A Hard Day's Fright
Page 15
He was a problem for another day. That sunny Saturday at the end of April, I parked the Mustang and picked my way down a heaving sidewalk littered with beer cans and broken bottles, heading toward a relatively new and beautifully cared for complex called Stella Maris. It means Star of the Sea, which doesn’t make any sense to me since the lake is right nearby and the sea isn’t, but I’m not one to quibble. I stopped long enough to look over the two tidy redbrick buildings. One of them had an ultramodern rounded roofline and plenty of windows, and that’s the one I went for. That’s where I was told the Recovery Coffee House was located, and that’s where I was going to meet Will Margolis.
The Recovery part of the name? Well, that was no big surprise. Stella Maris is a drug and alcohol treatment center, and according to his mom, it wasn’t the first time Will had been a patient there. She’d talked about good intentions gone bad, and rehab that never quite stuck, and a treadmill that pretty much went round and round this way: promises, recovery, back to the bottle, and life on the streets. According to her, Will had been at Stella Maris for the last couple months and she was sure—this time—that rehab was going to work. As for Will, he’d seemed more than a little confused when I called to schedule this meeting, and more than a little unsure about why I wanted to talk to him in the first place. In answer to his questions, I had been less than forthcoming. But then, I’ve found that it’s easier to get people to talk in person than it is over the phone. I didn’t want to have him tell me to take a hike before I ever had the chance to meet him in person.
Hoping for the best, I pushed open the door to the coffeehouse and saw that, except for a woman in sweatpants and a hospital-type scrub top, it was empty.
My expectations had been running high, and they crashed and burned in an instant.
That is, until I looked around and saw that there was a man at a table on the outside patio. I pulled out that photo of Ella and her friends taken the night of the Beatles concert and took another look at the teenaged Will. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Darren and had none of that surfer swagger, but in his own geeky not-quite-a-man way, Will was kind of cute. He had dark hair, and it was combed down over his forehead. In the photo, he was grinning at Ella. He was red-faced and very young, and call me a sucker, but the thought of finding him forty-five years later at a drug rehab center…
I pulled in a breath and told myself not to get caught in an undertow of emotion. I was a detective with a job to do, and I marched toward the patio, pushed open the door, and—
Stopped.
In spite of the pool of sunshine where he sat, the man at the table was muffled in a black cardigan and wearing a green stocking cap. He had a newspaper spread out in front of him, and as he read, he tapped the table with the fingers of his left hand, over and over, again and again. It didn’t take long for the frantic rhythm to get to me. I doubted the young Will had a cough that made it sound like his lungs were filled with liquid. And the mustard yellow stains on his fingers? I’d bet anything that back when Ella knew him, he didn’t have those, either. Even as I watched, the man lit a cigarette, sucked in a long breath, and closed his eyes, apparently enjoying the sensation of the smoke in his lungs and the nicotine clawing through his bloodstream. His hands were mottled with age spots. His fingers were as thin as claws.
I checked the photo again.
I looked back at the man.
The hair poking out of the back of his stocking cap was streaked with silver, but still mostly dark. His eyes were sunken, and the skin around them looked as if it had been smudged with gray eye shadow. But the cheekbones…Just to make sure, I checked the picture again. They were as high as the boy’s in the photo, and since he was so thin, they were as well defined as a fashion model’s. Though his chin sagged and was tweedy with a couple days’ growth of stubble, it was just as round as that of the kid from long ago.
When I took a step closer, I made sure to clear my throat so I didn’t catch Will Margolis off guard.
His dark eyes popped open. They were rimmed with red. Every movement stiff and painful, he dragged himself to his feet. “You gotta be Pepper Martin, the young lady who called me yesterday.” He swept an arm toward the chair next to his. “You want to sit down?”
“Before I do…” I looked back toward the inside café. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“If you’re getting one for yourself…” He poked a hand into the pocket of his worn jeans, but I was way ahead of him.
“My treat,” I said, and I hurried inside. The last thing I needed was some uncomfortable I’ll get it, no I will scene when I was trying to break the ice.
I was back outside in a couple minutes and I set a cup of coffee down next to the newspaper he’d folded up. While I was inside and since I didn’t know how he took his coffee, I’d grabbed a bunch of little bags of sugar, a couple bags of sweetener for myself, and some of those tiny coffee creamers. I set those down, too, and when I did, the headline on the day’s paper caught my eye.
“Oh!” I set down my own coffee cup and the leather portfolio I’d brought along so that I’d look official, and dropped into the chair Will had invited me to use earlier. I slid the newspaper closer so that I could skim the article. “It’s about that serial killer who was captured a couple weeks ago,” I said, tapping the paper with one finger. “He escaped.”
“Read it.” He tore open four packs of sugar with his teeth and sprinkled the contents into his coffee, then added three of those little creamers and stirred like there was no tomorrow. “Got away when they were supposed to be taking him to court. Hurt a deputy, too. Pushed the guy down and broke his leg.” Will’s gaze was glued to the newspaper, but the look in his eyes was unfocused. “His name is Winston Churchill. Weird, huh?”
“I know the cop who arrested him.” I’m not sure why it seemed to matter that I mention this. Maybe it was part and parcel of that whole icebreaking thing. “I bet he’s not happy.”
Will’s chuckle sounded like sandpaper on stone. “Bet he’s plenty pissed.”
It was unfortunate that the deputy had been hurt, and scary as hell to think this sicko killer was back out on the street, but I knew Will was right. I chuckled, too.
He darted a look in my direction. “You don’t like him.”
I knew we weren’t talking about Winston Churchill. “I used to.”
“I get it.” He nodded, but luckily, Will didn’t have much of an attention span. He didn’t press me for details. “Who are you?” he asked.
I knew he wasn’t talking about my name. He’d already proved he remembered that so I just said, “I’m a friend of Ella’s.”
He pulled the newspaper closer. Fiddled with its pages. Pushed it away. By this time, his cigarette was nothing but a stub, and he slid another one from the pack on the table, lit it from the one still burning, and tugged in a stream of smoke.
“I don’t know anybody named Ella.”
“You used to.”
The way his lips twitched wasn’t exactly a smile. “I used to do and be a lot of things. I was an alcoholic. I was a drug addict. I’ve slept under bridges and in doorways and behind trash cans. Thanks to this place, I’m changing now. I’m cleaning up my act. I’ve been sober…” He glanced at his watch. Since it didn’t have one of those calendar features, I didn’t know why until he said, “I’ve been sober for forty-three days and six hours,” he said. “This time, my recovery’s for real.”
“I know you can do it.” Of course I didn’t, but hey, what’s a person supposed to say at a time like this? “I talked to your mother. She thinks you can do it, too. She’s the one who told me where to find you.”
“My mom’s a saint.” This time there was no mistaking the expression. That really was a smile that crossed Will’s face. It looked as if it hurt. “She’s put up with a lot from me over the years. But Mom’s always there for me.” He swigged down a sip of coffee, and when he was done, his left hand went back to tapping on the table. “How did you say you know my mom?”
He stopped tapping long enough to drag his stocking cap off his head. His hair was thinning on top and long past needing a good cut and style. He scraped a hand through it. “Told you I don’t know anyone named Ella.”
“She remembers you.”
“Maybe. But that was a long time ago.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know her.”
The tapping stopped for real this time, and honestly, I thought he was either going to tell me to get lost or he was going to get up and walk away. I’m pretty sure he considered both options. That would explain why it took so long before he said, “You’re her daughter?”
“Ella’s?” I guess it wasn’t all that funny, but it was plenty strange, so I laughed. “I work with Ella at Garden View Cemetery.” I was going to leave it at that, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to try out a little experiment so I kept my eyes on Will when I added, “She does have three daughters, though.”
His reaction told me nothing. But then, that’s because there was no reaction. He took another drink of coffee. A long one. When he was done, he looked at me over the rim of the cup. “They look like her?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“She was cute.”
“She said the same thing about you.”
His laugh dissolved into a cough. “I don’t think anybody’s called me cute in a long time. I hope she’s happy with that guy who’s the father of her children.”
“He’s a loser.” I wasn’t exactly betraying a confidence. Anyone who’d ever met him knew Jeffrey Silverman was the world’s finest example of everything a man should not be. “They’ve been divorced for years. Ella, she’s raised those girls herself. She’s done a really great job, too.” This wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. Ella had done a great job. It wasn’t her fault Ariel was a troublemaker. Besides, the kid seemed to be turning herself around. When I’d seen her at the cemetery the day before, her nails were manicured and polished, and not with black lacquer, either, but with a peachy color that just so happened to match the one I was wearing. Maybe there was hope for the kid after all. If nothing else, something told me Will knew all about hope.
“Glad the girls are nice,” he said. “Sorry about the divorce. Ella deserves better than that.”
“Don’t we all.” It was one of those general statements, but I guess even though I hadn’t meant it, it was encouraging.
He flicked ashes into the aluminum ashtray on the table. “She’s got a family. Not me. I lived on the streets for a lot of years. I lost myself in a bottle.” He slid me a look. “Does that make me a loser, too?”
“It makes you a man with a problem and you realize it and you’re dealing with it. That makes you kind of a hero.”
Another laugh, and when it stuck in his throat, he pounded his chest. “Nobody’s ever called me that. So tell me, Pepper Martin, why did you go looking for my mother so you could find me? Meaning no disrespect, but a pretty young woman has better things to do on a spring afternoon than sit here with me. You’re not trying to save my soul, are you?” I would have thought he was teasing, but his expression was deadly serious. “If you are, you’re wasting your time. It’s too late for that.”
“Souls are way out of my league.” True, though spirits weren’t. “But what I have to do…well, it involves you.” That wasn’t as subtle as I’d planned on being, but there didn’t seem to be much point in beating around the bush with a guy who’d seen as much of life as Will had. “You see, one of Ella’s daughters, she ran away from home recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She’s back, and she’s fine, but the whole incident upset Ella. I mean, even more than it normally would.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, but he didn’t say a word so I was obligated to add, “Of course, that’s only natural. Because of what happened to Lucy.”
Will didn’t say a thing. He didn’t move a muscle, either. A truck rumbled by, and it was so quiet there outside the coffee shop, I could hear the table between us vibrate against the cement patio. When the quiet dragged on for another minute, I weighed the best way to approach the subject and decided on a direct assault. “You and Ella and Lucy, you went to the Beatles concert together the night Lucy disappeared.”
Will scrubbed his hands over his face. “That was a real long time ago,” he said. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t need to remember. Ella remembers every minute of that evening. She still has a picture.” I pulled it out of my purse and set it on the table. “What happened to Lucy…” I touched a finger to her smiling, golden face. “A lot of people have been wondering about that for a very long time.”
He never once glanced at the photo. “What happened to Lucy…” His gaze was vacant. The tapping started all over again. “Nobody ever found out what happened to Lucy.”
“I know. But I think it’s time, don’t you?” Honestly, I thought of mentioning Lucy’s ghost and the mission she’d given me. Something told me Will wouldn’t find it so farfetched. “I thought if I talked to everyone in the old group…” Again, I gave the picture a pointed look. Again, Will ignored me. And it. “I thought if I talked to all of you, I might learn something.”
He finished his coffee. It was the first I realized I hadn’t touched mine. I added a little sweetener, stirred, and sipped. It was my turn to keep an eye on him over the rim of my cup.
What I saw was hardly helpful. Will pulled himself out of his chair, picked up his cup, and walking with stuttering steps, took it over to a nearby trash can. He deep-sixed it, then came back for the ashtray and emptied that, too. It would have taken him no effort at all to pivot away from the table and go inside, and I knew it. I think he did, too. A muscle twitched in the left side of his face when he stopped back at the table. “Nobody ever found out what happened to Lucy,” he said again.
There seemed to be no point in repeating myself, so I didn’t bother to mention that that’s why I was there. Instead, I looked over the guy who was nearly lost in the folds of the bulky black sweater. “You were an artist. That’s what Ella told me.”
He sat back down. I breathed a sigh of relief.
He pulled the photo closer and his gaze darted over it, from Lucy to Darren to Bobby to Janice to Ella, to the young Will Margolis. “Haven’t done any drawing for a real long time.”
“You were good.”
“Ella was easily impressed.”
“She says after Lucy disappeared, you stopped drawing.”
“Stopped doing a lot of things after Lucy disappeared. It’s a shock, you know?” He looked up at me. “One day you’re a kid and the whole world looks like fun and games. And then a friend of yours, she up and vanishes…That changes a kid.”
“It changed you.” I let the silence settled for a second or two. “It changed Bobby Gideon, too.”
His fingers trembling, he reached for the photo again. This time, he picked it up and held it a couple inches in front of his nose. “Bobby and me were buddies.” He set the photo back down and sat lost in thought.
“He died about eighteen months after Lucy disappeared,” I reminded him, even though something told me I didn’t have to.
Will didn’t say a word.
I inched my chair a little closer to the table. “Somebody told me Bobby’s death wasn’t exactly an accident.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’re a bad liar, Miss Pepper Martin.” He took out another cigarette, but this time, he didn’t light it. He rapped it against the table, watching me the whole time. “Whoever told you that, they were wrong.”
“So it wasn’t suicide by Nam?”
“It wasn’t anything but a good kid dying too young.”
“Like Lucy.”
His gaze traveled back to the photo. “She
was a nice kid.”
I sat forward. “Ella? Or Lucy?”
He flicked the photo away. “Both of them. Not Janice. She was a piranha.”
“Did she steal Darren away from Lucy?”
“You’re kidding me, right? I can’t remember that kind of stupid teenager stuff. Honey, there are days I can barely remember my own name.”
“And that all started after Lucy disappeared.”
“The sixties were wild.”
“Is that why you became an addict? The sixties made me do it?”
He sniffled. “Yeah, it was something like that.”
“Is that why Bobby went and got himself killed? Did the sixties make him do that, too?”
Will’s fingers moved in an invisible pattern over the table. He dug an orange plastic lighter out of his pocket and lit up. “Bobby was stupid.”
“Somebody I talked to told me he wasn’t as stupid as he was guilty.”
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “About what?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
“The only thing Bobby had to feel guilty about was not asking Susie McNamara to the prom. We called her Speedy Sue. He missed a golden opportunity. He would have gotten her in the sack for sure.”
“I thought you didn’t remember any of that stupid teenager stuff.”
“Speedy Sue is hard to forget.”
“I’ll bet Lucy is, too.”
He tapped one sneaker against the cement and flashed me a look. “Why you?”
I knew he was asking why Lucy was my business. “Why not?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“People still care.”