“No. And I even asked Ronnie. But she wouldn’t tell me. It came as a shock to me when my sister left. It was just the two of us, but Catherine and I weren’t close, like some sisters are. I mean, we loved each other to death, but I was older and married and out of the house when she was just getting into her teens. Then she married Harry Frost and I never took to him. Neither did my Will, my husband, God rest his soul. Will could spot a phony a mile away, and that was Harry. Good looking and all that, but a slippery one. Then Will was killed in Vietnam and I went into a shell, I guess. My sister was very supportive, of course, but I just wanted to be left alone. I finally came out of it. You have to move on. But things had changed between us. She was having trouble with Harry, besides. But, still, we spoke just about every week on the phone and did the holidays and such. So when they left in the middle of the night it seemed, I was devastated, and worried.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, eventually she called. I couldn’t get much out of her, but I got the impression that Harry had gotten into some kind of trouble and they just had to move. They took poor Ronnie out of Rosemont, a wonderful girls’ college outside of Philadelphia, which she loved, and moved out west somewhere. My sister wouldn’t tell me where. She called me occasionally but would never give me her phone number or address. There was no caller I.D. back then. I suppose I could have hired someone like you to check with the phone company or something but what would be the point? I’m no Miss Marple. If my sister didn’t want to be found who was I to go against her wishes. Besides, I had met a wonderful man and remarried. That’s him over there on the mantel.”
I looked into the next room and could see a photo above the fireplace. Another uniform. Blue.
“His name was Salvatore Spigarelli. A police captain. My first husband was career Army. A Master Sergeant. Wilbert Weichmann. One of the first from Staten Island to die in Vietnam. Didn’t have to go. Had a nice safe recruiting post at Fort Wadsworth, but felt it was his duty after sending so many kids off to that damn war. So, I’m really Elizabeth Mercer Weichmann Spigarelli. Sounds like a United Nations’ meeting, doesn’t it? Sal died of natural causes. Heart attack.”
I had long ago learned that you had to pick and choose from the information old people provided.
“The police said your sister died years ago.”
“Yes. Perhaps five years after they moved. Harry didn’t even have the decency to let me know. I found out from Ronnie, who said the bastard, pardon me, had poor Cathy cremated right away. Ronnie was distraught, of course. Her father had told her he contacted me. A real bastard, and you don’t have to pardon me. It’s the truth. But as sad as it was, my sister’s death freed Ronnie. She only went with them to protect her mother and take care of her. Catherine wasn’t a healthy woman. Living with Harry would be a burden on anyone. My sister was more delicate than me. I’ve buried two husbands. Harry buried my sister. Anyway, after Cathy died, Ronnie left. She was a changed woman. My sister was always religious and in her last years she found solace in the Church. So did Ronnie. She told me that there was so much evil in the world she wanted to help people. That’s why she joined the Sisters of St. Jerome.”
I swallowed hard, thinking that had I made more of an effort to find Ronnie when she disappeared, her life might have been much different. Would it have been better? Who was I to judge? She spent many years doing what she obviously loved. Even the fact that she was murdered couldn’t change that fact.
“I understand that your sister had a son. Did he keep in touch with you?”
“Matthew? Oh, no. He disappeared even before my sister left. A strange one, he was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kept to himself. Very quiet. Except when he was fighting with Harry or killing cats.”
You also had to listen closely to everything an old person said.
“Killing cats?”
“That’s what people suspected. Drove Catherine to distraction. The boy was a bit of a sadist. Hated cats. I think the police investigated after he set a couple of the poor creatures on fire. Nobody could prove anything and his father threatened to sue everyone who said anything. No, it wasn’t a pleasant home in which to grow up. That’s why Ronnie spent so much time with me. But she was a changed girl after Matthew left. Much happier.”
“Where did he go?”
“Who knows? He was always talking about joining the Army or Marines. He wanted to be a policeman. Even went to that police college in the city. I forget the name.”
“John Jay?”
John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan is part of the City University of New York.
“Yes, that’s it. I don’t think he graduated, though.”
There wasn’t much else to get from Aunt Betsy. I thanked her and stood.
“Young man, can you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Betsy.”
“There is a floor fan in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I forget which. It’s the only thing left up there that I need. The doctors told me not to even try going up those stairs for another month. I’m living on the first floor now. Mrs. McVey’s grandsons brought my bed down and put it in the den. They moved everything down here. There’s a bathroom on the first floor, so that’s not a problem. But the warm weather is coming and I don’t keep the air-conditioning too low because of the electricity. The fan is a big help. Could you carry it down for me? But be careful. There is no railing on the stairs. Some workers removed it because I’m getting one of those electric chair lifts. Should have had it by now, but there was some sort of problem with the insurance. It will be a couple of weeks, they say. The doctors told me not to even try going up. As if I would without a banister. I couldn’t do it even with a banister with this hip.”
I found the fan in the first room I looked. As I left the room I spotted a photo album on top of a highboy. On impulse, I put down the fan and opened it. Turned out it was more a scrapbook than an album. I brushed off the accumulated dust and opened it. Instead of photos, there were clippings from various newspapers, the majority from the Staten Island Advance, as well as birthday and anniversary cards, laminated funeral cards, notes from friends, coasters from restaurants, matchbook covers, postcards, even an odd recipe. Many of the news clippings concerned her husbands. Promotions, awards and the like. But there was a fair amount of material devoted to Ronnie. I opened up a folded crayon drawing of a castle. In childish scrawl was the inscription, To Aunt Betsy, Love Veronica. I felt my throat tighten. There were many other drawings and short notes from an older Ronnie, thanking her aunt for being there for her. It was obvious they were close. I flipped through the entire scrapbook and discovered only one thing that mentioned Ronnie’s brother. It was a yellowed sports story about a high school baseball game between Curtis and New Dorp. It only ran seven paragraphs and his name appeared in the last sentence: “Curtis sophomore southpaw Matt Frost pitched an uneventful ninth inning in relief.” Someone, presumably Aunt Betsy, had highlighted his name, or I might have missed it.
I closed the scrapbook and carried the fan down the stairs. Without a railing, I almost slipped myself.
I didn’t want to let the old woman know I had been snooping through her memories, so I told her the fan was in the last room I looked.
“Isn’t that always the way,” she said. “Please put it in the den.”
After I came out, she asked me if I wanted some sherry.
Right then, I could have used a double Absolute on the rocks, but it was obvious that wasn’t in the cards. And it was also obvious from the hopeful look on her face that Aunt Betsy wanted her sherry, but didn’t want to drink alone if she could avoid it.
“I’d love some.”
She went to get it and I braced myself for some ultra-sweet cream sherry that would probably throw me into a diabetic coma. So I was pleasantly surprised when she returned with a decent bottle of Amontillado and two wine glasses. The sherry had a hint of walnut and a bit of a kick. She gave us both a de
cent pour and while it wasn’t a double vodka, I would have to say I wasn’t having a bad time. We made small talk, mostly about how wonderful Staten Island had been when she was a girl. It wasn’t as agonizing as it might have been. It wasn’t merely politeness on my part. Aunt Betsy had a pretty good memory. I don’t have anyone her age in my family left, and that kind of reminiscing is something I miss. But finally she ran down.
“Just wait here one second,” she said, heading out into the kitchen.
She came back with a small box.
“Sugar cookies,” she explained. “I always seem to have a lot left over.”
I took them. Perhaps they would come in handy if I ever ran out of bullets.
CHAPTER 8 - ALICE
I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to the office and picked up two coffees and some donuts. When I got in, Abby was at her desk, studying.
“How’s the cramming going?” I asked as I gave her one of the coffees and the box of donuts, minus one.
“I’m trying to watch my weight,” she said.
“If you want to be a private eye, Abs, you have to eat donuts at every opportunity. In fact, I think donut-eating is on the test.”
Abby was a sturdy-looking black woman who recently had gone on a diet kick.
“Thanks to you, boss, I’m sure to ace that part. What’s in that other bag?”
“Sugar cookies.”
“Hand them over. I like them better than donuts. And they’re not as fattening.”
I went into my office and waited. It didn’t take long.
“God almighty!”
She appeared at my door, holding one of the cookies at arm’s length.
“Where did you get these damn things, the Ku Klux Klan Bakery!”
When I finished laughing, I told her.
“It makes you appreciate cucumber sandwiches,” I said.
“And donuts,” she said, heading back to her desk.
“Shut the door, please. I have to make a call.”
“Give her my love,” Abby said.
***
Alice Watts had decided to extend her sabbatical in Paris for another semester. I won’t say I was overjoyed when she told me, but I understood.
Alice has a Masters in Philosophy and is a professor at Wagner College. She is a favorite of Spencer Bradley, Wagner’s dynamic president, and she wouldn’t have stayed longer at the Sorbonne without his support and encouragement. Her PhD was important to her, and thus important to me. But Bradley and I both knew — we occasionally shared some of his excellent scotch and our thoughts — that at some point it would be hard to keep Alice, who lived in Greenwich Village, teaching on Staten Island.
Not that Wagner wasn’t an excellent school. Bradley, a black man who had rid the college of some residual racism, sexism and unwarranted elitism with, I must admit, some help from me, had turned Wagner into an academic powerhouse. But it was not the Ivy League or the “Big City” that was assuredly in Alice’s future. She was one of the few philosophy instructors that I knew — hell, actually the only one — who made any sense at all. And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was sleeping with me and liked sex more than Simone De Beauvoir. One of the reasons she extended her stay in Europe was to spend some time in Germany on research. Her PhD dissertation-in-progress, tentatively titled “The Moral Philosophical Bankruptcy of Heidegger, Krieck, Heyse and Other Sycophants During the Third Reich,” was just plain gutsy. It was sure to raise hackles among the current crop of philosophers because of the comparisons she raised with many of their politically correct positions.
Alice, knowing that I had survived the rigors of a Jesuit college education, often asked me to look over emailed drafts of her dissertation.
“The Jesuits have their act together,” she had told me. “I’m glad they finally gave us a Pope. They’ve never sold out like Hitler’s Nazi philosophers.”
“I majored in cutting classes,” I told her. “I’m not sure I bring much to the table here.”
In fact, I was a pretty good student, but the only time I made the Dean’s List was senior year, when I bought beer with the money I was supposed to spend on books. The revelation that one didn’t need books to do well in college has colored my opinion of higher education ever since.
“Nonsense. You have one of the most inquisitive minds I’ve ever had the pleasure of trying to confuse.”
“You just want me to correct your execrable spelling and punctuation.”
“Spell ‘execrable’ for me.”
In truth, having Alice a few thousand miles away now, pursuing her dream, presented an opportunity. But I knew I had to call her. I told her what had happened.
“Are you asking my permission to investigate the murder of a woman you were once in love with?”
Even over the phone I caught her teasing tone.
“I’m not sure I am going to do it. But if I do, I don’t want to do it without telling you.”
“You know I wouldn’t try to stop you. And I know that if you make up your mind, you’ll do it no matter what.”
“Yes.”
“So isn’t this whole conversation probably what they would call ‘moot’?”
“Probably.”
“So, what else can we talk about? How about them Yanks?”
“That would be even more depressing. I think the team doctor just went on injured reserve.”
“You are blue, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice had lost its bantering tone.
“Tell me everything, honey.”
I did. When I finished, she said the perfect thing, as usual.
“What a wonderful woman. You have to go.”
“I may not accomplish anything. The police are investigating.”
“It doesn’t matter. My money is on you. I want you to do it. And she would want you to do it.”
“The whole thing is bringing back memories. And feelings.”
There was a long pause.
“Alton, I fell in love with you because of what you are. And part of what you are comes from her.”
“We were just kids.”
“I don’t think you were ever a kid, buddy boy. And from what you just told me, I doubt if she ever was, either. Whatever took her away from you, she deserved better than an ice pick through her heart. Make it right. I’m not worried about losing you.”
“I love you, Alice.”
“I rest my case.”
After we rang off, I did a web search for Harry Frost. I found a concert pianist, a minor league ballplayer, a BBC anchor and a few other reputable citizens. Even assuming Harry might have had a career change, none came within 10 years of the right age. Next, I searched the Frost family name using instantscheckmate.com, a service that checks Federal, state and county databases. I plugged in Harry, Catherine (Katherine, just in case) and Matthew. A minute later I had almost 800 names. I narrowed it down, using approximate ages, with a five-year swing on either side. I still wound up with 326 possibilities. I copied that list and then printed it out. I could hear the printer in my outer office humming and clicking. Abby had set us up with wireless connections. She was back in the office. I waited until I heard the printer stop and then called out to her. When she walked in she was holding a sheaf of papers.
“This is a shitload of Frosts,” she said.
I told her what I was looking for.
“Next time, couldn’t you look for a Czechoslovakian?”
“Call the Clap,” I said. “This is a job for Abby and the interns.”
That wasn’t a British rock group. Dave Clapper, the chief of staff at Wagner College, is a pal of mine. A former Coast Guard captain who cuts through the usual academic bureaucratic bull like an icebreaker in the Arctic, he had turned me on to using some of the students to do grunt work in my investigations. The kids got some college credit, although I always threw them some hard cash and supplied them with pizza.
“I’m headed out of town. They can use my offi
ce.”
With Abby riding herd on them and making calls herself, the list would be manageable. But I didn’t expect much. There are always people who aren’t on any list. And no list is comprehensive. Moreover, people die, move and change phone numbers. They even revert back to their given names, or change them entirely. I thought about that.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I plugged in the name Mercer, both Catherine and Katherine, with the approximate age spread. Another 187 possibles. The printer started clacking in the other room.
“How about Smith,” Abby said. “I’m not doing anything for the next decade.”
CHAPTER 9 - MONTEZUMA’S REVENGE
I had a few things to take care of before I left. I called Cormac Levine and told him I’d buy him lunch. I could tell by his mumbled response on the phone that he was already eating something.
“Turkey sandwich, with some sort of sprout shit in it. Irene made me take it to work. She’s trying to get me to eat healthy.”
“How’s that working out?”
I heard the sandwich hit the wastebasket next to his desk.
“Pick me up. I’ve been meaning to try that new Mexican joint in Port Richmond.”
He was standing in front of the courthouse in St. George where the District Attorney offices are, wearing a white seersucker suit, pink shirt, red tie, brown socks and black shoes.
“I think you can be seen from the International Space Station,” I said when he got in my car.
“Mike says we have to wear suits,” he replied. “I’m gonna break him.”
Michael Sullivan was the D.A. He’d been through a lot recently, what with the death of his wife, so I knew he was a tough cookie. But I didn’t like his chances of winning a sartorial battle with Mac.
A half hour later we were sitting in the restaurant, ominously named Montezuma’s Revenge, drinking Carta Blanca, the Mexican beer that has a slight licorice taste. I let Mac order for the both of us, figuring I was probably a dead man anyway. After he finished, the waitress, who had to use two pages on her order pad, asked, “Are you expecting someone else?”
SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) Page 5
