The man shrugged. “If you wanna know the truth, they’re just for show. Leastways, I’ve never checked it. Never had a reason.”
Clancy told him he was an off-duty cop and would like to check the tapes.
“What is this, are you accusing me of taking the girl?”
“We’re just being thorough,” Cookie said. She hoped this wasn’t going to take too long. If they didn’t hurry, she was going to wet herself. “But maybe we can come back tomorrow?”
Too late, the deli owner was leading Clancy to the back of the store and Cookie thought she better start moving but almost heard her bladder gush forth at the thought, so she opened Emma and tried to read. That was worse. She had a good talk with herself and walked over to the table with the empty pots to have a look around. The man kept a nice, neat store. Next to the containers there was a rack with creamers, artificial sweeteners, and sugar. In addition there were various spices—ground nutmeg, chocolate, and cinnamon. She looked for crumbs, something on the floor, but the area was spotless, not one grain of sugar, not even any coffee stains. Two tall chairs stood sentinel and she pulled one out, thinking she might just rest a bit to alleviate her aching feet.
As she looked down before sitting, she saw a piece of paper on the seat. The paper was stiff and textured, and she recognized it at once as a piece of watercolor paper. Turning it over, she saw a sophisticated design, pieces of paper and cloth glued to the paper and juxtaposed in a pleasing pattern. A collage. She stared at it, arrested by the piece and knew at once it was a work of art. She marveled at the angles, the texture, and color. In the lower left-hand corner of the composition was an intricate miniature done in graphite, and next to it what appeared to be a J, probably the artist’s signature. The rendering was partially covered by a ticket stub and some newsprint. In another corner, two eyes, obviously cut out from newsprint, stared back at the viewer. But the drawing was what held her attention. It appeared to be part of a building, the doorway, the lintel, an awning over a window. The structure captured the feel of the surrounding neighborhood. After staring at it for what seemed like hours but could have been only seconds, Cookie started: she knew where it was, the building the artist had drawn. She was sure of it, like she’d passed it a million times. Definitely in Brooklyn Heights, but exactly where? A corner on Atlantic and Henry? Maybe on Hicks or Joralemon?
She was still mesmerized by the artwork when Clancy returned, shaking his head and bending toward her. “System wasn’t on,” he whispered. He turned to the store owner. “Glad I could be of service. I’d like to come by in a couple of days to take a look.”
By this time Cookie thought she’d just make it home if she didn’t talk, didn’t think, just put her brain in neutral, so she mouthed a thank you, waving to the deli guy, and like a horse heading for the barn, yanked Clancy out the door and into the street and turned toward home.
The Metal Box
That evening Denny met me at the door, holding both twins and rocking them gently on his hips. When they saw me, their faces lit up, their arms reaching in my direction. I felt the warmth of them and smelled their breath: sweet and moist and slightly sour. I took them up in my arms, cradling Robbie against me while Carmela clung to my neck, one hand yanking a fistful of my curls, now kinked as per usual in the humidity at the end of the day. Mr. Baggins presented himself in that way all cats have, walking between my legs, almost tripping me, and I fell into the couch with my happy load.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Denny said from the kitchen.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“All set. Just get the twins into their high chairs.”
He’d even set the table and bought flowers from the deli around the corner. In a few minutes he emerged, a dishcloth draped over one shoulder, holding a platter of spaghetti and two beers in one hand, a tossed salad in the other, a warm loaf of garlic bread balanced on top. Robbie was the big eater, and as the food steamed our way, he did a tattoo with his bare feet, kicking his high chair while Carmela made a mooing sound. They were both hungry. While I cut up the food for the twins and put it on their trays, Denny served us heaping portions of spaghetti and salad. I watched the twins for a moment, Robbie gobbling everything in sight, stuffing one fat paw into his mouth and sucking on it while Carmela picked up a noodle and stared at it.
“She’s going to be an artist, I can tell, just like her godmother. Eat it, girl,” Denny said. He went over and held it to Carmela’s lips. She reared back, her delicate hands covering her mouth. He gave up, bent and gave me a slobbery kiss before sitting down again and attacking his food.
“She’ll eat when we’re not looking.” My girl baby was so like her grandmother, who throughout her life had been a picky eater. She’d arrange her food on the plate in different designs while my father woofed down his portion in between huge quaffs of beer, which swilled down his gullet like the pent-up waters of a canal after a three-day rain. Toward the end, when Mom’s world was crashing in on her, Gran had to beg her daughter to eat. I shook myself and picked up the food Carmela had dropped on the floor.
“Clancy said you got a kidnap today,” taking a gulp of his beer.
“Lots of work for Cookie, and a retainer that’s doubled our bank balance.” I reached for my glass, then thought better of it.
“Cookie’s not home yet, doing a tail, I’m told.” Denny kept in better touch with Clancy than he did with me. I told him about the woman in the park, her missing daughter, and the complex family life at the Thatchleys.
He mouthed the usual anything-I-can-do-to-help and then said, “When we move, you can take the business with you. There’s plenty of need for detectives in Dutchess County. Didn’t your last job wind up there?”
I felt my world take a nasty spin. “What do you mean, when we move?”
“Where have you been the last two months? We’ve discussed this, and you agreed. The money we take in doesn’t cover our expenses here.”
I stared at him.
“So far this year we’ve dipped into our savings each month. Poughkeepsie needs police officers. Tomorrow Clancy and I have interviews. I told you about them last week.”
Had I been so absent? Suddenly I felt warm. The objects in the room took on a yellowish glow and I steadied myself. “I must have been changing diapers when we discussed it.” I got up to think, picking up my plate still full of food and bringing it to the kitchen. After chucking my meal in the garbage, rinsing my plate and stacking it in the dishwasher, I felt better.
When I returned, I came up behind Denny, who was twisting noodles around his fork, about to shove them into his mouth. Instead, when I kissed the back of his head, he slammed the food back on his plate and whirled around. “We’ve got to talk, and this time you’ve got to listen. If we move to Dutchess County, we can cut our expenses in half.”
Robbie was rocking back and forth, beginning to tip his chair. I felt the room getting small. Beads of water ran down my nose as I lifted him up, pulling off his bib and getting food all over me. Carmela was screaming and kicking her chair, lifting her arms in the air, her food untouched. Denny ran and got two bottles out of the kitchen. In a second the crying stopped and our world was silent except for the sweet sounds of sucking. We each rocked a twin, singing and cooing until they’d finished most of their bottles and their eyes got heavy.
“They must need changing.”
“If your work is picking up, we’ve got to get more help,” Denny said.
When the twins were dry and asleep upstairs, I watched my husband eat the rest of his food. My head felt like mush. If he was going to start the Poughkeepsie stuff again, I didn’t think I could stand it.
Denny rose, finished cleaning the kitchen, and returned. After smoothing my hair, he persuaded me to sit in the living room. We sat side by side, my head nestled on his chest.
“You’ll love it once we get up there,” he said. “If there’s time after our interviews, Clancy and I can take a look at schools in a few neighborhoods.”
The rumble of his words soothed me and I think I might have dozed.
“Are you listening?”
I knew I was lucky. Denny was such a good father, a loving husband, but he didn’t get it. Brooklyn was everything I’d ever known. Maybe the air wasn’t the greatest smelling once in a while, but my borough was filled with energy, a vital mix of ethnicity, a place where I wanted our kids to grow up. Exciting, a deal on every corner, opportunity galore, a population density and diversity I loved, culture on every block—not that we went to concerts or attended art shows like Lorraine did. And even though it was expensive and my work up until today had been slow, thanks to me and my habit of turning down jobs I knew I wouldn’t like, Brooklyn was home. Warm and familiar.
“I’ll send you pictures tomorrow, how’s that?” he was saying when I remembered Dorset’s locked box, the one that almost bruised my rear when I sat in her chair that morning. It had been sitting in my bag all this time.
I bolted into the other room.
“Where are you going?”
I returned with the box and told him where I’d found it and that I was sure it belonged to Dorset. “Help me open this thing, will you?”
“It won’t stomp on your delicate sense of privacy?” He grinned, got out his keys and fiddled with something on a chain, prizing the lock free in about two seconds.
“It’s probably a kid’s treasure, all the stuff that matters to a ten-year-old.” I placed my hand on the lid. “Should I?”
Denny closed his eyes and grunted.
I opened it, spilling half of the contents onto an end table. Before I knew it, Mr. Baggins leapt to the items, sniffing first a button with some thread still attached, an old subway token, several worn colored pencils, pieces of chalk, a dog-eared black-and-white photo of a man, and some other items. I scooped them all up and put them back in the box. One by one I took each one out again. First, a one-inch newspaper clipping about the soup kitchen. The headline read “Soup Kitchen at Holy Angels.” It was the same article I’d seen earlier in Monsignor Finnigin’s manilla folder, so I told Denny about my visit to the rectory and meeting Zizi Carmalucci there. “She seemed to think we were moving away.”
Denny groaned and his eyes got all soft, but I didn’t want to talk about it and started picking through the items from the metal box. There was a photo of two girls. One of them I recognized as Dorset and the other one must have been her friend April Briden. In back of them, Cassandra Thatchley stood next to the roly-poly monsignor with a cigar sticking out of his mouth. Standing next to them were two men I didn’t recognize. I turned it over and read the date. The picture was taken a few months ago and below the date were some scribbled words, but I stopped reading, bored. I picked up the worn black-and-white photo of the man. From the look of it, it had been taken a few years ago. I turned it over and read one word, Dad. So it was a picture of Dorset’s father, Ronnie Clauson.
“I recognize this guy,” Denny said. “I’ve seen him someplace. It’ll come back to me in a minute.” Then he winked, and I knew what was coming. Denny loved to ring my chimes. “Don’t you feel bad traipsing through someone’s personal belongings? I mean, especially you with your sensitivity to a person’s privacy.”
But I wasn’t in the mood for kidding around. I didn’t feel bad so much as sad. Or maybe it was fear. Not for the reputation of my agency, but for the life of a girl. There’d been no word from Cassandra Thatchley, so I figured her daughter was still missing.
“I need to find a ten-year-old, and one or more of the items in this box might lead me to her.” I fingered each one again as if by doing so they’d tell me more about the girl who had collected them. I touched each item and whispered a prayer. After dumping the rest of the contents out, I spread them on the table in what I hoped was some semblance of order.
“Looks like kid stuff to me.” Denny ran his hand over the contents and picked up a folded piece of paper. “What’s this?”
Just then the dining room monitor came to life and Robbie’s cries filled the air.
“What’s with that poor boy—he just fell asleep.” I got up.
“Don’t go yet. Give him a couple of minutes and maybe he’ll drift off.”
I shook my head. “I hate it when he cries.”
“It’s good for his lungs.”
I said nothing.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those mothers. Sit. Let the kid cry.” Denny unfolded the paper. “We need a night nanny, too, if your business is going to pick up.”
I shook my head and gave him a look. “I’ve got to make time for my children,” I said. “And Cookie and Clancy need the money.”
“So they can leave their kids at night?”
“Don’t forget, her mother’s still alive.”
“And my mother doesn’t count?”
That wasn’t it at all. I loved Lorraine and the way she was with the twins. But the agency needed her expertise, and besides, she had her own life. Not that Cookie’s mom didn’t have hers. Oh well, too complicated to figure out, I had to find a ten-year-old.
“You’ll have plenty of time with them after we move.”
I must have given him a look.
“We’ve talked about this, Fina.”
“Talked, yes. Agreed, no.”
“And we’ll be able to afford the best for our children. Better schools, better air. I saw a beautiful house on two acres of land. We can fence it in. We can build a separate room for your office. Clancy saw a house, too, not far away.”
I stared at him. “Who said anything about moving? Besides, now’s not the time to talk about it. You know me when I get a case. A ten-year-old is missing, abducted by who knows what moron, and I’ve got to find her.”
Mercifully, Robbie stopped crying.
“I think I’ll just go up and check.”
Denny shook his head.
“Just this once. Just to make sure he’s breathing.” I said that to stretch my legs and change the subject. I had to figure out how to slow down this moving-to-Poughkeepsie deal in my husband’s head. Robbie began a soft cooing, a sure sign he was safe and close to sleep.
I grabbed the folded paper Denny found in Dorset’s tin box. It was a drawing of sorts, a collage, I think Cookie would call it. There were all kinds of objects pasted on thick construction paper, now creased and probably ruined. I knew this much, it wasn’t meant to be folded. There were what looked like wood chips, a torn match cover, pieces from a newspaper, some writing, a headline, a photo of two men seen from the back, and more, all of them glued onto the paper, juxtaposed in an unusual and I must say a beautiful arrangement. And overlaid were dribbles of paint, mostly in shades of blue and green with a blob or two of red and orange.
“Whoever created this collage has real talent,” Denny said.
I shrugged. Lorraine had taken Denny to art shows for most of his life, and if I were being honest, I was a little bit jealous of his artistic sensibility, especially when he and Cookie started talking shop.
“This isn’t a ten-year-old’s work. I wonder who the artist is?” he asked.
“Is there a signature?”
I looked in the lower left-hand corner and thought I saw a J. “No name, but it’s signed, sort of.”
Just then our landline rang, making me jump. The sound must have been amplified upstairs since Robbie started screaming.
“You win,” Denny said. “I’ll get Robbie; you get the phone.”
The Phone Call
It was Cassandra Thatchley on the other end. She sounded out of breath and was speaking in sentence run-ons, so at first I had trouble understanding her.
“I really appreciate all you’ve done and what’s more I shouldn’t have asked you to get involved, but I was confused at the time.”
I had no idea what she was trying to say. “Is Dorset home?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Thatchley, did Dorset return?”
“Not exactly.”
“S
o what are you saying?”
“I expect her home any minute. Keep the retainer, I owe you that much and more for your support when I needed it.”
Too right I’d keep the money. I gripped the receiver, trying to remain calm. The woman was putting me off. Why?
“When you say you expect her home at any minute, does that mean you know where she is?”
She hesitated. “It means … yes, I suppose it does. Yes, I know where she is, and she’ll be home at any minute. You’re so clever, you’ve deduced it. Well, she’ll be home certainly by tomorrow afternoon, sooner if I can manage it. I should never have gotten you involved. You haven’t told the police?”
I put two and two together. “You’ve been in touch with her kidnappers.”
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then she said, “You’re fired. That’s it. I’m firing you. You haven’t done a thing to bring my daughter home and she’s not here. I can’t be telling—”
“Let me see. They’ve asked you for money. How much, I don’t know, but a lot, enough so that you can’t get your hands on the full amount without selling some assets. Stocks, probably. That’s a three-business-day transaction. And they told you not to tell anyone or else.”
There was a raw silence on the other end of the line.
I breathed out, my head doing a slow spin. I braced myself on the wall. “It happens all the time,” I said.
“You mustn’t come to the house … they know who you are … they’re watching.”
I thought of how Lorraine would handle this client and waited for inspiration, hoping Cassandra Thatchley would change her mind like she’d done earlier if only I could think of the right things to say. What mind she had, that is. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t blame her. “I understand how you feel. If anything happened to one of my twins, if they took one, like they’ve taken Dorset, I’d be a crazy woman. I don’t know what I’d do, except one thing: my first reaction would be to do whatever they’d asked.” I paused for effect. “Until someone convinced me that giving in to them won’t help.”
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 16
