Where Evil Lurks

by Robert D. Rodman

  Good detection is like good science. Once you have your working hypothesis, you seek evidence that supports it, and, with equal vigor, evidence that discredits it. The importance of the latter is often overlooked. The failure of every attempt to falsify a hypothesis ultimately lends strength to the likelihood of its verity.

  I called KC back and asked him to find out if Angelica had ever had a North Carolina driver’s license, and if so, to get me his age, height, weight, eye and hair color, and race, from the record. KC was also to check to make sure that the van was dark blue in color.

  “I’ll walk over to the driver’s license division tomorrow morning. Basically, they’ll give me any information I ask for. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  The next day I rose impatient and edgy. After a run in my neighborhood, I thought I might as well call the house in Plainfield. The same woman answered.

  In my friendliest voice, I said, “Hello, I’m very sorry to bother you. Am I speaking with Mrs. Annie Angelica?” There was silence on the other end, then the faint clicks that precede a return to dial tone. She had wordlessly hung up on me.

  I dialed again, expecting either a busy signal or endless ringing. But she picked up. In my most pleading voice, I said, “Please, please don’t hang up. Let me please tell you that I’m not selling anything and I’m not a bill collector. I only want to speak with Annie Angelica about Harry.” I held my breath. She was thinking because there were no clicking sounds. Finally she spoke.

  “What about Harry?”

  “Is this Mrs. Angelica?”

  “No. I’m Mrs. Palmer. I keep house for Mrs. Angelica.”

  “Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs. Palmer. My name is Dagny Jamison. I’m trying to reach Harry Angelica.”

  “So are many people. I cannot help you.”

  “Is there any way you’d let me speak with Annie Angelica? I assume that’s his mother.”

  “Mrs. Angelica cannot come to the telephone.”

  “Please, Mrs. Palmer, may I ask why?”

  “She wouldn’t know what to do with a telephone. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my work. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

  She hung up on me again. That was vexing. My only definite lead was misbehaving.

  While waiting for KC’s call I decided to surf the Internet for clues to Harry’s existence and whereabouts. I tried Google, Yahoo and all the other available search engines, but nothing turned up, if you discount the various Harry Angelicas from Idaho, Samoa and the Canary Islands, none of whom were the right age or right race. I was starting to hope that my Harry Angelica would turn out to be a five-foot three Mongolian and save me this aggravation, when the phone finally rang. I grabbed it on the first ring.

  KC at last. He’d had a buddy pull the license record. Harry Angelica was six-feet one-inch tall with blond hair and blue eyes. That was consistent with how Ashley perceived Strong, but Strong was not the driver. Little was the driver. Or did Ashley assume that because Little wasn’t one of the two men who had grabbed her, he must have been driving? One expects the owner to be the driver, but I wasn’t going to get hung up over that. My hypothesis stood up to those facts. I was going after Harry Angelica.

  After another frustrating hour at the computer I recalled yet another bit from John’s book:

  Computers often help to find a person, but sometimes eyes, ears and personal presence are superior to bits, bytes and blinding speed.

  I used the Internet to book a late afternoon flight to Newark and a hotel in Plainfield, New Jersey. There was no time to engage Janet, my usual dog-sitter, and it was a sad pair of greyhounds that checked into the nearby doggie hotel.

  The flight to Newark was uneventful. The line at the rental-car counter tried my patience, but at least the agency had my reservation and, ironically, a dark-blue Dodge sedan when I was finally served. They also had a computer that printed out directions from the airport to wherever you wanted to go. I typed in the name of my hotel in Plainfield and received a sheet with instructions on how to get there.

  Within an hour I was checking in. The desk clerk gave me a map of the city and directions to the Angelicas’ street. The next morning I dressed in a conservative skirt, blouse, and sweater, and made myself up to look businesslike. I checked to make sure I had a chunk of one-hundred dollar bills in my handbag. When Ashley had hinted at the use of bribery I’d been somewhat put off, but if a few C-notes would loosen Mrs. Palmer’s tongue, I’d go for it.

  I followed my map to an older, elegant upper-middle-class section of the city. The homes were large, mostly two- and even three-story. Despite their size they were close together, separated from each other by narrow strips of grass or garden, and from the curb by small front yards. The Angelica’s house was on a corner and stood out from the rest. It was double the size of those around it, with spacious lawns on two sides.

  The house was not in good repair. The paint around the windows was chipped and peeling, and several roof gutters had slipped off their bolts and would no longer catch water. The grounds, too, which seemed to have been well groomed once, had become seedy from lack of care. It makes me sad to see plants dying from neglect but I shoved that emotion aside. I had a purpose and I focused on it.

  At the front door I had a choice of a doorbell or a huge brass knocker. I rang the bell, and tapped lightly with the knocker for good measure. A moment later I heard footsteps. A deadbolt snapped back and the door opened five inches, held by a chain. A woman with a craggy face appeared in the crack and asked what I wanted.“ You must be Mrs. Palmer,” I cooed. “I’m Dagny Jamison. We spoke on the phone. I know I’m not welcome, but I’ve come all the way from North Carolina because I’m desperate and don’t know where to turn. I’m here to beg for your help. Please hear me out.”

  I resisted the temptation to insert my foot in the door, which I feared she was about to slam in my face. Mrs. Palmer paused, her face filled with uncertainty, which made it look even craggier. Whether out of sympathy for my plea, or simply because she was in a good mood, or maybe just bored, she gently closed the door to release the chain, then opened it wide to let me in. Before she could have second thoughts, I swished past her with several giant steps and nary a Mother May I.

  My first impressions were of genteel wealth. There were tapestries and oil paintings on every wall. Columns of purple velvet draperies surrounded the windows. The substantial dark-wooded chairs and sofas, which would put your back out if you tried to move them, were plush and elegantly upholstered. But a closer examination revealed old wealth that no one was renewing. The handsomely sewn cushion covers were threadbare at the seams, the edges of the velvet frayed, and the once luxurious carpets stained with time.

  Mrs. Palmer signaled me to follow her. She led me through a dining room to the kitchen. At the far end of the kitchen was a breakfast nook with an oriel window facing south. In the nook stood a massive, square table of dark oak supported by five sturdy legs on casters, with the fifth leg supporting the center of the table. Mrs. Palmer gestured for me to sit at this table. Had I not spoken with her previously I might have thought her incapable of speech. She remained silent and stood as if waiting on me. I broke the rapidly thickening ice with the spiel I’d concocted as we walked through the house.

  “Thank you very much for letting me in. I’m very sorry to inconvenience you. I went to Marquis University with Harry Angelica. We were both film majors and we made a video together that was highly praised by the professor. He recently described our work to an executive at a large studio, who wants to see it. I’m the only one of us the professor could find, but I had lost my copy of the tape. I’m hoping that Harry still has one. There may be a lot of money in it for us. That’s why I want to get in touch with him so badly.”

  “How much money?” said Mrs. Palmer, finally.

  It wasn’t a question I’d expected. Not right away. But if it was a matter of money, then I was willing to flaunt it. After all, Ashley had spent considerable thousands
to get me this far, so we were definitely “in for a penny, in for a pound.” I reached in my bag and pulled out the wad of C-notes.

  “The studio is so interested that they financed my trip up here and gave me an advance of two thousand dollars. We could make some very big bucks if they like the work.”

  Mrs. Palmer sighed and asked if she might sit down. It seemed a peculiar request since I was the supplicant. On the other hand, she was the housekeeper and a servant; I was a guest, welcome or unwelcome. In her eyes I had social status. I said kindly, with a tinge of authority, “Please do sit down, Mrs. Palmer. I appreciate your speaking with me.”

  CHAPTER 10

  She sat in the chair facing the window and squinted in the morning brightness. The thumb of her right hand massaged her left palm nervously. She wasn’t a hostile person, but she was troubled.

  “Miss Jamison—if I got the name right—the Angelicas, they’re a very private family. They don’t welcome outsiders. I shouldn’a’ let you in. I only did it because you come from so far away. Now you want to know where Master Harry is and that’s the problem.”

  “I don’t understand. Is it a problem because you can’t tell me, or a problem because you don’t know?”

  “Mr. Angelica, when he knew he was going to die, he left everything to Master Harry. He’s the executioner of the estate. You see, Mrs. Angelica, she’s not well. I mean, she’s not right in the head. She’s got that Alzheimer’s disease.”

  “I’d like to see her. Would she speak with me?”

  “No, no, no. You can’t do that. It’d just confuse her. She has a sister come to visit two or three times a week, but sometimes she don’t even know her—her own sister! Her brother used to come, too. He’s Tommy’s dad. But he passed away last year. And Mrs. Riley, she’s the neighbor from a few doors away. They knew each other for twenty years but now Mrs. Riley don’t come anymore because when she used to come and Mrs. A. just stared at her, she’d start to cry, it upset her so.”

  “Does Mrs. Angelica have a nurse?”

  “Someone comes from the county three times a week. They don’t do much. They feel her pulse and blood pressure. They check with me to see if she’s taking her medicine. Maybe they talk to her a little if Mrs. A. is feeling good. If she’s sick, I take her to the hospital. She has one of those HMOs.”

  “Does her son Harry ever visit?”

  “You see, Master Harry, he used to visit. When he came over, Mrs. A. got all emotional and teary. She’d hug him and cry and want to know why couldn’t he move back into the house with her, and why didn’t he visit her more often. Even if he visited yesterday, she wouldn’t remember and would scold him for being away so long. She’d sing songs to him but he didn’t like that. Sometimes when he came over, he’d take her out for lunch. She liked that. I’d go with them to help out. One time she acted real strange in the restaurant. She whispered to the waitress it was Harry’s birthday and made her bring over cake and ice cream and a candle. She sang “Happy Birthday.” But it wasn’t his birthday and he was real put out with her. He wouldn’t take her out anymore, but she started to get much worse after that anyway.”

  Mrs. Palmer had gone from zero to garrulous in under a minute, and while much of what she said was rambling, I was happy to have the data to pick through. “How long ago did Mr. Angelica die?” I asked, hoping to encourage her to talk and not retreat into her former silence.

  “I remember that. He died the same week that Princess Diana was killed. He was too sick to know about it. I don’t think it mattered to him.”

  “If Harry doesn’t live here, who takes care of the house and pays the bills?”

  “I take care of the house,” she said proudly. “Except for the outside. We have a service come in for that.”

  I persisted. “But can you tell me, how do they get paid?”

  “Master Harry pays all the bills. Every month I send him them. But the last two months they come back ‘return to sender.’”

  “What about groceries or small expenses?”

  “Mostly I pay with Mrs. A.’s credit card. The merchants are used to that. I get cash with the card at the bank for taxicabs or if they don’t accept credit cards.” She was looking down and wringing her hands now. “You see, that’s the problem. The machine at the bank won’t give me cash. It says there’s no money.”

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “Once or twice, but Master Harry always calls and says he’s sorry. He says he’s been so busy he forgot. And then it gets fixed.”

  “Look, Mrs. Palmer, why don’t you let me help you find Harry? I could tell him that you need him to pay the bills and take care of his mother and yourself and the house. Just tell me where you send the bills, even though they’re returned.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that. Master Harry, he made me promise, made me swear to God, to keep his address secret. He said he had private business and nobody could be allowed to bother him. But, you see, I’m afraid maybe he’s lost his money and that’s why he isn’t taking care of us. And you said maybe you had a way for him to make money. So I don’t know what to do.”

  Just as Mrs. Palmer was weakening, an ancient voice from far away interrupted us. “Sarah,” it croaked. “Sarah, I hear someone. Who is there?”

  “She’s calling me. I have to go. I think you should leave. I really shouldn’a’ let you in.”

  “May I speak with Mrs. Angelica? I’ve come all this way. I’d like to meet her.”

  “No, ma’am. I told you. She’s just an old lady, crazy, out of her head. I couldn’t let you.”

  The voice sounded again, this time with a note of pleading. “Sarah, is that the nurse? I want to know who’s there.”

  I put a note of authority into my voice. “Mrs. Palmer, I think if your employer wants to know who is here, you should tell her. She doesn’t sound crazy to me. I hope you’re not spreading stories about her.”

  “No, I’m not. Mostly, she don’t know nothin’. Then, sometimes, she remembers things, mostly things from years ago. She don’t care who you are.”

  The voice sounded again. I had a split second to make a bold decision. “I’m coming, Mrs. Angelica,” I cried. “I’ll be right there.”

  Mrs. Palmer’s eyes widened but she didn’t try to stop me. I followed the voice to a wide, carpeted staircase. I bounded up the stairs, afraid that Mrs. Palmer would try to bar my way if I hesitated. I’d have been reluctant to use force.

  Once upstairs, I could follow my nose, literally. The malodor of confinement is distinctive: a mixture of body odors, stale food, and mustiness. It led me to Mrs. Angelica’s bedroom. I stopped before her door to calm myself. I needed to present a tranquil façade.

  She was in a dimly lit master bedroom richly appointed with sturdy old mahogany and cherry wood furniture. Lush draperies dressed the windows, and oil paintings and watercolors hung in artistically placed groups on every wall. On one wall there was a life-size upper-body portrait of a woman of robust frame and stately bearing. She appeared to be about 40 years of age. Against the opposite wall stood a four-poster bed. Instead of holding up a canopy, the posts supported guardrails. In the bed was the woman in the portrait, easily recognizable though at least three decades older.

  “Mrs. Angelica, I’m—”

  “Are you new here?” interrupted the old lady.

  “Yes ma’am, my name is Dagny. I’ve come to visit you.”

  “Visit me?” The notion seemed to amuse her. “Nobody visits me. They come to stick me or make me swallow pills.”

  “I’ve just come to talk with you.”

  “Well, what do you want me to say? I can sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  She began humming the familiar tune, keeping time with feeble movements of her wrist.

  “Is it someone’s birthday today?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer but the humming became singing, “…happy birthday my darling, happy birthday to you.”

  “That was very pretty.”

 
“Would you like to hear ‘Over the Rainbow’?” Without waiting for my answer, she resumed singing, shyly at first, then with feeling. She knew all the words.

  About halfway through the song, I heard a whispering through clenched teeth. Mrs. Palmer was standing behind my right ear.

  “You see what I mean?” she hissed. “She’s balmy. It’s best to leave her be.”

  I didn’t want to argue, but it seemed that Annie Angelica was enjoying herself. I saw no harm in my presence. When her singing ended, I applauded lightly. She nodded, looking pleased for the moment, but in the next moment her features resumed the vacant look that she wore when I’d first peered into the room.

  “Can you tell me about Harry? About your son, Harry?”

  No response. I looked about the room. On her dressing table were several photographs of a man that fit Harry’s description. There were also photographs of a baby, a toddler, a young child—all of Harry at various stages. I picked up the photograph of the baby and showed it to her.

  “Is this your son?”

  She looked at it, cocked her head one way, then the other, but didn’t say anything.

  I tried a different approach. I showed her the most recent photograph. “This is Harry, your son,” I said firmly. “Do you remember Harry?”

  She reached out toward the baby picture instead. I handed it to her. She stared at it and began to sing again, this time “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” She cradled the photograph in her hands, rocking it back and forth to the rhythm of the music. A big tear formed in the corner of her right eye, broke, and tracked down her cheek.

  When she had finished the song the sound stopped, but her mouth moved silently as if she was trying to form thoughts into words. At last she said, “He was a big baby. It hurt so much. I was too old to have a baby. I was almost forty-five.” She beckoned me closer. When she saw Mrs. Palmer come closer too she said, “Go away, Sarah. I’ll call you when I need you.” Mrs. Palmer balked, but she was too used to being subservient to argue, and backed out of the room.