“Yes, well, why are you looking for her?”
“She escaped from prison.”
Gilda fumbled with the paintbrush. “And someone saw her run in here? I don’t suppose this citizen has a name?”
“Anonymous tip line,” the smaller cop said.
“This Ir—I mean, Adele. She’s a murderer, then.”
The bigger cop lifted the curtains behind Gilda and, finding them empty, let them go. “An art forger.”
“Is there money in that?” Gilda squinted at the canvas. “I’m asking for a friend.”
“If you have what you need, I’d better get back to making up the rooms,” Adele alias Julia said.
“Sure, go on.” Gilda waved her paintbrush toward the hall. “Wait. You. Policeman. Any dust bunnies under there?”
The dandy policeman rose from the floor. “That’s not my business. There’s no woman under there.”
“Never mind,” Gilda said. “You can go.” This part she directed at Adele, who disappeared down the hall.
The larger policeman went to the bathroom and emerged with a bra dangling from one hand. “No one. But I found this.”
The policemen looked at the bra’s tiny cups, then shifted their gaze to Gilda’s ample chest.
She lifted her chin. “And?”
“That’s yours?” the skinny cop said.
Gilda raised an eyebrow as if daring him to question her.
The dandy cop let out a long breath. “Anything else in there?”
“Toothbrush, hairbrush, the usual,” the policeman near the bathroom said.
“All right. It could be that crank again who called about the dog bed. I suppose we’d better have a look around the rest of the place, though.” On his way out the door, he stopped and turned. “You people have any enemies? You’ve been called in twice in three days.”
For the first time, Gilda let her voice drop to its normal register. “Not that I know of.”
He shook his head. “Usually it’s the other way around. The older folks call in the high school kids next door.”
“You’re sure you can’t tell me who called? We should know. If people are harassing us, like you say—”
“Nothing I can tell you. Anonymous tip.” He touched his hat. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
In the distance, doors opened and shut as the policemen went room to room.
Gilda settled on the bed’s edge. Who was after them? Who wanted to bring them down? Each of the Villa’s residents had left a disgruntled person or two in his or her past. One of Ricardo’s exes used to come by regularly and curse him out for bigamy, but Ricardo had died at least five years ago. Every once in a while someone from the diocese would stop by to try to convince Father Vincent to return to the ministry, but he told them he had his own ministry now. For the most part, the Villa’s residents had quit their careers years ago. They hadn’t received as much as a threatening letter since.
The only recent business the Villa was involved in had been the Booster Club. Last fall, they’d brought down a real estate developer who’d wanted to thwart their plans to turn an old firehouse into a family shelter. Gilda stifled a chuckle. Eleanor Whiteby Millhouse. That goody two shoes that Claudine had always had it in for. She was in an institution somewhere now, though.
Or was she?
* * *
Telescope pressed to the attic window, Ellie watched the police drive away. Alone. They had spent longer in the Villa this time, searching door to door. She’d seen them pop up in bedrooms here and there and then again in the cafeteria, where they’d even pointed at the dog bed and laughed. Half a dozen of the residents had waved goodbye to the police as they drove off an hour later holding what looked like homemade muffins.
How did the Villa’s residents do it? The fugitive had to be there. Had to. She’d smelled the paints. But somehow those criminals had hidden her. She pulled away from the window. Then again, she’d only glanced at what looked like the escaped art forger. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe the police had searched, thoroughly, and found no one. In her desperation to nail the Villa, she’d been too hasty.
Ellie tossed the telescope on the sofa and paced the attic. The bell rang for the start of school, and sounds of children laughing and yelling rose from the playground. Josiah would be there. She wondered if he’d had breakfast. She’d half expected him to come up to visit her. It was probably best that he hadn’t. Maybe he’d stop by after school.
By then, she needed to have a plan to deal with the Villa. Maybe she was foolish to try to get the police to do her work. Maybe she needed to do it herself. Think, Ellie. Think. What tools did she have at hand?
She idly picked up the telescope and examined the Villa once again. The homeless guy she’d seen the other day pushed his shopping cart full of dying flowers to the Villa’s front entrance. The old redhead, clothed in some kind of ridiculous paint-stained smock, came out to greet him.
Ellie set down the telescope, this time carefully. She laughed once, a shotgun “ha.” She had an idea.
26
At this hour, the school was lousy with children. Ellie could have screamed with frustration. But, no. Calm was what she needed.
When she ran the real estate development company, she’d been known for her ability to make a quick, clean decision without getting emotional. People needed to be let go? No problem. Five minutes in Ellie’s office, and they’d leave with a wad of moist tissue. Ellie’s eyes were dry. A few houses needed plowing under for an office building? Ellie wrote a check for the bare minimum the law allowed and washed her hands of the matter. The families would find housing somewhere else. Or not. It wasn’t her problem.
Since leaving the Bedlamton Arms, she’d felt curiously subject to having—she coughed out the word—feelings. Loathing, for instance. She’d never cared enough to detest anyone or anything before last autumn. Now she loathed the Booster Club. Another feeling was joy. She couldn’t say her days had been larded with it, but she’d definitely felt exhilaration on escaping the Bedlamton Arms. The memory of Josiah’s face popped unbidden into her mind. Caring. Maybe—she wasn’t sure, but possibly—she’d experienced caring. Her marriage had never inspired this kind of tenderness. She’d never cooked as much as a piece of dry toast for Roger, let alone reheated hamburger patties.
With emotion would have to come a certain foolhardiness. She grabbed her jacket and black scarf and plunged into the school’s halls. Class was in session, and the classrooms vibrated with young voices. But the halls were empty. A woman emerged from one classroom, and Ellie, striding toward the exit, nodded at her. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was Miss Morris. Ellie wondered if she’d replenish her rum soon.
And Ellie was out.
The homeless man slowly pushed his shopping cart, now empty of dead flowers, half a block up the street. Ellie caught up with him and laid a hand on the cart. “Excuse me, what’s your name?” she asked.
“What’s yours?” he replied.
“Marie Antoinette,” she said, blurting out the first name that came to mind.
“Lady, I might push a shopping cart, but I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay, it’s Mitzi Lancaster.”
“I’m Fred. What do you want? I got this cart fair and square. Lady who used to be married to the Granzer’s Market guy gave it to me.”
“Oh, no,” Ellie said. They were safely out of sight of the Villa. She took a roll of hundreds from her jacket and flipped through them. “I need information.”
Fred’s eyes followed the cash as Ellie folded it and returned it to her pocket. He swallowed. “Like what?”
“Just a little something about the Villa’s residents.”
Suspicion tightened his mouth. “They’re good people.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t.” A purple minivan trawled the street looking for a parking spot near the school. She needed to make this quick. “I just want to know if you’ve seen anything—or anyone—new there.”
“Like what?”
/>
“You tell me.”
Fred pondered this. For a street guy, he smelled faintly of lime, and his clothes were pressed. He was freshly shaved, too. The Villa’s work, probably. Thought they could sucker him with the occasional shower. Money talked a lot more loudly than hot water.
“Grady says there are new developments on Practical Hospital,” Fred said.
“That’s not what I mean,” Ellie snapped. Fred stepped back. She lowered her voice. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, something significant. Maybe a new resident. One who’s not a senior.”
“How much will you give me if I tell you something? Not that I’d say anything to hurt them. They’re fine folks.” His eyes darted up and down the street.
Ellie removed a hundred dollar bill from her pocket. She held it flat between her hands, then shoved it back into her pocket as a station wagon crept by. “That. If it’s worth it.”
“Well. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you there’s been a younger gal staying there.”
Ellie’s pulse leapt. “You saw her?”
“Nope.”
“Then how—”
“I saw her underwear in the laundry room. They let me wash my clothes.”
Ellie stood back, hands on hips. “Underwear.”
“It was small. Not like the other stuff I’ve seen.”
Small. Unusual. “And?”
Fred shrugged. “Other than the prison’s laundry mark, it looked like any underwear a young woman might wear.”
* * *
Adele was still wary. She wore her maid outfit and kept away from the cafeteria windows. She was playing hearts with Bobby when the insurance detective—the one Gilda called Claudine—arrived.
Adele had caught from passing conversations that Claudine had once been a high-end burglar, but she wasn’t prepared for the model of cool elegance who entered. Some people might not have noticed her at all, the way she moved so quietly. It was as if she made a point of not drawing attention to herself. But if you did notice her, you’d see the cheekbones and wide-set brown eyes of a nineteen-forties film star—soft, like a pre-Raphaelite model, but more sculpted. And tougher.
The Villa’s residents dropped whatever they were doing to call out “Deanie” and ask her how she was. Even Cook came out of the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, asked if she wanted some cherry pie.
Claudine smiled vaguely—a Mona Lisa smile if there ever was one.
“Deanie, honey, come say hello,” Gilda said. After Claudine’s kiss on the cheek, Gilda rose and gestured toward Adele. “Julia, you come with us. We’ll go up to my room.”
Claudine’s gaze took her in and Adele thought she caught a raised eyebrow. They took the elevator to the third floor. Gilda’s step had extra bounce, and she barely leaned on her cane. Real happiness radiated from her.
“You two wait here,” Gilda said. “I want to shut the blinds and draw the curtains before you come in.”
Claudine didn’t seem to be paying attention to either of them. Instead, she looked lost in thought as she examined the room’s layout, the tiny kitchenette. “Besides the vanity table and this armchair, you haven’t changed much in here since Dad died.”
Adele looked first at Claudine, then Gilda. It was starting to come together. Gilda and Claudine’s father had been a couple. Then the father had died. The muscles at the base of Adele’s skull tightened, and she clamped a hand to them.
With cat-like grace, Claudine moved to a chintz-covered armchair. Gilda clicked on the side lamp next to the bed, and Claudine pulled the chain on the lamp nearest her. Now the scene had become a Vuillard domestic tableau.
“Someone’s watching the Villa,” Gilda said. “At least I think so.”
“That would explain the binoculars on the dresser.”
Gilda told Claudine about both police visits, about how they first searched for the Marie Antoinette dog bed, then came to look for Adele.
“Also known as Julia,” Claudine said. Both women stared at Adele.
“It was the first name that came to mind,” Gilda said. “Grady had been talking about Nurse Julia on Practical Hospital.”
“This is serious,” Claudine said. She went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The muffled cries of children on the playground next door reached the room. Adele had the sense that in the few seconds she’d taken to scan the view, Claudine had taken in details most people would never notice.
“I know,” Gilda said. “The woman was inside. In the Villa.”
“Armed?”
“Warren says no, but the film was dark.” Gilda scooted forward. “We could lay on more security—get a dog, hire Mo’s team—”
“Too risky. Too much of a flag to the police. Retirement homes don’t need to be guarded like banks.”
Adele ventured her first words since they’d come upstairs. “I’ll go to Uncle Larry’s.”
Claudine and Gilda turned to her as if they’d forgotten she was there. “Honey?” Gilda said.
“I said I’ll go to Uncle Larry’s. I should have done it in the first place.”
“It’s too late for that now,” Gilda said. “You need to be here to recover from your surgery. Larry isn’t set up for that.”
“Besides,” Claudine said, “you’re being watched. Leaving the Villa is a huge risk.”
“She has to leave for the surgery.”
“And come back. But that’s it until we know who’s watching and where they’re hiding,” Claudine said.
Too late, Gilda had said. Adele was beginning to feel like the illustration in her childhood Winnie-the-Pooh book with Pooh stuck halfway into the beehive. She’d never finish her mission. “Any news on my paintings?”
“I just can’t figure out who’d rat us out,” Gilda said.
“Your paintings,” Claudine said. She reached into a briefcase. “That’s why I stopped by.”
Gilda held up a hand. “That can wait just a minute. She’s not going to keel over this second.”
“I could,” Adele said.
Gilda ignored her. “After the incident at the firehouse, Ellie Whiteby was locked up somewhere, wasn’t she?”
“Indefinite treatment at a psychiatric hospital. The Bedlamton Arms, I believe. You don’t think she’s after you? If anything, she’d come after me.”
“We all played a role in bringing her down. She might think the best way to get at you is to go after us. This is the Booster Club’s unofficial headquarters, after all.”
Gilda must suspect Eleanor Whiteby of watching them. The clenching at Adele’s skull tightened.
“She couldn’t have escaped, could she?”
Claudine clasped her hands in her lap. “The Bedlamton Arms is locked up tighter than the Tower of London. They made their reputation on the Ritz’s hospitality and San Quentin’s security. No way she’s getting out of there.”
“I got out of Carsonville Women’s.”
Both women turned to Adele as if they’d once again forgotten her existence.
“The girl has a point,” Gilda said. “How do we figure out if she’s still there?”
“They won’t tell you if you call.” Claudine drew a finger up the arm of her chair. “They might not even tell if she’d escaped. You really think she’s the one calling in the police?”
“What about my paintings?” Adele ventured again. Once the paintings were found, she could leave, and the Villa would no longer be at risk.
“Honey, this concerns you, too,” Gilda said. “We wouldn’t be at risk if you weren’t here, and if we hadn’t heisted the dog bed for you.”
Adele felt her face warm. Gilda was right, of course. If this Ellie had spotted her or the dog bed—and she clearly had good reason to think both of them were at the Villa—she could bring the whole place down, turning every one of them out into the street. And Adele back to jail. Where she’d die. With all her forgeries still out in the world.
“I’m not sure who’d know what Ellie’s up to,” Claudine said
. “Her husband left her, and I don’t recall her having many friends. At least, not outside the Carsonville Women’s League.”
“I don’t know anyone there to ask,” Gilda said. “They don’t run in our circles.”
“The Women’s League. They’re having an event tonight,” Adele said. “I saw it in the newspaper.” After the police had left, she’d read through the paper as Mort had handed it to her by section. He’d skimmed over the society pages quickly, and Adele had had to make do with them until he’d finished his long perusal of the front section.
“What event?” Gilda asked.
“Some kind of springtime membership celebration. They give out awards or elect officers or something.” With both women watching her, she suddenly became nervous. “At least, I think so.”
“I could go,” Gilda said.
“How are you going to pull that off?” Claudine crossed her legs with a dancer’s grace.
“When you’re old, you can get away with a lot.” Gilda rose and went to the closet. After rummaging in its depths, she pulled out a pink shantung silk dinner suit that Jackie Onassis might have chosen if she were considerably bustier. “I might wear this.”
“That won’t work.” Adele was surprised the words she’d thought came out aloud.
“Why not?” Gilda lowered the suit.
“It’s too old-fashioned. They’re label conscious at the Women’s League. You need something modern.”
“This suit was good enough to get the governor’s attention when I needed it.” Gilda held the suit to her body. “I might have gained a few pounds since then.”
“Gilda, Adele has a point.”
Adele pulled off her maid’s hat and itchy wig and scratched at her scalp. Her headache seemed to be easing. “I think you’d love some of the dresses of a few of the contemporary Japanese and German designers. I have one in particular you’d look great in.”
Gilda returned to her chair. “That’s sweet, and I know I hide my size well, but we’d never fit into the same dress.”
“That’s the beauty of these dresses. They’re loose, but have interesting structure.” This was actually a good idea. She could do something to help the Booster Club for a change. “Uncle Larry has my wardrobe. I could give you a note, and he’d get the dress you need. Do you have any black ankle boots?”
Cat in a Bag Page 14