The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  The coffee steamed encouragingly. Lucy tore MacAlpin’s picture and the obit out of the Times and put them in her wallet. Then she went into the little phone booth across from the Hombres room and closed the door.

  “Glasgow information,” said a pleasant voice a few minutes after the international operator had patched Lucy through.

  “Yes,” said Lucy, taking a deep breath. “I’d like the number for the Celtic Museum of Antiquities.”

  “I’m sorry, but there is no listing under that name,” said the voice a moment later.

  “There’s no Celtic museum? Are you sure? Maybe you could try it under Celtic Art Museum or Museum of Antiquities or something like that.”

  There was another, longer pause.

  “I’m sorry. There doesn’t seem to be anything like that.”

  “Would you check and see how many listings there are in Glasgow under the name Trelaine, T-R-E-L-A-I-N-E.”

  After a moment the operator returned again.

  “Nothing under Trelaine as you spelt it. I do have several listings under Trelevens and Trelegens.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy. She hung up the phone and returned to her seat at the counter. It was a good thing MacAlpin hadn’t thought to sell her the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Carmen,” said Lucy earnestly to the little Spanish waitress. “Take a look at a girl who just fell off the turnip truck.”

  “Ah.” Carmen nodded, reached into the refrigerator, and handed Lucy a chocolate doughnut.

  For the next two days Lucy walked around in a fog, unable to decide what to do.

  MacAlpin had obviously made up the entire story just to get her brooch. There was no Celtic museum. There was no Bethoc Trelaine. Lucy desperately hoped that the man had been lying about being her father, too, but how could she be sure? Why had he wanted the brooch so badly? And if he wasn’t her father, then who was he?

  There was nothing further in the papers about the incident at Trump Tower, but that gave Lucy little solace. She had killed MacAlpin and fled the scene. A professional criminal was a witness. If Fraser hadn’t gone to the police with the brooch, it probably only meant that he wanted to blackmail her with it.

  For a moment Lucy had thought that since Dumlagchtat was really a place, then Trelaine might be, too. But there were no Trelaines in the atlas. There were no Bethocs. Nor could she believe that either Lucy, Louisiana, or Lucy, Tennessee, had anything to do with her.

  “Why you so sad, Rucy?” said Wing, finally confronting her about her muddled state on their way to inspect the White Plains Neat ‘n’ Tidy. “By Friday all worries will be over. First Connecticut Savings give loans to anybody. That why they in so much trouble.”

  “Nobody is going to give you a loan unless you cut expenses and sell off some of the branches,” answered Lucy unhappily. Somehow watching Wing founder made her own situation seem all the more hopeless.

  “Cannot sell. Wing buy branches for cheap because no one want them. Who buy now?”

  “Well, you have to find somebody,” she said angrily. “Or find a miracle.”

  “Okay. Wing look for miracle. Always look for miracle, Rucy. No look, no find, yes?”

  Lucy didn’t answer.

  “Why you so unhappy, Rucy? Something bother you?”

  “No. Everything’s great. Just great.”

  “Okay. You no want to talk, okay. Have to do with your business in city, maybe?”

  “Actually it would help if I could have another day off.”

  “Sure. You take tomorrow. See, Wing your friend. Care about you. Look out for your interests, yes?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wing. You’re very generous.”

  “You work next Saturday instead,” Wing announced happily. “By then First Connecticut give us loan and we have new money to spend, yes?”

  “Sure,” she said, patting his arm. Saturday was a hundred years away. She could be anywhere by Saturday. Probably in jail.

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning Lucy hitched a ride into the city with one of the Neat ’n’ Tidy station wagons. She didn’t really believe that the police would be staking out the ferry and the commuter van the way they did on old TV shows, but why take chances? She nervously looked over her shoulder the whole way. Mercifully the gurney in the back was empty.

  The van driver, Jesus Esteban, rattled on incomprehensibly about cars and music. Lucy pretended to be interested, but was relieved when he dropped her off in the West Eighties before making his pickup.

  Jesus said she could just walk across Central Park to the East Side. Lucy had heard how dangerous the park was and didn’t want to take any chances. She might be wanted for murder, but God forbid she should risk a walk in the park on a flawless spring day. She knew how silly it sounded, but she still took the crosstown bus.

  Twenty minutes later Lucy was climbing the stairs to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Even if it wasn’t in her possession, the brooch was her only clue to this mess. All the information she had about it had come from Fraser, who was hardly a reliable expert. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Fraser might have colluded with MacAlpin to trick her. Perhaps someone here at the museum could tell her what kind of brooch men might be willing to kill for. It was a long shot, she knew, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  The Metropolitan’s entry hall was even larger than the library’s. There were fresh flowers everywhere and hundreds of people. Lucy had never seen so many people in a museum before, and it was only a weekday.

  She wandered around for forty minutes, through the caverns of furniture, paintings, treasures of the past. She hated to ask for help, but the museum was just too big for her to find what she was looking for. She finally approached a dark-complected guard in a blue uniform.

  “Where is the Pictish art?”

  The man stared at her blankly.

  “Pickish? No pickish.”

  “Pict-ish. Old Scottish. Old British.”

  “Try the passage to left of main stairs. Where you first come in,” he said pointing.

  Lucy eventually found the little passageway. It was a narrow hall, not more than fifty feet long. Glass cases filled with a miscellany of ancient jewelry, beads, carved ivory, and other small objects lined both walls.

  Lucy walked the hall twice before she found the Celtic items. There were a few carvings, some rings, a coin. Then she saw it: a C-shaped brooch like hers, but smaller and less ornate. The piece was numbered and Lucy found a description on the wall.

  PENANNULAR BROOCH

  Silver, Amber

  Pictish, second half 8th century

  “Is there somebody around here who knows about this Celtic art?” she asked another guard, a tiny black woman in a uniform two sizes too big.

  “You might try Medieval,” said the woman after thinking for a second. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  She clucked and shook her head. “You gotta have an appointment.”

  “Can’t I just talk to someone …”

  “No way. You gotta have an appointment. Go call from the desk in entrance hall.”

  Lucy walked out into the vast entry hall again. In the center of the room was a round information desk, big enough to hold a dozen volunteers distributing maps and giving directions. It was a moment before one was free to speak with Lucy.

  “I’d like to talk with someone in the Medieval Department, please.”

  The volunteer, a pale man with a beard, dialed an extension on a telephone on the desk and handed it to Lucy. She took the receiver.

  “Medieval,” said a metallic voice.

  “I need some information about the Pictish penannular brooch you have on display.”

  “One moment.”

  Lucy waited. In a moment another voice answered.

  “Dr. Brickwall.”

  The name wasn’t particularly encouraging. Lucy put a finger in her ear against the din.

  “Yes, I’d like to tal
k to you about the Pictish brooch you have on display,” said Lucy and gave its number.

  “Well, let’s see,” said Dr. Brickwall after a pause. “I can give you an appointment sometime in July.”

  “I can’t wait that long. Can you just tell me how expensive a brooch like that is?”

  “I’m sorry,” said the voice. “We don’t go into that sort of thing here. You should try one of the auction galleries.”

  “Please,” said Lucy. “It’s very important.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are they very valuable? Can’t you just tell me that?”

  “We really …”

  “Are any worth more than a few thousand dollars?”

  “Not silver ones. Look, miss …”

  Lucy’s eyes had wandered back down the hallway behind the admission booth where she had seen the penannular brooch. Suddenly she saw something that made her knees lock and her pulse race. Coming through the arch at the end of the passageway was Fraser.

  Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes at first. How had he found her? Then she realized that Fraser hadn’t found her at all. He needed more information about the brooch and had had the same idea about the museum. He was a step ahead of her!

  Lucy wanted to sink into the ground. Brickwall’s voice was still chirping from the receiver. Lucy replaced it in its cradle, trying not to make any jerky movements that might catch Fraser’s eye.

  She couldn’t believe he would be able to see her from such a distance as she backed slowly away from the desk, but he did. Their eyes met. Both of them froze, then Fraser started down the hall toward her.

  Lucy pushed through a group of carefree, laughing kids dressed in spring pastels and smiles. She ran out the entrance, tore down the long flight of stone steps, and headed south down Fifth Avenue, past the fountains and the neat rows of benches. A few heads turned, but no one really seemed to notice her.

  She didn’t look back until she was at the entrance to the underground parking lot on Eightieth Street. In the crowd she could make out a tall figure on the steps two blocks away. It was Fraser. He was running after her!

  Lucy could see the tip of the Empire State Building rising out of the canopy of buds forty-five blocks away. To the right was an entrance to Central Park. The park was suddenly the safest place she could see, certainly safer than the long, straight avenue where Fraser could keep her in plain sight. Lucy made a sharp right turn onto an S-shaped asphalt path. It would be easier to lose him in the cover of trees.

  Crisp sunshine bounced off the angled glass wall of the museum to her right. Old men with pipes lined the benches; girls in spring dresses sauntered dreamily; Lucy ran for her life.

  She supposed she could scream for help, but then what? If the police came, it was she who would be in trouble. She was the murderer, Fraser was merely a witness. What did he want with her? He already had the brooch.

  There was no time to think. Directly ahead were iron bars. Lucy despaired for an instant, thinking she had trapped herself in a dead end, then saw it was merely a playground—the bars were there to keep the squealing, happy children in.

  The path continued to the right, around the playground, behind the museum. Lucy, however, made a hard left onto a path that crossed over the street. She didn’t want to lose sight of Fifth Avenue or she might double back in an unintentional circle and collide with Fraser. As long as the limestone façades were on her left, she’d be okay.

  Lucy didn’t know whether Fraser had seen her turn, but she wasn’t about to stop and look. She sped down the path, feeling ridiculous. She hadn’t run anywhere for years—espe cially not in stretch pants and flats.

  A boarded-up maintenance area loomed on her right. On her left was a small, grassy lawn full of people sunning themselves, tossing Frisbees, playing with their dogs. A few people looked up as she whizzed by, tucking the long ends of her yellow sweater into her fanny pack so they wouldn’t slow her down, but no one appeared prepared to intrude on her privacy. She was just another New Yorker taking advantage of Central Park, enjoying May, running for her life.

  The day was beautiful, the sky a bold, cloudless blue. The air smelled clean, perfumed with spring. Everything was sunshine, but Lucy had never felt so frightened, so alone. Already she was breathing hard.

  Another lawn rose up a hill toward a crown of pine trees to her right. Lucy followed the path toward a little bridge. Two laughing boys hung over the rail, playfully pushing one another. Gray boulders rose out of the grass like giant mushrooms.

  Lucy sped under the bridge, dodging children and dogs, momentarily losing sight of Fifth Avenue. Her side was beginning to hurt and she was breathing heavily. Ahead of her the road forked. She took the right leg, afraid the left would take her out of the park onto Fifth.

  A little girl with a ball ran after her. The mother ran after the child. Lucy looked over her shoulder. Coming out from under the bridge was Fraser. He was still a good ways back, but he was running at a good pace, his body seemed relaxed, his head turned, searching for her in the crowd. Suddenly he saw her and began to sprint. Fear gripped Lucy’s throat. The man was gaining!

  Lucy was nearing a large pond. She veered left toward a weeping willow, hoping it would conceal her course from Fraser. The little clearing teemed with children and she nearly collided with one. She jumped down a step and glanced back. A dozen little girls were sitting in the giant lap of a bronze Alice, the Mad Hatter and the March Hare by their sides, dogwood blooming all around them, Fraser coming up fast in the distance.

  Boys with remote devices sailed boats on the pond ahead. Across the water kids were lining up for ice cream. Lucy dashed past a giant bronze statue of Hans Christian Andersen with a duckling looking up at him, its bill rubbed shiny by little hands.

  Now she was running toward one of the park drives, where lines of city traffic coursed through the green like blood vessels through body tissue. Majestic spires of buildings jumped out of the trees far ahead of her. Had she turned around somehow? She started to panic, then realized it was not Fifth Avenue she was seeing but Central Park West, the street on the other side of the park.

  Lucy followed the twisting path through a short, dark tunnel under the road and up the stairs on the other side. A black–jacketed kid on his bike with a pounding radio almost cut her off. She desperately ran onto a path leading up a short hill. In a moment she was at the top, huge boulders on either side of her. The pain in her side was sharper, nearly unbearable. She couldn’t get her breath. From the cover of madly blooming magnolias she looked back, unable to go on.

  Fraser was just coming out of the tunnel. He stopped, looked around, then took off down the path in the opposite direction. Lucy watched as he disappeared behind rowboats stacked like fish scales by a boathouse.

  After a moment Lucy began running again, panting, exhausted. A horse-drawn hansom cab passed by on the park drive in front of her. The sun shouted through the greenery. Birds sang all around.

  The traffic stopped for a moment and Lucy dashed across the road. She ran and she ran, oblivious to the beds of pale daffodils and bicyclists and trees thick with ivy all around. She saw only MacAlpin’s empty, dead eyes. Guilt closed in around her as she trotted down the snaking path toward the Fifth Avenue buildings, holding her side, blinking the perspiration from her eyes. Her black hair was damp. Her muscles screamed. She had lost him. She was safe.

  For now.

  FIFTEEN

  It was two days later. Wing was in his basement workshop. Hewby, the fat basset hound, was snoozing on the sofa. Lucy was sitting at Wing’s desk at the end of her rope.

  She stopped drumming her fingers for the first time in five minutes, then dug out the Manhattan phone book and looked under Fraser. She couldn’t stand it anymore. Maybe he’d be willing to make some kind of deal.

  There were half a dozen Michael Frasers in the book. Lucy wasn’t even sure that was how he spelled his name. It was hopeless. Besides, she didn’t even have anything to bargain with.
<
br />   Lucy thought briefly about phoning MacAlpin’s widow, then dismissed it. What could she say? “I’m sorry to have killed your husband, Mrs. MacAlpin, but did he ever mention having an illegitimate daughter?”

  Lucy sat back into Wing’s deep armchair. She hadn’t gotten any work accomplished for days. Their loan meeting at First Connecticut was tomorrow morning, but Lucy’s mind kept wandering to images of Fraser chasing after her and MacAlpin’s crushed skull.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Lucy asked helplessly. Hewby didn’t answer, being sound asleep.

  Maybe she should just turn herself in. The cops might believe her story. Maybe they would go after Fraser and get her brooch back. Maybe Fraser would know what MacAlpin had been up to. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe they would lock her up and throw away the key.

  Lucy nibbled what was left of her thumbnail and tried to think. She was an intelligent person. Surely there was some logical course of action. Why couldn’t she see it?

  “Because I’m a killer, that’s why,” she mumbled to the sleeping dog. “I’m being eaten alive by guilt. I’m ‘Dos–toyevskying’ out. Next I’ll be hearing hearts beating under the floorboards.”

  “You feel okay, Rucy?” said the voice, shattering her reverie. Lucy shook the cobwebs from her mind and bounced up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wing. I was just thinking.”

  “Sit, sit, sit,” commanded Wing, motioning downward with his hands.

  Lucy sank back, blushing, into his big chair. Wing walked to the door, closed it, then sat down facing her in the armchair she usually occupied. Hewby looked up briefly, then went back to sleep.

  “We talk, Rucy Trelaine. Something bothering you. You tell me now.”

  Lucy felt the panic welling up in her chest. She wanted to tell him the truth, but how could she?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Wing,” she said guiltily. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

  “Wing your friend. Can help, maybe.”

  “I don’t …”

  “You in trouble?”