Terry chuckled. “No, and it’s too bad. Constantine may not have given us any leads, but he did give you a great haircut. Kind of like—”
“Don’t tell me. David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase, right?”
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of Isabella Rossellini.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. So what’s my assignment this time?”
Terry looked around nervously. After making certain that the only person who could hear them was busy sucking on a vinyl change purse, he said, “I think it’s time for some infiltration.”
“That sounds intriguing.”
“There’s a tour of artists’ studios here in Sea Cliff this weekend. You know, kind of like an open house that’s spread out all over town. Anyway, all weekend the people at the Save Our Seas offices are going to be selling refreshments to help raise funds for their organization. And, well, I thought it might not be a bad idea for you to volunteer to be their head coffee pourer.’’
Jessica’s eyebrows shot up. In a hoarse whisper, she demanded, “What’s up, Terry? Have you heard something?”
With a sigh, he said, “You know, Jess, you’re not the only one who’s been asking questions. And the more I poke around this town, the more I’m finding out about what a lowlife my brother really was. And apparently I’m not the only one who’s drawn that conclusion. He had quite a few enemies.”
“And that includes some of the people over at S.O.S., I’m sure. But didn’t we already know that?”
“This is something a little more concrete. I’ve been hearing a lot about this one particular guy over there. He just started getting involved with the organization recently. This past summer, in fact. His name is Phillips. Raymond Phillips. And the word is that he’s a real hothead. In fact, there’s even talk of throwing him out of S.O.S. altogether, because some people are afraid he’s giving the group a bad name.”
He glanced around furtively once again. “This Ray Phillips seems to think that more . . . shall we say, extreme behavior is called for in order to keep the incinerator from going through.”
“A hothead, huh? So here’s a guy who’s against the incinerator project and therefore would have been likely to have it out for your brother—and may even be the type to act on something like that in an extreme way.”
“Exactly. Anyway, I thought maybe you could hang around the S.O.S. offices for a few hours tomorrow afternoon. You know, keep your eyes and ears open. Pour some coffee for a good cause, but mainly see if you can find out some more about what this guy is really like. Maybe you’d even get a chance to meet him. From what I understand, he’s pretty visible. A real big mouth, one of those people who’s involved in everything.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday, right? Let me think a minute.”
Jessica already knew that anything that may have already been scheduled was destined to take a backseat to a challenge like this. Infiltrating the organization, going undercover. . . She felt like Mick from Hill Street Blues.
“It sounds okay. I have to check with my baby-sitter, but I’m pretty sure I can swing it.”
“Great,” Terry said, flashing one of his grins. “Because I already went ahead and signed you up.”
* * * *
“The extra teabags are up in that cabinet, the sugar is over there, and I’ve got a quart of milk right here. If you run out of milk, you can just call Arata’s and they’ll deliver another quart. The coffee is free, but we do ask for a donation. Oh, and over there are the sweatshirts and tote bags and things we have for sale. See if you can sell some of those, okay?”
Barbara Patrick, one of the regular volunteers, glanced around the Save Our Seas Coalition’s small storefront office to see if she had forgotten anything. “Oh, one more thing. I don’t suppose I could talk you into wearing one of those S.O.S. sweatshirts while you’re here handing out coffee, could I?”
“Sure. It’s all for the cause.”
The truth was that Jessica was only too happy to add another layer of warm clothing to what she already had on. It was cold in the Sea Cliff Avenue offices of the environmental organization, no doubt a sign of the group’s attitudes toward energy conservation. With three hours ahead of her, she welcomed anything that would help.
She pulled on a turquoise sweatshirt silkscreened in green and yellow with the S.O.S. logo: a grid of four squares, containing, respectively, a fish, a flower, a bird, and a rainbow. She immediately felt like part of a bigger, more important whole. Her chest swelled with so much pride that she was glad she had chosen a large.
“Fantastic,” Barbara said approvingly. “Now here’s the key. Lock up at five and bring the key over to Levine’s—you know, the stationery store right down the block. And Jessica?”
“Um?”
“Thanks a lot. It’s great that you were willing to donate your time like this.”
“Oh, sure,” Jessica said with a modest wave of her hand. “It’s nothing. Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
And cleaner water, she was thinking, is only part of it.
It was going to be a fairly quiet afternoon, she realized early on. During the first half hour, her only customers were an older couple taking the walking tour and a woman stopping by to make a contribution.
Never forgetting her real reason for being there, she took advantage of her time alone in the S.O.S. office to peruse the newsletters and information packets piled up all around the cluttered office. She found no clues, however, not even a mention of Raymond Phillips or anything else suspicious. The only interesting thing she came up with, in fact, was a Xerox copy of a petition that had been signed by local residents and sent to the governor a few weeks earlier, demanding that the incinerator project be stopped. She wondered why she had never been approached to sign it.
By the time her next customers showed up, after a good hour of isolation, she was ready to throw herself headfirst into raising funds for the cause.
“Hello, there.” She put on her widest, friendliest smile. “Would you like some coffee? We have tea, too. And you might like to look at the sweatshirts and tote bags we have on sale. They make terrific Christmas presents. We also have bumper stickers, buttons . . . have you seen the latest newsletter? There have been some encouraging developments lately. ...”
“Actually,” said the male half of the couple who had wandered in, “we were wondering if you could tell us a good place to get an early dinner around here.’’
“Well, let’s see,” Jessica said, thinking hard. “There are a few places right here in town. You could try Once Upon a Moose or Costello’s. And if you’re willing to drive, there’s the Barefoot Peddler. . . .”
“You certainly seem to know your way around here!” the woman commented, beaming.
“Well, I live here.”
“Lucky you! This is such a charming little town.”
“Yes, I guess it is,” Jessica replied. “Where are you from?”
“Oh, we’re from all the way out east. Southold. We like it well enough, but it’s nothing like this. How long have you lived here?”
“Actually, my husband and I just moved out here to Sea Cliff. Let’s see, I guess it’s been about three or four months now.”
“Goodness!” the woman exclaimed. “You seem so settled in already.”
As the couple went off in search of a good hot meal, Jessica found herself smiling over the woman’s remark. Perhaps there was something to that. Slowly, without even noticing it, this place, this town, was becoming familiar. She hadn’t been trying—in fact, she had barely been paying attention—but just by being here it had started to surround her like a warm, comfortable shawl. It was becoming home.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, Jessica had had enough. The afternoon had been fruitless in terms of tracking down clues. She didn’t know any more about Ray Phillips, or the Save Our Seas group, for that matter, than she had when she first came in. She had, however, read Newsday cover to cover, made out her Christmas car
d list, and decided what presents to buy for just about everybody she knew. That included three S.O.S. sweatshirts. Sammy was just going to love all the colors.
So much for my career as Nancy Drew, she thought grimly, locking up the office.
She ducked into Arata’s to get a quart of milk, stopping to chat briefly with Mrs. Balazs, who was also at the delicatessen picking up a few things. Jessica was about to call it a day, to head over to Levine’s to drop off the key, when she snapped her fingers.
Dam, I forgot my sweatshirts, she thought, groaning in disgust over her own distractedness. I paid for them and then I forgot to bring them with me.
She turned around and went back to the office. It was hard finding the keyhole in the dark, but she finally managed, even while balancing her milk and her purse. She opened the door and was about to snap on the light when she heard an angry voice coming from the back room.
“Damn it,” a man exclaimed, “we’ve already been through all this. I thought we had agreed.”
“No, you and your two sidekicks agreed,” a second voice corrected him sharply. “I never went along with it, and neither did any of the other members of the board.’’
“If you’d just give me a chance to talk to everybody, to explain my way of thinking—”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to divide the board up into two opposing sides, aren’t you? Still trying to make trouble. Ray, aren’t you?”
By now, Jessica had come inside and silently closed the door behind her. She stood in the dark, her eyes wide open, straining to hear the voices over the pounding of her heart.
“Look, a strike against LILCO would be a great way for us to make a statement,’’ the first man, the one who had to be Ray, was insisting.
“But it’s not LILCO we’re fighting. It’s the town.”
“Yes, but don’t you see? It would be a show of strength. Look, all we need is for people to start refusing to pay their electric bills, and—”
“Look, this is crazy. The last thing in the world we want is to look like a bunch of flakes.” The other man sounded exasperated. “Ray, you get too carried away. I’m telling you, the fact that you feel so strongly about this works against you. It distorts the way you see things. It colors your judgment.”
“Hey, listen. I feel strongly because I know I’m right. You know I’m right, too.”
“About some things. I will admit that. But you get too carried away. It doesn’t help the organization to have people like you, people who let their emotions run away with them.”
Jessica was tiptoeing across the room, wanting to hear every word of the conversation going on in the back room. Obviously the two men—Ray and the other board member—thought they were alone. She wanted to catch a glimpse of them, to see who the other man was. What she heard next, however, made her freeze.
“I was right about Lloyd Nolan, wasn’t I?”
She drew in her breath, wanting desperately to hear what followed, even if it meant turning blue.
Meanwhile, the other man remained silent for a few seconds.
“What about Lloyd Nolan?” he finally asked.
“I was the one who found out that he owned part of the land that this incinerator is supposed to be built on. I was the one who identified who our real enemies are. You do remember that, don’t you? Or has everyone around this place forgotten the small contribution I made to our cause?’’
“Yes, Ray, it’s true that we were all very excited about the way you ferreted out that piece of information.”
“Yeah, well, I did more than that, didn’t I?”
Jessica’s temples were throbbing. The adrenaline surging through her was making her feel queasy.
“What do you mean. Ray?” The other man’s voice sounded strained. “What are you saying?”
“Look, all I’m saying is that Nolan got what he deserved. The man was slime. He was trying to screw the people who live around here, just because it would have meant a few extra bucks in his pocket. Okay, okay, a lot of bucks. But it all worked out just fine. You know what they say: Whatever goes around, comes around.”
“All right. Ray. Enough about this. Look, let’s get those flyers so we can get them over to the printer because he closes at six.”
Just then the telephone rang. Jessica knew enough to take advantage of the distraction. She hurried out of the office, and despite everything she had the presence of mind to grab her sweatshirts.
* * * *
Usually, as Jessica traveled up the walkway that connected the driveway with the house, she found herself taking note of all the yard work that was going to need to be done come spring, growing more and more despondent with each step she took. Since the garage was tucked all the way behind the house and the walkway was a good twenty-five feet long, she had enough time to work herself up into a fairly distraught state by the time she reached the back door.
Today, however, she was thinking not about weeds and mulch and decaying fence posts but instead was planning exactly what she was going to say to Terry. She was also thinking about how much she was looking forward to calling him. She wondered which meant more to her, the opportunity to share important news or the opportunity to flirt.
“Mama! Mama!” Sammy’s shrill voice was half an octave higher with excitement as he came running into the kitchen to greet her. “Look what Amy buyed me! Mystery juice!”
“Hi, Jessica,” Amy said as she appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, just in time to catch the tableau of Mother and Child with Bottle of Cran-Raspberry. Today she was wearing not one but two pairs of slouch socks—one chartreuse, the other Day-Glo orange—and the black high-top sneakers that in Jessica’s day had been worn only by members of the chess club. Her acid-washed denim jacket was dotted with peace symbols and anti-apartheid buttons, and her earrings were two silver lightning bolts.
She gave her employer a funny look.
“Hey, are you okay, Jessica? You look a little weird.”
“What? Oh, sure. I’m fine. I just had a little too much coffee today, that’s all.” She examined her trembling hands with curiosity, as if they belonged to someone else. “I mean, I did spend the afternoon surrounded by the stuff. I guess I got a little carried away.”
“Well, you know what they say. ‘Just say no.’ Hey, listen, I wanted to ask you, is it okay if I don’t come next Tuesday? I have this paper I have to write. It’s due Wednesday. It’s a really long paper.”
“How long does it have to be?”
Shaking her head as if in disbelief, Amy replied, “Five pages.”
“Gee, a real whopper. Well, sure, Amy. I’ll plan on your not coming that day. What are you writing on?”
“The paper is for my American history course. We have to pick out a president from a long time ago and do a bunch of research on him.”
“History, huh? I’ve always been pretty good at history. Who did you pick?”
“Well, some of the kids are writing up recent presidents because they figure it’ll be easier to find out stuff about them. But I figure this is a history course, right? I might as well do it right. So I decided to go all the way back.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Yeah, so I picked Richard M. Nixon. By the way, did you see the phone message?”
From underneath the previous week’s Pennysaver, a half-eaten Oreo, and two sets of keys, Amy pulled out a postcard suggesting that Jessica and David McAllister could have won a condominium in Florida. Scribbled on the front in orange crayon was the message, “Terri Knowland” and a telephone number.
Suddenly Amy let out a gasp. “Oh, my God!”
“What? What?” Sammy demanded, his angelic little face twisting up in concern.
“It’s ten after! We’re missing the Flintstones!”
Jessica stole away to the bedroom to make her phone call. She was buzzing, barely able to wait to tell Terry all about the argument she had overheard this afternoon and the suspicions about Raymond Phillips that
it had aroused.
By this point she had it all planned out. She was going for a dramatic beginning, something like, “Terry, we may have found our killer.’’ That was sure to grab his attention. Then she’d move along to the factual portion, quoting from the conversation between Ray and the other S.O.S. member. Finally, she would end with a summary of all the factors that pointed to Phillips as a suspect: his opposition to the incinerator, his explosive nature, his vendetta against Lloyd Nolan. She expected to handle her discourse brilliantly, like a prosecuting attorney mesmerizing a dozen jurors.
But, in response to her cheerful greeting, Terry jumped right in with, “Jessica, there’s been another murder.”
Chapter Thirteen
“All of a sudden,” Terry said, distractedly kicking aside a small branch that lay across his path, “this thing is a whole lot more complicated than it was before.”
Beside him, Jessica nodded. She walked along in silence, her hands pushed deep inside her pockets, her shoulders hunched up against the biting wind. Even though it was a clear, sunny Saturday morning, it was very cold.
There were few other people here at the Roslyn Duck Pond, one of the main reasons Terry had thought it would be a good place for them to talk. Aside from a few children on the playground over on the other side of the footbridge, just past the wooden gazebo, there was only one other person out for a stroll today, an old man who was making his way around the pond, moving slowly but with great determination.
Jessica’s eyes were fixed on him as she walked along beside Terry, still dazed by the news he had sprung on her the evening before. Simply hearing that a second murder had been committed would have been bad enough. But learning that the victim had been Dr. Donald Ditzler suddenly made the whole thing almost too much for her to bear.
“What I can’t figure out,” she said slowly, “is who on earth would have wanted Dr. Ditzler dead. I mean, he was a healer. He took care of people’s babies. He took care of my baby.”
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