Sal and his partner had contacted Jack Reilly as soon as Alvin and his mother stepped into the entryway. He had told them to hold off on questioning until he got there.
Santa Claus may be the key to breaking this case wide open, Sal thought optimistically.
The snowstorm, predicted to hit earlier, finally had started—and with a vengeance—by the time Regan parked in front of Rosita’s apartment. Fred Torres had been watching for her. “I told Chris and Bobby that you have some great new movies for them,” he said heartily as he opened the door.
The boys were sitting on the floor, a dozen marbles scattered between them. They looked at Regan with some distrust. “When is your mommy going to be better so our mommy can come home?” Chris asked.
He’s trying to be polite, poor kid, Regan thought, but he wants an answer. “Very soon,” she told him as she held out the gaily wrapped package of tapes. “This is for both of you . . .”
Her voice trailed off; she did not notice when they took the present from her hands. She was staring down at the cover of one of the books lying on the coffee table. The title The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge had caught her eye and evoked a flood of memories.
Daddy, read this one again, just once more, please.
The cover illustration was of a jaunty red lighthouse. She opened the book. The frontispiece depicted the unmistakable George Washington Bridge, with the tiny lighthouse tucked below it.
Your favorite book . . . I’m seeing red . . .
This was what Dad was trying to tell me, Regan realized with mounting excitement. From wherever he is, he can see the lighthouse.
“Regan, what is it?” Fred asked urgently.
Regan shook her head. “I hope you guys enjoy the movies. I’ll see you later.” She turned to Fred.
“I’ll walk you outside,” he said.
The tension emanating from C.B. had accelerated to an explosive level. Luke and Rosita silently observed his grim countenance as the time for making the phone call drew near. He knows this is it, Luke thought. He knows that if they don’t get the money tonight, they never will. He could hear the winds building up outside. The boat was banging against the pier with ever-increasing force. If this storm keeps up, who knows when and if their flight will take off.
“Hey, C.B.,” Petey said, “I gotta run home. I left my passport in the apartment.”
No you didn’t, Luke thought. I saw you looking at it a little while ago. What was Petey up to now? he wondered.
“You what?” C B. stared at him.
“I wanted to be sure it was in a nice safe place. I don’t have much room here. You’ve been sleeping home these couple of nights, I notice. What’s the difference? It’s a five-minute walk. Pick me up at the apartment.”
C.B. looked at his watch. “Be waiting outside at precisely ten minutes after four.”
“Gotcha.” Petey looked from Luke to Rosita. “We may not ever meet again, but I’d like to wish you all the luck in the world.” With a snappy salute, he was gone.
Luke knew why his feet were feeling cold and damp. There was a trickle of water on the floor. The ice, he thought. This tub is beginning to leak.
Jack Reilly’s immediate gut feeling was that Alvin Luck was no threat to mankind. He was a mystery buff, not a kidnapper. Nora Regan Reilly was just one of many writers he collected.
Any question he or the detectives asked Alvin was answered promptly and without hesitation. He acknowledged that he had taken the picture of Luke at a mystery-writers’ dinner. He had bought the frame after he heard about Nora’s accident.
“Didn’t she like it?” he asked as they stood in his cluttered bedroom.
“I know why they’re asking you all these questions,” his mother butted in. “You didn’t sign your name to the card.” She shook her head vigorously. “They don’t like that kind of stuff. They think it means you have something to hide.”
“Mrs. Reilly was just surprised to receive an unsigned gift,” Jack said soothingly. “You did buy the teddy bear in the gift shop yourself?”
“What teddy bear?” his mother asked. “Alvin, you didn’t say word one about any teddy bear.”
“I see you’ve written a lot of notes in the margins of Mrs. Reilly’s books.” Jack picked up one of them and flipped through the pages.
“Oh, yes,” Alvin said excitedly. “I’ve studied hundreds of mystery writers to see how they plot. It’s a great learning tool. I file my notes under categories like murder, arson, burglary, embezzlement. When I read about true cases in the newspapers, I clip them out for my files too.”
“Is that why you have these notes on Nora Regan Reilly?”
“Of course.”
“Any chance you ever read ‘Deadline to Paradise?’ ”
“That was one of her earliest stories. I filed it under kidnapping.” He walked around the bed to a file cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. “Here it is.” He handed Jack a thirty-one-year-old magazine.
Regan drove as swiftly as she dared over roads that were rapidly becoming snow covered. Dad and Rosita can see the little red lighthouse, she thought with a glimmer of hope. They’re somewhere around the George Washington Bridge. Jack had said that background sounds on the tapes indicated that they were near water.
She dialed Jack’s number.
“I just spoke to your mother and told her that Alvin Luck has been eliminated as a suspect. But he might turn out to be a big help—he had a copy of her story.”
“What?”
“He’s a serious mystery collector. If by any wild chance the kidnappers follow the route used in the story, it’ll be a lot easier to cover them.”
“I have something to tell you too.” Regan relayed to him what had just happened at Rosita’s.
“Regan, this probably means they’re being kept in New Jersey.”
“Why?”
“Think about it,” Jack said. “Your father left the hospital a little after ten. The car obviously was driven to New Jersey, because it came back across the George Washington Bridge into New York at 11:16. Then it crossed the Triborough Bridge into Queens at 11:45, which is just about how long it would normally take to travel that distance without stopping. If they didn’t stop right after crossing the bridge into Manhattan, there’s no way they could still see the lighthouse beyond that.”
“For some reason, that makes me feel good,” Regan said. The net is tightening, she thought.
Petey nursed a tequila sunrise at Elsie’s Hideaway, where the annual Christmas Eve party was in full swing. The whole gang of regulars was there. I’ll just have one of these, he promised himself. I’ve got to have my wits about me for the big night.
If C.B. knew I’d stopped in here, he’d kill me. But I couldn’t leave the U.S. of A. forever without one last visit to this joint, where, like the song says, “everybody knows your name.” I’ve gone fishing with some of these guys, he thought. Lotta laughs.
“Petey, you look down in the dumps.” Matt, Elsie’s longtime bartender, replaced his empty tequila glass. “Elsie says ‘Merry Christmas.’ ”
“Aw, that’s nice.”
“I hear you’re going away on vacation. Where to?”
“Going fishing.”
“Where?”
“Down south,” Petey said vaguely.
Matt was already with the next customer.
Petey checked his watch. It was time to go. He slid off the bar stool, looked at the free tequila sunrise, and with uncharacteristic resolve, left it untouched.
“Petey, do you feel all right?” Matt looked concerned as he poured cocktail peanuts into an empty dish.
“I feel great,” Petey assured him. “Like a million bucks.”
“Glad to hear it. Have a good time on your trip. Send us a postcard.”
“Say, do you have any more of those Elsie’s postcards?” Petey asked.
Matt reached under the bar. “We’ve got one left. Be my guest.”
With a wave, Petey lef
t Elsie’s for the last time.
Regan had kept Austin Grady up to date with everything that had been happening. For the last two days, he had been fielding calls from friends of the Reillys who had heard about Nora’s accident and couldn’t reach her or Luke.
When Nora phoned Austin at 3:15, he asked if he could stop by the house on his way home. Nora quickly responded, “I’d like to see you, Austin. You’re the only one of our friends who knows what’s going on.”
Austin had been there only a few moments when Regan came in and told them about seeing the book about the red lighthouse.
“The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge,” Nora said. “Of course! You loved it.”
“They’ve got to be in view of that lighthouse,” Alvirah said emphatically. “There’s no doubt that on those tapes he emphasized the words, ‘I’m seeing red.’ ”
“Well, Jack thinks they’re on the New Jersey side of the bridge,” Regan said, and then explained why.
“If we only had some idea who did this,” Nora said hopelessly. “But we have nothing else to go on, and they’re calling in less than half an hour. Once they get the money, can we trust them to keep their end of the deal?” She gestured toward the window. “Look at the weather. If they did drop that bag by mistake yesterday, think of how much could go wrong today.”
They all jumped when the doorbell rang.
“Regan, we can’t have anyone else here. Say I’m sleeping . . .”
“I know, Mom.” Regan hurried down the hall to the front door. Standing outside was the plant society president who had knocked on the window of Austin’s office two nights ago. He was wearing a stocking cap, the top of which was slowly piling up with snow.
“Hi, Regan!” he chirped “Remember me? I met you the other night. Ernest Bumbles.”
He was carrying a gift-wrapped package under his arm.
“Hello, Mr. Bumbles,” Regan said hurriedly.
“Is your dad here?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Regan said. “He was delayed in New York.”
“Oh, what a shame. My wife and I are on our way to visit her mother in Boston. Although with this weather, no one should be out driving! Anyway, I have this gift I have so been wanting to give to your dad. It breaks my heart that I keep missing him. But I want him to have it for Christmas.”
“Let me take it then,” Regan said, anxious to end the conversation and get back to the others.
“Could you do me a favor?” Ernest asked with a pleading look.
“What’s that?”
“Could you please open my gift to your father now and let me take a picture of you with it?”
Regan felt like strangling him. She invited him to step inside, then quickly ripped off the ribbon and opened the box to find the framed proclamation.
“What’s this for?” she asked as she read it.
Ernest beamed. “Your father has done so much for the Blossoms. He introduced Cuthbert Boniface Goodloe to our society. The poor man died just this week, but he left us a million dollars in his will. We can never thank your father enough.”
“A million dollars?” Regan said.
Ernest looked misty eyed. “A million dollars. Virtually his entire estate! What a generous man. And it’s all because of your father. We also have one of these citations to present to Mr. Goodloe’s nephew, in honor of his wonderful uncle, but he’s never home either! Now let me take your picture.”
At Nora’s request, Austin came down the hall from the family room to see what was going on. Oh my God, he said to himself when he spotted Bumbles. This guy never quits.
He caught Regan’s eye but was stopped from brushing Bumbles off by the slight shake of her head.
Regan held up the citation. “Austin, look at this,” she said with a forced bright smile. “My dad’s the reason Mr. Bumbles’ society received a million dollars this week from a Cuthbert Boniface Goodloe. Did you know my dad was directly responsible for that?”
Austin shook his head. “I had no idea.”
“I was so sorry your dad had to miss our benefactor’s funeral,” Bumbles continued. “But the Blossoms showed up in full force.”
“It’s good you were there,” Austin said. Regan has the patience of a saint, he thought. “His nephew is his only family.”
“He is?” Regan said. She looked at Ernest and asked jokingly, “How did he feel about his uncle leaving such a big gift to the Blossoms?”
Ernest put his finger to his cheek. “I couldn’t say. But why wouldn’t he be happy for us? We’re a wonderful society. And he’ll be thrilled to receive one of these citations, I’m sure. That is, if I can ever reach him.”
“Where does he live?” Regan asked.
“Fort Lee.”
Regan swallowed hard. The New Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge was in Fort Lee. Was it possible? “I know my father will love this.”
“Well, I’m just glad you’re home to receive it. I’m keeping the other one in the trunk of my car so I can drop it by when I reach that nephew.”
“Give it to me,” Regan said. “I mean, I’m going to be in the vicinity of Fort Lee tonight, and I’ll drop it at his house so he’ll have it for Christmas too.”
“That would be wonderful!” Ernest cried. “But I don’t have his address.”
“I’ll call the office,” Austin said. “I’m sure we have it on file.”
“I’ll be right back,” Ernest said as he turned, went outside, and half slid down the path to his car, where Dolly was patiently waiting. When he returned, he handed Austin the other gift. “Hold this, please.” He turned to Regan as he readied his camera. “Now say cheese.”
“Cheese.”
“Got it.”
“What’s the nephew’s name anyway?”
Austin and Ernest answered in unison. “C.B. Dingle.”
“I win,” Bobby said halfheartedly. “Now let’s put in the tape.”
“First we’ve got to collect all these marbles,” Fred told him.
The three of them crawled on their hands and knees and gathered the marbles that were scattered all over the living room. “I think I saw one go under the couch,” Fred said. He lifted the skirt of the slipcover and ran his hand around in the narrow space between the couch and the rug. His groping fingers closed over the marble, but he could tell that it was resting on a smooth paper surface, not the carpeting. Sliding the paper out, he realized that it was a postcard addressed to Rosita.
The scrawled message was surrounded by dabs of colorful paint. It read:
Hope we can have dinner here soon!!!!!!
Petey
Chris was standing beside Fred. He looked at the postcard. “Mommy was so funny when she got that card. She said that guy’s elevator doesn’t go to the top.”
Fred smiled. “Did you ever meet him?”
Chris looked at Fred as though surprised he would ask such a dumb question. “Noooo! Mommy met him at work.”
“He works for Mr. Reilly?”
“Just once. He painted something there. They hated the color.”
Fred turned the card over. ELSIE’S HIDEAWAY. EDGEWATER, NEW JERSEY. His heart skipped a beat. Flecks of paint in the abandoned limo. A guy who had worked for Luke Reilly and had been turned down by Rosita. A guy who obviously frequents a bar in the area of the George Washington Bridge.
“Start the tape,” he told the boys. “I have to go in the bedroom to make a phone call.”
Having bid farewell to Mr. Bumbles, Regan and Austin carried the gifts back to the family room.
“Well, this certainly supplies motive,” Nora said as she read the proclamation. “But it could be another Alvin Luck situation.”
“I wish we had more time,” Regan said urgently. “I’d love to go up there and check him out. But the call is coming in ten minutes, and I probably will have to leave right away for New York. Jack is going to meet me with the second batch of money.”
The ring of the phone went through the
room with the impact of a gunshot.
“They wouldn’t call on this line, would they?” Regan asked as she ran to the phone.
It was Fred.
She listened. “Hold on, Fred.” She turned to Austin. “Fred just found a postcard from a guy named Petey, who apparently did some painting at the funeral home. He had asked Rosita out. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
Austin nodded. “We only had him work there one day. He completely messed up the job.” Austin paused for a moment and then exclaimed, “But wait a minute! He showed up the other night at the wake for Goodloe. He’s a big buddy of C.B. Dingle.”
Nora gasped. “He’s a painter, and there were flecks of paint in the limo.”
“And the postcard he sent Rosita is of a bar in Edgewater,” Regan said. “That’s just south of Fort Lee and still within view of the lighthouse.”
Regan told Fred what they had learned about C.B. Dingle.
“What’s Petey’s last name?” Fred almost barked into the phone.
“Austin, do you know Petey’s last name?”
He shook his head. “But hold on. I’ll get it for you.” He picked up his cell phone and called the office. “They’re checking the files.” A moment later he said, “His name is Peter Commet. He lives in Edgewater.” Austin wrote down the address and handed it to Regan.
“Fred, here it is,” she said and gave him the information. “They’re calling me in two minutes. I’ll get back to you as soon as I speak to them.”
“Regan, I’m going looking for this guy,” Fred said.
“I wish I could go with you.”
At exactly four o’clock, her cell phone rang.
“Be at the Manhattan end of the Midtown Tunnel at 5:30.”
“The Manhattan end of the Midtown Tunnel,” she repeated, and looked at Nora.
“They’re using my story,” Nora breathed.
Deck the Halls Page 14
