“What about Mrs. Hampton? Do you trust her?”
“Of course. She’s the most loving, the most reliable …” Her voice trailed off. “She’d never do anything to harm any of us.”
“Even Dorset?”
Brook glared at me. I saw Lorraine’s eyes narrowing, but she smiled and told Brook we’d be in touch.
“There is one thing you might want to check into,” Brook said. “I mean, assuming you’re serious about finding her. About six months ago, Dorset got involved in a soup kitchen, of all things. I don’t know much about it. You’ll want to talk to Dorset’s friend about it. I can’t remember her name. Tall for her age and thin, not short and dumpy with beady little eyes like yourself.”
I felt like slugging her. “April Briden?” I asked.
“That’s the one. Her parents are do-gooders, especially April’s mother. They were the instigators, I’m sure. You’ll want to talk to them. And my mother, who lets Dorset do whatever she wants, encourages her ten-year-old to ladle out soup to homeless men and women at all hours. Can you imagine? Not yet a teen? I steer clear, but you might want to start there.”
Lorraine and I rode down the elevator in silence. Outside, the rain had stopped but the wind had picked up, a March wind, this one filled with cold and, at that moment, not much promise. The rain had left puddles and it looked like they were freezing, and of course I had to try them, so I stuck the toe of my shoe in one and sure enough the sludgy stuff seeped through and wet my toes. I hugged my jacket and we walked down the street.
“Could Brook Thatchley and her brother have taken Dorset?” I asked Lorraine as we walked back to her Plymouth.
“And done what with her?” She shook her head. “I just don’t know. I don’t have a good feel for Brook Thatchley other than her unquenchable sorrow.”
“At losing her father?”
“And mother.”
I pretended to understand what Lorraine meant.
“Brook is a master of concealment.”
Add gratuitous mean to that.
“Her father’s death and her mother’s disinterest in her life have sucked all emotion from the surface. It’s how she’s been able to survive.”
I couldn’t agree. “Her mother doesn’t seem disinterested in Brook.”
Lorraine said nothing.
I thought of my own father’s abrupt departure from our lives and wondered if, like Brook, I’d cut out a wad of my own emotional life and stuffed it so deep even I didn’t know about it. A suicide of sorts. “We can’t rule any of the family out, not at this early stage.”
“But there was pain around Brook’s mouth,” Lorraine said as we turned the corner. “And I’d like to find out more about her relationship with her mother.”
“For starters, she probably resented the fact that her mother made her Dorset’s babysitter.”
“If we could see both of them together—Brook and her mother.”
“That might be impossible.”
Lorraine was quiet for a time. “But I have trouble seeing Brook as the kidnapper. Or involved in a kidnapping of any sort. She’s too busy with her work. And why would she do it?”
“She dislikes Dorset,” I said.
“Dislikes her, I agree. But is that enough of a motive for kidnapping? Although, I wonder what her overhead is. She’s got to have the latest equipment, and the rental on that studio has got to be high, to say nothing of advertising and marketing costs. Utilities. What do you think, five thousand a month? Do you think the motive for taking Dorset was money?”
I hoped so, but couldn’t answer Lorraine’s question—I just wanted to find the girl.
We were silent getting into the car. Lorraine turned the key and the motor roared into life. I smelled oil in the exhaust as she drove the few blocks to our townhouse in Vinegar Hill. Denny was right: his mother needed a new car.
“Want to see your grandchildren?” I asked out of politeness as we pulled up in front of the house. We had so much work to do and the house was a mess. Matter of fact, I’d hoped to go inside just long enough to say hello to my kids, talk a few minutes with our nanny, get my car keys and head out again.
She looked at her watch. “I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know them and watching them grow. But right now, we’re pressed for time. We still need to interview Bea Thatchley and I need to do a little more research. For one thing, I’d like to talk with Jane’s chief.”
“Going over her head?”
“I don’t think she’ll mind when I ask her to arrange a meeting—Jane has a workload that would bury me,” Lorraine said. “I’d like to learn as much as possible about Dorset’s father, and her boss, Ronnie Clauson’s best friend, seems like the logical place to begin. I can’t connect any of the dots yet, but it just might be that his death is linked to his daughter’s disappearance.”
I stared at the set of Lorraine’s jaw and smiled, thanking the powers that be for her. If I couldn’t have my own mother, she was a wonderful substitute. “What about your father?” she asked. “You could probably squeeze in a visit. Wave to him from the door.”
I shook my head. “He was an undercover agent. He’ll understand.” I avoided her eyes and let a few seconds pass. I wanted to have my own wheels in case Lorraine and I needed to split up. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll check on the twins and meet you in front of Bea Thatchley’s home.”
Bea Thatchley’s Home
Bea Thatchley lived in a small one-bedroom on the top floor of a brownstone in Boerum Hill. She greeted us on the landing in her stocking feet, her St. Anthony’s volunteer smock still on but askew, like the spikes in her hair—some of them matted where perhaps she’d had to wear a netted hat. Gone were the sunglasses, and in their place, a pair of horn-rimmed readers.
“We’ve got questions concerning Dorset.”
“Still not home?” Bea asked, her brows furrowing.
I shook my head and she invited us in. As we stood in the minuscule entryway, I introduced her to Lorraine, and true to form, Lorraine, whom truth be told would melt the tundra, began chatting with her, telling her how glad she was to meet her, how she must have been devastated when Ben died.
Unlike Lorraine, I’m not so good with emotions. “I read about your son’s death in the paper.” I added, “I’m sorry for your loss.” My words sounded so cookie cutter.
Bea Thatchley looked at the rug. “I know it was ages ago, that I should be over it by now.”
“Nonsense,” Lorraine said. “He was your son.”
The woman teared up, “For me it keeps happening over and over. You remember that time?”
“As if it were yesterday,” Lorraine said. “All the smoke, the black soot covering everything.”
“Seeped all over the house, two or three inches thick in some places. It crept up the stairs into all the bedrooms. There were ashes underneath my bedspread. We were sweeping it up in December.”
Lorraine nodded. “Robbie and I had such a mess on our hands. It took us days to clean. And two or three weeks later, the notes with pictures of missing men and women began to appear on the edges of buildings.”
“They were everywhere—pinned to trees, to fences, to storefronts. The acrid stench everywhere.”
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you. You’d lost a son.”
“And she let Brunswick put his picture up on every street corner. I’d go to KeyFood and see my son’s face on the corkboard near the shopping carts. ‘Have you seen this man’ written in a child’s hand underneath his photo.”
Lorraine hugged the woman, who pulled out tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. We waited for her to collect herself.
“I’ve seen you somewhere. You and I must have mutual friends,” Lorraine said. “I go to Mary Star.”
“Holy Angels and St. Pat’s,” she said.
And they were off, talking about this committee, that parishioner; in a few minutes, they’d become best buds sharing the latest news.
Bea Thatchley showed us into a living room that looked like a shrine to her late son. There were photos of him everywhere, as a boy, a young man, on his wedding day. They were on the bookshelf, on end tables, on the mantel. I began to see Bea Thatchley with different eyes, wondering how I’d cope if one of my children were missing in the midst of a disaster.
The furniture, not my taste, was of excellent quality although the upholstery was worn in spots. A tall vase with spring blooms stood on a low table. Mrs. Thatchley pointed to a loveseat and two chairs flanking the fireplace. As I sank into deep cushions, I realized I could use a nap, but in another second fought it off: we hadn’t begun; we had no leads, not even a whiff of where Dorset had gone, so I squirmed to the edge of my seat and straightened. I felt my phone vibrate but couldn’t take the chance of breaking the moment by looking at it. One of these days I’d find a see-through holster.
Bea Thatchley was talking. “They should have taken the settlement. Why not? What’s to lose? She has everything to gain. She doesn’t realize how prices rise. Wait until she’s my age. She should have insisted Ben’s name appear on the wall with all the others who’d lost their lives at the World Trade Center. But not Cassandra Thatchley. Above it all. Able to thrive and give her children everything.”
“And her reason for not accepting the settlement?”
“Privacy, or something like that. Her reasoning is so garbled, I can’t understand how she can be a full professor, but then it’s poetry, isn’t it, that’s her field. You see, that’s my pigheaded daughter-in-law. She always, always has to be different, no matter the cost. And when you meet Brunswick, you’ll see how high the cost has been.”
Bea Thatchley’s face filled with color as she tried to control herself. In time, she continued talking, but she was back to her son and the lost settlement. “They found my son’s DNA nearby, didn’t they? At least there would be some closure, maybe not for Brunswick, who’s a lost cause in many ways—he was difficult even before his father disappeared, poor boy. Difficult, of course, unless he was with me. You have to know how to handle all children.”
Lorraine looked at her. “You mean you have to give them individual love.”
“Exactly. And I tried. For several years after 9/11, the two children came here and we played. I fed them proper meals and put pillows under Brunswick’s head when his eyes grew heavy. And when one of his moods was coming on, I changed the subject. You have to do that with children; it’s part of the love, you see.”
Lorraine nodded and we were silent for a couple of minutes.
“And Brook?”
Bea Thatchley shook her head. “She was so young, such a good girl. Even when she was little she loved looking at pictures. Ben had given her a camera—nothing fancy—and she carried it with her in a plastic purse fastened around her neck. She loved taking pictures even at that early age.”
She stopped talking and her eyes grew wistful; it was as if the hands of the clock inside us all reversed themselves and the young grandchildren were present.
“But I blame my daughter-in-law for Brunswick. You should have seen him when he crossed the threshold of my apartment shortly after Ben disappeared, so full of pent-up rage, unable to sit still, throwing pieces of my china on the floor. When he was here for a while, he’d calmed down and become the sweet child I knew when his father was alive. But you see, I’d given up on her and how she’d raised her children, long before Ben died.”
“So you arranged for Mrs. Hampton to help with the household after they were married.”
Bea Thatchley smiled. “The least I could do. It was their salvation. Too bad she won’t consider being live in help. There’s enough room.” She looked around her small living room. “I could see the moment I met Cassandra that she wasn’t a homemaker. But Ben was in love.”
“Tell me about Cassandra,” I said.
As if to shield herself from disaster, she held up both hands at her daughter-in-law’s name. “Where to begin …”
We were quiet waiting for her to continue. I could hear sounds of children playing somewhere in the neighborhood.
With a start, Bea Thatchley got up from her chair. “Gracious. I haven’t offered you anything and I made a fresh pot just before you came.”
Lorraine told her she could use a spot of something and said she took cream and sugar. I nodded, not wanting coffee so much as the chance to explore Bea Thatchley’s surroundings. When she’d left the room, I walked to the mantel and took up the nearest frame. It held a faded picture snapped in the setting sun of a young boy about six or seven sitting on a man’s knee—Ben with his father, I could tell, because the resemblance was so strong. The two were looking not at the camera but at each other, the boy laughing, his head tilted back and up, the man grinning into the eyes of his son. I set it back down, careful to return it to the same spot, all the while noting the absence of dust. I wondered if Bea Thatchley did her own cleaning, but then older women usually did. Me, I waited until the house was unbearable and then called in Lucy’s, afterward luxuriating in order and beauty for a few hours.
Bea Thatchley returned, cups and saucers wobbling on a tray with a steaming pot of coffee and slices of Danish. “I found two cream puffs in the fridge and cut them up for a little treat.”
The smell of the java and chocolate was irresistible, and I helped myself to a brew that was exquisite, especially for so late in the day. “Where did you get these pastries?” I asked, licking my fingers. I reached for another.
“The original Magnolia’s on Bleecker Street. Once in a while I still go there and paid a visit this morning. After my husband died, I worked at a production company close by, so I know the Village. I treat myself and imagine what life could be like if …” She didn’t finish her thought but focused on something in the near distance.
“Do you still work?” I asked.
She shook her head, a little more forcefully than was necessary. “Except for volunteering, that takes up a lot of my time.”
I threw a sideways glance at Lorraine, who moved slightly in her chair. By this time, I should have been able to read my mother-in-law’s nonverbals, but I was too intent on tasting the chocolate and sipping my coffee to focus. We were silent for a few minutes until we were finished with the food. I balled up my napkin, stuffed it into a pocket, and folded my hands.
“You asked about my daughter-in-law,” Bea said, returning her cup to the tray. It made a chink and Lorraine, who had finished, rose and was about to carry the tray into the kitchen when Bea Thatchley implored her to leave it. But Lorraine insisted and one of those polite skirmishes started up, quickly stopped when Bea Thatchley took Lorraine’s arm and led her back to the chair. “Besides, I’m embarrassed, I haven’t done last night’s dishes.” Lorraine sat back down.
“Cassandra Thatchley is a brilliant woman,” Bea began. “Knows all of Emily Dickinson’s poems by heart, they tell me. I’ve heard her lecture and she captivates her audience, even when she was a graduate student and Ben and she were dating. My son told me she had so much insight into the poet that listening to her, he understood the meaning of life for the first time. Youthful hyperbole of a man in love, I’ll grant you. But he also said that from the first day he met her, he knew she was destined for greatness.” She hesitated, rimming her cup with one finger. “Although I very much agreed, I was against the marriage.”
“Why?”
Again Bea Thatchley stared at something only she could see. “Certain people are focused only on themselves and whatever they want to do at any given moment. Whatever happens around them is secondary, their children included. Cassandra Thatchley is totally self-absorbed.”
Not exactly praise.
“I told Ben his marriage would end in disaster, but he wouldn’t listen. Looking back on my life, though, and in all fairness to my son, I didn’t listen to my parents, either.”
“They were against your marriage?”
“I was sixteen when we were engaged.” I watched Bea Thatchley’s eyes
, which I thought filmed over. “My son begged me to keep an open mind. He said I’d come around in the end.” Judging our reaction, she added, “By that time my husband was dead. It was just me and Ben. He needed my guidance. In his twenties when he was married—they’re still young then, don’t you think?”
Lorraine shrugged. “Culpable in the eyes of the law; young enough not to listen; old enough to know their own mind.”
“You’re right there. He’d found himself a wonderful job in the city, selling insurance, I can’t tell you the name of the company, although before he died, he’d formed his own corporation. Ben was always gifted with numbers. Took after his father with that one, I’ll tell you. But when it came to his marriage with Cassandra Lenox, his father wasn’t there to give him guidance.” She stopped talking long enough to run a hand through her spikes. “There are times a mother has to meddle, don’t you think?”
I could tell Lorraine disagreed but was too polite to say anything, or maybe it was wisdom. I wondered if my mother would be a meddler and didn’t think so, not for the first time swallowing the anger I felt at her untimely death. If she were alive, she’d be checking on the twins, probably upsetting the nanny, but who cared. And most certainly she’d object to any talk of our moving out of Brooklyn.
“I told him not to marry that woman. He would come to grief.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You expect me to love Cassandra, to stand up for her, to embrace Dorset, her obvious favorite over my grandchildren? I see what playing favorites has done to Brook.”
I began to see Brook Thatchley in a different light. Her moodiness; her sorrow.
Bea Thatchley went on. “I cannot do that, not without being false to myself. I must protect my own. They’re all I have left, you see, now that my son is … gone.”
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 9
