The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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his tan jacket on in the office.
He said, “Leave the man alone, Elmer.”
Mueller said, “He knows we don’t take visitors here. You know it too. What, since you’re a big shot out of Denver, you too good to follow the rules like the rest of us?”
“Elmer, I’m just trying to help this man.” He dropped his voice, hoping that the little man wouldn’t be hurt. “For heaven’s sake, Elmer, look at him. He must be ninety years old. What do you want to do?”
Mueller said, “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to call Security and have the geezer gently but firmly removed from the premises. What if he dies in our office?”
A woman’s hand separated Lindsey and Mueller. “Break it up, boys.” Ms. Wilbur squatted in front of the old man. “Are you all right, sir? What’s your name?”
The old man peered at Ms. Wilbur. Lindsey wondered what the world looked like through those ancient eyes. Did the old man see everything through layers of gauze? Did everyone acquire the soft focus of an aging romantic star photographed through a smear of petroleum jelly?
“My name is Edward Joseph MacReedy.” He turned from Ms. Wilbur to address Lindsey again. “The librarian suggested contacting the Insurance Commissioner but there was no record in Sacramento of the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “I remember them.”
For once Lindsey and Mueller harmonized. “You do?”
Ms. Wilbur blushed. “Not personally.”
They waited.
“You wouldn’t recall old Mr. Woodstreet.”
Lindsey and Mueller looked at each other. It happened again. “No.”
Ms. Wilbur smiled. “He was here when I started. He retired—oh, it must be thirty years ago. And he was an old man. Dead now, I’m sure. He was the unofficial office historian. He here forever. Used to talk about the old days. I mean the old days for him. The 1920s, ’30s. He used to talk about Woodrow Wilson, Aimee Semple MacPherson, Red Grange. Used to talk about how President Harding died in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, thought he was murdered.”
Mueller said, “Spare me, please. What’s that got to do with this one?” He gestured toward the old man.
“Mr. Woodstreet used to talk about the Depression, about the companies that went belly up. It’s funny, I can remember him sitting on that same couch where Mr. MacReedy is sitting, talking about Herbert Hoover and Upton Sinclair and the Depression. International Surety wasn’t International Surety then.”
Mueller said, “Don’t tell me this company was Global, whatever, National Guarantee Life.”
“Not quite.” Ms. Wilbur took Mr. MacReedy’s paper plate and cup from him and set them on a desk. The old man had dozed off and was wheezing gently in his sleep. Ms. Wilbur said, “International Surety used to be just Surety Insurance. They took over half a dozen failing companies back in the Thirties. It was a crazy time in the industry. Big companies gobbled up little companies and then bigger companies gobbled them up.”
Lindsey said, “Times change.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “The old Global National Guarantee got tangled up in two or three mergers and takeovers and finally disappeared into Surety Insurance.”
Mueller grunted. “So you mean, this is our policy?”
Ms. Wilbur said, “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s up to Legal.”
Lindsey said, “You never mentioned this before. How come you remember a piece of trivia like that, Ms. Wilbur?” He never used her first name. Not even when he’d been branch manager here, and her putative boss. She was older than his mother. She could never be other than Ms. Wilbur, or so Lindsey thought.
It must have been the same way with Ms. Wilbur forty years before, in her dealings with Mr. Woodstreet. If she even knew his first name she wouldn’t use it in conversation.
Ms. Wilbur said, “Mr. Woodstreet used to love to talk about Global National. You know the old saw about the biggest name goes with the smallest company, and vice versa? Galactic Colossal Enterprises operates out of a post office box, and F. Smith, Inc., has buildings in thirty countries and half a million employees?”
She patted Mr. MacReedy gently on the knee. “Mr. Woodstreet got a kick out of Global National Guarantee because it was such a tiny company. They used to sell life policies door to door. Send agents around to collect the premiums, fifty cents a week, twenty-five cents a week, even a nickel a week. They worked mostly in Negro neighborhoods. Pardon me, I grew up speaking the English language and I’m accustomed to speaking it the way I learned.”
Mueller put his thumbs in the tops of his trousers. He said, “So you think this fossil has a claim on us? Let’s see what he’s got.” He reached toward MacReedy’s jacket. The old man had put his precious envelope in an inside pocket.
Lindsey put his hand on Mueller’s forearm. “Let—” he said, but before he got any farther Ms. Wilbur had gently opened the old man’s jacket and extracted the envelope. She said, “I’ll take a look at this.”
Mueller said, “No you won’t. You’re retired. You have no job here any more.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “I still work here for another—” She paused and turned to look at the digital clock. “—hour and a half. As long as the great and benevolent corporation is paying my salary, I might as well stay useful.”
She made her way to her desk and clicked away at the computer keyboard. Lindsey and Mueller stood behind her like high school boys shouldering each other in competition for a cheerleader’s attention. Ms. Wilbur turned around, grinning at them. She still held Mr. MacReedy’s envelope, its contents now extracted and carefully unfolded along age-yellowed crease lines. Even after six decades or longer, there was no mistaking the ornate scrollwork and Byzantine language of a life insurance policy.
“There it is, boys. A perfect match.”
Lindsey leaned forward, comparing the glowing letters on the computer screen with the faded writing—not even typing—on the pages. The letters on the screen were green. The ink on the policy had long since turned to brown.
Lindsey said, “Is that right?”
Ms. Wilbur said, “Look. Face amount is the same on the policy and the screen. It’s a joint policy, made out to Edward Joseph MacReedy and Nola Elizabeth Rownes MacReedy. Upon death of either party, the surviving party is to receive full payment of benefits. Of course, look here.” She pointed to the screen. “Policy was all paid off by 1934. It’s a whole life policy. Been drawing compound interest ever since. Look here, the cash surrender value exceeded the face value by ’36. They should have paid it out back then, but this doesn’t show that they did. Shows the policy still in force.”
“Huh. What’s it worth now?” Lindsey asked.
Ms. Wilbur clicked away until the computer screen showed a new figure. “Based on an average annual interest rate of four-point-five per cent, International Surety owes Mr. MacReedy $400.19.”
A cloud of menthol swept over Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur. “For God’s sake, pay the old guy his money and get him out of here. Give him the twenty-five bucks out of petty cash. Or cut him a check for four hundred.”
“And nineteen cents,” Ms. Wilbur added.
“Okay,” Mueller grumbled. “And nineteen lousy cents. How the hell they could play around like that beats me.”
Lindsey said, “Money went a lot farther during the Depression. You ought to learn a little history, Elmer.”
“Yeah. And maybe join a sewing circle while I’m at it.”
“Even so, it’s an awfully small policy.” Lindsey studied the papers in Ms. Wilbur’s hand. “I mean,