Say Goodbye: The Fourth Bear Whitman Adventure

By Brett M. Wiscons, Will Byington and Scott Isenbarger

Fourth book in the Bear Whitman detective series. Written by singer-songwriter Brett Wiscons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543993141

Book preview

TWENTY-FOUR

ONE

My wife called with the news. My heart sank as I drove south down North Geneva Terrace. I felt the pangs of guilt for not being a better grandson to the now deceased matriarch of our family or visiting her more often. Grandma Bella Bella—aged ninety-six—suffered from dementia, diabetes and high blood pressure. Other than those afflictions, she had been reasonably healthy most of her adult life. And boy, back in her day, she was the Bella of the Ball. Vibrant and a killer on the dance floor.

Her husband Alvin had preceded her in death by twelve years and it had really taken a toll on her psyche. After his passing, her daughter, my mother, had her come live with her off of West 83rd Street in Chicago. They weren’t doing each other any favors though—what with the amount of Fox News they consumed or the level of vitriol they spewed towards former President Obama. As of six months ago, Bella Bella was transferred to Sunrise of Lincoln Park—an assisted living facility. It was at the corner of Clark and Schubert and only a quick, ten minute car ride, but I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t find an excuse damn near every week on why I couldn’t visit her. Maybe it was her political views. Maybe it was because I was a lazy, selfish prick. I’d later find out that the guest log would show that a person with the initials A.W. had stopped by quite often for two weeks before her expiration.

Just when I thought I was out of the game, I was about to be summoned back in off the bench.

I was on my way back home that morning after dropping both my daughter Hannah Jane and son Brock off at school. She was now in the third grade while he was in pre-K. They both attended Alcott Elementary off of North Orchard Street—less than a mile from our house on Fullerton. Some days they took the bus. Most of the time, though, since I was retired, I chauffeured them. It was Thursday, December 13th. On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

The wake would be on Saturday the 15th with the funeral the following Monday. Jen was always up to the task of dealing with these big-life moments and handled every situation with the utmost grace and courage. She impressed me on a daily basis. I still had a hard time understanding what she saw in me. But she always saw the good in people and situations. Even my crazy family. And, believe you me, they’re crazy. I was always more skeptical. On more than one occasion, I’d been referred to as a curmudgeon.

It was an unseasonably sunny, warm day in Chicago. The temperature was already a balmy thirty-nine degrees and there was talk of a high of fifty later on.

Do my siblings know? I asked Jen over the phone after she gave me the news.

Can’t get a hold of Virginia. Maggie and Vinny do. Your mom called them first and then me.

I saw I had a missed call from Ma when I got back into the Squall after walking the kids in. Figured she wanted to bend my ear again on how the liberal democrats are going to ruin the country. How the hand basket in which we currently reside is taking a one-way course to hell. You know how she is. I ho-hummed aloud, despite the news that sat heavy in my gut.

I’m still surprised she didn’t disown us after she found out I campaigned for Hillary, Jen said.

I started slowing down at the flash of brake lights in front of me. Honest to god, babe, I think she thought you were kidding. Or she hoped you were. And now we’re stuck with the fucking childish orange man.

There was a fender bender up the street a tad and traffic was backed up as the drivers—both women—were out of their respective vehicles and trying to sort out who was at fault. One of Chicago’s finest stood by, listening to them speak. His body language seemed to relay his annoyance at fielding such a trivial call. The police force in my town had been under intense scrutiny lately due to the mishandling of several cases, including an officer gunning down a seemingly subordinate civilian in cold blood. It was, of course, all caught on candid camera like damn near every other fucking thing in the universe. The officer was fired and sentenced to life in prison. Police Chief Tom Klotz was fired and treated as a pariah from that day forward. There are still plenty of great law enforcement personnel out there, though, that is for certain.

When do you think you’ll be home? Jen asked, cutting into my thoughts. I’m getting restless.

You sure know how to make the most out of a dire situation. I love you for that. But aren’t you eight months pregnant already, Mrs. Whitman?

Right. And I’m also as horny as a lioness in spring time.

I could hear our dog Addison—named after the street in Wrigleyville—yapping it up. Well, I’ll—

Jen cut me off mid-sentence. Bear, someone is here. Let me see who it is.

I waited. I couldn’t go anywhere anyway. Traffic was still at a standstill. Then suddenly there was an opening. I checked my rearview and blind spots and eased around the minor traffic accident that had held me captive for the last few minutes. I heard Jen walking down the creaky, wooden steps in our home. I meandered through the congestion, keeping my eyes forward.

It’s your sister Ginny, Jen said into the phone. I’ll see you when you get here. I love you.

And I you.

**********************

I returned home to our place on Fullerton Avenue at 8:57 a.m. I parked in the garage and entered the mudroom through the rear door. Ginny and Jen were standing in the kitchen sipping fresh coffee and catching each other up on both sets of kids. I removed my black and green running shoes and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. It had my insurance guy’s address and phone number emblazoned on it. The logo splashed across the porcelain showed a red hawk taking flight.

How’s the coffee here? I asked.

Jen smiled. Cheap and free. But it’ll do the trick, cowboy. She was dressed and ready for the day in jeans and a gray t-shirt with a white crow across the front. No shoes, a smidge of makeup, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Jen had left her job at the boutique law firm of Faires, Pertile, McKinney and Kamp a few autumns ago to focus mainly on raising our kids. Shortly after that, she worked as a consultant for Hillary Clinton’s campaign and hopeful entry into the White House. She had a political science background from her college days and was eager to put it to use. Although HRC didn’t make it into office, the Democratic National Committee caught wind of Jen’s prowess and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse—including the option to primarily work from home—and she gladly accepted. She’s now gearing up for the 2020 presidential election despite no clear candidate separating themselves from the pack. Although that Mayor Pete from nearby South Bend is making a compelling argument to lead the free world.

My sister, Virginia Ginny Whitman, was self-proclaimed to be ‘better off alone.’ She managed the dual role of mother to two and nurse to all with particular aplomb. From her light blue scrubs and black shoes, I could tell she was on the way to her shift at Presence St. Joseph’s Hospital off Lake Shore Drive. She always gave herself plenty of time to arrive at her destination, thus we were able to catch up in person today. She kept her hair in a tight bun on top of her head with her wire-rimmed glasses perched in the same locale. We favored each other in looks. She and her ex-husband Ralph ended their thirteen-year marriage a few months ago after his addictions to gambling and coke spiraled out of control and he refused help of any kind. Some of us had staged an intervention a couple of years prior, but he’d felt attacked and had even threw a wild haymaker in Vinny’s direction. Lucky for Ralph, he’d missed my brother or he would’ve had a whole heap of other problems on his plate. You don’t mess around with Vin. Ginny hung around for a while hoping he’d change, but she finally left their volatile home life for the sake of her children and her sanity. She was in a two-bedroom apartment only a few blocks from us in Lincoln Park. We shared many a Sunday dinner as a family.

I just got off the phone with Grandma’s lawyer, Ginny said as I leaned against the counter next to her. Everything in her will is going to somebody with the initials A.W.

A.W.? Who could that be? I asked.

Maybe it’s your Uncle Albert out in Arizona? Jen said.

I cleaned my left ear with a pinky and squinted. Highly doubtful. They haven’t spoken in thirty plus years. Besides, he moved to Flagstaff in the ‘80s and turned his back on all us Whitmans. He’s dead to me. Or at the very least, he’s in a coma to me.

Well, it’s her brother, you never know, Jen said. It’s odd that only the initials are listed. I don’t know a lot about estate law, but Bella Bella’s lawyer should have told the heirs as soon as it happened. Especially the family.

That’s the thing, Ginny said as she set her mug down on the kitchen table. The lawyer said this was just changed a week ago. She signed off on it and everything.

Something doesn’t add up. I fidgeted with my wedding band. Maybe I need to pay a visit to this retirement community? I said this more as a statement than a question.

Jen smiled at me. I can see that faraway look in your eyes, Bear. I know you’re going over the scenarios in your head and chomping at the bit. But you’re retired. Let the professionals sort it out.