Shake Down Dead by Diane Morlan Page A

didn’t need more stimulants or liquid in my
system. “Thanks, Bernie. I have a lot of questions. How much time
can you give me?”
    “All the time you need to help poor
Harold out of this mess,” she said, filling the electric teakettle.
“And of course, to bring Mrs. Wentworth some closure. It’s been a
terrible time for her. She’s lost everything now. I don’t know how
she’ll survive this latest tragedy.”
    I often thought that Bernie was a
little naive. She seems too trusting to me. On the other hand, I
love the way she always sees the good side of people. When I
complained once about a customer who owed me money, Bernie told me
that the woman was a saint, taking care of her dying mother. Yeah,
I was humbled.
    “I need to know more about Whitney. I
know you don’t like to talk about people, living or dead. So, be
prepared to answer some questions you won’t like. I need to know
more about her if I’m going to help Harold get out of this. Who
would want to see Whitney dead and why?”
    “Oh, Jennifer. You know that this goes
against everything I believe in. I try to look at the good in
people, not their dark side. We all have a dark side, you know.”
She pursed her lips to let me know she knew all about my dark
side.
    “I know that, Bernie. I’d love to see
your dark side,” I joked. She just gave me one of those looks that
make me cringe. “I wouldn’t ask you to speak ill of anyone if it
wasn’t important,” I quickly added.
    I gave her some time to get herself
prepared to talk about Whitney. Sometimes it pays to just shut up
and wait, which isn’t easy for me to do. Bernie poured the boiling
water into a small teapot. She then spooned loose tea into an
infuser, replaced the lid and continued our conversation while the
tea steeped.
    Bernie took a deep breath and began.
“Whitney grew up a very privileged young lady, Jennifer. She was
lavished with everything she ever wished for and more. It gave her
a sense of entitlement that spilled over into every part of her
life.”
    Bernie went on to tell me, “Whitney
felt she was above others and looked down on people who she assumed
were beneath her, and that was just about everybody. She attended
St. Theresa’s grade school. At her father’s insistence, went to
Hermann High School, rather than a private prep school. It appears
that he realized she was too spoiled and tried to ground her to
reality.”
    “It doesn’t appear that it worked,” I
said.
    Handing me a piping hot cup of tea she
said, “I’m afraid it didn’t. She convinced her father to send her
to a fussy girl’s college in the east for her first two years.
Apparently, she wasn’t the queen bee there and came back home. She
completed her college education at the University of Minnesota in
Minneapolis. She came home every weekend to hang out with her high
school friends who still put her on that pedestal. Whitney liked
being a big fish in the small pond of Hermann,
Minnesota.”
    I had a few more questions for her, now
that I better understood Whitney’s lifestyle. What I didn’t
understand is why her friends put up with her.
    “Why do you think her friends didn’t
move on after she left for college?”
    “I’m not sure, Jennifer. I know they
were always there for her. Maybe they knew she needed their
friendship.”
    “Who are these loyal friends?” I asked,
trying not to sound sarcastic. Either they were just like her or
she had something on them. People like Whitney don’t bring out the
loyalty in others, usually just envy and disdain.
    “She was still best friends with her
high school buddies. Let’s see. Kimberly Reese, her maiden name was
Adler. Then there is Olivia Zimmerman-Brooks, why don’t these woman
decide on a name and use just one?”
    I didn’t answer. I knew she was just
rambling. I kept quiet, hoping she’d add something I didn’t
know.
    “Gina Lange. I don’t know if she kept
her husband’s name; it was Cooper when she divorced him. He was