The Paradoxical Parent (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 13)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Michelle shook her head. "That's beautiful in its own way, but that still doesn't explain why she spent so many years hidden away from you."

  Carter said, "Maybe I can answer that because there's something about Nick that I see that I don't think he does. He's stubborn."

  I shrugged. I didn't think I was. But, I'd never really thought about it, one way or another.

  "But it's not mule-headed. He's like a dog with a bone and he just won't let go of it until he has to. Parnell is like that and I suspect so was Nick's mother."

  Kenneth nodded. "That's true. But she wasn't stubborn in any sort of mean way." He looked up at the ceiling. "She was determined to be kind. And generous. And to see the best in people. Not like some goody two-shoes. But, you know, like what it says in the Bible. She was really the most Christian woman I ever met but she never once talked about church. She could see the good in everyone. When I was younger, and much more cynical, I thought it was too much. But now that I'm a father, I really appreciate some of the things she used to tell me about treating other people kindly. I try to do what she said and I try to teach Jimmy to do the same."

  Michelle sighed. "It just seems heartless." She looked at me. "I hope you'll forgive me, Nick. I just want to understand. I loved your mother as much as Ken or Bobby or Ed ever did. She was my mother for those few years before she left. And I was just as heartbroken about her being gone as anyone else."

  Kenneth stood and walked over to his wife. He knelt down beside her, put his arm on the back of her chair, and kissed her gently. She laughed and said, "I'm just being silly. Really, I am."

  I shook my head. "No, you're not. I've laid awake at night wondering the same thing. You see, all my father said for years and years was that she'd left. I didn't know anything about Mexico until a year ago. But when I finally saw the letter she'd left for me to read when I became an adult, it all made sense. She didn't want us to see her fade away. And, now, I'm glad that's what she did. And, I think that's what she did for all of you, too. You'll always remember her as happy and alive." I took a deep breath. "When I see her in my dreams, she looks so beautiful. That always surprises me, every time I dream about her."

  . . .

  "I'm so glad you let us drive you back to your hotel," said Michelle. "We never go into Boston anymore. Used to be, we rarely left. Except to go up to Vermont."

  She and I were sitting in the backseat of their Ford while Kenneth was driving and Carter was in the passenger seat.

  "We're going to take advantage of Jimmy being gone for the night and paint the town red." That was Kenneth.

  "You bet," replied Michelle as she stifled a yawn.

  "Well, don't stay out too late," I said, sounding like a parent. "Say, Kenneth, when's your birthday?"

  "November 28th of 1922. When's yours?"

  Before I could answer, Carter said, "No wonder you two are so alike."

  "What?" asked Kenneth.

  "Nick was born the very next day."

  "So that means I'm still the oldest," said Kenneth with a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  "Does this mean I'm now the middle child?" I asked with a grin.

  Michelle patted my hand. "Guess so. Bobby should be relieved. Now he can really and truly be the baby of the family."

  Kenneth laughed at that and said, "No comment."

  . . .

  Kenneth pulled up in front of the hotel. The doorman opened the door for Carter and then Michelle. I slid out after her. Leaving the motor running, Kenneth walked around the car and gave me a big bear hug with a lot of clapping on the back. It reminded me of the hug his father had given me earlier that morning.

  "I'm so glad to know you, Nick. We're family now. And I mean that. I do."

  I nodded and stepped back to look him in the eyes. "Thanks, Kenneth. That means a lot. If there's ever anything I can do, let me know."

  He nodded as his smile faded. "Just find out what happened to Allie. I want to know, even if Bobby doesn't. And it would mean a lot to Dad. He deserves to know."

  "Yeah. We all do. Good night."

  He gave me a quick second hug with two more claps. "Good night, Nick."

  Carter and I changed places. I gave Michelle a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You two have to come visit us soon. And bring Jimmy. I have a ship. We can go sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. It's beautiful. He'll like it."

  She smiled. "I've always wanted to see San Francisco."

  "Come as soon as you can. And, don't forget, we'll send a plane to get you. I mean that."

  She grinned. "I keep forgettin' you're a millionaire. You're so," she shrugged, "I dunno. You're so normal."

  I grinned.

  She laughed. "Well, not normal. And thank God for that."

  I kissed her on the cheek again. "Good night, Michelle. See you soon."

  She nodded. "Yes. Yes, you will."

  Chapter 8

  The Commander Hotel

  Cambridge, Mass.

  Thursday, March 10, 1955

  A few minutes after 8 in the morning

  I grinned as Maria and Frankie made their way across the hotel dining room and towards our table. Carter and I stood as they approached. Maria looked beautiful, as always, but her eyes were blood-shot and I was guessing that the bright light of the clear morning sky coming through the windows by our table was making her head hurt.

  I said to Carter, "Let's move so that they're facing the dining room."

  He nodded as Frankie murmured, "Thanks, guys."

  Once we were settled, our waiter came by. Remembering how many times Mildred, our favorite waitress in San Francisco, had helped us with our own hangovers, I said, "They need coffee and water, as fast as you can. Bring fried eggs, potato hash, and lots of greasy bacon."

  He smiled and nodded. With an arched eyebrow, he asked, "Any hair of the dog?"

  Maria groaned and shook her head. "Oh, God, no."

  Frankie, who was holding his head in his hands, nodded slightly. "Blood Mary with horseradish."

  The waiter nodded and said to me, "I'll be right back with your breakfast. I made sure the cook didn't overcook the bacon."

  I smiled. "Thanks."

  "Could you two please not talk so loud?" That was Maria. She was shielding her eyes with her hand.

  The waiter grinned and quickly moved away. I watched as he directed a boisterous couple away from taking a table near us.

  "Any stories you wanna tell us?" asked Carter in a near-whisper.

  "If we could just not talk for the next five or so years, I'd really appreciate it." That was Frankie.

  Carter picked up the newspapers that had been left on the table by the waiter. He handed one to me. I reluctantly opened it.

  It was the Boston Daily Record. By the masthead, it appeared to be a Hearst paper.

  Police Killing in N.H.

  New Hampshire State Police were called in yesterday to the grisly scene of a murder in Lebanon, N.H. Sergeant William "Bill" McEnroe, of the Lebanon Police Department, was found by his wife in their home. He had been shot once through the forehead. State police are looking for a suspect seen fleeing the scene. He's reported to have a swarthy complexion and likely to be of Italian descent. The witness reported that the man was no taller than five feet or thereabouts.

  I looked over at Carter, who was pale as he was reading the headline of his paper. He put the paper down, stood, and said, "Let's go."

  I nodded, stood, and said to Maria, "We have to make some phone calls."

  "Fine," replied Maria.

  Frankie looked up. "Everything OK?"

  "No. Don't wait for us. We'll be back as soon as we can."

  With that, we marched across the dining room. I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it to Carter. "Call Kenneth and tell him to get Bobby out to the airport. Then call up to Captain Kilkenny's room and tell him to get his crew out there immediately. If Bobby and Peggy have passports, tell the captain to take them to Bermuda."

  "Why no
t England? What about money?" Carter asked.

  "Wherever. Just get them the hell outta here. Better yet, go up to the room and grab twenty grand. That should be enough until they need more."

  By then we were standing in the lobby. Carter said, "I'll just take it to him and explain it up there. What are you gonna do?"

  "First, I'm gonna talk to the hotel manager. Then, I'm calling Mike. Then, a call to the Lebanon police about the man who runs the clothing store."

  Carter nodded. He was frowning. "This is bad."

  "I know."

  He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead in the middle of the busy lobby. Fortunately, no one noticed and, for that, I was glad.

  . . .

  Carter made his way up the stairs, taking two at a time. I walked over to the front desk where the red-headed woman with the gold pince-nez from the day before was standing.

  With a brisk smile, she said, "Good morning, Mr. Williams. How may I help you?"

  "I need to speak with the manager. It's important."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Mr. Wurther is busy this morning. Is there something I can help you with?"

  I shook my head. "Whatever he's busy with, this is more important." I leaned in and whispered, "The room is great. The service is great. The problem is that there's a man who's going around killing people who've crossed me."

  She stepped back, her eyes widened in surprise and shock. "Surely not?"

  I nodded. "Yes. He's crazy. And he just murdered a policeman in New Hampshire who was an asshole to me in a public place two days ago."

  She blanched. "That officer in Lebanon?"

  I nodded. "Get your manager. Right now."

  She nodded and quickly disappeared through the back door.

  I took a deep breath. As I did, Johnny walked up, shaking. "Did you see this, Nick?" He was pointing to the same paper I'd been reading.

  I nodded and said, "Yeah."

  "Do you think there's a connection?"

  "Yeah. And I know who it is."

  Johnny blinked. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why did he kill Sergeant McEnroe?"

  "Because he's nuts, that's why."

  Johnny shook his head. "No. Janet, the waitress at Henry's, told me that McEnroe was rude to you." His eyes widened in horror. "That's why, isn't it?"

  I nodded, gazing out into the lobby, unable to look at him. "Yeah."

  He asked, "What do we do?"

  "You don't do anything." I took a deep breath. "What I mean is that life is short, Johnny. Go find George. Wherever he is. And tell him that you fuckin' love him."

  I heard a man clear his throat. I looked up and saw that a well-dressed older man, somewhere north of 50, was standing behind the counter with an expression on his face that was a cross between horror and disapproval. I turned back to Johnny and said, "Go on." I pulled out my wallet, took out all the cash I had, and pushed it on him.

  He stepped back, shocked, and shook his head. "I don't want your money."

  I shook my head. "You and George get in your old Plymouth and go somewhere warm. Go on. Go pack your stuff. Get in your car. Go find the man you love and leave town." I raised my voice and barked. "Right now, John."

  He stepped back, stunned. He took the money and looked at it. "This is six or seven hundred dollars."

  I nodded. "When you get to wherever you're going, send me a telegram at my office in San Francisco and let me know where you are. Now go upstairs and get outta here."

  He nodded. Then, much to the surprise of the small crowd that had stopped to listen, he stepped forward and kissed me on the lips. "Good luck, Nick."

  I hugged him for a moment and said, "Thanks for everything, Johnny. Go."

  He pulled back amid the disgusted mutterings of the onlookers and then ran through the lobby and up the elegant staircase.

  I turned, with my head down and not looking at the manager, and walked around the desk.

  The man sputtered, "Mr. Williams!"

  I grabbed him by the arm, pulled him forcibly through the door, and slammed it closed.

  We were in a short hallway that led to a door at the end and had a couple of doors on either side. Still holding him, I said, "Which is your office?"

  He wrested him arm away. "Maybe I should call the police."

  I nodded. "You should definitely call the police. In the meantime, I'm gonna tell you why. Where's your office?"

  He stood there for a long moment before saying, "Follow me."

  . . .

  "I need you to make a long distance call to San Francisco."

  "What?" he asked as he stood behind his desk.

  "I need to talk to the president of my company and let him know what's going on. While I tell him, you can listen in. That'll tell you more than you wanna know, to be honest. But we don't have a lotta time here." I picked up the phone and handed it to him.

  He slowly took the receiver while looking at me in disbelief. After a moment, he said, "Good morning, Kathryn. Can you connect me to the long distance operator?" He paused and looked down. "To Suite 600." After another long moment, he said, "I need to call San Francisco." He frowned, opened his mouth, and then just handed the phone to me.

  I said, "The number is Prospect 7-7777."

  A thickly-accented female voice said, "One moment."

  As we waited, I looked around to see if the hotel manager had any cigarettes.

  He asked, "Do you need a pencil?"

  I shook my head. "Cigarette."

  He nodded. "I should imagine. I only smoke Craven A."

  I shrugged and pulled out my lighter with my left hand.

  He opened the box, shook it, and offered it to me.

  Holding the lighter in the palm of my hand, I took the first willing one and put it in my mouth. Right then, I heard Mike pick up the phone. "Hello?"

  "Mike, it's Nick."

  "Hi. How's—"

  "He's here."

  "How do you know?"

  "Take a look at the paper. A police sergeant who crossed us in Lebanon, New Hampshire, got shot through the head yesterday. The suspect was swarthy and short."

  Mike was quiet for a moment and then said, "Tell me what you're doing first since you've probably had coffee. That'll give me time to think."

  I laughed briefly and said, "Sheriff Ed up in Grafton has two sons down here. One is Ken and the other is Bobby. We got on great with Ken. Bobby was having some trouble and was very loud about it. Carter's arranging for the Connie to take him and his wife out of the country as soon as possible."

  "Where to?"

  I had a sudden thought. I looked over at the hotel manager. "What's the phone number here?"

  He frowned. "Kirkland 4800."

  I said to Mike. "Go down to the manager's office and wake her up. What's her name?"

  "Mrs. Lu."

  "Right. Wake her up. Tell her Robert said to do so." He was my property manager and Mrs. Lu's boss. Mike lived in one of my buildings. "Then use her phone to call here. Got a pencil?"

  Mike sighed. "I'm way ahead of you. Go ahead."

  "Cambridge, Mass. Kirkland 4800. Ask for—"

  The hotel manager interrupted me. "Tell him to ask for Mr. Smith, the manager."

  I relayed that to Mike. Once he'd hung up, I handed the phone back to Mr. Wurther, who put the receiver on its cradle.

  "Smith?" I asked.

  He nodded. "It's a kind of emergency code. The operators know not to ask any questions."

  I smiled. "Smart."

  "I didn't believe Mrs. Kalinsky at first. But, are you seriously saying that there is someone who's killing people who are mean to you?"

  I nodded. "He's crazy. He's also a very talented gun for hire who does jobs all over the country for any mob client who'll hire him. In San Francisco, he's known as The Kid."

  "This sounds like a movie."

  "I know. We were friends in school. Something's snapped in him and he's slippery. He's had years of learning how not to get caught."
>
  "Why did you have your employee change phones?"

  "Because it suddenly occurred to me that he might have access to taps that the F.B.I. has been doing on our phones."

  Mr. Wurther looked outraged. "That's preposterous! They would never—"

  I held out my hands. "I know. And I don't mean the Bureau. We know there are three rogue agents in the San Francisco office who've been trying to trap me and my employees in certain blackmail schemes for almost two years."

  "Why?"

  I smiled, realizing the unlit cigarette was still hanging out of my mouth. I didn't much like the taste of it but I realized I'd dropped my lighter back into my coat pocket so I fished for it while I talked. "Because I'm Notorious Nick, the most infamous homosexual since Oscar Wilde."

  The man shook his head. Right then, the phone rang. He quickly picked it up. "Yes?"

  As I put the unlit cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, he handed the receiver to me. "It's your man."

  "Mike?"

  "Yeah. Mrs. Lu wants to talk to you."

  I sighed. "Fine."

  After a moment a woman asked, "Is this really Mr. Evans?"

  "No, Mrs. Lu, this is Mr. Williams."

  "Oh," she said shortly. I heard her hand the phone back.

  "Nick?"

  "Yeah."

  "So, where?"

  "Bermuda or maybe England."

  "England would be better. Harder to get into."

  "Yeah. But Captain Kilkenny knows what he's doing. He'll find the right place."

  "So, you think those agents—"

  "I don't know. But it would explain why he knew to go to Lebanon."

  "True. I keep hoping it's not one of us."

  "He's not back in town, is he?"

  "No. I called Andy. He's on duty, managing the eyes and ears, and they've not seen hide nor hair of him since he left Monday evening."

  "So, what else do we do?" I asked.

  "You need to call the Lebanon police and tell them what you know."