"I'll pass for now. Thanks again for your directions to Plymouth Willows."
"Don't mention it."
No expression on the face or inflection in the voice. “I talked with Andrew Dees, by the way."
Edie topped off the draft. Without looking at me, "Was he any help to you?"
"Some. You seen him around today?"
"No. Try the photocopy shop."
I said, "You know, if I did something last time to—"
Edie paused with the draft long enough to fix me with hard-set eyes. "Wasn't you. Just a bad memory that got stirred up." Two different patrons called out to her by name. "Look, it's busy, and I have to go."
I watched her carry the mug down the bar, sloshing a little onto her shaking hand.
* * *
Filomena was behind the counter, her back to me when I came in the door. As she turned, the "May I help you?" smile seemed to die on her face.
I said, "I'm still looking for Mr. Dees. John Cuddy?"
The Asian features stayed somber. "I remember you."
"And you're Fi, right?" I grinned at her. "Short for Filomena."
"You upset Andrew very much."
"Not intentionally. I think you'll remember that too."
Filomena didn't reply.
I said, "I'd really like to speak with him."
"He's not here."
I looked down to the telephone she'd used on my first visit. No buttons were lit. "Any idea how I can reach him?"
Filomena chewed on the inside of her cheek. "What's going on?"
"Like I told Mr. Dees the last—"
"I mean, what's really going on?" in a rising voice. "You upset Andrew more than I've ever seen, and he stayed that way until . . ."
"Until when, Fi?"
More chewing on the cheek. "I wish I knew whether to trust you."
"I don't know what I can say to persuade you. Trust is something you feel. Or don't feel."
Finally the gracious smile. "You remind me of my husband, a little."
"The one from the service, that you met in the Philippines."
Filomena nodded. "He says I'm crazy, but Andrew's been so nice to me for so long, I can't just leave the place closed up."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I haven't seen Andrew since noontirne yesterday. I had to ferry the kids around early this morning, but when I got here, instead of relieving him, it didn't look as though the place had been opened up yet." She gestured in different directions. "The cash register, the answering machine, even the lights."
"Any messages on the rnachine?"
“Just a couple of the regulars, asking if we could do rush orders or special jobs—the usual, you know? But then the same thing today—follow-up calls, like Andrew hadn't been here yesterday afternoon? And a couple other customers stopped in during the last few hours, asking if he was sick or something because they came by earlier and we looked closed up."
"You tried calling him?"
"At home, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I tried, but no answer." Filomena gestured again, this time hopelessly.
"Tell you what," I said. "How about if I take a run over to Plymouth Willows, see if I can get anything from his neighbors?"
The gracious smile. "Thanks."
"And by the way, I don't think you're crazy."
"Huh?"
"For trying to help Mr. Dees here."
The smile got a little braver. "I'll tell my husband."
Heading south on Main Street, I crossed over the bridge, making the first right after the scenic overlook on the left. The sign Paulie Fogerty had been replacing now hung from its post at the front driveway for Plymouth Willows, and I turned into it.
Cruising the access road, I checked the clusters of townhouses in each leaf of the shamrock circuit. No brown Corolla hatchback, no orange Porsche 911. I did pass Fogerty near the tennis courts, still wearing the faded green maintenance outfit. He was on his hands and knees, carefully weeding around a lightpole. The rest of the grounds looked as good as they had two days earlier.
Parking in front of the yellow-trimmed cluster, I went up the path to the townhouse second from the end and pushed the buzzer over DEES. I heard the "bong" inside, but nobody came to the door. I tried again. Still nothing. I considered the possibility of slipping around back and forcing the sliding glass door, but I didn't want to surprise a neighbor lounging on his or her rear deck in the late afternoon sunshine. I also thought I might get a little more mileage from my cover story, maybe enough to find out when the last time was that anybody had seen Andrew Dees.
* * *
"Yes?"
The man standing behind the opened door of the last unit on the left was Steven Stepanian, who looked even more like his wife in real life than he had in the photo she'd shown me. Tall and lanky, he wore gray slacks and a conservative tie with a short-sleeved dress shirt that revealed long, hairy forearms.
"Mr. Stepanian, my name's John Cuddy. I spoke with your wife on Wednesday?"
A brooding expression, and I remembered thinking from the portrait that he might not smile much. "Well, she's upstairs getting dressed. We're due at a school committee meeting shortly."
"This won't take long, and maybe you can help me."
Stepanian seemed to weigh something, then said, "All right, but just a few minutes."
He let me in, then closed the front door and moved to the living room. "Dear?"
A muted voice from the second level. "Almost ready, Steven."
"There's a Mr. Cuddy here to see you?"
"Oh, I'll be right down."
Stepanian turned, motioning toward one of the plushy chairs. I sank deeply into it, the thing nearly swallowing me again.
He perched on the matching sofa, much as his wife had done on my first visit. "What's this all about?"
"I'm talking to people in the complex about the Hendrix Management Company?
"Oh, yes. Lana mentioned that somebody had been doing a survey. You're representing another condo association, right?"
"That's right." `
"Well, I'm sure Lana told you everything Wednesday that I could now. She's really the expert on Plymouth Willows."
Stepanian nearly smiled. A small beginning.
"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to tell me if you'd seen Andrew Dees lately."
"Andrew?"
"Yes. He's the only neighbor in this cluster that I haven't been able to interview, and I like to be thorough."
The brooding expression returned. "Well, I'm—"
"Hello, Mr. Cuddy." Lana Stepanian came down the steps in a light wool dress, wearing one-inch heels instead of flats tonight. "I didn't expect to see you again."
I stood as her husband said, "Dear, Mr. Cuddy wants to see Andrew Dees about his survey."
Reaching the living room level, she looked from him to me. "You didn't catch him the last time?"
"Afraid not."
"Oh, that's too bad. I'm not sure when he'll be back."
"Back?"
"Yes." She looked to her husband again. "Didn't Steven tell you?"
"Lana, do you really think it's appropriate?"
I said, "Is what appropriate?"
"Oh." She seemed to concentrate. "I think it'd be all right. We saw Andrew—actually, Steven you're the one who really noticed him doing it."
I turned toward the sofa. "Noticed him doing what?"
Stepanian shrugged. "I was here in the living room last night, just turning out the lights on my way to bed, when I saw Andrew down by the curb, loading some suitcases into a car."
"Suitcases? Plural?"
“Well, some sort of luggage, but, yes, more than one piece."
"And you said a car, not his car?"
"Yes. Andrew drives a Toyota. This was a Porsche. Yellow or orange, quite flashy."
Olga's. "About what time was this?"
"Time? Oh, I don't know. Maybe eight, eight-fifteen?"
"And you go to bed that early
?"
Lana Stepanian said, "We read to each other sometimes. It's very soothing and helps us fall asleep."
She said it in the neutral way I'd picked up before, no double meaning or sarcasm in her voice.
I looked to Steven. "Was Dees alone?"
He cocked his head, just like Lana had done when I'd asked her odd questions from my "survey" form. "I didn't see anyone else, but we did—"
"Steven?"
Stepanian stopped. His wife said, "Don't you think that might be . . . gossiping?"
"You're right, dear." He turned to me. "Let's just say we heard some loud voices through the wall last night."
"Before you saw Dees at his car."
"Yes."
"Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?"
"Andrew and a woman, I think."
"Mr. Cuddy," said Lana Stepanian in her neutral voice, "what possible difference could this make to your client?"
She had a point. "Probably none. It just seems a little strange, don't you think?"
"Wel1, perhaps. But it is Andrew's business, after all."
Steven Stepanian checked his watch. "Mr. Cuddy, we really have to go."
"Sure. Sorry to have kept you."
"That's all right. Good luck with the survey."
Still never smiling, he ushered me to the door.
* * *
From the old print couch, the gravelly voice said, "You're surprised I'm downstairs, right?"
"A little. Last time I was here—"
"You had to climb up to my bedroom. Well, I may feel like dogshit afterwards, but," Norman Elmendorf ticked the nail of an index linger off the aluminum braces leaning against his couch, "these things let me move around a little. Not great, but enough to get by while Kira's out."
I'd had to shunt some magazines off the chair across from him. The bottle—or more likely, another bottle—of Jim Beam rested on the floor, next to the rubber feet of the braces. "Wil1 she be gone long?"
"Didn't say."
"How are things going with the VA?"
"You kidding? You were only here two, three days ago? The VA, it's like a glacier. Hasn't moved an inch in that kind of time." Elmendorf squinted at me. "What's the matter, you didn't find out what your people needed from what we told you before?"
"Some, but not enough. I never got the chance to talk with Andrew Dees."
"Dees? Huh." The expression came out as a laugh. "I think he's got lady trouble."
I stopped. "I thought you told me on Wednesday that you barely knew him?"
"That's right. But he had his back door—the sliding-glass thing?—or something open last night, because I could hear him and her going at it through my bedroom window, even with the Robinettes' unit in between us."
"An argument?"
"Yeah. Dees yelling and her half-apologizing and half-yelling back. It was a doozy, whatever the hell they were getting into."
"What time was this?"
"I don't know. Around eight, maybe?" Pretty much what the Stepanians had said. "Could you tell what they were fighting about?"
"Not really. Just caught a couple of things, like Dees saying, 'I can't believe you hired him,' and her saying,
'What was I supposed to do?' "
"Anything else?"
"Not that comes to mind. I was kind of trying to figure them out, when all of a sudden it stopped, like they quit, or at least closed the door."
"The glass one."
"Or a window. Whatever I was hearing them through. But it sounded to me in my bedroom like they were on the first floor of his place."
"You didn't happen to see an orange Porsche parked outside here, did you?"
"What, last night?"
"Yes."
"No, no, I didn't. But to be honest, I wasn't downstairs at all yesterday." Then Elmendorf squinted at me again.
"What the hell does an orange Porsche have to do with anything?"
"Just a thought."
* * *
When the door to the Robinette unit opened, I could hear the soft strains of an R&B ballad in the background, a male vocalist whose voice I recognized but whose name I couldn't recall. James Robinette wore just baggy basketball shorts, no socks, shoes, or even a shirt. His upper body had that drawn and quartered look of the undeveloped athlete. Frowning, he said, "What do you want?"
Cooler than the greeting I'd gotten my first time. "I wonder if we could talk a minute?"
"Mom's not here."
"That's okay. Maybe you can help me."
"Can't." Robinette inclined his head toward the living room behind him. "Busy."
"Won't take long."
"It's taken long enough, man."
He started to close the door on me. I put my foot against it, which stopped both the door and him.
Robinette said, "Yo, man, why you hassling with me?"
Less of the preppy, more of the street. "I'm not. I just need the answers to a few questions about last night."
"Last night?"
"Yes. Were you here?"
"No way. Had a band thing. 'Fall Concert,' over at Tabor."
"What time did you leave Plymouth Willows for the school?”
"I don't know. Had to be there by eight, so maybe a little after seven."
"And when did you get home?"
"Why you want to know all this, man?"
"What harm can it do to tell me?"
Robinette held up his hands. "Oh, who cares? Maybe eleven, eleven-thirty?"
"Kind of late for a band concert."
A roll of the eyes. "Yo, man, we went out with some of the other kids and their folks afterwards, all right?"
"We?"
"My mom and me. What difference does it make?"
"You happen to see an orange Porsche parked outside?"
Robinette stopped, grew determined. "No."
"You know who it belongs to?"
"I didn't see the car, man, how am I supposed to know who owns it?"
"Thought maybe you might have seen it before."
"Well, you thought wrong. You want to leave now?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I have someplace else to go."
* * *
In the gathering dark, I went back to the Prelude and drove toward the tennis courts. No Paulie Fogerty, but then I noticed that the door to his little prefab house seemed to be open.
Getting out of my car, I was almost to the doorway when Fogerty came through it. He blinked, trembling a bit, first from surprise, then maybe from trying to place me.
"Hi, Pau1ie."
"Hi." The hang-jaw smile. "Did you see Mr. Eh-men-dor?"
“Yes."
"He show you how to use your camera right?"
"We talked about it. Can I talk to you?"
A blink. “We are talking."
"Right. Can we go inside?"
Another blink with the nod. Then he turned and I followed him into the small living room.
There was a La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the television set, a TV tray to the side of the recliner. Animal crackers were scattered on the tray, which also held a glass of milk. Videos of some Disney animated features lay jumbled next to the VCR, a cable box on top of the television itself.
From hooks on the wall hung gardening equipment, like his rake, hedge clippers, and so on. Next to the gardening gear was a snow shovel, an ice scraper, and a few more inter-weather tools.
No pictures or photos, though, and no other furniture in the room, either. "Looks comfortable, Paulie."
"Yeah." Fogerty went toward the recliner, then stopped.
"Wait." He bustled into another room, I assumed the bedroom. I could see a second door, probably for a bath. The galley kitchen was spotless.
Fogerty came back with a gray, metal folding chair, opening it for me. I thanked him and sat down as he took the recliner and leaned it back to the halfway position. Then he seemed to notice the glass on his tray and started to get up. "You want some milk?"
"No, thanks."
"
You sure'? I got more, and it's good milk."
"No, really." I leaned forward in the chair, my elbows on my knees. "Paulie, I was wondering if you were around here last night."
"I'm around every night."
“What time did you go to bed?"
"I don't know. After dinner, I think about the tools for a while, so I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow. Then I watch TV till I get sleepy."
"But you worked on the grounds before that."
A blink. "The grounds?"
"Around the complex here?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm the super. I work for Mr. Hend'ix."
"When you were working, did you see Mr. Dees?"
A blink and a nod. "I see him all the time."
"Did you see him last night?"
Just the blink. "I don't know."
"Did you see him loading anything into a car?"
"He has a lot of papers. I help him sometimes.”
I recalled Dees as I'd first seen him, carrying a box and paperwork while coming down the path of his unit. "How about suitcases?"
"No. I help him with his papers. Boxes, sometimes? "Paulie, I mean, did you see Mr. Dees putting any suitcases in a car?"
"No. I help him with his papers in boxes."
"How about an orange car?"
The hang-jaw smile. "The nice lady."
I made myself slow down. "Yes, the nice lady. Did she come to visit Mr. Dees?"
"She comes to see him a lot."
"How about last night, Paulie?"
"Last night'?"
"Yes. Did you see her last night?"
The blink. "I don't know, but she's nice. I helped her too."
"Helped her how?"
"She had a lot of bags one time, from the store. She couldn't carry them all, so I helped her."
"And she drove an orange car."
A blink and a nod. "The only orange car I ever saw."
"Did you see the car last night?"
Blink. "I don't know."
Dead end. "Paulie, how did the nice lady get into Mr. Dees' house?"
"Unit."
"I'm sorry?"
"Unit. Mr. Dees has a unit, just like Mr. Eh-men-dor and everybody. I have the house." He looked around proudly.
"Unit, right. How did the nice lady get in?"
A blink and a nod. It was hypnotic after a while. "She had a key."
I smiled. "Do you have a key too?"
"No. I'm the super. I don't need a key for the trees and the grass and the tennis courts and the—"
"Right, Paulie. Do you know if anybody else has a key to the unit Mr. Dees lives in?"
Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 18