Take Out

by Margaret Maron

  “You’re right about that. Anyhow, I first met Matty when I was bringing home some egg rolls for lunch. It was right around New Year’s and colder than an ice cube sandwich. He was on the bench, wrapped in a blanket, and he was crying like his heart had broken into a million pieces. Really sobbing. I gave him some money and my egg rolls.”

  While she talked, Jennings gathered up her thick brown hair and braided it into a single plait. She fished a rubber band from the pocket of her white shorts to secure the end and tossed the braid over her shoulder.

  “He was there again two days later and he still looked so woebegone that I knew he needed some hugs. I brought him back here with me, cleaned him up, and cuddled him for over two hours. He cried some more and said there was no one left to hug him ever again. He was really pitiful. I tried to get him to talk to me, tell me why his life had gone off the tracks, but he wouldn’t open up. That’s when I asked Peg to take him on. I think she saw him twice, but you’ll have to ask her. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

  “Please,” said Sigrid, and watched as Jennings walked over to the staircase and opened an inconspicuous panel that hid an intercom system.

  They heard her say, “Peg? The police are here. Can you come down?”

  The speaker crackled and a woman’s voice said, “Be right there.”

  Minutes later, Peg Overhold joined them in the lounge. Early forties, her auburn hair was lightly threaded with gray at the temples and there was something motherly about her smile.

  Janis Jennings made the introductions, then left them.

  “You want to hear about Matty?” she asked.

  They nodded.

  She cleared her throat. “I guess Janis told you how she got me to give him a session?”

  “We’d like to hear it fresh from you, please.”

  “Janis has a heart as big as Texas and she felt sorry for the kid.” Peg Overhold had a laugh that bubbled up from her chest. “Kid? Ha! He was probably at least as old as us, but there was something about him that made you think of your kid brother. Like he never finished growing up or something. Anyhow, Janis found him crying on the bench down there and she brought him home with her and gave him a free session. Next time she saw him, he seemed just as miserable, so she asked if I’d take him. I sort of have a knack for getting people to talk to me about what’s hurting them.”

  She cleared her throat again. “Sorry. Airplanes trigger my allergies.”

  A bowl of individually wrapped hard candies sat on one of the side tables and she got up to get a couple. “Anybody else want one?”

  Sigrid and Hentz both shook their heads and waited till she had removed the cellophane and popped one into her mouth. The smell of peppermint wreathed her.

  “So you cuddled him?” Hentz asked with a straight face.

  “He was a smelly mess,” said Overhold, grimacing in memory. “But money was tight for me after Christmas and I was behind in my rent, so Janis said she’d knock some of it off if I’d do it. We keep changes of clean clothes here. He took a shower, washed his hair, and put on a pair of our pajamas and we lay down next to each other on my bed. We don’t kiss and we certainly don’t have sex, but I hugged him, smoothed his arm, stroked his cheek. He was so damn grateful. Kept thanking me. He cried all through most of our first session. His cousin had died back in December. He adored her and he said that she was the only one who loved him. That the only reason Mrs. DelVecchio had hired him to drive for her was because his cousin asked her to. After the cousin died, he was out of a job and that’s when he started using again.”

  Sigrid was frowning. “How did his cousin die?”

  “A car accident. He didn’t tell me any details the first time, but I gave him another session about a week later and that’s when he really opened up.”

  She unwrapped a second mint. “He said his cousin was in town to see a play and go Christmas shopping but there was something wrong with the car, so she had to take a cab. She had finished shopping and was crossing the street when a car knocked her down and ran over her. Hit-and-run. Matty was so distraught when he heard about it that he blamed himself for the accident. He said if he’d been driving her, she would still be alive. That’s when he went back on meth and that’s when Mrs. DelVecchio fired him. He thought she blamed him, too. Her and her housekeeper both. He told me that the housekeeper might bring food to him, but she acted like she wanted to spit on him. That’s when he started crying again, poor guy.”

  “Did he tell you his cousin’s name?”

  “Aria.”

  Surprised, Sigrid glanced at Hentz and saw that he, too, had picked up on the name of George Edwards’s wife.

  “His cousin was Mrs. DelVecchio’s daughter?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Did he mention any enemies, anybody he was having problems with?”

  “No, just how much he missed his cousin.”

  “What about friends, other relatives?”

  “If he’d had friends or loving relatives, Lieutenant, he wouldn’t have needed my services.” Before they could ask more questions, the doorbell rang and Peg Overhold jumped up to answer it. “If that’s my client, I’ll have to stop now.”

  “We’re finished for now,” Sigrid said. “Thank you for your help.”

  She and Hentz followed her out to the foyer, where Overhold opened the door for a tiny frail woman who stood on the top step.

  “Come in, luv,” Overhold said, and put her arm around the stooped shoulders to guide her in.

  Out on the sidewalk, Sigrid looked at Hentz. “George Edwards said that neither he nor his mother-in-law had spoken to Matty since December. I suppose this is why.”

  As they walked away, they heard Peg Overhold call to them from the top of the stoop.

  “I almost forgot,” she said as she came down to meet them. “The last time Matty was here, I had our cleaning woman put his clothes through the laundry. She found this picture when she emptied his pockets and I didn’t see it till after he was gone. I kept meaning to give it back to him and just never did.”

  She handed Sigrid a three-by-four clear plastic sleeve that held a snapshot of Matty in younger, happier times. He sat on the hood of an Oldsmobile beside a very pretty blond teenager. Both were laughing. Sigrid turned it over. On the back, in pencil, was a scrawled inscription: Me and Aria—Fourth of July.

  “Poor Matty,” Overhold said. “His bitchy godmother wouldn’t even let him come to the funeral.”

  At the newsstand on West Forty-Fourth, one of the vendor’s regular customers looked at the flyer tacked on the side frame and said, “That looks like Jack Bloss. What’s he done?”

  “Who’s Jack Bloss?” asked the vendor.

  “Used to live in my building till they raised the rent last time. And how the hell the city’s gonna hold on to people like us, living on a fixed income, when they let landlords gouge us and—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said the vendor who’d heard it all before. On his cell phone, he punched in the number listed at the bottom of the flyer. “So where was he living now?”

  CHAPTER

  13

  The woman who opened the door to Number 403 fit Sigrid’s stereotypic image of a Wagnerian Valkyrie. Tall and stoutly built, she wore a dark red dress with a square neckline, and it flowed from her broad shoulders to her knees with no hint of a waist. Her blond hair was worn in a braided coronet and her creamy complexion glowed with vigorous health. All she needed, thought Hentz, was a shield and a helmet.

  She carefully read the ID badges that Sigrid and Hentz held up, then shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but this is a very inconvenient time. Miss Randolph cannot possibly see you now. She’s working.”

  “Working?” asked Hentz. “We understood that she’s retired.”

  “Working on her book,” the woman said. “Once she’s in the flow of memory, she hates to be interrupted.”

  “And you are?” Sigrid said.

  “Marian Schmidt, Miss Randolph’s personal ass
istant.”

  “Do you live here, Ms. Schmidt?”

  She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “Were you here last Tuesday evening?”

  “Please, Lieutenant—Herald, is it?” She squinted at Sigrid’s ID.

  “Harald.”

  “Sorry. Harald. I really must ask what this is about, Lieutenant.”

  “What this is about,” Hentz said sternly, “is a murder investigation.”

  “Those two men on the bench around the corner?”

  “Right. So we need to speak to Miss Randolph. Now.”

  “I could tell her you’re here, but if you interrupt her now, she may be too annoyed to speak to you. Could you possibly come back after lunch? If I tell her to expect you and give her time to decompress, as it were, she’ll be in a much better mood to cooperate, believe me.”

  They looked at their watches. 11:40. Rather than push it, Sigrid said, “Twelve-thirty?”

  “One o’clock would be better.”

  “Tell Miss Randolph to expect us at twelve-forty-five,” Sigrid said.

  “Very well,” Ms. Schmidt said. She did not sound happy about it.

  As they walked back toward the car, Hentz said, “Lunch? Maybe see the waiter who saw our second victim?”

  The diner across the street made decent tuna salad sandwiches on thinly sliced sourdough toast but they were told that Nick Finmore wouldn’t be in till 1:30. As they ate, Sigrid asked Hentz to tell her about the legendary Charlotte Randolph.

  “The way I heard it,” he said, taking a bite of his dill pickle, “is that she knew the staging of that production because she was a member of the chorus. I think she had one solo line to sing, but that was it, so it was the classic footlight fairy tale.”

  Sigrid repeated the words of that Raleigh bookseller. “She said all the planets lined up to let her sing that night.”

  “She’s right. Operas are hugely expensive to put on, so they don’t take any chances if they can help it. It’s a belt-and-suspenders mentality.”

  “More than one understudy, you mean?”

  “Except they’re not called understudies. They’re ‘covers.’ Someone in the second tier of singers who’s already made a name for herself, knows the role, and is no more than fifteen minutes away. That’s what should have happened with Charlotte Randolph. I forget the details, but for some reason, the first cover wasn’t available, so when the soprano broke her leg or something just minutes before the curtain was to go up, they didn’t have a choice. Randolph went on in her place and corny as it sounds, a star was born.”

  “Lucky,” said Sigrid.

  “Should make one hell of a book,” Hentz agreed.

  “Opera keeps popping up, doesn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Mrs. DelVecchio calls her handyman Alberich, so she must know opera, right? And Charlotte Randolph made a career of it. They’re neighbors. I wonder if they’re friends?”

  Before Hentz could answer, Sigrid’s phone buzzed. When she answered, Tillie’s excited voice came through loud and clear. “We’ve finally got a name, Lieutenant! Jack Bloss. No details yet.”

  They rang the bell at Number 403 at precisely 12:45 and this time, the PA was more welcoming.

  “Come in, come in! Miss Randolph is expecting you.”

  Mrs. DelVecchio’s Federal-style house had been furnished in turn-of-the-century mahogany and walnut. The interior of Miss Randolph’s Federal-style house was midcentury modern with lacings of operatic bling. Load-bearing walls had been replaced with fluted columns that supported the weight of the house and opened up the ground floor from the front entry to tall windows at the back. Except for a classic grand piano that dominated the far end of the room, the furnishings were a symphony of white and shiny chrome. The two couches and several chairs were upholstered in white and the visible frames were either chrome or white plastic. Occasional tables were topped in circles or squares of heavy glass. Suspended from the ten-foot ceiling were a half-dozen chandeliers of varying sizes. Like smaller versions of the chandeliers at the Met, the spiky crystal starbursts hung at different levels. A couple of iconic Eames lounge chairs sat before a white brick fireplace.

  The hardwood floors were stained a rich ebony to echo the piano, and white rugs defined the different areas. A large round rug near the middle of this first floor held a circular chrome-and-glass table that could seat eight. The staircase had chrome railings and it, too, was carpeted in white. Mirrored folding screens blocked off one corner of the room.

  What kept the black-and-white space from feeling as cold and sterile as a hospital were the colorful abstract paintings that hung on every wall and the pots of greenery massed around the room. In one corner of the window wall, a nine-foot tree with lacy leaves towered above some spiky plants that looked like green knife blades to Sigrid, who cheerfully confessed to black thumbs when it came to houseplants. Clusters of brightly patterned foliage in shades of red, pink, and yellow filled a large planter in the other corner. Sigrid’s housemate grew plants on their window ledges, so she did know that the pots of red flowers were geraniums. Moreover she recognized the miniature bush with fragrant white blossoms because gardenias grew around Grandmother Lattimore’s house down in North Carolina.

  The whole setting was appropriate for cocktail parties, large dinners, or small chamber concerts.

  After the Wagnerian references and meeting Randolph’s personal assistant, Sigrid expected an imposing operatic diva. Instead, Charlotte Randolph was short, small-boned and elegant in a simple white djellaba trimmed in silver embroidery at the neck and cuffs. The glass-topped dining table where she sat was strewn with letters, photographs, playbills, and programs. A space large enough to hold a silver tray had been cleared in front of her and she gestured to two adjacent chairs.

  “I hope you’ll join me,” she said in a clear, melodious voice. “My housekeeper makes wonderful little sandwiches. Are you sure you won’t stay, Marian?”

  Ms. Schmidt shook her head. “Thanks, Charlotte, but they’ll want to talk to you privately.”

  When the outer door closed behind her, Miss Randolph lifted the teapot and said, “Milk, Lieutenant, or as it comes?”

  “Neither, thank you. We just had lunch. We’re here to—”

  “Marian told me. It’s about the men that died around the corner. I understand. But there’s no reason we can’t share a cup of tea while you ask me your questions. Now, then,” she said with a coaxing smile. “Milk or lemon?”

  Sigrid sighed. “Lemon, please. No sugar.”

  Time had been kind to the woman. She had to be nearing eighty and while she was no longer the slender beauty pictured in that publicity photo that Tillie had shown them, those few extra pounds had smoothed away many of the wrinkles women of her age usually had. Her naturally blond hair was completely white now and softly curled around her still-lovely face. When she smiled at Hentz, a dimple flashed in her right cheek. She poured tea for him, too, before offering them the plate of dainty sandwiches.

  “The circles are watercress and the little squares are cucumber. The triangles are salmon and dill. I prefer savories to sweets this time of day. Push those pictures out of the way if you need more space.”

  As Hentz started to follow her instructions, he paused to examine the pen-and-ink drawing on top of the nearest pile. “Wow! Is this an original Al Hirschfield?”

  The soprano nodded. “I really should get that framed. Such a clever artist. He drew me at least four times. That was when I sang Desdemona.”

  “Three Ninas? I only see two.”

  Sigrid looked across at the caricature of Charlotte Randolph in courtly dress and carrying a lace-edged handkerchief. The artist’s style was instantly familiar to anyone who grew up reading show business reviews in the New York Times. As a child who loved puzzles, Sigrid had been delighted when Anne explained that the number beside Hirschfield’s signature indicated how many times he’d hidden the name of his daughter Nina in his dra
wings. The straight lines of the capitalized letters were so easy to camouflage amid hair, feathers, draperies, and furs that it sometimes took her several minutes to find them all.

  “I see two of them in your hair,” said Hentz, “and I thought the other one was in the lace on your handkerchief, but—”

  “Not the lace,” Sigrid said. “It’s the front folds of her dress.”

  Miss Randolph smiled as she bit into a cucumber sandwich. “Brava, Lieutenant.”

  At a nod from Sigrid, Hentz opened the folder with the pictures of the two dead men.

  Miss Randolph made a pouty face. “Must we do this while I’m eating? I told your people last week that I didn’t know those men.”

  “My officers said that you occasionally sent food down to them.”

  “I did. I do. I don’t like food piling up in my refrigerator, so when my housekeeper leaves, she takes any extras down there. My housekeeper, Lieutenant. Not me.”

  “And did she do that last Tuesday?”

  “No, she’s only here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, although she or Marian will help out if I need someone on the weekend.”

  “You live alone? No companion?”

  “As long as I stay healthy, I don’t need anyone here at night. Marian’s usually here from ten till four and Selma comes on alternate days to clean and do a little cooking. But what do my living arrangements have to do with your investigation?”

  “Probably nothing. But please look at these pictures again. Does the name Jack Bloss mean anything to you?”

  “Jack Bloss? Was he one of those men? Where are my glasses?”

  She poked through the clutter of paper on the table, then crossed the room to a side table, where she picked up a pair of rimless reading glasses and put them on.

  Sigrid handed her the doctored photograph of the second dead man.

  “Ah,” Miss Randolph said, sadness in her tone. “His eyes are open here. Makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it? They say that eyes are the windows to the soul. So true. He didn’t have a beard when I knew him, but yes, that’s Jack Bloss.”