He looked very uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you found another foot?” I asked. One small part of me wasn’t laughing.
“We found nothing. Jeanine and I got there right after Mrs. M. got home from evening church. The Sunday lesson must have been on criminal law. I asked Mrs. M. for a key, told her what we wanted to do and why and stood there smiling, with my hand out like a fool. The next words out of her mouth were, ‘Do you have a warrant?’”
“Oh, no.”
“Yep. I told her she could give us permission to go in. She said no way. She had rented it to Janet and only she could give us permission to search. She added—you know, she began to sound like a defense lawyer. She added that as far as she knew, no crime had been committed there and no one was inside in danger. So, no warrant, no key. And Mrs. M.—Mrs. Madeiros—shut the door in my face.”
He shook his head, still in disbelief. “And this morning, we’ve been so short-handed, I haven’t had anybody to start chasing down a judge. I’ll do it when I can. The hell with Sonny. What’d he find so damn interesting in Connecticut, anyway?”
“Tell ’em, tiger!”
Fargo and I walked up to the Wharf Rat Bar, where I tethered him to the big anchor and went inside. The usual suspects were gathered at their back table. They became silent as I entered, which told me they’d been talking about me—or Janet—or Sonny—or Terry before I came in.
I waved and called out, “Carry on, gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt.”
I stopped at the bar, where Joe produced a Bud and his usual sour grin. “You interrupted, all right. They are about evenly divided as to whether you gave the girl your car so she could escape and meet you somewhere later, or she stole the car and has run off to meet Sonny, wherever he is. Harmon defends you both. He says you gave the girl your car, but that Sonny was waiting, hiding down the road to follow her into New York City, knowing she will lead him to the drug king-pin who is behind the whole thing.”
“Jesus. You know, I could make millions as Harmon’s agent. Every sentence he utters could be the plot for a made-for-TV movie.”
“Honey, doncha know it! Now, I figure she got your car away from you somehow. What did she do, pull a gun on you?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” I told him more or less the truth. “We were on the beach. I gave her the keys to get something out of my car, which made it real simple for her. She just plain drove away. And she’s a young woman, Joe, not a girl.”
“Yeah, whatever. She kill that guy who came up caught in Ocean Pearl’s net? And that old guy in the store over in Plymouth?”
“Nobody’s sure of anything.” I felt sick, hearing the words so casually uttered. No doubt Joe was secretly celebrating his good luck in striking out with Janet.
“They just want to talk to her. Joe, I need food.” I sipped my beer till Joe got back with my lunch, and mused on how information seemed simply to percolate through Provincetown. You never even heard a jungle drum. Something happened and everybody in town knew about it, inaccurately usually, but with incredible speed. Finally, Joe arrived bearing a pastrami sandwich with French fries and a big slice of half-sour pickle. I figured it was a health-food lunch: meat, grain, vegetable and a little something green.
I took the last hefty bite of the sandwich outside to Fargo and we started for home. Today I hadn’t felt easy, even in the Rat. Ordinarily the Rat’s regulars amused and amazed me, and actually, I rather liked them. Today their half-concealed winks and awkward grins and half-whispered comments had irritated me. I was at loose ends. I wished someone would call, arrive, shout, send smoke signals. I wished something would happen. It felt like the air before a summer storm: oppressive, unnaturally still. It felt like the world was . . . pending.
When we reached Mather Street, I hesitated and then turned onto it toward Janet’s apartment. Suddenly, I wanted very much to search it myself, to see what I could learn, which was probably nothing. Except possibly for one thing: money. According to the Plymouth Police, Terry and Janet had presumably robbed four stores in the Plymouth area that night. In three of them, they had tied up the owners and in the fourth had killed the old man. All told, it was estimated their night’s take was around $1,400 to possibly $1,700 in cash. Where was it now?
Had it gone down in the bay with Terry? Maybe, but not likely. Assuming Janet shot Terry, she probably retrieved any proceeds he might have been holding from the night’s work before dumping him overboard. Too bad for her she had missed his wallet in his inner jacket pocket. Although it had held very little money, it had held his ID. If he had remained unidentified, she might well have been home free. There was basically nothing that could easily have led to her.
Anyway, she wouldn’t keep over a thousand dollars cash on her all the time, so it was probably somewhere in the apartment. If I found any money, that would give me some idea how much she did have with her and how far she could get before she either had to risk using a credit card or possibly try a robbery on her own.
I found myself at Mrs. Madeiros’ back door and knocked, and knocked again until she finally heard me over the TV and opened the door. She’d known me since I was a pup, and I had little doubt she’d let me into Janet’s place if I had some fairly reasonable explanation as to why I wanted in. I smiled sweetly and lied without a qualm: I had recently left a library book at Janet’s that was due today. Janet had gone to Boston and wouldn’t be back until late tonight. Could I please borrow the key?
Nobody in Ptown liked to return a library book late. It wasn’t the twenty cents fine per day. Most of us could handle that. It was the sad, disappointed look of the librarian as she told you, “Others have been waiting for that book, dear. We really must be more thoughtful in the future, mustn’t we?”
Mrs. Madeiros went for the bait and rummaged on a keyboard mounted near the door, finally handing me a key tied on a bright pink ribbon. “No need to bother me when you finish with it. Just leave it on the back porch, Alex. And be sure you get that book back today. They’ll be trying to arrest her for that, next.” She gave Fargo an absent pat and hurried back to Sally Jesse and her merry band of publicity-hungry psychopaths.
I put the key in the apartment lock and found it already unlocked. Janet was a trusting soul, apparently. The first things I saw were the flowers on the coffee table, but I managed to look quickly away.
Fargo was whuffling and exploring. I heard his nails click on the kitchen vinyl. That reminded me that there should be a couple of cold ones in the fridge. I popped one and then flopped into the easy chair, just to calm myself. I felt like a sneak thief. I unflopped rapidly from the lumpy, sprung springs in my butt. I moved to the dining table. The straight chairs at least looked safe. The peaches were still piled invitingly in the bowl. I didn’t look at them, either. Beside them was a lined composition book, which I opened.
In Janet’s neat, square handwriting was written:
Fargo
Would like to put
An embargo
On sex
I laughed, perhaps not a major poet, but a strong one. I flipped to the next page. It was entitled ‘A Novel Novel’ and under it was written:
I’m supposed to be writing a novel, and for a while I thought I mighty actually try it. How silly, I’ve no idea even where to start. I guess it should be autobiographical. Aren’t most first novels? Well, I can do that—and it will be a very short book . . . ‘She was born and she tried very hard, but they would not let her. The End.’
Did she really feel that way? Was the whole world ‘they’? What a heartbreakingly sad commentary on her life. How terrible to feel that the whole world was out to get you. She must have felt she was living beneath a giant fly swatter.
Beneath the ‘Novel Novel’ was a hurried scribble. “Alex, if you are reading this, know that I love you and pray for miracles.” When the hell had she written that?
At that point the beers caught up with me and I walked into the bathroom. Rinsing my hands later, I realized there was no toothpa
ste or brush in evidence. And the little open glass shelves held no makeup, no mouthwash, hairbrush, comb, aspirin . . . no nothing. Damn! I stepped to the closet and slid open the door. Completely empty except for a ratty, saltwater stained, old sweatshirt on a hanger. I ran my hand along the top shelf back into the corner and nearly jumped out of my skin.
At first I thought I had picked up a small animal, but realized it was merely a soft, knitted watch cap.
I have a friend—a woman of a certain age—who swears that every woman immediately looks like a man when she dons a watch cap. I think that may be true of post-menopausal women who already look a bit androgynous. I’m not so sure of young, feminine women. Anyway, I would agree that as part of an overall disguise, to give a young woman a masculine air, it would be quite effective. I thought of my mental image of Janet yesterday and wondered what stories this cap could tell.
Turning to the bureau, I opened drawer after drawer. Empty, empty, empty. I slammed the last one shut and straightened up in utter confusion and frustration. When the hell had Janet emptied out her apartment? And where had she put everything?
Had she known she was going to take my car and run? Had she stashed her clothing somewhere to be picked up later? Had she destroyed it all as some possible evidence? Or did she actually have an accomplice who had taken the clothing and met her somewhere up Cape? Were they driving west together now, laughing at the simple Cape Cod rustics they had so thoroughly misled?
“Don’t turn around, Alex, I have a gun. Don’t make me use it. Put your hands on the bureau where I can see them.”
I did as I was told, but risked a quick peek over my shoulder and found myself staring down the barrel of a Belgian Browning .32 automatic pointed directly at my spine.
Chapter 14
Janet was no fool. She was about six feet away, giving me no chance to grab for the gun, even if I could work up the guts to try. I thought of trying to yank out a bureau drawer and throw it at her, but that would be clumsy. Probably I would just sprawl at her feet. The table lamp was out of reach. So a little light conversation seemed my only hope.
“Well! How did you get back here? I thought you’d be tooling down the road toward Seattle by now. Where’s my car, by the way?” I told myself I was speaking casually, not exactly easy with a gun at your back.
“Safe and sound, parked right in there.” She pointed at the wall in front of me.
“In the garage? Then where’s Mrs. Madeiros’ car?” Nothing made any sense.
“Around the corner. I knew yesterday you would head for a phone to have roadblocks put up at the bridges. I’m not angry, Alex.
It’s simply what you would have to do. Believe me, I understand.” She sounded almost serene, perhaps amused. And that scared me badly. “But I figured I’d have plenty of time to get back in this direction before you even made it to a phone, before anyone would look for me in any direction.”
I heard the familiar smile in her voice and wondered if I were mad. “I knew Mrs. M. never locked up while she dozed through TV all afternoon,” Janet explained. “So it was a cinch to lift the car keys off her board. She had mentioned she only used her car Sundays for church and Thursdays for errands. That gave me several days before she would realize it was gone or yours was here. So I just jockeyed the cars, threw a few things in hers and took off.”
Despite my shaky position, I laughed. “I hope you didn’t try to take off very fast.”
She laughed back. “That car’s not meant for the Daytona 500, is it?” Gee, we were getting more comfy by the minute. Could we split that other beer?
Plump Mrs. Madeiros, with her pouter-pigeon bosom, firmly curled white hair and thick glasses might look like everybody’s grandmother, but secretly she was the poster girl for Demolition Derby. I guess the politically correct phrase would be mechanically challenged. Mrs. M. had never mastered the motor car. The Madeiros vehicle had left markings on about every roadside tree, bush, phone pole and street marker in town. And it had the scars to show for it. I had visions of a fleeing Janet, leaving a trail of metallic bread crumbs for us to follow—a side mirror falling off in Albany, a bumper guard in St. Louis, a door handle in Billings—as she putt-putted across America in search of Seattle and Chez Veronique.
“I don’t understand, Janet. You could be cruising through Chicago as we speak. Why did you turn back?” One small part of me actually wished she’d made her escape a success. Most of me knew that she must be arrested and tried. All of me wished she were anywhere in the world except here . . . and now!
“The cops were at the bridge,” Janet said. “They didn’t give me a second look. Still, just their being there unnerved me. I got very shaky, I felt I was driving erratically. All I needed was to be conspicuous or have an accident. Across the bridge, I checked into one of those dinky motels.” She stopped, as if she had answered my question.
“But you came back,” I prompted. Even now, with all I knew and all I could reasonably surmise, I somehow hoped she might be miraculously innocent. I hoped she might say Terry had forced her cooperation at gun-point . . . and had videotape to prove it. I hoped she would say that in Stamford Sonny would find a real, live Janet look-alike—Jane Peaches—who had been Terry’s actual conspirator. The pistol at my back? Even the most blameless sometimes resort to draconian measures to prove their innocence.
“Not right then. I ate something and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking . . . thinking. Thousands of thoughts jamming my mind. For example, I made myself a promise. When I open my restaurant, every morsel of good, tasty leftover food will go to a homeless shelter every day. Isn’t that a good idea?”
“Excellent,” I agreed. One of those little bribes we all offer God from time to time, but not terribly germane to this conversation, I added silently. I glanced back at Janet’s face. Her expression was one of genuine altruism. How could she look so caring, so innocent? My mind felt blurry.
“Alex, I finally realized what had gone so wrong with my life. I’ve always put my faith in the wrong people, people who were weak. Remember? My school counselor. My mother. My commander, worrying about the brass. Terry, hoping anybody would take care of him. All weak. No strength among them. No wonder they all let me down.”
She actually gave the gun a friendly little waggle. I cringed. “But you, Alex, were different. You didn’t depend on anyone but yourself . . . and maybe a little bit on Fargo.”
And I thought of Fargo. What would happen if she shot me? Of course Mom and Sonny would care for him, love him. But would he be happy? Wouldn’t he miss me? I felt tears well up. Right then I would have gone on my knees and agreed to anything Janet wanted. Just let me live, live! But she was still touting her new-found philosophy of life.
“Yesterday, when you started talking about going to the police and lawyers, I really thought you had let me down like everyone else.”
“Janet, I’ll still try to help.” I hoped my voice sounded reasonable and confident. “I mentioned this lawyer I know—”
“No, Alex. I know you’ll help me when you understand. But not that kind of help. Once I explain how very little I was involved in this mess, you will understand and do what’s right for us. You’ll see. I was barely on the periphery. That’s why I brought the gun in, so you would have to listen instead of talk. Please don’t make me use it.”
That was the second time she’d admonished me not to ‘make’ her use the gun. So, if she killed me, it would be my fault—the result of something I had done, or not done, to let her down. Well, nothing was ever Janet’s fault. Why should that differ? And what was this “do what’s best for us?” Did she really think we could continue? I didn’t like the way this game was beginning to go. Janet was now using a new rule book, and only she had read it. I didn’t know the rules but I knew I’d be dead if I strayed outside them.
“I was wondering, Janet. Did you and Terry stay together when you came back to Connecticut?” Nicely, Alex, nicely.
“We didn’t know what to do exc
ept stay away from our families. We got a dreary apartment in Stamford and looked for jobs. Believe me, resigning ‘for the good of the service’ is not the best reference in the world. At last, Terry got a job he hated, teaching kids to sail at a yacht club in Darien. A daily reminder of what he had lost.”
I tried to sound hearty. “I hope you had better luck.” And screw Terry!
“Oh, sure! The only restaurants that would hire me were greasy spoons. I took a job as office manager at a used car place. Big title, little job. But the owners—Mr. and Mrs. Krause—were good to me. I reminded them of their daughter who had drowned a few years back. One nice perk, they let me take a car home off the lot every night.”
This was sounding like her verbal tour of Seattle, but today I wasn’t lying on a beach with a beer. My feet hurt. My neck and back were stiffening by the minute. My best plan now would be just to agree with everything she said, and hope to get her outdoors somehow so I could try to get that gun.
Her voice turned bitter. “The job didn’t pay much. I’d never save enough for my restaurant. I saw myself in that dump forever, getting poorer and poorer. Terry was no help, he was sulky and drinking a lot . . . Oh!” She sounded distressed. I peeked around quickly, hoping she had dropped the gun or picked this fine moment for appendicitis.
“Oh, I just noticed. Your lovely flowers are wilting. One of us should have changed the water. Or put in an aspirin . . . my mama always said to put in an aspirin.”
I actually lost my breath. Janet was disintegrating right before my eyes. Well, right behind my back. What mood would take her next? I did not want her upset. “It’s spring. We’ll have plenty more daffies.” I forced a smile.
Caught in the Net Page 17