The priest was going on. “… so you cannot think I’m responsible for the girl’s disappearance.”
I let that one go and smiled.
He peered at me a second before canting his florid face to one side. In thought, I supposed, remembering at least what he was supposed to say. “But a pity.” He shook his head. “The poor mother, can’t say I’ve met her.”
“A professor at Columbia. Tall?”
“Oh, yes, that one. The child’s missing from her home, you say?”
“Since this morning. No one’s seen her.”
“Someone must have.” He looked at my card. “You mean to say you haven’t found her. That’s what you mean, you see. If you’re on retainer, you’re responsible until she turns up or you find her, by the grace of God. She could have gone off with a friend or relative. Did you think of that?”
A Sherlock Holmes, he wasn’t.
“The mother, what does she say?”
I started from the beginning and told him what I knew so far about Dorset’s accompanying her mother in the morning, the only time they’d had together, finding the drugged Cassandra Thatchley in the park, about questioning the girl’s siblings and nearest relatives. “No one has seen her.”
He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. No pity except for a few of the right words. No prayers.
“I wanted to ask you about your … the parish soup kitchen and her role.”
“Not my idea, as I say, and you cannot hold us liable. Still, a pity, a pity. Have you talked to the child’s friends? Dorset, you say? Have you talked to them? The neighbors? Maybe someone saw her go off this morning. Perhaps she’s with one of them and this has been a terrible mistake. I’ve met the Thatchley woman, her mother. Bit of a ditz, if you ask me. She’s a professor, you know. An expert on some nineteenth-century poet, she likes to tell you.”
There was a computer on a side table and he whirled around and began poking his fat fingers on the keyboard. He peered at the screen. “Cassandra Thatchley. Widowed twice. Never misses a collection. Extra on Christmas and Easter, I’ll give her that.” He stared at the screen and clicked and shook his head. “Lost her husband last year. Second one. Both of them sudden. Poor creature.” He turned and faced me, his arms outstretched like a bloated Buddha. “The mother-in-law, now, she’s a different matter.”
“Which one?”
“Lawn mower hair with a mouth?”
“You know Beatrice Thatchley?”
He choked. “One of my parishioners, you might say.” Sounding like a rusty tractor caught in high grass, he mumbled something in between coughs, and tapping a finger on the side of his nose the way my gran used to do, he winked. “Old Bea Thatchley has a lot of secrets, I’m willing to bet. Only trouble with her, when she opens her wallet, moths fly out.”
I’d be willing to bet she didn’t use his precious collection basket all that much.
“She could have taken the granddaughter, then forgotten all about her, left her at the store even and the girl could have lost her way. Or perhaps she’s taken her to a friend.”
I said nothing for a while, remembering my visit with the woman and my impressions of her as someone who was thoughtful, who hinted at negative opinions of her daughter-in-law, but who was very much sound and capable of recalling events from one morning to the next. And definitely, she was not someone who would forget her charge of Dorset. “But Bea Thatchley wouldn’t have had Dorset this morning: Bea Thatchley is not Dorset’s grandmother.”
The priest’s eyebrows shot up and his face flushed. He said something under his breath. Perhaps it was an acknowledgement of his mistake, although I doubted it, and for a second, I thought he was going to leave me sitting there. Truth be told, I almost felt sorry for him.
“Can you tell me a little about the people who frequent your soup kitchen?”
There was a stack of manilla folders on his desk, and he began surfing through them, opening and closing the covers, riffling through papers, and making a grinding noise with his teeth until he found what he was looking for. “The parish photographer took these. Funny, the archdiocese hasn’t picked up on my soup kitchen yet, although I got a call from one of the bishops in the chancery office the other day. You’d think the cardinal would be more interested.”
He passed me the folder, and while I opened it, he waited for me to go through all the photographs they contained. I could hear him breathing, opening drawers. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he told me he’d be right back. An excuse for a drink, I figured. Just like my father, the man needed his booze. One of these days it would pay them both back. With a mighty heave he stood up, wobbling for a second as if he were an elephant balancing on a beach ball. His face florid and holding his back with exaggerated stiffness, he strode out of the room.
While he was gone, I studied the contents in greater detail. There was a photo of the pastor standing behind a long table. He wore a white apron and a chef’s hat and a Cheshire grin. The woman next to him, Mrs. Briden I realized, ladled soup into the bowl of a man whose back was to the camera. He wore a tweed jacket. A light hanging from the ceiling shone on his strands of thin wispy hair. The line snaked off on either side of the table and the images of people in the near distance—patrons waiting to be served, mostly adults although there were some children in the line—were out of focus; and anyway, I couldn’t see most of their faces because their backs were to the camera. Standing next to Monsignor Finnigin behind the table were two girls. I recognized one as Dorset; the other girl must have been April Briden. They wore paper chef hats, similar to the one worn by the priest, and as they poured soup into outstretched bowls, they looked at the photographer and smiled. They’d be good photos to use in her story, but they told me nothing new, other than confirming Bea Thatchley’s assertion that Cassandra let her youngest daughter work at a soup kitchen. Attached to one of the photos was a one-inch newspaper article about the soup kitchen.
I stood, buttoning my jacket and preparing to leave when I heard a buzzer, the clear tones of the housekeeper’s brogue in the hall, and the shuffling of feet. The door to the office opened and Zizi Carmalucci herself walked toward me, one arm outstretched. I asked her what she was doing here and she said something about researching the Dorset Clauson story, no thanks to me.
“I just heard about that poor girl, and before you ask, I don’t reveal my sources.”
“So you just happened to be passing through, sniffing for leads?”
Zizi folded her arms, showing off her assets. “You could have called me this morning. Like we discussed?”
I’d forgotten. On the last case, Zizi Carmalucci had done me a favor—prominently displaying the name of my agency in her article—and I owed her one. “I was about to call you, but things have been happening so fast.” I gave her an account of the morning’s events and, swallowing, asked that she tell me whatever she picked up. “Nothing here, I’m afraid. This priest is a bundle of misinformation, but maybe you can use these promo pictures he had taken to show his boss.” And with that I made for the door, throwing a promise over my shoulder to keep her informed.
As I was crossing the threshold, Zizi called after me, “Good luck with your move to Poughkeepsie.”
Greta Clauson
Tall and bony, Greta Clauson, a woman in her sixties at least, met them at the door. She wore her orangish-blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, making the skin on the sides of her face look like a smooth drum and accenting a mouth that was too wide for her face. Looking at Greta, Lorraine thought of pictures she’d seen of a sad circus clown sitting alone in some back room.
Lorraine, unlike her daughter-in-law, did not believe in surprising people, least of all women who were her age or older and living alone, but Fina had demurred, saying the element of surprise was one of the best tools in a detective’s arsenal. And Frank, who had come along for the ride, agreed.
“Like Fina says, surprise them, Lorraine.”
“But, Frank, we can’t just d
rop in.”
“This is not a social call.”
All right, but Lorraine had insisted they change into their good clothes. “If you wear those jeans one more day and especially into that neighborhood, you’ll be given directions to the nearest shelter.” Agreeing, he changed into the gabardine pair Lorraine had bought him for his birthday. Frank said he’d drive. Last month he’d bought a new Mercedes, the only one in South Brooklyn with dents on both the front and back fenders, and Lorraine, ever the pragmatist, said three Hail Marys each time he held the passenger door open for her.
They’d met in grade school when he’d been helping his father in the shop and Lorraine was sent there to buy a chicken for Sunday dinner. Startled the first time she saw him, she smiled; he grinned. At first she hadn’t known what that pleasant throbbing meant, but in time had grown to love it. They’d both married other people, had lost their spouses, and now were lovers. Matter of fact, Frank was moving into her house that weekend. She stopped herself: not her house—their house. But they weren’t announcing it because of his daughter’s and her son’s objections to their relationship, although it had begun over two years ago. It was about time the young people accepted it.
Frank gunned the motor and kept up a reckless speed all the way from Carroll Gardens to Cranberry Street in the Heights. Lorraine could feel her headache intensify as she held onto the dashboard, but it lessened as they climbed the stoop of Greta Clauson’s townhouse.
“Amity Meats!” Greta Clauson said, her head sticking out the door. “I’d know you anywhere even without your butcher’s apron. You must be mistaken: I haven’t ordered chops today.” She looked at Lorraine, who was glad she’d worn her new coat and hat.
Lorraine held out her identification. “We need to talk to you about your granddaughter.”
“Is she raising funds for that soup kitchen of hers? I’ve already given her more than I should have.”
Lorraine shook her head. “It would be better if we talked inside,” and Greta Clauson, her shoulders stiff, swept up her skirts and led the way through a small entryway to a large parlor done in Federal style with polished plank flooring and a marble fireplace, where she offered Frank and Lorraine seats.
As she sat, Lorraine noticed rolls of fabric in one corner, leaning against the wall, partially hiding shelves overflowing with large books.
“You are a designer?” Lorraine asked.
Greta Clauson nodded, saying she designed classic interiors.
“How interesting,” Lorraine said and Frank nodded. Lorraine waited for more of an explanation. The woman, however, offered nothing further. Instead, she asked to take their coats, but Lorraine told her their visit wouldn’t take long. After shrugging off his own, Frank took Lorraine’s wrap and draped them over the back of a sofa near the fireplace. The two sat facing Greta and Lorraine got to the point.
“Your granddaughter is missing. She hasn’t been seen since early this morning when we believe she accompanied her mother to Pierrepont Park.”
Mrs. Clauson held a hand to her mouth and inched to the edge of her chair, asking Lorraine what the girl was doing in a park at that hour.
“We think she’d gone there with her mother. They often go to the park together, according to Cassandra.” Lorraine told the woman what they knew so far—or thought they did—that Cassandra Thatchley, in the habit of going to the park with her daughter before breakfast, had been given a cup of coffee laced with a date rape drug. “She has no memory of the morning, only surmises that Dorset must have gone with her.”
Dorset’s grandmother stared out at the street through the mullioned window in her parlor, a hand over her heart. Lorraine wasn’t sure whether the woman heard what she’d said, much less understood it. Frank opened his mouth to say something, but Lorraine touched his sleeve. The three were silent for a few minutes while Greta Clauson absorbed the news.
Presently she turned and faced Lorraine. “And you are sure, certain beyond any doubt, that my granddaughter is gone? She couldn’t be with a friend? That little girl she introduced me to as her best friend? What is the child’s name, April, I believe, or is it May? One of those silly names you Americans delight in calling your female offspring.”
Frank looked at Lorraine, who assured her they were certain.
Greta Clauson, draped in strings of pearls, wore a watch suspended from her neck by a gold chain. In slow motion she lifted it and, grabbing the face in one bony hand, examined it. Slowly she shook her head. “Impossible. When was she last seen, you say?”
“Between six and seven this morning.”
“Close to ten hours and no word? There must be some mistake. I’ve never known my granddaughter to leave her home without saying anything. She is devoted to that mother of hers, you know, especially after my son died. She was his apple.”
The woman had an accent, Lorraine was sure of it, but couldn’t place it.
“That’s just it,” Lorraine said. “Maybe she did leave; maybe she had permission, but we won’t know until Cassandra Thatchley remembers more of her morning. We are certain whoever took your granddaughter was known to the mother; she felt comfortable letting her daughter go with him.”
“Or her,” Frank said.
Lorraine smiled at Frank. She hadn’t thought of that, but perhaps it was a female friend of Cassandra’s who had taken Dorset. A trusted acquaintance, at least, which suggested at the very least a neighborhood association.
“Are there relatives who would take her?”
Mrs. Clauson’s face darkened. “You’ve spoken with Beatrice Thatchley?”
Lorraine nodded.
“And?”
“An interesting woman.”
“You might put it that way,” Greta Clauson said. “She has her spies, you know, holds sway over the household, and I can do nothing. My poor granddaughter. I shall sue for custody after Dorset is found. Such a good child, my poor darling, and, a shame; her lot is to survive in such a dysfunctional family. I’ve offered many times to take her and raise her myself. The mother and I have had words because of it, believe me. Each year I beg Cassandra to let me take her on trips in the summertime, anytime she is free from her school. I understand Cassandra is a brilliant educator, an expert in one of your famous nineteenth-century poets.”
“Emily Dickinson,” Lorraine said.
Greta Clauson nodded. “Just so. My son was deeply in love with Cassandra Thatchley.” She twisted a large diamond on her finger. “I was opposed to the marriage.” She paused and Lorraine could see tears pooling on Greta Clauson’s lower lids. “An older woman with grown children, one of them deranged.” She twisted the chain around her neck. “The result of that love, my granddaughter, is a precocious but obedient child. Such a precious gift for an old woman who has lost everything.”
“When was the last time you saw your granddaughter?” Frank asked.
“Two days ago. We had lunch together. I took her to her favorite, Blaue Gans, an Austrian restaurant in Tribeca. She loves the schnitzel and the strudel, and I breathe in my youth. Last year after her father’s death, I wanted to take her to Salzburg for the festival—it’s part of her heritage, you see.”
“You are Austrian?”
“Viennese. My maiden name is Egger, Greta Egger.” Her eyes sparkled. It was because of tears, Lorraine realized. “I left my home when I was twenty.” She looked out into the room. “So young, I thought a new life was just what I needed. I married a man I loved. He died five years later but gave me a son. A son whom I have lost like everything except for that precious girl.” She gave a bitter laugh, squirmed in her chair, and was silent for a minute. “I knew the trip wouldn’t help me get over my son. Nothing helps that. It might even make it worse. I’d see everything I’d lost, loss piled on top of loss. But I thought the trip would help Dorset. Cassandra wouldn’t hear of it. Silly, stupid woman.” She stopped talking, busying herself by examining her nails. “And now this.” She sniffed, and for a moment Lorraine thought she was going to we
ep, but she brushed her nose with a linen handkerchief and sighed. “Are you sure she’s … gone? Not with a friend? Cassandra can be absentminded.” She stopped and considered. “How could she have allowed it?” She rose, took a few steps and sat back down. “Dorset is everything to me. Everything. Where could she be?”
“The police and the FBI are involved, of course, and we are doing everything we can to find her,” Lorraine said. “At the moment, she is our agency’s only case. You can help by telling us anything that comes to mind about your granddaughter—her friends, her favorite foods, what she loves to do, anything you think is important, anything you think is trivial.”
“So this means you have no leads.” Greta Clauson stared at Lorraine. Somewhere a clock chimed the hour. Lorraine felt her headache returning.
Fingering her pearls, Greta Clauson rose. “Thank you for bringing this news to me. No one ever thinks to tell me anything. Old women fade into the woodwork. Please keep me informed. If I do not answer the telephone, here is a number where you can reach me or at least leave a message.” Greta Clauson handed Lorraine a card and Frank helped her on with her coat.
They were silent on the way home until Frank apologized for a reckless turn. After her heart stopped its wild beating, she asked him what he thought of Greta Clauson.
“A grandmother not all that concerned for her granddaughter,” he said. “I don’t trust her. She’s hiding something.” For a second his eyes slid to hers until he veered sharply to avoid sideswiping the car in the right lane.
Lorraine whispered a prayer. “But I thought she was concerned. Distraught, even,” she said. “Only she has a European way of showing it.”
“Explain, please.”
“She’s been through a lot—her husband’s death and then her son’s. The second death, a devastation I don’t think I could face. Frank put a hand out to touch her cheek and, in so doing, just missed a man darting in front of them.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 11
