The signing was scheduled to last until one, but at twelve-thirty there was still a line that descended down the stairs and wrapped around the back of the store. I’d be there another hour. I stood for a seventh-inning stretch, felt a sneeze coming on, and pulled a tissue from my purse.
“Hope you’re not getting a cold,” Seth said.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Well, back to business.” I twisted my hand to relieve writer’s cramp and resumed my place at the table. The next person in line slid a book in front of me. I asked without looking up, “To whom should I sign it?”
“To Waldo.”
I began to write, stopped, and looked up. He was disguised—a shaggy blond wig, heavy growth of beard, dark glasses, and a ski hat pulled down low over his forehead—but I knew I was peering into Waldo Morse’s face.
“Waldo!” I said too loud.
“I’ve got to talk to you, Mrs. Fletcher. Two o’clock at the library’s main branch. Fifth and Forty-second. The third-floor reading room.”
“Two? The last time you asked me to meet you at two terrible things started happening.”
His expression was quizzical. A small smile formed on his lips. “Two-fifteen?”
“Yes. Two-fifteen.”
I finished signing his book and handed it back to him. He said nothing and hurried down the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
I’ve suffered shocks before but none with the impact of seeing Waldo Morse alive. How could it be? I’d witnessed his murder on Fifth Avenue. Or had I? It wasn’t even worthy of a question. Obviously, and despite popular myth, there is more than one Santa Claus in the world.
As I continued to sign books, my mind raced back to that fateful day. I’d taken too much for granted, had made assumptions based upon shaky evidence and unreasonable expectations. I’d expected Waldo to be there and never questioned whether it was, in fact, him who had fallen. I’d been unable to see him with any clarity. So many people had stood between us. And there was that beard that covered his face. I assumed it was Waldo but had been fooled, like a magic show audience having its attention diverted from what the magician’s hands are actually doing.
“It’s Cora,” the woman standing in front of me said.
I looked up. “What?”
“I said my name was Cora. You wrote ‘Dear Waldo.’ ”
I laughed nervously. “Sorry. My mind wandered.” Ruth slid another book in front of me to sign correctly.
After a few more near autographing mishaps, Ruth asked how I was feeling.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’m a little dizzy and weak. Could we cut this short without alienating too many people?”
“Let me see what I can do.” After a whispered meeting, the store manager announced to those still in line that I had to leave at one-thirty to honor another commitment. There were groans of protest. I felt predictably guilty, but not to the extent of changing my mind. I attacked my autographing task with renewed vigor.
“I knew it,” Seth said when I told him I was feeling ill and wanted to return to the hotel for a nap. He’s a physician after all, my doctor for years.
“Just need some rest,” I said. “I’ll be good as new.” We stopped at a pharmacy where he bought me an assortment of over-the-counter cold remedies, which I promised to take.
“I’ll stay with you in your room,” he offered.
“No, please, Seth. I won’t be very good company because I’ll be asleep. I’ll call you the minute I wake up.”
By the time I reached the suite, the theory that if you lie, the lie will come true, gained credence. I did feel dizzy and weak. But I rationalized that it was the result of the confusion that swirled in my brain like leaves trapped in a comer on a windy day. What was going on here?
I meet Waldo Morse wearing a Santa costume on Fifth Avenue. He tells me to come back the next day at two. I return, only to see him gunned down in cold blood. But it isn’t him. Someone else is killed. The police, particularly a detective named Alphonse Rizzi, don’t seem to care.
I befriend a young woman who knew Waldo, and offer her shelter. She’s murdered, too.
I receive a strange message informing me that someone by the name of Joe Charles “will know.” I find Joe Charles, who lies to me about his telephone. Despite my bumbling attempts at disguise, I discover that Charles knows Detective Rizzi well enough to meet with him at a jazz club. Susan Kale is there, too, one night before she’s murdered.
Joe Charles disappears.
Waldo’s wife, Nancy, hurriedly packs up her lovely home in Cabot Cove and takes off for points unknown.
A priest is slaughtered on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I’d seen a priest take something from Waldo on Fifth Avenue.
And now this. Waldo Morse stands in line to have me sign his book, which means he’s very much alive. No Santa costume this time, but a different approach to incognito.
And yet another scheduled rendezvous.
I knew one thing. This meeting would result in answers to the myriad questions twisting in my brain. I would find out what I needed to know.
The main reading room of the New York Public Library was spacious and majestic. I’d taken the stairs at a fast clip and had to catch my breath at the top. I surveyed the room for Waldo. At least he hadn’t changed costumes again. He was seated at a table, his face obscured by a large book. Most tables were occupied by more than one person. Fortunately, Waldo was alone. I quietly sat next to him, clasped my hands on the table, and stared straight ahead. His acknowledgment of my arrival was a guttural grunt.
Without turning my head, I said quietly, “I don’t understand.”
Another grunt; he continued to pretend to read.
“To say I am in shock is a major understatement, Waldo.”
He turned his head slightly in my direction and shifted his eyes to take in surrounding tables, a hungry dog assuring that no other animal was about to take its food. His eyes locked on mine. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this, Mrs. Fletcher. But I didn’t ask you to recognize me. I didn’t ask you to come up to me on Fifth Avenue.”
“Of course you didn’t. Frankly, I’m sorry I did. But now that I have—now that I am involved—there are questions I would like very much to have answered.”
“Go ahead. I’ll answer what I can.”
“Let’s start with the obvious. You and I are sitting here together in the public library. But I saw you shot. Murdered.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I’ve concluded that. Who was it?”
“George Marsh.”
“Marsh,” I muttered. The name I’d heard at police headquarters. I said, “I assumed that was a name you were using. I thought maybe you carried that name on a piece of identification because—well, because you’re in the witness protection program.”
“Not anymore I’m not. Marsh wasn’t a phony name I used. It belonged to a friend of mine who was out of work, broke and desperate.”
I sat back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. “Why would someone shoot such a person?”
He said flatly, “They thought it was me.”
He saw the confusion on my face—it was hard to miss—and so he leaned close. “When you came up to me on the street, Mrs. Fletcher, I panicked. I said I’d meet you the next day just to get rid of you. I went home that night and decided it was time to get away for a while. It isn’t healthy in my line of work to be recognized. While I was deciding what to do, George Marsh stopped by. He looked like hell. He hadn’t eaten in days and said he was ready to pack it in.”
“Commit suicide?”
“Yeah. So I came up with the idea of having George stand in for me for a couple of days. He and I were about the same height and weight. I figured that when you came back and found out it wasn’t me, you’d just forget about it and I wouldn’t have to worry about you. George agreed. I even told him to pocket the donations.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Not when you’re hungry, Mrs. Fletcher. Anyway, I wasn’t in the mood for a debate on morality. I gave Marsh my Santa suit and split.”
I felt a sudden pang of anger. I’d been defrauded in being led to believe that Waldo had been the one killed that day. “And I thought it was you,” I said, unable to filter exasperation from my voice. “Do you know what pain this has caused me, Waldo?”
“Sure. Sorry about that. But don’t feel stupid thinking it was me. Like they say, everybody in a Santa suit looks the same.” His laugh was rueful.
I drew a deep breath. “All right,” I said, “this George Marsh person was shot because the killer thought he was you. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did someone want to kill you?”
“Sure you want to know?” Waldo asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I assume it’s because of what happened to you back in Maine,” I said. “The drug charge, the trial.”
“You got it, Mrs. Fletcher. That episode turned my life around. I’ve been on the run ever since.”
“The drug dealers you testified against tried to kill you?”
“Maybe.”
“If not them, who?”
“I’m not sure. I have my ideas.”
“Waldo, I saw Nancy recently. Last Saturday as a matter of fact. I went to her house to inform her of your death, and to ask if she had any idea who might have wanted to kill you.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I didn’t get there any too soon. Moving men were emptying the house.”
Until this moment, his expression and voice had been passive. But when I told him about Nancy’s move, his face sagged as though a blast of hot air had hit a wax mask. “Moving?” he said in disbelief. “Where was she going?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”
I could feel his body tense. He looked around the cavernous room, a cornered person seeking an escape route.
“I’m sorry to have to upset you with this news, Waldo.”
“They won’t hesitate to kill her, Mrs. Fletcher. They’ll kill her and the kids if it suits their purpose.”
His frightened look now turned to sadness. His lips quivered. What a terrible life to be leading, I thought. I felt profoundly sad for him at that moment, and for Nancy and the children who’d suffered, too, as a result of his foolishness years ago. In retrospect, he probably would have been better off standing trial and paying for his crime. At least when it was over, he’d be free to pursue a normal existence, hopefully with Nancy and the kids. But the deal he’d cut with authorities had condemned him to a life of fear and suspicion, shadows and darkness.
He remained in his pensive mood a moment more, then turned and said, as though reading my thoughts, “Mrs. Fletcher, I made a stupid mistake years ago getting involved with drug dealers. I was young and trying to build a fishing business. It was hard, real hard. The money just wasn’t there, and there was Nancy and the kids to support. I didn’t intend to run drugs for long, just enough to build a stake. I couldn’t make payments on the boat I’d bought, and the bank was threatening to repossess it. ”
Which was no excuse for what you did, I thought. But I said only, “Yes. It must have been difficult.”
He continued his introspective monologue. “I’ve been trying to make it up to them—hell, to me—ever since. When I accepted the Feds’ deal, I did it for my, family. But they lied to me. They told me that if I testified and went into the witness protection program, I’d be settled in some pretty, quiet place where Nancy and the kids would eventually join me. Nobody would know where we were. The money wasn’t great but we probably could have lived on it.” He chewed his cheek, his hands became fists on the table. “I talked to Nancy about it, and she agreed it was the best thing to do. All we cared about was getting back together.”
“But they didn’t live up to their promises?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, they didn’t. They kept pressuring me to testify against others.”
“There were other drug dealers you knew about?”
“No. They wanted me to infiltrate other drug rings. I refused. Then they got tough and reneged on some of the things they promised me and Nancy. That’s when I told them to take their witness protection program and shove it.” He checked to see whether I was offended. I wasn’t. He continued. “I was out in Colorado when I decided to get out. I came to New York and got involved with the cops here as an informant, making friends with guys they wanted a line on and reporting back to them. I’ll tell you this, Mrs. Fletcher. It may not have been honorable, but the money sure was good. It meant Nancy and the kids could live nice. I sent them plenty. I didn’t like snitching on people I’d gotten to know, but I did it.”
That Detective Alphonse Rizzi was a narcotics detective crossed my mind. I asked, “Was Detective Rizzi your police contact?”
“Control,” Waldo corrected. “He’s been my control ever since I got involved. I was working for him the day you spotted me on Fifth.”
My eyebrows went up. No wonder Rizzi was so quick to arrive on the scene. He must have been close by observing Waldo. “You were working for the police but pretending to collect charitable contributions as Santa Claus?” I asked, incredulous.
“I sure was, Mrs. Fletcher. The cops were investigating drug dealing going on at St. Pats. They put me there because it gave me a good view of the action.”
Drugs in St. Patrick’s Cathedral? The contemplation was shocking. Could it possibly be true? Was the priest I saw receiving something from Waldo a drug dealer? And there was the shocking story that very morning about a priest being shot at the cathedral.
Again, Waldo seemed to read my thoughts. “Mrs. Fletcher, the church—the cathedral—isn’t involved in drug dealing. But a group in the city decided it was a perfect cover, wearing priests’ garb and doing their dealing in and around the church.”
“I saw a priest approach the first day I saw you. Was he a priest, or a drug dealer?”
“An undercover cop.”
Of course, I thought. How silly of me not to know.
“Waldo, you know about Susan Kale.”
“Sure I do. That’s one of the reasons I decided to make contact with you. I read about how you found her and all.”
“She was living with Joe Charles. Did you know that?”
“Yup. That was her mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“I’d call it a mistake. It got her killed.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying that Joe Charles killed her?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why? I mean, how do you know?”
“That’s too long a story for now. I’ve already been in one place too long.”
“But surely—”
He cut me off by placing his hand on my arm and leaning closer, his eyes blazing with purpose. “Mrs. Fletcher, what you told me about Nancy moving is really upsetting. I have to find out where she is.”
“Do you think her life is in danger?” I thought of the male voice at her house, and my feeling that it was Joe Charles.
“Yeah, I do. Will you help me find them?”
I hesitated. But then the feelings of compassion I’d experienced earlier returned. “I don’t know what I can do, Waldo, but yes, I will try to help you find Nancy. You don’t have any idea where she might have gone?”
He said in a whisper, “Joe Charles. He’ll know.”
My eyes opened wide. “It was you who left that message.”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Why bother telling me about Joe Charles?”
“Once George was killed, and I knew it was me they intended to hit, I figured I wanted somebody else to be involved. If somebody else knew what was going down, it might take the pressure off. Sorry it was you I called, but I know your reputation for snooping into murders.”
“I’m not sure I’m pleased with that reputation. Why didn’t you just call and identify yourself to me? Why did you
feel it was necessary to have me continue to believe you were dead, that it was you who was shot instead of this Marsh fellow?”
“Because it was better for certain people to think I was dead.”
“Joe Charles?”
“Among others.”
“Susan Kale?”
“Sure.”
“But—but Detective Rizzi must have learned rather quickly that it wasn’t you in the Santa suit.”
“That’s right. He’s one of the people I’d just as soon not see for a while. He won’t be happy that I split, that’s for sure.”
He suddenly jerked his head away, sat up tall, and looked out over the vast expanse of reading room. It was as though someone had flipped a switch that activated his antenna, set his nerve ends on alert status. “I have to go,” he mumbled.
This time, I placed my hand on his arm. “Please, Waldo, don’t bolt on me. You’ve chosen to bring me into this. You ask my help in finding Nancy, yet continue to deal with me in bits and pieces, in bursts of revelation.”
He stood.
“Waldo. Sit down and listen to me,” I said sternly.
He sat, but it was obvious there wouldn’t be any further meaningful conversation. He opened the large book he’d been perusing when I arrived and tore off a comer of a page. I winced. He pulled out a pen and scribbled the name of a restaurant, followed by the words Sea Cliff. He handed me the scrap. “Its a little town on Long Island. I have a friend there. I think I’ll hole up there a few days, probably through Christmas.”
Christmas! Today was Monday. Christmas was two days away.
Manhattans & Murder Page 14