Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  What now, Pauline, what now? I asked myself, falling back on the bed in frustration. I stretched my arms out over my head to relieve my tension. The motion must have brought a needed blood surge to my brain, because I came up with an idea. Emily McMahon suggested Patrick found work with the Rochester Transit Authority. Perhaps they might be able to tell me something about him. I called down to the concierge who told me the transit authority offices were within walking distance of the hotel.

  Happy to actually walk someplace for a change even if it was in Rochester, I was soon on my way. Being tall, weight has never been an issue for me, but I’ve always felt walking is the best way to keep the legs toned and shapely, and I hadn’t really walked since London. Reaching the transit offices a brisk ten minutes later, the unprepossessing brick structure looked exactly as a public-works building should—budget-conscious. Entering through the revolving glass doors, no doubt meant to protect against Lake Ontario’s meteorological whims, I emerged into an empty lobby. A directory alongside the elevators told me the personnel office was located on the third floor.

  A young blond woman sat behind the chest-high counter. She was bouncy and friendly and most of all helpful, a welcome departure from one’s usual civil servant. I told her—quite honestly—that I was seeking the family of a deceased friend. I then added—somewhat less honestly—that I knew his father had worked for the transportation authority at one time. Her beaming smile never left her face the entire time.

  “So I wondered if he’s still collecting a pension or the like, so I might locate him,” I explained.

  “I’m really not supposed to give out personal information,” she said with a mildly tortured look on her face. She was sizing me up, not quite sure what to make of me. It could have been my multicolored Missoni suit, something I’m sure was rarely seen in the building if not Rochester itself. Resting my Prada bag on the counter (every woman in the country had to recognize that label), I gave her a most imperious smile. I don’t know if it was the smile or the designer nylon that swayed her, but a moment later she was bowing her blond curls over her computer keyboard and tapping out commands with her bright purple fingernails. I watched her wait for a response. A pause, and then more clicky-clicky of the keys. Another pause and her hands rested on the desk. With her eyes fixed on the screen, she nodded at it as if to let the machine know she understood.

  “Have you found him?” My pulse accelerated in anticipation. Her next words slowed it back to a steady thump.

  “Yes, here he is, but I’m afraid I don’t have good news. He’s listed as deceased. Died in nineteen eighty-nine. My records show his wife continued to collect his pension until she died in nineteen ninety two. That’s when the last check was sent out.”

  So I was in the right place, just way too late. I had found Danny Kehoe’s parents, but unfortunately they were dead. Unwilling to accept defeat, I asked if she could give me the late Kehoe’s former address. Once again the tortured look. She wanted so desperately to be helpful. Glancing up and down the corridor, she said in a hushed voice, “I’m not really supposed to do this, but seeing’s how the party’s dead, I don’t see what harm it can do.” She scribbled out the address on a piece of transit authority stationery and handed it to me.

  “Seven fourteen Thorndale Street,” I read aloud. “Could you tell me where this is?”

  “Right here on the twenty-one bus route,” she said, pointing to a spot on a large map mounted on the wall behind her. “It stops right outside this building.”

  “Is the neighborhood safe?” Though this new lead held promise, I wasn’t quite ready to risk life and limb again.

  “Oh, it’s fine. It’s a working-class area.”

  Of course it was.

  I walked back out into the dreary Rochester day with the address still clutched in my hand. The time was two o’clock. If I caught the 21 bus as recommended, I could probably be in Daniel Kehoe’s former neighborhood within a half hour. It had been years since I had ridden a bus, and that was in Paris. I wondered what the procedure was and if I had the proper change. I looked in my purse and found a dollar just as the bus was pulling up.

  The fare turned out to be a dollar and a quarter, but while I explained to the bus driver that was all the change I had other than a twenty-dollar bill, a handsome young man came to the rescue and put a quarter in the till for me. I thanked him and turned to see a full bus of people staring at me, obviously in no humor to be delayed on their way home. There were no free seats, and no man rose to volunteer his, not even the one who had paid the quarter. I took hold of a hanging strap, and as the bus jerked back and forth with each stop along its route, I was grateful I didn’t normally rely upon public transportation.

  As to be expected, the houses in the Kehoe family neighborhood shared the same uniformity that the houses in Emily McMahon’s neighborhood did. They were small and well-kept with the exception of one here and there in need of a coat of paint. Thorndale Street was a couple of blocks from the bus stop and after a couple of misses, I located the house where Moira received Patrick’s last pension check. The sound of a television could be heard through the front door. I rang the bell and waited. No one answered. I rang again. The same. And again. And again.

  Knowing someone was inside, and not about to be put off at this juncture, I struggled through the bushes in front of the house and peered in the picture window. A rather large man sat in front of the television smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a baseball cap and the sort of T-shirt one sees on Italian immigrants in movies. On a TV tray beside him were any number of beer cans, a couple of them overturned. In the dimness of the room, the images on the television screen changed the light on his face.

  I banged on the glass. He turned abruptly as if a whip had just been cracked in his face and peered at the window. I smiled my most becoming smile and pointed at the front door. He got out of his chair and I hurried from the bushes to meet him. A moment later the door swung open with a vengeance. Through the screen, I could see his shirt was soiled and his beard several days old.

  Preparing to introduce myself and explain my purpose, he preempted me with a loud and foul, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Well, I’m Pauline Cook and I’m looking for Daniel Kehoe or anyone who might know where he is,” I stammered, his verbal assault having taken me by surprise.

  “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll call the police,” he shouted.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, regaining my composure. Unafraid to go up against this cretin, I was about to reiterate my reason for being there, when I realized he was closing the door. “Wait, wait a minute,” I called desperately. I was there. I needed an answer. “Are you Daniel Kehoe?”

  He stopped and glared at me with red eyes. “Never heard of the fucker,” he said and he slammed the door in my face.

  The good news is I had a seat on the bus back into the city. The bad news is I had to miss the first bus that came along as the driver refused to break a twenty-dollar bill for me. After a cup of bad coffee at a local café in order to get change, I caught the next bus. During the ride, I decided that my search for Daniel Kehoe had finally come to a close. There was no place left to look. I had searched every avenue and had reached an impasse. The entire thing had been a complete waste of time, energy, and resources—unless one counted meeting Terrance Sullivan as worthwhile. That remained to be seen. Sean had been right when he said I was banging my head against the wall. It was time to stop the banging.

  Completely disheartened as I disembarked the bus three blocks from my hotel, I opted to do the only thing that could cheer me up. I went shopping.

  Two hours later, I walked back into the Hyatt lobby weighed down with shopping bags. They were filled with clothes I had no need for, didn’t really like, and absolutely couldn’t afford. Though Rochester was hardly Fifth Avenue or Rue Montaigne, I had somehow managed to make a substantial contribution to the local economy. Now, I needed a drink. Fearing if I went up to
my room to unload my purchases I might not be able to summon the energy to come back down, I toted them with me into the lobby bar. I was in no mood to face four walls alone.

  Taking a corner table with a clear view of the mirrored bar, I dropped the bags onto the floor and fell into a garishly upholstered chair. A plastic card in a plastic holder listed the drink specials of the day. Though a concoction called Sex on the Beach piqued my interest, I settled on a more pedestrian glass of white wine, asking the mini-skirted young waitress to make it a white Burgundy if possible. She went away looking perplexed.

  The bar was half-filled, the girls from the airport shuttle sitting with a large group of young people I determined to be other members of the wedding party. Their chatter was offensively loud, fueled by Sexes on the Beach no doubt. My gaze drifted to a table at the opposite end of the room where the young man with the patent leather hair sat drinking alone. He caught my eye, and I gave him the polite smile of a fellow traveler. I immediately regretted the gesture as he picked up his drink and came over to join me.

  “You look as though you could use a little company,” he said.

  Finding him rather bold, I was ready to say not at all when I stopped myself. He had a certain vulnerability about him, a je ne sais quoi that reminded me of a boy trying desperately to be a man. I stared into his narrow blue eyes and could see they were tired. He too was a stranger in a strange town. I didn’t see any harm in the selfless act of permitting him to join me for a drink. That aside, having someone to talk to didn’t seem such a bad idea.

  “While I am perfectly content alone, I am guessing you would like some company. You are welcome to sit if you so desire.”

  He accepted my invitation and took the garishly upholstered chair opposite me.

  “I’m Todd Matthews,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Pauline Cook,” I replied, clasping it briefly. The way he stared at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to determine my age. I shifted in my chair and crossed my legs in a deliberate manner. His eyes followed my action, coming to rest on the cache of shopping bags at my feet.

  “Shop ’til you drop?” he asked, raising his glossy black brows.

  “Something like that,” I granted him. “I’ve had a rather frustrating day. It helps to relieve my tension.”

  The waitress brought my wine and he motioned to his almost empty drink, indicating that he would like another one. “I know what you mean by needing to relieve tension,” he said draining the remains of his ice-filled glass, a clear liquid I assumed to be vodka. “This relieves mine. Being on the road like this is a real drag. Lots of hotels, lots of lonely nights. Even though it may look pretty glamorous, when you get right down to it, the life of a road warrior can be a grind.”

  His use of the word “glamorous” caused me to wonder about his frame of reference. Glamorous was landing at Sardy Field in Aspen aboard a G5, motoring into Portofino aboard a 150-foot Hatteras, ordering the ’61 Latour at Le Grand Vefour in Paris. Nowhere in that picture did I find a hotel bar in Rochester. Then again, perhaps my frame of reference was quite different from his.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Matthews?” I inquired.

  “I’m a sales rep for Tryton Athletic. Have the entire Northeast territory. It keeps me jumping.”

  “You’re still on the road on a Friday night?”

  “Trade show this weekend.”

  I sipped my wine. It was a dreadful domestic Chardonnay. I studied my fellow nomad. The face that most likely was clean-shaven that morning showed a distinct shadow beyond five o’clock. Aside from that everything about him was youthful. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Not a minute older.

  “Are you married?”

  He shook his head no.

  “I would venture you have a girlfriend.”

  “Had one. She got tired of my traveling so much and found someone closer to home. I haven’t really had time to start a relationship ever since. That was about a year ago.” There was a momentary silence, and then he asked, “What brings you to Rochester? The shopping?”

  Hardly, I thought to myself, still trying to reconcile half of the purchases I’d made. “No, I came in search of a friend.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “How did you know it was a he?”

  “Lucky guess. So did you find him?” he repeated.

  “Well, I suppose I should have phrased my statement differently. I didn’t actually come in search of him, I know where he is. I’m just not quite sure who he is.” And as a lonely traveler in a faraway bar, I decided to share my tale of woe. I told him of my fruitless search for Ethan’s true identity, how I thought I had located Daniel Kehoe’s parents but they had died, the horrid treatment I had received when I went to the family house, and how it was now left to me to bury him whoever he was. He listened raptly, and then began spewing forth suggestions on how to solve the riddle, most of them involving computers and the Internet. Though I appreciated Mr. Matthews’s enthusiasm, the technological talk was causing my eyes to flutter. My long day was drawing to a close. I asked for the check. The waitress had charged me for my visitor’s vodka, but I signed for it anyway and slipped it back into the faux leather folder.

  “It’s been quite nice speaking with you, Mr. Matthews. I wish you the best of luck in all your travels.”

  “Thanks. Nice talking to you too, Pauline. We road warriors have to stick together. Where you off to next?”

  “This road warrior has had it. I return to Chicago first thing in the morning.”

  I was insulted when he didn’t stand as I got up, and also found it presumptuous of him to call me by my first name when I had been addressing him by his surname all along. Then again, what does one expect in an era when men think nothing of dining in a fine restaurant wearing duck-billed caps and the general populace looks as if they have dressed from the community rag bag. At least he wore a suit. I forgave him his bad manners. His youthful face and guileless smile made it difficult to hold anything against him.

  “I’ll look you up if I ever get the Chicago territory,” he said.

  “Yes, do that,” I replied. As I left the crowded bar, I noticed him ordering another drink. I hoped the waitress would have the presence of mind to put it on a new chit.

  Once in my room I was overcome with exhaustion, both mental and physical. There was just too much weighing on my mind for any one person. The loss of Ethan, whoever he was, the disappointment of my encounter with Terrance Sullivan, the ever looming threat of financial ruin—the trilogy drained me, body and soul.

  I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed, too tired to undress. My eyes fluttered shut, and I felt myself slipping over the edge into a drug-like state when my ears pricked at a barely discernible sound inside my room. Coming back to consciousness, I leaned over the side of the bed and looked toward the doorway. A sheet of paper lay on the green and mauve patterned carpeting, just inside the door.

  Despite my fatigue, my curiosity was piqued, so I rolled lazily out of bed to retrieve the paper. It was a piece of hotel stationery with a message scrawled on it.

  Try his former neighbors

  My heart pounded furiously as I tried to figure out the meaning of the message and who would have sent it. Then I remembered Mr. Todd Matthews’s earnest desire to help me find out more about Ethan. He must have gotten my room number off the signed bar tab. I told myself to review my bar bill in the morning before checking out—just to make sure he hadn’t enjoyed his next drink at my expense, too.

  Then I thought about his suggestion and decided it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Following Mr. Matthews’s advice, I returned to the Kehoe family neighborhood first thing the next morning. The ride on the 21 was much quieter as it was a Saturday, so there were plenty of seats, and this time I brought correct change for both trips. I was now a pro on the Rochester bus system.

  Back on Thorndale Street, I chose to ignore the residence where I had been so rudely treated
the day before, and went directly to the house next door instead. A harried young woman with a frightening number of children clamoring around her legs answered the door. Unlike her neighbor, she was quite polite as she explained she had only lived in the neighborhood for a year and therefore knew nothing of a Kehoe family. But she pointed to the house across the street, one of those that needed that coat of paint.

  “Try the Schmidt sisters,” she said, picking up one of two crying children without breaking eye contact with me. “They’ve lived here since forever.”

  I crossed the street to the house with jagged ribbons of paint peeling from its facade and rang the bell. The living room curtain parted and a pale face peered out at me. Quicker than a memory the curtain fell back into place followed by a shrill voice from the other side of the closed door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Pauline Cook, Miss Schmidt,” I explained through a windowless wall of oak. “Your neighbor sent me over.”

  “You mean Evangaline?” A second voice said something from behind the closed door to which the first voice responded even louder. “I said Evangaline sent someone over.” The door opened a crack until a chain stopped it. A single cataract-covered eye stared from half a wrinkled face and half a spare chin. Another half face hovered behind it.

  “What did Evangaline send you over for?” asked the Schmidt sister in front.

  “She told me you might remember the Kehoe family.”