I plopped down on the floor, grabbed the vaudeville book and flipped it open to the index. There it was “Cinnamon—female clown.” Page two-hundred-sixty.
“Did you find something?” Johnny asked.
I looked up. He was holding several letters in his hand and what might be a journal or a day planner. “Not sure. I was about to open to the bio on Cinnamon.”
Johnny sank down beside me. “Go ahead.”
He peered over my shoulder at the one-page biography of Gabrielle “Cinnamon” Garrity. There wasn’t even a photo.
“Crap. Nothing new,” I sighed. “Although it might have been a catalyst for Colette to start searching. What about you?”
“Possibly. I found a couple of opened letters from some professor in the film department at Santa Fe College to Colette but I haven’t had a chance to read them and I may need a visual translator. I thought my penmanship was rotten but this guy’s is unbelievable. Not printing this from a computer is sinful.”
“Not to mention irritating,” I smiled.
The ring tones of Tusk filled the room. “Speaking of irritating,” Johnny muttered. “Sorry. Hang on.”
I stayed silent while Johnny chatted. “Really? Yeah, I’ll take off right now. Thanks. I think. Poor Ron.”
He rose. “I hate to do this, but I’m out of here. Senator Edge was just arrested as he was boarding a private jet at Teterboro that apparently had filed a flight plan to . . .” he began to laugh, “you won’t believe it— to Prague. Yep. At any rate, they’re taking Edge downtown as we speak and Kieran suggested I might want to be there to deal with Ron who apparently is being a good son and going ballistic yelling that his father didn't do any of the things he's accused of doing."
He handed me the letters and the organizer thingee. “Here. You take these home along with those books and see if you can come up with anything.” He paused. “Sorry, Hon. That sounded pretty bossy, didn’t it? Didn’t mean it that way.”
He helped me up and I gave him a quick hug. “No problem, Gerard. I know that and I know you’re in a hurry. Go. Call me later when you can and we’ll theorize. Assuming I can find something to theorize about. And good luck calming down your friend."
He kissed me and took off.
I gathered up the books. Gordon, who’d left Johnny in Colette’s bedroom while he roamed her mom’s bedroom and a guest room came out from the former.
“I heard. So, you ready to go too? Or do you need to stick around longer? I can drive you home if you’d like, especially if you’re going to be lugging books.”
“I’m ready. There’s too much stuff here to dive into today. But, is it okay? I mean, taking these books out?”
“Yeah. I already cleared it with everyone who needed to give permission.”
I took a last look around Colette’s apartment and choked back a few tears. She’d turned thirty two months ago. This wasn’t right. A person shouldn’t die at thirty over a bunch of old patents some greedy s.o.b. wanted. A person shouldn’t die at thirty over a silent movie that might net a million bucks at an auction.
A person shouldn’t die at thirty.
Chapter 23
I helped Gordon Clark replace the yellow crime scene tape with a new ‘roll’ then we headed toward the center stairs for the four flights down to the street. I was about to hit the first floor hallway when I suddenly heard someone call out, “Ms. Fouchet? Is that you?”
I glanced about twenty yards away where a mildly familiar man stood, waving at me. “Mr. Hayward, right?”
“Julian. Please.”
“And I’m Abby”
He, Gordon and I met dead center on the first floor of the old townhouse. Julian tentatively asked, “Not to be nosy, but is it okay to inquire as to why you’re here today?”
I introduced him to Gordon Clark, then responded, “The detective and I were sorting through some of Colette’s old things.” I didn’t tell him why or what we were looking for.
Julian’s expression reflected what appeared to me to be very genuine feelings of sorrow. “I’m not even sure what’s going to happen to all of her belongings. As far as I know she didn’t have a will and I couldn’t tell you what’s in it even if she did.”
I smiled too. “Ah well. Worth a try. I just hope if an attorney pops up if there might be something he or she would let slip that might . . .
Julian finished my sentence “might help figure out who shot her. And why. Look, I’ve got a few papers she was working on. I’ll be happy to give them to you.”
This could be interesting. “What kind of papers?”
“Oh. Primarily genealogy stuff. Remember I said I write biographies and memoirs for people?”
“Sure. I think that's neat. I personally love history and that’s what memoirs are,” I stated.
“Colette had asked if I’d do one for her on the Currie family. I haven’t had the chance to do much but I can give you her research and my work in progress if you’d like. I have to print out the latter but her own research is already in a neat stack on my desk.”
Gordon nodded. “Please. May have nothing to do with why she was murdered but every piece of information we can compile helps.”
“Uncle J.?” A small head with bouncing brown pigtails peeked out from behind Julian’s apartment’s front door. “Who ya talking to?”
Julian turned. “It’ s okay, sweetheart. This is Ms. Fouchet. Colette’s friend. Do you remember her?”
Ellie ran over to me like we’d been best friends for years. I picked her up and gave her a hug. “Hey, Ellie! You look gorgeous! And very smart this afternoon. Are you enjoying kindergarten?”
She nodded vigorously. “We read and we paint and we do dramatics and we sing and we dance and we go to the museum and we explode soda bottles. It’s very fab and I’m totally awesome at everything.” She didn’t give any of us time for a response. “So are you here to play with me today?”
“I wish I was. I like talking to you. But, this nice policeman and I came today to—uh—sort through Miss Colette’s things.”
“She has neat stuff,” Ellie stated. “What are you sorting for?”
“Oh. Books and papers and pictures and things like that.”
“I still have her book with pictures she showed me the last time she sat with me. I was sick so we couldn't do any ballet. Do you want it?”
I inquired casually, “What kind of pictures?”
“Funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah. Old people. I don’t mean old like grandmothers. But old, like from olden times. Everybody’s all wearing these weird clothes. It’s pretty neat. And there’s notes too. Not sticky notes but some kind of paper with stuff like recipes for cakes and pies and all.”
Julian calmly told her to go fetch the book and bring it out along with the papers from his desk and to also get his printer going so he could print out Miss Colette’s ‘“memory book.” Ellie beamed as though she’d been promised a double fudge sundae and six rides on a pony. She whirled around, ran back into the Hayward’s apartment and emerged about a minute later, gave me the scrapbook, then turned around again, apparently to start the printing process.
Julian grinned at us. “She loves the computer. Loves printing and she understands how to click on the proper page to get it going. Took me three years to figure that out since I was always a typewriter, carbon paper and ribbon person. Total dinosaur."
Ellie suddenly emerged again from the apartment, along with the two Hayward boys and Sheri.
Hayward repeated the introductions he’d made at Colette’s memorial for Detective Clark’s benefit. “Tommy and Nick. My wife, Sheri. And of course, Abby already knows Ellie.”
I didn’t need the intros but I was glad he’d covered what would have been a major acting bit on my part after Ellie had handed me the scrapbook. It looked like it was about seventy years old so it had definitely not been Colette’s unless she’d decided to hit an antique store for a blank scrapbook with yellowed pages.<
br />
Neither Julian nor Sheri seemed concerned that the impish child had handed over Colette’s scrapbook so I figured there was nothing to find about patents or long-lost silent movies. Either that or there was a ton of good info but they weren’t aware of the import of those photos and the clippings and little notes that had been glued to those yellowed pages.
Sheri Hayward, who'd only said “hello” and something about the Olympics when we met at Colette’s memorial, turned to me and quietly asked so the kids couldn’t hear, “Do you have any leads on who shot Colette?”
I glanced at Gordon. This was his to answer; not mine. He was smooth. “Sadly, we’re not able to say anything at this time since the investigation is ongoing. I can tell you we have some leads we’re following but other than that, it’s the ‘no comment.’ I’m sorry. I realize you were neighbors and I’m sure you’re anxious to hear anything new.”
Julian nodded. “We are but we do understand.” He directed a question to me. “Not to sound like a nosy reporter or crazed fan but is it true you had some trouble out on the set of your TV show? I read in this morning’s paper that some maniac had actually taken a shot at you?”
I had no idea what to say to this. I hadn’t seen today’s paper since Shay and I had been too busy leaking information to go into tomorrow’s paper.
Again, Gordon took over. Again he was smooth but the anger he was feeling about my little escapade on the Palisades cliffs yesterday came through. “Yes. That is true. And believe me, the person responsible is not going to be happy when they’re brought to the Fort Lee police station. Aside from the outrageously unsportsmanlike conduct in shooting at a woman crouched on a ledge, the people of New Jersey love having folks from the soap in their town and surrounding areas and are furious that their very fine hospitality is being stomped on by some creep with a high-scope rifle.”
Julian and Sheri both looked a bit taken aback at his vehemence but they both nodded. Julian stated, “I hope you catch him and catch him fast. These sickos need to be locked up for as many years as the law will allow.”
I thought he was going to add to that but before he got the chance, three children who were obviously bored at the grown-up chatter surrounded him and began quietly reminding him the family was overdue for a late lunch out somewhere exotic. One of the fast food joints on 42nd Street apparently.
Gordon winked at me. “We’ll get out of your hair, now. Wouldn’t want to keep hungry kids waiting.”
We all shook hands and I hugged Ellie again and thanked her for the scrapbook without managing to reveal my intense excitement that this could contain clues that would break this case wide open. I promised to come back and play fairy princess and evil queen with her the first chance I got. Gordon and I trotted out onto the stoop and then strolled about two blocks away where he’d left his battered brown sedan.
“Is this NYPD issue?” I teased as I buckled my seat belt.
“Yes and no. It’s my unmarked NYPD issued ‘doesn’t-matter-if-someone-crashes-during-a-high-speed chase’ vehicle. Built like a tank. But believe it or not, this baby has power. Zero to sixty in NASCAR time. It is not, however, what I would use to escort your charming roommate to dinner and a show, if she’s ever in town long enough for us to manage an evening out.”
I chuckled. “Ha! I knew it. That’s the real reason you’re driving me home, isn’t it? I’m sure you’d feel less than chivalrous knowing I was lugging three books, a large scrapbook and several letters by myself on the train, but you mainly want to get to the apartment before Shay has to leave for the airport.”
“I’m going to drive her there. I called her while we were in Colette’s apartment. She’s thrilled. Saves her time and give us a chance to be alone and chat for more than two seconds.”
“We all seem to be in the same predicament, don’t we?”
He got it. “You and Johnny not getting any couples time together?”
I sighed. “It's nuts. We only get to see each other in fits, spurts and in between shootings, ghosts in Prague and Crested Butte survivalists. We'll probably have to get married on the set of Endless Time as part of a story line. If we ever get married. I keep having these ghastly thoughts that Johnny doesn't really want to do the walk down the aisle. And don't tell him I said that."
“Believe me, I shall keep this conversation between us although I'm quite aware that Johnny Gerard is completely crazy about you and quite ready to do that walk. But speaking of things kept on the Q.T., I’d appreciate it if you don’t let on to your best friend that I deliberately brought my car today on the off chance I could take her for a spin out to J.F.K. or LaGuardia.”
I grinned. “Don’t let her get away with anything, Detective. Shay will make you crazy if you let her. Hang tough! And I appreciate the ride no matter the true motive behind it.” I paused and glanced at all the belongings from Colette’s apartment. “I do have to wonder though, if we’ve just wasted half a day. And if one lousy thing I find in this mess this is going to help at all in finding out who shot Colette— and why.”
Chapter 24
I adjusted the standing floor lamp at an angle over the sofa so I’d have better light for my examination of Colette’s scrapbook. Or to clarify, the scrapbook Colette had been interested in sharing with Ellie Hayward, precocious kindergartner. My first glance, under less-favorable lighting conditions, had revealed that this book held photos and clippings that appeared to start in the late Eighteen-Nineties and stopped somewhere in the late Nineteen-Twenties. I'd obviously found a photo album of the Asher family. Ancestors of the neighbors of Cinnamon Garrity.
I love history and looking at photographs from other eras so it was tough not spending at least an hour gazing at the great-greats of the Asher family featuring ladies dressed in lacy long gowns and huge hats that provided as much shade as the giant trees behind them and gentlemen in dark suits and somber expressions. I noted two themes: Wife in chair with kids on the ground and Husband standing proudly behind chair with hand in front breast pocket or Husband in chair with kids on the ground and Wife standing proudly behind with one hand on Husband’s shoulder. The boys were in knickers. The girls in middies with large bows on their blouses and in their hair. It was like gazing at posters advertising a production of The Music Man or Pride and Prejudice.
Much as I wanted to flip through to the Nineteen-teens, I buried the impulse. For one thing, the pages were old and I had no desire to tear even a corner. And I was worried I’d miss something important—assuming anything in this scrapbook was important in terms of Colette’s murder—that might be hidden between a hand-written recipe for a cream cake with fourteen eggs and a photo of Daniel Asher’s father leading his young son around on a pony in a park.
Ninety minutes later I’d seen enough photos of the young Ashers, old Ashers, teenaged Ashers and middle-aged Ashers. Whoever created this scrapbook had (thankfully) made notations as to who was who but I was at the “I don’t give a rapper's rap about any Ashers who weren’t living never door to Gabrielle Garrity” stage now. I hadn’t found a single photo of Cinnamon, much less a map with the inscription “This way to the patents and silent movies.” I’d discovered six more tasty-looking recipes I planned to copy and send to my mother who doesn't look like an amazing cook but is.
I took a break to stretch my legs, jog around the apartment, fix some decaf coffee and devour all the goodies Shay had been sharp enough to bring back from the German bakery after we'd brunched this morning before Johnny and I had gone off to Colette’s apartment.
I headed back to the couch armed with a mug, two of what Ellie Hayward called leaping cakes from the German bakery, a moderately huge slice of cheese, one apple and a large napkin. All of which (except the napkin) I was careful to keep as far from the scrapbook as possible. I’m not generally clumsy but this was precious and I didn’t want to take any chances of even the slightest splash of coffee or hint of citron ending up on a page.
Then it was over. I turned to the last page with e
motions ranging from frustration to anger to sadness. Not even one teensy photo of Cinnamon. I’d finally found a picture of Daniel Asher taken outside of the building in Hell’s Kitchen in 1925 but none of his neighbor. I stared at the last page, willing it to tell me something.
And it did. What it told me was that it wasn’t the last page. I could see rips and leftover paper in the inner spine. Someone had removed what appeared to be more than one page.
I wanted an answer. Any answer. Who killed Colette? Who killed Cinnamon? Who took a couple of shots at me on the New Jersey ledge? Why? Who tore out the missing pages? Why did they get torn out? Where were the missing pages and if they were to be found would the mysteries be solved?
“Enough. It’s midnight. Bed time.”
I took my mug and the empty plates out to the kitchen and was about to start cleaning when the buzzer rang for my front door. Not the lobby door but my front door.
I left the dishes, went back to the living room to the hall and threw open the door without bothering to check through the peephole.
“Johnny! How goes it in Senator scandal land?”
“You didn’t check the peephole, did you?” he sighed. He knows I have a bad tendency to just fling the sucker open in the assumption that it's either a friendly face or a food delivery.
“You’re the only one I know who never bothers with the lobby. I haven’t yet figured out how you sneak in but since you never buzz from outside, I figured it was you,” I replied.
“I could have been a killer,” he snarled.
“You wouldn’t have buzzed. You’d’ve waited until you were sure I was asleep then tried to pick the lock and stolen in. Or simply waited until I was on other rock in the Palisades and gotten a rifle that shot real bullets. Not to mention that you do have a key although you never use it."
Johnny looked at me rather quizzically. “You’re awfully cavalier about your life, Ms. Fouchet.”
“I’m not cavalier. I’m irritated, frustrated and generally miffed. Every time I think I’m going to get a great clue, it fizzles. So I focus on what to do next instead of scaring the dinky doody out of myself worrying about the multitudinous ways crazy people can get to me, which does no good and only sends me back to the kitchen or Wiki Woks for sweet and sour anything with hot mustard sauce.”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 16
