She didn’t have to persuade him to come with her, either. God bless Clancy, he wouldn’t let Cookie go it alone, not six months along. She’d explained to him what little she knew, that an old high school friend’s husband had been murdered, and somehow there were galleries involved. They had to find out as much information as they could. Clancy had shrugged when she told him. “She’s paying you good?” And she’d replied in the affirmative. He’d jumped at the chance to protect her, and, of course, for the ride in the country.
She didn’t understand why Denny wasn’t more protective of his wife, but lately, he was battling his own bad stuff. Even on the job—that was what Clancy had told her, exasperated with his friend, who didn’t seem capable of getting over the death of his old man. “One of these days, Cook, he’s going to get himself in a pile of trouble, taking breaks when he shouldn’t, his partner finding him crying in the lounge. They don’t like to see that. Union guy had to talk to him the other day. Sits around staring at nothing when he should be on the beat. His partner almost called it quits last week.”
Cookie didn’t know what to say. She hoped Clancy’s father would live forever or at least until their children were grown and Clancy was retired and they wouldn’t have to deal with what his death would do to his son. But come to think on it, Clancy and his father were close, but not like Denny and his father had been. Denny had a reverence for his father that made him blind—they’d both realized it, talked about it—and now he was paying for it.
“It says Rhinebeck ten miles.”
There were five galleries on her list, but she was famished, so they stopped at a small coffee shop in the middle of town, and they each ordered a hamburger and fries. Coke for Clancy; she had coffee. The place was cute, but a typical no-tablecloth joint with shiny leather seats. She could have gone for a nicer restaurant, but they had to watch their money until their mortgage, humungous, was paid off or at least down by a hundred thousand. That wouldn’t take long if they continued having jobs like these. Then there was the college fund for the kids. Put that way, she should have made a lunch for the two of them. They could have pulled over on a side street or found a park and eaten it. Next time, that was what she’d do.
No wonder Clancy liked it here; she had to admit it was gorgeous. She stared out the plate-glass window, watching the pedestrians. Not as fast moving as they were in Brooklyn. It was a slower life in Dutchess County. Clancy began talking about selling up; he could get a job easy around here. It didn’t have to be Rhinebeck; there were plenty of towns, and they always needed good cops. They’d jump at the chance to get him on the force. They could sell their co-op and buy a small house up here and have plenty of cash left over to put toward something or other. A brand-new car maybe. While he talked, she let her mind wander, thinking about her mother and wondering if she remembered to take the baby out for fresh air. “Sometimes, Cook, I get so worried about you. Crime is up, and I had a nightmare the other night.”
Cookie reached over and held his hand. “I’m fine, and my mom’s so close. Our kids need their grandmother. We’ll miss Brooklyn if we leave, believe me.”
When the waitress brought their order, Cookie began briefing Clancy. “We’re a couple looking to invest in art. We don’t like what we see, so we ask if they’d recommend something closer to home.”
“A Manhattan gallery?”
“You’re catching on.”
“But look at our clothes. We can’t pass for art lovers.”
“Don’t worry. Act the part. Our job is to check out each gallery and owner, but of course, we need them to think we’re interested in art, so if we see a painting we like—”
“I’ll take my cues from you. What kind of guy are we looking for?”
“Tall, dresses all fancy, Fina said; wears one of those Wall Street hairdos. You’ll know him when you see him.”
Clancy made a choking sound, and the couple sitting across from them turned in their direction and frowned, as if they were beneath anybody in this one-horse town, as if they’d barfed or something. Highfalutins up here too; she’d figured that out mighty quick when they passed picture-perfect farms all decked out with what she suspected were fake cows. Oh, yes, she’d heard about those kind. Gentlemen farmers. She’d opened the window, letting the fresh air hit her face. Not even the smell of manure.
She felt Clancy’s shoe brush hers. “Like you were saying?”
Just then her phone rang. It was Minnie, Lucy’s office manager who doubled as the detective agency’s research aficionado now that Lorraine had a license of her own. Cookie listened, nodding and taking notes, and when she was through with the call, she ate the last of her French Fries.
“Fina just saved us two or three hours,” she said, telling him Jane’s colleagues in Rhinebeck told her three of the galleries on their list had closed their doors at the end of last season. “That leaves only two for us to visit, and one of the detectives saw a fine arts moving truck parked in the alley behind one of the galleries, Henry Hudson Fine Arts. We’ll start with that one.”
They left their van in a public parking area off the main street and walked the distance to the gallery. It was located in a commons on the other side of a little park from an ice cream parlor and a small bookstore. Blossoming apples lined the block, and a weeping willow with a wooden bench underneath it stood in the middle of the park. Idyllic. Just like him, Clancy had to have a cone, so they stopped and sat at a small table with a view of the green and the gallery. They ordered coffee and ice cream, and Cookie was at peace watching new leaves wafting in a gentle breeze. One thing about her neighborhood: it didn’t have country, and there were days she longed for it, even though she was a city girl born and bred. She looked over at her husband, thinking how lucky they were to be spending an afternoon together. After they were served, Clancy took a sip of coffee and rose, his face screwed in a frown, his half-eaten cone between his teeth.
“Be right back,” he mumbled, patting the Glock he habitually holstered underneath his jacket. Nothing like the security of being married to a cop.
Going to case the joint, Cookie supposed. She got out her phone and typed in some preliminary notes—time of day, address of the gallery, a description of its facade, and a description of the adjacent stores. Then she calculated the money they’d be making that day, writing down a list of their expenses. It would cover the mortgage that month, especially if they stretched out the day; she had no doubt her mother was good with Brooklyn until the next morning.
The neighborhood was a quiet one—they were the only customers in the ice cream shop—but she suspected there’d be crowds later on in the season—the area attracted tourists and vacationers in mid-spring through fall. Matter of fact, many New Yorkers had weekend homes in the area—witness the farm with the fake cows—and the gallery would cater to them. Right now, a man and woman holding hands and deep in conversation strolled past her window. As she stared at the scene, she saw Clancy disappearing behind the row of stores.
She continued jotting down notes, looking up every once in a while, hoping to see Clancy return. Something niggled at her insides. She’d been so careful with her diet, determined to have a healthy baby; she told herself not to worry about a small helping of butter fat. She scraped the sides of the bowl, took the last bite of double chocolate almond swirl, and carefully wiped the corners of her mouth. Besides, Clancy was nothing if not thorough, and if that fine arts truck the detectives had seen was still behind the gallery, he’d want to take a good look, comparing the tags, the state of the tires, taking a few photos. Not to worry. So she pulled out her well-thumbed book, Jane Austen’s Emma. She’d read it so often, she could practically recite it—perfect for keeping half her mind on Jane Austen while the other half tracked her husband.
Several pages into the novel, she finished the last swig of java and looked at her phone. Clancy had been gone three-quarters of an hour. Cookie felt a frisson of fear.
Nothing for it but to try to find out where he wa
s, so she paid the bill, stuffed the phone in her purse, and set out across the green. As she moved toward the gallery, the baby kicked, a good omen, she hoped.
Henry Hudson Fine Arts had been in business for twenty-five years, according to the sign in the window. Cookie wasn’t surprised: the display in the window was breathtaking. She wasn’t up on her vases, but it looked like that one was from the Ming dynasty. Leaves and dragons swirled in perfect symmetry around the glazed porcelain. It would look so lovely on their mantel. Never in a bazillion years, so she stuffed the thought and opened the door. A silver bell announced her arrival.
She was alone in a stunning space. The gallery was larger than she’d imagined from the outside. The walls were painted an antique white, and recessed halogens lit each painting displayed at regular intervals on the walls. In the first room, an exhibit of one man’s work. One painting showed a figure leaning on a lamppost, staring out at the world. Derivative, Cookie thought. And monochromatic: it must have been the artist’s blue period. Hardwood floors gleamed, and she circled each of three rooms several times. The second room showed works by another artist. Colors competed with one another, and Cookie was enthralled by their buoyancy. She examined each painting, mesmerized by the line and angle of the masses. It made her want to paint, and she decided to fix the spare room on the third floor into a studio for herself. She could work there in her spare time. When she could afford it. After the kids were in school. Maybe. As she walked into the third room, she heard footsteps headed her way.
“I’m looking for my husband. I was supposed to meet him here. Tall? Dark brown crew cut? Wearing a polo shirt and jeans?”
The woman smiled. “You’re our first guest. Do you have questions? Something I can help you with? What kind of art are you interested in? We have three artists on display currently. All local, emerging artists. We’re lucky to have them. As a matter of fact, we’ve had our most successful month so far this year. This Bijet, for example, a fine specimen of his classic style. It won’t last, a steal at thirty thousand dollars.”
Something vaguely familiar about the woman, but Cookie couldn’t place her. She felt dizzy. “I think I’ll just go outside and wait for my husband.” She began walking back into the main gallery, the woman close behind, when she thought she heard a scuffle coming from the back room. She whirled around. She was sure she heard Clancy moan.
“The karate school next door.” The woman crossed her arms. “You say he was here a moment ago? Let me check in the back to see if my assistant has seen him.”
Scuffling. Another moan.
“That’s my husband’s voice, I know it!”
Just then Cookie was grabbed from behind and not gently at all. Her arms were pulled back. She was pushed through to a small room someplace in the back, she wasn’t quite sure. Echoey and cold.
“You’re hurting me! My baby!” She wished she looked more like Fina—then they’d realize she was pregnant. “Careful, I’m …” But the woman taped her mouth. Cookie thought she might vomit. If she could just maneuver, she’d give that broad a karate chop she’d never forget. Then two guys pinned down her arms. Through hot tears she saw Clancy struggling with two more men. They were pushing him into another room.
“Where’s the blonde?” a deep voice yelled.
“She’s coming! Geez. Turn on a dime and what thanks do you get? Keep your shirt on for chrissake, you lousy bastard.”
Sally’s Place
I had this notion that Stephen’s mother would know something about her son that would lead me to his killer, and that therefore her life would be in jeopardy. Although Minnie hadn’t called me back with more information on the woman, I drove to Bay Ridge and trolled up and down Third Avenue, looking for the coffee shop where, according to Benny, Stephen had discovered his mother. On my third or fourth pass, I spotted a red awning in the middle of a block with the words Sally’s Place in big white letters. That had to be it. After finding a parking spot on a side street several blocks away, I walked back to Third Avenue, rehearsing what I was going to say.
When I arrived, the smells coming from the restaurant revved up my usual hunger pangs, and there was an inviting display of cakes and pies on the counter. The room was crowded with lunchers lingering over dessert and coffee, but I found an empty booth in the back and ordered a bowl of meatball soup and salad with feta cheese.
“Will that come with rolls?” I asked the waitress, a redhead with pale skin and a piercing on one side of her nose.
She took in my stomach and rolled her eyes. I wasn’t about to ask her if she was Stephen’s mother—she looked too young to be working.
“Light coffee, too, and the sooner the better.”
She gave me a salute and disappeared. A few seconds later I heard her giving the order in the kitchen. “One meatball and a Sally’s for the PG.”
I looked around, hoping to spot someone who bore a faint resemblance to the Stephen I remembered from high school. In addition to the cashier in the front, there was a black woman tending the counter and two other waitresses handling the tables and booths. No one looked at all like him. I had no idea how old or accurate Benny’s information was, and my palms began sweating as I realized I should have waited for Minnie’s call, but I took a few deep breaths and remembered my sixth sense. After all, I had a hunch Sally’s Place unlocked one of the many closed doors in the case. I craned my neck—what was taking the waitress so long with my coffee—and saw that the cashier was free, so I squeezed out of the booth and headed for the front.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy, but—”
“Try me.” The guy smiled. He was pleasant enough, with bleached-blond hair made more prominent by a belly that rivaled mine.
“I’m looking for a woman who worked here, maybe still does. Her first name is Karen, and she’s probably tall, but not too tall, probably dark haired, but I’m not too sure of the color.”
“All right. You’re not completely gone, just a little demented.”
I showed him the old black-and-white photo of Stephen and his mother.
“We had a Karen who worked here a while ago. Great waitress.” He took off his glasses and held the photo up to his nose.
“Same features, I think, but I can’t be sure.” He wiped away a smudge on the glass. “This has got to be twenty years old. People change.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Can you describe your Karen?”
“Tall. Good looking. Dark brown hair beginning to gray. Older than our other waitresses. The boss might know where she is, but she’s not in today.”
It wasn’t surprising the boss wasn’t working—her absence explained why it took so long for my waitress to bring me coffee.
“When do you expect her?”
“Tomorrow at six. Come back then.”
Forty-eight hours had passed since Stephen’s murder, and I had nothing except for the scant leads garnered from talking to Lake and Stephen’s father and Benny. I needed a win, however small, and I wasn’t about to wait until tomorrow for the boss to show.
“I’d like to talk to your boss today. It’s urgent.” I showed him my card. I lied, saying my client was handling an inheritance, and the woman, Karen, might be an interested party.
“So if she’s mentioned in a will, how come you don’t know her last name?”
He caught me there, but I thought fast. “I’m not at liberty to reveal any information, just that we have a reliable source tracing her to this address.”
The cashier held up both hands and waved me to one side while he rang up the line of customers waiting not too patiently behind me. He picked up the phone and dialed. I heard it ringing and crossed my fingers. He was about to hang up when his call was answered, and he explained his predicament to whoever was on the line.
I held my breath while he listened, rolling his eyes. He looked at me, holding a hand over the receiver. “She’s looking now for Karen’s address.” More waiting, more customers in line wanting to pay and new diners impatien
t to be seated. My bleached-blond guy cuffed the phone to his shoulder, took money, gave change, motioned for a waitress to show three people to a vacant table. I could hear talking on the other end of the line.
“Hold on.” He scribbled something down on a slip of paper and shoved it over to me. I looked at his scrawl. Funny, Karen hadn’t bothered to change her name.
“Last known address and phone number, but no promises there. Boss has tried calling her several times, but no answer. Karen left here without giving notice, even though we were all fond of her. She was easy to work with; took her fair share and then some. Boss says she was the best waitress she’d ever hired, and she’s not the type to give praise, let me tell you.” He stopped talking and stared into the restaurant. “I think Karen’s the type who just keeps moving on.”
I was about to leave when the young waitress tapped me on the shoulder. “Your soup’s getting cold.”
I’d forgotten all about my food, but I was no longer hungry. I fished in my wallet and brought out a ten spot. “Keep the change,” I said as I handed it to her.
“Are you kidding?” She tore a check from her pad and waved it in front of my face.
“That much? You’re crazy!” I gave her a twenty and left, thanking the cashier for his help.
Stella
Outside, I visored my eyes, squinting all the way down the street and past the BQE to an opening in the sky where the top of the Verrazano Bridge poked through the clouds, stately in its span across the Narrows. For a moment I took in my immediate surroundings. On either side of Third Avenue, a long row of stores and apartment buildings stood in mid afternoon silence as I took out my phone and tried Karen’s number. No longer in service. I punched her address into my GPS app. It brought up the image of a building on a side street some twenty blocks away. Not far, and a walk would do me good, so I decided to leave my car where it was and began the trek to Karen Cojok’s home.
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 14
