by Angela Zeman
Klinger nodded.
“So let’s reconstruct events. On the 29th, the would-be thieves, after learning about a fur shipment that would be trucked through Brooklyn on the 31st—today—left Manhattan to find a truck or van in which to transport the furs once they were stolen. Their own car wouldn’t hold enough furs, and besides, it was theirs and could be traced. They gave themselves a full day to find just the right vehicle. Beginning as far away from Manhattan as they could conveniently get—Long Island’s East End, as we see—they scouted the various mall and diner parking lots, which are wonderful places to find a vehicle to steal.
“The med school van was perfect: good condition, expensive enough to be fast, unmarked, and best of all—keys left in the ignition. They parked their own car for later retrieval in the busiest section of the diner’s lot. It’s safer here than left unattended in Manhattan, certainly.
“Unfortunately, the van already had a cargo, but they resolved to ditch it on the first stretch of dark road they encountered—which definitely describes Highway 14 as it passes through the south edge of Wyndham. Not a street lamp anywhere, and no open businesses after six. It must’ve seemed the ideal spot.”
She smiled. “Imagine their shock, however, when they found that the unwanted baggage was not a ‘what’ but a ‘who’. Two of them, in fact.”
“The two dead men?” ventured Ernie.
“Two cadavers being transported to the medical school from East End Hospital for use by students in dissection,” she said. “That possibility should’ve occurred to any observant medical man as soon as he spotted the condition of the autopsied corpses.”
Ernie shuddered, and young Klinger wrinkled his nose in distaste. Only Michael looked unbothered. Homicide had hardened him to much worse.
“So they pitched them out,” said Michael cheerfully.
“Well, yes, after they took care of a small problem.”
“What?” asked Michael.
“Body bags. The van was unmarked, which was one reason why they took it, but the black zippered body bags customarily used in these instances were stamped with the school’s name. They couldn’t leave the bags behind to point out the direction in which they were traveling…from Elmdale to Wyndham is a straight line towards Brooklyn. The theft wasn’t slated for another 36 hours and it would be a nuisance to be picked up for car theft before scoring the robbery. They hoped two dead men would never be connected with a van theft—at least, not right away.”
“So they had to take the bodies out of their bags? I hope it gave ’em nightmares,” said Klinger, laughing.
“Yeah, well, their nightmares became Mayor Harper’s dream,” said Ernie in a voice rumbling with anger. “He used the weird condition of the bodies to push Mrs. Risk out of Wyndham.”
Michael looked shocked. “What’s this?”
Ernie explained. Michael’s normally soft blue eyes acquired a chilling hardness.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we wait,” said Mrs. Risk. She seemed unexcited. “They should be returning soon. The van is too dangerous to keep longer than necessary,” she commented to Klinger. “They probably left it in the parking lot of the nearest public transportation—the safest and easiest way to travel back to their own car. I’d search the bus or railway stations nearest the Port Authority in Elizabeth, New Jersey, if I were you. As you know, a veritable river of stolen goods change hands in that area.”
She glanced at Ernie’s watch. “After this morning’s theft, they needed time to get to New Jersey. Time to sell the furs and ditch the van, and a little more time to catch some type of public transportation. It’s a three hour journey by train from Elizabeth to here, and longer by bus. They should be arriving soon.” She settled back to wait, leaning tiredly against the side of Ernie’s truck.
Klinger immediately flicked the switch on his portable radio unit and gave instructions to the dispatcher about Elizabeth.
After a few moments of puzzled shuffling, Detective Klinger cleared his throat. “Mind if I clear up a few points while we wait?”
She shrugged.
“How’d you connect the bodies with the medical school?”
“The newspapers.”
“But no one reported any bodies missing, just found.”
“Exactly. No men were reported missing, dead or even alive, who fit their description. Who would lose two bodies without giving out a report or alarm of some kind? Only those who would want to conceal the loss. And these men had obviously been dead long enough to be autopsied, which directed my attention to the medical profession. A medical school, which receives bodies donated by grieving relatives, would cringe to receive the kind of publicity engendered by having the dearly departed callously dumped by the side of a road. Donations would cease.”
Klinger nodded. “And when you questioned the medical schools, looking for one who misplaced some cadavers?”
“There are not that many medical schools on Long Island. Some ridiculous lies exposed the guilty party.”
“So you deduced the van’s existence?”
“Well, the bodies weren’t wanted. Something was. It must have been the transport. And why that particular vehicle? Maybe because it was of a certain size or type, useful for transport of goods that would fill it. Stolen van, stolen goods.”
“And since time would necessarily be kept short to reduce chances of discovery,” began Detective Hahn.
Mrs. Risk nodded. “The theft must have been imminent. I called you to research the latest thefts in the New York area, probably on or near Long Island, and this fur theft fit perfectly—timing, size of booty, location.”
Detective Klinger sighed happily. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Risk.”
She gave him a sad smile.
Ernie and Michael exchanged worried frowns.
In less than forty minutes, a taxi pulled into the lot and disgorged two young men.
“How many people visit a diner by taxi?” murmured Mrs. Risk.
One man paid the driver, while the other sauntered towards the Pontiac under observation. He rummaged in his pocket for the key.
The arrest took seconds.
Detective Klinger, after effusive thanks to Mrs. Risk, took matters into his own hands. Ernie drove Mrs. Risk back to her cottage. Michael followed in his own car.
When she stepped down from the high seat of Ernie’s truck, she paused and clung to the door, scanning the cottage front. As if Ernie read her mind, he swiftly said, “Nobody’s been here since we left. See?”
Upon entering her cottage, she immediately sank into her chair by the unlit fireplace as if oblivious of the dark. Ernie bustled around, lighting lamps, candles, and the fire, tending it until it became huge and hot.
Michael pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Risk’s. Ernie whispered to Michael, “Wouldn’t talk all the way home.” Michael grimaced.
“Some wine?” Ernie asked her. She shook her head. His eyes grew wide as he glanced with significance at Michael.
“So you’re leaving town,” said Michael mildly.
She nodded.
“Giving up all the friendships you’ve made, all the nurturing you’ve done to make this village a good place to live.”
She sat motionless.
Michael cleared his throat. “You know, Ernie, I’m thirsty. I’ll take some of that Silver Oak ’82 cabernet I see in the rack. Want some?”
“Sure,” said Ernie.
“Bring just two glasses,” said Michael with a wink. Ernie found the bottle, opened it, and brought back two brimming glasses. He put a third empty one on the floor beside him as he sat down.
Michael sipped. “Mmmm. How’re you going to move that wine cellar of yours? Ernie just doubled its size for you, too. You haven’t filled it yet, have you?”
“Think you’re clever, do you?” she asked sourly.
Unperturbed, he went on. “Jezebel’ll probably stay. Live with the new owners. Cats hate change.”
She looked startl
ed. “New owners of what?”
“Of your cottage.” He smiled brightly, took a swig of wine practically in her face.
After a small humph, she turned her attention to the fire.
“Hope the new owners aren’t the kind who use pesticides and chemical lawn food, stuff like that. It’ll run off into the water. Sicken the fish. Birds’ll all die. Butterflies’ll vanish. Your herbs’ll be poisonous. Can’t make dandelion tea—”
She turned her back to him. “Would you shut up?”
“Hey, just reality. Pour me more of that Silver Oak, Ernie. She can’t take it with her.” He held out his glass.
She shifted, glanced at him. “Don’t be such a pig. Pour me some, too.”
Ernie poured and handed her the glass.
She sipped, then drew a heavy breath. “I can’t let those things influence me. Wyndham hates me.”
Michael said, “I thought ‘the witch’ ignored public opinion.”
“Nah,” said Ernie. “She just never lets on. But they hurt her feelings, this time. Bad.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t here,” she said tartly.
Michael shrugged. “I might as well get used to you not being here.”
Ernie continued, “If she could only figure it out that she wouldn’t be happy anywhere else, that she belongs here no matter what a few yoyos say, and that—”
She stood up, anger gathering on her face. “I am HERE. Talk directly to ME.”
Ernie forged ahead, “And that she’s gonna have to face the fact that it’s more important to be herself than it is to change so that bunch of yoyos’ll accept her.”
Michael nodded. “…‘I’m one of those who needs something to live for. And since my peculiar bent of mind has been found to be of use to others, that’s what I live for—to be of use. Life is hard. I have much to give, so I give it.’ Didn’t she tell somebody that lately?”
“You’ve been talking to Rachel,” she said accusingly. “You knew about this situation before hearing it in the diner parking lot.”
“Rachel called today, right before you did. In fact, your call interrupted hers, that’s why Ernie had to fill in the blanks for me.”
“A bunch of busybodies!” she exclaimed.
Ernie lifted a hand. “Guess what she told Rachel was just hot air,” he said to Michael.
Mrs. Risk whirled to face Ernie, furious.
He continued, “Poor thing hit a bump in her comfortable road. She forgot all that good advice she dishes out to everybody else—” he grinned broadly into her rage, “—with a shovel.”
He stood up, stepped around her, started to hum under his breath as he went into the kitchen. “I’ll fix us some dinner. Not good to drink wine on an empty stomach.”
Michael also stood. He went to the phone. “Great idea. I’m going to call the radio station and the newspapers. They’ll want to broadcast the news about Mrs. Risk solving the riddle of the bloodless bodies and capturing fur thieves.” He chuckled. “A New York Times reporter owes me some favors. I’ll allow him to pay me back. And Ms. Green just might like holding a big press conference explaining how indispensable Mrs. Risk’s presence is to Long Island. And His Honor’s smear campaign. Can’t let his part go unmentioned, can we? A vampire witch—he’s gonna look a damn fool.”
Mrs. Risk stamped her feet. “What do you two think you’re doing!”
Ernie popped his head out through the kitchen door. “It’s Halloween, want garlic on your chicken? Great for scarin’ away vampires.”
Mrs. Risk laughed.
THE WITCH AND UPRIGHT MAXWELL
OLD MRS. BACHRACH tottered, panting, across the vast room inhabited by the clerical staff of the Garden City, Long Island, brokerage firm. Like a flattened ship’s prow, a broad parcel wound several times with brown paper advanced before her, clutched to her chest. As she advanced, the tape holding the ends together broke loose and the paper unwound until she had a long tail of it drifting in her wake like a Chinese dragon in a New Year’s parade.
B.J. Maxwell hurried to her and grabbed the parcel a moment before the whole thing was due to disintegrate. She thrust it at him with a merry gasp. “I knew you’d catch us in time!” Her slightly askew features betrayed unshakeable good humor as she blew a wisp of frizzled hair away from her left eye.
His exasperation melted. Her constant cheer, like a force, kept him rushing to aid, to open, to carry, to shield Mrs. Naomi Bachrach from the difficulties she chronically attracted in her headlong progress through her happy world. He sometimes thought enviously of her untroubled point of view.
“B.J.,” she began as he piloted her to a comfortable chair in the windowless, glass-walled cubicle which served as his office. “Of all my friends, I think you’re truly the nicest one—now I mean this!” She pressed a hand to her billowing chest. “No matter how often I call, you stop and listen to my silly chatter when I know you’re busy with important things! No, I know it’s true, don’t try to be gallant! Therefore, dearest B.J., I’ve decided that you’re the one to trust with the care of my last little picture while I go away on my cruise.” Gasping, she sank back into her chair, having forgotten to breathe during her determined speech.
B.J., an underweight thirtyish man with thinning brown hair, blinked behind wire rimmed glasses. Finally he pointed at the bundle propped against his desk. “It’s a picture?”
“Yes, dear. I’ve been told it’s worth something and I don’t like going away leaving it unlooked-after.”
He gazed at it in dismay. “It’s pretty large, Naomi. I don’t have space to store something that size in my office, and if it’s val—”
Naomi batted to hold back tears. “Just for two weeks? I saw a program on TV about a cruise to Hawaii, how healthy the air was—it’s so pretty there!—I know that’s what I need. I’m sure if I go on this cruise I’ll feel better again, right away.”
B.J. bit his lip and tried not to notice the incipient tears, but of course, he had noticed them. “You’re not feeling well? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Dr. Sams. He treats all my friends. Not you, of course. I mean, all my other friends.”
“Surely you don’t mean a veterinarian. A cat doctor?” B.J. had long ago discovered that, except for himself, all her friends were cats. Mrs. Bachrach had found four-legged creatures much more tolerant of her particular quirks than the two-legged creatures of her acquaintance. B.J. could hardly blame her for her preference.
“Why, that’s just what he is! Aren’t you clever? Yes, and devoted to his profession. I’ve often wished that I could’ve learned to be a veterinarian when I was young. To take such expert care of little kitties like he does. He told me he was sure I was doing the right thing.”
“Well, that depends on what’s wrong, don’t you think? Ah, what is wrong?” He was keenly aware how brave he was to ask that question. What if it was one of those terrifying female things?
“Nothing to worry about, dear, I just don’t feel quite right. Dr. Sams says I probably just need a vacation. And you know, as soon as he said that, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I went somewhere. I do love Long Island, but the pictures of Hawaii looked so heavenly.” She shivered with pleasure, sending her powdered flesh into gelatinous waves.
She touched the back of his hand. “If you’ll just keep my little picture safe for me so that I can go away with peace of mind. Please, B.J.? I couldn’t rest at night, even in Hawaii, if I had to worry about it.”
He gazed helplessly into eyes as blue and untainted as a country brook, where lurked a bottomless supply of trust for all those who occupied her rose-tinted world. Namely him, her cats, and now, it seemed, this Dr. Sams. And evidently a television pitchman who’d told her to sail to Hawaii. He sighed.
“You’re sure you’ve got nothing a—uh—people doctor should check out? You’re not really ill?”
“Noooooh! And it’s going to be so much fun. And, oh, yes. I’ll need some money.”
He steele
d himself, hoping he wouldn’t have to advance her a loan from his own limp pockets, but knowing very well that he’d help her if necessary. “How much?”
A giggle lurked behind the frown she now produced for his benefit. She was trying to look as if she were thinking carefully, a process he’d been attempting to teach her for years. “About—two hundred dollars?”
He blinked. “This cruise costs only two hundred dollars?”
“Don’t be silly.” Now she giggled out loud. “I already paid for the cruise out of my household savings. It took all I had, though, and I’d like just a bit more. I want to bring back presents. For my friends, to make up for leaving the sweet dears behind.”
Two hundred dollars to buy guilt presents for cats, he thought, groaning to himself, but relieved. It could’ve been worse. He wrote the check from her account. He’d been handling Mrs. Bachrach’s financial affairs since her husband, a moderately successful antiques dealer, had died eight years ago. She received a modest income from her husband’s investments, but because her needs almost completely involved a slavish devotion to her feline ‘friends’ and few extravagances, she managed fairly well.
“You take such good care of me, B.J.” She stood and gave him a fond peck on the cheek, leaving behind a fuchsia smear.
B.J. ushered her out of the brokerage firm to the bank in the same building, making sure she had no difficulty cashing the check, and put her safely into a taxi. As he waved farewell, he shivered in the freshening April breeze and wondered where he could stow that big package—which was probably only a blown-up photo of her favorite cat.
In the end, he took it home and shoved it under his bed. His wife hardly heard his explanations, and the whole matter was forgotten by bedtime.
Eight days later, B.J. arrived at work in time to hear his secretary receiving the news by telephone that Mrs. Bachrach had died in her sleep off the coast of Oahu. The ship’s doctor posthumously diagnosed her trouble as an enlarged heart that had finally stopped. Her body was being shipped home by air. Even after sharing a weepy lunch with his secretary, who’d liked the elderly lady as much as he had, the picture in his possession eluded his thoughts until a few nights later.
