“Do you have a daddy?” Blondie asked, impatient for an answer. Her first question had stymied Martin, and there was no telling how long he had stood there, allowing the question to hang in the air, before the girl had asked her follow-up. But this question forced Martin into action.
It was time to go.
“Look at the time,” Martin said, glancing at his wrist. “I have to run.” And just that quickly, Martin felt in control of his movements once again. Dodging a question was a strategy that Martin employed quite often. Finally his training had kicked in.
“Okay,” the girl said with disappointment filling her face.
“Well,” Martin replied apologetically, “I’ve got to find Sandy, right?”
“Can I help?” the girl asked, leaping up from the picnic table in excitement.
“Sure you can,” Martin replied, firmly in control of the situation now. And speaking without the accent, he noticed. “But you’ll have to ask your mum, okay? Run along and ask her if it’s all right, and I’ll wait here for you.”
Without answering, Blondie turned and sprinted for the door of Mr. and Mrs. Matching Volkswagen, faster than Martin would have expected. As soon as she turned the corner and passed from view, Martin turned and began jogging back in the direction of his car, using a slightly faster pace than normal. Before Blondie had even entered the neighboring house, Martin was well up the street and out of view.
Once back inside his car, Martin permitted himself a few minutes to regroup. First he allowed himself to relax, waiting for the quiver in his hands to subside and his breathing to return to normal. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Yet the pride that he had been feeling from his experience in the Clayton household was beginning to suffuse this situation as well. Though he had blundered badly, he once again had managed to escape unscathed.
Next he took a moment to retrace his steps, looking for any evidence that he might have left in Laura Green’s home. Though his escape had been harried and nearly disastrous, he was sure that the desk had been left in order and that the window had been returned to its original state. For a moment he wondered if Cujo had managed to tear any of his shirt loose, but a quick visual inspection showed that, although torn and slightly frayed, all the fabric seemed to be present.
Next he examined the clock on the dashboard. 4:11. He would need to be in West Hartford before 5:00 if he wanted any chance of success. That might be tough. Traffic through the capital city was often bumper-to-bumper at this time of day, and if this were the case, he didn’t have any time to waste. Throwing his car into drive, he headed back down West Middle Turnpike and toward Interstate 84.
As he wound his way through traffic, Martin began rehearsing his lines, looking for a way to convey the necessary message in a realistic and natural way. He would have only one chance to nail this performance, and rarely had he found himself forced to perform under such pressure. Developing a mental script had always been easy for Martin. Words had always flowed naturally from his mind, and he was the master of internal dialogue. It was rare when he didn’t have a conversation of some sort running through his head. He was also quite adept at anticipating the responses of others and therefore often had rebuttals, retorts, and counterpoints at the ready. Though his contact with other people was somewhat limited beyond his exceptionally small circle of friends, he was quite the wordsmith.
Where Martin required more preparation was in his actual performances. He was by no means a natural actor, and so his prepared speeches often came across as unnatural and insincere. With a great deal of rehearsal, he had found he could sound believable, but in this case the only rehearsal he would have would take place while behind the wheel of his Subaru, darting between traffic. He found himself almost hoping that he wouldn’t make it to West Hartford on time, so that he wouldn’t be forced into an unprepared performance.
This ended up not being the case. At 4:42 Martin pulled into the parking lot at 50 South Main Street in West Hartford, the location of West Hartford’s town hall (as Martin had suspected). With time to spare before the 5:00 closing, Martin rehearsed his lines a few more times, trying to find the right combination of words and inflection. Still feeling unprepared but with no more time to spare, Martin climbed out of his car at 4:50 and headed for the front doors to the large brick building.
Martin had been inside this building before, for a variety of business including the payment of excise tax and the filing of his mother’s death certificate, but he wasn’t sure in which office Laura Green might be working. Stopping for a moment beside the directory, he quickly thought better and went over to the information desk, where he was informed by a blue-haired lady that he was looking for room 207 on the second floor. With no time to waste, Martin bypassed the elevators and took the stairs, two at a time.
West Hartford’s town hall had originally been constructed as a high school, and though decades had passed since the last student had roamed its halls, the building had nonetheless retained its institutional feel. Following signs, Martin was soon standing outside the door to room 207, marked with a sign stating TOWN CLERK.
His heart began to beat faster with the knowledge that Laura Green was likely behind this door.
Thankfully the hallway outside the town clerk’s office was empty, so Martin took a full minute to compose himself. He wasn’t sure what to expect once he entered the office, but he tried to steady his breathing and focus on the task at hand. One chance, he reminded himself. I’ve got just one chance to get this right.
At 4:54, Martin opened the door and entered the office of the town clerk. The room was larger than he had expected but customarily stale. To his immediate right, a high counter separated the public side of the office from the employees’ side, where three large desks were evenly spaced along the far wall. A woman was sitting behind each desk, head down, busy at work. Martin approached the counter, removed his wallet from his back pocket, and waited patiently to be acknowledged. A moment later a middle-aged woman looked up, smiled, and made her way over to Martin at the reception desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a pleasant and friendly tone.
Martin immediately wished that he had paid better attention to Laura Green’s voice as she had spoken on the Ashleys’ answering machine. He hadn’t expected there to be three women from which to choose, and he had no way of knowing if this was Laura Green. Had Cujo not attacked, he would have taken the time to locate a photograph of the woman somewhere in her home, but being restricted to the single room had made this impossible.
“Uh, yes please,” Martin responded, searching for a name tag on the woman’s purple blouse and finding none. “I need to have a copy of my driver’s license notarized.”
About four years ago, Jim had needed a notarized copy of his license in order to be paid for some out-of-state consulting that he had performed. Apparently the people for whom he had done the work had failed to secure the proper identification before he flew home, and as a result, Jim had to jump through several hoops in order to get paid. The process had taken more than a month, and Jim had complained about it each step of the way, even arguing that he should’ve been paid for the time it took him to get paid. The incident had stuck in Martin’s mind.
Thankfully.
“No problem,” the woman replied. “I’ll just need the copy of your license and another form of identification.”
Martin had anticipated this response. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t make a copy. Could you please make one for me? I’ll pay whatever it might cost. I’m just having one of those days, if you know what I mean.”
The woman chuckled. “No problem. I’m having one myself. Let me see your license.”
Even if Martin had found the time to photocopy his driver’s license, he still would have asked this woman to do it for him. He knew that the longer he remained in this office, the greater his chance of success.
Martin handed the license over and watched as the woman made her way to the far end of the o
ffice, where a large photocopier waited, humming away. With a moment to himself, Martin risked a glance at the other two women sitting behind desks. The nearest was a young, red-headed girl, probably in her early twenties, wearing a plunging V-neck sweater and large hoop earrings. She was shuffling papers on a disorganized desk and chewing gum with a vigor Martin had rarely seen. All instincts told him that this was not Laura Green.
The other woman, seated the farthest from Martin, appeared to be in her thirties and was dressed conservatively in a dark business suit. Her blond hair was pinned back and she had yet to look up from her computer screen. A large bobble-head doll, appearing to resemble herself, rested on the edge of her desk.
His instincts were less certain when it came to this woman.
Martin had begun to compare the desks of his two candidates, looking for still more clues as to their identity, when the woman who was helping him returned, handing back his license and sliding a sheet of paper across the counter to him.
“I’ll need you to sign at the bottom of the page, and I need another form of identification, please.”
Martin reached into his wallet and removed a credit card, asking if it would suffice.
“That’s fine,” the woman replied, examining it for a moment before handing it back.
“Thank goodness,” Martin said with a relieved sigh, beginning the series of lines that he had rehearsed more than two dozen times in the car. “Another thing off my list. It’s been crazy today.”
Before he could finish his monologue, the woman jumped into the pause between sentences and said, “Please raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, Martin Railsback, Junior, swear that the information I have provided is the truth.”
Martin raised his hand and repeated the woman’s words, suddenly concerned that his window of opportunity was closing. Desperate, he lowered his hand and began his rehearsed lines again, this time louder in hopes of avoiding interruption. “Thank goodness. Another thing off my list. Now, if I can just find a good gourmet caterer, I can go home and relax.”
Martin waited for a reaction from the woman but saw none. The woman stamped the sheet of paper and slid it back across the counter to him. “That’ll be five dollars, please.”
With that, his hopes plummeted.
Martin was reaching into his wallet for the money when the woman seated farthest away stood up, causing her bobblehead to bobble, and made her way over to the counter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say you’re looking for a caterer?”
“Boy am I ever. Not just any caterer,” Martin replied, trying to suppress his excitement and stick to the script. “I was told by my sister to find a gourmet caterer for our parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. She hired someone over a year ago and it turns out that they’re out of business. Didn’t bother to call us or anything. The party is on Saturday, so now I’m stuck. And my sister isn’t coming up from Virginia until Friday night, so she’s thrown this problem in my lap.”
It wasn’t great, Martin knew, but it didn’t sound bad either. Wordy for sure and a little unnatural. A day of rehearsing would have made a world of difference, but he thought that it might have been good enough to get by.
“I know a great caterer,” the woman said with the exuberance of someone who is excited to help. “A friend of mine. I don’t know if she’s available on Saturday, but if you’d like, I could give you her name and number.”
“That would be great,” Martin answered. “Really great. Thank you.”
Martin completed his transaction with the first woman, signing a receipt for the money that he had passed over the counter while the second woman wrote down the name and number of the catering service on a sheet of stationery. Though Martin knew what she would be writing, he was still shocked to see the words Ashley Gourmet Catering on the slip of paper.
Up until this moment, he had never believed that his plan would work.
Transaction complete, Martin took the notarized copy of his license and folded it carefully before sliding it into his pocket. As he took the slip of paper with the number of the Ashleys’ catering service, he looked up and said, “Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“No problem. I’m Laura, by the way,” the woman responded, allowing her smile to linger a moment longer than necessary.
“Oh. I’m Martin. Nice to meet you, Laura.”
Martin said good-bye and exited the office with a spring in his step, feeling more confident than he had ever felt before.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in his car outside the town hall, rehearsing what he hoped would be his final performance of the day. This one would be considerably easier. First, he’d be speaking over the phone, a means of communication that Martin typically preferred (whenever e-mail was not possible). Second, this call would be more natural and expected, the type of call a caterer might expect at any time of the day. A welcome call, in fact. As long as he got Justine Ashley on the line and hit a couple of key points, his plan would be complete.
Taking another deep, relaxing breath, Martin dialed the phone number from the sheet of paper, though it would have been just as easy to call Information for the number.
It wasn’t the phone number that he had been seeking when he’d entered the office of the town clerk.
It was Laura Green’s recommendation that he had needed.
The phone was answered on the third ring by a girl with a youthful-sounding voice. Maybe even a kid, in Martin’s estimation. “Ashley Gourmet Caterers. Can I help you?”
“Yes, please,” Martin answered. “Could I please speak to Justine Ashley?”
Had Martin been told that Justine was unavailable, he was prepared to tell the person on the other end of the line that he was looking for a caterer but had been referred specifically to Justine Ashley and would speak to her only. Though the request might have seemed a bit strange, he couldn’t see Justine Ashley not making herself available for new business. Thankfully, the voice on the other end of the phone asked Martin to wait a minute while Justine came to the phone.
Moments later, Martin began his first conversation with a client.
“This is Justine Ashley. How can I help you?”
“Hello Mrs. Ashley. My name is Martin. I was referred to you by Laura Green. I’m in need of a caterer for Saturday for my parents’ fiftieth anniversary and she told me that you might be able to help me out. She said to ask for you personally. Are you available?”
“This Saturday?”
Martin liked the tone of the question already. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I know it’s last minute, but I’m afraid the caterer we booked a year ago is now out of business. We’re really in a jam.”
“I’m afraid we’re not available this Saturday,” Justine Ashley answered. “It’s our annual staff picnic.” Then a pause, followed by, “Are you sure that you told Laura that your party was this Saturday?”
“Absolutely,” Martin answered, buoyed by her response. He then recited the lines that he had rehearsed the most. “In fact, she told me to try to get you and your husband to handle the party personally. She said that your staff is excellent but that you are the best. But I guess she didn’t know about your picnic.”
“Yes, I guess so,” Justine responded almost absently. “Sorry I can’t help. Would you like me to recommend another caterer who might be able to help you out?”
“Sure,” said Martin, and he pretended to write down the name and number as Justine Ashley relayed the information.
“Thanks anyway,” Martin said, sensing the call was coming to an end. “Please tell Laura that I appreciated the referral. The next time you speak, I mean. Okay?”
“Right,” Justine Ashley answered. “Sorry we can’t help you out. Have a good day.”
And with that, she hung up.
The final phase of Martin’s plan was now in action. With luck, Justine Ashley was placing a call to Laura Green at this very moment, inquiring as to why she might refer someone for the day of her husband’s surprise part
y. Martin thought that his chances were good that she would place the call immediately. Justine Ashley was an obsessively organized and diligent woman who would not want to leave any loose ends dangling. She would also need to speak to her friend out of her husband’s earshot, and she probably had a better chance of that at work than in the quiet of their home. Most important, Martin knew the lengths to which Justine Ashley had gone in preparing this party (scheduling a counterfeit staff picnic for the same day in order to avoid conflicts and allow employees to attend the party), so if any part of Martin’s call had roused concern or suspicion, she would want to eliminate it as soon as possible.
And he had tried to arouse as much suspicion as possible.
However, Martin also knew there was a chance that the call might not be placed in time. Perhaps Justine Ashley didn’t know Laura Green’s cellular telephone number, or maybe Laura Green’s phone was turned off. Any number of circumstances might delay the call, and if so, Martin would need to know this so that he could enact his contingency plan if necessary. His plan was to drive back to Manchester and stake out the Ashley home, ready to reenter the house if the call wasn’t placed. In that case he would, as planned, trip the breakers to the home, erase the message on the machine, and move the gift underneath the porch swing, out of view.
But if luck remained on his side, all that would be unnecessary.
Once in position outside the Ashley home, he would call Justine Ashley once more to claim he had lost the number that she had just given him. Had she called Laura Green and averted disaster, she would likely thank him for his fortuitous inquiry or he would be told by the catering staff that she had left early for the day. Once he confirmed her arrival home ahead of her husband, he would know that the plan had worked and could head for home.
As he pulled out of the parking space and turned his car toward the exit, he noticed Laura Green exiting the town hall through the same doors that he had exited minutes ago. She saw Martin in his car and waved at him, motioning for him to stop.
Something Missing: A Novel Page 19
