“His fault, not mine. He crossed when the light was still red.”
She’d given up backseat driving for Lent, so Lorraine bit her tongue and watched pedestrians swarm in front of the hood, one giving Frank the finger. She caught his arm just as he was about to raise it in reply.
“We were talking about Greta Clauson, remember?” she asked. They were nearing Atlantic Avenue when she spoke again. “Sorry. I’ve been running through our meeting with her, and I agree, she’s hard to figure out. She can’t escape tragedy, can she?”
“No more riddles, I’m just a poor Italian butcher. I thought she was hiding her emotions, which were pretty much nil.”
Frank was good with leads, not so much with reading people. Still, if she were objective, she’d have to strip her mind of her own prejudices. She tended to believe all older women.
“Greta Clauson’s endured other tragedies besides the deaths of her husband and son?” he asked.
“Greta Egger was born in Austria shortly after the Second World War.”
“So?”
“Her country was on the losing side, remember? As a child she endured hardships all Europeans must have felt, even if she was too young to understand what had happened or why. Rubble wherever she walked, food shortages, rationing, no electricity or heat or running water.” They were silent for a time. “Didn’t you ever see The Third Man—shot in postwar Vienna? A great British film noir, from the days when black-and-white film was masterful. Directed by Sir Carol Reed?”
“A man with a woman’s name?”
She ignored the remark. “With Orson Welles?”
No response.
“Joseph Cotten? Trevor Howard? Even Lee Strasberg got himself a bit part.”
Frank shrugged.
“Unforgettable scenes. And besides, a haunting mystery—is Harry Lime alive or dead?”
“Who’s Harry Lime?”
“I’m not going to spoil the story by telling you.”
As they crossed Atlantic, bumping and screeching down Henry Street, Lorraine kept her driving suggestions to herself. “It’s about greed and loss in the bleakness of Vienna after the war.”
“What’s all that supposed to mean?”
Lorraine braced herself as Frank almost forgot to stop for a red light and tried to ignore the gentle tap from the car in back of them. “We’ll have to rent the movie.” She hummed the theme music.
“Sounds perfect for an after-dinner snooze.”
He turned onto Court Street and they were silent for the rest of the ride, cruising around her neighborhood until they found a spot. After he walked with Lorraine to her front door and gave her a warm kiss, Frank reminded her he had a meeting that evening, something about Boy Scouts or was it Little League, Lorraine couldn’t keep them straight. Relieved she’d have the whole evening to concentrate on Dorset Clauson’s disappearance, she slid a hand down the side of his face and whispered she’d see him tomorrow.
The Warehouse
Lorraine watched Frank’s Mercedes disappear and hung her coat in the front hall. Walking into the living room, she sat. When the phone rang, she decided she’d let the answering machine field it, but picked up the receiver as soon as she heard the voice on the other end—the assistant to the chief of detectives returning her call. Earlier she’d phoned his office, requesting a meeting concerning the death of Ronnie Clauson. “He wants to make it informal and wonders if you can meet him at eight this evening.” She gave Lorraine the address of a coffee shop in Cobble Hill.
Her heart skipped a beat. She’d never spoken with someone that high up in the New York Police Department, or anywhere else for that matter. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, so for a few minutes she sat still, telling herself she was capable of anything. Wasn’t she? Didn’t Frank tell her that just the other day? What would she ask him? Simple, she’d let him do the talking. After all, he was the one who wasn’t easy with Ronnie Clauson’s death.
She stared at the grandfather clock in the corner, watching the pendulum mark the inexorable passage of time. Her hands were cold; she rubbed them, looking at the new brown spots on her skin until she felt the corners of Greta Clauson’s card digging into her palm. She’d forgotten she still held it. Something about the woman set her on edge. Reminding herself she had plenty of time to do a little research before her meeting with the chief, she walked back out to the hall, put on her coat, and locked the front door. She might run into rush-hour traffic, but that was all right. She needed the practice.
As she was backing up and turning the wheels, Lorraine glanced once more at Greta Clauson’s card in her hand, and before she put the Plymouth in first gear and drove down Court toward the bridge, she had the name memorized: Greta Clauson Interior Design & Fabric. The address was in Manhattan just above Ninety-Sixth Street. It had been a while since Lorraine had been in that neighborhood; Robbie had still been alive and had been driving, but she pointed the car in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge, crossed over into Manhattan and rode up the East Side Drive into thick traffic but listening to her favorite radio station. They were playing the Brahms Second Symphony and she hummed along, tapping the steering wheel to keep time, about to conduct when she realized her driving was getting as bad as Frank’s. One of these days she’d get him to sit down and listen, absorb if only a little what Brahms had to say to the world for all these hundreds of years, his voice an important one for her ever since she could remember. His music spoke of storms and peace, sorrow and stillness. Or not. As always, it made her happy, but she knew on a deeper level, Brahms and his insight was helping her digest life and all it had to offer, including her meeting with the Austrian woman and the undercurrent of her words and what they had told her about the Thatchley-Clauson family dynamic. The helplessness of the woman in the face of such dysfunction, the unfulfilled need to be a part of her granddaughter’s life. The love of a grandmother for her offspring. Would she resort to taking Dorset? Lorraine rejected the notion, although stranger things had happened. Whatever the outcome, Lorraine knew she wouldn’t stop pursuing every possibility, however remote, until Dorset Clauson was found.
Preparing to exit, she slowed and found herself at the end of a long line of cars. She watched red taillights wink. The sky was a deep azure, lamplight flickering in windows and on street corners. Tenderizing the world. But in this changeable season, Lorraine thought she saw mist in the distance as she turned off onto Ninety-Sixth and cut uptown into a mixed neighborhood of stores, industrial buildings, and single-family townhouses. It took her a while; the fog seemed to materialize out of nowhere as she searched for the address on Greta Clauson’s card. Finally she found the building in the middle of the next block, a hulking warehouse on the downtown side of the street flanked by townhouses.
After parking, Lorraine locked the car. The street was empty and she was glad she didn’t wear heels; she’d parked two blocks from the building and fog was beginning to pool near her feet.
She opened the door with difficulty. The vestibule was small, but there was a list of names. As she was studying it, a door opened.
“Can I help you?”
Lorraine jumped.
It was the night guard, or so the man introduced himself.
“I’m looking for Greta Clauson’s company. She’s an interior designer.” She showed him the card she still held in her hand. “Mrs. Clauson gave me this address and told me to visit any time.”
“She’s got half a floor three flights up, but the building’s closed now. The businesses here are nine to five.” He looked her up and down. “And for the trade only.”
She thanked him and, turning, thought she heard indistinct voices coming from an upper floor. She stood still, listening. A muffled cry. Sounds of protest followed by anxious footsteps. A door shutting. The creak of an elevator.
“Some of the tenants stay after hours,” the doorman said by way of explanation. He wore a uniform, his hat cocked to one side and a toothpick between his lips, which he rolled from sid
e to side. Taking it out and throwing it into the bin across the room, he said, “Their right, of course, but trust me, the Clauson showroom is closed now.” He straightened and she could see a bulge on the left side of his jacket.
With her head cocked to one side, Lorraine listened for a moment, but the noise had changed now and she thought the sounds had morphed into the clank and whoosh of an elevator shaft. She stood still, listening. The sounds stopped, began again. She thought it might be whoever had made the commotion. For whatever reason, the guard got up, shoving a new toothpick into his mouth. “Better go now. Mind it’s pretty dark outside and the walk’s not in the greatest shape. Gotta check the building,” he said, and disappeared.
Lorraine stood waiting. This was her chance and she wasn’t going to let it go. There was something about Greta Clauson Frank didn’t trust, and while she didn’t share his sentiment, she needed to follow up. After all, the woman had recently lost her only son and had limited access to her granddaughter. Wouldn’t she, in her grief, be tempted to take her granddaughter, if only on a vacation? What if Dorset were upstairs in Greta Clauson’s showroom now, perhaps looking forward to a trip to Germany during her spring break, something to brag about when she returned? Held because the woman, by her own admission, didn’t see enough of Dorset and wanted to take her on a trip, and that was what had happened to her. She shook her head; these days her imagination ran wild. Yet a little snooping to satisfy her curiosity wouldn’t hurt. She listened for the sounds of the guard and heard the faint sounds of a door opening somewhere in the building. What if Lorraine left now? She’d never forgive herself.
She waited in the vestibule, staring for a moment at the guard’s empty desk, listening as the sounds of the elevator approached and came to an abrupt halt. The clank of the cage opened somewhere behind a door to Lorraine’s right. She turned the handle, but it was locked. Standing to one side, she waited, listening to footsteps and the sounds of a man and woman arguing. Suddenly the door opened, almost hitting Lorraine. She stepped back just in time as the couple emerged. Deep into their altercation, they didn’t notice Lorraine, who held the knob with both hands and whispered a prayer as she hid behind the open door until the couple crossed the lobby and disappeared through the outer door.
She slipped inside to another space, this one a high-ceilinged hall lit by a dim bulb hanging from a ten- or twelve-foot ceiling. Lorraine stood still, the elevator’s metal double door in front of her. She pressed the button. Slowly the doors opened and she stepped inside, pressing the button for Greta Clauson’s floor. Her heart was beating wildly as the elevator made its shuddering way up the shaft, taking forever, it seemed to her, while she rummaged in her bag for a flashlight. She’d forgotten it. Squeezing her eyes shut and cursing her stupidity, she determined to see this through.
The elevator stopped and she opened the door into the third-floor hall, this one darker than the downstairs vestibule, so she waited for her eyes to adjust and her heart to stop its wild beating. Her temples ached as she made her way down the hall, feeling the wall until her vision became sharper, following signs to her destination. In the hallway she stood before a door and let out a gasp as she read the sign in bold red lettering tacked onto the glass above the doorknob. “Greta Clauson Interiors. Business For Sale.”
So that was it. Lorraine’s heartbeat quickened. Why hadn’t Greta Clauson mentioned she was selling up? Did she intend to leave Brooklyn Heights? What would her historic townhouse in pristine condition and on a prime street in Brooklyn Heights go for these days? Probably close to thirty million. With the money from the sales of her business and home, she could retire and afford the best schools in Europe for her granddaughter.
Lorraine put her ear to the door and heard nothing. She’d come this far. Crossing herself, she turned the knob. The door was unlocked. She entered, smelling furniture polish and fabric. The room was even darker than the hallway, so she groped for a switch and, finding it, lit the room with a single flick of her fingers. She closed her eyes, counting to ten while her sight adjusted to the brightness. Close to the front was a carved mahogany desk surrounded by bolts and books containing swatches of fabrics. Lorraine would have liked to sit and examine some of the material, but she didn’t have time. Perhaps she’d hire Greta Clauson when this whole thing was over. She thought of Robbie and what he’d say about her spending money to decorate and smiled, picturing the fight they’d have before he acquiesced.
Two chairs stood on either side of the desk filled with sample books. For a warehouse, the place was immaculate, consisting of a large high-ceilinged room sectioned off with loveseat and chair groupings, the place crowded and most of the furniture traditional in style. On the desk was a flashlight and Lorraine decided to borrow it. She’d figure out a way to return it after they’d located Dorset. Moving slowly inside, Lorraine covered every inch of the room, opening several doors and peering in. One led to a broom closet, the other to a galley kitchen, a third to a room filled top to bottom with shelves holding books and more fabric.
But there was no sign of Dorset, so closing the door softly, she retraced her steps down the corridor to the elevator, down, down, to the first floor. She opened the door to the lobby.
The guard stood up, the toothpick dropping from his mouth.
“After you left, Greta called and buzzed me in. She’s working late.”
It was the only excuse she could think of and she wondered what the guard would do when he discovered the lie. If she were lucky, nothing, and remembering she hadn’t given him her name, she said goodnight and left.
The Visit
Stopping for a light on Cadman Plaza, she checked her watch. Not too late to pay Greta Clauson another visit, so she swung over to Cranberry and hunted for a while until she found a space. Lorraine felt the fog thicken as she rang the bell and waited, glancing briefly at the light streaming out from the mullioned window in Greta Clauson’s parlor. In a minute Lorraine heard footsteps, a slight hesitation before the door opened.
Greta Clauson’s face was like the surprise of sunshine after rain. “You’ve found her? Bless you for telling me.”
“Not so fast. I’m sorry for the late intrusion and for raising your hopes,” Lorraine said, watching the slump of Greta’s shoulders. “I have more questions. May I?”
As Greta Clauson led her into the living room, Lorraine smelled the rich aroma of panned fried cutlets and something sweet.
“Have you eaten? I was just about to have a little something, schnitzel and boiled potatoes. Simple fare, but I found I’ve made enough for a short list of guests.”
Reluctantly Lorraine declined although a home-cooked meal was enticing. She hadn’t eaten since the meeting over eight hours ago. “I don’t think you’ll want to share your table with me after you hear what I have to say.”
No time like the present, so after Mrs. Clauson showed Lorraine to the same chair she’d occupied on her earlier visit with Frank, she stared into the fireplace while Greta turned a log. Lorraine watched sparks fly up the chimney and waited for her hostess to sit. Struggling a bit inside her pocket, she finally pulled out the flashlight.
Greta Clauson’s eyes widened. “I have one just like—”
“This is yours.” And before the woman could say anything, Lorraine blurted out a summary of her visit to the warehouse. “A child’s life is at stake, and we have to uncover every stone. I wasn’t going to search inside until I saw the sign on the door.”
“I don’t understand.”
Either the woman seated opposite was playing it cool, or she was clueless.
Lorraine gave her time before she continued. “You should have told me you were selling your business. I had you packed up and in another country, your granddaughter secreted away someplace in your office until it was time for the flight.”
Tears formed in Greta’s eyes, and before she could speak, Lorraine got up and hugged her.
Slowly Greta Clauson straightened in her seat. “I understand. What d
o they say—we are all guilty?”
“We are all suspects.”
“My dinner gets cold. Are you sure you won’t join me?”
Lorraine looked at her watch. “The offer is so kind, but I must be off.”
“I understand. And if you must know, you are not the first one who’s thought of stealing Dorset away. I could give her such a good life. But the girl, you see, is devoted to her mother. Otherwise …”
“What will you do without your business?”
“I am retiring. It will take years until I find the right buyer.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me you were leaving?”
“Not leaving. I would never leave Dorset. But if …”
“But if?”
“If something were to happen to her.” Greta Clauson raised a hand to her heart and patted her chest, choking for a bit. She squirmed in her chair and blew her nose. “If something were to happen, if Dorset never returned, I couldn’t bear it. Never. I don’t know what I would do. She is my life.”
Lorraine thought the woman was going to faint. Once again she went to Greta Clauson and waited while she had a real cry, then helped to dry her eyes.
“Does the offer for schnitzel still stand?”
The Chief
No matter the time of day, the Court Street Diner smelled of bacon and eggs. Lorraine caught their scent as soon as she opened the door. There were electric candles in all the windows and the place was decorated in a spring motif with a huge arrangement of forsythia near the entrance and some yellow crocuses in small vases on the tables and next to the cash register. Usually it was crowded, but tonight there were only a handful of diners. A few of the seats at the counter were occupied, but the chief was waiting for her in a booth toward the back. She recognized him by his shock of white hair.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard he was dead. My best friend.” He shook his head in disbelief although Ronnie Clauson had died more than a year ago. “Have you ever had that happen to you?” the chief asked. “I mean, an unexpected death? Now you see him, now you don’t?”
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 12
