sole heir to the family fortunes, Sid took it over when he married Gina. Sid’s parents, tired of winter weather that made their arthritic bones throb and ache, moved to Arizona.
The house is over a hundred years old, and while improvements have been made on it over the years, it still retains much of its original charm and character. The front of it is done in stone, as is the circular drive and the retaining walls that grace the hills behind it. I know from prior visits that the lawn is plush, green, and amazingly soft but, at the moment, most of it is buried beneath a blanket of red and yellow leaves that have dropped from the many stately trees peppering the grounds.
Overall, the house has a mellow but dignified country look—peaceful and comfy—the exact opposite of how I feel. There is no peace, no comfort for me here today.
The garage door is closed so I have no way of knowing if Sid is home or not. I consider using my cell phone to call him first but quickly rule out that idea since I don’t want to give him a chance to decline a visit or let him know I’m coming. I want to catch him unprepared, hoping that will make it easier for me to get the truth out of him.
The truth. It’s what I want, but it scares me to death.
I park in front of the house, slip my cell phone into my jacket pocket, and walk up to ring the doorbell. I half expect one of the house staff to answer; whenever I’ve been here for parties and such, that is what usually happens. But to my surprise, Sid himself answers the door.
“Mattie! What a pleasant surprise.” His smile is warm and genuine, but he looks tired and sad despite it. “Come on in.”
He seems relaxed. If my unexpected arrival has disconcerted him in any way, it doesn’t show. At first I think this is a good sign. I mean if Sid is guilty of murder, he would look more nervous and edgy, wouldn’t he? But then it occurs to me that he might be a sociopath, a serial killer like Ted Bundy—an emotionless creature with no sense of remorse or guilt, a social charlatan who hides his true nature beneath a veneer of well-practiced charm. After all, Wisconsin has served as home to more than its fair share of serial killers, with Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Gein, and John Wayne Gacy all conducting business within or just outside its borders. Maybe there’s something in our water.
All this flashes through my mind in the time it takes me to smile back at Sid and accept his invitation to come inside.
“What brings you out here?” he asks as he closes the door behind me.
“I want to talk with you, Sid. It’s about Mike Halverson.”
His expression falters, but only briefly. A split second later, that complacent smile is back in place. Then I hear a female voice that makes my heart race with panic.
“Mattie? Is that you?”
I turn and see her standing down the hall in the doorway to the kitchen. As usual, she looks perfectly put together, right down to the apron she is wearing over her tailored, camel-colored slacks and yellow angora sweater.
“Hello, Gina.”
“Hi there. I didn’t know you were dropping by. Forgive me,” she says, gesturing with a wooden spoon she has in her hand. “I have something simmering on the stove and can’t leave it for long. But I’ll be done in a few minutes.”
“That’s quite all right. Take your time. I’m sorry to drop by unannounced like this but something came up and I need to talk to Sid for a few minutes. I won’t be staying long.”
“Okay then,” she says, flashing me her TV smile. “I’ll just finish up out here while you two talk. Holler at me if you need anything.” She disappears back into the kitchen and I look at Sid.
“Why don’t we step into my den,” he suggests. I notice his smile is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern.
Sid’s den is my favorite room in the house. It fits him perfectly, possessing many of the same characteristics that drew me to Sid himself. It has a relaxed and unpretentious air, a sense of warm welcome that makes one want to settle in and never leave.
Whenever I came out to the house for parties or dinners, I would always find an excuse to slip into the den and spend a few peaceful moments on the old leather couch or its matching leather chair, their surfaces so perfectly aged and worn, they are as smooth and soft as a baby’s bottom. A beautiful Persian rug in shades of cranberry, teal, and ochre covers much of the hardwood floor and it, like the furniture, looks lovingly worn. The walls are paneled and Sid’s desk, which sits catty-corner beside a window, is an old, sturdy oak piece that probably weighs a ton.
Today, however, the room fails to comfort me, even as I sink down into the cushiony softness of the couch. I watch Sid close the door, and the minute he turns toward me and I see the sad, resigned expression on his face, I know everything David told me is true.
“I take it you’ve spoken to David,” he says, wasting no time.
“Yes.”
“And do you hate me as a result?”
“Hate you?” I ponder the question. “No, Sid. I don’t hate you,” I say honestly. “But I think it’s time you were straight with me.” It is a notably poor choice of words, but since Sid doesn’t seem to catch the pun, I quickly push ahead. “Right now I have good reason to think that you are involved somehow in the murders of two people—Karen Owenby and Mike Halverson.”
Sid opens his mouth to say something but then he freezes without uttering a sound. He stares at me for several moments, looking first confused, then stricken. “Murder?” he says finally, swallowing hard. “Mike was murdered?”
I nod.
“But I heard it was deemed a suicide.” He looks frighteningly pale and I start to entertain a new scenario, one in which he drops dead of a heart attack.
“Someone tried to make it look that way,” I tell him. “But they didn’t do a good enough job. There’s no doubt he was murdered.”
He staggers and grabs at a bookshelf to steady himself. This is no act—that he is surprised by my revelation is obvious. But what I’m not sure of is the reason for his surprise. Did he truly not know that Mike was murdered? Or is he simply shocked to learn that someone figured out the truth?
Slowly he makes his way to the chair and collapses into it. He leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He stays that way for several moments, and when he finally straightens up and looks at me, his expression is horribly sad.
“I never thought I could be as happy as I was with Mike,” he says. “I wasn’t even looking for a relationship. I was trying to put that whole lifestyle behind me. But then Karen Owenby approached me a year or so ago about this medical equipment company she said she’d invested in. I got curious and went by the place to check it out and that’s when I met Mike.”
“Sid, I—”
“We kept it very hush-hush at first, of course,” Sid goes on, ignoring me as he loses himself in his memories. He has this beatific little smile on his face that is both touching and pathetic. “We never met here in town at all. We only went to the Grizzly or to other towns where no one knew either of us. When I found out that Karen was actually Mike’s sister, I knew then that our secret wouldn’t last forever. But by the time she found out about us, I’d already decided I didn’t care anymore. I was tired of living a lie.”
“Did Mike tell you he was HIV positive?”
Sid nods. “He was very honest with me, and I with him. In my younger years I wasn’t always as careful as I should have been. And then a little over a year ago I started noticing some changes in my health: weight loss, muscle wasting, weakness, frequent colds…all the signs were there. I told Mike when I met him that I suspected I was not only HIV positive but might have AIDS.” He pauses a moment and tears well in his eyes.
“Have you been tested?”
