I listened to the roar of the Jeep’s motor, feeling like my heart had been slashed into little pieces.
As I watched him drive down the street, I saw another car pull out of its parking place, back up to the end of the block and sit there, like it was waiting for me to make a move. I’d had enough. I needed to confront whoever was tailing me, so resolutely, although it was freezing, I hugged myself and picked my way between patches of ice down the sidewalk. Halfway there, however, the car sped away.
Missing
My phone buzzed.
“The wake starts in five minutes and Kat’s missing. I don’t have a good feeling.” It was Lorraine, and she sounded rushed, almost flustered. She explained that Charlotte’s mother had just called her. “The woman’s frantic. Charlotte told her she’d seen Kat getting into her aunt’s car after school about two hours ago, and she hasn’t been seen since.”
“Kirsten’s car?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s sure it was her car?”
“Unmistakable. It’s odd-looking.”
It figured. Probably flamboyant, just like her.
“Kirsten calls it ‘my old beater,’ but Denny tells me it’s a perfectly restored Studebaker convertible. Can’t mistake it. Dark green, I think. Charlotte said Kat’s aunt often meets her after school, and they go to a coffee shop on Court Street and hang out. That was the way Charlotte put it. Kat told her she’d be back by four in time to do her homework before the wake.”
“Did Charlotte’s mother say which coffee shop they were going to?”
“She didn’t know, but knowing Kirsten, I’d try Cafe Pedlar in Cobble Hill first. I’ve tried all the coffee shops in Carroll Gardens.”
Swell. I had an hour to find her or find out where she’d been before I was supposed to meet Lorraine at Russo’s chapel. I looked at myself in the mirror and made a face. And I had planned on dressing up, too. Well, dress up for me. No time for that now. I grabbed my purse and ran out the door. Deciding not to take my car into evening traffic, I hailed a cab. We were in front of Cafe Pedlar in five minutes, and I asked the driver to wait.
“Better be quick, lady.”
My luck, the place was closed when I got there, but through the window, I saw someone wiping tables. I banged on the plate glass, keeping up the knocking until he opened the door. I grabbed him and told him I was desperate to speak with the manager.
“Slow down! You’re looking at him.” He smiled, and I noticed the missing front tooth and black eye. He saw me frowning up at his face and said, “You don’t wanna know. How can I help?”
I asked him if he recalled seeing a woman and a young girl earlier that day, mid to late afternoon. They frequented a coffee shop on Court Street, and my hunch was, knowing the customers, it would be Cafe Pedlar.
He shook his head.
I told him he’d probably see them on weekdays after school. “The girl is missing.”
He leaned on his broom handle and got all squinty, rubbing the back of his head. “Only pair I can think of, she drives a Studebaker convertible, one of those bullet-nosed vintage jobs. Love to get my hands on it. Mint condition. Always has a girl with her. She asks for a soda and a cappuccino. Always asks for the same thing. Kid goes to Brooklyn Friends.”
“That’s the one, I’d bet the mortgage.”
He shook his head again. “Haven’t seen them in a couple of months.”
I blew out air and thanked him.
He must have sensed my disappointment because he called after me. “You might try Frankies Spuntino. Down the block. Woman told me once she likes it. Told me she’s a frequent customer. Must have heard we’re related.”
Frankies Spuntino. I was supposed to check on something. I racked my brain, trying to think what it was and suddenly remembered I was going to find out who Phyllida met at Frankies the night she was given the drugs. I gave the taxi driver the address of Russo’s Funeral Parlor on Court Street, asking if it was close to Frankies.
“Up the block, lady. You’re a confusion. Which one you want?”
I told him to let me off in front of the restaurant, which he did, and paid him, sweetening the pie. You’ve got to do that with taxi drivers; otherwise they put a curse on you, or so my gran had me believing. I remembered her standing by the curb as the taxi sped away, making the Sicilian gesture for warding off the devil because Mom never tipped.
Inside, the place was packed. The smells got to me, and for the first time that day I started salivating.
“Got a reservation?”
I flashed him my ID. “Got questions.”
The waiter quirked a corner of his mouth as customers waiting in a long line muttered at my back.
“Can you come back, say, tomorrow about eleven?”
I told him I needed to ask about a frequent customer in conjunction with a missing girl. While he went to fetch the manager, I looked at the time. I’d told Lorraine I’d see her about seven and I was late, but just then the manager arrived. He was dressed in black, wearing a white apron, hair flopping in his face. His hands were loaded with two bottles of wine, towels, and an opener.
“You’re looking for a young girl?”
I described Kat Oxley and Kirsten Goncourt.
“Doesn’t ring any bells, but I work evenings. Come back tomorrow about eleven.”
That’s what they all say. Dejected, I was about to walk away when a waitress with orange hair and purplish lipstick tapped me on the shoulder.
“You looking for Kirsten and Kat?”
“That’s right.”
“Haven’t seen them together in a while, but Kirsten was here the other night. She met the woman who lives down the block, what’s her name.” The waitress looked out at something across the street. “Phyllida, that’s it. Kirsten came in while Phyllida was having dinner.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “Kirsten ordered meatballs with pine nuts and raisins. They ate, then left together.”
I felt my stomach drop two flights. Kirsten Goncourt was the person Phyllida couldn’t recall having met in Frankies Spuntino the night someone slipped her a mickey. No, it couldn’t have been Kirsten who’d given her the date-rape drugs. Could it?
I wasn’t any closer to finding out what happened to Kat—or to Phyllida, for that matter. Search for one missing item and you probably won’t find it, not at first, anyway. But you might run across something else you vaguely remember having lost. I thanked my orange-headed waitress for the information and walked across the street to Russo’s Funeral Parlor, dodging cars and getting the Brooklyn salute several times.
The Take
Kat’s Monologue
“You’re not Kirsten.”
He smiled, his lips lopsided, saying nothing.
Why didn’t I look before I got into the car? Granny’s always going on about that. “Never get into a car, sweetie, unless you know who’s driving.”
I should have seen. Such a dork wig, too, like really weird. I’m beyond stupid. When he took off his hair and laughed, I knew it was too late, a maniac driver.
I can feel my hand in Granny’s as we walk to school. But she left me, just like Billy said she would. Oh, Granny, how could you?
On the way, he stopped by the side of the road, smiled his weird smile, took out a needle and gave me something, I swear. I slept.
When I wake up, my head hurts, like totally fierce. I’m in a tunnel with everything else far away, like Alice in her rabbit hole. I feel sick to my stomach. No light. Not a sound in here. I try to stand, but the world is in a slow-motion spin. I feel my heart racing, my head pounding, like before a test only a whole lot worse, so I try to think of good stuff, sitting in Elaine’s, going to the movies, watching Billy’s face when he smiles, but it doesn’t work.
I’d give anything to be in school right now, in that still moment of quiet before class. But my world is spinning. I talk to myself. I see Charlotte that first day, wearing a skirt over grey leggings, a pink tee with whit
e clouds. Shy curls. My lucky day. Will I ever see her again? Hard to breathe.
I sleep, and after I wake up, I look down. I’ve wet myself. Oh my God, what will my friends say? I scrunch into a corner, try to go inside my head again, into the peace of mindfulness, but I smell Old Liese’s perfume and hear her voice. Footsteps. A door opens. Old Liese. Her face is like a mask in a horror movie.
I stand up and steady myself against the wall. “I thought you were dead. You should be. I want to go home.”
“You are home, child.”
“You can’t keep me here, you old bitch. It’s against the law.”
I make for the door, but she blocks me, shaking her fist.
I think she’s going to hit me—I wish she would—but she stops.
“You have no control, I see. A few more hours in here and you’ll change your tune.”
“And if I don’t?” I open my mouth, ready to say all the things I should have said when she entered, but the words won’t come out.
She leaves, shutting the door with a click.
Afterward I hold my head. I should have run out the door. It was open, I could have surprised her, rushed past. I think of what Charlotte would have done, probably punched her way out, but me? I do nothing. I don’t deserve to make it.
I look around for my books, my phone. Gone.
I try the door, but it’s locked.
A man, I think the one who picked me up, stands in the doorway, holding a plate in his hand. “I brought you food, toasted peanut butter and bacon. Kirsten told me you’d like it. Don’t drink coffee yet?”
“Your driving sucks.”
He smiles, puts the plate down, and leaves.
I’ll never work for them. I’d rather be dead. No windows. No phone. No air. Why doesn’t Kirsten stop them? She’s worse than all of them put together.
The Wake
The place was packed when I arrived wearing my best jeans and blouse. Seems everyone loved Phyllida Oxley. It was one of those open-casket deals, the kind I hate—they make me feel light in the head even as I’m drawn to look at the body—I kept glancing to the front where, dressed in feathery hats and capes, two Knights of Columbus stood on either side of the casket. I recognized one: Robert, rock steady, a blank look on his face. I felt like punching him in the gut or at least making him laugh, but there was too much work for me to do.
As I stood in line to pay my respects, I looked around at the crowd. There were neighborhood faces I recognized, women I’d seen somewhere, standing in clumps with their husbands in tow wearing stiff suits and talking in hushed tones. Lorraine was talking to three couples. When she saw me, she excused herself and came over, both of us moving forward with the line as we talked. I asked her if she’d heard from Charlotte’s mother.
“No word. I told her to call the police.”
Two steps closer to the bier.
“Have you heard from any of the Goncourts?” I asked, taking more steps.
“Liese and Garth are still missing; Ameline left the hospital with Abe and Kirsten. She’ll stay with them until they can make other arrangements for her.”
“Have they been here?”
Lorraine shook her head.
I told her what I’d just learned about Kirsten Goncourt meeting Phyllida at Frankies Spuntino and watched Lorraine cover her mouth with a trembling hand.
“I can’t believe she’s the one who gave Phyllida drugs,” she said.
“But she seems to show up whenever Abe Goncourt is around.”
“Or whenever bad things happen,” Lorraine said.
I hated to batter this woman with more questions, but I had no choice. “Do you still have the folders we took from Phyllida’s house the other night?”
She moved forward with me, furrowing her brow as she nodded. I could tell she was miles away. “I haven’t had a chance to look at them, not thoroughly. I know there’s a copy of her will, but I hesitated to look at it when she was alive, it felt too much like an intrusion.”
I reminded her she was Phyllida’s executor, but Lorraine shrugged. “The key to Phyllida’s house is beside them. Robbie? Take Fina home. She needs something I’ve left in the computer room. Folders next to the mouse.”
He turned to her. “I can’t leave right now, Lorraine.”
She crossed her arms and frowned. “No arguments.”
Mourners around us stopped talking for a second.
Lorraine’s face was like a stone carving. “After she says a prayer, take Fina with you, and be nice.”
I took the last step as Lorraine was accosted by another couple.
Trying not to look at her, I knelt in front of the shell Phyllida used to inhabit, wondering what to say to the parody of the woman whom I’d failed to keep alive. Wouldn’t you know it, my phone vibrated. It was Jane, probably telling me about Kat Oxley, so I let it go to voice mail. When I finished vowing to Phyllida that I’d find whoever did this to her and get her granddaughter back, I stepped outside. The cold felt refreshing.
“This way.” Robert scowled. “I might have known you’d mess things up. Couldn’t protect our friend, and now an innocent kid is missing.”
I wasn’t going to get into it with Robert, and I didn’t feel like trying to soothe him, so I said, “We haven’t much time.”
“Should have thought of that before you left Denny. Instead, you took the coward’s way out.”
“Usually you get things wrong, but this time you’re right. About my being a coward.”
He stopped then and looked at me. Snow was beginning to fall, and a few flakes landed on his nose. He brushed them away with fingers red with cold. “Okay, kid. Sorry you messed up bad this time. I don’t get why you won’t talk to your old man, but that’s your business. I shouldn’t have put my foot in it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
I didn’t know whether to slap him or hug him, but one thing I realized: he didn’t know how ridiculous he looked in his hat and cape and sword. “Thanks, my Cyrano in the snow. I think.”
He screwed up his face, the closest thing I’d get to a smile.
After we retrieved the key and folders from Lorraine’s desk, I watched him plod back to the funeral home while I stood underneath a streetlamp, riffling through the papers, most of them looking legal and something I wasn’t about to read, one entitled “Last Will and Testament.” I had what I needed, except for two more items.
Intruders
I remembered seeing a photograph of Kat Oxley in Phyllida’s dining room, so I shot across the street to her house, ramming the key into the lock, my heart pounding, wondering if the newly dead revisit their homes like my gran insisted, sitting for hours at a time in Mom’s room after she died.
I put on a pair of latex gloves, switched on my flashlight and tiptoed through the parlor, spooked by the shadows the furniture made. “Show me where it is, Phyllida.” Sure enough, I found Kat’s likeness on the buffet. I grabbed it and sat, slowing my breathing, telling myself there were no ghosts, telling myself I still had work to do before Jane and her troops messed up the place again.
I ran upstairs to the bedrooms and opened Kat’s door, half expecting to see the teen face down in the middle of her pillows, sobbing, but the room was spotless, the bed looking like it had been made under the gaze of a drill sergeant. Beaming my flashlight to the closet, I opened the door and jolted myself. Most of Kat’s clothes were missing. I looked over at the desk: her laptop was gone, her desktop empty. I reached inside the middle drawer. It was empty. No books on the shelves. Had Kat run away?
Just then I heard a noise and froze. Footsteps. Voices. More than one person. One was a woman, I’d swear it. The intruders were somewhere downstairs. Jane and her minions? Doubtful, they’d traipse around screaming like they owned the place. I doused my flashlight and waited, mumbling the only prayer I remembered from CCD—Bless us, oh, Lord and these thy gifts—and feeling my temples explode. I clutched Phyllida’s papers closer to my chest and heard more whispering, drawers
opening and closing, hissing noises I didn’t understand. Should I confront them? What if they were armed? Screwing up my courage, I tiptoed to the door and slowly turned the handle, jumping at the lock’s click, opening it a crack. The landing was dark. I took one step outside the bedroom while my heart went pitty-pat as I pictured myself lying in a pool of my own blood.
Then I heard, “Not here anymore.”
Wuss that I am, I backed up and closed the door, crouching in Kat’s bedroom, listening to the creak of wooden floorboards below, the click of the front door, the return of silence that seemed to muffle the world. In a few minutes I crept back the way I had come and got out of Phyllida’s house as fast as I could, feeling the dead woman hugging my shoulders.
Outside I watched as snowflakes skimmed passersby on Court Street, heard their laughter, and envied their peace as they sauntered in and out of restaurants, arm in arm. There goes everyone but me. After hailing a cab, I returned Jane’s call.
“Kat Oxley’s missing,” she said. “But I can tell by your response you know that already. Where’s Lorraine? I’ve left messages. I need to talk to her.”
I explained that she was grieving, currently attending Phyllida’s wake. “A bazillion mourners want to talk to her; she can’t be disturbed. Can I help?”
“I doubt it, but tell me what you know.”
“Too much for you to remember unless you’ve got a paper and pencil handy and studied long enough to know cursive. Besides, I’m not going to stand here in front of Russo’s Funeral Parlor talking to you all night. Meet us at Lucy’s.”
“No can do. I’ve got a missing minor on my patch.”
“Not exactly.” After I explained that Kat Oxley had last been seen with her aunt, the one with a New Jersey address, her tone changed. New Jersey, those magic words tame my crazed detective every time. You see, I learned something during my internship at Brown’s: working in this part of the country, a PI needs multiple state licenses, and I have three, one of which is New Jersey.
The Brooklyn Drop (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 4) Page 15
