The Lure

by S. W. Hubbard

  That was all it took. Patel slid down into his desk chair. Frank came around to the other side of the counter and pulled up a chair.

  “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  “I am so lonely here. I have no friends, no family nearby. I cannot afford any help, so I rarely even leave the motel. When I go into the Stop ‘n’ Buy, Mary Pat is always so friendly to me, so kind. When I explain how hard it is for me to get away from the office, she says I can call in my order and she will drop off my groceries on her way home. So she starts to come here at night, and we talk. She is such a good person…I should never…” Tears slipped down his face.

  “I understand. You were both lonely.”

  Patel nodded. “This went on for several months. Then in the spring, she came in one night and said it must stop. What we were doing was wrong. Of course, she is correct. She is a Catholic—she must marry one of the same. My mother in Bombay is working to find me a nice wife. We are both feeling very guilty. So we stop. It is hard, but I honor her wishes. I do my shopping in Verona or at the Store. I never see her anymore.”

  “She never told you she was pregnant?”

  Patel shook his head, and spoke down at the desk. “When I heard she was dead, how she died, I was shocked. But I tell myself, this cannot be my doing. Maybe she has another man, and that is why she stopped seeing me.” Now he began to weep in earnest. “But I know this cannot be true. I was the first, the only…”

  Frank got up and paced around the small reception area to give Patel time to compose himself. He had counted so much on the baby’s paternity being the key to locating her. Now, it looked like he was no further along than before. He was quite sure Patel wasn’t lying—Mary Pat had kept the pregnancy a secret even from her lover. His idea that the assault on Patel had something to do with the baby also seemed to be blown. Then again, just because Mary Pat hadn’t told Patel he was about to be a father didn’t mean that no one else knew, did it? With all those late night conversations, Patel might have some idea who Mary Pat would turn to for help, even if he hadn’t known why she needed it.

  When he heard Patel blowing his nose he turned around. He explained all he had discovered so far about Sheltering Arms and the Finns, the trips to Harkness Road and the prescription from the Cascade Clinic.

  “What do you think, Sanjiv? Someone put her in touch with Sheltering Arms, someone helped her have the baby—do you have any idea who? Whom would she turn to for help?”

  Patel did not answer.

  “It’s important. Other girls could be at risk. Anita Veech?” Frank prompted. “Judy Penniman? Dr. Galloway?”

  “That Anita is not such a nice person. I don’t like how she looks at me. I am thinking she knows about me and Mary Pat.”

  So maybe Anita did know all along. Why wouldn’t she tell him the truth? “Were Anita and Mary Pat good friends?”

  Patel shook his head. “Not friends. I think Mary Pat was a little afraid of her.”

  “What about Judy Penniman?”

  “Mary Pat spoke sometimes about Mrs. Penniman’s son, the fellow who always talks so much. She prayed for him because he is not right in the head. This was her way—always worrying about others.”

  “Do you know if she ever visited Dr. Galloway at the clinic?”

  “I do not know this name.” The tears began flowing again. “I was a coward. I should have said, ‘To hell with what our families will say. We will marry because we love each other.’ After all, this is America. Everyone does what they want.”

  Patel stood up. “I am done with being afraid. I want my daughter back. You will find her and I will raise her to be a fine, strong American girl.”

  Chapter 29

  Frank unlocked the door to his cottage and headed for the BarcaLounger. What a day! He’d screwed Mr. Patel to the wall to get at the truth and precious little good it did him. And now, Diane Sarens, with her long, spindly legs and her beach-ball belly, had insinuated herself onto his list of women to worry about—right up there with baby Sarah, Caroline, and Beth.

  He flopped down and reclined, knocking over a column of books stacked beside his chair. He’d hoped to start building the bookshelves he’d promised himself this weekend, but the latest developments in the case made that unlikely.

  Frank had jettisoned most of his books in Kansas City, sending them off with new owners for twenty-five cents a pop at the giant yard sale that had marked the end of his married life. But like most of the rash decisions he'd made during those chaotic weeks, he now regretted getting rid of the books, even though he wasn't one for re-reading.

  The house in Trout Run seemed cold and sterile without them, and soon he began acquiring more. Histories and biographies, mysteries, westerns, and classic novels–just about everything but poetry and science fiction. Before long the books began accumulating in dusty, teetering piles, offending his sense of order. So he'd bought some fine maple boards from Stevenson's lumberyard, but it sat in his workshop untouched.

  Frank snapped his recliner forward, reached for a scrap of paper and started sketching how the shelves would fit around the fireplace. Where was that tape measure? As he rattled around in his junk drawer, he thought he heard a knock. Then again. He put on the porch light and peered out. Beth Abercrombie’s face stared back at him.

  “Beth! What are you doing here?” He was so surprised, he didn’t even invite her in, but kept her standing on the stoop.

  “Hi, uh, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  A cold blast of wind brought him to his senses. “Of course not. Come on in. How about a drink?” Then he cringed, wondering if he had anything more than that six-pack of Bud to offer.

  “Thank you. That would be nice.” Beth took off her coat and followed him into the kitchen.

  Inspiration struck: the bottle of brandy Edwin had given him. He pulled it out, then hesitated. He didn’t have those fancy glasses you were supposed to use. Oh well, tumblers would have to do.

  He handed her the drink and sat across from her at the kitchen table.

  “This—”

  “I—” they began simultaneously.

  Beth clutched her glass and started over. “I came to apologize, Frank. I was terribly unfair to you last week.”

  “Nah,” he protested, although he’d worked himself into a lather more than once thinking about their last encounter. This reversal came as a pleasant surprise.

  “No, no—I was wrong. Your concerns were legitimate.”

  Now what did that mean? Had she changed her tune about Green Tomorrow, or only about her reaction to his questions?

  “So,” he asked cautiously, “have you spoken to Katie recently?”

  “Yes, she told me about your conversation. We agreed to sit down with Meredith and ask her some questions. Unfortunately, she’s been traveling the last few days and we haven’t been able to get in touch with her.” Beth smiled. “But we will.”

  She seemed to think that settled it. He considered telling her about Rod Extrom’s interest in Raging Rapids, but Beth kept talking.

  “So, how’s the investigation into Mary Pat’s baby going?” she asked.

  “I’m making some headway,” he replied cautiously. He hadn’t told anyone yet about Sanjiv Patel being the baby’s father. “But I still don’t know who helped Mary Pat have the baby. I think it’s someone with connections to the Cascade Clinic.”

  “Really? I’ve never been there, myself. I go to a doctor in Lake Placid.”

  “Judy Penniman takes her patients there a lot,” Frank said, watching Beth closely. “Do you know the Pennimans?”

  “Just in passing.” She stood up and carried her drink into the living room. “You must have a nice view of Stony Brook out this window.”

  He wanted to ask her about Doug being seen on her road, but now his suspicions seemed ridiculously sordid. Why risk making her angry again–Beth obviously wanted to change the subject. And looking at her face in profile, softly illuminated by his reading lamp, s
o did he. “I think I’ll build a fire—how does that sound?”

  “Terrific.” She dropped down on the hearthrug beside him. He told her about his plans for the bookshelves and she told him about a new gallery in Boston that wanted to carry her work. Her long honey-colored hair, unbraided today, slipped across her cheek as she talked. Without thinking, he reached out to brush it back, and the next thing he knew, she was in his arms.

  The warmth of her, her soft, clean scent unleashed an unbearable longing. Guilt, nerves, restraint: all out the window. And Beth certainly did nothing to discourage him.

  He didn’t recall just when or how they moved to the bedroom, but that’s where he was when the sun woke him. The pillow next to him was still warm, but when he looked out the window, his driveway was empty. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

  Chapter 30

  “Frank Bennett has been nosing around again.”

  “Oh, relax. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He may not understand the whole picture, but he suspects plenty.”

  “Let him suspect all he wants. He has no proof unless you talk. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut.”

  “This is a nightmare. I wish I had never gotten mixed up in this scheme.”

  “But you did. And now you’re going to play it out to the end.”

  "...so Bev Truesdale from The Gables calls and says she has a party of five for the weekend that she can't accommodate and do I want them, and after I say sure she drops it on me that they expect dinner tonight!" Edwin, normally imperturbable, knelt in front of the large cooler at the Store, frantically rooting through the bin of spongy apples and brown-edged iceberg lettuce that made up the produce section.

  "All I need is one lemon. Is that asking too much?"

  "I see something yellow over there to the left." Frank offered what help he could as he reached for a quart of milk.

  Edwin emitted a yip of glee, but then let the lemon, wizened and petrified with age, fall from his hand. He rocked back on his heels and shut his eyes. "This is just too cruel. When I lived in Manhattan I could get anything—kumquats, pomegranates, guavas—twenty-four hours a day at the Korean market on my block. Here, not even a lousy lemon. "

  “Welcome to the North Country.”

  Edwin glanced at his watch. “I suppose I have time to drive to Verona for it.”

  “Can’t you just make something else?”

  “I’d make the butternut squash with coriander and pecans, but Meredith Golding is back again, and she’s had that twice since she’s been staying with us. I’ve got to make the spinach and couscous salad with lemon and dill.”

  Frank couldn’t care less about Edwin’s menu problems, but he was very interested in Meredith Golding. This was his chance to ask the questions he never got a chance to raise in that meeting. “Set a place for me at dinner, would you? You know how I love couscous.”

  All afternoon, Frank was restless. He dialed Galloway’s cell phone number again, as he had several times over the past couple of days, and continued to get the automatic message. He agonized over whether or not to call Beth, and what he should say if he did. Several times, he steeled himself to pick up the phone and dial, but then Doris would pop in squawking a question, or the fax machine would start printing something out that he felt compelled to look at, and the moment would pass. Finally the clock showed three o’clock, and he took off with unusual enthusiasm for the afternoon patrol.

  When he returned, Doris had her coat on and was ready to walk out the door. “I have to leave early today,” she said, not bothering with an excuse. “While you were gone, a state trooper came by and dropped something off for you. It’s on your desk.”

  Frank went in and found a computer printout labeled COBIS at the top. That was the handgun tracking system the state police were using to trace the gun used to shoot Mr. Patel. Could it be the complicated system actually worked for once? He scanned all the technical jargon until four words jumped out: Registered Owner—Douglas Penniman.

  Frank leaned back in his chair and contemplated the stained acoustical ceiling tile above his head. Penniman’s gun had been used to shoot Patel, but had Penniman pulled the trigger? Frank couldn’t see what motive the man had had to shoot Sanjiv Patel.

  Penniman had no relationship with Mary Pat—that much was clear now. And even if Judy was the link between Mary Pat and Sheltering Arms, why should the Pennimans want to harm Patel? Frank was sure that Patel had been entirely honest when he said he hadn’t known about Mary Pat’s pregnancy until after her death, and had no idea who had helped her deliver. Of course, if Mary Pat had told Doug and Judy that Sanjiv was the father, they might worry that he knew about them, even if he didn’t. Frank frowned—kind of a shaky motive for attempted murder.

  Maybe it had nothing to do with the baby. Patel thought the attack was linked to Green Tomorrow. But the only tenuous link between Doug and Green Tomorrow was…Beth.

  Frank jumped up and began to pace the office. Those yahoo carpenters, who admittedly had a grudge against Doug, said they saw him on Beth’s road driving Extrom’s SUV—what did that prove? Maybe Doug had been doing some carpentry work in Beth’s shop. Might as well just call and ask. He grabbed the phone and dialed before he lost his nerve, but the phone rolled over to her answering machine on the fourth ring.

  He sighed and cut the connection, then dialed the Pennimans. Billy answered.

  “This is Chief Bennett. Is your Dad there?”

  “No. I’m getting ready to watch the baseball game. Do you—”

  “How about your Mom?”

  “My mom is staying with a patient. She was supposed to be home before my dad left for his trip. He’s driving to Toledo. I don’t like staying home by myself, but Dad said to watch the game until Mom got home. The Yankees are playing tonight, did you know that? I hate the Yankees. Who’s your favorite—”

  “When will your dad be back?”

  “I don’t know—a few days. It takes a while to get to Toledo—it’s in Ohio, you know. Usually he leaves at five when he goes to Ohio, but today he left at four because he had to go Rooney’s gun shop. He had to sell one of his guns, one of the little ones. Do you want to watch the game? You could watch it with me. I have some coke and chips. Okay? Okay?”

  Frank arrived at the Iron Eagle Inn at 7:30, hoping he looked appropriately benign in his plaid shirt, khakis and loafers. He was feeling a little guilty about his conversation with Billy Penniman. The kid had unwittingly ratted out his own father, but it wasn’t as if Frank had tried to trick him. He couldn’t have stopped the tide of words rushing out of Billy if he wanted to.

  Doug had made it ridiculously easy for him by getting rid of the gun openly at Rooney’s. He wouldn’t need a search warrant to get the weapon; Rooney wouldn’t want any part of a gun used in a crime. Doug didn’t even know he was under suspicion. When he got back from his trip, Frank would question him. It would be nice if Meredith Golding proved as inept as Doug. Somehow, he doubted he’d be that lucky.

  Frank ran into Lucy as he came through the front door. “It’s just going to be the four of us, Frank. Our other guests called—they’re stranded in a traffic jam on the Thruway; haven’t even made it to Albany yet. So I thought we’d eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right.”

  “Fine with me.”

  He trailed Lucy into the kitchen, following a wonderful scent that grew stronger with every step. Frank sighed in relief as he saw Edwin at the counter, carving a plump roast chicken. He could load up on that if the couscous was a bust.

  “You need a hook,” Meredith Golding was saying to Edwin as Lucy and Frank came in. She perched on a stool, sipping from a glass of white wine. “Something about the Inn that would attract media attention.”

  “I need a hook all right—a long one to reel customers in off the street.” Edwin laughed as he greeted Frank. “You two remember each other?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I wasn’t in very good shape the last time we
met.” Meredith extended her hand. It felt cold and bony in Frank’s grasp.

  Lucy watched Frank as if he were unpredictable pet who might leap on her guest without warning. But he was Mr. Congeniality, chatting about Lucy’s latest scheme to boost business and regaling them with tales of Earl’s courtship of Melanie. Even Meredith laughed, as she took the seat across from him at the table, and Edwin served the food.

  It was Meredith herself who brought up the subject of Nathan Golding. “This chicken is delicious, Edwin. I haven’t had any in a long time.” She turned to Frank with an explanation. “My husband was a strict vegetarian. I’m afraid Edwin’s cooking is pushing me off the wagon.”

  “I lost my wife two years ago, Meredith. It’s strange how your habits start to change.”

  Meredith’s gaze met his. “Yes,” she said softly, her mask of perfect composure slipping a bit.

  He’d come prepared to quiz her; the tug of empathy he felt surprised him. “I’m impressed at the way you’ve thrown yourself back into your work. I guess it helps to stay busy.”

  “Yes it does.” Her briskness returned. “Absolutely the best way to honor Nathan’s memory.”

  He could feel Edwin observing him; probably expected him to make some snide comeback. Instead, Frank said, “There’s something I meant to ask at the town meeting the other day, but it ended before I had a chance. I’m a bit of a birdwatcher, myself…” Edwin began coughing. “And I just wondered, how did you folks know about the Bicknell’s Thrush being threatened? It’s not a very well-known bird.”

  He thought Meredith hesitated before she answered, but maybe she just had to swallow. “We’re in constant communication with other environmental organizations. A group called Species Watch publishes a quarterly report of threatened species worldwide. The Bicknell’s Thrush was on it.”