He gently nudged her forward. “Marcy, meet Augusta Simmons, who is a resident at Padua Manor in Stevens Point, the place where Hank worked as an aide for a time.”
Decked out in a cobalt blue dress, Augusta was a pop of color in a sea of somber tones. “My dear,” she said, reaching for Marcy’s hands, “your husband was a kind soul—and helpful, too. I still miss him when I try to balance my checkbook. I refuse to wear black for Jim. That’s how I knew him, as Jim. I celebrate his life in joy.”
The two women hugged, and I saw Marcy’s mother raise an eyebrow.
Bobbie, Augusta and I settled on padded chairs as the background music ended and the funeral home director announced that the service would be starting. To my surprise, Bart Matthews approached us from a side aisle and we moved to give him two seats at the end of the row.
The priest stammered a bit through a very short homily, obviously struggling to deliver a message of hope for a man who belonged to an organized crime syndicate, married under false pretenses, and then deserted his family. It was the young people whom Hank taught who delivered the real eulogy and whose words resounded with respect for their beloved teacher. Many broke down in tears as they told of the hours Hank spent one-on-one with them, tutoring them to pass math exams, helping them write college application essays, even finding them part-time jobs so they could stay in school.
Marcy’s face went from distressed to peaceful, her posture from slumped to straightened. She whispered to Henry, Susie and Marjorie, obviously directing them to pay attention to what was being said about their father. I offered a silent thanksgiving that this moment would be the defining one for Hank’s memory.
When the services ended, people mingled to talk and reminisce. Bart invited Bobbie, Augusta and me to lunch at Tre Rivali, near his office in the historic Third Ward. “Please be my guests. I would invite Marcy’s family also, but she is a bit … chilly toward me, due to my connections.”
“I expect that she’ll want to get the children home, Bart. Or maybe her extended family will gather.” I turned to Augusta. “Please say you can join us.”
“It all depends on dear Bobbie,” she said. “He’s my driver. I’m happy to spend as much time with you, and away from you-know-where, as I can.”
“Then it’s settled. Shall we meet you there, Bart?” I asked, sure that he would want to smoke on the way.
The reporters didn’t notice me, escorted as I was by a gorgeous young man and a sprightly older woman. We got to the car without incident and motored away.
Once seated in a small private room of the restaurant, the waiter asked for our drink orders. I decided on a brandy old-fashioned, sweet—a Milwaukee classic.
“Oh, my,” Augusta warbled, “it’s been years since I had a cocktail. Let me see, what was it that Myrna and I used to enjoy?” She thought for a moment and then clapped her hands together. “A pink lady! That was it.” She gave a sly grin. “It’s not as innocuous as it sounds. Good thing I’m not driving.”
We placed our orders for drinks and perused the Mediterranean menu. The men opted for strip steak, but Augusta and I decided to split an order of mascarpone cheese ravioli. We wanted to save room for dessert.
When the drinks arrived, I lifted my glass. “To Henry Wagner, husband, father, teacher, helper. May his memory live on in those who knew and loved him.”
“Hear, hear,” Augusta seconded, and we clinked our glasses and drank.
“Mrs. Simmons,” Bart said, “I’m fascinated to know more about how you became involved in Angie’s investigation.”
“Well, let me tell you, it was the most exciting and interesting thing that’s happened to me in years!” With much drama and charm, she told the story of our clandestine meeting at the city park and her subsequent assistance in getting Bobbie and me into the facility for a nighttime reconnaissance.
At the end, Bart toasted her with a “Well done,” and turned to me and Bobbie to say, “I’d certainly like to learn more about that foray.”
“Plausible deniability,” I told him, and he guffawed.
When I asked Augusta how Myrna was doing, she shook her head sadly. “She’s going downhill, I’m afraid. I will be glad when her trials are over.”
“I want to keep in touch,” I said. “Do you think Mrs. Rogers will cause trouble for you if she sees me come to pick you up for lunch occasionally?”
When she hesitated, Bart said, “Leave it to me. I’ll make sure you and your sister have no repercussions over a visit from … Ann Carson, right?”
After a delicious meal and an even more delicious dessert and coffee, Bart excused himself to return to the office. I drove Bobbie and Augusta to the funeral home, where we hugged before he settled her carefully into the Jetta and turned to me. “I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”
“Thanks for thinking of Augusta,” I told him.
“No prob. I knew you had too much on your mind.” He backed away and peered at me. “What’s the rest of the day like for you?”
“There are a few other loose ends I need to tie up on the Wagner case. After that, I see a bubble bath with a glass of B&B in my future.”
“Good. You need to pamper yourself a little.”
***
I returned to the office to smooth out the remaining details of the Wagner case. A lot of people helped me find Hank. They deserved to know at least part of the outcome.
“Frank Jamieson,” said the voice on the phone.
“Hello, Frank. It’s Angie Bonaparte. You helped me on the Hank Wagner case.”
“Of course. I’ve been following developments in the news. You were … present when
