by Goulart, Ron
And in the meat bin, a small amount of steak.
"I really should be working on the case." She walked over and sat at the kitchen table, resting an elbow on it. "The sooner all this gets cleared up, the sooner Ben and I are out of danger."
She popped to her feet.
The thing to do was find Lloyd's files. As soon as possible.
H. J. decided to visit Alicia Bertillion over in Redding Ridge. She'd certainly be able to take care of that before Ben got back from the city.
Grabbing her tan jacket from the hall closet, she hurried out of the house.
She didn't become fully aware of the car following her until she'd been driving nearly five minutes. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she noticed it.
It looked like a Fiero, several years old and a dusty black. She couldn't make out the driver because the windshield was deeply tinted.
H. J. realized that the black car had been with her since she left home, trailing her, keeping about a hundred yards from her tail.
"Easy now," she advised herself, "let's not get too paranoid."
It might be the Fiero just happened to be going in the same direction she was.
When the next lane intersected, H. J. whipped her car onto it and sped up.
A moment later the black car appeared behind her again.
She was passing by large houses set back on two acres and more. Trees, hedges, and an occasional stone fence lined the narrow roadway.
At the next intersection she swung abruptly to the left, gunned her car uphill, and then turned right on the first new road she came to.
The Fiero kept with her.
"This isn't television," she reminded herself. "Nobody's likely to drive by and let loose with an automatic weapon."
Even so, she wished the damn car weren't behind her.
Up ahead at the side of the road, two girls of about eight or nine had set up a juice stand.
One of them was holding a hand-lettered sign up above her head—"Cool Drinks! 25 cents!"
H. J. slowed the car, pulled off the road, and stopped. Dropping her keys into her shoulder bag, she said, "Might as well meet the son of a bitch in front of witnesses."
She slid free of her car, and walked over to the makeshift stand. "You didn't pick a very good day to go into this particular business," she said to the girls. "What flavors?"
"All we have is grape juice," said the girl who wasn't holding the sign. She patted the side of the plastic bucket sitting atop the stand. Her hair was braided and almost the same shade as H. J.'s.
"Grape, huh?"
The dusty Fiero appeared on the road. It didn't stop, but drove slowly on by.
The side windows were tinted, too, and H. J. couldn't see the driver at all.
The car continued on, crested the hill, and was gone. "I've decided I'm not thirsty." Smiling, she gave each of the girls a quarter. "But, thanks, anyway."
Hurrying back to her car, she started it and turned quickly around. She drove back in the direction she'd come.
She drove onto a small winding lane, then down another rustic road. After about ten minutes of zigzagging over hill and dale, she was certain she'd ditched her tail.
She resumed her journey to Alicia Bertillion's, using an alternate route.
The illustrator lived in a converted barn in a hilly stretch of town. The big russet house sat in a clearing amidst several acres of woodland. Alicia Bertillion had no immediate neighbors.
H. J. parked on the white gravel of the driveway. A light rain was starting up, and a few preliminary raindrops hit her as she left the car and ran across a stretch of yellowed lawn.
She climbed the front steps of the onetime barn. Then she noticed that the bright red door was open several inches.
Moving closer to the opening, she called out, "Hello? Anybody home?"
There was no reply.
Gingerly, H. J. reached out and pushed the door all the way open.
She entered the big, beam-ceilinged living room.
She sneezed twice.
The room had been ransacked, and over in front of the deep red brick fireplace was sprawled the body of a gray-haired woman.
Chapter 13
Alicia Bertillion wasn't dead. She'd been knocked out, and as H. J. approached her, she moaned and began to regain consciousness.
Kneeling beside her, H. J. took hold of her hand. "Take it easy," she said. "I'll phone the paramedics and they'll—"
"No, don't phone anybody." The gray-haired woman struggled to sit up.
"You've got a lump on your head and—"
"I also have a career doing kids' books." With help from H. J., she achieved a sitting position. "I have an idea what this is probably about. That sort of publicity I don't need."
"You mean it has to do with Lloyd Dobkin?"
Alicia eyed her. "Who are you, by the way?"
"H. J. Mavity. I'm an artist, too."
"I don't know your work."
"That puts you in the majority. I do a lot of paperback covers, and Lloyd was a friend of mine," she explained. "But not the sort of friend he was to you."
"Oh, that's right. You're the one who was with him," she said as H. J. helped her over to a soft armchair. "It really was murder and not just an accident?"
"Yes, there's no doubt of that." Skirting a spill of a halfdozen copies of Tammy the Turtle, she sat on the arm of a tan leather sofa. "Now, what happened here?"
"I did something stupid."
"Which was?"
"I walked in on the man."
"You saw him?"
Alicia smiled thinly. "More to the point, H. J., he saw me," she answered. "Then he conked me with a blackjack. First time I've ever seen one in real life."
"Did your recognize him?"
Touching the place where she'd been hit and then wincing, Alicia said, "He was wearing a ski mask. A big man, in a dark windbreaker and slacks."
"People you're familiar with, even if masked, you ought to be able to recognize by body movements, bone structure, and such," H. J. said. "Was this guy anybody you knew?"
"It's my impression he wasn't someone I was familiar with."
"Did the guy say anything?"
"Not a word," she answered. "I heard some noise in here, and, daredevil that I am, I charged right in to see what was the matter. He grabbed me and hit me a good one."
"You sure you're okay? A blow on the head can—"
"I'll be fine, really." She leaned back, watching H. J. for a few silent seconds. "Why exactly did you come here?"
"To ask you if Lloyd had left any of his files with you."
"So I was right. This hoodlum was hunting for something he thought Lloyd may have given me to keep for him."
"Were you keeping anything?"
"No, I wasn't." She shook her head, which caused her to grimace with pain.
"But you knew he had something valuable to hide?"
"He'd been talking about a discovery that was going to make him rich."
"Did he give you any details?"
"Very few," said Alicia. "It had something to do with a crime in the past, but he didn't tell me which one. Lloyd, you know, used to do a lot of crime writing."
"Do you have any idea where he did put his notes and all?"
"Yes, I think I do," she said. "'About a week ago, after he started worrying that someone was trying to do him harm, he told me he'd stuck his important notes on this business in a small strongbox and hidden it."
"Did he say where?"
"All he told me was that he'd stashed the box at St. Swithin's. But that isn't the name of any church around here."
"St. Swithin's, huh?" said H. J., grinning slowly. "I know where it is."
"It's actually a church?"
"Lloyd's nickname for one."
"If you're planning to go there and hunt for that box," warned the illustrator, "you could get hurt." She touched again at the lump on her head.
"I won't go until after dark," she said. "'And I'll take my hu
sband along for protection."
Ben didn't get home until after eight-thirty that evening. The meeting at the advertising agency had dragged on until almost six o'clock. And then, because he was definitely going to be doing the Baby Bubbles voice for Sudz, Jr., both Nolan and Anmar had insisted on buying him a drink at their favorite spot of the moment, a dreary Irish pub on East Forty-Ninth.
He had hoped to get a chance for more verbal fencing with Laura Timberlake Barks, but she'd slipped away before the meeting was over. She had thrown him a kiss, but that didn't add any information to his store.
The earliest train that he was able to catch out of the city was the 7:06.
The rain was falling enthusiastically again as he drove onto his property. Through the downpour he noticed that there wasn't a single light on in the house. "Damn it, where's she gotten to?"
Stowing the car in the otherwise empty garage, Ben hurried into the dark house.
"Honey, I'm home," he called out in his Dagwood Bumstead voice.
As he'd anticipated, there was no answer.
He turned on several lights and looked around the living room.
The answering machine indicated there were two messages waiting. Sitting on the sofa in a ready-to-jump position, he hit the play button.
"It's Joe. I'm curious about what foolhardy actions you folks have undertaken since last we met. Call me."
"Yeah, okay. Next."
"Mr. or Mrs. Spanner. This is Bob Lichty of Weiner and Weiner Investments in Westport. Call me if you want to double your—"
"You're wasting my time, asshole." He jabbed the stop button and jumped to his feet.
No note from H. J. on the dining-room table.
Nothing on the kitchen table either.
But stuck to the front of the refrigerator with the Minnie Mouse magnet was a scribbled note: "Ben, I hope you won't explode. But I waited until nearly eight o'clock and then got the fidgets. Soon as you get home meet me at the Brimstone Denominational Church. I'll probably be poking around in the old graveyard. Love, your ex."
"The graveyard?" Folding up the note, he slipped it into his coat pocket.
Not bothering to change clothes, he ran back to the garage. If he was going to be prowling around in a cemetery, he ought to be wearing something other than one of his Manhattan suits. But Ben felt he couldn't spare the time.
Chapter 14
"Damn," observed H. J. as she parked under a stand of oak trees across the street from the venerable old church she'd used as the model for St. Swithin's on the cover of Love's Claimant, "I wasn't expecting this."
On the wide field between the Gothic-style church and the nineteenth-century graveyard three large, candy-striped tents had been pitched. Several floodlights were set up, and in their glare she saw a dozen or more people moving in and out of the tents. Those going in were toting small appliances, bundles of clothes, boxes of books.
On a post driven into the grass was a handsomely lettered sign announcing a "Gala Rummage Sale" coming up this Thursday and Friday.
All these unanticipated people must be helping the Brimstone Denominational Church get ready for the event.
H. J. sat there for a moment, watching the illuminated activity across the way. The night rain tap-danced on the roof of her car.
"Well, Ben's not the only actor in the family," she said, taking a small flashlight from the glove compartment and stowing it in her shoulder bag.
Outside in the rain, H. J. hurried around to the trunk. She had a carton of discarded clothes in there that she'd been meaning to drop off at the Goodwill.
Gathering up the box and slamming the trunk shut with her elbow, she crossed the street and walked right on into the nearest tent.
Near the entrance, a thin blonde woman in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt was pricing items on a table cluttered with odds and ends. She smiled at H. J.
Smiling sweetly back, H. J. said, "Sorry I'm late. I'm Mrs. Spanner and we're new to the church, but Mrs.—gosh, I can't remember her name. Plump woman, gray hair?"
"That'd be Mrs. Brinkerhoff. She's up in tent three, the one right next to the old graveyard."
"That's her, yes," said H. J., nodding. "She told me to drop this stuff here, and then maybe I could help out."
"We can always use more help. I'm Eleanor Reisberson."
"Nice to meet you. Shall I just leave this box here someplace and then go report to Mrs. Brinkerhoff?"
"That's clothes, so you better turn it over to Mrs. Tooker." H. J. glanced around at the other people in the tent. "Gee, I forget which one she is."
"She's wearing those green overalls."
"Oh, yes, I see her. I'll do that."
After abandoning the carton to Mrs. Tooker, H. J. went back out into the rainswept night.
She trudged up through the wet field in the direction of the third tent.
A chubby man in a yellow raincoat came downhill toward her, lugging a metal tub filled with mismatched dishware. "Really coming down tonight, isn't it?"
"That it is," she agreed.
She walked right on by the last tent and Mrs. Brinkerhoff. The illumination from the floodlights, she noted, didn't spill over into most of the old burial ground.
Sloshing through mud and puddles and wishing she'd had the sense to wear boots, H. J. made her way to the ancient wrought-iron gates in the stone wall that surrounded the graveyard.
She didn't think Lloyd would have hidden anything in the church itself or in the rectory. But he had been fond of roaming in this old cemetery, and it seemed a likely place for him to have stashed his strongbox.
Pushing the iron gates slowly and carefully open, she slipped inside.
It took her nearly fifteen minutes to spot a small patch of ground that showed evidence of recent digging. By that time the rain had ceased.
Since no one had been buried here after the turn of the century, this sign of recent activity suggested to her that this was where Lloyd had hidden his files.
Resting her flashlight on a flat marble slab dedicated to the memory of Daniel Guild 1810-1884, she fished out the trowel she'd brought along in her bag.
Less than six inches below the ground she struck something metallic. After five minutes of diligent digging and scooping, she unearthed a black metal box. It looked just large enough to accommodate several file folders.
The muddy box was locked, but the screwdriver she'd also brought along was sufficient to pry open the lid and snap the small lock.
H. J. opened the box and pointed her light at the contents. "Bingo," she said, pleased.
Inside rested a thick manila folder with "Timberlake Matter" lettered across the cover in Lloyd's familiar scrawl.
Unmindful of the dampness, H. J. perched on the tombstone of Joshua Bascom 1821-1889 and lifted the cover of the folder.
Inside she found five color photographs of an attractive, naked young woman, a blonde in her middle twenties. There were three front views and two rear; the picture that Lloyd had entrusted to her was a blowup of part of one of the rearviews. This was definitely the woman with the butterfly birthmark.
On the back of each picture was stamped "Mark Juster Photographer, Box 226, Willmur, Mass, 02171."
Unfortunately the name of the model wasn't there.
The folder also contained Lloyd's old notes on the Timberlake kidnapping, plus photocopies of the baby's hospital records, including a footprint.
H. J. skimmed through everything in the folder, but didn't find anything that mentioned the blonde model's name.
"Even so, this is a great leap forward." She shoved everything back inside the folder, stuffed it into the box, and shut the lid. Clicking off her flash, she tucked the box under her arm.
She started back down toward her car, smiling with satisfaction. "If Ben shows up about now, he's really going to be pleased with me."
She was opposite the stand of dark oaks, still several yards from her car, when she became aware of a familiar scent behind her.
H. J
. started to turn, but something smacked her hard across the back of the neck.
She staggered, legs going wobbly.
She heard the metal box smack the ground. Then, hit again from behind, she passed out.
Ben was about two miles from the old church when he began to feel uneasy. He'd been hearing sirens for the past few minutes, and now an ambulance, lights flashing, came racing up the road behind him.
He swung over to the roadside, letting it go wailing by.
"Relax, my boy," he advised himself in his Sigmund Freud voice, "you're letting your imagination run away with you."
There were all sorts of reasons for an ambulance to be heading for this part of town. Most likely it was a fire, which would explain the other sirens. The odds were that none of this had anything to do with H. J.
"She should have waited for me, though."
When he reached the Brimstone Denominational Church, he saw two police cars, a paramedic van, and the ambulance all parked in the middle of the slick street. Two white-coated attendants loaded a stretcher into the ambulance and then drove off.
The field on Ben's right had three big tents pitched on it for some reason, and about twenty people were standing in front of them staring across the street.
He noticed H. J.'s car then. It was circled by the police cars and the van, and its driver-side door was open wide.
A uniformed cop was shining his torch into the front seat.
"Jesus!" He left his car where it was, motor still running, and jumped free to hurry across the wet night road.
Another cop stepped in front of him when he got close. "There's been an accident, sir. You'll have to move back out of the way, please."
"My wife. That's her car. Where is she?"
The other officer moved back from the driver's seat and turned around. "You're Ben Spanner, aren't you?"
"Right, Officer Thompson. That's my wife's car. What happened?"
"Let him come on over, Andy," said Thompson, a heavyset blond man.
"Is she in there?"
"No, she was found on the sidewalk beside her car."
"Found? Is she dead?"