The Night Caller

by Lutz, John

  “My brand,” Coop lied. “On the rocks.”

  Watkins picked up the two glasses from the coffee table and hurried into the kitchen.

  Hillary didn’t say anything until he returned only a few minutes later with three glasses of Scotch and ice. She accepted her glass and sat in a corner of the sofa. Coop sat down in the chair where his coat was draped. Watkins sat as far away from Hillary as possible at the opposite end of the sofa.

  Coop nibbled at the Scotch, not really wanting it. “I’m not here to play morality police or pry into your private lives. I only want to talk to you some more about Bette.”

  “She and I had broken up even before she…was gone,” Watkins reminded him. “This might seem too soon to you, but it’s one of those things that just happened. I’d phone Bette and she’d make up some excuse, tell me she wasn’t feeling well…”

  “No further explanation is necessary, Lloyd,” Hillary told him. She fixed a direct stare on Coop. He was liking her more and more. “Ask any questions you choose, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Did Bette say how she wasn’t feeling well?” Coop asked, looking from Hillary to Watkins.

  Watkins appeared puzzled for a few seconds. “Oh, I see what you mean. No, she didn’t. Tell you the truth, I doubt if she really was sick. I’m sure she didn’t want to see me and was just making polite excuses.”

  “Had she taken any time off work because of illness?”

  “No,” Hillary said. “Bette was out of sick leave, and Prudent Stand doesn’t take kindly to unscheduled absenteeism for any reason.”

  “Would you say she might have come to work sick sometimes because her job was in the balance?”

  “No. But it soon would have reached that point.”

  “Some employer,” Coop said. “Why do people stay there?”

  “They pay well,” Hillary said simply.

  “If Bette was out of sick leave, she must have missed a fair amount of work.”

  “Her sick days weren’t taken in succession,” Hillary said. “Three in a row at most.”

  “Sick leave covered two weeks,” Watkins said. “And you’re right, she was off work a lot. It didn’t seem like it, but the sick days must have added up. Soon they would have cut into her vacation time, but they hadn’t. She took her two-week vacation just before she went into New York and stayed at your cottage.”

  “And she told no one where she was going or why?”

  “Not that we know of,” Hillary said.

  “She also told me she wanted to spend some time at the cottage to relieve job-related stress,” Coop said. “Either of you know what that was about?”

  “No,” Watkins said. “But I can believe she was under stress, like everyone else at Prudent Stand. And maybe she really wasn’t feeling well and it was getting to her. Hell, I feel that way myself sometimes. After what happened to Bette, I had to take some of my own sick days. I could barely drag myself out of bed most mornings.”

  “Would you know the name of her doctor?”

  “’Fraid not,” Watkins said.

  “It might be in her records at work,” Hillary said. “I can make a phone call for you.”

  Before Coop could answer, she was on her feet and moving toward the kitchen, and presumably a phone.

  Watkins simply looked ill at ease as Hillary’s muted voice carried like the mutterings of his conscience to the living room.

  When she’d returned and reclaimed her corner of the sofa, she said, “They’ll call me back as soon as they find it. They think I’m off sick today and I want to see Bette’s doctor for myself.”

  “They’ll be calling Lloyd’s number,” Coop said.

  Hillary gave a slight smile. “I’m friends with the woman in Records. She knows about Lloyd and me.”

  A small town, Coop thought, and not that large a company. Probably everyone knew about Lloyd Watkins and Hillary Bland. What might they also know about Bette? The possibilities scared Coop, who had seen every side of human nature, everything human faces could conceal.

  He took a second sip of Scotch and decided not to take another. “Is there anything else about Bette? Even if it doesn’t seem important to you. Anything you might not have told me the first time around?”

  Watkins shook his head “I’m afraid not. I’d give anything if I could help, but I can’t.”

  “Any other friends she might have had outside your circle?”

  “Yes! Maybe one!” Hillary said. She seemed genuinely surprised that she’d come up with something. “Bette did volunteer work at the east branch library sometimes, and she mentioned a woman named Stern. I can’t recall her first name.”

  “Abigail!” Watkins said. “I remember Bette mentioning an Abigail Stern. She’s a library employee, I’m sure.”

  Coop glanced at his watch. “What are library hours?”

  “In this weather,” Hillary said, “you can be sure they’ll close at five.”

  “Only an hour from now,” Coop said. He stood up and put on his coat.

  “Aren’t you going to wait for the name of Bette’s doctor?” Hillary asked.

  “I’ll phone you when I’m done at the library. Will you still be here?”

  She blushed and nodded.

  Watkins jumped up to show him out. “I hope we’ve helped you, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Me, too,” Coop said.

  At the door, Watkins offered to shake hands.

  Why not? Coop thought. Life goes on.

  As he walked back to his car, he realized he might not have had that reaction only a few days ago. It had something to do with Cara Callahan.

  No, it had everything to do with Cara Callahan.

  After getting lost driving to the library, he arrived at five minutes to five and found it closed. The lights appeared to be off inside, and his pounding on the door raised no reaction.

  Discouraged, he drove slipping and sliding to his motel and called Hillary Bland at Watkins’s condo.

  She gave him the name of Bette’s doctor, a general practitioner who specialized in gastronomical disorders. A Dr. Scott Ferguson. Hillary even obtained the doctor’s office address and phone number.

  Coop dutifully wrote down the information, then thanked her and slogged through deepening snow to the motel restaurant.

  The snow had put everything on hold until tomorrow.

  If only it could put tomorrow on hold.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Cara paused near the entrance to St. Alexius Cathedral, then walked up the chipped concrete steps and went inside.

  The cathedral was long and narrow, with a center aisle and pews that would seat only about ten on each side. Faint, tinted light filtered through a tall stained-glass window behind the pulpit, an image of St. Alexius himself with haloed head and a cross on the left side of his ornate vestment. Cara knew he was the patron saint to beggars, belt makers, nurses, pilgrims, and travelers. She thought that last part, pilgrims and travelers, made him the patron saint of just about everyone.

  Though narrow, the cathedral had a remarkably high beamed ceiling, and gallery walls decorated with aged frescoes and darkened statuettes of the apostles poised high above in shallow grottoes. After the din of the New York streets, it was remarkably quiet. The warm light streaming through the clerestory windows seemed thick enough to touch.

  Seated in one of the back pews was a woman with her head bowed so low that it wasn’t visible from behind. Farther down, on the other side of the aisle, a ragged-looking man was kneeling between the pews, also with his head bowed. The cathedral seemed to be occupied by no one other than the two worshippers and Cara.

  Cara and Ann had been raised Catholic. Long ago Cara had drifted away from Catholicism, then from organized religion entirely. But Ann had remained true to the faith, and Cara had learned that she often came to St. Alexius for solace and to pray.

  Cara had kept her promise to Coop not to walk in Ann’s footsteps while he was away, but she didn’t think he’d mind too much if she came to St. Al
exius. Her reasons didn’t only center on Ann. Cara had always heard that those raised Catholic inevitably returned to the fold. She didn’t think that was the case with her, but considering recent events, she was slightly surprised to feel the desire to pray. It couldn’t hurt, and it might help her to understand, to better cope with her grief and anger, to sleep all night without waking.

  She walked down the aisle toward the pulpit, her footfalls silent on the faded red carpet that ran through the nave of the church. The dust motes swirling in hazed, tinted light, the subtle smells of the cathedral, took her back to her first communion and long-ago Sundays she would rather have spent elsewhere. The light transformed by stained glass seemed an artist’s idea of heavenly illumination. Ancient polished wood, mustiness, centuries-old stone, lingering incense, all converged in a single scent that found its way through pain and time and soothed her. She wondered if it might be the only thing now that could soothe her.

  In the front of the church she knelt and crossed herself, something she hadn’t done in years, then moved to sit in one of the pews. She placed her purse beside her on the wooden pew, then lowered the padded kneeler on the pew in front of her and kneeled again.

  She thought of Ann, how as young girls they’d sat beside each other so many times at Mass, how Ann was always eager to get in line to accept the host while Cara had to be talked into it, sometimes elbowed into it by their mother. She saw Ann at home with their mother and father, with their father.

  Something was spotting the front of her coat. She was surprised that it was her own tears. She hadn’t realized she’d begun to cry.

  Cara bowed her head farther, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and let herself cry almost soundlessly, hearing only her own labored breathing.

  She stayed that way, motionless, reconciling herself with the past and fighting her way out of it.

  It was only when she thought of Coop that her tears lessened and she regained control of herself. She wondered if their time at the Atherton Hotel was another reason she’d come here, a good Catholic girl again, burdened by carnal guilt.

  But she didn’t feel like confessing, because there was no guilt in her after what had happened with Coop, only joy and the memory of joy. And hope.

  She did say a silent prayer in the wish that he shared her hope. He’d told her about his illness, and she’d answered that it made no difference. Remission could last years, and who knew how much future anyone had? She hoped she’d made it clear to him that he’d turned his despair inward so it grew out of proportion and threatened to consume him even if the cancer didn’t. If only he could realize that!

  Eventually she stopped crying.

  She didn’t know if she felt better, but she was exhausted, purged of at least some of her tension and agony.

  She scooted back up to sit on the pew, swallowed, wiped her eyes with her hand, then reached over to get a tissue from her purse.

  That’s when she discovered her purse was gone.

  Chapter Forty-six

  In the morning, Coop went first to the library.

  The snow had ceased falling, leaving about three inches on lawns and roofs. As he drove through the streets of Haverton, people were out scraping their windshields, shoveling snow from sidewalks, seeming not at all troubled by the inconvenience of winter weather. Some were even putting up Christmas decorations. The streets themselves had been snowplowed early. He encountered no delay on his drive to the library where Bette had been a volunteer worker.

  Her library work was something else she hadn’t told her parents. It bothered Coop how far the three of them had drifted apart in the flow of time. Was it that way with most families?

  In the Job he’d come to believe that no one really knew anyone. After a while, being related didn’t seem to make much difference. He again felt uneasy about what he might learn. It was like a body hunt in a homicide case, digging for something he wanted to find but dreaded.

  He parked in a cleared section of the lot near the low brick building, then trudged inside, wiped his feet on a large rubber mat, and set out to find Abigail Stern.

  The library smelled like all libraries, a combination of old paper, glue, and printer’s ink, mingled with the wood and varnish of rows of tables. The scent of sanctuary.

  Abigail Stern was in the stacks, replacing returned books.

  As Coop rounded the steel shelves he saw a thin, middle-aged woman standing on a rollable stool and replacing an armful of books on a top shelf. She reminded him of his old high school librarian, the same scraggly gray hair, thick-rimmed glasses, dowdy dress, even skinny legs heavily crisscrossed with varicose veins. She had the visual part of the stereotype down pat. He wondered about the rest of it.

  “Ms. Stern?” he asked, though the woman at the desk who’d directed him here left little doubt as to whom she’d described.

  Abigail Stern looked down at him and nodded, favoring him with a smile that could only be described as beautiful. Behind the thick lenses, her blue eyes sparkled with life and amiability.

  Coop told her he was Bette’s father and she agreed to speak with him. Her voice was softly modulated, her elocution precise. Coop blanched at the thought that people like her were being replaced by computers.

  At a secluded table near Periodicals she sat across from him and folded her hands on a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine that someone had left there. Coop hoped his quest would reach the kind of neatly wrapped and satisfying ending found in the magazine’s pages.

  After expressing her sympathy for his grief, Abigail Stern told him what a sweet and helpful volunteer Bette had been.

  “Did she have any kind of conflict with anyone in the library?” Coop asked. “Maybe even a regular patron when he came in to take out or return books?”

  “Nothing that I can recall,” Abigail Stern said. “And frankly I can’t imagine Bette getting into much of an argument with anyone. Not that she was a wet noodle, she simply understood people and got along with them. She told me once that if it weren’t for the money, she might try to make library work her career.”

  Coop found that difficult to believe. Or maybe it was Bette exercising her understanding and ability to get along with people.

  “She was never out of sorts,” Abigail Stern said, “even during the time when she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “When was that?” Coop asked, recalling the sick leave Bette had taken before using part of her vacation to relieve stress.

  “Well, the last several weeks leading up to…when she went to New York City.”

  “Did she tell you she was going to be staying for a while in the family beach cottage?”

  “No. Bette wasn’t one to talk much about herself. She was a great listener.”

  “But she told you when she didn’t feel well.”

  “Only some of the time. Other times I could tell by looking that she was under the weather, but she didn’t complain.”

  “Did she say what was wrong with her?”

  “Never. I would find her sometimes in the lounge, seated at the table and looking terribly depressed. Once I even thought she’d been crying, but I can’t be sure. I can tell you that the last time I saw her, just two weeks before the tragedy, she didn’t look well. It was obvious that she was forcing herself to be cheerful with patrons. And she was uncharacteristically pale. I put it down to possible stomach flu that was going around Haverton at the time.”

  “Did you notice her taking any kind of medicine?”

  “No. Not even an aspirin.”

  “Do you know the name Lloyd Watkins?”

  Abigail Stern bowed her head in thought, then looked up at Coop. “I believe that was her young man; then they broke off their relationship. She mentioned it only once. After that she apparently decided not to share her discomfort. I didn’t press her on the subject.”

  No, you wouldn’t have, Coop thought. “Who else might she have mentioned her illness or romantic life to?”

  “No one else at the library,
I’m sure. She and I were almost always the only ones present. That was why she was temporarily put on staff, to assist me. We’re converting to a completely computerized system.”

  “That’s a shame. Will your job be affected?”

  “I spend three nights a week in computer class, Mr. Cooper. The times will not plow me under.”

  He smiled. “I wish more people felt the same way. Did Bette ever mention a Dr. Ferguson?”

  “Not that I can recall. Was he her physician?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Then he’d be the one to tell you about her physical state.”

  “Of course.” He stood up. Through the windows on the other side of the library, he saw that a light snow had begun to fall. He didn’t like highway driving in the snow; he would see Dr. Ferguson, then begin the trip back to New York.

  “I didn’t mean to push you toward the door,” Abigail Stern said. “We can talk about Bette some more if you so choose.”

  “I think you’ve already helped me,” Coop said. “And thanks for your time.”

  “Time’s a valuable commodity, but I give it gladly if it helps to find Bette’s murderer.”

  Coop believed her on both counts.

  After Coop had identified himself on the phone, Dr. Scott Ferguson agreed to find a few spare moments that morning and talk with him. Someone else who put a high value on time.

  The doctor’s office was in a medical building half a block away from Haverton’s small hospital. Ferguson’s office was on the third floor. Coop found himself in a well-appointed waiting room with green carpeting and comfortably upholstered chairs. The walls were festooned with brightly colored impressionist art prints, Renoirs, Manets, Cezannes. On a table was an art deco sculpture of a woman in a position suggesting she was about to dive into water.

  Coop pressed a button that caused a sliding frosted glass window to open and a brightly smiling young woman in a white uniform to peer out. He told her his name and that he had an eleven o’clock appointment just to talk to Dr. Ferguson, and she said, “Oh, yes!” as if she were overjoyed that he’d reminded her.