Vera clutched her cherished copy of The Red Box in her brittle, white-knuckled hands.
“Your Rex Stout books seem to be vanishing. Let me guess why.”
“My guest is entitled to borrow them, Miss Bingham. Your concern is unwarranted.” Her pinched face said otherwise. I knew I’d touched a nerve.
“I know that Muriel’s mother and your father had what used to be known as an arrangement and I believe she is holding that over your head.”
Her eyes burned into mine. “How did—?”
“A lot of people know, Vera. It’s a different world now. People don’t care. And even if some do, it’s hardly worth losing your home over.”
Vera narrowed her eyes.
I kept going. “I suppose it’s the family image, but any minor or even major indiscretions are nothing to people these days. They remember the factory closing, but nobody has any more than the mildest of interest in some scandalous fling forty or fifty years ago. You have to admit that I’m right.”
Vera sat there in her wheelchair, calm and quiet, before she spoke. “I am glad you weren’t killed by the unknown person, but aside from that I take no joy in your company, Miss Bingham. Our association is finished.”
I said, “But—”
“But nothing. You are wrong in your assumptions, Miss Bingham. And you are even more foolish than I thought you were. Muriel is not here because of some imagined extortion about my father’s flings, which were quite open. Her mother was one of many. She is here at my invitation and you are not. It is time for you to go. Otherwise, I will take my chances with the police and their long memories and your besotted young officer. The last I checked, they still had to uphold the law. For the ultimate time, I am asking you to leave.”
Foolish? That stung. But it wasn’t the biggest shock. I couldn’t believe that Vera was going to stick to her story. My jaw was slack. I hoped I didn’t drool.
“I won’t tell you again.” She was pale as ash and she seemed to be shrinking in her chair.
I felt Uncle Mick’s hand on my shoulder and heard the signora skittering around bleating erratically. I rose and turned to leave the room. Had I been wrong? Despite her bluster, Vera’s haggard face told me that she was afraid of something. Was it me? That didn’t make sense. Ditto for Uncle Mick and the signora.
Vera made a furtive glance toward the window. Wondering what? If her nemesis was about to return? To catch me in conversation with the former lady of the manor? That glance revealed a lot.
“It’s not the end, Vera,” I said. “I have your back.”
“And I’ll see yours as you depart,” she snapped.
As we exited the house, Uncle Mick holding my elbow, the signora dashed after us with a tin of cookies and a plastic storage bin stuffed with sandwiches.
In the car, Uncle Mick refrained from comment.
“Thank you for not saying ‘I told you so,’” I said. “Much appreciated.”
“Wasn’t easy, my girl.”
“But we’re not done.”
He jammed down the accelerator and we shot along the driveway, spraying gravel. A pair of idling turkeys scattered. Once out the ornate gates and speeding along the road, I spotted a speck in the distance. The speck became a vehicle driving erratically. I bent down out of sight.
I said from my squat on the floor, “Is it Kev?”
“It is, my girl.”
“And is Muriel with him?”
“If by Muriel you mean a biddy with a face like thunder, yes.”
I raised myself and watched through the rear window as the car made a sharp right turn at sixty miles per hour and rocketed down the approach to Van Alst House.
“A close call,” Uncle Mick said. “I thought Kev was supposed to keep her away a bit longer.”
I said, “She’s as easy to resist as a tsunami. There is no standing up to her. I mean, you saw Vera.”
“Yes, and I never would have believed it. There’s something dark buried between those two old ladies.”
Archie Goodwin whispered in my ear, That hit the nail on the head.
Mick was still shaking his own head when we got back to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques. He didn’t say another word. That was fine. I had plenty to think about.
Vera was afraid of Muriel. Perhaps not for the reason I’d thought, but there was something. Vera didn’t care much about public opinion or she never would wear those disgusting old sweaters. But she cared deeply about some secret and Muriel knew it. That was dangerous for both of us.
I hadn’t figured out what the secret was yet.
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN WE GOT home, Uncle Mick wasn’t having any arguments. Afternoon or not, I was to rest. I was back in my bedroom, feeling like a bad little girl with only Walter and Cobain and the signora’s sandwiches (prosciutto and cheese) and almond cookies to keep me company. Good thing, as that turned out to have been lunch. Uncle Mick had places to go, people to see, equipment to move. None of those things were my business and I preferred it that way. He left me with instructions not to get in any trouble. What trouble could I possibly get into in my pink-and-white pony kingdom? Tell me that.
Walter and Cobain took more than their share of the bed, and they also demanded a lot of head-scratching and patting. Life with the uncles had helped them develop their entitled side.
A word of acquired wisdom: If you ever find yourself faced with a double-barreled problem like how to prevent someone you care about from being fleeced, or worse, while you recover from a car accident, you will not find your My Little Pony collection much help. The same might be said for any dogs lounging in your recovery area. I needed people to talk to. People to bounce my ideas off. People to make helpful suggestions. But all my people were unavailable. My first inclination was to whine. But who could I whine to? The dogs were no help. They whine when they want food or a trip outside. I was good for both.
Luckily—and there always seems to be a luckily—it took more than that to keep this girl down. After all, hadn’t I had my heart broken, my savings eviscerated and my credit cards maxed out by the man I thought I loved? I had survived. I owed a lot of that to the much unloved Vera Van Alst. Of course, Vera’s unavailability was the crux of the problem. I’d always had the unwavering support of my uncles. They’d helped me get back on my feet then, although they were too busy now. I’d had the best friends ever in Tiff and Lance. I’d been falling in love with Officer Smiley; there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. Until everyone made themselves scarce. Of course, there was no point in comparing the state of my life one week earlier with now.
At least my fictional mentors Archie Goodwin and Nero Wolfe helped keep me afloat spiritually. I’d certainly gotten a sense of Wolfe lately: the massive ego, the great creative mind and the need to be physically pampered and to have his staff at his beck and call. Not perhaps the right role model for my circumstances, except in one way. Wolfe never left the house. Okay, only under the direst circumstances. He used his big brain to make connections, to examine facts, to assess suspects, to see patterns and determine motives. He knew how to get people to come to him and sit in a nervous circle in front of him in his office. He could read people. He could exploit their greed, weaknesses and lies. He was audacious and fearless. He could stare down the forces of the law, if they got through the front door of the brownstone. He was a puppet master.
All right, so I wasn’t a genius, but I had enough smarts to get myself through college and much of it on scholarship. I might not always have the best judgment when it came to other people, but I could see patterns. I was observant and I could read people. Perhaps I could play Pied Piper and get people to come to me. I was at least charming, something that Nero Wolfe couldn’t put on his résumé.
Wolfe had even more going for him: He had the great Archie Goodwin, as well as the lesser lights Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cath
er, on call as his operatives. He had people to investigate, to shadow and to watch from shadowy corners. He had Archie to keep the cops from the door and to evict any unruly clients or witnesses. I might have been a bit light on allies, but as Archie’s great admirer, I could try to approach things from his perspective.
I might have to be my own sidekick. I still needed to find out who’d helped Muriel move.
I figured I’d gotten everything I could out of the Snows. And Audra didn’t know much anyway.
So that left . . . I glanced at the dogs again. I couldn’t think of a single way they could help, although they were a great comfort.
I was stuck. I wasn’t quite making the cut as a mini-Wolfe or a female Archie. I was on my own, with not a single person I could count on. It was a lonely feeling. But it was time to pull myself together. Yes, I might have had lots of support in my life, but I could also stand on my own two feet and face life head on.
Or I could fall asleep.
* * *
WALTER NUDGED MY arm. Cobain did the same. They had their walk faces on.
All right. Not like I was getting anywhere on my own.
I glanced out the window, half hoping to see Uncle Kev climbing in. No such luck. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you view Uncle Kev as a possible solution to anything.
The trees were swaying and leaves blowing wildly. It was getting nippier too. I bundled up in my red wool cape and put Walter’s fleece-lined hoodie on him. Cobain’s own coat of fur was thick and shaggy. He didn’t need extra gear, but I tied a jaunty red scarf around his neck so we’d be matchy-matchy and he wouldn’t feel at a fashion disadvantage next to Walter.
And we were off. I was still a bit lightheaded but the brisk autumn air helped to clear my thinking. The dogs were in heaven, stopping by every bush. This was about the pace I could handle. I had the phone with me, in case, but I wasn’t expecting any problems.
We didn’t go that far, a couple of blocks tops. As we began the bush-by-bush return to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques, a funeral procession drove slowly down the street. I stopped respectfully, as I had been taught to do. There went someone who’d had worse problems than I had. The funeral procession consisted of only three cars, including the stately hearse. The person’s problems had gone past being ill and dying. There weren’t many to mourn. Naturally, my thoughts turned back to Vera. With the antipathy from the people in Harrison Falls, aside from me, my relatives and my friends (wherever they were) and Eddie and the signora, who would mourn her passing? Muriel? I thought not. In fact, I was still worried that if something happened to Vera, Muriel would be the cause.
It seemed unbearably sad to me. Was there nothing I could do? I shook myself. It’s not like me to be morose. I needed a new plan. But what?
Perhaps Vera wasn’t in any kind of real danger. Perhaps I could find another way to reason with her. Perhaps . . .
By the end of the walk, I was back to feeling lightheaded and even the dogs were happy to return to a warm house. But I still had no brilliant ideas on how to deal with Muriel. I had to do something and I couldn’t bear being back in my bedroom for another minute. Wolfe liked to fiddle with paper on his desk. Why not?
* * *
I SAT DOWN at the kitchen table to make a few lists. I figured they’d help. When I was done, I had the following:
What I Know
Muriel is dangerous
Muriel has control over Vera
Muriel is cutting off Vera’s support systems
I stared at the sheet.
I didn’t really know these things. But I believed them. It wasn’t at all the same thing. I went back to the list. I did know (and also believed) some other things. I added them.
Muriel’s mother had been single for a long time before she married Pete
Muriel’s early life was spent in poverty
Muriel had a hard time in school and in the community
Muriel’s mother died of an illness
Muriel’s stepfather was killed in a hit-and-run
I was injured in a hit-and-run
A green truck delivered Muriel to Van Alst House
Another truck with lettering on the side was spotted by a witness. Coincidence? Wrong color—but connected? Same company?
Muriel has a solid alibi for that time
Vera is worried about something
What I Think I Know
Muriel’s mother had a long-term affair with Vera’s father
Muriel is trying to take over Muriel’s money, home and possessions
I was targeted because I’d been asking questions about Muriel
What I Don’t Know
Why would Vera roll over and play dead?
Who drove the green truck that delivered Muriel’s stuff to Vera’s place?
Was it connected to the truck that hit me?
Who drove that truck?
Did Pete Delaney have life insurance? Who inherited from him?
Where has Muriel been in the years since she lived in Harrison Falls?
What exactly does she want from Vera?
Who let her know that I was asking questions about her?
I supposed there was a lot more I didn’t know about this situation, but I didn’t even know what that might be. My uncles like to say, what you don’t know can hurt you. I decided that just because my friends and family were AWOL, that didn’t mean I was helpless. There must be someone who could help. I started another list:
Allies
Uncle Kev
Whoa. That was grim pickin’s. Having Uncle Kev as an ally is like playing catch with a grenade. Fun while it lasted, and sometimes not even that long.
I added the signora to the list, because you never know.
And then Cherie???? She had a lot of question marks, but she also had a lot of nerve. I wanted to trust her fully, but I’d been burned recently. Kev was the only one to vouch for her and that was more of a recommendation from his libido.
Finally, I added Detective Jones. He hated Vera, but he didn’t hate me, although he seemed to find me boring so I figured if I approached him with any new info about my hit-and-run, he might help a bit.
And that was it.
I sat morosely staring at my lists. The dogs lay at my feet. Walter snuffled in sympathy and Cobain moaned. I didn’t take much comfort in it. This was not a time for moaning and snuffling. This was a time for doing. But doing what?
I considered making a list of lists, but soon discarded that idea for what it was: a bit of procrastination.
I went up and down my pathetic lists hunting for the best place to start. The truck seemed like the obvious place. What could I do?
Had Muriel moved from another location in Harrison Falls? I’d have to assume that until I had different intel. Not great, but the best I had to go on. Harrison Falls was a pretty small place. It wouldn’t take forever to drive around snooping for a green pickup with lettering.
It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.
* * *
I FOUND MY handbag, located my keys, fixed my face, fought my way into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a chunky cable-knit sweater and headed out for a drive. I took the dogs. I had to lean against the door for a minute until I got the dizzy thing under control before leaving, but that wasn’t so bad. It felt good to go for a spin. I started from the farthest end of town and began a systematic slow check up and down each street. Luckily much of Harrison Falls is laid out in a grid pattern, but some of the more recent subdivisions have a lot of circles, crescents and dead ends. Never mind. I crawled along curbs, stared down driveways and speculated about what was in garages. It was one of the most unproductive evenings I’d ever spent.
Two dark, truck-free hours later, I was starting to get bored. The dogs, however, were still thrilled at the outing as evidenced by the stinky dog bre
ath fog building up on the inside of my window.
“Time to go home,” I said at last. I glanced at the gas gauge. Bad news. I was nearly out of fuel. The Saab had its charms, but good gas mileage wasn’t among them. As we pulled into the first service station, I noticed three trucks at the pumps. Right. Chances were the movers’ truck would need a top-up sooner than later.
There were a lot fewer gas stations than houses in Harrison Falls. And I was already sitting at one. I needed to dream up a story. It didn’t take that long.
I headed in to pay.
The guy behind the counter gave the impression his life had been one long sad story that was getting sadder by the day. I hated to take advantage of him, but you know how it is.
“So,” I said. “Don’t suppose you’d happen to know a guy who drives a green truck with some kind of decal on the side.”
He shrugged. “Lotta trucks come in here.”
“I bet. These guys are movers. Like I said, had a logo or lettering on the side. Sound familiar?”
He shrugged again.
I began to spin a yarn in the hope it would lead somewhere. “Anyway, the guy driving it lost an envelope with some cash. Quite a bit. I could give it back to him and he could be grateful, if you know what I mean, or I could turn it over to the police.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
He said, “Or you could keep it.”
“I could, but that would be, um, against my religion.” For some reason, I wasn’t actually struck by lightning.
This time he shrugged and stared. He had a talent for it. But I didn’t think he had a matching talent for deception. I concluded that he didn’t know anyone with a green truck well enough to angle for a cut of the reward.
Just to be on the safe side, I sat in the Saab in a slightly out-of-the-way spot and pretended to talk on my cell while watching the clerk. He didn’t pick up a phone or do anything much at all. Probably still shrugging and staring.
The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) Page 13