THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY

by Tracy Kelleher

  Lauren slanted Sebastian a critical look. He was the one who'd gone with Phoebe to the food tent at the Lambertville Flea Market. "I thought I could trust you when I said I wanted something to eat," she said ruefully. "I was thinking more along the lines of coffee and a bagel."

  He shrugged. "She assured me you loved the taste of nitrates in the morning."

  Lauren had no qualms about swiping his cup of coffee. "Don't bother protesting." She reluctantly took the hot dog from Phoebe's mitts. "Next time remind me not to leave you in charge of the food when I have to hit the little girls' room," she lectured her friend. "Come to think of it, maybe there won't be a next time."

  Phoebe blinked slowly, hardly the image of contrition. "Pshaw. You're the one who should feel guilty about standing me up the other night. Without you there, I was forced to spend the evening drinking truly mediocre white wine—why people insist on supporting Argentinean vintners is really beyond me. The least you could do was let me come along on a drive in the country. Besides, we can all sing show tunes on the way back."

  Lauren was hoping that suggestion would die if she ignored it.

  "So rather than cramp the style of you two intrepid investigators and, dare I say, lovebirds—" Phoebe truly had no shame "—I'll be off on my own." She looked at her vintage Cartier tank watch—the perfect accessory to her white wool crepe pants, Tod driving shoes and Jackie O sunglasses. "In about an hour from now I'll come looking for you. In the meantime, I am so in the mood for tchotchkes." She waved her fingertips.

  "Don't you just love it when the Mayflower maiden speaks Yiddish?" Lauren asked Sebastian.

  "Tell me again why we let her come along," Sebastian said as he and Lauren watched Phoebe stride off, shoulders back, arms swinging and hips swaying.

  Lauren shook her head. "I think it has something to do with her undying support and fearsome slap shot. So who's the guy Slick Frankie told us to look for?" She handed him back the coffee. "You can have it, after all."

  He took the paper cup. "That bad, huh?" He took a sip and shivered, then dumped the container in the nearest trash bin. "According to Frankie the Fence, we are in search of Vincent the Vendor—a specialist in porcelain and fine china." He locked his arm through Lauren's elbow "Come, my lovebird."

  Lauren let her arm rest comfortably in Sebastian's and adjusted her steps to his long, relaxed gait. If one didn't know any better, it would be easy to think they were a couple.

  If she didn't know any better, she could easily think they were a couple.

  "So other than looking for a Limoges imprint, do we have anything else to track Vincent down?" she asked.

  Sebastian guided them through the crowds bunched at the various tables and open truck beds. Everything from old LPs and crystal jewelry, to ancient farm equipment and World War II memorabilia was on display. "Frankie said our man was medium height, brown hair, on the paunchy side." The fact that the description wasn't all that different from the one Elwood had given him at the tattoo parlor wasn't lost on him. Instinctively, he gripped her arm more tightly.

  The first china table they came to was run by two middle-aged women wearing cable-knit sweaters. A pair of corgis were tied up to a lawn chair. Sebastian and Lauren looked at each other and moved on.

  But at the far end of the field, wedged between an aging hippie selling dashikis and incense and a man in a clown costume hawking comic books, they found their man.

  Sebastian caught his eye when he made a show of examining what was supposedly a Minton soup tureen.

  "I can see you have a discerning eye, sir. That's quite a nice piece." Vincent exuded enough bonhomie to coat several stacks of pancakes.

  Sebastian replaced the lid on the bowl. "Actually, it's not quite what I was after. A colleague of yours named Slick Frankie said you might be able to help me with what I'm really looking for."

  Vincent's smile vanished. "I'm a little busy today. Maybe you could give me your name and number and I could get back to you?"

  "Maybe I could report the fact that you're selling cheap knock-offs for the price of the real thing?" Sebastian looked him steadily in the eye.

  Vincent shifted his stance. "I suppose I have a few minutes."

  "I thought you might." Sebastian pulled out the photo of Bernard Lord from his leather jacket and held it up. "Look like anyone you may have come across, accounting for the fact that he may have been a good deal older than he is in this picture?"

  Vincent bent forward and squinted. The man definitely needed reading glasses. "Could be. What's his name?"

  "Lord, Bernard Lord," Lauren answered.

  Vincent glanced straight at Lauren's boobs before shifting his attention back to Sebastian. "I don't know about a Bernard Lord, but the guy I know who looks like this—much older of course—goes by the name of Benny."

  "Just Benny? No last name?" Sebastian asked.

  "No, just the one—like Cher."

  "What else can you tell us about Benny besides his name?" Lauren inquired, her voice muted. She wanted to know more and, at the same time, was afraid at what she might hear, especially since she hadn't been able to get through to her mother. Last night, when she and Sebastian had gone to dinner at Sansom Street Oyster House, she'd tried to call from the ladies' room, only to remember that her parents were at the Phillies game. And this morning, things had been so rushed and Sebastian constantly within earshot, she wasn't able to try again.

  "What else can I tell you about Benny?" Vincent repeated in an annoying singsong fashion. "Not much, except that he was a nice enough guy, brought me stuff on a sporadic basis, some of which I bought, some I didn't. You could say he had eclectic tastes."

  "Tastes that ran high-end?" Sebastian asked this time.

  Vincent sucked in his cheeks. "How high-end?"

  "Very high-end. Specifically, a piece of Carolingian silver, some Renaissance candlesticks, a small painting by Caravaggio."

  Vincent ran his hand through his thinning hair. "High-end is a bit of an understatement, don't you think? Even if he brought me that kind of stuff—which he didn't—it's not exactly my market. Look around! Besides, I don't mind closing an eye for things like Hummel figures, but what you're talking about is way out of my league."

  Sebastian snorted.

  Vincent shrugged and pointed to the photo. "Funny thing is, I think even old Benny did, too—have scruples, I mean. A couple of times he came back to me all sheepish, asking to buy back the stuff he'd sold me—like he maybe had second thoughts about how he'd acquired the goods. I sold them back to him, naturally, at a higher cost."

  "Naturally." Lauren's disdain was barely concealed.

  "Well, I am a businessman, after all," Vincent defended himself. When he saw that other customers were approaching his table, he straightened up and affixed his smarmy smile.

  "One more thing." Sebastian stopped him before he could move on. "You keep using the past tense when you talk about this Benny character. Hasn't he been around lately?"

  "Nah, not for at least half a year. But then, guys like that, who knows? He could be hanging out at the dog tracks in Hialeah for all I know."

  "Oh, I almost forgot." Sebastian leaned over the table and placed his hand on top of the large tureen. One careless move, and the whole thing would topple on the ground. "You mind telling me where you were all day Friday?"

  Vincent focused on Sebastian's hand before looking up. "I was right here at the flea market. Ask any of the other vendors around." He raised his chin and walked away, honing in on the couple who were examining some teacups.

  Phoebe came sweeping in on Sebastian's left. "Any luck, my dears, cracking the case of the Man-Who-Never-Was-But-Actually-May-Have-Been?"

  "Perhaps," he answered. "Our charming representative here from the Better Business Bureau recognized the photo but identified him as a certain Benny, not Bernard Lord. And the name Harry Nord never even came up, which just confirms our earlier suspicion that the real Harry Nord—not the fictitious one in Lauren's obit—was
never part of the picture. So this Benny may or may not be our man. And in any case, we still don't have a lead as to where he is now." He turned to Lauren for the first time since interrogating the vendor. "What do you think?"

  "My God, Lauren, you're as white as a ghost," Phoebe exclaimed. "Are you having an allergic reaction to that hot dog?"

  Sebastian gripped her by the shoulders. "Are you all right? I'm pretty sure his alibi will hold, and he's not the one who broke into your apartment, if that's what's worrying you."

  She shook her head. "No, it's not that. It's just—just that I think I might know where to look for Bernard Lord—definitely not the real Harry Nord—but most likely Benny."

  They looked at her, stunned.

  She gulped. "The dry cleaners."

  Over Phoebe's protests, they dropped her off at her apartment in the Fairmont section of Philadelphia. "Trust me, I think it's for the best," Lauren assured her as she transferred to the front seat in the car. "This could get ugly."

  Phoebe clutched her Hermes bag to her side. "Well, call me if you need moral support."

  Sebastian waited until Lauren had settled in the car. "Now where?"

  "The hotel. There're some things I need to check first." She could tell Sebastian wanted to say something. But he didn't. And she could tell he wasn't happy. With the situation and with her.

  When they got to the room, Lauren searched around quickly. "I'm pretty sure I brought it back from the apartment yesterday. For nostalgia's sake."

  Sebastian frowned. "Can I at least help with whatever you're looking for?"

  "It's my old diary. Here it is." It was on the bedside table. She sat down, picked up the book and quickly thumbed through the pages. "This is the section." She read a few pages and looked up. "It's what I was afraid of."

  Sebastian walked over to her in measured steps. He waited.

  And Lauren knew she would have to be the one to break the silence. "Remember how I told you I sometimes embellished the truth in my diaries?" He nodded. "And how the other night I made a joke about the weird employees at the family dry cleaners and how I used to like to write about them?"

  "I remember, and then your father made a big deal about worker loyalty." Sebastian didn't sit next to her. Instead he stood, his tall figure looming over her small, seated one.

  Lauren felt defensive. Who wouldn't? And she knew that was Sebastian's intent. "Well, there was one fellow in particular who used to work for us, an old guy, very quiet. He worked the pressers upstairs and was especially good with delicate fabrics. Things like wedding gowns were his specialty."

  "And all this is leading to…?"

  "In a minute, please. Anyway, every once in a while after school, I'd go upstairs at the shop and find some wedding dresses there to be cleaned and pressed. I'd very carefully try on some of them—you know, fantasize about one day being a bride."

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "If you say so. I'm still not seeing how this all relates to the case."

  She held up her hand. "You see, when I did that, I'd sometimes get to talking with this guy, who I used to call Uncle Ben, because he had short tufts of white hair, a little like long grain kernels of rice. And sometimes Uncle Ben would even talk to me—about things he'd done or places he'd been. He told me how he'd served in World War II, and that he'd been shot down over Italy.

  "And here—" she pointed to the pages open on her lap "—you can see where I jotted some of it down. I wrote about how this brave flyer's plane went down over Italy, and I went on and on about how despite his severe wounds, he managed to rescue another member of the crew. And that they hid out in this Italian village, finally escaping to safety by hiking over the Alps."

  She looked down at the entry. "Here I wrote about how they'd hiked in the extreme cold and record snowfalls, with the aid of nothing more than a compass and a flask of brandy. Obviously, my imagination added all kinds of made-up details to the stories he told me. And my imagination and my old memory trick of using words that sound alike contributed to the fake obit. Uncle Ben. Benny Lord. Harry Nord."

  She raised her head to size up Sebastian's reaction. She watched him work his jaw.

  He took his hands out of his jacket pockets. "All right, I see the similarities between your diary entry and the obit. And, who knows, in a pique of anger, one could even argue that you conjured up your childhood flights of fancy and incorporated your tales of Uncle Ben into the obit. But that still doesn't prove that this Uncle Ben is Bernard Lord or even Benny for that matter."

  "There's more." She walked over to the desk and picked up her minicassette recorder. "On Friday, when we met with Slick Frankie at the Camden Aquarium, I recorded it."

  "You never told me."

  "I know, maybe I should have." This was only the beginning of her confession. "It was in my bag, so you wouldn't have known. Anyway, do you recall how I pressed him for more details on who exactly had the stolen art, and he said, 'Mum's the word'—that I was the reporter, so I should go find out?"

  "I don't need a recording to remember that he clammed up."

  "But do you also remember that just before he said goodbye, he started whistling this tune?"

  Sebastian nodded. "I vaguely remember that."

  "Do you remember what it was?"

  "Not particularly," he admitted.

  "Well, at the time, I didn't think it was anything important. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was. Anyhow, just listen." Lauren fast-forwarded to the relevant section of the tape, where Frankie was whistling, and let it play. Then she hit Rewind and played it again. "Ring any bells?"

  "Should it?"

  "It's 'Oh, Dem Gold Slippers.'"

  "So?"

  "That's the Mummers' theme song," she answered. "The Mummers are huge in Philly, what with the weird costumes and the New Year's Day parade. In fact, there's even a Mummers Museum in South Philly—and it's a really big deal."

  Sebastian frowned. "I'm not sure where all this is leading."

  "Don't you see? He was giving me clues—'mum' for Mummers, the song. He was trying to tell me that the art was actually here in Philadelphia, South Philadelphia in particular."

  "I don't know. That's a pretty big stretch."

  "Not when you consider this, as well." She pulled her notebook from her bag and walked over to Sebastian. Opening it to the last page with handwriting, she pointed to her jottings. "Four months ago there was a missing persons claim filed for one Benny Lord." She stopped. "The claim was filed by Alice Jeffries."

  For more than a minute there was this eerie silence. When Sebastian did speak, his voice was unnaturally controlled. "And you didn't think to tell me about this yesterday at the station house?"

  "Of course I thought about telling you yesterday, but I was worried how you'd react."

  "And how was that, precisely?" His voice grew louder.

  "That you'd immediately assume that my family was involved along with me, or, barring that, that I knew they were involved but was trying to cover it up."

  Sebastian averted his eyes. "That only begins to sum up what I'm thinking." He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her. "Call your mother."

  Lauren wanted to refuse, simply because she didn't like him ordering her around. But she also knew it was the logical next step. The only step. If this thing was going to get cleared up, they needed to do something now.

  She punched in the number and waited. "Hi, Mom, it's Lauren," she said when her mother picked up the phone. "I was wondering if Sebastian and I could come over? What's that? We're at the hotel, so it will take fifteen, twenty minutes, okay? Actually, no, I wasn't planning on looking at the wallpaper samples, but if you really want me to… Yeah, another time in early morning light would probably be better. Good, we'll see you soon then."

  She disconnected and handed the phone back to Sebastian. "Satisfied?"

  He was already grabbing his keys. "Let's hit the road."

  "Hold on a sec." Lauren went over to check her bag.


  "Suddenly discovering yet another piece of evidence?" he asked sarcastically, his hand on the room door.

  Lauren pulled out a sheet of Pepto-Bismol tablets. The way her stomach was feeling, she was a poster child for acid reflux disease. "I just need to chew a few of these." Who was she kidding? Probably the whole load of them couldn't quell the rumbling in her gut.

  And it had nothing to do with the foot-long hot dog.

  * * *

  12

  « ^ »

  The four of them—Lauren, Sebastian, her mother and father—sat around the Formica kitchen table. Despite Lauren's protests, her mother had insisted on serving coffee and a sour cream coffee cake. Nothing like carbohydrates and caffeine for a last supper.

  Lauren looked back and forth between her parents. She didn't dare steal a glance at Sebastian, who sat stonily at the end of the table. "Mom, Pop, did you guys ever have an employee at the cleaners named Benny? I vaguely remember this old guy working the presses."

  Lauren's father, rested his fork on the side of his plate. "Sure, Benny Lord. Great detail man—very good with embroidery, beadwork, you name it."

  Sebastian leaned forward. "Does he still work for you?"

  George shook his head. "No, he's been retired for some years now. Besides getting old, he had a small problem with the bottle, wasn't always reliable. We tried to get him to join AA, even had Father O'Phelan talk to him. He'd go to the meetings, but it wouldn't last. A sad case. But other than his few failings—and who of us is to judge—he was a loyal employee, and I valued that above all else."

  Lauren clenched her hands. Loyalty, trust—qualities Sebastian wouldn't know about, she realized. What had she been thinking when she'd fallen head over heels in love with him, anyway? She hadn't been thinking, that's what.

  "Was Benny's real name Bernard?" Lauren asked.

  Her father rubbed his chin. "It might have been Bernard once upon a time, but you cut the check to Benny Lord, right, Alice?"

  "That's right, I keep all the books, and I distinctly remember listing him as Benny Lord in all the accounts," his wife agreed.