by Leslie Meier
Once safe and secure in her studio, Lucy set her purse on the table and poured herself a glass of water in the kitchenette area. Returning to the table, she began unpacking the papers she’d accumulated during the day. There was the Starbucks receipt, a crumpled Metro newspaper, and a number of flyers thrust on her by people who she guessed were paid to do just that. She smiled at one promising “Extra-special Eastern Massage, Satisfaction Guaranteed” before ripping it into shreds.
Checking her bag and making sure she’d gotten it all, she found the flyer that Terry had insisted on giving her. Somewhat belatedly, Lucy realized Terry had been proselytizing and had targeted her as a likely convert to whatever church it was that she attended. Curious, she opened the folded piece of paper and was startled to recognize the person pictured inside. It was Gabriel Thomas, Beth’s first husband, who was still evangelizing, if that’s what you called it. Lucy had always seen him as a huckster, who used religion to ensnare vulnerable people, encouraging them to donate cash and labor for his benefit. She thought he would have run afoul of the authorities long ago, charged at the very least with fraud, but it seemed he was still in business. Now it wasn’t the Angel Brigade that he was running, but the Guardians of the Faith, and Lucy suspected there had been quite a few others in between.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucy was wakened out of a deep sleep by her phone, playing that insistent little tune. Shreds of a dream lingered in her mind, confusing her with the need to care for several small children who were in danger while somehow dealing with the charming black-mustached man she’d just kissed, or maybe wanted to kiss, and it took her a few moments to clear her head. It was Bill, calling at a quarter to seven.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked.
“Uh-hunh.”
“I’m sorry. . . .”
“It’s okay. I should be up.”
“Are you having a good time?”
“Yeah. I visited the botanical garden on Monday and went to a concert yesterday,” she said, offering an edited version of her activity. “I guess that’s why I slept in.”
“You’re turning into a real city girl.” He sounded both amused and slightly disapproving.
Lucy figured swift remedial action was required. “Nah. I miss Tinker’s Cove. I miss you! I can’t wait for the weekend.”
“Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it after all.”
“Oh, no! Why not?” She was surprised to discover how much she had been looking forward to spending the weekend with Bill and was intensely disappointed.
“You can guess: it’s Sylvia. This simple little remodel has turned into something like building the Taj Mahal. Nothing is right, everything has to be done over, and over. I’m at my wit’s end. I’d toss in the towel and tell her to get lost, but I’m in so deep on materials and time I can’t afford to. Though I’m not convinced I’ll actually ever see a penny.”
“We’ll sue, take her to small claims court.”
“I have a feeling there’s a long line ahead of us.”
“Oh, well. Chalk it up to experience. It’s not like I didn’t—”
“Stop! I know. I know. Next time I’ll listen to you.”
“That’ll be a first,” said Lucy, changing the subject and asking about the girls. Finally satisfied that everything was okay at home, and after getting Bill to promise to reconsider the weekend, she said good-bye and made herself a pot of coffee in the ridiculous little coffee press she found in the kitchenette.
When the dinky gadget finally produced something like coffee, she filled a mug and sat, drinking it and thinking that maybe she was the one who should throw in the towel and head home. She certainly hadn’t made much progress so far on her investigation, and she wasn’t sure she ever would. Of the three exes she’d interviewed, she hadn’t come up with any solid leads at all. There was still Gabriel Thomas, but she didn’t really consider him to be in the running, since that relationship had ended so long ago and she’d learned from Dante that Beth hadn’t had any contact with him since leaving the sect.
She was seriously beginning to wonder if the cops were right, and Beth really had killed herself. People did commit suicide, leaving others to wonder why they took such a desperate act. The human mind was so impenetrable—her dream was just one example. What had that been about? There had been such strong emotions, a terrific sense of urgency, doubts, and even embarrassment about the kiss, and it was all nothing but a figment of her imagination. Maybe a replay of a movie or book? Maybe it was all symbolic, referring to something else entirely, like anxiety about Patrick?
And if her mind could play tricks on her, why couldn’t Beth’s mind have done the same thing? But to a larger degree? And why not, since Beth had never been as tied to reality or as grounded as Lucy was? She’d always been impulsive and flighty, sometimes even unstable.
Lucy got up to refill her coffee mug, and discovered the remaining coffee in the press was only lukewarm. She decided to drink it anyway, and was considering looking into changing her ticket and heading back home, when her phone rang again. This time it was Sam Blackwell, full of apologies for neglecting her and inviting her to lunch. “I’ve got something you’ll be interested in,” she said, suggesting they meet at a favorite spot near her office.
Lucy decided to skip breakfast, opting instead for a hearty lunch with Sam, and treated herself to a leisurely shower, followed by plenty of body lotion and a thorough session with the blow dryer, instead of her usual slapdash approach. She dressed carefully, choosing a pair of beige slacks and a loose boho top, along with her new comfy sandals. Even so, it was only a little past nine when she was done and she had three hours to kill before meeting Sam.
She decided to head out anyway, figuring the city had plenty to offer, beginning with the open plaza at Lincoln Center. She wasn’t disappointed, finding a citywide youth orchestra playing an outdoor concert by the fountain, and joined the audience of proud parents and grandparents. When the music ended, she wandered into the branch of the New York Public Library at the center, which contained a large music collection. She didn’t have a card and couldn’t take any books or records out, but there was an area where she could listen to recordings. There she found a display of early blues albums and she chose one by Bessie Smith, enjoying the grainy recording with plenty of sexy double entendres and trumpet wah-wahs.
She was smiling to herself when she left, planning to walk the mile or so down Broadway that would take her to the forties, where Sam’s office was located. She enjoyed checking out the store windows and the other pedestrians, mostly retired people now that rush hour was over. As she walked she wondered if she and Bill would ever return to the city, like the empty nesters she’d been reading about in news stories about social trends. It didn’t seem likely, she concluded, doubting that Bill would ever leave his beloved Maine.
As for herself, she could see the allure of the city once all the kids had fledged and left the nest. There was lots to do, and many events were free, like the concert she’d attended last night. And public transportation meant you didn’t have to drive, which she supposed could become a problem as one grew older. She had almost convinced herself that returning to the city was a possibility when she noticed some sort of scuffle taking place in front of a dry cleaners.
An older man was waving his cane angrily at a kid who was running off down the street, and a number of people had circled a very heavy, gray-haired woman who was lying on the sidewalk. A young woman was on her knees beside her, offering her water from a plastic bottle.
“Did she fall?” Lucy asked. “Has anyone called nine-one-one?”
“They say they’re coming,” offered a tiny old lady, with a shrug.
“She didn’t fall. She was knocked down by that kid when he grabbed her purse,” declared the man with the cane.
“She held on. You should never do that. Just let ’em take it,” advised an Asian woman who was holding tightly to a little boy’s hand.
Lucy heard a siren in the distance and figured help was on the way. Since she wasn’t a witness to the purse snatching and the woman was in good hands, she decided to continue her walk, wondering why the articles about retirees returning to the city didn’t mention street crime. Nothing like that happened in Tinker’s Cove, and there were weeks when Ted joked they’d have to make up some news, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
She still had some time to kill when she reached Sam’s office building, so she bought a newspaper and sat herself down in an outdoor plaza where there were chairs and tables, trees and greenery, and even a fountain. These open gathering spaces were now required by the city for new developments, and Lucy thought they were a very good idea.
Sam spotted her there when she left the building. “You’re here!”
“I am,” said Lucy, folding the paper and getting up to hug her friend. “It’s great to see you.”
“Same here,” said Sam, as they began walking to the restaurant. “I would have called you sooner but I’ve been swamped with work. It’s one crisis after another. It’s discouraging. No matter how hard we work, the opposition works harder. Now they’re even trying to limit access to contraceptives, saying men shouldn’t have to pay for them through taxes or health insurance premiums because they don’t get pregnant.” She shook her head. “I guess they think women conceive all by themselves or something. I really don’t understand it. Why do so many men hate women?”
“I saw some guy snatch an old lady’s purse this morning on my way here.”
“Disgusting, and all too common,” said Sam, pulling open the door to the restaurant. “Enough of that. This is my favorite place. It’s sort of cafeteria style, but the food is great. You can even have a glass of wine. None for me, of course. I’ve got to go back to saving the world’s downtrodden women.”
“I’ll stick to iced tea,” said Lucy, scanning the menu and choosing ham and brie with arugula on a mini baguette. She was given a glass for her drink and a metal holder with the number seventeen on it, with the explanation that a server would bring her sandwich to her.
She and Sam were soon seated at a cozy table, beneath a roughly plastered wall dotted with French faience plates. “So what have you got that’s so interesting?” asked Lucy, as they sipped their drinks and waited for their sandwiches.
“It’s this,” said Sam, producing a plastic sandwich bag containing a graying scrap of paper covered with Beth’s handwriting. “It came in the mail and as soon as I realized what it was, I put it in the bag. I think you’re supposed to do that to preserve fingerprints. I hardly touched it and they can compare mine, anyway.”
“Good thinking,” said Lucy, studying the paper. It wasn’t large, perhaps two by four inches, and fit easily into the little bag. The handwriting was undoubtedly Beth’s, and could be easily read.
Forgive me. I can’t go on like this. It’s better this way.
“A suicide note?”
“Maybe. Maybe just a breakup note,” said Sam.
“Who sent it?”
“I have no idea. There was no return address.”
“The postmark?”
“The main New York post office, 10001.”
“It’s funny colored paper.”
“It looks old to me, like somebody held on to it.”
“One of her exes,” said Lucy, as an aproned server arrived with their sandwiches.
“There was more to it. It’s been torn,” said Sam, pulling the toothpick out of her sandwich and taking a bite.
Lucy tore open the little bag of chips that came with her sandwich. “Probably personal information that would reveal the sender’s identity.”
Sam swallowed. “Why would you keep something like this?”
“As an insurance policy, to prove to investigators that Beth was considering taking her own life, just in case she did actually do it.” Lucy took a bite of chip and chewed. “Or in case you killed her and wanted to make it look like suicide.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam. “But who?”
“It seems to predate her relationship with Jeremy Blake, right?” Lucy took a bite of her chewy sandwich, finding it absolutely delicious.
“Yeah. So that means Gabe Thomas, Tito Wilkins, or Colin Fine, right?”
“I still think it must’ve been Jeremy. I haven’t got any proof, but he just seems right for it, especially since she was ratting on him to the attorney general about his shady dealings.” Lucy considered the scrap of paper while dealing with another bite of sandwich. “The other three marriages ended so long ago, it’s like ancient history. Who would nurture a grievance for more than twenty years?.
“Somebody who really hated her. It’s not so unusual, believe me. I see it all the time.” Sam nodded sadly and raised an eyebrow. “It’s called revenge, and a lot of people like it cold.”
“I did think Tito was a possibility,” admitted Lucy, “especially after I saw how violent his art is. But when I trekked out to Red Hook . . .”
Sam sputtered and pressed a paper napkin to her mouth. “You went all the way to Red Hook? In Brooklyn?”
“I did. It was quite a trip, but I was glad I went. Tito’s become a wise old gentleman. He’s terribly concerned about violence and climate change, which is why his art is so disturbing. He’s trying to raise awareness.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t push Beth off her balcony.”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. He’s quite frail, for one thing. And I don’t think Colin the Chiropractor did, either. He’s remarried and has a very profitable practice. I have the bill to show for it.”
“You saw Colin?”
“I not only saw him, I received what he called an adjustment. It’s done wonders. My subluxation is gone and I’m back in proper alignment.”
“Oh, I could tell,” teased Sam. “I was just waiting for the right moment to say how well aligned you seem to be.”
“I have to admit I found him kind of creepy and he wasn’t above copping a free feel during the exam. . . .”
Sam’s reaction was immediate. “Lucy! Did you confront him? Are you going to file a complaint?”
“No way. I’m not even sure it wasn’t a legitimate part of the exam.”
“Well, I think you should pursue it, but I certainly understand your reluctance.”
Lucy once again picked up the plastic bag containing the scrap of paper, thinking there was something familiar about the paper. Then she thought of the flyer Terry had given her when she invited her to visit the Guardians of the Faith. “Funny,” she finally said, “maybe the Lord does work in mysterious ways.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sam, picking up the second half of her sandwich.
“I really hadn’t considered Gabe Thomas. Like I said, it was so long ago and I figured he’d taken his evangelical message to more receptive ground somewhere west of the Hudson, but a funny thing happened last night. I went to this free concert at a church near my apartment, just for something to do, you know. . . .”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” interrupted Sam. “I had to work late or I would have invited you over for dinner, and the night before that Brad had a dinner with an important client and I had to go, too. I feel so guilty. . . .”
“Honestly, don’t. I’m a big girl. I’ve been doing fine, believe me. I’m enjoying being on my own, like a grown-up.”
“If you say so . . .”
“I do. Now, back to this concert. There were cookies afterward and this woman approached me, so we chatted a bit and she told me about her church and how I’d like it, and I said I didn’t think so, really, but she gave me a flyer about a Bible study class and . . .”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “Father Gabe!”
“His new effort is called the Guardians of the Faith, and get this—the flyer was printed on gray paper.”
“I guess we have to go and see what Father Gabe is up to now,” said Sam.
“I think we owe it to Beth,” said Lucy. “They have classes every night at seven. Does tonight work for you?”
“Sure thing. I’m actually free. The grant proposal went out yesterday, and Brad has a board meeting tonight. I’ll come by your place and we’ll go together.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’d like to take the note to Detective McGuire.”
“Okay by me,” said Sam, checking her watch and rising from her seat. “I’ve got to go. See you tonight.”
Lucy stayed at the table, watching her friend leave. She hadn’t finished her sandwich, for one thing, and she wanted to consider how to approach Detective McGuire. Her careful plans flew out the window, however, when she found herself sitting opposite him in a small, secure interview room.
“So what’s this new evidence?” he asked, in an impatient tone. Today he was dressed in a gray summer suit complete with a necktie and he seemed ill at ease, as if he wanted to change into more comfortable clothing.
“Somebody sent this to my friend Samantha Blackwell. She was one of Beth Blake’s friends.” Lucy passed over the scrap of paper in its bag. “She put it in the bag in case there were fingerprints on it.”
McGuire snorted, and quickly scanned the note while loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “So it’s a suicide note. . . .”
“Maybe. But isn’t it weird that somebody felt the need to send it? I think that whoever sent it might very well have killed Beth, but wants to make it look like suicide.”
“The case is closed. It was suicide.”
“But somebody has a guilty conscience,” protested Lucy.
