Losers, Weepers

by Jessica Thomas

  “Wowee. Had she hit the lottery or something?”

  “Not that I know of. But she was very up. Almost manic. I asked her why she had suddenly bought such expensive wheels. She laughed and said almost exactly what I had said about my new station wagon: when you are in business you need to have a decent car and clothing.”

  “Was she going into some business or had she invested in one?” I asked.

  Ellen spread her hands helplessly. “You tell me. She wouldn’t. She just kept saying everything was great and that we would soon be on an even keel. Whatever that meant, and I would be proud of her.”

  I moved on to another subject. “You read her note, of course.”

  “Many times.” Ellen stubbed her cigarette out and stared at it for a moment. “I can’t start those again. Yes, I have put every possible interpretation on it from murder to suicide to an accident to a bad joke that somehow went terribly wrong. Obviously, it was completely unlike Charlie. She never spoke like that, and I never saw her write a letter like that. Bad Victorian prose wasn’t her cup of tea. And there was nothing wobbly about her grammar. Oh, hell, Alex, give me a cigarette.”

  I complied and Ellen continued. “I assumed, however, that very few murderers would write like that, either, unless she was killed by a half-educated ghost left over from eighteen-fifty. I finally decided that she wrote it, and it really was suicide, although it nearly killed me to admit to myself she preferred death to being with me. Her mother isn’t doing very well around that aspect, either.” Her voice broke.

  “Ellen, sweetie, you know that’s not it. She short-circuited somewhere. I know how much she loved you. She told me often enough. I just wish I could have helped. But I never even knew anything was wrong. She never said a word to me about money. Nor about cars or trips or new clothes. I hadn’t seen her in several weeks. The summer was such a nutty mix-up. I feel terrible about that. Maybe she had trouble with your success, thought it might lessen her in your eyes or something. Maybe if she had just talked to someone, she wouldn’t have done this. Could she have developed some serious medical problems?”

  Ellen simply shrugged. “I have no idea, Alex. At this point,” she added sourly, “I wouldn’t bet on anything. Don’t talk yourself into a guilt complex over this. If she had wanted to talk to you, she certainly knew where to find you. And I’m sure she knew you would always find time to meet with her.”

  Startled at her hostility, I changed the subject, braced myself for an explosion and asked, “Do you think she could have been having an affair?”

  Ellen shook her head and smiled wryly. “Quite possibly. Look, Alex, we were together nearly fifteen years. I’m pretty sure Charlie had a couple of brief flings. Maybe she was having one now, though I can’t prove it. And I have to admit my trips to realtors’ conventions were not always celibate.”

  I’m sure my mouth was open in surprise. “But, Ellen, I thought you guys were rock solid.”

  “So did I, Alex. I figured as long as we were both discreet, and as long as they were just little detours down our path together, what the hell? And that could still be true. Or maybe there was someone else who had become my replacement. Maybe not. But to get back to your most important question, I think that whole note was designed to be so unlike her that we would all think it was written by her killer. So we wouldn’t think suicide. So her family and I would be spared that, at least. But, honestly? I think she killed herself.”

  And that about said it. I invited her to lunch and got the turndown I expected.

  Chapter 16

  So I treated myself.

  The Wharf Rat Bar felt like a safe, cozy cocoon after my late-morning conversation. A few people at the bar, a few more at the tables, and mostly familiar faces. The weekday tourists were definitely thinning with every degree the thermometer dropped.

  The large round front table was once again populated with some part-time fishermen who gathered most off-season days to bemoan the paucity of fish, the government quotas on the fish there were, the infringement of foreign fishermen on sacred fishing grounds, and the cost of fuel to get to the fishing grounds in the first place. Joe the bartender had dubbed them the Blues Brothers, and the name had stuck.

  Harmon was one of the group, and interrupted the cantata to ask me, “Hey, Alex, how you guys doin’ on Charlie Cohane’s murder?”

  “Actually, Harmon, we don’t know yet that it is murder. Our information is still pretty thin. There’s no conclusive answer yet.” I was damned if I was going to broadcast what little we did know to the entire Blues Brothers contingent.

  “Too bad, whichever it was.” He shook his head. “Charlie was a good ’un. Well, I’m still lookin’ for that van. I reckon they’re layin’ low now that lots of people have left town. You know when I’ll find ’em? The first cold, rainy day. Everybody will be decked out in raincoats and hoods, and it’s hard to tell people apart, that’s when they’ll be out and trading.”

  It took me a minute to remember that Harmon was referring to drug trades as usual, real or imagined. But I found his point about raincoats interesting. I had never thought of it. It made a strange kind of sense.

  “Good thinking, Harmon. That rainy day idea really has merit.”

  He gave me a knowing nod. “There’s more things than philosophizers dream up, Alex.”

  Harmon quoting—in his own style—Hamlet! Maybe I should have ordered a straight shot. The world was definitely askew. Actually, I ordered a pastrami with fries and half a sour pickle. I needed comfort food. Really, it was quite healthy: meat, grain, veggie and green. I felt rather pure.

  Joe asked me if anything was new in the Zoe Catlett situation, and it pained me to answer in the negative. I certainly wasn’t being of much help to Sonny. And, more importantly, to Zoe.

  “I hope they find the girl soon,” Joe mused. “Reed ain’t going to stand up forever under that kind of strain. I went most all the way through school with him. He was the brainiest kid in the class, but he wasn’t wired all that tight. And he sure didn’t like to be crossed.”

  “Really.” I was more interested in my lunch than Reed at the moment.

  “Yeah.” Joe gave the area an unthinking swipe with his bar towel. “I remember. A girl in our class turned him down for the prom or some other dance, and she said it pretty loud, so several of us heard it and started laughing at him. You know kids. They love anybody else’s embarrassment. Well, Reed, he upped and slapped the girl—hard! Right there in front of everybody.”

  “My God. Talk about overreacting.”

  “Yep. If you were smart, you didn’t cross Reed ’less you were bigger than him. But then he could turn around and be really nice. One time when we were in high school, when classes let out, the ice cream truck was in the parking lot. A bunch of us had all lined up to get something, and I noticed this little girl about ten or so from the grammar school across the way, standing off to the side and looking real sad at all of us having a treat. Next thing you know, there’s Reed, handing her a cone he’d bought for her. I remember he even took her books and walked along with her, so she could handle the cone easier.”

  “How nice,” I mumbled through a bite of sandwich. Why were loud bells going off in my head? Older boys could be nice to young girls. Some of Sonny’s friends had been generous with me, especially after our father died. I just had a dirty mind.

  Then I had another thought. Why had Marie Catlett agreed to have Zoe come live with her and her lover? Marie was retired. She had finally realized she was a lesbian and apparently met a woman to share her life. It was a time of life when she and her lover deserved quiet happiness. Maybe some travel, theater, gardening, the beach, whatever they wanted. And why would they want a rather difficult seventeen-year-old girl? Unless she felt the girl badly needed her.

  Surely, Merrilou would have calmed down about Zoe being gay. Zoe wouldn’t have the stress of changing schools in her senior year. She and Dana would have frequent weekends, if that relationship held up. It looke
d as if Larry Bartles might even be a backroom ally in keeping Merrilou from too many efforts to get Zoe into the Baptist equivalent of a nunnery.

  At least Merrilou was up front in her feelings about Zoe’s lifestyle and friends. Reed seemed to be going in circles, with Zoe alternately his sweet baby girl and his cross to bear. And he didn’t seem particularly close with either of his sons. Maybe he was just one of those people who find affection hard to express.

  It came to me with a bite of french fries—so many brilliant thoughts did. If anyone really knew the Catlett family, it would be Mrs. Hengel, their long-time housekeeper and nanny. Recently termed redundant by the new Mrs. Catlett, she should be happy to disgorge any family secrets.

  “Say, Joe, do you have a phone book handy?”

  He reached under the bar and plopped one onto the countertop near me. “It may be last year’s.”

  “I don’t think that will matter,” I said. “Thanks.”

  As I absently straightened some half-torn pages in the book, I remembered another family I hadn’t followed up on—Harry Maddock’s. I hoped Mrs. Maddock might possibly know something about Zoe, her family or her relationship with Harry that would be of help. It wasn’t very likely, but I looked up their number. There was only one Maddock, and I jotted their address and number in my little green book.

  I found three listings under Hengel: Martin Hengel, Martin Hengel, Jr. and D. Hengel. My bet was on the last one. Lots of women used an initial rather than a feminine name, which I thought advertised, rather than concealed the fact that they were women living alone.

  The Maddock house was closest, so I started there. The doorbell was promptly answered by an attractive woman I placed in her early forties. She was wearing jeans and T-shirt, plus an oven mitt on her right hand.

  “Mrs. Maddock?”

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  I explained who I was and why I hoped she might be of assistance.

  “I doubt I know anything of interest to you, but come on in . . . in the kitchen if you don’t mind. I’ve got cookies in the oven.”

  That explained the mitt. And the fragrance from the kitchen made me hungry all over again. As we walked through the living room and a small dining area, I noticed that the furniture was not expensive, but was clean and in good taste. On the wall were pictures that were obviously prints of famous paintings, but they were attractive and tasteful. Evidently, Mrs. Maddock made the best of what must be a rather limited income.

  She offered iced tea, poured it and then removed a large sheet of Toll house cookies from the stove. She seemed to keep turning her back to me, and I noticed her dabbing her eyes once or twice. Had she been crying? I hoped Harry hadn’t joined the missing. I’d try to find out.

  “Does Harry happen to be around?”

  “No, he’s working this summer at the Happy Hot Dog, and his shift ends around four. Then he usually hangs out at Mickey’s till around dinnertime. Unless his father has chores lined up for him, and even then . . .” she trailed off with a grin. I guessed I had been wrong. Probably the heat from the oven bothered her eyes.

  “We can try the cookies in a minute or so,” she said with a smile. Had I looked that eager?

  While we sat at the kitchen table and waited, I asked, “Mrs. Maddock, did Zoe by any chance spend the night here recently?”

  “Please,” she said. “My name is Karen. When someone says Mrs. Maddock, I think of my mother-in-law, and I try to do that as seldom as possible.”

  I laughed. “Okay, and I’m Alex.” I repeated my question.

  “No,” she answered slowly. “I can only think of one time she stayed over. One of those fast ice storms came up last winter while she was here doing homework with Harry. We didn’t want her to drive in it, so she stayed in the guest room. I called her father, of course, to tell him where she was.”

  She placed two cookies on a small plate and set it in front of me. “I see. Does she come by often, just to visit?”

  Karen shook her head. “Not all that often. Once in a while, they do homework together. Sometimes she gives him a ride somewhere. My husband Mark is quite strict about letting him use the car. Says if a bike was good enough for him, it’s good enough for Harry until he can buy his own car. Actually, I think Mark would be happier if Harry had more male friends, rather than being quite close with Zoe and Dana Portman. I think he feels male bonding is more important than being friends with two nice girls. I tell him it will all balance out, but I think Mark still regards it as a bit sissy. Although when you see Harry on the ice, sissy definitely does not come to mind.” She gave a barely visible, tight little smile.

  “These cookies are to die for,” I said with a mouthful. “But Harry and Zoe are good friends?”

  “Oh, yes, I would say so. I don’t think it’s a sweetheart thing, but friends, yes. They talk about going to college together, but with Harry wanting to be the new Bobby Orr, and Zoe planning to be another Katharine Hepburn, and Dana all set for Yale, that seems a bit remote.”

  We both laughed. Then Karen frowned. “If we can get Harry to college at all. It costs so much nowadays, we’re going to need a dozen student loans and an athletic scholarship to boot. I just hope his grades are good enough. His father doesn’t encourage him. Mark doesn’t feel college is all that important. I do. I think it’s usually the difference between a career and a job.”

  I agreed it was a problem these days and then asked, “Has Harry seemed upset or worried lately?”

  “As I think of it, he has been edgy of late. Naturally, anyone would be with a friend missing. I wonder why he didn’t tell us? We had no idea.”

  I finished the second cookie and covered for Harry with a quibble. “I imagine he was asked by her father to keep it quiet. I think Reed feels it’s safer for Zoe, the fewer people who know. The police think just the opposite: the more people who are aware, the more likely someone will see or hear something. But Reed Catlett is quite adamant on the privacy issue.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d be shouting it from the treetops if it were my child, asking help from the entire town. So, I’m afraid I’ve not helped you. I hope it all works out well for her. She’s a nice girl. Even my husband is fond of her, and he’s not big on teenagers in general.”

  “Karen, I don’t usually toss this kind of information around. I don’t think it’s up to me to do so, but we really are desperate for any kind of lead in this case. Did you know Zoe is a lesbian?”

  She turned pure white. “My God, no. Don’t ever tell that to Mark.”

  “Why not?” I was startled at her overreaction.

  “Oh, I’m making too much of it.” She waved her hand as if erasing a blackboard. “It’s just that he doesn’t especially like gays.”

  And there were the incipient tears again. What the hell was going on here?

  “He picked a damn strange town to live in.”

  She shrugged. “He was born here. It’s nothing really. He just had a bad experience in school.” She stopped.

  I wasn’t about to leave it there. “What do you mean by ‘bad’?”

  She sighed. “When Mark was in his teens, he was slender, with big blue eyes and blond curly hair.” She rolled her own eyes. “I thought he was gorgeous. So did some of the gay boys, and one or two of them came on to him. Nothing serious, and certainly not violent, but some of his own friends, who knew he wasn’t gay, teased him about it. I guess it just sort of soured him on gays. You know, kids can be sensitive about that sort of thing. Actually, I don’t know why he still lets it bother him.”

  I had a pretty good idea, but I wasn’t about to delve into Mark’s psychological pottage. “I see. And you don’t know anyone else who might have some hard feelings about Zoe?”

  “No.” Karen smiled. “Zoe would be hard to dislike. She’s bright, funny, nice . . . and her sexual orientation is her own business as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Thank you for talking with me and for the great cookies.”

  “Sorry I w
asn’t of more help. May I tell Harry you were here?”

  “Oh, sure. And remind him if he’s thought of anything or heard anything, be sure to let us know.”

  I thanked her again for the cookies, assuming it would be impolite to ask her to sell me the batch.

  Moving right along, I reached the Hengel residence.

  The doorbell played a couple of bars from “Home, Sweet Home,” and the last few notes were accompanied by the heavy tread of someone approaching the door. It opened to reveal a corpulent woman with thinning white hair and still-bright blue eyes that looked at me warily.

  “Yes?”

  “Good afternoon Ms. Hengel. I’m Alex Peres, and I—”

  “You must be Jeanne’s girl. You look just like her.” Now a smile played tentatively around the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes, I am, and thanks for the compliment.”

  “Come on in.” She got that wary look again. “You aren’t selling anything, are you?”

  “Nope. Not since I quit peddling Girl Scout cookies. You’re safe.” I grinned.

  We went into a bright living room with chintz-covered, over-stuffed furniture and blond wood tables, probably avant-garde in 1950. Mrs. Hengel pointed me to a seat on the couch, into which I sank, and from which I doubted I would ever rise. She settled herself in a less enveloping chair across from me, wiggling into a comfortable position rather like a dog settling tail-first into his bed.

  “Mrs. Hengel, I’m a deputy police officer. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Zoe Catlett has gone missing, and—”

  “Yes.” Her face had lost its cheery look. “Rob came and told me. Didn’t want me to hear it as gossip and be shocked. My heart, you know. He’s such a sweet boy. Don’t tell me you’ve got bad news.” She raised her right hand to her left breast in what I thought was a gesture of long habit, designed to warn bearers of bad news to tread gently around her sensitive heart.