“How?”
“We could see if he delivered papers beyond our block.”
Muriel clapped with excitement. “She-ite. What a great idea…but how would we do that?”
“Just go around the block and talk to the people on Lavender.”
“Genius! We’ll go right after lunch. OMG Hattie this is a real-life investigation.” Muriel pushed herself off the couch. “Blueberry pie à la mode. Coming up.”
As Hattie waited, she thought of the possibilities. If there were deliveries after the block, Jason must have come into the yard from the other side. After all, delivering papers beyond her house and backtracking through her yard wouldn’t make sense. And if he came from the plaza…well that was another scenario altogether. With so many stores and a parking lot, could security cameras have picked up something? Hattie’s heart began to race. It was a long shot worth pursuing.
“Hello there,” Hattie said to an older man who opened the door. “My name is Hattie Moon. I live around the block. And this is Muriel Manning.”
The man looked them over. “Sorry ladies. I’m not interested.” He began to shut the door.
“Hold up, sir,” Muriel said. “Do we look like girl scouts?”
He grimaced. “Not so much.”
“Please,” Hattie said. “We just need to ask you something.”
“Ask me something? You don’t look like the police either. Best you move on.” Again, the door began to close.
Hattie looked at the mailbox. A name was scribbled across. “Mr. Emerson, it’s about the paperboy. We want to know if you received the Sunday paper yesterday.”
The man’s eyes flitted from one woman to the other. “No. The kid died on the route. Didn’t you hear? The dispatcher’s going to be delivering the evening edition until they find someone.”
Hattie’s heart sank. “Thank you, Mr. Emerson,” she said weakly to the closing door.
Down the steps, holding on to each other, Muriel said, “Let’s try the next house.”
Hattie shook her head. It was clear poor Jason never made it off their block. “Muriel, I need to rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Okay. Not a problem. Let me walk you home, then I’ll take some pie to Ralph.”
Hattie nodded. Each step along the sidewalk felt heavy. It was silly to think she could solve a crime. No, not silly––delusional.
Once home and after trying to nap, Hattie got up, made some tea, and installed herself at the table in the living room. From the window, wispy snow fell from a darkening sky. What could be beautiful looked cold and uninviting. Hattie shuddered. What was the point of a child living to die before he had fallen in love, raised a family, experienced success, learned from failure?
As if sensing Hattie’s concern, Lucy jumped onto her lap. Hattie put both hands around the cat’s neck. The purr and rumble was comforting. She held on tighter as the cat meowed. Feeling the cat’s heartbeat, Hattie had a disturbing thought––how easy would it be to twist the trusting cat’s neck? Horrified, she unclasped her hands as a gut-wrenching realization hit. Trust and innocence was a liability in an uncaring world.
Interrupting her thoughts, a door slammed. Hattie leaned forward looking out into the street.
Focusing on his familiar frame, she watched with unblinking interest as the detective emptied from Roxanne’s front door and lumbered down the steps. The wind caught his unbuttoned trench coat as he walked to the street, got into a car and drove off.
Hattie looked at Orin’s picture. “Guess I won’t be napping.”
Chapter Eleven
Smoke and mirrors came to Hattie’s mind as she sat at Roxanne’s dining table looking into a walled mirror that reflected the large living and eating area. A trail of smoke, from a lit cigarette left in an ashtray, curled up, and joined a hazy cloud inches from the ceiling. Given the density, Hattie assumed Roxanne had been lighting up red-hot end to red-hot end.
Hattie turned away from her reflection.
Her neighbor had remodeled the cedar-shingled Cape Cod into something quite modern. Gleaming edges of chrome and glass were interspersed among sleek pieces of light gray furniture, the same shade as the walls and carpet. A framed series of large black and white photographs were the only decoration. Hattie could see how the simple lines and color were perfect for someone young and chic. Glancing back at her reflection, Hattie sighed. She felt as out of place as a bag lady in a five-star hotel.
Within moments, Roxanne was sitting across from her. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I can’t seem to keep anything down.”
Hattie smiled politely. Roxanne didn’t look well. Her flawless face was riddled with red blotches over the thinnest veil of skin, giving her a bluish tone. Her eyes were recessed in dark circles.
“We take so much for granted, don’t we?” Hattie said in a consoling tone. “I mean a simple thing like digestion can become a major issue when it’s not working properly.”
Roxanne raised the lit cigarette to her pale, thin lips. The tip glowed before she exhaled a thick stream of smoke. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“This time of year is the worst. Especially with the change of season, colds, flus—”
“Mrs. Moon,” she said abruptly. “It’s not the flu. It’s all this stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“You know . . . Jason.”
Hattie breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, someone was as upset as she and Muriel. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Such a nice boy, and so young.”
Roxanne’s voice wavered. “Too much is happening.” She looked forlornly into Hattie’s eyes. “My life’s….” The words caught in her throat.
“Yes, something like this certainly makes a person take stock.”
Roxanne nodded.
“Death stops you cold, like a concrete wall.” Hattie continued. “And churns up so much.”
“Exactly. And to make matters worse that detective shows up.”
Hattie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you referring to Detective Blansky, the gentleman who’s investigating Jason’s death?”
“Gentleman?” Roxanne huffed. “Came in here making all kinds of accusations.”
“Accusations?” Hattie echoed.
Roxanne looked into Hattie’s eyes. “Mrs. Moon, I know you don’t know me well, and I don’t want you to think that I’m some type of . . .” She stopped and spun around the ashtray.
Hattie smiled pleasantly. “Some type of what, dear?”
Roxanne stubbed out the cigarette and looked at Hattie. “I met Blansky many years ago where I worked. At the time he was a police officer, a patrolman. Not a detective like he is now.”
“So, you’re old friends?”
“Not really. He used to stop in where I worked, and… we’d talk.”
Hattie saw it vividly. Ted, primed and fancied up in a blue uniform, sitting on a stool at some coffee shop with a couple of cream-filled doughnuts, flirting with a pretty waitress. Ted had never been a lady’s man but in a uniform, he may have been able to turn some heads, or at least one.
“Mrs. Moon, I was young and had to support myself.”
Hattie nodded encouragingly. “Of course, you did.”
Roxanne relaxed into the chair. “He patrolled the beat where The Boardwalk was—” She stopped and looked expectantly at Hattie.
“The Boardwalk? I’m not familiar with it. Was it a restaurant somewhere in town?”
Roxanne stalled, then added, “Yes, down by the river.”
“Can’t seem to place it. Orin and I rarely went out except to Milligan’s for a fish fry.”
“It wasn’t exactly a restaurant, although they did serve chicken wings. It was more of a club.”
“A club?”
“Mrs. Moon, I was a dancer there.”
Dancer? Hattie felt flushed. Was Roxanne a stripper? She regrouped. “I love dancing. Of course, I’m no good at it. But I love to watch. I especially enjoy the old movies with Fred Astaire and his sister Adele. And of course that
TV show.”
Roxanne coughed. “I wasn’t exactly that kind of dancer… I did exotic dancing.”
Hattie reached across the table and grasped Roxanne’s icy hand. “Exotic? Like the old burlesque shows? How marvelous!”
Roxanne perked up. “Yes, it was sort of like burlesque.”
“You were an entertainer. Certainly nothing wrong with that.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“What did the detective say that upset you?”
“Oh, maybe I’m too sensitive. But some men have a way about them. It’s like they’re more interested in the parts than the whole. You know?”
Was Roxanne referring to body parts? Breasts and legs? Or was it something else? “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Some men make you feel dirty. It’s the way they run their oily eyes up and down, lingering at certain spots while not listening to a word you’re saying.”
“Yes, men can be distractible.”
“Anyway, for the five years I worked there, Ted was a regular. In the beginning, he often threatened that he was going to haul me into juvenile court. You see, I started dancing at seventeen. So I had to learn to deal with him. The creep.”
Hattie could hardly believe what she was hearing. Ted Blansky a pervert? “My dear, couldn’t you have told someone? Don’t they have big men there to protect the girls?”
Roxanne toyed with an unlit cigarette. “A policeman calls the shots. Besides he never demanded sex, he just liked to see me naked and . . .” Roxanne rubbed her face. “Oh, God, this is such ancient history.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why this is upsetting me. I showed them all. After I saved a hundred grand of their grimy dollars, I started my own business. Now, I have a pool, a place in Bermuda, and he looks like hell.”
“He is rather pale.”
“Totally gross, if you ask me. But that’s the least of my problems.” She put a cigarette between her teeth. After a quick click and flame, she took a deep breath. “Anyway, he comes in here asking all kinds of questions,” she said, exhaling.
“About Jason?”
“No, about Bailey.”
“Bailey?”
“Bailey’s been in a little trouble. Nothing serious, but a couple of weeks ago he was caught in school with some marijuana. Kid’s stuff, you know.”
Hattie nodded, but shivered inside. Bailey knew about the backyard.
Roxanne continued. “Anyway, I was contacted by the principal and by the time I got to the school, a policeman was already there reading Bailey the riot act. Overkill, if you ask me. He threatened to have Bailey arrested and taken to detention. So, I told them I’d get him some help. And I was looking into it when this awful thing happened.”
“You mean Jason’s death?”
“God, yes. Anyway, that same police officer who talked to Bailey at school was here yesterday. And now Detective Neanderthal starts adding up apples and oranges, and comes up with some major drug cartel.”
What was going on here? This whole drug business was common knowledge. Everyone was talking about it, while she was puttering around with the lights out.
“What did the detective say about Jason?”
“Not much. It was all about Bailey. Where was he? Who were his friends? Then he made threats, tried to intimidate me, just like the good old days. Said he could take Bailey in for questioning and have him charged as an accessory.”
“Accessory to what?”
“Apparently if Bailey gave Jason drugs and Jason died from them, Bailey could be held responsible. It’s all nuts. After all, if smoking marijuana killed people, no one under seventy would be alive today.”
Hattie recalled the similar trouble Howie had gotten himself into over forty years ago. Problems between parents and children were a never-ending turnstile.
“Did the detective speak with Bailey?” Hattie asked.
“No. I lied and told him Bailey wasn’t home.” Roxanne rubbed her arms. “He demanded to see Bailey’s room. I said, ‘Where’s the search warrant?’ He laughed, like it was a joke, and I told him to get out. After all, I have rights and so does my son. And you know what he said?”
Hattie shook her head.
“He said, ‘How’s about we go to your room instead, so you can do me.’ Then it hit me. He didn’t come to my house to investigate. He just wanted to rattle me, and see if I was willing to put out.”
Hattie saw her own horrified expression in the mirror. Her mouth was agape, her eyes locked in a wide-open stare. She shook her head to jostle away the shock. “My dear, how upsetting.”
Roxanne nodded. “Tell me about it.”
Stunned, Hattie added, “My Lord, I knew him as a boy. He read comic books and played with toy cars. A normal child from what I can remember.” Hattie sighed. “Of course, children grow up and change.”
“Change into creeps.”
Hattie wondered if she could be wrong about another young man.
“Roxanne, how well did you know Jason?”
“Jason? My God. Bailey and he have been best friends since the third grade, like brothers.”
Hattie smiled politely but had her doubts. As Bailey and Jason had gotten older and moved into high school, she had only seen them together on rare occasions. They didn’t seem to fit as they once did, what with Bailey’s flamboyant hairstyles and alarming metal fragments poked here and there. But it wasn’t just their looks. Bailey had grown into a boy who rarely smiled or greeted her in any way. Of course, teenagers were like that, caught up in the drama of their own lives.
“How’s Bailey doing?”
“He’s very upset naturally.”
Floorboards creaked overhead. Roxanne glanced at the ceiling. Leaning toward Hattie, she whispered. “But you know boys. It’s hard for them to show their feelings. I told him to get a good night’s sleep. He must be awake now.”
Hattie nodded. “When a good friend passes, it’s like losing a limb. One can move on, but it’s never quite the same.”
Roxanne stared off. “Jason wasn’t like the other kids. There was something about him,” she said dreamily, “something very special.”
“I thought so too.”
The bleakness in Roxanne’s face softened. “This may sound odd, but he reminded me of how I used to be. He had an understanding of things, a maturity, even though he was so young. Of course, he was plenty smarter than I ever was, but he and I . . . well, I felt very connected to him, like we were on the same wave length.”
Hattie wondered if Roxanne’s feelings had crossed that faint line between like and love. She quickly chastised herself for such a thought. After all, Roxanne was old enough to be his mother. “Did you by any chance see him yesterday?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, while he delivered the papers.”
“No, I was asleep. Saturday was a bear at the salon. Didn’t get home until late.”
“But you did get the newspaper?”
She looked around the room. “It’s here somewhere.”
“Was it delivered where he normally left it?”
“Hmm . . . let me see now.” She stared into space. “Yes, now I remember. It was on the kitchen table.”
“Oh my, do you leave your door unlocked?”
Roxanne shifted in her seat. “No, of course not. Bailey must have brought it in. Jason leaves it at the side door. Why do you ask?”
“Inside the storm door?”
The muscles in Roxanne’s jaw tensed. “Mrs. Moon, why are you asking me these questions?”
Hattie felt like she held the reins to a racehorse that was ready to sprint. “It’s silly of me, but Jason had made a couple of mistaken deliveries yesterday and I can’t help but wonder what went on.”
“What sort of mistakes?”
Hattie relayed the little information she had.
Roxanne’s shoulders relaxed. “My paper was delivered intact. No question about that.”
Hattie smiled politely. Could this mean that som
ewhere between Roxanne’s house and Muriel’s something transpired?
A telephone ring purred in the background.
Roxanne jolted. “Excuse me. I’ve been waiting for a call.”
“Certainly, dear,” Hattie said.
Springing from the chair, Roxanne rushed from the room. Seconds later, she answered. “Hello . . . Yes, this is Bailey’s mother…”
Hattie stood and sauntered into the living area to look at the artwork. Moving in close, she scanned the black and white photographs of people, each unique, who sat or stood, captured in dramatic poses. One was of a woman in a bathing suit who looked over her shoulder, another woman in high heels held down a billowing skirt, and a man in a wide-lapel suit sat on a stool behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. They were unusual pictures, clearly not from a family album. Hattie stood back. What did they remind her of? Then it came to her––old-time movie stars.
Roxanne’s words filtered down the hall. “Wait. I need to get a pen.” She barreled into the room and rifled through the top drawer of a side table. “Do you like my pictures?” she asked offhandedly.
“Yes, they’re very interesting. Are you a photographer?”
Roxanne laughed. “God, no.” Leaving, she said over her shoulder. “They’re all pictures of me. The one where I look like a guy is the most recent.”
Had Hattie heard correctly? She turned and ran her eyes along the row. Were all these people Roxanne? Moving toward the woman with the upturned skirt, she leveled a gaze. While the woman first appeared to have an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, Hattie now saw a glimmer of Roxanne––her narrower face and larger eyes.
Why would Roxanne have these pictures taken? Was it to show how skillful she was at makeup? Maybe just for fun or a curiosity to discuss over dinner and drinks.
Roxanne’s voice continued. “Brinkley off Main? . . . Yes, signing is not a problem. But I do have one question. Say if a policeman wants to speak with him . . . I see. I’ll bring along our lawyer’s name . . . Within the hour.”
Abruptly, Hattie turned to the pictures. She didn’t want to give the impression she was listening.
“Mrs. Moon, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Murder in the Pachysandra Page 8
