The Paradoxical Parent (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 13)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "That's on my list. The man who runs the local men's store might be next."

  He was quiet for a moment. "I could hire agents there in Boston but what you really need to do is to keep doing what you were doing. Keep Maria and Frankie with you and let them know what's happening. Frankie's been on the surveillance team, so he knows the story. If you're all keeping your eyes open, you might catch him."

  "I dunno. He seems to be able to go where he wants to go without being seen."

  "Yeah, but didn't you say there was a witness?"

  "There was."

  "Was their name mentioned in the paper?"

  "I dunno. I only got through the first paragraph." I had another thought. "Look, we had a lotta trouble in Lebanon. It might be better if you called their police chief so you can talk cop-to-cop. You have that pencil with you?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Janet was the waitress at Henry's diner. She sent us around the corner a couple of blocks to buy winter clothes. Had the guy open early. By the time we got there, he knew who I was and made a big scene. I don't remember his name or the name of his store. But he's the one I'm worried about."

  "What about in Vermont?"

  "I'll call the sheriff in Grafton. He needs to hear about this from me."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Tell ya later. That's a whole other conversation."

  "Sounds like it. Be safe. Get home as soon as you can. At least if he's here, we can keep a closer eye on him."

  "Right. Thanks, Mike."

  "Sure thing. I love you, Nick."

  I laughed. "Same to you, slugger."

  I could hear him laughing as he hung up the phone on his end. I handed the phone back to Mr. Wurther, who put the receiver on its cradle and looked at me thoughtfully.

  "So, these rogue agents that you mentioned. You think they're helping out this madman?"

  I nodded. "Could be. But, to be fair, they probably don't know who he is."

  Mr. Wurther cleared his throat. "How much longer will you be with us?"

  "There's one thing I have to do before we leave, so probably one night."

  He crossed his arms and looked down at his desk. "Normally, I would ask you to leave the hotel but then, somehow, this madman might misinterpret my actions."

  I nodded. "I'm very sorry about all this, Mr. Wurther."

  "What's your long game, Mr. Williams?"

  "Long game?"

  "How are you going to handle this?"

  I nodded. "I don't really know. It seems like there's only one option. We have to bring him down."

  The hotel manager tilted his head to the side. "And you think you have to pull the trigger?"

  "That's the long and short of it."

  "Well, young man, if I may offer a word of advice."

  "Sure."

  "Sometimes you have to let the things you have no control over just play themselves out. When you're dealing with a madman, you can't really outwit him, since you don't know all of his motivations. But what you can do is watch your own step and, it would seem to me, get home as soon as you can. I don't say that for my own part, but for yours. I suspect that, if there's going to be some sort of shoot-out at the OK Corral, it will happen in San Francisco, not Boston. That's where he'll likely be most off his guard."

  I nodded, somewhat surprised. "Military intelligence?"

  "I really couldn't say, Mr. Williams." He walked around his desk and opened the office door. As we walked, he said, "Let me escort you to the front desk where I will ask you, if you would, to publicly embrace Mrs. Kalinsky and then myself. For once, it seems that a hug and a kiss on the cheek might be the best form of protection there is."

  I nodded as he opened the door to the lobby.

  . . .

  Carter was just getting off the phone when I walked into the suite. He stood, walked over, and pulled me into a long embrace. It felt good to just stand there with my face against his chest and not do anything for a while. Finally, I asked, "What happened with Bobby?"

  "That kid must be related to Ferdinand. He has a huge chip on his shoulder. Ken finally convinced him and Peggy to go. He even drove over to their house to make sure they did and he's driving them to the airport. That was him I was talking to. They were just leaving."

  "Where are they going?"

  "Captain Kilkenny says that the best place to go is Cuba."

  "Cuba?" I asked, with alarm. "Does he know that we're talking about The Kid?"

  Carter nodded. "That's why he wants to go to Cuba. There's so much mob activity down there that the heart of Havana is the safest place to be. It might interest you to know that the captain has some sort of mob connection."

  "Doesn't surprise me."

  "So, he said he and the other crew will watch out for Bobby and Peggy. Meanwhile, they'll all be able to work on their tans."

  I leaned into Carter's chest and said, "We have to kill him."

  "I know, Boss." He stroked the back of my head soothingly but I didn't feel any the better for it.

  Chapter 9

  Longwood Medical Building

  319 Longwood Ave, Room 722

  Boston, Mass.

  Thursday, March 10, 1955

  Just past 10 in the morning

  Frankie and Maria were somehow able to pull themselves together. By the time the cab dropped us off on Longwood Avenue in Boston, they both looked like they might be almost recovered. I wondered if they had finally resorted to the hair of the dog, but neither of them smelled like booze, so I guessed they had some other way of recovering. Whatever it was, it was close to a miracle.

  . . .

  Carter opened the door with a sign for "Dr. Sidney Farber" and the four of us boldly entered the small office. I was expecting to find a waiting room and a nurse. Instead, there was a very startled woman who was listening to a Dictaphone machine and typing the dictation given by a male voice. She stopped the playback and looked up, asking, "Who are you?"

  I walked forward. "I'm sorry to bother the doctor, but there's an urgent matter I need to ask him about."

  "Dr. Farber is in New York today at a conference. He only consults across the street at the Boston Children's Hospital. You have to make an appointment with them. May I give you their phone number?"

  I shook my head. "No. It's about a deceased patient. Alexandra Williams." As soon as I said my mother's name, the woman froze.

  "I'm sorry, the doctor never talks about his cases with anyone."

  "Not even if she was my mother?"

  "Are you Nick?" She put her hand to her mouth and then said, "Of course you are. Why didn't I ever notice how much you look like her? I've seen your photograph in the newspaper a couple of times. I just never put two and two together." She looked at me closely. "Yes, you are her son." She smiled. "You have chocolate milk eyes, just like she did."

  Carter put his hand on my shoulder as I stood there nodding, unable to speak. Finally, he asked, "So, you knew Mrs. Williams?"

  She looked up at him and sat back in her chair. "And you must be Mr. Jones." As I watched her face, I could see all sorts of conflict going on in her mind. I didn't know if it was about who Carter was in relation to me or whether it was about the propriety of talking about my mother's case.

  Maria walked around Carter and said, "I'm Maria Vasco. I work for Nick and Carter and I've been trying to find out what happened to Mrs. Williams. Mrs. Brown, isn't it? You're the next step in our investigation."

  The woman nodded. "Of course." She stood and smoothed her skirt. "And, I'm afraid, I'm your last stop."

  Maria asked, "Is there nothing you can tell us, then?"

  The woman took out a handkerchief from under her sweater sleeve and dabbed her eyes. "Oh no, my dear. I'll tell you everything. It's just that"—she sniffed—"I know how the story ends."

  . . .

  Frankie and Maria had gone to get coffee at the shop in the building lobby. While we waited, Mrs. Brown asked Carter to bring in some chairs from Dr. Farber's office. The out
er office, where she sat, only had a long sofa and her desk chair, which I pulled from behind her desk. Carter walked in with one padded chair, covered in green leather, and then returned shortly with a second one.

  Once Mrs. Brown sat down in her chair, we did the same on the sofa. She smiled at me. "I'm still quite surprised I never noticed how much you resemble your mother. It's those newspaper photographs, no doubt. And I do think they try to make you appear as lurid as possible." She looked between the two of us. "It's strange. I didn't realize that you were Alexandra's son, but I've often worried about the two of you. When I saw that you were in jail near San Francisco, I went to the church and lit some candles on your behalf." She sighed and shook her head. "Your eyes are what most remind me of your mother. So soft and so kind."

  I smiled, not knowing what to say to any of that. Finally, Carter asked, "Have you worked for Dr. Farber for very long?"

  "Oh, yes. Almost since the beginning in 1931. At first, I didn't realize what kind of work he was doing and how important it was. And then, when I found out he was a Jew, I went to my parish priest and asked him about whether I should continue to work for the man. Fortunately, Father Karl talked some sense into me and reminded me that our Lord was a Jew and how the doctor's work was all that mattered, even if he were a Negro." She smiled. "I'm afraid my father had all the old ideas about colors and classes and I took them on." She leaned over and looked at me in the eye. "But, your mother was never like that, Mr. Williams." She shook her head firmly. "I never once heard her say a single thing that wasn't full of charity."

  Right then, Frankie and Maria walked in with a cardboard tray of coffee cups. Once those had been handed out and they were seated, Maria asked, "How did you meet Mrs. Williams?"

  Mrs. Brown frowned for a moment. "Oh, yes, I remember. She came to Boston in the summer of 1946. It seems to me that a friend of hers in Vermont had recommended Dr. Farber to her. He normally only treats children, you see, but somehow she convinced him to run some tests." She took a sip of her coffee. "I've never consulted the doctor, so I've no idea of his bedside manner, but he came away from his consultation with her thoroughly charmed, which doesn't surprise me now. I..." She paused and looked up at the ceiling. "I remember her first visit and then, it seems, she made several short trips down here by train in the fall of 1946 and through the winter and the spring of 1947. I remember how concerned Dr. Farber was. She was, I believe, his only adult patient. I could be wrong. But, of course, she couldn't stay across the street so she stayed down the street at the Lying-In Hospital, even though that's usually for maternity cases. They made an exception for her."

  Maria asked, "I understand she came to Boston for good in August of 1947."

  Mrs. Brown nodded. "That's when I really got to know her. She was going to a naturopath—"

  "A what?" asked Carter.

  "A naturopath. I don't know who referred her to Dr. Wilkins. It certainly wasn't Dr. Farber. But he made her better for a while."

  "Was he some sort of quack?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. A quack would claim to heal her cancer. Dr. Farber had already told her there was nothing he could do. It was quite tragic. But then, for about six months, she seemed to get better. I remember her saying one night that she knew it was temporary. Even the naturopath told her that his treatments were feeding the cancer as much as anything else."

  "How was it that you became friends?" asked Maria.

  "Oh, well, Alexandra was quite involved in helping us raise money. This was before The Jimmy Fund started." She looked around at the four of us. "I'm sure you are aware that Dr. Farber's work is now almost fully funded through those donations."

  We all nodded.

  "She had quite a head for organization and, while all of her work was behind the scenes, it was tremendous. And then, when she died, Dr. Farber found out that she'd donated a very large amount to his research efforts."

  "When did she die?" asked Maria.

  "Let's see. In May of 1948, I believe. I don't know the exact date. But we all went to the funeral. It was lovely. Not a large gathering. Only those of us who knew her from our work with Dr. Farber and a few acquaintances from Dennis. That was where she lived after she left Vermont. It's down on Cape Cod." She sighed and slowly shook her head. "I never understood it, but she refused to let us contact you." She put her handkerchief to her eyes again. "I really think we should have, but Dr. Farber said that it was the sort of thing that we would have to follow if the money was to be released."

  "That was in her will?" I asked.

  She nodded. "I never saw the will but the lawyers who came here from Dennis, they were very specific about it. Again, I didn't talk to them, but they met with Dr. Farber." She frowned. "Oh, yes. I do remember one thing. We had to sign some sort of paper agreeing not to contact anyone about her death. There were five of us who had to sign it, if I remember. Only then was the money released. I thought it was very strange. But, then again, I knew the whole story and, in a way, I understood."

  Maria quietly asked, "What whole story?"

  "Oh, about how she went to Mexico and then got so much better and how it turned out that woman who was the housekeeper was poisoning her and how her husband was involved."

  I could feel all the blood drain out of my face. "Whose husband?"

  Mrs. Brown looked at me for a moment with a concerned frown. "Oh, I thought you would have known. Alexandra's husband. Your father."

  . . .

  Dennis was about a hundred miles away or more, or so Mrs. Brown thought. After scanning her phone book, we quickly found a local Hertz Rent-A-Car desk. Once we got there, I showed them the card that Marnie had given me a few years ago and we were soon set up in a big '55 Lincoln Capri sedan. We headed out of town on Highway 3 and stopped outside Plymouth at a roadside joint by the name of The Gobble Good and ordered up some hamburger sandwiches and Cokes to quickly eat in the car. While the food was being cooked, I eased out of the front seat. I hadn't said anything since we'd left the Hertz place. I'd been seething and trying to stay calm all the way, but it wasn't working.

  Carter, who was behind the steering wheel, did the same and followed me to the phone booth that was right by the highway.

  I opened the door and tried to close it behind me.

  Putting his big hand against the glass, Carter said, "Nope. Whoever you're about to call, I'm going to stand right here and listen. You can holler and carry on all you want, son, but I ain't lettin' you talk to your father until we see that lawyer."

  I looked up at him. I picked up the receiver and then banged it on the phone a couple of times in anger. "Fine." I took a deep breath and then picked up the receiver again and dialed zero.

  The operator came on. I asked for long distance. She connected me. I asked to make a collect call to the office in San Francisco. Marnie answered. I asked for Mike. She asked if I was alright. I told her to get me Mike, goddammit, and she did.

  "What's wrong, Nick?" he asked.

  "We just met with a woman who knew my mother at the very end and she just said that my father was in on the poisoning."

  Mike didn't say anything for a moment.

  "Are you still there?" I asked.

  "Yeah. Do you have any proof?"

  "No, I don't have any goddam proof! But why would this nice little old lady who loved my mother say something terrible like that? Why, Mike, why?"

  "I don't know, Nick. Take a deep breath."

  "I don't wanna take a goddam deep breath. I wanna kill my fucking father!"

  Carter put his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off and turned away from him. He put it back anyway, and on my neck that time. The warmth of his hand felt better, somehow.

  "Why would he do that?" I said into the phone.

  "Maybe he didn't."

  "How can you, of all people, take his side?" I was beginning to cry.

  "I'm not taking anyone's side other than yours, like I've always done. Where are you?"

 
"At some roadside burger joint in Plymouth. We're on our way to see the lawyers."

  "What lawyers?"

  "The ones who drew up her will."

  "Is Carter there?"

  "Yeah. But I ain't handing the phone to him so you two can talk about how fucked up I am."

  I could hear Mike sigh on the far end of the line, three thousand miles away. For whatever reason, that snapped me back to myself. "Damn it, Mike. I'm so sorry." The tears were flowing and they wouldn't stop. I looked down at the ground and could see patches of snow that hadn't melted yet and that were covered with dirt and soot. I suddenly wondered how long it would be before there would be any spring flowers. That made me remember the cherry trees that Ferdinand had set up in the garden and suddenly I was worried about whether he and Gustav were fighting.

  I turned and looked up at Carter. "I wanna go home."

  He nodded with a face full of concern while Mike said, "Come home, Nick. We love you and want you here."

  I sighed. "I will. Just as soon as we see the lawyers."

  "Now can I talk to Carter?"

  "Sure. I love you, Mike."

  "I love you, too."

  I handed the phone to Carter and then ducked under his arm. I pulled out my handkerchief, blew my nose, and wiped my eyes. I walked along the side of the road for a few minutes, mindlessly watching the cars drive by. After a while, I happened to look down and, to my surprise, I saw a small purple flower poking out through a patch of grime-covered snow.

  . . .

  We arrived in Dennis at half past 4. It was a quaint town. All the buildings were low-slung affairs. The lawyer's office was in what looked like a refurbished old house that might have been two hundred years old. It wasn't much more than a cottage and it was right on the main road that led into town, Highway 6.

  As we pushed open the door, I could smell the combination of a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. A young woman was sitting at a desk, a lit cigarette in her mouth, typing away and didn't look up. Maria walked forward and got in the gal's line of sight.

  She looked up, startled. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in." Her accent sounded like she was from the Midwest. "How can I help you?"