Cookie finished the last of her coffee and said she had to pee, so we made a quick stop at home. Afterward, Denny headed for the bridge and the Holland Tunnel.
“Did you see Barbara’s boyfriend?” Cookie asked.
I nodded and described him. “Ring any bells?”
“No. And trust me, I’d remember blond hair and red beard and six-five. No wonder she’s holding up.”
“We won’t get to Allentown much before eleven-thirty,” Denny said. “Just in time for lunch.”
“Forget lunch,” Cookie said. “I know Allentown. I used to date a boy who lived there. All I remember about him was the homemade ice cream shop on the main drag. Drop me off there.”
“At the rate we’re going, I could have kept my appointment with Hector,” I said, and texted Jane to find out what she’d learned from processing the shed.
“Too early 4 results. W & I interviewing Hector now. Showing him pix. Will txt aftr” was her reply.
At least she was quicker getting back to me.
Something about Barbara was beginning to gnaw at me, and don’t tell me it was jealousy. I had the perfect boyfriend, thank you. Looking through the papers in her glove compartment yesterday, I found the name of a high-powered law firm in the Wall Street area—Faramond, Whitlock, Walker & Quentin—where Barbara was junior partner, or at least, those were the words she used yesterday. I mean, I don’t know that much about law offices, just what I see on TV, but I figured Barbara was too young and too poor to be a named partner. It was past nine by my watch so I called and got the world’s slowest receptionist. After a lengthy hold, she told me what I already knew, that Barbara “wasn’t in the office today.”
“May I speak with one of her team members?”
“Pardon?”
“One of her co-workers or her supervisor.” There seemed to be no response, so I repeated and added that it was an emergency and could she please get someone fast.
There was a click and a long stretch of white noise. I thought maybe I’d been disconnected, but a male voice came on the line and introduced himself as Barbara’s associate.
“She’s not in the office right now.”
“I figured that. You know her mother died quite suddenly yesterday.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry to give you the news. I know you’re busy. Last day of the week and I’m sure you’re under a steep deadline and all and this is not the news you need to hear. The circumstances of her mother’s death are … suspicious. And her son is missing too.”
“Oh my God. Oh God, she’s going to be devastated.”
“She is. She asked me to investigate. I was talking to her earlier and thought of something else I needed to ask her. I tried to reach her at home and on her cell, but there was no answer. I thought maybe she went to work to pick up papers to work on at home and maybe she has an unlisted number you might have.”
“Poor Barbara. I … don’t know what to say. When you talk to her, tell her to please give her my deepest …”
I wondered why he wasn’t going to call her himself.
“You say you know her pretty well?”
“But we haven’t worked together recently. You know, I think you ought to be speaking with someone in Human Resources. I shouldn’t be telling you this, I’m sure I shouldn’t but …”
“I know. Don’t worry, I feel like I grew up with you.” That line sometimes worked for me.
“Barbara’s been on a leave of absence for … I guess for three months or so. Since the beginning of the year.”
I felt a shoe drop right on my lower region. “Wow. Okay. She’s … she must be having some personal issues, maybe with her son?”
There was dead air on the other end.
So, okay, I was getting nowhere with this guy. “You have a name in Human Resources?”
He gave me the name of the Senior V-P of Human Resources but naturally, she wasn’t in. I asked to speak to her admin and told her who I was. She said she was the Senior V-P’s executive assistant and she’d be glad to have the office assistant ring me. Whoop-de-do. I knew I wasn’t going to get any more information out of that broad but some bad elf I was born with made me persist. I said I knew Barbara Simon was on a leave of absence from Faramond, Whitlock, Walker & Quentin and could she give me an expected date of return. She was sorry, but couldn’t divulge any information. She told me she’d be glad to take a message.
“At least she didn’t deny it,” I said when I got off the line.
“What are you talking about?” Cookie asked.
When I told them about my conversation, Cookie reminded me that I was talking to lawyers and what did I expect and Denny flashed me a look through the rear view mirror. “Did you deposit Barbara’s retainer?”
The rest of the trip was uneventful except for an hour’s delay on the turnpike. We had bets about what caused it and decided it was a toss up because we never could figure out whether it was the small accident we saw or traffic heading out to the shore. The light was an acidy color, the sky a sickening yellow, the sun hitting the pavement in waves undulating before our eyes and causing the double dark coffee and chocolate donut to stick in my throat. I stared for a while at the road.
“There’s an egret,” Cookie said as we passed the Meadowlands. The place was loaded with birds, all shapes and sizes, but most of them big and white. You can tell I’m not a bird watcher, but maybe I should be, good cover. I looked out over the marsh and saw carrion buzzing overhead, the rotting remains of a small fishing boat pulled up on one side, and white birds in a conclave standing on one leg.
Except for the Tom-Tom lady telling us to keep straight for the next forty-two miles, there was silence.
“I need a pit stop,” I said.
“Too late. Should have gone when we were home,” Denny said, watching the road.
“Me too,” Cookie said, “and I went when you were home.”
“Overruled,” Denny muttered, but seeing the sign announcing a service area in twelve miles, he asked if we could wait.
In order to get my mind off my bladder, I asked Cookie what she thought of Barbara, realizing as I asked the question that Cookie hadn’t met Barbara.
“Not bad for having lost her mother and son in one fell,” she said, chewing gum and looking out the window.
“How do you know? You never met her.”
“Oh, but I did when she was out in the yard and she was talking to one of the neighbors. One of them introduced us and I gave her my condolences.”
How had I missed that?
“And I talked to the neighbors. Most of them didn’t know her, but a few of them did. They told me she was a brat.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I was going to give you my full report last night, but was interrupted, if you remember.”
Denny flashed me a rear view mirror look.
Cookie went on to say there were three different neighbors she interviewed who remembered Barbara from when she was in high school.
“She went to some private school in the Heights. I’d have to check my notes. One woman said she was very nice. Two said she was a brat and one of the two told me a babysitting horror story. She said when they came home, the house was a mess and the kids were, too. Apparently Barbara let the kids have the run of the place while she talked on the phone with her boyfriend all night.” Cookie handed me her notes and began filing her nails.
Why wasn’t I surprised. When I finished reading Cookie’s account, I copied down the pertinent names, addresses, and phone numbers.
“If I find Charlie, it’ll be in large part because of you,” I said, amazed that Cookie had gotten so many interviews in such a short time.
And speaking of time, things were getting tight. I looked at my watch—close to eleven, at least twenty-four hours since Mary Ward Simon was killed. I was betting that whoever killed her had taken her grandson, Charlie. What other explanation could there be?
“So what did you really thi
nk of her? Barbara, I mean?”
Cookie stopped filing and pursed her lips. “A little too much of a cool customer for having just lost her mother and her child.”
“You didn’t like her?”
Cookie switched her gum around to the other side of her mouth. “Bitch.”
Denny didn’t take his eyes off the wheel, but I felt him jump at the word. His turn to say something. “Who do you think murdered Mary Ward Simon, or is it too soon to ask?”
“Conspiracy,” both of us said.
Denny smiled. “That explains it.” He paused. “But seriously.”
“Too early, really, but I think those handymen had something to do with it. They’d have the strength,” I said. I told them about my asking Barbara if she knew about them. “She stumbled over herself to deny any knowledge of them.”
There was silence until Cookie told me I could really pick clients.
“But that’s not the scary part,” she said. “The scary part is, what do you think they did with Charlie? Why would handymen want a little kid?”
“They could have taken him in the van. There’d be no trace of his body. Don’t forget, they found his book in the tall grass.” Denny said.
I looked out the window but saw nothing.
“Or they could have gotten rid of him easy in the Meadowlands, back there where we saw the carrion flying, for instance.” Cookie turned back to look at me, cracking her gum.
I shivered. “Don’t be so gory, both of you, please, and give me a piece of your gum.” I unwrapped the gum and stuck it into my mouth. “What makes more sense is the ex wanted his little boy back and hired the handymen, only something went wrong.” Crack. Crack. “A piece is missing. Why would Barbara recommend low life handymen to her mother?”
“Maybe she wasn’t the one who recommended them,” Denny said. “Don’t forget, Barbara’s just lost her child and her mother. She’s probably on tranquilizers.”
Cookie continued. “Talking to that Hector guy, they both sounded like scum bags. Claimed one was about as clever as a door and the other was high on something. Doesn’t sound like the type Mary Ward Simon would hire for her yard work, but she’s the one who told him ‘a good friend’ recommended them to her.”
“Lots of pieces missing, as in evidence and motive. We got many people with means,” I said, “and that’s about it. I’ve got questions rolling around in my head and no answers. Why did Mary Ward Simon hire such losers? And if she’s implicated, what does Barbara stand to gain from her mother’s death and the loss of her son?”
My head was reeling. I opened my laptop, plugged it into the Jeep’s backseat power port, and began looking at the reports of Arrowsmith’s mobile. I scanned both incoming and outgoing numbers and highlighted one that appeared several times a day in both categories. Some months it was the only a few calls, but no other numbers were called multiple times.
I wrote it in my notebook and decided to create a list on the back page of important phone numbers and license plates followed by a brief explanation so I could get to them easy, flip to it when I wasn’t doing anything, memorize them.
We were slowing again, the service area looming ahead. Denny dropped me and Cookie off and said he’d meet us near the filling station.
An Incident
The service area was packed, and the line in front of the Women’s Room was out to long term. Cookie was cool about it, but she could afford to be. She took out her mirror, faced the wall, and began examining her eyes.
As we waited and the line inched forward, she said, “Don’t look now, but there’s a guy slouched around the corner, pretending to look at postcards. He hasn’t moved, just staring at us. There he goes. No, he just went deeper into the store and I can see him looking at us. Giving me the creeps big time. Only good thing about it is, judging by the look on his face, two IQ points less and he’d be a tree.”
“So he must not be very cute,” I said using low tones and not turning around.
“This is serious.”
“Describe him.”
“Slouching, so I think he’s tall. Wearing khakis. Got a T-shirt on. Can’t see his shoes. Baseball cap.”
“What team?”
She hesitated. “How should I know?”
“Figures.”
“I can’t see his face too well, but he’s got longish, curly brown hair, maybe matted, like dreads.”
The line inched forward and I felt my eye talking back to me. This morning when I woke up and tried to open it, I felt it hesitate, so didn’t push it. The lashes were stuck together, but the shower loosened them up. Opening the lid did nothing, however, except scare me. So I knew my vision had been compromised. I was having trouble focusing on the near distance, but decided to do something about this creep, at least to keep my mind off the fact that now I was desperate to pee.
“Still there?”
“Yes, he’s got his eyes trained on us. Hasn’t moved. Mouth open.”
“Maybe he’s staring at someone ahead of us or behind us.”
The line in front of the Women’s inched forward.
“Could be, but I’ve got him in my sights. Dead on.”
“Hold my place, will you?” I said it loud so the women behind us wouldn’t think I was butting in when I returned.
“Where are you going?”
“To look at postcards. Yell if he starts punching my other eye.”
“And if he has a gun?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
It took me, what, maybe all of ten seconds to get to the gift shop. I watched the baseball cap turn and walk deeper into the store, my good eye trained on him at all times, but he must have had a sixth sense, because the closer I got to him, the farther away he became. He disappeared into the crowd. Instead of looking around for him, I decided to get back in line.
“That was quick. Why didn’t you go after him?”
I shrugged. “I would have if he’d been walking with a little boy.”
Cookie said nothing, but was writing in her notebook.
“Good eyes, Cookie. Probably nothing, and anyway, I got to go something dangerous.”
“Put your brain in neutral and don’t think about it. Concentrate hard on something else.”
Leave it to Cookie. She can always be relied on for solid advice.
Nanette
We sat in Woodie’s Café near the window looking out onto Main Street in Allentown waiting for our food. Having beaten the lunch crowd by a half minute, we were seated right away, but the restaurant filled up fast and the sounds of glasses and silverware knocking tables, the customers talking to one another and someone yelling in the kitchen, made it sound like midtown Manhattan.
The view out the window was a different matter, however. It was as if I’d landed on a new planet compared to the only world I knew well, Brooklyn. Across the street was a clapboard post office with blue shutters, the real thing, with smiling clerks and enough time to help you mail a package. They even sold stamps. Next to it stood a church converted to the town’s library. I could see myself sitting there on a Thursday evening reading about the Battle of Monmouth and listening to the clop of horse’s hooves. Allentown, the sign says, was founded in 1706. Washington’s troops had marched down this road looking for the British, or trying to get away from them, one of those. And Ben Franklin probably walked through these fields looking for a good lay.
We exchanged the newspapers we’d bought as we entered the cafe. Each had a picture of Charlie and a two-column story on the front page. The New York Times also printed a picture of Mary Ward Simon, featuring various quotes from some of her Heights friends about her work for the Brooklyn Historical Society and her years serving in the women’s ministry of the Plymouth Church. Leave it to the Times to dig up the fact that she was distantly related to the first pastor, Henry Ward Beecher, a long winded abolitionist, according to Mom.
When our food arrived, we put down the papers and I took a bite of my bacon cheeseburger, the meat done to perfec
tion, hot and sizzling, the fries crisp, and the juice dripping off my chin.
“So what did you find out, other than Arrowsmith doesn’t live there anymore?” Cookie asked, putting down her burger and wiping her fingers with a napkin.
I took a moment, wondering where to begin.
Earlier, Denny and Cookie waited in the park on Main Street while I knocked on the door of a large Victorian on High Street with Arrowsmith’s last known address on the mailbox. I was greeted by a slight woman wearing heels and a print dress and wiping her hands on her apron. Her nails were recently polished, her makeup was fresh, and her blonde hair didn’t look too artificial, especially if you were looking at her like I was, through one tired eye. Matter of fact, she seemed like she’d just stepped out of a 1980s Vogue. She took two quick breaths, smiled, and asked how she could help.
After I showed her my PI license, I told her I was investigating a missing person and was told James S. Arrowsmith might be able to help with information. Cocking her head, she took in what I said without comment. She told me she was Jim’s mother and invited me inside. I followed her down a long hall, wooden planks and sideboard gleaming. She gestured to the front parlor and asked if she could get me something to drink, offering soda, coffee, or tea. I chose water.
While I waited for her to return, I looked around the room, a stuffily furnished Victorian classic. I say Victorian classic, but I’d be hard put to distinguish Victorian from La-Z-Boy. To me, the room looked immaculate, like a TV set for a fireside ghost story and I expected Bella Lugosi to walk in, sit, and begin his tale.
On one side was a white marble fireplace, ornately carved. Above the mantel a large painting, a landscape of a country scene, was vaguely familiar, no doubt a copy of some pastoral scene in an ornate-type frame with cows and ducks and farmers and barns. Two matching wingback chairs flanked the hearth in a red print pattern, and in back of them were built-in shelves, some kind of dark wood. They held a few books, a few vases, and what looked like family photos, some in black and white. A bay window took up the front wall, and in the middle of the room were two love seats facing each other, a small table in between. I went over to the bookshelf and ran a finger on a few of the shelves. No dust. I looked at the book spines, a few bound in leather without no titles, a copy of Moby Dick and Huckleberry Finn and several self-help books, one of which was titled Make Money Quick, another, Learn French In Five Minutes. Hearing footsteps, I sat in one of the love seats and pulled out my phone and began reading my emails.
Too Quiet In Brooklyn (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 1) Page 15
