by S. J. Rozan
I put my cigarette out. "So Ginny was home, with nothing to do, and she met Jimmy at the soda shop?"
His eyes hardened. "I don't have any idea how they met. And believe me, if I'd known they were seeing each other, I'd have forbidden it."
"How did you find out?"
"I was told yesterday morning, by a friend."
"Why didn't your friend tell you sooner?"
"How the hell do I know?" he burst out, then clamped his jaw shut immediately, the jutting tendons in his neck proof that he was working to contain anger he hadn't wanted to show.
I leaned forward, put the photograph back on his desk. "I don't know where she is, Mr. Sanderson."
"I know where she is." His voice was tight. "She's with Jimmy Antonelli. All I need is for you to tell me where he is."
I didn't say anything. His hard eyes looked me over. He said, shaping his mouth as though the words tasted bad, "Of course, I expect to pay for this information. Whatever a man like you would expect to be paid."
The sun broke suddenly through the dark clouds behind him, streaking the sky with slanted rays. "Mr. Sanderson," I said, "I don't know where Jimmy is. I don't know that your daughter's with him. I don't know that I could find him if I wanted to. But you're right about one thing: I'm a friend of his. I won't obstruct a police investigation, but that doesn't mean I have to be point man on this."
"Goddammit!" he exploded. "Goddammit, Smith, we're talking about my daughter!"
"I'm sorry," I said, toughening myself against the pain in his eyes.
For a moment he didn't speak. Then suddenly his eyes became hard again, and he smiled that firefly smile. "You have a cabin near North Blenheim, don't you? Off Thirty? I hear you come up here a lot. It's a long way from New York. You must like it here."
"Your friend tell you that, too?"
"Actually, I know a good deal about you. I like to know a lot about the people who work for me." He sat, leaned back in his chair, smiled a smile that lasted. It reminded me of his daughter's eyes. "Route Thirty." His manner was musing. "You know, we used to use that road a lot, to truck to our eastern markets, but it's winding and narrow. In my father's day it was fine, but competition's stiffer now. My father founded this company," he interrupted himself. "Did you know that?"
"No," I said.
"Fifty years ago. When I took over, I modernized a lot of things. I updated factory operations and office procedures. But transportation was the big problem. The demand was there, and we had the product, but we couldn't get to market fast enough. I almost moved the whole plant to Georgia. But you know what happened?"
"No."
"The county built me a new road. They were set to upgrade Thirty, until they saw that a new road on the other side of the valley made more sense. I helped them see that. And they got the state to put in a new highway spur for me, right out here. They want to keep me here, Smith."
I said nothing. He went on, "Now, that new road is good, but cuts too far east to do us any good if we want to get to Seventeen. Binghamton, Elmira, central Pennsylvania—those are big markets for us."
He looked out over the parking lot, where a truck painted with vegetables and smiling babies was pulling into a loading dock. "So I've been thinking about Thirty. You know, there's a place about two miles from North Blenheim where you could take Thirty, drop it down the valley, then pull it through around the other side of the mountain. Then you could widen it as it runs south. That would still leave a narrow stretch before North Blenheim, but it's pretty straight there, so that wouldn't be a problem." He turned back, steepled his hands over his chest. "That's a pretty good idea, don't you think?"
He didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. "I think I'll suggest it to the County Economic Development people. I think I'll suggest that while they study the idea of improving Thirty like this, they start condemning the land they'd need to do it. That won't be costly, because none of that land is worth anything. Most of the people who live around there"—he paused, locked his hard eyes on mine—"most of them would be glad to take a few dollars from the state and clear out. Some won't like it, of course. But luckily, they won't have a choice." He spread his hands, palms up. "And if the state decides not to build the road, they can always sell the land again. That would be years from now, of course. These things always take a lot of time."
I watched him across the desk, the two of us sitting motionless in the carpeted room while on the other side of the window cars and trucks crawled around the parking lot and dark clouds scudded across the sky.
"You're blowing smoke," I finally said. "You can't do it."
"Oh, you're wrong." His voice was rueful, self-deprecating. "There are a lot of things I can't do. I can't play cards and I can't sing a note. And I can't seem to find Jimmy Antonelli. But get land condemned in this county? That I can do, Smith. That I can do."
He shuffled some papers on his desk. "Well, I imagine you're a busy man, so I won't keep you any longer. I'll expect to hear from you soon." He rose, stuck out his hand.
I stood. I looked at the outstretched hand, at the baby face, at the beautiful girl in the silver picture frame. I turned, walked to the door, left it open behind me, and went out.
The secretary with the beautiful voice began to smile as I came through the door, but the smile faltered and died when she saw my face.
Chapter 10
I pulled the car hard out of the Appleseed lot and onto the spur road. My jaw didn't start to unclench until I hit the state highway, which Sanderson didn't own.
I fished in my jacket pocket for a cigarette and found that was all I had: one. I shoved it in my mouth, crushed the pack, flung it against the passenger-side door. It bounced. I smoked the cigarette right down to the filter, ground it in the ashtray as I hit the turnoff that would take me to 10 and south through the county to Jefferson.
An Appleseed truck, painted with enormous peaches and cherries, rumbled past me going the other way.
Cherries flowered early in the spring, up here; the three on my land, halfway up the slope between the cabin and 30, were always the first color on the hillside. For years I'd made it a point to be up here when they blossomed, if I could.
I checked to make sure I wasn't being followed. I checked to make sure I didn't have any more cigarettes. I checked to make sure I hadn't missed 10, because the way I felt, I could have zipped right by it and been halfway to Buffalo before I caught on.
In Jefferson I had to stop and ask directions. The ones I got, from a toothless guy in a John Deere cap, were complete to the point of idiocy. My fingers tightened slowly on the wheel as he leaned in my window and ticked off every curve and corner between the center of town, where we were blocking the intersection, and WinterhillRoad.
It turned out the drawing on the flyer wasn't half bad; I might have recognized the little house even without the wooden Winterhill Kitchen sign that stood on the lawn. The house was freshly painted, blue with a darker blue trim and deep red accents. There were carved bits of gingerbread at the eaves and lace curtains in the windows. The porch light was lit, a warm yellow glow in the chilly afternoon.
I parked in a gravel lot by the side of the house. There were three other cars there. None of them was Jimmy's Dodge Ram van and there was no blue truck.
A sign on the front door said Open—Come In in the same calligraphy as the logo on the flyer and the hanging sign. A bell tinkled as I opened the door and stepped inside. The air was scented with spices and the warm, sweet smells of vanilla, yeast, butter, chocolate.
To my right was a staircase, small but with an elegant curve to the bottom steps. Straight ahead was a closed door, and on the left a wall of French doors, which stood open. I went through into a lace-curtained room that held four tables, an antique garden bench, and a display case.
Inside the display case were latticework pies, deep purple filling showing through woven crust; a tall, darkly glossy chocolate cake, and a smaller white one with crushed pistachios sprinkled over it and
one slice missing; a tray of cupcakes glazed in pastel colors; and a basket of star-shaped cookies with tiny gold and silver balls in their white frosting. Pots of coffee and hot water steamed on burners behind the counter, a cappuccino machine gleamed, and a rush basket held foil-wrapped envelopes of fancy teas.
It occurred to me that I was hungry.
A slight young woman with fawn-colored hair and round glasses came through a door behind the counter. I caught a glimpse of bright lights, white tiles, and pies cooling on tall racks. She wore jeans and a smudged white apron. She asked shyly, "May I help you?"
"I'm looking for Alice Brown," I told her, handed her my card.
She read it, nodded, disappeared through the door, and was back in moments to say, "Alice is on the phone, but she'll be right out when she's through. Would you like to sit down while you're waiting?"
I pointed to a plate of thick slices of cranberry bread. "What I'd like," I said, "is to have one of those and a cup of coffee while I'm sitting down."
Smiling, she poured coffee into a dark blue mug, slid the cranberry slice onto a blue china plate. I paid her, took a seat at a table by the window.
The shy young woman disappeared behind the door again.
The coffee was good: fresh and strong with a faint bitter taste of chicory. I put it somewhere up around Eve Colgate's. The bread was rich and crumbly, the cranberries moist, tart, and plentiful.
Outside, the view was over a treeless field curving gently up away from the house. The sky was silvery at the horizon, with heavy iron clouds above.
I'd finished the bread and was halfway through the coffee when the kitchen door opened again and a different young woman came through. She was in her early twenties, I judged, and heavy, as Ellie had said; but she moved with graceful ease, self-assured and quiet. Her white kitchen jacket contrasted with her rich, shoulder-length chestnut hair. Her eyes were large and dark, and there was a scattering of freckles on her high cheeks.
I stood. "Alice Brown?"
"Yes, I'm Alice Brown," she said, looking at me not with hostility but with a clear reserve. Maybe it was just her way; or maybe she had some idea why I was there.
"My name is Bill Smith," I said. "Please, sit down." I held the chair for her and she sat, her back straight, her shoulders relaxed. She folded her hands loosely on the table, gave me a direct gaze.
"I'm a friend of Jimmy Antonelli's," I said as I sat again. "It's important that I speak to him, and I think you know where he is."
"Jimmy," she said. She dropped her eyes to the tabletop. "No, I don't know where he is."
"I'm a friend of his," I repeated. "He's in trouble. Maybe he deserves it, maybe not. Either way, maybe I can help."
"I know who you are," she said evenly. "But I can't help you."
"Tony thought you might."
"Oh." She smiled a little. "I like Tony. I wish he and Jimmy had gotten along better." She stood abruptly, went behind the counter, made a business of making herself a cup of sweet-smelling herbal tea. "Do you want more coffee?" she asked.
"Please. It's terrific coffee."
She brought the pot over, poured, returned the pot to the heat, sat again. She sipped her tea. I waited to see what it was all about.
"Jimmy talked about you a lot," she said, cupping her tea in both hands. "He said you were the only other person who ever took him seriously. He said you didn't make him feel like a punk."
"What did he mean, the only other person?"
"Besides me. I was the other one."
I didn't say anything. She went on, "I suppose Tony told you Jimmy was living here with me for a while."
"This is your house?"
She nodded. "I grew up here. I live alone here now; my father died a year ago." Her face said she still wasn't used to it.
"I’m sorry."
She smiled softly. "Thank you."
I drank my coffee. "The bakery is yours, then?"
"Laura's and Joanie's and mine. That was Joanie you met when you came in."
"And Jimmy?"
She was quiet for a moment, looking out the window. Then she went on. "I got to know Jimmy in the fall. We needed a delivery van and none of us knows about cars. I take my Plymouth to the garage where Jimmy works. I could tell he knew what he was doing, so I asked him to help us find a used van and put it in shape. That's how we got to know each other, driving around looking at vans. At first he did his tough-guy act, but I wasn't interested. Finally we started to just talk. We talked a lot. He wasn't used to that, he said. He said nobody had ever cared what he had to say, except you."
"He never gave anybody much of a chance."
"That's what I told him."
Outside the window the wind ruffled the grasses. I said, "And he moved in with you?"
"Just before Christmas. I knew his reputation, but I didn't care. I knew Jimmy, I thought. And you know what?" "What?"
"I was right. It wasn't a mistake and I'm not sorry."
"But something must have gone wrong."
She nodded. "He wasn't ready. He just wasn't ready. He started seeing someone else. It didn't last long, a couple of weeks. It was over by the time I found out. He felt terrible about it, he said. It was just something that happened, it didn't mean anything. But I told him I didn't even want to start playing that game. I told him to leave."
"When was that?"
She swirled the floating leaves around in the bottom of her teacup, watched their patterns as they settled. "That he moved out? Maybe a week ago."
"Who was the someone else?"
She pushed her teacup away. "Maybe I'm talking too much."
"You haven't said anything that could hurt Jimmy," I said. She didn't answer. "Please," I said. "It's important."
"Her name is Ginny Sanderson."
"Mark Sanderson's daughter?"
"Do you know her?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
"No. But her father is looking for her. She hasn't been home for a couple of days."
Her answer surprised me: "Would you go home, if he were your father?"
I asked, "Do you think she's with Jimmy?" "No."
"Why not?"
"He . . ." she hesitated. "He said she'd dropped him for somebody else."
"Do you know who?"
She shook her head.
"And you don't think she and Jimmy could have gotten back together?"
"No," again.
"Alice," I said, "I've got to find him. I'm not the only person looking for him. A man's been killed. The police are calling it a homicide and they think Jimmy's involved."
"I know." Her fair, clear skin flushed a deep red. "I mean, I know about the killing, and I know it happened at Tony's bar. It was on the news. The man who was killed—Jimmy had talked about him. He talked about all those people. I told him he didn't have to explain things to me, but he said he wanted me to know." She looked at me seriously. "He said that was over. He said he wants something different now." She added quietly, "I hope he finds it."
She peered through the window to the pale horizon, but I didn't think she was watching the clouds. Her dark eyes turned back to me. "I don't think Jimmy killed that man."
"Why do you say that, if you haven't seen him?"
She didn't answer right away. Finally she said, "You don't think he did either." It wasn't a question.
I said, "I want to talk to him."
She gave a small shrug, spread her hands helplessly.
"If he does get in touch with you, will you tell him I'm here and I want to help?"
She nodded.
"My cell phone number is on the card. Or you can always reach me at Antonelli's. Jimmy knows that." I stood. She stood too, and hesitated; then she offered me her hand. We shook; her skin was soft and smooth. She smiled a quiet smile which didn't so much light up her face as allow it to glow softly, from within.
I went back down the porch steps and out to my car. The wind had come up and the clouds had thickened. I drove out of the lot and down the driveway, turni
ng left onto Winterhill Road, the way I had come. The land up here on the ridge was gently rolling. I looked for a spot to pull off and I found a good one, behind a little slope about two hundred yards from the house. The road curved here; someone concentrating on driving, especially at dusk, might pass a parked car and never even notice.
I pushed the seat back, stretched my legs. I turned the CD player on, slipped in the disc of Uchida playing my Mozart Adagio. I could never hope to play with the control she had, the enormous technical mastery that made the piano respond to her precise intention every time, but I could learn from it. My fingers started to feel the music, to move the way your foot will move to where the brake pedal should be when someone else is driving the car. The Baldwin in the cabin, recently tuned, had sounded good these last two nights in the cedar-scented darkness. Now, in the still car, the tips of my fingers, looking for the smoothness and hard edges of ivory and ebony, found only denim and leather and the coldness of the air.
Color drained from the fields and the sky as the day grew old around me. I turned the car on twice, to get a little heat, trying to thaw that deep bone chill that can come from sitting in the cold, not moving. I kept reaching for a cigarette, remembering I had none, cursing first silently, then out loud.
Three cars passed me during the time I sat there, two from the east, one from the west. With each I turned off the tape, listened with the window open for the sound of brakes or slamming doors. In the wide, treeless emptiness the wind, blowing east, would have brought me those sounds, but there was nothing, so I stayed where I was and I waited.
It was longer than I thought, almost two hours, the day close to darkness, when the yellow Horizon I'd been waiting for whisked by. It had been the only Plymouth in the Winterhill lot. I started the car, pulled out without haste. I wanted plenty of room between us on roads as deserted as these.
She drove down into Jefferson and beyond it, picking up 2 heading east. There was a Stewart's a few miles along and she stopped there. I pulled into the lot, engine idling while I watched her shop under the harsh convenience- store light.
She was wearing a blue parka, her glossy chestnut hair half hidden under a blue knit hat. She filled a basket and it didn't take long. Cold cuts, milk, coffee, a six-pack of Bud. After a moment's hesitation, a second six-pack. Something from the sandwich counter in the back, microwaved before it was wrapped and handed to her. At the checkout she bought the Mountain Eagle and the Albany paper, and added a carton of Salems.