by Dana Dratch
Behind them, Ian leaned casually against the doorjamb with his arms folded. “That contraption was more trouble than it was worth,” he said. “Time for it to go.”
“Did you clean it out first?” I asked.
“It’s empty. And as far as I know, it always has been. But it’s a nuisance, and I don’t need the liability.”
I couldn’t help myself. I rushed the box and pried up the lid. The guys lugging the freezer dropped it on the sidewalk.
Empty.
I looked at Ian, lounging against the doorframe. He shrugged.
In the bright light of day, I noticed something. In the corner of the freezer. I bent and plucked it between my fingertips. A single bud. Of baby’s breath.
Like Paul Gerrard used to wear in his lapel. The same Paul Gerrard who’d left the inn and was never seen again.
I held up the bud accusingly.
Ian raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Hey, are we taking this thing or not?” One of the guys asked Ian.
“Taking it, gentlemen. Definitely taking it.”
I glared at him. I was also blocking the sidewalk. Unless they wanted to knock me down, that freezer wasn’t going anywhere.
One guy looked at me and back at Ian. “Look, we don’t want to get in the middle of no domestic sit-chee-a-shun. You and the missus need a minute?”
Ian smiled, and his eyes actually twinkled.
So why did I want to slap that self-satisfied expression right off his face?
“I’m not his missus! And it’s his damned freezer!” I shouted, turning for home.
“Alex! Alex!” he called from behind me.
As I hit the curb, he touched my shoulder. I spun around.
“You’re getting rid of evidence,” I enunciated through clenched teeth.
“I am making a donation to charity,” he said calmly. “That freezer is going to a local soup kitchen. We never used it, and frankly, it caused too much trouble.”
“Will they scrub it out first? Because it’s had at least two bodies in it that I know of,” I whispered, holding the bud of baby’s breath in front of his face. “Probably three.”
“I understand that. But that was not my doing. And that’s why I’m getting rid of it,” he said quietly. “We need to turn a page, so to speak. And this . . . donation seems to be the most efficient way.”
“Freezers don’t kill people. Crazy people with meat thermometers kill people. And getting rid of your killer’s favorite hidey-hole isn’t going to stop them. Have you taken care of that problem?” I asked.
“I believe so,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.
I wasn’t having it. “Who?”
“Beg pardon?” he asked, throwing a quick glance at the two guys leaning on the freezer.
“You heard me. Who is it? Who’s going around your inn dropping bodies like dominos?”
“The man you found,” Ian started. “The man you saw in there. He was a professional hit man. A nasty piece of goods.”
“Yes, Raymond Bell. I know. I also know who sent him and why.”
“That man did anything, killed anyone, for money. He had no morals, no scruples, no conscience.”
“What about Ralph Simmons? He was just a poor, schlubby health inspector.”
Ian looked startled. “Simmons wasn’t just a health inspector. He was a snoop. An extortionist. A sleazy little worm. He pried, he peeped, he listened at doors. And he likely heard or saw something he shouldn’t have.”
I studied his face. He was much better at this than I was. I couldn’t read him.
“I did not kill him. I didn’t kill any of them.”
He said, “Any of them.” Not “either of them.” Three bodies. Not two.
“What about Paul?” I asked. I wanted to believe him. That was the problem.
“I never touched a hair on that boy’s head. As far as I knew, he was a guest! You’re the one who found out what he was really doing here. And yes, I do believe he’s dead.”
“Why was he killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you’ve taken care of the problem, that means you know who did it,” I said. “If you know who did it, you know why. So why was Paul killed?”
Ian sighed. “He wasn’t just a saboteur. He was also a thief. When he’d go into the rooms to wreak havoc, he’d steal whatever he could find. Mostly cash, jewelry, and electronics. Small things he could pocket. I’m guessing he viewed that as one more way to unsettle the guests. Let’s just say he stole something from the wrong person.”
“Who?” I pressed. “And what?”
“It was a gun. A very special gun.”
“Whose?”
“Alex, I can’t tell you more than that. On my word, on my honor, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill any of them. And neither did my father. This is over. I have put a stop to it. But now we have to let this go.”
“Three men are dead. There’s been no arrest. No charges. No trial. Not even a funeral. Hell, Ian, I don’t even know where their bodies are. Do you?”
He shook his head quickly.
“And your solution is ‘Oh, let’s give the freezer to charity?’ Is that supposed to make it all better?”
“My answer to ‘all this,’ was to intervene and end it,” he said roughly, eyes darkening. “Which I have done, and which I cannot discuss. Not even with you. This is just the mopping up. And why shouldn’t at least one decent thing come of this? I don’t know about you, but I’m sick to death of the rest of it. Raymond Bell was a monster. No one will miss him. Certainly no one who truly knew him.”
“What about Ralph Simmons and Paul Gerrard? They weren’t monsters.”
Ian’s face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat coming off his body. And smell that spicy cologne he always wore.
“They were, actually. Your friend Simmons found Bell’s body. In the freezer. Then he came to me for money. A lot of money. Which, frankly, I didn’t have. I had no idea what I was going to do. Then he vanished. Just disappeared. And Paul Gerrard—or whatever his name was—was an addict and a bully. He was living on borrowed time even before he stole a weapon and tried to blackmail a killer.”
“But Bell’s body wasn’t in the freezer. Where did Simmons find it?”
“It only left the freezer temporarily,” Ian admitted.
“Long enough to gaslight me.”
“I’m sorry.” His face crumpled. “That little deception was necessary. I needed to keep you out of this. To protect you.”
“You couldn’t protect Simmons?”
“Simmons had photos. On his phone. Look, Alex, I didn’t know about any of these deaths until after the fact. I honestly wasn’t that concerned about Bell. His demise was what you might call an occupational hazard. I learned about Simmons and Gerrard simultaneously. And you’re right, that was a step too far. So I put a stop to it. And I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s convenient.”
“No, it’s not,” he pleaded, his voice husky. “It’s really not. I want to tell you everything. To share everything. I don’t want anything to come between us.”
I stared at him. And I realized two things. I liked him. Really, really liked him.
And I didn’t trust him one bit.
Chapter 53
The next morning, I rousted myself at 6:30 and let Lucy into the yard for a quick break.
Alistair, snoozing on my shoulder, didn’t budge.
When Lucy scampered back into the house, I handed her a doggie treat and headed back to bed.
I’d taken Alistair duty last night. Partly to give Baba a break. Partly because I couldn’t sleep anyway.
I rocked him, I fed him, I cuddled him, and I sang to him. He fussed every time I tried to put him down. Round about 4:30, we’d both fallen asleep. Alistair in my arms, me at the kitchen table.
Now I was paying the price.
Lucy followed me back to the bedroom, the treat still in her mouth. “We’ll
hit the park after breakfast. It’ll still be there. I promise.”
As I settled Alistair in his crib, she trotted over, dropped the treat, and turned around three times. Then she curled up and nibbled her cookie until it was gone.
When I got up, it was almost nine, and Baba was headed for the grocery store. Nick was giving her a ride.
Marty decided to ride shotgun. He actually called “shotgun.”
“’Cause of the crutches,” he explained to a dubious Nick. “I can’t climb in and out of the backseat yet.”
After they left, I let Lucy out, drained what was left of the coffee, and made another pot.
Alistair’s bottle was ready to go. But Alistair wasn’t. Every ten minutes or so, I checked on him. He was in the same position, zonked out in the crib. His little chest was moving up and down. But I was beginning to panic.
I phoned Nick’s cell and heard a strange ringing on the kitchen table. It turned out to be my brother’s phone. Baba didn’t have a cell phone. And if Marty had one, it was probably Helen’s property now.
That left one alternative. The fact that I was even considering it meant I was truly desperate.
She answered on the second ring. “I’ll have a can of soda, no ice,” she called to someone. “Historical accuracy, my foot,” my mother muttered into the phone. “It’s just an excuse for flies and filth.”
“That pretty much sums up the eighteenth century, Mom. How’s the tour?”
“Never mind that, what’s wrong, Alexandra?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Alexandra.”
“All right, it’s Alistair. Baba and Nick are at the store. And I’m supposed to be watching him. He gets a bottle every four hours. I gave him the last one this morning around four thirty. But it’s almost ten, and he hasn’t woken up yet. And that’s not like him. I mean, the little guy loves his bottle.”
“Sounds like your uncle Ernie. I will never understand why my sister married that man.”
“Mom! It’s been almost six hours! What do I do?”
“Rule number one: unless it’s sick or injured, you never wake a sleeping baby.”
“How do I know if he’s sick or injured?”
“Have you dropped him on his head recently?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Was he running a fever when you put him to bed?”
“No.”
“Is his chest moving up and down?”
“Um, yeah.”
“He’s fine. Let him sleep.”
“But he needs to eat every four hours,” I babbled. “He’s growing. And it’s been more than four hours. Way more.”
“You can buy him a watch for his first birthday. Right now, go back to bed, Alexandra. You sound dreadful.”
Chapter 54
I slept ’til almost one. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right. I woke up feeling great.
When I walked into the living room. Alistair was in his little swing, and Baba was cheering him on from a chair.
“Hey, kid, let’s take a ride,” Marty said, swinging into the room on his crutches with a Giant foods tote bag on his shoulder.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I gotta run an errand. Can you give me a lift?”
After a couple of days of Baba’s chow, I figured he was looking to score a bacon cheeseburger. Add a chocolate milk shake with a side of onion rings, and that was fine by me.
Ten minutes later, we were driving through one of Fordham’s tonier developments. McMansions on micro-lots.
“Physical therapy session?” I asked, feeling even more self-conscious than usual about the epithets keyed into the sides of my car.
“Definitely therapy. We’ll see just how physical it gets. Here, right here,” he said. “Pull up to the curb,” he said, pointing.
The house looked like a smaller, newer version of Lydia’s brick mansion, and it covered most of the lot. What concerned me more were the police cars covering the driveway. And the crime scene investigation van in front of us at the curb.
“Marty, what is this? What’s going on?”
“Helen’s place,” he said, pulling a bag of popcorn and Nick’s binoculars out of the market bag.
“Hey, you want some?” he asked, handing off the bag, as he pocketed the lens caps and adjusted the binoculars. “The cops are doing the takedown. They called to give me a heads-up. A little professional courtesy.”
We both cranked down the windows. There was a nice breeze. I ripped open the bag, grabbed a handful, and passed it back to him. He took a few pieces and popped them into his mouth, then wedged the bag in the console between us. As field trips go, I’ve had worse.
Marty checked his watch. “The cops were just getting here when we left your house, so they’ve already been in there for a few minutes.”
A uniformed officer was standing just inside the open front door. Techs were coming and going, hauling out boxes of who-knows-what. The cop at the door stepped aside to let out a cluster of well-dressed, middle-aged women. From a distance, I’d have said some looked mad, others confused.
But I didn’t have the binoculars.
They spilled onto the front walk and milled around the door. There were a lot of exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures. And a lot of shrugging on the part of the door cop.
“Yup, that’s Helen’s crew,” Marty said, chuckling. “They’re in for a shock.”
I snatched another handful of popcorn, and we watched the steady parade of evidence technicians.
“I bet one of those boxes has my laptop,” he said. “Shoulda grabbed it when I had the chance.”
“Hey, you can always get a new one,” I said between bites. “It’s a small price to pay.”
Marty nodded as he refocused the binoculars.
“Man, the ladies are really giving that poor cop what for,” he reported. “See the one in the beige muumuu?”
I nodded.
“That’s Barb. She and Helen are tight. Looks like she’s hollering at that young cop. Man, if they’re not careful, the cops will call for a wagon and haul ’em all away,” he said gleefully.
An hour later, the popcorn was gone. But Helen’s girls were still in residence. Even if they had moved farther down the walkway.
Suddenly the cop came to life and started shooing them off the sidewalk. Behind him, two plainclothes detectives, a woman and a man, walked out with someone between them.
Helen. In handcuffs.
“Yeah, that’s the money shot,” Marty said, cackling. As if on cue, a photographer stepped up from the curb behind us and began clicking.
“Sentinel,” Marty said. “I put in a call to the newsroom before we left. Guy they sent’s an intern, but he’ll get the shot.”
Helen’s cheering section started wailing loudly. Whether it was because of the arrest or the appearance of a lowly news photographer, I couldn’t tell. One woman in a powder-blue suit even sagged, as if she was threatening to faint. When the cops—and her compatriots—totally ignored her, she righted herself.
Helen’s mouth never stopped moving. And as they got closer to the end of the driveway, I could hear some of the dialogue.
“Helen, we’ll get an attorney! Don’t worry!”
“Call Frank Harcourt,” Helen shouted. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Don’t worry about anything! We can post bail!” another said.
“Shut up, Doris!” said a lady in a lavender pantsuit. “You want to post bail, you go ahead and do it. Don’t be volunteering the rest of us. I’m on a fixed income!”
“Sh-sh-sh, ladies, not in front of the media,” Barb chided, gesturing at the college kid with the camera. “Those vultures will use any dirt they can get!”
“Tell him he can only photograph my left side,” Doris said, pulling a lipstick out of her purse and dabbing it on carefully. “That’s my good side. If he uses my right side, I’ll sue.”
At that moment, Helen spotted Marty.
>
“You!” she intoned, with the tenor of a Shakespearean actress. “You did this!”
She tried to break and run for our car, but the heels and handcuffs hobbled her. The female cop grabbed her arm and none too gently shoved her into the back of the police cruiser.
Her male partner walked toward us.
“Hey, did you know somebody keyed your car?” he said, eyeing Marty’s side of my wagon.
“Vandals,” I explained. “We’ve already filed a report.”
“OK. Anyway, we’ve arrested Ms. Westwood, and we’re taking her in for booking. Her first hearing will be tomorrow morning, so she’ll spend the night in jail. It’s possible she could make bail after the hearing, but I doubt it. If she does, you might want to get a restraining order. Either way, you can get your lawyer to cancel those insurance policies now. And we will definitely share that information with her.”
Marty nodded. “My guy’ll be at the hearing tomorrow, too. Just to oppose bail.”
“Smart move,” the cop said.
“She’s got my laptop in there,” Marty said, pointing to the house. “Any chance I could take it with me?”
The cop shook his head. “We found a couple of laptops, but we had to seize them as evidence.”
He reached into his back pocket for a wallet and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the card and handed it off to Marty.
“Call this number next week. If we’ve processed it and don’t need it for the trial, you can get it back.”
Marty read the card and pocketed it. “Thanks, detective.”
“Is there anything you can tell us?” I asked. “Does it look like she was trying to kill him?”
“Can’t really talk about that right now,” the detective said, glancing over his shoulder. The photographer was snapping away at Helen in the back of the cop car. The ladies auxiliary on her lawn had vanished.
“Between you and me, you were lucky,” the detective said softly to Marty. “Really lucky. But it looks like some other folks weren’t. Our lab’s going to analyze some of the items we confiscated. Would you be willing to get hair and blood samples taken, depending on what we find?”
“Hair and blood tests?” I interjected. “Why?”