scott free

by Unknown Author

  The police could identify Yeats, whose wallet was tucked in the back pocket of his black Dockers. Not until they found the registration of the 2006 Toyota behind the Fraziers’ were they able to surmise that the female was Josefina Merola.

  What happened to Delroy next was all he needed to change his mind about keeping the lorgnette.

  It was not the angry tone of the questioning that frightened Delroy. It was not even that he was grilled so persistently and unfeelingly that he almost began to believe they would somehow implicate him as an accessory. None of what he suffered at the hands of the police, in the grim headquarters on

  Pantigo Road, was responsible for his decision to return the sleek panther lorgnette with the tiny Lucky We inscription.

  It was something else.

  It occurred to Delroy that somewhere there could be a bill of sale for the lorgnette, a record of some sort, even though the Mister did not believe in insurance. If Mrs. Lasher came upon it, she would set out in her relentless way to find it.

  What if Scotti showed it to her mother, or what if someone saw her using it? She could very well end up in that same police station. With a double murder to be solved, and a discovery of this second Lucky We, Scotti could be submitted to the worst kind of brutal treatment. Delroy would not have been surprised if she had been strip-searched . . . and the thought of Scotti enduring that humiliation horrified Delroy. In his mind’s eye he saw the pathetic, stubby penis she had held between her long fingers on the night they first met.

  It was early morning when they finally finished with him, dropping him off at Le Reve.

  Immediately after sneaking up the back stairs, he returned the lorgnette to the bureau drawer along with the last note Len Lasher had written to his wife.

  While Delroy was in the bathroom of the master bedroom applying hydrogen peroxide to his various cuts and scratches, he heard Deanie crying out from her room. He heard the Missus leave the guest room where she had been staying through the Mister’s illness and go in to comfort her daughter. Then Delroy went into his nook, and, as he had so many times, slept in his clothes, leaning back in the recliner.

  Thursday, Friday, the media was filled with speculation about how many kidnappers there were, and which one was the murderer. There were photographs of Nell Slack, Fina Merola, and Liam Yeats in the newspapers and on television.

  Delroy had been called in a few more times to be questioned, but he had not actually seen any of the kidnappers’ faces. As the police began slowly to fit together some of the puzzle (Merola had rented a cottage at Gurney’s Inn; the Slack woman had verified Merola’s connection with Yeats), there was a less hostile ambiance during the proceedings. But Delroy could not bring himself to respond good-naturedly. What he had imagined would be his triumph was nothing of the kind. He had received perfunctory thanks from Lara Lasher, at the same time she had seemed annoyed that he had left the Jeep at Chatfield’s Hole.

  “What do you mean you couldn’t find your way back there?” she’d actually hollered that at him.

  While Scotti’s photos appeared on television and in the newspapers, no cameras had been aimed at Delroy; nor was his name mentioned, only a passing reference to “an employee who delivered the Lucky We.”

  The first thing he had seen when he had arrived at the little house Thursday afternoon was a sheet of the pale blue Le Reve stationery on the coffee table.

  The note was written in Mrs. Lasher’s large script, the T-bars flying off the stems, the upper and lower loops fat and expansive.

  Delroy, my husband would have been so proud of you, as I am. and grateful, too, for your part in Deanie’s rescue.

  I am not reneging on my promise to let you live here rent-free (but you are responsible for u.tilities and upkeep) until Memorial Day, and this is your proof of that.

  I do think the trim should be painted the moment the temperature is consistently mild enough in early spring, and yesterday would not be too soon for the kitchen.

  We will need you at Le Reve through summer and possibly fall, depending on what I decide. Tou will be our traffic manager and genei'al helper-outer at the same pay, with no deduction because of the living situation arranged for you.

  At noon on Saturday in the library, Mr. Lasher’s lawyer will read that part of the will which pertains to the help, and of course you are included.

  With thanks, Lara Lasher.

  It had been in the police station on Wednesday night, as well, that Delroy had made another decision. He wanted to leave Le Reve. The letter from Mrs. Lasher made him all the more determined to go. There was nothing left of that life; there had never been as much to it as he had thought.

  He could not bring himself to ask the Missus for the $300 she had left in the envelope on the cherry chest, which had been gone when he returned to his nook. He had looked everywhere for it, imagining that he’d pushed it aside in his hurry to return the lorgnette.

  Jack Burlingame, the one person at Le Reve he might have mentioned it to, had left for New York early on the morning of Deanie’s return.

  Saturday morning Deanie appeared in the kitchen as Delroy was eating his breakfast.

  “I miss my daddy,” she said. “Do you miss my daddy?”

  “We all miss him, Deanie.”

  “Is that why you’re packing? Are you going back to live at the little house?”

  “No, I’m leaving, Deanie. I’m going to find another job somewhere.”

  “Leaving?” the cook exclaimed as she set a plate of buttered toast in front of him. “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Deanie said, “We’re going away next week. My mother wants to get hold of herself. Is that what you’re going to do?”

  “Yes,” said Delroy.

  The Missus had decided against a funeral and all that the Mister had planned. There would be no mourners flocking to East Hampton, staying at the inns, gathering at Guild Hall and then going by limo to the Green River Cemetery, no enormous luncheon at The Point—none of that. Not now. Maybe a memorial service later in New York City, the Missus said.

  Delroy was surprised that he felt disappointed. He realized that he had been expecting the Mister’s death for so long that at times he believed he had faced it already He hadn’t, though. At odd moments he would find himself teary, remembering small things about the Mister. The way he had worked to master the voice synthesizer, and the first time it had spoken to him in its eerie tone: “Dale Roy L O!” while the Mister had grinned: “L O Dale Roy, L O.”

  But more often when they were alone together Mr. Lasher had jabbered away in his own strange language while Delroy had leaned forward, listening so carefully, learning how to hear him.

  “Dok e, L oy” (talk to me), and Delroy would, telling him about the Amish, his life before he had left Pennsylvania, all that he could recall, and always his memories of Eelan.

  One day, early in his illness, the Mister had made Delroy promise to keep him clean, never to let him smell or drool, to always help him to keep his dignity, his eyes fixed on Delroy’s, “Pwamis me. Pwamis.”

  He had needed Delroy.

  Who else ever had except poor Eelan?

  Delroy would join the servants’ memorial gathering at noon, as Mrs. Lasher had asked everyone to do, and there he would announce his decision to leave Le Reve.

  The only one he sought out to tell was Myrna House.

  Delroy had not seen Scotti since all of this had happened, but he had asked her mother that morning, “Will Scotti still be going to the opera?” “What a memory you have, Delroy! Yes, she’s already left. Tonight, perhaps, you’ll come for dinner with Baba and me.”

  The only item Delroy had not packed was the Lautrec poster that said l’opera. He would take it with him to Tulip Path, and tell Mrs. House it was his way of thanking Scotti for rescuing Deanie. He had been knitting frantically for the past two days, to calm himself through the police questioning, so he had finished the sweater for Baba, too.

  Deanie helpe
d herself to a piece of toast and said, “Will you do me a favor and give my mother the lawnette? I want to show it to my newest best friend before I go away.”

  “Your father told you about it, did he?”

  “Yes. It’s her last surprise from him ever.”

  “I know, Deanie. I’ve kept it in a safe place.”

  “It’s a Lucky We, too. But not the one the kidtrappers took.”

  “Yes, I plan to give it to your mother this afternoon.”

  The cook asked Deanie, “When did you get time to make a new best friend? I made that toast for Delroy, so don’t eat it all.”

  “My new best friend is Scotti House,” said Deanie. “She got us out of the attic and she knows who you are, Delroy, so I guess you know who she is.”

  “I do know who she is,” Delroy said.

  “Can I meet her?” Emma said.

  “I’d like you to meet her,” Scotti said, “because we’ve become good friends.”

  “Did you meet her in that attic you set on fire?”

  “We set your grandmother’s parka on fire, and then we held it up to the smoke alarm. It was the only way we could call attention to ourselves.” “Was this little girl scared to be kidnapped?”

  “Very.”

  “Could I be kidnapped?”

  “No, sweetie, we’re not rich.”

  From the kitchen Jessica hollered in, “You’re a lot richer than you ever were, though. Rich enough to take us out to dinner.”

  “Can we go to dinner with your award money, Daddy?”

  “Reward money. Practice saying Scotti instead of Daddy, honey.” “Can we go out to dinner, Scotti?”

  “Tonight I have to go to the opera, but we’ll do it next Saturday if you want to.”

  “Can Deanie come?”

  “We’ll see . . . and Emma, we have to talk about something if you’re going to meet Deanie. We have to pretend to Deanie that I’m your aunt.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jessica had walked into the living room.

  “I do!” Emma said. “I want to meet Daddy’s new friend.”

  “You see what I mean?” Jessica said. “She’ll slip and call you Daddy.”

  “I will not!”

  “You just did!” Jessica said “Because no one’s here!”

  “Scotti?” Jessica said. “Would you come into the kitchen and look at the cookies I’m baking? They’re so hard!”

  Scotti got up and went with her, saying, “You have to take them out as soon as the chocolate bits start melting. Otherwise you’ll have chocolate rock cookies instead of chocolate chip. . . . Em, honey, open your present.”

  In the kitchen Jessica said, “Put a hold on that meeting with Deanie Lasher. Emma’s not ready.”

  “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be. There’s going to be some trial and error, Jessie.”

  “It’s too soon, darling.”

  “I don’t think so. This $500,000 reward could be a mixed blessing, too. I worry about being outed with all the media hype going on.” “Who’d do that?”

  “Someone who could use some extra money from the Examiner or the. Star, the Post or A Current Affair.’’'’

  “But who knows?”

  “Our ex-neighbors and all the Metamorphs at the institute. I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. Leogrande fast, now that I can afford it. And we’ll stash plenty away for Emma, hmmm?”

  “But what about Sheba Samitses? You were going to help me nail that gang. She’ll be at the Annabel Spa in July.”

  “That’s why I want to get Leogrande to set a date for the surgery,” Scotti said. “If I get a March date, I’ll be fine by July.”

  Scotti opened the oven door and smoke poured out. She put on oven mitts and pulled out the burning Nestle Toll House cookies. She turned the sink faucet on, and Jessica put the mess there.

  “I’ve got to tell my friend Mario,” Scotti said. “I’ve decided that.” “Is he the one who took you home Thanksgiving night?”

  “No. That’s Delroy. He already knows, remember? I don’t have to tell Delroy. And I’m not worried about him anymore, either.”

  “He sounds a little strange, though.”

  Scotti laughed. “And I’m not?”

  “Mom? Scotti?” Emma called. “Come hear my fortune!”

  They wxnt back into the living room. Emma w'as holding the whitefaced doll with the purple hair and red eyes.

  The small, mechanical mouth popped open.

  You’re going to make a new friend!

  “Deanie Lasher!” Emma said. “Right, Aunt Scotti?”

  In ten minutes the servants would gather in the solarium, where they would be told what Len had left each one in his will.

  Deanie kept insisting there was something coming that Lara knew nothing about. Deanie said the only ones who knew were Delroy and herself. Lara could not pry out of her whatever it was, nor could she seem to distract Deanie from the subject of this Scotti House.

  Scotti this and Scotti that and Scotti hung the moon!

  It was one more reason Lara had decided to book a reservation at Hotel Le Toiny in St. Barts, where they could swim and sun themselves, and Deanie could have fun showing off her French. They would leave there after two weeks, the same time the Invictus School would be returning from the Mexico trip. That should be enough time to delete this Scotti from memory, for Lara had no intention of allowing them to meet again. Dr. Mannerheim had agreed with Lara that there was no point in allowing the kidnapping to become an event in Deanie’s memory, no reason for her to befriend her rescuer, who was to be amply compensated for the rescue.

  After Delroy had confessed Len’s suicide plans and explained about the half-acre grave site at Green River Cemetery, Lara had told him again there would be no memorial service, no luncheon afterward for close friends.

  “But the Mister planned everything so carefully.”

  “Things were different then, Delroy. I lmow what Mr. Lasher would want now. Deanie and I will take his ashes to Green River by ourselves and very quiedy say our good-byes. That’s how he would want it. Don’t you think I know my own husband?”

  Why was she suddenly defending her actions to the help?

  She had had her fill of everyone, and certainly of Jack Burlingame. He had left almost immediately after Deanie had come through the front door. They had had a most unpleasant disagreement over the fact Lara had decided to pay the extra $300 she had promised Delroy after he painted the little house. He was living there rent free until Memorial Day! A summer rental could fetch her thousands! And what other guarantee did she have that Delroy would do the painting? She wanted to have the little house ready for realtors to show.

  When Bud Deigh walked into the library, Lara looked up at her lawyer, surprised, for she had asked him to wait in the solarium. He would read the will himself to the small gathering. He was top man at Deigh and Cobb, the law firm Len had dubbed “Pay and Sob.”

  “Mrs. Lasher? There’s something I have to mention before we begin.” “What is it? Is this the something Deanie said was coming?”

  “This has nothing to do with your daughter. No one knows about this. It’s a codicil, Mrs. Lasher.”

  “The codicils don’t pertain to the help.”

  “This one does. You see—”

  She interrupted him. “I know all the codicils.”

  “Not this one. This is one which was there from the time Len was in the wheelchair, but Len wanted it kept private until after his death.” “Kept private?”

  “Kept secret, Mrs. Lasher.”

  “From me?”

  “From everyone.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s a special case. It has to do widi a Delroy Davenport.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes. He’s described in Len’s will as the principal caretaker during his final days.”

  “I hope he didn’t leave him more money.”

  “Not exactly. I’ll read it to you, Mrs. Lasher.” Deigh took a sheet of pap
er from his briefcase, and put on reading glasses. “It says, ‘For Delroy Davenport, my principal caretaker during the last days of my life, one thousand shares of stock in Lasher Communications, to do with as he sees fit, with thanks and the hope he will one day find Eelan.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s spelled capital E, small e-l-a-n.”

  “There must be some mistake. I’ve never heard that name!”

  “There’s no mistake, Mrs. Lasher.”

  “My God! One thousand shares!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is the stock worth?”

  “At yesterday’s closing bell it was worth $104 a share.”

  “So that would be?”

  “That would be roughly $104,000, Mrs. Lasher.”

  “Let me see that!” Lara Lasher said.