“Did you see them?” Clancy asked, turning to Stanley Ellston.
“Not this time. I was out. But Shirley and I compared notes.”
As her husband spoke, Shirley’s head snapped up and down. Her lips became two flat lines and spots of red appeared on her cheeks. “First two times, we were both here. The tall one has a gun.”
“What kind of gun?” Clancy asked.
The husband and wife looked at each other. “A gun. Black or silver, maybe. I only saw the tall one with the gun. He’s the one who came up to the counter. The shorter one—he was wearing a cap, I believe—he stayed near the door.”
“No, he wasn’t. That was the tall one,” Shirley Ellston said. “Seared into my brain, I tell you.”
They argued for a time, and Cookie, who prided herself on taking detailed notes, stood there taking in the argument, wondering what kind of witnesses they’d be.
“Let’s back up,” Clancy said. “You’ve been robbed three times?”
The Ellstons nodded in unison.
“Are you sure they were the same two men each time?”
While the two were puzzling it out, Cookie heard the door open and all conversation about the robberies stopped. The newly arrived customer, a mother gripping the hand of her toddler, who wanted to touch everything in sight, glanced briefly at Cookie and Clancy, then asked if they carried pacifiers. Mrs. Ellston led her to the rack, helped her choose one, rang up the purchase, and walked her to the door.
“I just assumed they were the same each time,” Stanley Ellston said. “Three weeks apart, like clockwork.”
“How can you presume to answer the question?” Shirley asked. “You weren’t here one time—at that stupid druggist meeting of yours—and I had to deal with them alone. Now let me think.” She closed her eyes, holding onto the counter. “All three times, one tall, the other short. The short one didn’t have a gun.”
“But how do you know for sure they were the same two men?” Clancy asked.
“No one knows anything for sure, but if my missus says they were the same, she knows what she’s talking about.” He gave his wife a peck on the cheek.
Shirley seemed wrapped in thought, one arm hugging her waist, the other held up to her face, two fingers ringing her mouth. “I’ve got it,” she said. “The shorter one, I can see him now, hanging back by the door.”
“The lookout,” Clancy said.
“I remember he had a shuffle,” Shirley Ellston said. “Almost like a little boy having to go to the bathroom.”
“Not comfortable in his own skin, you mean?” Cookie asked.
She shook her head. “Not exactly uncomfortable. Different—that’s the word I’d use. He was just different. He rocked back and forth. I don’t think his heart was in it. He certainly didn’t want to be where he was. Back and forth, back and forth while the tall one was busy with the gun in my face. I hadn’t thought of the short one in a while, but now that I’m concentrating on it, I can see the ghost of him back there.” She pointed to the door and shivered. “The time I was here alone, I gave the tall one the money, I’ll tell you my heart was beating something fierce, like that.” She pounded the top of the counter in a rhythmic beat. “But each time, the short one, he had that shuffle. There was something not quite right about him—strange behavior, I’ll tell you, and my heart went out to him.”
“Soft, that’s what you are,” Stanley said. “They’re robbing us and you’re still soft on him.”
Shirley Ellston looked at her husband. Cookie thought she was going to start crying, but she said nothing and the moment passed.
“Not so much strange or different behavior as inappropriate,” Cookie offered.
Mrs. Ellston snapped her fingers. “That’s precisely the word. You must be an English major.”
While Mr. Ellston and Clancy went into the back room to look at the CCTV tapes, Cookie stayed in front with Mrs. Ellston and got her off the subject of the robberies. She felt bad for the woman and wondered what she’d be like facing someone with a gun. They talked of children and favorite recipes, planting bulbs in a few weeks. “We go up to our farm and spend the weekends there,” Shirley Ellston said. “So peaceful. You and your mister will have to visit us. Bring your children. I’ll make cookies. I sure wish I had your way with words.”
Cookie felt her cheeks burn and held up her copy of Emma. She told Mrs. Ellston about doing graduate work in British and American literature, about lecturing at the Carroll Gardens branch of the public library a few years ago. She’d love to make time for some solid reading, maybe give another lecture, this time on women in eighteenth-century England. But what with the kids and working for Fina, time ran through her fingers like water. She pulled out her phone and looked at the screen. Six hours since the meeting at Lucy’s when Fina had told them about the job. So the girl, Dorset, had been missing for close to twelve hours. She craned her neck toward the back and heard Clancy talking and laughing, decided she’d have enough time, so she told the woman about the missing girl.
“She lives near the Promenade on Columbia Heights. Maybe you’ve seen her?”
Mrs. Ellston laughed. “I know it looks empty now, but we have crowds in the store most days, especially during the lunch hour. Lots of children come in with their mothers. Many of them tourists because we’re so close to the water where they can get a good look at the Statue of Liberty. We do a brisk business in toys and Brooklyn memorabilia. I don’t know if you noticed them when you walked in?”
Cookie nodded. “A wonderful display.” She stopped for a second and, reaching for her phone, showed the woman Dorset’s image.
Shirley Ellston stared at it. “The girl looks familiar, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
“The missing girl—they call her Dorset—is ten; she’s an artist,” Cookie said. “She’s into drawing and carries a red notebook around with her. Lots of times comes in with her mother? She’s a professor at Columbia University.”
Shirley screwed up her mouth. “Then I’ve seen the both of them, I know it. The woman’s tall with wiry hair and a prominent nose?”
Cookie wasn’t sure, so she kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t met Cassandra Thatchley, but Shirley’s description of her sounded like Fina’s, and Cookie could tell from what Fina had said that the Thatchley woman could prove to be a difficult client.
Shirley Ellston was going on. “That woman is full of herself, if I have the right one, and I’m sure I do. Not too many customers like her. Full of herself. She buys all her vitamins here. Comes in with a little girl who looks like the child in your phone. I feel sorry for her, having a mother like that. If I had a child, sweet like that, and so talented—you can tell she’s talented—why, I’d love her and pamper her.” Mrs. Ellston started to tear up again. “Here, let me see that picture again.”
Cookie held up Dorset’s photo.
She nodded her head slowly. “I’m sure I remember the girl now. Comes in with her mother mostly. She buys notebooks. Goes through them in about a month, her mother told me. See the little red ones over there?” Shirley Ellston led Cookie to an aisle containing paper products. She stopped in the middle and held up a small notebook about nine by twelve with a red cover. “See? Told me once her daddy used to buy them here. He’s the one who started her out. Now, isn’t that the sweetest thing?”
Cookie ran her hand around the cover and felt her fingers itching to draw. One of these days she’d have a studio away from the kids and the noise and everything, a place where she could write and do her art. When Cookie was Dorset’s age, she liked to draw, too. Most kids do, well, maybe not at ten. But Cookie had kept it up, encouraged by her mother, but discouraged by her father, who said to her many times that artists were people who cut off their ears. She could see him sitting in his chair, his newspaper lowered, a scowl on his face when she’d shown him the drawing she’d been working on. For an instant she felt that same light-headedness and her eyes began to sting, just like they had when he’d talked to her like that
. She shook her head and the image faded. Whatever had happened between her and her father, he was gone now and Cookie made an invisible sign of the cross in his memory. And the talent had stayed with her despite, or maybe because of, her father’s attitudes. These days she used her ability to create suspect likenesses based on witnesses’ descriptions. Not exactly fine art, but she could feel herself getting better and better at it, the lines steady and crisp, the angles exciting, the color dynamic. Fina had told her too and praised her. And for Fina to say something, well, Cookie knew it must be true: Fina had no gift for art, didn’t really understand it. The art was something that made her money because Fina paid her extra for each drawing. Cookie pinched herself to get back on track because Shirley was still talking.
“The other day, who was the girl with? It must have been a friend—shorter than the one you’re looking for and silky hair, about like yours only much finer.”
“Like gossamer?”
Shirley gave her a friendly nudge. “Exactly. There’s another one of your words.”
Cookie felt her cheeks glow.
“I remember that because of the way the sun shone on it. We have lots of children coming in because we’re so close to St. Ann’s and Packer Collegiate.” She shook her head. “So she was here just the other day, but not with her mother, I’d remember that. I clamp my teeth together and feel the strain in my neck whenever I see her—you know how you do when you’re around those kinds of people? The cheeky kind who know everything? A nasty bit of scowl, if you know what I mean. Now scowl, there’s a word for you.” She beamed.
But Cookie knew only too well what Shirley Ellston meant. She’d love it if she had Fina’s courage. Bold as brass, Fina. It was one of the traits that had attracted Cookie to her. She imagined the first day they’d met in kindergarten, she hanging back until the girl with the red curls had taken her by the hand. Shaking herself back to the present, she forced herself to listen to what the woman was saying, trying to read between the lines, like her father always cautioned: read between the lines, girl, and you’ll never get into trouble.
“Of course now it’s quiet because of the break, so we’re taking it easy. One of these days soon, we’ll sell up, I suppose; then Stanley will get his way and we’ll move to the country.”
When the two men emerged, Clancy shook his head. “About the only distinguishing feature was the strange movement of the man at the door.”
“Shambling?” Cookie asked.
Shirley Ellston clapped her hands. “There’s another one of those words. I could talk to you for hours, better than doing the crosswords, which I do every day. Got to keep it up.” The woman pointed to her forehead before going on. “That’s it, he had a shambling gait, and he kept his head down.” Shirley Ellston looked into the distance and Cookie thought she saw the woman’s lips tremble. But only for an instant. “I’m sure I’ve seen him before, too, but where?”
There was silence for the briefest of moments. Cookie looked over at Clancy, who blinked like he did before he said something important. “Otherwise, they seemed to know what they were doing. Tall one wore a stocking cap and something over his face, maybe a piece of nylon. He kept his head down.”
“How much did they take?” Cookie asked.
“All told, less than three hundred,” the man said. “Lunch money.”
“Still, it’s important,” Clancy said. “According to the tapes, they arrived in the morning shortly after ten. Same time, all three instances, toward the end of the month.”
Leave it to Clancy to find a pattern. Cookie felt that warm glow she sometimes did when she looked at him, just like the first time they’d met. She was so proud of him; she didn’t give him credit for going out there day after day when his buddies were losing their lives. And when was the last time they’d talked, just the two of them. What with the kids and all, plus working for Fina, she was exhausted by seven and, most nights, slept in front of the TV. No talking, no bed stuff. She’d have to work to change that.
Looking at Shirley Ellston’s worried face, Cookie promised they’d find the robbers, and she was certain Fina would approve her surveillance, so even if Clancy couldn’t be there, she’d spend her mornings watching the drugstore for the next two weeks. “They’ll turn up for sure,” she said, “and when they do, we’ll nab them.”
They said goodbye to the Ellstons, Cookie asking Shirley to call her if she thought of something else she should know, anything however unimportant it might seem, and they said goodbye.
“What kind of gun did the guy have?” Cookie asked her husband when they’d left the drugstore. Not that she’d know one from the other.
“I’ve never seen one like it before,” Clancy said. “Probably a fake. I could tell by their body language they weren’t professionals, especially the smaller guy by the door. Something not right about him. But we’ll be lucky to find them.”
Cookie thought not, but then Fina always said she was an optimist. She fingered the notebook she always kept in her purse. When she had time, she’d summarize their meeting at Ellston Drugs.
The Deli
They were cutting through Court Street when Cookie remembered Schwartz’s Deli, so they had to backtrack.
Clancy pulled out his phone.
“You’re not going to play Sudoku while we walk, are you?”
He grinned and kissed her cheek. Checking his screen, he said, “Your mother’s going to be worried if I don’t text her. After six already.”
The sun was sinking as Clancy opened the deli door. She led the way. “I hope they still have some of that ham left.”
“Never known a deli without a hunk of ham.”
“This one was special,” she told him, and saw a man behind the counter, waiting on an older couple. Cookie told herself to be patient while the woman pointed to a bowl of potato salad and asked her companion what he thought. He shook his head. She then walked up and down the glass display, pointing to a salad, shaking her head, finally choosing another. Cookie was cold and tired. She had to pee.
“Excuse me, is there someone else who can help?”
“What d’ya want, lady?”
Cookie gave him her order.
“I was here first.”
Clancy wrapped his arm around hers and pulled her back. They waited while the woman decided on the potato salad and then took her package, giving Cookie the eye as she sashayed out, her husband pushing the cart behind her.
While the deli guy sliced their ham, Cookie picked out a potato salad and added that to the order. Clancy gave her the elbow. “Easy,” he whispered. “Wallet’s thin.”
She ignored him. “And some of that cranberry sauce.” She looked at Clancy. “Not too much.”
As the man handed her the packages, she told him they were searching for a missing girl and showed him Dorset’s picture.
The man glanced at it and hunched his shoulders.
“We have reason to believe whoever took the girl stopped here for coffee.”
The owner rolled his eyes. “The world stops here for coffee.”
“This morning?”
“And you expect me to remember who was here today?”
“Not really,” Clancy said. “We were just hoping.”
“A man tried to walk in here with a dog this morning, that’s all I remember. Some people—do I have to put up a sign? It should be common sense: dogs wait outside. The guy was so apologetic, I thought he might be from the city health department, trying to trick me.”
“Anyone else unusual?” Cookie asked. “A strange-looking man?”
The man hiked up one side of his mouth.
“Don’t say it.” Clancy smiled.
Cookie told him why they were asking, explaining that the missing girl was with her mother, but the woman was slipped some drugs, probably from coffee. She told him the police found an empty cup with no markings very close to the scene, and they had reason to believe the cup might have been sold here. “Most cups are distinctive; yours are not
.”
“I don’t need to advertise, lady. Got foot traffic galore here. More business and I’d need to hire a floater. As it is, I have one full-time helper.” The man raised his hands, palms out. “So don’t look at me if my cups aren’t marked.” But he was listening. “And I guess the kid hasn’t come home yet; otherwise we wouldn’t be talking.”
Cookie nodded.
“What was it like in here this morning?” Clancy asked. “Crowded?”
He shook his head. “Like usual. We opened at six like always—seven days a week, no holidays—and of course there were a handful of people waiting outside. Didn’t recognize any of them, but to tell you the truth, at that hour of the morning, I’m not studying faces. While I was dealing with the guy, and of course by this time the dog was howling, waking up half the neighborhood, there were other customers. I can see out of the back of my head—these days, you got to. But most people are honest. They serve themselves and leave the money in a cup.”
That was asking for trouble, Cookie thought.
“After seven, seven thirty, it was quiet and I got to do my setups. A few stragglers.”
“And all you sold was coffee?” Cookie asked.
The owner sighed and looked at his watch. “Couple of bagels. A young kid came in for some laundry soap. Couple wanted bottled water.”
Clancy walked over to the table with the coffee pots. They were empty, clean, waiting for the next day.
“No one asks for coffee at night?”
The man pointed to a pot behind the counter. “Some people come back two, three times a day. That setup over there”—he pointed to the corner table in the front—“is just for the morning rush.”
“And you have CCTV?” Clancy asked. He looked up at the camera near the front door, swiveled to the counter and saw another over the display case, a third toward the back of the store.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 15
