

            That hardly seemed enough for Carrie to launch a vendetta, especially 30 years later. But I had to be careful. “Can I ask—were there any children involved?”

            I felt Rachel lift her elbow to jab me in the ribs, but she restrained herself. Vollmer blinked, seemed to search his memory, then shook his head. “No. There were—never any children.”

I stood up to take a picture of the painting with my phone. Vollmer picked up his drink. I tried to think of any more questions, but came yup dry for the moment. I could always call him.

“I’ll do my best,” I told Vollmer. “And I’ll be in touch.”

He didn’t look up from his scotch. “Thank you.”

Out in the car I turned to Rachel. “Did you pick up anything from our client?”

“’Our’ client? I’m a partner now? Or are you just trying to shanghai me into your business now that I’ve got a shot at a real career?” She punched my arm. 

“I might be hiring. If you play your cards right.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m keeping my options open.”

 

Back home I looked up Lewis Brannick and found a few brief stories about his unexpected demise. There was no question of murder—his wife had alibis from the friends she’d seen Hamilton with, there was no sign of forced entry or burglary, no other injuries—just a 20-pound block of bronze on top of Brannick’s shattered skull. 

            Stewart Alton, Vollmer’s nephew, had lived in San Francisco. He had indeed been killed by a bus whose brakes had inexplicably failed for no reason. His widow was suing the city.

            It certainly was an odd series of freak accidents, but was it supernatural? I learned a long time ago to keep an open mind about things like that. An open mind and one eye on the shadows behind me.

            Rachel was half-working on a series of online brochures for a corporate communications conference, between watching YouTube videos and checking out Instagram. I showed her the articles. She cocked an eyebrow. “Weird.”

            “Yeah.” I was tapping at my keyboard. 

            She leaned back and stretched her arms. “Speaking of weird, you want to see a video of Lady Gaga singing ‘Old McDonald Had a Farm’ in a wetsuit? It’s hilarious.”

            “Maybe later.” 

            I spent a few hours getting nowhere, so I ate lunch and took a walk to the market for the forbidden ground beef. Rachel was changing clothes for her party when I got back, but I had a message from Simon Almeida, the art critic. I called back.

            “Yes, I just remembered this morning,” Almeida told me. “Something about Carrie. Are you still interested in her?”

            “Very. What have you got?”

            “Carrie sometimes produced art under another name. Catherine Randel. Catherine with an E. It was for other projects, not paintings. Sculpture, found art, that type of stuff. She started doing that right before she headed off to Mexico. Maybe she kept using that name, and that’s how I lost track of her.”

            Catherine Randel. C.R. Tony Gersen’s mother and her little box. I thanked Almeida and called Gersen again.

            “Do you still have that box?” I asked after reminding him who I was.

            “I think so. I’d have to look.”

            “Could you send me a picture of it? A couple? The inside, and the initials on the bottom?”

            “Uh, sure.” He sounded puzzled. I didn’t blame him, but I didn’t explain. 

            Rachel came into the office. She wore her slimmest jeans and loose blue turtleneck sweater. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

            I looked her up and down. “Now I’m not so sure.” I looked at the time. It was only five. “It starts this early?”

            “The pre-party. Or maybe the pre-pre-party, I’m not sure. You can make whatever disgusting animal meat you want for dinner.” Rachel’s a vegetarian.

            “I just bought a whole cow. Have fun.”

            She kissed me. “Maybe you’ll get lucky when I get home.”

            “Just don’t get lucky at the party.” My phone buzzed. “Wait—hang on.” 

            Gersen had sent several pictures. I saw the interior of the box, with a black feather, a translucent pearl, and part of a green leaf. Another picture had the initials: C.R. “Can you get anything from these? I know, it doesn’t work with pictures, but could you just take a look?”

            She scowled, but took my phone. “Huh. No. Interesting, but—No.”

            “Thanks anyway.” I sent a quick thank-you to Gersen. “Have fun.”

            “You too.” She kissed me again and left.

            With a fresh name to work with, I went back to work. It took only 20 minutes to find more on Catherine Randel than I’d gathered on Carrie or Carla Ransom. Carrie’s paintings and other works were abstract and esoteric—shapes and colors revolving around each other, battling each other, joining together in passion and flying apart in fury. Randel’s paintings were more traditional—forests and rivers, street scenes, landscapes and moonscapes, but other pieces were three-dimensional, constructed from wires and computer cables, shells and rocks, origami and baseballs, and whatever else she could find. 

            I even found an old website for Catherine Randel. She’d apparently used it to market her art and publicize her shows, and there was a clear distinction between the traditional paintings and her other, nontraditional work. It hadn’t been updated in years.

            I sent an email to the link. It bounced back within two minutes. Some sleuthing uncovered an address associated with it in New Mexico. That turned out to be a mail-drop business, and when I called the central office, I found out that it had stopped receiving anything for Catherine Randel since 2017.

            I wished Rachel was here to peer behind the cyber-scenes—in addition to being psychic, she’s a good hacker—but I knew enough to determine that the website had gone live in 2014 and then dormant in 2021. So, after Carrie’s trip to Mexico in search of a cancer cure. Had the cure worked? I’m skeptical of miracle cures, but maybe I shouldn’t be after all the strangeness I’ve run into. If she was still alive, why was her website dead? Maybe she’d moved on from a career in the art world to something more fulfilling and lucrative, like telemarketing.

            I was getting hungry and thinking about dinner, but then I thought of Vollmer and his daughter and forced myself to stick with it. Some of the links on the Randel website still worked—other artists, media, history of some of the places where she’d picked up her “found objects.” There was no bio page—but there was a forum for people to talk about art. The most recent post was a month old, but it still looked active. 

            I posted a message: “Looking for any information on Catherine Randel. Where she is, if still alive, family members, etc. Very important.” I had to leave my email to post the message, but Included my number too. 

            Then I made dinner. After a big cheeseburger and fries, I settled in with a beer to watch Ozark. In the middle of the second episode of my binge, my phone buzzed with a text. Rachel needing a ride home early? No such luck. A number I didn’t recognize, but a message that got my attention:

            I am Catherine Randel’s son. Why are you bothering her?

            What the hell? I turned off the TV and spent a moment thinking. Then I texted: I work for a collector who’s very interested in acquiring some of Catherine Randel’s art. Also Carrie or Carla Ransom, another name she used. Can you help me?

            The response didn’t come for 10 minutes. Then: I will be in contact with you tomorrow morning. My name is Jonathan Hopcroft. Nothing more.

            Vollmer didn’t answer when I called him back, so I left a message. Then I got another beer and went back to Ozark. 

            Rachel got back at midnight. “Hi! Had a great time! You should have come!” She threw her sweater on the couch, leaned down, and kissed me. “You’re not watching The Curse without me, are you?”

            “I wouldn’t dare. So the party was good?”

            “I can’t drink like those guys anymore.” She slumped down on the sofa and picked up the remote. “What’s this? Can we watch The Curse? Just one or two episodes?”

            “Knock your socks off. Glad you’re home.” I went into the kitchen for her water and one more beer for me. When I came back out she was setting up the show.

            “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” She took a long gulp of water and settled in next to me. “Spoiler alert—I might have a lead on a job.”

            “I might have a lead on Carrie Ransom.” I put an arm around her. “Let’s hope we both get lucky.”

Sins of the Father, Part Three

Marianna Ruiz arrived at Myles Vollmer’s house at 7:05 a.m. It didn’t matter that she was a few minutes late—Mr. Vollmer never woke up before nine, but the agency wanted her there early. She had to make sure his medications were ready, go over his meals with Nora, the cook, record all of the previous day’s vitals, and whatever light housekeeping was needed. When that was done, she could work on her Sudoku until 1:00, when the next nurse came, and Mariana left for her next assignment.

            Marianna unlocked the front door. Nora was already in the kitchen, planning today’s meals. Mr. Vollmer was a light eater, but picky, and they had to make sure he got the right mix of good food. They chatted, drank some coffee, watched a few minutes of Good Morning America, and then Marianna headed upstairs to check on Mr. Vollmer. 

            The staircase was wide, with a soft runner in the middle, solid wood on either side. Twenty-one steps, but it was equipped with a lift so Mr. Vollmer could ride up and down. The house kept wheelchairs on both floors for him. 

            Marianna knocked softly on Mr. Vollmer’s door. Hearing nothing, she opened it just enough to peer in and see that Mr. Vollmer was still in bed, sleeping restlessly. He was supposed to wear oxygen at night, but he almost always pulled the mask off at some point. Marianna tiptoed to the bed and carefully slipped the mask over his nose and mouth again. If he woke up he’d be mad, but she’d learned to do it without disturbing him—most of the time.

            That done, she left the bedroom, closing the door silently, and walked to the stairs. More coffee, maybe a sweet roll if Nora had any to spare, then a little Sudoku, then—

            On the third step something pushed her. Hard. 

            Marianna sailed forward. She wheeled her arms, grasping for the rail, but another push sent her tumbling. She hit the steps with her face. She felt blood gushing from her nose as she skidded down the steps, kicking and grabbing for something to stop her, but then a third push beneath her body sent her tumbling, rolling out of control, the world flying around her—no up, no down, just a dizzying fall toward nowhere. Her chest pounded inside her, and a scream she barely heard ripped from her throat until—

            Marianna felt the snap in her neck s she hit the floor at the bottom. She closed her eyes, biting her lip until she felt blood dripped down her chin, and then she felt nothing. Darkness spread around her and inside her as her body stopped moving.

 

“So I’ve got a line on a job,” Rachel told me as she came into the office the next morning. 

            “Great! Where?” I lifted my coffee mug, and she clinked her Wonder Woman mug in a toast.

            “There was this guest lecturer last semester, and he really liked my paper on psychological explanations for psychic phenomena.” Rachel sat down at her desk. “Becky told me he’s looking to hire someone from the school at his clinic. He asked her, but she’s getting married and moving to California right after graduation.” Rachel grimaced. “But she said he asked about me and wanted me to give him a call. So I’m calling him right now. After my coffee. Maybe before my coffee. I’m not sure I can wait, but I don’t want to seem too anxious. Damn it, this is too much like dating.”

            “Good thing you don’t have to worry about that anymore. Right? Right?”

            Rachel smirked. “A girl has to keep her options open.” She turned away and switched on her computer.

            I got a text from Hopcroft. Can you meet me at 11:30? He gave me the address of a coffee shop on the north side. It was 9:30 right now. I texted in the affirmative, then called my client.

            He sounded frantic when he answered. “Hello? Jurgen? Are you getting anywhere? This is a nightmare—”

            “Hold on, hold on—what’s going on?” His daughter? I hoped not. 

            “My nurse. This morning. She somehow just—she fell down the stairs and broke her neck.” Vollmer paused for breath. “It was her. I know it was her. She’s killing everyone close to me. Marianna was—perfect.” 

            Oh God. I didn’t know what to say. Or what I could do. I had one bare lead that could shrivel up and dry away the minute I talked to Hopcroft.  

            I told him what I knew. Vollmer had trouble focusing, but after the second time he seemed to process it. “I don’t know about any Catherine Randel. Or any son. I thought—that doesn’t matter. She’d get mad if anyone called her Carla, not Carrie. I remember that.” He groaned. “I don’t know what to do.”

            “Where is your daughter now?”

            “She works downtown. Finance. She doesn’t know—I never told her anything about Carrie. She’s never seen the painting. I don’t know what to tell her. I can’t tell her. I have to tell her. I can’t—” He started sobbing.

            I waited for Vollmer to recover. Rachel was watching me. She could only hear my half of the conversation, but it was enough. My face and my voice told her something was very wrong.

            “What will you do?” Vollmer asked finally. “When you see this young man?”

            “Ask him about Carrie.” I knew it sounded lame. “It’s all I can do.”

            “Yes.” He swallowed. “Let me know what he says. Immediately. Right away, you understand?”

            “I’ll call you.”

            We hung up. Rachel crossed her arms expectantly.

I told her about Vollmer’s nurse. “I feel like—I know I couldn’t have stopped this, but I can’t help thinking somehow I should have done something different.”

“Yeah.” She walked over to put a hand on my shoulder. “Can’t save everyone.”

I knew that all too well. I patted her hand. “Let me see if I can find anything about this Hopcroft guy before I go meet him.”

“You want me to come?”

That would be nice, but—“That’s okay. What about your job?”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Guess I’ll call him right now.”

            

Jonathan Hopcroft was my age—middle 40s—but his hair was grayer and he was a little thicker than me. But his sweater was alpaca and his slacks were sharply creased, so I couldn’t feel superior to him. 

            I got some coffee, sat down in the booth, and showed him my card. “You’re Catherine Randel’s son?”

            “That’s right.” He looked at the card but left it on the table between us. “What’s this all about?”

            “It’s about Carrie Ransom.” I waited.

            He looked puzzled. “I thought it was about my mother.”

            “Isn’t—” Something lurched inside my head. “I was told that Carrie Ransom changed her professional name to Carrie Randel.”

            “No, that’s her sister. Catherine Randel is my mother.”

            I spent a moment revising my theories. I’d assumed Hopcroft was Carrie’s son, but—“Do you know where Carrie Ransom is now?”

He stared at me as if I was an idiot. “Carrie’s dead.”

“When did she die?”

Hopcroft frowned, annoyed. “In Mexico. Cancer. 2012 or 2013, something like that.” 

            “And your mother?”

            “I talked to her yesterday. After I saw your message. What is this all about?” He was growing impatient.

            “I was—I thought they were the same person. I was told—”

            “They’re sisters. What’s going on?”

            I wasn’t sure how to explain it to him, so I took out my phone and showed him the painting. “Have you ever seen this before? Does it mean anything to you?”

            He peered at my phone. “That’s—Myles Vollmer, isn’t it?”

“You know him?”

“Carrie did.” He sat back. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

I put my phone down. “Myles Vollmer is my client. He hired me to find Carrie Ransom.”

Hopcroft snorted. “Why would he do that?”

“He believes that . . .” I took a deep breath. I didn’t want Hopcroft to think I was crazy, but I had to convince him to take me seriously. “Several members of his family—and household, for that matter—have died recently. And suddenly. Mr. Vollmer believes it’s somehow connected to Carrie—something to do with their relationship 30 years ago.”

His eyes went wide. “He thinks—what? That she’s killing people to get back at him?”       

            “He wanted to talk to her.” I sipped my coffee.

            “Well, he missed his chance a long time ago.” Hopcroft shoved his card back at me and slid his chair back. “Sorry to waste your time.” 

            “Wait—what about your mother? Catherine Randel.”

            Hopcroft frowned impatiently. “What about her?”

            I scrolled through my pictures and found Gersen’s photo of the box. “Did she make this?”

            He peered at my phone. “Maybe. It looks like some of her work. Mostly she paints traditional stuff, trees and still lifes and portraits. But for a while she was doing, what do they call it, found art? I don’t know every piece she ever made.”

“Could I talk to your mother?”

            He paused half out of his seat. “Why?”

            “More information about Carrie. How she died, where she died—where is she buried? Did she keep a grudge against Vollmer?” I couldn’t ask Hopcroft if his aunt had supernatural powers. At least not yet.

            I half expected him to walk away and leave me with nothing. Instead he frowned, picked up my card, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll call you. If she’s willing to talk to you. I don’t know.”

            I nodded. “Thanks.”

            Hopcroft sighed, shook his head, and walked away. I finished my coffee and let him leave.

 

Rachel was gone when I got home. I figured—hoped—she was still at the job interview with the guy she’d called. I wrote up some notes and did some internet research on Catherine Randel, but I found nothing connecting her to Carrie Ransom. I couldn’t find any trace of Catherine before her site had appeared on the Web, but not everyone had a social media profile or internet presence in 2012. I decided to wait and hope Hopcroft would let me talk to her.

            Rachel came back a few hours later. “I think I got the job.” 

            I stood up. “That was quick.” I went to give her a hug, but she pushed me away. “What?”

            “I don’t know. I’m not ready. Maybe.” She went to her desk. 

            I’d never seen Rachel back down from anything. “Why not?”

            “Counseling people? I can barely manage my own life.” She sat down. “I feel like I’m 25 again, trying to convince an agency to hire me for my first job, and I got hired I was sure I was going to get fired in a week.”

            “Did you?”

            She grimaced. “No. I quit when one of the partners hit on me. It took me months to find another job.”

            “Is this guy going to hit on you?”

            Rachel chuckled. “No. He’s cool. Wife and kids in pictures on his desk, and I can sense he’s only interested in my mind.”

            “That’s good.” Rachel can take care of herself, but I’m oversensitive to other guys checking her out. “It’s scary, though. Change. A new career—”

            “Gee, you should be a shrink too.” She sat back in her chair. “I suppose I should be happy.”

            “You don’t have to take it. You can keep on doing design work and being junior assistant detective—”

            My phone buzzed. I saw Hopcroft’s name. “Sorry, hang on. —Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Yeah, Jurgen.” Hopcroft sounded annoyed. “My mother will talk to you. Be there at 6:30. Here’s the address. I’ll be there too.”

            I took down the address—in town, on the north side. He hung up before I could ask him anything more.

            “What’s up?” Rachel leaned forward, as if looking for a distraction from her career dilemma. 

            I told her everything I’d gotten from Hopcroft. “So do you want to go visit Catherine Randel with me? Might take your mind off things.”

            “Absolutely.” She jumped up. “Let’s go!”

            “Relax, we’ve got a few hours. He said 6:30.” I turned to back to my desk.

            “Okay.” Rachel leaned over my shoulder as I reached for my mouse. I felt her breath on my ear. “You, uh, real busy?”

            “Uhh . . .” I hesitated, then decided corporate fraud would still be a thing tomorrow. “Nothing urgent.” I turned my face. “What about you?”

            “Well, not exactly urgent, but . . .” She grinned and started on my buttons. “I deserve to celebrate a little, right?”

            I smiled. “Absolutely.”

Sins of the Father, Part Four

Catherine Randel lived in a ritzy retirement facility in the Edgewater neighborhood. I parked outside at 6:25 and stopped at the front desk to give my name and Rachel’s to an attendant, who made a phone call, gave us guest badges, and told us to have a seat in the lounge.

            The lounge was next to the dining room, which was empty except for a few latecomers. Rachel and I sat on a firm sofa, maintaining a professional distance so nobody would suspect that hours ago we’d been, well, not exactly maintaining any distance. At least I hoped nobody would think that, although Rachel kept poking my leg with a grin.

            Then Hopcroft appeared, escorting his mother. Catherine Randel walked with a thick cane and a steely gaze. She looked to be in her 70s, Vollmer’s age, but her steps were still strong and firm as she made her way toward us. 

They took chairs in front of the sofa and looked us over like jurors assessing defendants in a trial.

            I introduced myself and Rachel. Catherine nodded politely, not glancing at her son. “What’s it all about? You wanted to talk about Carrie?”

            “Yes.” I got out my phone and showed her the portrait of Vollmer. “Do you recognize this?”

            She had to squint. “That’s Myles.”

            “I was talking actually about the painting. Have you seen it before?”

            She cocked her head. “I remember when—when it was painted.”

            “You were there?”

            She nodded. “She was—angry with him.”

“Did you know him very well?”

            Catherine sat back, as if searching her memory. “No. Not very well.”

“Why was she angry? What did he do to her?”

            Catherine sighed. “Jonathan said you’re working for Myles? Is that right?”

            “That’s right. He’s worried that someone—Carrie—is targeting his family for revenge.”

            Her eyes grew sharp. “Carrie’s dead. She died in Mexico.”

            “How did she die?”

“She did all the usual, traditional treatments. Chemo, radiation, everything. Nothing worked. So finally she left for Mexico for a shaman she’d heard about. It—it happened there.”

“A shaman?” I glanced at Rachel. She shrugged.

“That’s what she called it. I—I didn’t understand, but I didn’t argue with her. Not after everything she went through. So we—she went to Mexico.”

We? I started to ask, but Rachel cut in. “When did you see her last?” 

            The question took Catherine by surprise. “I can’t think—I suppose—she went to Mexico in 2012, I think. I remember it was winter. Maybe a few months before. We aren’t—were never very close.” 

            “How close in age?” I asked. “Are you older? Younger?”

            Again she seemed puzzled. “I’m a little—a year younger. I’m 73. No, 74. God, I don’t know how old I am, I’m just old. And not getting any younger talking to you.” She yawned.

            “You’re an artist too, aren’t you?” I asked.

            She chuckled. “Not like Carrie. I could do a portrait, a hill, some trees, fish, pets, that sort of thing. Carrie looked at the world through different eyes.”

            “Except for the portrait of Myles Vollmer.”

            She shook her head. “That was—different.”

            “Different how?”

            Her eyes clouded for a moment. “Carrie could paint anything she wanted. She did that picture for Myles because—as a good-bye.”

            “When they broke up?”

            She glared at me. “You don’t know anything about them.”

            “I know a little. Just from Myles.”

            “Then you only know part of it, but it’s not my business to share it with you. Not after all this time.” She rubbed her eyes.

            I took out my phone. “Did you make this box?”

            Catherine looked at it for a moment, then smiled. “I remember it. I made it for Nicole. Before she died.”

            “It’s different from what you usually make. Not a landscape or an animal.”

            She shrugged. “Sometimes I just like to try different things.”

            “Some people thought that Catherine Randel was a name Carrie used. That’s how I found you.”

            Catherine shook her head again, tired. “I don’t know anything about what other people think. They can think what they want.”

            “You launched your website in 2014. Shortly after Carrie’s death. Were you painting before that?”

            She rubbed her eyes. “Just a little. Then I got—after I retired, I had more time, and then . . .” Her voice faded, and her eyelids drooped.

Hopcroft stood up. “I think we’re done, all right?”

            I glanced to see if Rachel had any more questions, but she nodded. “Fine,” I said. “Thank you for your time. If I have any more questions—”

            “Forget it.” Hopcroft’s face was stern. “This is it. Don’t bother my mother again.”

            “I’ll try not to,” I replied. “But—"

            “It was just such a long time ago.” Catherine stood, leaning on her cane. “I just—don’t want to go back there again.”

            “I appreciate it.” I held out a hand.

            Hopcroft took it. Rachel held out her hand, and Catherine took it. Then Hopcroft held Catherine’s arm as she turned slowly away, heading back to her room.

            I looked at Rachel. “Well?” 

            She can pick up a lot, especially when she touches someone. “She’s a little irritated at her son.  She definitely knows more about Carrie.” Rachel watched them walking away. “There’s something, but I can’t quite—like a whisper I can’t hear.” She shook her head to clear it. “That’s it. Sorry.”

            “No, that’s great.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but you never know what’s going to be useful. “You want to get dinner?”

            “It’s my night to cook, isn’t it? Yes.” She took my hand. “I saw an Italian place a few blocks away.”

            “Deal.” We headed to the front lobby, and then I stopped at the door. 

            “What?” Rachel asked. “I’m hungry.”

            “I just thought of a question.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Not five minutes ago?”

            “Sorry.” I took out my phone.

            Hopcroft sounded annoyed. “What is it?”

            “Are you still with your mother?”

            “Yes, but—”

            “I have to ask her a question.”

            For a moment I thought I’d have to argue, but he apparently decided I wasn’t worth it. “Catherine? It’s that detective again.”

            “Yes? Mr., uh, Jurgen, was it?”

            “Tom Jurgen, ma’am. I need to ask you—where are your sister’s remains?”

            Silence. Then, from far away: “I have them here. In a Mexican urn.”

            I wanted her to see it, but I had a feeling I’d pushed Catherine about as far as I could right now. “All right. Thank you.” I hung up.

            “What was that?” Rachel asked as we turned to the front door.

            “Just an idea. I have to think about it.”

            “Over dinner.”

            I nodded. “Yes. Dinner.”

            

 

Sabrina Vollmer yawned as she closed her laptop. Long day—and more work when she got home. Markets don’t sleep, she reminded herself, so why should I?

She turned off the computer on her desk, grabbed her coat, and turned off her office lights. The hallway was empty, which made everything feel a little spooky, even though she walked it alone most nights. 

The elevator took a long time to arrive. She checked the email on her phone as she waited. Nothing urgent, but some messages to respond to tonight. After her Uber home and her dinner from DoorDash. The exciting life of an account executive at a mid-level finance company. 

            The elevator opened. She pressed the ground floor button, still scrolling her messages. Another one from Dad. Just checking in, everything OK? Sabrina sighed. Lately Dad was on top of her life more than usual. He’d always been up her butt too much—her grades, her boyfriends, which college to go to, what job to take, why she shouldn’t date anyone—but in the last few weeks he was texting her 10 times a day. Was he losing it? Getting dementia? She felt a pang of conscience. I ought to go out to visit him—

            The elevator shuddered. It jerked up, then down, then paused. The lights flickered. It dropped a few feet. Sabrina bit her lip, trying not to scream, her fingers poised over the emergency button on her phone. This would be a stupid way to die.

            Then the lights came back on and the elevator resumed it smooth descent. Sabrina held her breath, watching the numbers go down, until the doors opened to the lobby.

            Sabrina waved to the nighttime guard and pushed through the revolving doors to LaSalle Street. The sidewalk was quiet, just a few late workers like her making their way to the subway or looking for taxis. The bar across the street was bright and noisy, neon and music blaring through the air. 

            People from work were there, she knew. Maybe I ought to—no, too much work. Damn it. And she could see her Uber coming down the block.

Sabrina lifted a hand and stepped to the curb. A van made a turn, cutting off her Uber. Sabrina rolled her eyes. Idiots. She waved again as the van hit the gas, accelerating to beat the light at the corner—

Something shoved her from behind. Sabrina swore, turning. No one, just someone in the revolving door six feet away.

Another shove. What the hell? She staggered, losing her balance, and then a third shove hit her in the legs. She reached out for something to grab onto—

Then she saw the van. The driver shouted something and she saw him lean back, slamming on the brake, pounding his horn, his eyes wide with alarm as the van hurtled toward her—

Something grabbed the collar of her coat. Another hand caught her arm. 

Sabrina was yanked back, colliding with whoever was behind her, and they both toppled to the sidewalk. 

She rolled over, off the body beneath her, and sat there on her knees, gasping for breath. The van hesitated for a moment, and then the driver apparently decided he didn’t want to stay and answer any questions. He pulled away. Asshole.

“You all right?” She recognized the voice.

Sabrina blinked. “Steve? What are—” She bit her lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

            Steve, who worked down the hall at the office, helped Sabrina to her feet. “I just saw you—you sort of stumbled, and then—Jesus, that was close.”

            “Yeah.” She turned and saw the Uber pull close to the curb. “Thanks,” she said again. “What are you doing here?”

            “I was just going to go over for a drink.” His eyes darted toward the bar. “You want to come? You could probably use it.”

            “No, I should—” Sabrina caught her breath. Her heart was still pounding. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe I should.” She waved the Uber off, took Steve’s hand, and let him lead her across the street. Work could wait. She needed a drink now.