“Do you know why Estrella ran away?”
“Ana won’t say, but my guess is they had another fight.” Garriques shook his head. “Estrella is fifteen going on thirty.”
“I understand,” I said, thinking of Manuel and his friends. “What about the girl’s parents?”
“What about them?”
“Are they around?”
“I don’t know about the father, but I get the impression from what Ana says that the mother is a migrant laborer. My grandfather did that,” Garriques said suddenly.
“Did what?”
“Worked as a bracero. He swam the river to get here. I guess maybe that’s why I feel a responsibility.” Garriques tapped his fingers on the counter. “I just thought if you could keep an eye out, maybe we could get to Estrella before she gets herself into even more trouble than she’s already in.”
I told him I would. I didn’t mind making a few phone calls and keeping my eyes open. Plus the man was a good customer.
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“I have a copy of last year’s yearbook in the trunk of my car. Will that do?”
I nodded. The man had come prepared.
“Good. I’ll go out and get it.”
He was back a moment later. The picture he showed me was of a round-faced, plain-looking girl staring sullenly out at the camera. Her bowl-cut hairstyle accentuated her big nose and plump cheeks. Definitely not the cute cheerleader type. I was willing to wager she wasn’t having a good time in high school. Girls who look that way usually don’t.
“She doesn’t seem very happy,” I observed.
Garriques studied the photograph before replying. “She doesn’t, does she?”
“No.” Of course, at that age I hadn’t been very happy either. “Can I keep the book?”
“Of course.” He closed it and handed it to me. “Thanks again,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” He took my hand in both of his and held it a moment longer than was necessary. He was about to say something else when he glanced at the clock on the wall. His eyes widened. “God, is that right?”
I told him that it was.
“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve got to go.”
“Meeting back at the school?”
“No. With a real estate agent.”
“Are you selling your house?”
He shook his head. “No. Enid has some property in the country—actually it’s her mother’s—but somehow I got put in charge of selling it.” With that he strode across the floor and went out the door.
Why couldn’t I have married someone like Garriques instead of someone like Murphy?
Because I’d been dumb that’s why. Murphy was all flash and I’d fallen for the packaging. There should be a truth in advertising law concerning men.
I sighed and put the yearbook on the counter.
Tim looked up from sweeping the floor. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t feel like explaining.
“By the way, I called the zoo about the bats,” he said. I gave him a blank stare. “You asked me to, remember?”
That’s right, I had. On Friday. My mind was definitely starting to go.
“I got this guy Remington on the phone,” Tim continued as he moved behind the counter. “He said three sightings this time of year were pretty unusual.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not really. I got the feeling he really didn’t know that much. He did tell me, though, that the best source of information about bats in this area is a book called Bats Are Our Friends by a guy called Porter. Unfortunately it’s hard to find. It was one of these self-published jobs. The guy put it out ten years ago.”
“Has he written anything else?”
Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. Remington said he dropped out of sight soon after the book came out. You want me to try and find out?”
“No. Don’t bother. We’ve got too much other stuff to do to worry about this.”
I stubbed out my cigarette and glanced at my watch. It was later than I thought it was. Marsha should have been here an hour ago. Oh, well. Maybe she’d gotten held up. I went into the bird room and started cleaning cages. At six I called her house to see if she was coming. Nobody answered. I left a message on the machine and went back to work. She didn’t return my call. I decided maybe she’d changed her mind about hiring me and she just didn’t have the nerve to tell me.
I called the school at nine o’clock the next morning and was informed Mrs. Pennington hadn’t come in. She hadn’t come in on Monday either. I left a message telling her to call me and hung up. I twirled a lock of my hair around my finger while I thought. The most likely possibility was that Marsha was still down in New Jersey with her mother. She’d told me her mother wasn’t well. Maybe she’d taken a turn for the worse. Maybe she was in the hospital. Nevertheless Marsha could still have called to let me know what was happening. Did she want my help or not? It would be nice to know because if she didn’t, I’d have to return her money which meant I couldn’t pay off the full balance of my account with Reptiles Inc. and The Pet Food Company. I didn’t want to write the check if I didn’t have enough money in my account. These days bouncing checks was an expensive proposition. I called her house again at four. This time a man picked up.
“Hello?” he said. I recognized the voice. It was Merlin, Marsha’s husband. But I asked anyway just to make sure.
“Yes it is,” he replied. “But whatever you’re selling I don’t want,” he snapped.
“I’m not selling anything,” I snapped back. “I’d like to speak to Marsha.”
“Well, she’s not here.”
A twinge of unease shot through me. “Do you know where she is?”
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“We were supposed to meet on Monday afternoon.”
“Who is this anyway?” he demanded suspiciously.
“A colleague,” I lied. The last thing I was going to do was tell him who I was or what Marsha and I were going to talk about.
“I wish you people would stop calling,” Merlin whined. “I already told you I haven’t seen her since she left for work Monday morning.” He sounded about as upset as a man talking about getting rid of a wart on his hand. Then before I could ask anything else, he hung up.
I reached for a chocolate bar. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. I went through the rest of the day with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I called Marsha’s house again at nine o’clock before I left the store. Merlin answered. He didn’t sound happy to hear from me. I asked if he’d spoken to Marsha’s mother, and he said of course he had. When I asked for her number he sounded even more aggravated. What was I implying? he demanded.
“Nothing,” I told him, which was of course ridiculous because I was implying plenty.
For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to give the number to me, but he did along with the information that he’d already filed a missing person’s report and that he was doing everything he could and he’d appreciate my butting out, or words to that effect.
As soon as Merlin hung up I dialed Marsha’s mother’s number and got a nurse with a heavy Jamaican accent who informed me that Mrs. Wise was sleeping now and that if this was the police again, I’d have to wait till she woke up.
“Actually I’m a friend of her daughter’s,” I told her as I lit a cigarette.
“I don’t care if you’re the Pope himself. I’m still not wakin’ the poor dear up. After all she’s been through she needs her rest.”
“Perhaps you can help me then,” I suggested, figuring I didn’t have anything to lose.
“Maybe I can and maybe I can’t,” the nurse replied.
I suppressed a sigh. This lady wasn’t giving anything away. “All I want to know is when Marsha left.”
There was a short pause while she considered my question. “I guess there’s no harm in that,” the nurse finally allowed. “Mrs. Pennington left here the same time she alw
ays does—early Sunday morning.”
This time I put the receiver down first. I was tired of getting hung up on.
I made some other calls over the next few days, but none of them panned out. Marsha had disappeared.
I was hoping she’d run away with a lover.
Or just run away.
But somehow I didn’t think that was going to be the case.
And it wasn’t.
Marsha surfaced on Thursday.
Or rather her body did. It was found floating in the LeMoyne Reservoir.
Chapter 4
Marsha Pennington’s death was the lead item on the eleven o’clock news. It was probably on the earlier edition, too, but I’d missed it. According to the Channel Five anchorman her body had been found by two hooky-playing high school kids. They’d been fooling around when one of them had spotted what they thought was a log floating by the shore. Then they’d realized logs don’t have hands, and they’d freaked and called the cops. Bet they won’t be cutting classes for a while, I thought as the anchorman rustled his papers and stared straight at the camera.
“The police are investigating,” he informed the audience, “and an autopsy to determine cause of death is planned.”
No shit.
I clicked off the TV as the anchorman began discussing a proposed rise in city taxes and stared out the window. I felt bad and I didn’t know why. Even though Marsha and I had been neighbors, we’d never been the best of friends. In fact, there had been many times when I thought that if I heard one more description of what her coworkers were wearing I’d strangle her. Slowly. I clicked the TV back on. Now the weatherman was saying something about rain. What else was new? I tried to pay attention, but I couldn’t. I kept seeing an image of Marsha rummaging through her pocketbook looking for the papers she’d left behind superimposed on the screen. I got up and started pacing around the living room.
No matter what I told myself I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I could have done to prevent Marsha Pennington’s death. You want guilt, I thought sourly, call Robin Light. I ran on the stuff. Even though I didn’t want to, I started thinking about my mother. Our relationship was the kind therapists make lots of money off of. She’d clawed her way up from a tenement in Hell’s Kitchen to a co-op on Park Avenue. She’d wanted me to continue the climb by marrying rich, living on Fifth Avenue, and spending my afternoons at the country club with her and my stepfather. Of course I hadn’t. I’d gone off to live with Murphy instead.
We’d had a big fight when I told her I was moving in with him. She’d called me a slut, an ungrateful loser who would never amount to anything, and I’d called her a money-grubbing social climber who’d screwed her way up to the top. She’d run out of the apartment and gotten hit by a car as she’d crossed Park Avenue. At the hospital, before she’d gone into surgery, she’d looked up at me and said, “This is your fault.” My stepfather had added, “See what you did to your mother” as they’d wheeled her into the OR. I knew what they had said wasn’t true, but a part of me felt as if it were. I guess I still do, especially when I see her limping along. She’s had seven operations since the accident and she still doesn’t walk right. I sighed and looked around. Suddenly the house seemed too quiet, too empty. I didn’t want to stay in it anymore. I wanted to go where there were people and lights and Scotch, lots of Scotch. I looked at Zsa Zsa, who was now chewing on a piece of rawhide.
“Want a beer?” I asked her.
She wagged her stump.
“Good.” I slipped on my shoes and started looking for her leash. It was time to go to Pete’s.
Pete’s is a neighborhood bar located over on Westcott Street. The place is strictly low rent in terms of decor, but it does have a good selection of beers, it’s nearby, and most importantly my friend Connie tends bar there. I liked the other place she’d worked at better, but when she changed over I’d followed. Most times Pete’s is overrun with Syracuse University students, but not tonight. Tonight no one was there except Connie and a couple down at the other end of the bar. Too bad. I could have used the distraction. I sat Zsa Zsa and myself as far away from the couple as possible on the off chance that they were conversationally inclined. Just because I wanted to listen to strangers talking didn’t mean that I wanted to talk to strangers.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Connie as I ordered a shot of Black Label and a Samuel Adams.
“Spring break,” she replied, reaching under the bar.
A moment later she set a saucer down in front of Zsa Zsa and poured a little of the Sam Adams into it. Then she plunked the rest of the bottle down in front of me and went off to get my Scotch. By the time she’d come back Zsa Zsa had lapped up the beer and was woofing for more. I fed her some pretzels instead. Too much beer is bad for a dog’s kidneys.
Connie set my Scotch down in front of me and pointed to Zsa Zsa’s collar. “Very elegant.”
“I think so.” It was jeweled—pearls in a rhinestone setting. The all rhinestone one had seemed too gaudy.
One of my neighbors had said I must have chosen Zsa Zsa because her fur color and my hair color matched. I never bothered to tell them that when I’d found her huddling under Mrs. Z.’s porch she’d been so dirty there was no way of telling her coat was red.
“I bet she’s embarrassed,” a gravelly voice behind me said. “I know I would be if I had to wear something like that.”
I half turned. My friend George Sampson was standing there. As per usual I hadn’t heard him come up. Despite his size, he was 6’4” and weighed almost three hundred pounds, George moved more quietly than anyone else I knew.
“Where’d you come from?” I asked. “I didn’t see you at the bar.”
George nodded toward the back. “I was talking to Sal.”
“I see.” Although Sal was ostensibly a cook, he spent most of his time making book out of the back room of the bar. “I thought you weren’t going to do that kind of thing anymore.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “We were just talking,” he informed me, his tone daring me to say something else. I guess he was still touchy about the four hundred he’d lost on The Final Four.
I sniggered. “About world affairs no doubt. I hear Sal’s a real expert on NATO politics.”
George’s eyes narrowed even more. “Heard from Ken lately?”
“No, but I’m sure I will,” I lied. I’d lent the guy five hundred dollars three months ago, and he’d skipped town without paying me back. It was still something I didn’t like to discuss. Which George knew. Which of course was why he’d brought it up. I decided it was time to switch to a more neutral topic of conversation. “You look very elegant,” I told him.
“Thanks. I’m trying.” Mollified, George surveyed his khakis and the pink oxford cloth button-down shirt that emphasized the black sheen of his skin. Since he’d quit the police force and gone back to grad school for Medieval History, he’d abandoned his hightops, sweats and T-shirts and gone prep. I was still trying to get used to his new look. And his new persona. I had a feeling George was, too.
“Another Dos Equis?” Connie inquired.
George nodded and sat down next to me. Zsa Zsa wagged her stump by way of a hello and pawed at my hand to let me know she was ready for more beer.
“So how’s campus life?” I asked as I poured a smidgen more into Zsa Zsa’s saucer.
“It’s okay,” he answered, even though his face clearly said that it wasn’t and he didn’t want to talk about it. He started drumming his fingers on the counter. “So what’s up with you?”
I took a sip of my Scotch and rolled it around my mouth for a few seconds before answering. Then I swallowed and told him about Marsha Pennington.
“Yeah,” Connie said as she plunked George’s beer down in front of him. “I heard about it on the news. Poor lady. She always looked as if someone kicked her in the teeth. Then last month she started looking happier. And now this.” Connie gave a little shake of her head. “It just proves you should get
as much as you can when you can.”
“You knew her?” I asked, pointedly refraining from commenting on Connie’s latest rational for sleeping with every guy she could.
“Sure.” Connie ran a hand through her cropped, magenta-toned hair. “We get a whole crew from Wellington in here most Friday afternoons. She was always one of the ones that came early and stayed late.”
“Was she in this past Friday?”
“You mean Good Friday?”
I nodded. Maybe she’d stopped off here after she’d been to see me.
“Sorry. I couldn’t tell you. I had the day off.” The door in back of me creaked open and then banged shut. As I half turned my head to see who had come in Connie leaned over and whispered, “These guys look like live ones. Talk to you later.” And she plastered a big smile on her face and cruised toward the three men now sitting in the middle of the bar.
George took a pull on his Dos Equis. “She break up with whatshisname?”
“Ed. How’d you guess?”
“I was a policeman, remember? I know these things.”
I laughed and fed Zsa Zsa a pretzel. I fed her another and ate one myself, and while I did it occurred to me I hadn’t had dinner yet and that I was hungry. Then I wondered if Marsha had ever forgotten to eat. Somehow I didn’t think so. I shook my head. For some reason I just couldn’t seem to get that woman out of my mind.
I took another pretzel and began flicking the salt off it with my fingernail. “George,” I said as I gathered the coarse grains up and licked them off my fingertip. “Do you know where the LeMoyne Reservoir is? I can’t find it on the city map.”
He took a sip of beer. “It’s off Thompson Road. Why?”
“What’s it like?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
I ran my finger around the rim of the shot glass. “I wonder why Marsha was?”
“You said she was an ESL teacher at Wellington, right?” I nodded. “Maybe she was looking for one of her kids. I hear the reservoir’s supposed to be a Wellington hangout.”
In Plain Sight Page 3