by Norma Huss
I sat.
“Exactly why did you break into my house? And why are you here? What did you take beside the catalog?”
Did he expect me to answer all those questions at once?
“And where is Francine’s key?”
That was the answer he wanted. Mr. Talbit, for all his fury, spoke just above a whisper. Vanessa hadn’t mentioned my entry into his house. Did she know? And the door—was it locked to keep me inside, or to keep her out?
“Where’s the key?” Mr. Talbit repeated.
Was I in the catbird seat?
I leaned back in the chair, sinking to a depth quite unsuitable for office work. He walked around me to sit at his desk, so I spun on the chair’s pedestal to face in succession a kitchenette, a table, and a credenza before he and his picture window came into view.
“I have keys,” I said. “Are you talking about a ring of keys, or a single one? What did your key fit?”
Standing suddenly, Mr. Talbit demanded, “Do you have a key, or are you on a fishing expedition? Is this all about a rip-off, because if it is...”
“Oh, no, no!” I said quickly. Then, since my bag lady persona was known, I played to the stereotype. “I get hazy about things sometimes. It’s not that I don’t remember, I remember everything. Like, I had orange juice this morning. And oatmeal with 2% milk. It’s a crime how nobody uses regular milk.”
He didn’t fall for bag lady ditz. “Mrs. Durbin, get to the point.”
I, however, got dramatic. I pulled back and stared, wide-eyed and shocked. “Really, I’m trying to remember.”
He stepped around his desk and kept coming until he stood at arm’s length—close enough to grab me if I ran. “You broke into my house, and now you’ve broken into my office. The police will be notified in two minutes, unless you give me Mrs. Hemingway’s keys.”
I’d prepared for the moment. I opened my bag, made a great show of searching, and produced a ring of keys, none of them Francine’s. “I like keys,” I said, jangling them in his face. “Is your key here?”
He snatched my wad and pawed through them. He hesitated over one similar to the single key and one other, shaking his head. “No!” he said. “What, exactly, is your game? Do you have the key, or don’t you?”
“I may.” It was in my money pocket, not that I’d tell him.
He loomed over me, blocking my way out of the chair. "I don’t believe so.” His voice was ominous, but no louder than a whisper. “Is the key in your backpack? Must I call the police to search you?”
I should have been quivering with fear, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t shake the thought. Had he told his staff about the break in? If he called the police to the office now, he’d have to, and they were clueless. Didn’t he want them to know? It was a gamble, but, yes, I’d push it.
My business persona took over. “I collect keys,” I said crisply. “I have many more than I can carry. I will keep looking. Actually, I can identify a key by its purpose. For instance, there are differences, often minute, between desk keys, door keys, padlock keys, even locker keys.”
A spark of hope flickered in Mr. Talbit’s eyes. “I am looking specifically for a key to a lock box,” he said.
“Oh, yes, a bank lock box,” I repeated, wanting a more precise definition. He didn’t object. “I may be of help to you. I’ll contact you within twenty-four hours.” I pushed the chair back and stood, quite pleased with myself. One does not often get to speak like a television star in a spy drama.
My joy evaporated when I reached the door. It was locked. However, Mr. Talbit unlocked it with still another key, but not before he snarled in my ear, “My wife may discover something valuable was stolen after all.”
His threat was effective. And Vanessa waited with the follow-through. She was, to put it mildly, quite sure I was the devil incarnate, the scum of the street people, and not at all nice.
She had a point, and she may have ranted forever, but Asher appeared. They retired to her desk for a private tête-à-tête.
I wanted to linger within earshot, but Barb called to me. “What was that all about?” she asked. “I mean, so Mr. Talbit wanted to talk, but what could he possibly ask that would disturb Vanessa so much?”
They definitely did not know about the break in. I might need a friend in the office, and Barb wanted information. What topic, beside the key, could I mention?
Of course. “We discussed those overdue files I found, then lost.”
“Was Mr. Talbit concerned?”
I shrugged.
“Why don’t I look into this and meet you for lunch? My treat.”
There were advantages to being openly declared homeless. She suggested the Breakwater at the Waterfront Hilton. Naturally, I accepted. Would she pay for Sylvie if she came along? I didn’t ask.
I was out the door and down the hall when Asher caught up to me. He wanted to meet me too. “I believe we have something of mutual interest to discuss,” he said. “Can we get together?”
Get together with one of my prime murder suspects? That might be fatal. However, I said, “Why?”
“You may hold the key to some vital information about Fran’s death.”
“Key” was the magic word. What did he know? Had Vanessa overheard Mr. Talbit’s questions? Or, were they together in murder as well as love?
If I made a date, I didn’t have to keep it. “Okay. When and where?”
“Do you know Singing Springs Park?”
I nodded, not mentioning that was a favorite night spot for my homeless buddies.
“Behind the tower. Let’s say, tonight at eight?” Then he was gone.
Did he know the park closed at six? Did he know few patrolling cops entered after hours, confident the acres of grass, trees, shrubbery, and hiding places were deserted? Or, did he only think I was unaware? Meet him? No way. I had no desire to be the next body.
I reached Waterfront Hilton well before Barb. I used their lovely restroom to wash and dry my feet. They were killing me. Suddenly, Keisha stood beside me, blinking her teary eyes.
“They fired me,” she said. “I thought I was... They told me I was...doing so well.”
Lord love a duck. A disaster. Her confidence was blown. Briskly, I said, “Then it isn’t your fault. Mind my words. Someone’s relative got your job. Happens all the time. It’s the unknown quotient in every equation. If it isn’t money, it’s relatives or politics. And at the Hilton, it isn’t money. Lick your wounds and go on from here.”
Keisha sniffed once, then tried to smile. “They gave me a reference. What good is that?”
“A reference? Hey, that’s great. What does the reference say?”
“I don’t know,” she said, pulling a folded envelope from her apron pocket.
It hadn’t been opened. “May I?” I asked before ripping the end. “Keisha, this is good news. You weren’t fired. The entire housekeeping staff was replaced by an outside cleaning firm.” I hesitated as I read further. “Okay, you are out of a job. Someone on that staff with more seniority took over your full-time kitchen position. They do have a part-time bus position to offer you.”
“Oh.”
“But that won’t support your apartment and car, will it?” She shook her head. Her psyche was terribly fragile. She needed a boost. “I’m meeting someone for lunch here. Will you join us?”
“Here?”
Quickly, I reassured her. “The lady is treating.” Opening my bag, I added, “Would you like a sweater to wear over your uniform?”
“They want my uniform back.”
She did have quite serviceable slacks and blouse. I loaned her my sweater to replace her sweat shirt. “A bit dressier,” I told her.
“Gee, you’ve got a lot of stuff in that back pack,” she said.
I yanked it away, even though the child meant no harm. “It’s mine,” I said, not nearly belligerently enough. No one could snoop in my bag, no one.
Not even someone I should trust with my life.
Was I an
irrational old woman? Paranoid?
No. I was thinking like a bag lady and that was good. My book needed that veracity. Besides, words like paranoia have a bad reputation. It’s paranoia that keeps me safe.
Chapter 28
Keisha stared, wide-eyed, at the chandelier over our table, at the velvet drapes, and the cascading fountain surrounded by pots of daffodils and tulips.
“This is way cool,” she said, bubbling over. “I never did eat here. Didn’t even get to look inside. I just work in the kitchen.” With those words, her smile disappeared.
“So many goodies to choose from,” I said, quickly turning menu pages to distract the child before she started weeping.
“Their salads are especially good,” Barb said. Then, like a good hostess, she attempted a bit of idle chatter. “How do you know each other? Related?”
Before I could react, Keisha said, “You bet! She’s my fairy godmother. And now, you are too.”
Barb did not take that announcement well. “I beg your pardon?” she said, watching Keisha with alarm before she regained her composure. “Do order. I am on my lunch hour.”
Keisha took her cue from Barb and ordered a salad. I didn’t.
We dallied over lunch, conversation minimal and of no consequence, they with salads and me with an excellent Crab Louis. After I finished the last bread stick, Barb asked for a private word with me. Keisha jumped up and politely said, “Thank you for a lovely lunch. I’ll wait in the lobby.”
Barb, after watching Keisha leave, said, “There’s absolutely no trace of missing files. Why did you think any were missing?”
That was what she wanted to discuss? I didn’t point out there would be no trace of files if they were missing. Why had I even mentioned them? “I had receivable files on my desk that disappeared. I even looked up a name I remembered and it’s gone. Completely.”
Slowly, she said, “Without proof, neither of us can learn much, can we? Why are you interested? Do you think those missing files point to the killer?”
“Hardly seems a reason for murder.”
Stressing the personal pronoun, she said “Not in my wildest dreams.”
“And certainly not if the killer is Asher. He wants to meet me. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I will meet him. Then again, do I want to go face-to-face with a possible killer?”
“I should think not. Did he say where he wanted to meet you?”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “Sinking Springs Park. Behind the tower no less. And tonight at eight? The place will be closed, with no police presence, of course.”
“Don’t meet him.”
I’d never been one to take advice. On the other hand, ignoring her advice didn’t mean I had to meet Asher. Fortunately, that was not a decision I needed to make at the moment. Instead, I met Keisha in the lobby as planned.
“You won’t believe it!” she said, beaming as she held a paper in front of my face. “There’s a list of job openings in this envelope. Really good ones.”
“That one,” I said, tapping Waterman’s Museum with my finger. “They’ll have several openings.” They certainly must, if they’d fired everyone they suspected of robbery. “And perhaps, if you get the job, you can help with research I’m doing. In fact, I’m headed there right now.”
“Gee, I’ll come too,” Keisha said. “I’ll do anything.”
She might not have been so agreeable if she’d known what I was researching. “You might want some background,” I said. “Nell Nordstrum works there, but ask at the desk for the one who’s hiring.” Then, I added, “The museum evidently fired people they suspected of robbery. You will probably be asked questions. Do you know anything about antiquities?”
“What are antiquities?”
“That’s about what I know. It’s old stuff.”
“You mean, like ancient?”
“Greek vases. Egyptian mummies. French paintings. Aztec carvings.”
“Wow!”
“Or maybe, last year’s computer.”
Keisha giggled appreciatively.
“Fact is, I don’t have a clue. But Nell Nordstrum thinks I do. Of course, since it is the Waterman’s Museum, their antiquities run to oyster tongs and crab pots.”
“I don’t know anything about them either. Uh, what do I do once I’m there? That is, if they hire me.”
“I’d say, show enough interest to ask questions. But, other than your concern for the safety of valuable items, actual knowledge of antiquities might be detrimental.”
“This is so cool.” Keisha had definitely regained her cheerful nature, which would be essential for her coming job search. “Maybe, if you want to, you can tell this Nordstrum chick that I’m a good worker. I am, you know.”
I touched her arm. “I won’t be introducing you. The fact is, we won’t go in together, or even act like we know each other.”
“Your research is secret, I bet,” she said. “Uh, can you go with me in my car though? I don’t know where the museum is.”
“Definitely.” Buses were so slow, and taxis so expensive. However, I had a sudden thought. “When did you move to Queensboro?”
“Wow! You must be a spy, or a real detective. Nobody else guessed I’m new here.”
“Schools love field trips to local museums,” I said. She hadn’t answered my question, but everyone was entitled to a secret or two, including Keisha.
I didn’t repeat my question. Instead, as we jolted on our way, I elaborated on the possible theft or smuggling scheme and Nell Nordstrum’s evident suspicion of the now dead Francine Hemingway. “She doesn’t have a high opinion of me either.” I added, “Francine was a volunteer. If you meet any volunteers, listen for any mention of her name. Since she was just killed, you can then ask questions about her. If the subject doesn’t come up, ask the others why there are so many job openings. Probably not a good idea to mention the gold ring, though.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Keisha said, “but you aren’t researching museum stuff, are you?”
Keisha’s wide-eyed innocence wasn’t as total as it appeared.
“No, I’m researching murder.”
Was Keisha still with me? She seemed to be, because her reaction was, “Wow!”
Actually, I was glad she’d seen through my story.
Then she said, “I guess I shouldn’t have told that Barb person. You know, about you being my fairy godmother. I mean, if somebody wants to kill her, are you her fairy godmother too?”
”What are you talking about?”
“Well, she got so weird. Like, she’s your friend. I’m nobody. Did you warn her? I mean, isn’t that why you met her?”
The child was trying to help, but she was certainly confused. Now I was Barb’s fairy godmother?
“Trust me, Keisha” I said. “Barb is in no danger.”
Chapter 29
Perhaps it was overkill, timing my appearance at Waterman’s Museum with the bus arrival at the closest stop. If it was, so be it. I sat on the handy bench, counted red cars, and watched a neighbor dig up the soil around a tree to plant marigolds. I called Sylvie, three times. She didn’t answer, nor did her machine pick up. Why have one of those infernal contraptions if she didn’t use it?
Was Sylvie searching Queensboro for me or my body? Had she gone to the police? Would she be discreet and not admit she’d lost me? Really, I didn’t care what she told them. With police questioning me and a mystery to solve, I certainly wasn’t bored. Truth be known, it was a tad exciting.
When the bus pulled up, I headed for the museum, my head full of possibilities. The special viewing of the English museum artifacts was over, so I didn’t need a ticket, only cash.
“Is Nell Nordstrum in today?” I asked the woman behind the counter.
“Yes. Shall I page her?”
“Oh, no. I’ll see her around.”
And I would, eventually. First I walked by the exhibit of note, now displayed without the helpful guide, but with plenty of documentation. A gold ring had nothing in com
mon with those wooden boat shards and fish-catching devices.
On my previous visit, I hadn’t looked for any exhibits where, say, a volunteer who was privy to a smuggling scheme, could briefly hide contraband. There were none in the first room I visited, with its display of early duck hunting boats that sank below the surface like a hole in the water. Perhaps a gun could be hidden in plain sight, but only if it, like the others, had barrels up the kazoo, the better to obliterate ducks. Ah, those early Americans. They hadn’t given the birds an even break.
A corner in the next room had the topography of the Chesapeake Bay. Amazing how shallow most of it was, and how deep one river bottom was, like a chasm remaining from an earthquake. There were pull-out map drawers for individual charts, but they were thin, with room only for sheets of paper. I checked each drawer, hoping for something flat, like an antique jeweled pendant or an envelope full of one hundred dollar bills. No such luck.
Eventually, after searching the rest of the main floor, I entered a room quite to my liking, filled with paintings of sailing ships. Some were in full sail, some in battle. My favorites were the stormy paintings of ships with tattered sails and burly men fighting the sea and the wind. The room was all walls. No drawers, boxes, or any containers, but I lingered. There were comfortable chairs.
I could have been more aggressive in accidentally meeting Nell Nordstrum, but perhaps it was only because I was hidden in the chair that she walked past me.
“Hello, Ms. Nordstrum,” I said, wondering if I should say anything else. She hesitated, then came over to me.
“Mrs. Jacks, isn’t it?”
“Jacks, yes. J.M. Jacks.” I stood to better admire the paintings. “I love the wild beauty of the sea. Tall ships, exciting, but soothing in a way that an oil tanker could never be.”
“Yes, we are fortunate to have several originals in our permanent collection. Is this the area of your expertise?”
“No, I just enjoy things. And I do like a variety, but especially history.” Then, recalling a book that peaked my interest when I researched the subject, I added, “I had hoped you might have a copy of the 1670 watercolor of a British merchant ship used in the tobacco trade.”