“I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”
“Why? What do you want?” She sat straighter. “How did you get in, anyway?”
He stared, mute.
“Tell me. The school doors are locked.” She knew. She’d tested every one of them last night.
“There’s a window to the basement that I can open. Don’t worry. It’s kid-sized. No bad man will get you.”
“Go home. Get yourself cleaned up.” She had the vague notion that children didn’t wander the streets on their own. She’d have to secure that window. “Didn’t your mom tell you not to talk to strangers?”
The kid might as well not have heard her at all. He stood like he’d been carved there.
“Jesus Christ.” It was still early. Couldn’t be much later than eight in the morning. “Anyone else here?”
The kid shook his head.
“Follow me.” Ellie opened the attic door and headed down the stairs, the kid at her feet. She pushed open the restroom door.
“But this is the girls’ bathroom.”
“Get in there.” He backed inside. The kid might not be too bright, but he was obedient. She pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, set the taps to warm, and cleaned his grimy face. “Give me your hands.” A few minutes later, skin appeared from under the dirt. Too bad she didn’t have a full immersion tank of soapy water. “Come on.”
She continued another floor down, to the cafeteria. She jimmied up the roll-down window and hoisted the kid to the counter. “In.”
“Where are we going?”
“What does it look like?” Inside the kitchen, Ellie turned on the lights. “Yesterday was leftover Sloppy Joes. It wasn’t bad.”
“Friday we had spaghetti.” The kid’s eyes held definite interest now.
It crossed Ellie’s mind that the spaghetti might have been his last solid meal. She examined the walk-in refrigerator and pulled out a carton of chocolate milk. The boy eagerly took the carton and popped open its lid. While he sucked it down, she found hamburger patties in the freezer and a can of corn on the shelf. The rest of the spaghetti must be in the Dumpster.
“Can I have another milk?”
Ellie pulled two more cartons from the refrigerator. “Here.”
The kid went to work on the milk while she microwaved a breakfast of hamburger and corn. The boy had pulled himself up on the stainless steel counter and sat cross-legged, surrounded by empty chocolate milk cartons. She handed him a plate and a fork, and he tucked in.
She hadn’t had much experience with children. She didn’t have any of her own, and she preferred not to touch those who crossed her path. But here was this miniature human sitting across from her. Like any human, once he got what he wanted, he’d be gone. He clearly needed to be fed. Get enough corn and beef into his system, and he’d go home.
She’d promise him more food if he came tomorrow, as long as he kept quiet about her. Given the way he attacked his disgusting breakfast, he’d listen. If all went as planned today, by that time she’d be gone.
“Finished?”
The brat’s stomach actually bulged under his too-small sweatshirt. He nodded.
“What’s your name, anyway?” She didn’t know why she asked. It didn’t matter.
“Josiah,” he said. A kernel of corn clung to his lip. “Princess, I love you.”
13
Gilda made her way to the cafeteria and found Bobby examining an ad for a safe. The Villa kept a subscription to Banker’s Monthly for old time’s sake.
“You wouldn’t believe how they work it now,” he said. “All digital. I’d hate to be a box man in this day and age. Damned things would probably break on you, anyway.”
“Claudine used to crack them.”
“She’s a youngster, and most of her safes were older wall models. Besides, they always left her the combination.”
Before Claudine had dropped out of the heist business, she had mostly done insurance jobs. Clients who wanted the insurance payoff more than the item insured got in touch with Larry the Fence, who in turn called Claudine to arrange a “burglary.”
Bobby tossed the magazine aside. “What happened upstairs? With the girl?”
“That’s why I came down. We need a convo.” She settled in one of the armchairs and picked up the house phone. “You stay put. I’ll get Grady and Father Vincent down here. I bet Red and Mort are in their rooms. You see Mary Rose lately?”
After a few minutes, the group was gathered near the unlit fireplace at the cafeteria’s far end.
“All right,” Gilda said. “Here’s the situation. Adele’s going to die, just like she said. Her aneurysm could pop at any minute. Doc Parisot says there’s a surgeon in town who might—just might, no guarantees—be able to fix it.”
Each member of the group nodded. They knew what was coming next. They knew no legit surgeon would operate on an escaped prisoner without an incentive.
“You want us to take on another gig,” Red said. “You really want to risk it?”
“I know the Oak Hills golf club heist was a close call,” Gilda said.
“Close?” Mary Rose said. “It was danged near a total bust.”
“This one’s at a private home.”
“Always easier,” Mort said. “Especially during the work day.”
“Besides, you don’t have to do anything,” Gilda said to Red. Red was at the Villa chiefly thanks to her time as her husband’s shill. Not a particularly taxing livelihood.
“I have to live here. And that won’t be easy if the place is shut down and everyone is in prison.”
Grady watched them all. “You want me to dig or not?”
Once again, Gilda took charge. “Listen. Consider this an investment. We fix up Adele’s brain, and Larry the Fence will be in our debt forever. Besides, it might not be so hard.”
“Warren won’t like it,” Mary Rose added.
“There’s one more complicating factor. Doc Parisot said Adele doesn’t have much longer until the blood vessel in her brain gives out. If we go for this, we’ll have to move on it right away. Like, this afternoon.”
“Is that enough time to plan?” Father Vincent said.
“We won’t know until we have an idea of what we’re up against.” Gilda sat back. “How about this? We’ll vote. All in favor of testing the waters to get the surgeon’s help, say aye.”
“Just having a look-see, right? Not actually going through with it?” Mary Rose asked.
“That’s it. We’re voting on having Grady poke around a bit, that’s all.”
Everyone said aye, except Red, who stared in her lap.
“The ayes have it. Grady, you can get started.”
Grady opened his laptop. “Name?”
“B. E. Lancaster,” Gilda said.
“What do the initials stand for?”
“Can’t say.”
“Never mind. Found him.” Grady’s knobby fingers worked the keyboard. “And that’s Bruce Eric, by the way.”
The phone extension in the cafeteria rang, an old-fashioned trill. “Never mind. Warren will get it. Check everything—money, police records, any hinkiness at all. Look at his medical school transcripts.”
“Don’t tell me my work,” Grady said.
Gilda’s mind always went to blackmail first. That had been her specialty for years, and it was a solid cash producer. She’d never been one of those blackmailers who’d squeeze the victim dry. She made one ask and moved on. If you were going to blackmail, you had to have a sterling reputation at it. She was good enough at her craft to finance a sweet apartment on the park blocks and a couple of nice vacations a year, even after her gig at the nightclub ended.
Warren popped his head into the cafeteria, his finger holding a spot in his novel. “Call for Bad Seed on line one.”
Gilda sighed. “All right.”
“Nothing,” Grady said.
“At all?”
“Not a thing. Clean as a whistle. Subscribes to a hydroponic garde
ning magazine and buys a season subscription to the opera every year. Otherwise, zilch.”
“What kind of vehicle does he drive?” Father Vincent asked.
“Late model minivan.”
The father sat back in disgust.
Gilda took the phone, but before pushing the blinking button for line one, she said, “Then we look at assets. What has he got that he’d do anything to get back?” The back-up plan. Blackmail was cleaner. You steal something, and you can get caught. No one liked the risk. But Adele’s life was at stake. “Bad Seed floral arrangements.” Her voice was now remarkably sweet. “Did bad deeds? Send them weeds.”
“Nice house in a nice neighborhood,” Grady said.
“We ain’t stealing a house,” Bobby said.
“Any paintings? Maybe family jewelry?” Gilda covered the phone’s receiver as she asked. She took notes for the floral arrangement with her other hand.
“Hold your horses. I’m checking his insurance file now.”
Gilda couldn’t help tapping her toes. “That’s right. Only forty-nine-ninety-nine, and I can have it delivered tonight. No, it’s extra for the special three a.m. delivery with doorbells and knocking.”
“Okay, I think we got it.” Grady turned his laptop around so the others could see the screen. He’d found something. Something the surgeon valued. Something they could steal and hold hostage in exchange for operating on Adele.
“Goodbye.” Gilda hung up the phone. “Wait for me.”
The screen showed a blue-canopied bed with a velvet cushion over the mattress, but something was wrong with it. Gilda couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. The bed’s draperies were the rich blue of a late summer sky, yet somehow faded. Gilded carving adorned the posts supporting the canopy, and small feet held up the bed. It must sit painfully close to the ground.
“You want us to heist a bed? I guess I could borrow a moving van—” Father Vincent began.
“No, no. It’s a little one. Here. Look at this photo.” Grady clicked a few more keys and showed them the photo again. This time it sat next to a footstool and was barely wider than it—maybe two feet across and slightly higher with the canopy.
“A doll’s bed? This doctor keeps a doll’s bed?”
“That ain’t no doll’s bed,” Grady said. “It’s from the eighteenth century, and it’s insured for a cool million bucks.”
They waited for Grady to deliver the punchline. His consumption of soap operas had given him a flair for the dramatic.
“This here is Marie Antoinette’s dog’s bed.”
* * *
Now that Josiah had gone home, Ellie began to put her plan in place. At last, it was time.
In the girls’ bathroom, she opened her satchel. She smoothed her hair into a tidy bun and pinned it into place. From her bag, she withdrew a maid’s uniform with its starched apron and laid it over the sink while she shed her black dress. She folded the satchel into the tiny pouch that contained it when it was empty and pinned the pouch under her skirt.
A few minutes later, indistinguishable from any efficient housekeeper, she left the school through the back entrance. On the street, she stepped behind a tree at the sight of someone—that older redhead with the walker—coming out of the Villa. She held up her chin and stepped to the sidewalk again. No one at the Villa would recognize her. Even if they noticed she bore a passing resemblance to Eleanor Whiteby Millhouse, they wouldn’t give it a second thought. Eleanor was at the Bedlamton Arms. As far as they knew.
Ellie walked under old elms to the bus stop a block away. No one was out on this Saturday afternoon, it seemed. No one but a cable van creeping down the street. On impulse, Ellie turned to watch it. The van stopped outside the Villa. Even old folks need TV, she thought. Let them enjoy it while they can. If things went as planned today, the only television they’d be watching would be in the state penitentiary.
14
Father Vincent alit from the cable installation van in front of the Villa. Mort waved from the passenger side and rolled down the window.
“I want to come along,” Gilda said.
“We’ll take care of it. You stay here and rest,” Mort said.
“What, ‘stay here and rest’?” She pushed her walker closer. “Why shouldn’t I come with you? I’ll keep to the van. I won’t be in the way.”
“What if something happens?” Father Vincent said.
“Like the police,” Mort added.
“Mort and I can deal with it better if we’re alone. You stay here.”
Good grief. Gilda pushed her walker to the side and grabbed the cane from its frame. “I’m coming with you, and that’s that. If one of us goes down, we all go down.”
Father Vincent and Mort exchanged glances. If they’d thought Gilda didn’t see them, they were wrong. She yanked the van’s side door open and looked among the tools and wire for a place to sit. That big spool of cable would make an okay seat. She navigated a stepladder and settled herself on the spool. “There.”
Mort turned from his seat and shook his head. “If you insist.” He took a pocketknife from his pants and a block of wood from his jacket to continue his habitual whittling.
“You look cute in that uniform, Mort,” Gilda said. “Gray suits you. What’s that patch say?”
“Al,” Mort said. “Short for Albert. I like it. Has class.”
The van’s side door slammed shut, and Father Vincent climbed into the driver’s seat. “Bud doesn’t need the van back until three. The brakes are spongy, but it was all I could get spur of the moment. Grady has everything under control?”
“Said he’ll disable the connection in twenty minutes, then reconnect exactly fifteen minutes later.”
“Perfect.” Father Vincent started the engine.
Gilda wouldn’t be replacing her furniture with cable spools any time soon, but the ride wasn’t too bad. She sang, “How Much is that Doggie in the Window?” to the engine’s drone. When they made the turn to cross the bridge, she had to grab the back of a seat; otherwise, it was a relatively smooth trip with the rumbling engine obscuring whatever conversation Father Vincent and Mort were having up front.
At last they rolled to a stop. Father Vincent cut the engine. Gilda pulled her spool to a spot where she could see out the front windshield to a street lined in thick old trees and brick houses with white shutters. The van was one of the few cars on the street. Most of them—BMWs and Mercedes, Gilda bet—were coddled in garages.
Father Vincent opened the rear doors and set orange pylons behind the van. “I’ll pretend to fool around outside on the ladder.”
“Got it.” Mort slid from the van.
Gilda squeezed to Mort’s empty seat and watched him walk up the stone path to the door and press the brass doorbell. After a moment, Mort’s words floated back to her.
“I’m Albert from Bombast Cable. May I speak to B. E. Lancaster?”
Beyond Mort was a small, bearded man in workout clothes. A towel draped his neck.
“This is he,” the man said. “I’m not interested.”
He began to shut the door, but Mort stuck his foot against the doorjamb. “I’m not here to sell you anything. I understand you have a service outage.”
Mort was very convincing. Gilda had to hand it to him. He glanced at his watch. Undoubtedly checking against Grady’s timing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything’s fine.”
“I’d better not return to the station until you’ve checked. Service was reported as down. Since we’re here, we may as well be sure.”
Mort disappeared into the house with the bearded man, the door shutting behind him. Father Vincent loitered on the street. A moment later, Mort reappeared at the front door and gave Father Vincent a thumbs-up. The van’s roof rattled as the ladder slid off. Gilda watched Father Vincent take the ladder to the house’s side, in the driveway.
Now came the hard part: waiting.
* * *
Ellie rapped on the door.
She should have been feeling fear, or at least anxiety. Instead, joy infused every step she took closer to her goal. It was as if she’d had a recurring dream, a good one, but had awakened each night for weeks before the final payoff. Now the dream was real. And so would be the payoff.
B. E. Lancaster opened the door. She recognized him at once from photos she’d studied. Even in workout clothes, he was tidy and precise, despite the beard. Before she’d looked up his photo in the business journal, she’d known a lot about him already from his wife, Mitzi, at the Carsonville Women’s League. Mitzi would be at the club playing bridge right now, as she did every Saturday afternoon.
She knew B. E. Lancaster snored, for instance. He ate wheat germ with nondairy creamer for breakfast; had an electric ear and nose hair trimmer in each of the house’s bathrooms; and raised hydroponic tomatoes in his sunroom. More annoying, she’d heard Mitzi drone on about how he ignored her to study heirloom tomato varieties and surgical procedures. Once Mitzi had caught her husband gazing at her. She’d told Ellie her heart had swelled with love. Then she’d learned B. E. was only determining where he’d put the saw to slice open her skull if she had pituitary gland abnormalities.
Above all, Ellie had heard about B. E.’s prized possession: the Marie Antoinette lit de chien. It was heavily insured and set up in its own display room. Mitzi wasn’t allowed to go nearer to it than the hall. Once she’d bought a ceramic pug to set in it, and her husband had freaked out that anything should touch the same hallowed cushion that some queen’s dog had drooled in.
“He doesn’t appreciate me,” blah blah blah, Mitzi had complained. But Ellie had got one good tidbit out of it. The man would do anything for his dog bed.
“Can I help you?” B. E. Lancaster looked her up and down.
“Dr. Lancaster? I’m the housekeeper the service sent over. Dorothy” —she almost choked. What was the last name she’d chosen for its efficient, generic sound?— “Josiah.” Her mouth dropped open. Shoot. Why did she say that?
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