by Lois Winston
"I've already gone through everything several times, but be my guest. Maybe you'll discover something I missed."
But after an hour of looking through dozens of cyber and paper files, prying into every nook and cranny of the workshop, sifting on hands and knees through every drawer and bin, not a clue to Emil Pachette's whereabouts turned up. "What about his apartment?" I asked.
Once again Gina hesitated, glancing at Erica before she answered. "He's not there. I checked."
"You have a key?" asked Cloris.
"Emil keeps a spare set locked in the filing cabinet. When he didn't show up for work yesterday and didn't answer his phone or cell, I decided to check for myself. I thought he might be ill."
"Did you look for any clues as to where he might have gone?" I asked.
Her chin shot up. Her cheeks flushed to near purple. She backed up until her rump banged into the corner of the sewing machine cabinet, spilling a plastic container of straight pins onto the hardwood floor. "I didn't snoop through his things," she cried.
In my mind I heard Ralph squawking, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Hamlet. Act Three, Scene Two"
"We're not accusing you of snooping," snapped Cloris.
"We're here to help," added Erica. She crossed the room and placed a hand on her cousin's forearm. "Why don't we all go over to Emil's apartment and take a look? Maybe we'll find a clue."
Gina mulled the idea over for a moment before agreeing. "Maybe that's a good idea," she said as she shrugged out of her work smock and tossed it on the cutting table. She crossed the room to the desk and removed a worn leather shoulder bag from the bottom drawer. After fishing around in her purse for a set of keys, she grabbed a navy pea coat hanging from a clothes tree near the entrance, then flipped off the lights and opened the door.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I asked.
She glanced around the room. "I don't think so."
"What about the keys to Emil's apartment?"
Gina's cheeks once again flamed as red as a neon bar sign. The girl blushed as much as a heroine in a Barbara Cartland romance novel. Her fist tightened around the ring of keys in her hand. "I have them."
"On your key ring?" asked Cloris.
Gina threw back her shoulders and jutted out her chin. "I forgot to put them back in the filing cabinet. Is that a crime?"
With Gina focused on Cloris, I shot Cloris a back-off-I-needher-cooperation-to-clear-me look.
"Of course not," I said in my best reassuring tone. "I'll bet you've been totally distracted with worry. I know I would be"
She offered me a shy smile that I suspected was meant to throw off my suspicions. I smiled back, letting her think I bought into her act. Gina definitely knew more than she was divulging.
Fifteen minutes later, the four of us stood inside Emil Pachette's cramped third-floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen. A quick perusal of the studio apartment revealed someone had left in a hurry. Halfemptied dresser drawers were pulled open, clothes strewn across the bed and on the floor. An open box of Frosted Flakes lay on the table. Dirty dishes filled the sink.
I turned to Gina. "Did the apartment look like this yesterday?"
"Yes"
"No toothbrush," said Cloris, peaking out from the closet-sized bathroom.
I walked over to the desk and rifled through the mail. "Bills. Utilities. Cable. Phone" I lifted the pages of the phone bill and scanned the list of long-distance calls. "Where is Emil from originally?" I asked Gina.
"Paris"
I studied the bill further. "You sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure. Most of his family still live there."
"Have you ever met any of them?"
"No. Emil's parents are afraid to fly. Especially after September 11th. They don't even want him flying home to visit them."
"So he speaks with them regularly?"
Gina sat down on the edge of a slightly tattered nubby cocoa and tan herringbone loveseat. She picked up a saffron-and-celerycolored toss pillow laying to her left and wove the fringe through her fingers as she spoke. "Quite often. He calls his parents at least once a week."
"From the office?"
"No" She continued to fidget the fringe, pouting at the pillow as she spoke. "Emil never makes personal calls from the office phone."
"Then how do you know he speaks with his parents?" asked Cloris.
Gina tossed the pillow aside and glared at Cloris. "Because he tells me."
"So what do you think?" asked Cloris after we left Emil's apartment. We had forced ourselves into an already over-packed subway car headed back to Penn Station. There are few experiences in life equal to full body contact with total strangers on a New York subway, but if we didn't catch the last rush hour train to Morris County, we'd have an hour's wait for the next one.
"I think Emil has Gina and everyone else bamboozled," I said as the train came to a halt and we fell out onto the platform.
Now that my arms were no longer pinned to my sides, I glanced at my watch. We had less than five minutes to race through the underground maze connecting the subway system to New Jersey Transit.
"What do you mean?" asked Erica, trying to keep up with the jogging pace Cloris and I set. I slowed a tad. Poor Erica probably wished she could wave a magic wand and transform those strappy burgundy suede Jimmy Choos into her broken-in Doc Martens.
"If that man's from France, I'm from Venus."
"Want to explain?" asked Cloris.
Ahead of us, I saw the Now Boarding sign flashing above the steps to our platform. I waited to answer until we had raced down the steps and onto the train.
"According to his phone bill," I said, collapsing into the first available three-person bench seat, "Emil Pachette didn't call Paris once last month."
Erica's eyes widened as she gulped in a few deep breaths. "But Gina said he calls his parents at least once a week. Why would he lie to her about that?"
"He didn't."
"But you just said-"
"I said he didn't call Paris, but he did phone Horse Thief Falls, Minnesota, nine times. I think Emil Pachette is a big phony."
"So?" said Cloris. She unbuttoned her coat and fanned herself with the beret she had pulled off her head. "Lots of people create new personas for themselves in order to advance their careers. It might be unethical, but it's not necessarily illegal. Or a motive for murder."
"Maybe. Maybe not," I said, unbuttoning my own coat. New Jersey Transit had two temperature settings on their trains-Hell and Siberia. Thanks to my participation in the subway marathon, Hell had graduated to hotter-than-Hell.
"What are you getting at?" she asked.
"Think about it. We're all assuming Marlys had adopted Emil as her next pet project."
"She practically announced it at the staff meeting Monday morning," said Erica.
"We all know Marlys never did anything that didn't benefit Marlys first and foremost. What would she get out of promoting a questionable fashion talent like Emil Pachette?"
Having seen his work, I had little doubt the mediocre designer would eventually wind up as an assistant buyer for moderately priced women's wear at Macy's. "What if that was a ruse to cover up her true intentions?"
"Of course!" cried Cloris.
"What?" asked Erica, glancing first toward Cloris, then shifting her attention to me.
Jessica Fletcher, move over. It may have taken me a bit longer than an hour, but I had figured out whodunit. "Somehow, Marlys discovered Emil's true identity. Marlys being Marlys, she decided to blackmail him, but she got more than she bargained for"
It all made perfect sense. "Knowing he had little choice," I explained, "Emil agreed to the blackmail. He then probably came up with some pretext to get Marlys back to the office Monday night. Once there, he pulled out a bottle of Merlot. When Marlys wasn't looking, he doctored her glass. And the rest, as they say, is Murder She Wrote-or in this case, Murder He Glued.
On the way home from the office, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the displ
ay. This time I recognized the number. Zachary Barnes. What could he want? My brain zeroed in on the obvious. He'd had second thoughts about leaving Manhattan and was pulling out of the rental agreement.
Wasn't there some law that allowed for reneging from a signed contract within two or three days? Shit and double-shit. I'd already spent his deposit check on some of my own bills. Now what?
I answered the phone, expecting to hear the worst. "Hello?"
"Hi, it's Zack Barnes. I'm back from New Mexico and was wondering if I could drop by sometime tonight to do a bit of measuring.
I couldn't help myself; I let loose with a huge laugh of relief.
"Something funny?"
"Just one very over-active imagination," I said. "I was worried you were calling to pull out."
"Never. That apartment is perfect for me. So do you mind?"
"I had a late day at the office. I'm on my way home now. Come whenever it's convenient for you."
"Great. And by the way, Anastasia... "
"Yes."
"You'll find I'm a man of my word. I don't go around screwing people."
Sure, I once thought the same of Karl. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me? From now on my skepticism ran deep.
I arrived home after nine, tired and hungry, but relieved that I no longer had to worry about Batswin and Robbins pinning a murder rap on me-or Zachary Barnes pulling out of the rental. My newly elevated comfort level lasted only until I pulled into the driveway and my headlights spotlighted the broken basement window.
MY HEART RACED AS I grabbed my cell phone and called the house. One ring. Two rings. I had no idea if the intruder was still inside. Three rings.
"Hello?"
"Nick, is everything okay?"
He laughed. "Kind of depends on your definition of okay, doesn't it, Mom?"
Was this a hint of a problem? "What do you mean?"
"Well, the Grandmas are accusing each other of plotting the world's destruction, as usual. Mephisto and Catherine the Great are circling each other like two cocks about to spar, as usual. And Ralph is squawking play-by-play, as usual. So I guess nothing's really okay, but it's pretty much normal for here, right?"
"Right"
"Where are you?" he asked.
"In the driveway."
"Huh?"
"I'll explain in a minute." After placing a call to the Westfield police, I shut off the engine and headed for the back door.
As much as I had hoped the broken window was the result of a stray baseball, the evidence proved otherwise. Someone had definitely broken into my house. Again. Large, muddy footprints led from the top of the washing machine, which sat directly under the cellar window, across the laundry room, through the basement, and up the stairs.
Of course neither the boys nor their grandmothers had noticed-let alone cleaned up-the dirt that was tracked across the kitchen floor and ground into the dining room and living room carpets.
"Anything missing?" asked Fogarty when he and Harley arrived five minutes later.
"Not that I can see," I said.
Unlike the previous break-in, the house hadn't been trashed. Otherwise, I would have immediately suspected Ricardo. However, like last time, the intruder had left undisturbed both the few pieces of good jewelry I owned, and the electronics and computer equipment.
This made two break-ins in twenty-four hours with nothing taken. And that sent a sub-zero wind chill coursing up my spine and through my veins. Was the burglar looking for something very specific, or were we dealing with some creep playing a perverted game? Did all of this have something to do with Karl's secret life? Were there more unsavory things I had yet to learn about my husband? More unsavory associates of his waiting to pounce on me and my family?
"And no one saw or heard anything?" asked Harley, his stub of a pencil poised over his spiral-bound pocket notepad.
"Heard you of nothing strange about the streets? Antony and Cleopatra. Act Four, Scene Three."
Harley jumped at the sound of Ralph squawking his two cents worth of Shakespeare, then forced a chuckle to mask his embarrassment. "Forgot about him," he muttered, shaking his head.
"That's one damn smart bird," said Fogarty. "Ever think of putting him in show business?"
"He only speaks when the mood strikes him," I said, watching Ralph swoop from one lampshade across the room to another, where he had a better bead on Catherine the Great. The haughty feline paused from grooming her privates to bestow a disdainful glare on Ralph.
"Too bad he can't tell us what he saw." Harley turned his attention to the boys. "How about you guys? See or hear anything?"
Nick and Alex shook their heads. "We didn't get home until after five," said Alex. "I was at the library."
"I had basketball practice," said Nick.
Fogarty turned to Mama and Lucille. "What about you ladies?"
Lucille, clutching a growling Mephisto to her chest, glowered at Fogarty as if he had just accused her of voting for Ronald Reagan. Twice. "I was out all day. And I have plenty of witnesses."
Fogarty and Harley exchanged odd glances but neither commented. Fogarty backed away a step or two but kept a leery eye on Mephisto.
Harley continued his questioning. "And you, ma'am?" he asked Mama.
She tossed her head back and finger-fluffed a lock of newly cut and colored hair with her freshly polished French manicure. "Not while I was home," she said in a perfect imitation of Liz Taylor's seductive little girl voice, "but I did spend several hours at that day spa on Elm this afternoon." Then she batted her mascara-coated eyelashes at him.
Poor Seamus O'Keefe was still warm in his coffin, but that didn't stop Mama, the quintessential flirt, in her quest for Husband Number Six-even if Officer Harley was nearly young enough to be her son.
I stole a quick glance at the third finger of his pudgy left hand. No wedding band, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.
I thought about warning him, but if Mama hooked him as a Seamus replacement, I'd have one less headache-not to mention bruiseless legs. So I kept quiet. Every woman to herself. Besides, all's fair in love and war, and Officer Harley looked quite capable of taking care of himself.
Harley scrubbed at his jaw, apparently immune or unaware of Mama's seductive charms. "That's when the perp must've struck. Maybe he heard you come home and high-tailed it out before he could grab anything or do any damage."
He turned to me. "This may or may not be the same guy as last time. We've had a rash of burglaries in the area over the past few days and not much in the way of clues."
"Similar to mine where the house is trashed but nothing taken?"
"No, that's the odd part of this. All the other homes reported items missing."
"And none of them were tossed the way yours was yesterday," said Fogarty. "We've beefed up patrols in the neighborhood, but if I were you, Mrs. Pollack, I'd think about getting an alarm system installed"
Sure, with the one hundred thirty-seven dollars and fifty-three cents left in my checking account. "I'll consider it," I said as I walked Fogarty and Harley to the door.
"The cops in this town are a waste of taxpayer money," muttered Lucille after I closed the door behind the officers. "Those two are no different from all the rest. Only interested in harassing honest, hard-working people."
I suspected her comment had something to do with the jaywalking ticket she'd received the day before. You'd think after nearly getting herself killed jaywalking across Queens Boulevard several months ago, my mother-in-law would have learned her lesson. Not Lucille. She expected the world and all its traffic to stop whenever she stepped off a curb. Intersection or no intersection. Green light or red.
Mephisto bared his teeth and growled in agreement of her assessment of Westfield's finest.
That did it. I was tired, hungry, cranky, and pre-menstrual, and that poor excuse for a dog was a convenient target.
I spun around, baring my own pearly whites. "Some watchdog you
are. If you want your daily dose of kibble, you'd better start pulling your weight around here. I can't afford you and an alarm system."
He answered me with a king-of-the-jungle snarl. Too bad he acted like the Cowardly Lion. Instead of behaving like other members of his species and chewing the intruder's tibialis and gastrocnemius into mincemeat, the yellow-bellied chicken of a dog had probably hidden under a bed at the first sound of breaking glass.
Lucille's face hardened. Her eyes narrowed. The purple veins on both sides of her forehead throbbed to attention. "He's not a watchdog," she said, "and now you've gone and upset him!"
With one arm still clutching Mephisto to her bosom, she shuffled down the hall, her cane echoing her anger as she pounded it on the hardwood.
I refrained from growling back at both of them.
I'd spent all of last night cleaning up from the last break-in with little help from the rest of my family. Everyone had had a handy excuse. Lucille cited her recent injuries, Mama managed to come down with a convenient migraine, and both boys had tests to study for and homework assignments due the next day.
Tonight I was accepting no excuses. After handing Mama the carpet cleaner and ordering the boys to wash the kitchen floor, stairs, cellar floor, and top of the washing machine, I grabbed my keys and coat to head for Home Depot.
"What about Grandmother Lucille?" asked Nick.
"Yeah, how come she doesn't have to help?" asked Alex.
"Because if she got down on her hands and knees to scrubnot that she would-it would take the four of us to haul her back up. Besides, between her poor eyesight and rotten attitude, we'd only have to redo whatever she did."
I left to the sound of grumbling complaints. You'd think I'd asked them to clean the floors of Grand Central Station with a toothbrush. Maybe it was time I came clean to my sons and told them the bitter truth of our situation.
I'd totally forgotten about Zachary Barnes until I arrived home to find him sitting at my kitchen table with Mama, Alex, and Nick. For two smart kids, mine sure act like a couple of nincompoops sometimes. As for Mama, her common sense disappeared sometime between her Periwinkle and Ramirez stints and hasn't been seen or heard from since.
