Maybe they were just protective of their employees. He said, “Well, can you pass on a message to her? She can get in touch with us.”
“No, I’m sorry, it’s not that. We don’t have a Mrs. Golden working here.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“But a friend said he hired her through you.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps he made a mistake. Or perhaps she misrepresented her affiliation. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. She, um, seemed very competent. Thank you.”
Maggie was frowning up the stairs at him as he hung up. “What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble is that they claim Mrs. Golden doesn’t work for them.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Any other way to find out what you want?”
“Of course! Montessori! I should have thought of them first. Muffin will be back in school today. C’mon,chouchoute, your dad will change you.” She carried Sarah and a clean diaper up from the landing, thrust them into Nick’s arms, got the number from information, and dialed.
“Hi!” she said brightly when someone answered. “I’ve been trying to invite Muffin to a birthday party, but I can’t reach her mother. Could you tell me … Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s not serious…. Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it! Thanks so much for your help!” She replaced the receiver and turned to Nick and Sarah, one eyebrow quirked like a blackbird wing. “They say she has a cold. Isn’t in school.”
“Maybe it’s true.” But Nick found himself uneasy too. He concentrated on getting the clean diaper around Sarah’s squirming little body. Not an easy task with her on his lap.
“They seemed upset. Said not to bother the Bradfords while their little girl was sick.”
“Don’t bother who? Didn’t you say Hartford?”
“Mrs. Golden said Hartford.”
“Mrs. Golden said Hartford. And she told Buzz she was from the Carstairs Agency, which she’s not. Why is she lying?”
“Maybe she misheard his name?”
“And he misheard the agency name? Are you sure he said Carstairs?”
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to remember. “He just mentioned it in passing as he was tearing off the addresses from his memo pad—hey! There was a logo on the pad!”
“A logo? How does that help?”
“Let’s find the yellow pages, Nick. He works downtown here somewhere. Finance or law, from the way he dresses. If I can spot the logo we can call him at work maybe. Ask if she’s okay.”
This was beginning to sound like a lengthy project. Nick frowned. “He’ll probably just tell us she has a cold.”
“I know, but—look, Nick, we statisticians are paid for guesswork. We take fragmentary information and use it scientifically to make guesses about the unknown truth. Obviously we’ll be mistaken sometimes, and so we think a lot about the cost of our mistakes. If I guess something is true, and it’s not, what’s the cost? Or if I guess it’s not true, and it really is, what’s the cost of that? Part of my job is minimizing the cost of mistakes.”
“Thanks, Prof, for the lecture in the philosophy of statistics,” said Nick gently. “But please tell me what’s in your gut.”
She perched on the step next to them and held out a finger to Sarah, who seized it, as fascinated as if she’d never seen it before. “Nick, I took a little girl from school, because a man who said he was her father seemed to be in trouble. I gave her to a woman who might have been a babysitter, and might have been named Mrs. Golden, and might have made a mistake about Mr. Bradford’s name, and might have been from an agency.”
“Or might not,” said Nick.
“Buzz might be her father, or he might be Mrs. Golden’s partner. And if he is her father, and if there is a problem, he doesn’t know how to find me. And maybe it’s silly to worry, but goddamn it, people should take care of little girls! Even other people’s little girls!”
That passion ran raw in her, he knew. And he could empathize now. On the few occasions when they had left Sarah for a couple of hours with a friend, she had always been clean and coddled on their return. But if anyone ever frightened her or hurt her … He pushed aside the image of his own hypothetical rage and hugged Maggie with the arm that wasn’t holding Sarah. “You’re right, love. This thing is damn fishy. And I see the point of your statistical logic. If she’s really not in trouble, and we investigate, the cost is a bit of our time. Precious time, granted, but only time. On the other hand, if she is in trouble, and we can help but don’t bother, the cost to her may be terrible.”
Her eyes were alight again. “Okay, team. Let’s go hunting.”
Anna Maria next door let them borrow the yellow pages in exchange for being allowed to hold Sarah. Maggie looked through Lawyers, then Commodity Brokers and Financial Planners before she hit Investment Securities and said, “That’s it!” A big blockB, the two interior half-circles transformed into a fat dottedi. “Busby Investments. Look, World Trade Center. He could walk here in half an hour, even with a crutch. Or get a cab.”
“Busby Investments,” said Nick. “Buzz.”
“Hey, right! I’ll call.” She copied the number and they went to Anna Maria’s pay phone.
“Hello. May I speak to Mr. Bradford? … Yes, hello, may I speak to Mr. Bradford?” There was a long pause. “Oh, no, no message, but could you give me his home phone? It’s rather urgent. ... I see. Well, I’ll try back later.” She hung up and turned back to Nick.
“Not there?” he asked.
“She said he went home. They don’t give out home information, but when she asked someone in the background where he was, I heard him yell ‘He’s in Gardenport.’”
They looked at each other. Nick rescued Sarah from Anna Maria’s cooing and grumbled, “The cost of this possible mistake is going up every minute.”
“I’m sorry, Nick. Is it too high?”
He sighed. “Not yet, I guess. Not unless it interferes with taking care of our own little girl and our own lives. Which includes picking up my check here at four fifteen.”
“Here I go, then.” She held out her arms for Sarah, her eager gaze once again as vibrant as in the first days he’d known her. Nick smiled and shook his head.
“No. Here we go. The three musketeers.”
From Canal Street, Penn Station was three stops away, and by racing they caught a train just about to leave for Gardenport and points east. Gasping, they flung themselves into their seats. Sarah, delighted by the gallop, was crowing.
“You suppose we’re raising her to be a meddler too?” asked Maggie, laughing at her.
“How can she help it?” Infected by Sarah’s glee, Nick too was grinning like a fool.
“Guess she can’t.” Maggie sobered. “And speaking of meddling, I want to know why you were so excited about the thought that Ramona’s appointment book was missing.”
“No good reason. I mean, Perez is right. None of us want Ramona dead.”
“Also, they’ve got a black guy with the murder weapon. And Carlotta said the killer was black.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t bother me.”
She raked her fingers through her curls thoughtfully. “Daphne? She’s the only black connected with the show, isn’t she? It’s true, she’s slim. Carlotta did say it was a kid.”
“Maybe Daphne. Maybe Daphne’s niece—she was there too. Or maybe someone else. I told you about the death scenes in the play, didn’t I? How we pull on the black gloves to symbolize death?”
“God, that’s right!” Maggie snapped upright, fastening on this idea. “A murderer would want to avoid fingerprints anyway. And Carlotta only saw the arms. And for someone theatrical—that’s perfect!”
“Also, there’s our assassination scene,” Nick went on. “Based on a real event. Someone tried to assassinate Victoria, fired two shots. Neither worked.”
“Two shots. You mean maybe Ramona’s killer wasted the second on purpose, so it would match the show?”
�
��Oh, I know it’s far-fetched.”
“But theatre people are a far-fetched lot. God, Nick! I see why that missing book looks ominous!” She leaned back, mulling over his words.
Nick looked out the window. They had emerged from the long tunnel, and late winter sunlight struggled to cheer up grimy factories and rail yards. He shook his head. “But I keep smacking up against the fact that none of us wanted Ramona dead, no matter how much she might have been bugging us that one day.”
Maggie nodded and glanced at Sarah, who was subsiding into sleep to the lullaby of clicking wheels. “Even so—tell me who she was bugging. Derek, I suppose. Maybe threatening to tell his wife about their affair?”
“Yes, that’s one possibility. But it’s obvious that he’s committed to this show, more than the rest of us, if that’s possible. And—”
“I know. But forget the counterarguments for a minute. You’re right to be bothered about all those parallels. Just tell me who else was upset.”
Nick squinted at the windows across the aisle, where the glittering skeletons of the World’s Fair were sliding past, and cast his mind back to Ramona’s last rehearsal. “God, who wasn’t? You mentioned Derek. She cut Larry’s solo and insulted him in front of Didi. She told Jaymie it was a good thing she’d never get a chance to go on as understudy. She threatened Daphne with bad references, insulted her choreography. Insulted Callie too. The niece. For that matter, she insulted me. Also did her best to get me in trouble with you. Hell, Larry’s right, I’ve got as good a motive as anyone.”
She grinned and waved her hand airily. “Fortunately, you’ve got a terrific alibi. Me. Also, you had a lot more reason for wanting her alive. You loved the show. Loved your part. Didn’t mind getting paid.”
“Yes. But that’s true of everyone else. I suppose you could say Jaymie doesn’t need the money as much as the rest of us, but the real need is psychological and she’s as desperate to act as any of us.”
“So you agree with Perez. No motive.”
“I have to.”
She pondered a moment. “The husband? Jenkins?”
“Yeah, that’s true. Though the rest doesn’t fit him as well.”
“Still—well, I really thought Perez was right. They’ve got the guy. But now I’m not so sure. Keep on the case, meddler!”
“Okay. Though I don’t know what to do next.”
“Yeah.” She looked out the window at a sparkling bay coming into view. “God, Nick, I hope Muffin’s okay. Wish this train would hurry.”
In fact the Long Island Railroad transcended its reputation and delivered them to Gardenport in the advertised thirty-one minutes.
The area around the station was chiefly a parking lot on a commercial street of upscale coffee shops and dry cleaners. A single cab was parked by the station.
“Library?” asked the cabbie, with a glance at the three elderly women in bright plaid blazers who were waving at him from the station behind them. “Sure, I could take you there, but you’d hate me. It’s close, this side of Northern Boulevard. Couple of blocks.”
“Thanks,” said Nick. They followed his pointing finger, leaving him to the doubtless more lucrative use of the three women laden with Saks Fifth Avenue bags.
The directory and maps were clear: Steven M. Bradford lived on Garden Lane, four blocks the other side of the station on the hill that sloped down to the bay. They walked along oak-lined streets past tall evergreen privacy hedges, exotic specimen trees still bleak in March, dormant lawns, wide-spaced imitation Tudors and imitation colonials and imitation ranch houses clashing in their varied attempts to evoke other places and eras. The Bradford place was one of the Tudors. A magnificent silver limousine was in the driveway.
“Well. Shall we ring the bell?” asked Nick. They had paused across the street by a shaggy hedge.
“No. Let me think. The woman at Montessori was so urgent about not bothering them. And I don’t know for certain that Steve Bradford is the guy I talked to. So I’d like to scout a little first. I mean, if Muffin really is there with a cold, there’s no sense—wait!”
As one, they ducked into the hedge. Five people were emerging from the front door of the Bradford place: a handsome man younger than Nick, though there was a touch of gray at his temples; an older man in a wheelchair pushed by a muscular black in a business suit; and two women—one willowy, caramel-blond, beautiful except for the raw anxiety that tightened her face; the other far advanced in pregnancy, with dark hair pulled back to a clasp at the nape of her neck.
“The younger guy is Buzz,” Maggie murmured.
“So he checks out. But I don’t see Muffin.”
“No. Of course if she’s sick in bed—look, he’s leaving.”
Steve/Buzz shook hands with the old man, picked up a briefcase again, and strode off toward the station. The pregnant woman hugged the blonde and then crossed the lawn to the gray clapboard colonial next door. The older man looked up at the blonde, his tanned, weather-beaten face softening a moment as he squeezed her hand. Her hauntingly tense expression did not relax, but she kissed him automatically on the forehead. He signaled imperiously to the black man, who trundled him across the lawn and into the car backseat, then stowed the wheelchair, took the wheel, and eased the big machine into the road.
It slowed by their hedge. “Who’s there?” demanded the driver.
Nick murmured, “I’ll field this.” He flipped open his notebook and stepped out, looking startled. “Huh?”
“What the hell are you lurking there for?” demanded the sun-crinkled old man in the backseat.
“Just counting pledges.” Nick was all earnest innocence. “We’re having a local fund-raising drive, and I’m only a thousand dollars or so from my goal today. Would you like to—”
The old man’s hard eyes skimmed over Nick. “Anh, he’s all right, Bill. Just some do-gooder. What’re you collecting for, son?”
Nick cast about for an innocuous cause. “The YWCA,” he said proudly. “We’re trying to raise money for—”
But the old man exploded. “The YWCA! Bunch of anti-Americans!”
“Oh. I’m sorry, sir.” Nick backpedaled. “It’s actually for swimming lessons, here locally, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re going to claim you’re not responsible. Second Amendment in shreds, Russians on the borders, the goddamn YWCA inviting them in for tea! You’re not responsible for that either, I suppose?”
“I certainly hope not, sir!”
“Well, you just get the hell off my daughter’s street. And tell your namby-pamby YWCA to keep out of matters they don’t understand. And tell them my money’s going to the Sportsmen’s Alliance. Every penny.” A spasm of pain crossed the wrinkled face and he closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. “Get moving, Bill. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
The limousine pulled away. Nick, shaken by the diatribe, managed to stay in character. He made a show of looking hesitantly at his notebook, then at the Bradford house, then at the retreating limousine. Out of the corner of his mouth he muttered to Maggie, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to choose such a subversive charity. What the hell is the YWCA doing to the Second Amendment?”
“I think I read somewhere that they support handgun registration.”
“Ah, of course. The primrose path to a Russian takeover.”
“Well,” said Maggie pragmatically, “at least you convinced him you weren’t interested in his family especially.”
“Only in selling out my country. He’ll probably turn me in to the CIA.”
“Right. What now?”
“Let’s not bother the blonde if we can help it,” said Nick. That tense face haunted him.
“Yeah,” agreed Maggie soberly. “If Muffin’s sick, I have a feeling she’s very sick. But I still want to scout a little here. We can always catch Buzz in Manhattan, now that we know where he works.”
“Okay. Game time. I play private eye, interview the expectant friend. You and Sarah play Peeping Tom, see if you can spo
t Muffin through a window. Okay?”
“Fine. There’s lots of foundation shrubbery. Plenty of cover.”
“Looks like plenty of money,” said Nick, helping Maggie tuck the flaps of the carrier around Sarah’s head for protection against branches.
Maggie mused, “Think we’d look like plenty of money if we bought shrubs to plant in front of our brownstone?”
“No need. We can just transplant the mold in the fridge.”
“Luxurious.” She grinned, then pointed at the house where the pregnant woman had disappeared. “Give me two minutes to slip over to the side away from Buzz’s. His front lawn is more open, so I’d rather work along the hedge there and around from the back. I’ll meet you back here when we’re both done.”
“Sarah, you’re going to love this,” said Nick.
He watched them disappear into the hedge, Maggie agile and solicitous of the bundled baby, and remembered Maggie when he had first met her, winging among the catwalks high above a college stage. She had always loved action, games, justice, jokes. Had always felt responsible for friends, for children. Had never flinched from adventure. Sarah may have diminished the opportunity, but she hadn’t damped that life-embracing curiosity.
And hell, admit it, Nick, you old meddler. You enjoy a spot of adventure too. Why else would you stick with such an idiotically risky profession? Anyway, this was better than brooding over lost jobs.
He checked his wallet and selected a library card with official-looking print, assumed his best Philip Marlowe air, and strode to the door of the colonial. Indian-red door against gray clapboard and white trim. He rang the bell.
XII
Friday, 1:30 PM
March 9, 1973
At close range the young brunette who answered was heavy but attractive. She had strong features with a lazily humorous cast, and thick, gleaming hair.
“My name’s O’Connor. Private investigator,” he said, flashing the library card at her.
Her eyes darted to the Bradford place as she said, “Jesus, who the hell sent you?”
“Busby Investments,” improvised Nick.
“God, that old fart! So that’s why he was talking to you out there!”
Rehearsal for Murder Page 15
