She told him about her husband’s sudden passing, and before she knew it, she was telling him about her friend Phyllida Oxley and the terrible way she’d died. “It wasn’t sudden, but still it was a surprise. I think, I still think I could have saved her had I watched over her. She was murdered, you see.” She told him about how she and Phyllida had met in a park when their children were young, how for the next twenty years they’d had such good times together, going to plays and museums or just talking, about how she died and how they’d caught her murderer. She stopped, looking up at the clock and realizing that although she’d vowed to let him do the talking, she’d been guilty of run-on sentences for close to thirty minutes. She hadn’t realized she’d needed to talk about the loss of her friend, and to the tall stranger with graying hair and a gravelly voice sitting across from her in a diner on Court Street. “She left me quite a bit of money and her old Plymouth. The inheritance, except for the car, is a secret, but it means I can leave something substantial to my son.”
He nodded. “My experience with sudden death is like yours. It felt like my whole world had disappeared.” He told her he and Ronnie Clauson had grown up together, played football on the same high school team. “He was best man at my wedding. We were both young then. Took fishing trips together. I knew more about Ronnie and he knew more about me than any other person.” He added an, “Except for my wife,” but Lorraine didn’t think so.
“You don’t believe his death was the result of natural causes?”
He shook his head. Lorraine thought she saw tears forming in his eyes. A waitress arrived and wrote down their order, her pencil scratching the surface of her pad much in the same way his voice scratched the air between them.
“What did the autopsy show?”
He swiped invisible crumbs from the table. Instead of answering her question, he asked another. “His wife, do you know her?”
Lorraine shook her head.
“You’re not missing anything.”
I think I am, actually, and Lorraine brought him up to date on Dorset Clauson, what they knew so far about the circumstances surrounding her disappearance, what she’d heard about the family, but no, she admitted she hadn’t met Dorset’s mother or the girl’s half-siblings.
“An interesting woman, I’ll give her that,” he said. “High up on the food chain at Columbia.”
“You mean head of the English Department?”
“Not quite that high up. She specializes in one of the American poets, Ronnie told me. He was so proud of her. Not the mother I’d want for my children.”
“How so?”
“Full of herself.” He must have thought better of that remark or perhaps she’d made a face. She tried to remain still, but she had a way to go in that department. She wished she were better at hiding her emotions, so she looked down at the table.
“I didn’t mean it quite like that.” He nodded to the waitress, who stood in front of them without saying a word. She carried a tray with their order—herbal tea for Lorraine, coffee for the chief—and Lorraine watched the butterfly tattoo on her hand spread its wings as the young woman set each cup on the table.
“You know her of course,” she said after the waitress left.
He nodded. “I met her at Ronnie’s wedding. The four of us never socialized, though. I knew she and my wife wouldn’t get along. No, after he married Cassandra, Ronnie and I met for lunch, for golf.”
“You must have discussed her with Ronnie?”
“He adored her, and to give Cassandra credit, she did call me the day he died to let me know. She was so upset, gasping for air. She said she’d just heard, and she knew enough to call me right away.”
“Because of your position?”
“Because of my friendship with Ronnie. She kept saying, ‘He’s your best friend. You can’t let him go like this. Do something, do something,’ she kept repeating. Of course he was already dead. So sudden. You think life is never going to end, and then in a heartbeat, it’s over.”
“How did you help?”
He shrugged. “When I tried, she refused it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He’d just returned from a business trip. Ronnie was a chemical engineer and there was an annual conference he used to go to. That year it was held in a hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, overlooking some fountain, I can’t remember the name. ‘Jack, you’ve got to see this place. Parks everywhere, and of course the lake. Miles of bike paths. Take Alice on a long weekend, but make sure it’s in the summer.’ He raved about the people, the food, the scenery. Only thing, it was too cold for spring, he’d said—his last words to me.”
He stopped talking, moving his jaw back and forth and looking at his hands.
“This was?”
The chief didn’t answer because the waitress returned with seconds, spilling coffee as she over poured. Lorraine was tempted to ask for a clean cup for the chief, but stopped short. When would she learn she was more than a mother. The waitress whispered an apology, and as the woman glanced at the clock, she could tell they were getting ready to close. So Lorraine asked for more napkins.
“Only one per person, owner’s orders.”
The chief was lost in the memory of Ronnie Clauson’s death and didn’t hear. Lorraine let him have his emotions for a few minutes and, when he mumbled something about Cassandra not even having the decency to change her last name, asked if Ronnie traveled a lot.
He shook his head. “Not on business. He had more than enough clients in the New York area to keep him busy. And he wasn’t one for marketing online. He kept the books himself using accounting software, but that was the extent of his computer acumen. They could have traveled—for pleasure, I mean. He wanted to see his mother’s birthplace in Vienna, the rest of the States, Rome, the Himalayas. He’d get brochures and show them to me as if I could persuade his wife. And he had the money, plenty of it. But no, she was always too busy.”
“Even in the summer when she wasn’t teaching?”
He shrugged. “Claimed she had to write this book, that pamphlet, chair some committee.” He held up his hands. “What do I know?”
“On the day he died, she called and asked for your help—”
“And when it was time, she refused it. First thing she needed to do, I told her, was to send me the results of the autopsy. I’d do what I could to expedite it. We had to find out the cause of death. But she refused.”
“He died on Montague Street under suspicious circumstances and she refused an autopsy?”
“She said it wouldn’t bring him back and she couldn’t stand the thought of his body all yellow and waxen and cold, lying on some table and, worse, being cut up.”
“He had a history of heart disease?”
The chief shook his head. “First I’d heard of the possibility. I’d have known if he were having any kind of physical issue. He told me everything, about how he adopted her children, about the problems they were having with Brunswick. After all, we were close friends.”
Lorraine said nothing and the waitress came waving a check. The rest of the tables had been cleaned, the floor swept around them.
“But just to make sure, I asked Cassandra about his heart.”
He was silent and Lorraine could hear traffic outside. “And?”
“And she told me he’d gotten a clean bill of health six months before that, including a stress test, which he passed with flying colors.”
“You insisted on an autopsy then?”
“Not insisted. It’s up to the next of kin. My hands were tied.”
“What do you think happened?”
The manager was standing near the door, waiting to lock up.
“I suspect foul play.”
“But who would want to kill him?”
“Have you met Cassandra’s older children?”
“Brook.”
“And the other one? The son?”
“Time to lock up, folks. If I don’t, the alarm goes off.”
<
br /> Lorraine thanked the chief for his time, telling him she’d keep him informed if she was able to uncover anything about Ronnie Clauson’s death. Strange, she thought: Montague Street was such a part of her life for close to sixty years, yet this was the first time she’d thought of it as someone’s deathbed. She turned to ask him exactly where Ronnie Clauson had died, but he was halfway down the block, so she ran after him. “I talked to the patrolman on the scene. According to two witnesses, he did a free fall, landing on the pavement.” His gravelly voice went soft. “Never knew what hit him. Absent an autopsy, it might have been his heart, the coroner said, but he couldn’t be certain and wouldn’t name cause.”
Lorraine gave him her email address and asked him to send her whatever information they had, including witness statements.
Poor Ronnie Clauson, she thought, opening her car door—he took a breath, and a millisecond later, he didn’t. She wondered what could end a life so fast. She’d have to do more research. As she was about to turn the ignition, she phoned Fina.
The Woman in the Park
It took her a while to get going. These days it usually did, what with the baby teething and Brooklyn running around like she didn’t know the meaning of walk. Not that Cookie didn’t love her children. Just that once in a while she needed to get out. Besides, they were desperate for the money. Not that she’d ever cheat her best friend—or anyone, for that matter—she was scrupulous about recording the right amount of time she worked, so she figured she’d lost a good half hour just getting the living room in order. Thank heaven for her mom; she’d come running over when Cookie had called her that afternoon, always ready to take care of the children. If only Fina would get more work for her, but the last two months had been bleak; they’d had to dip into what little savings they had. At this rate, the kids would have college debt. Sometimes her mind played tricks and she could see them in grade school, then middle school, walking the halls of high school. And there the daydream always faded. She wondered if that meant she wouldn’t be around to see them graduate. She shivered at the breeze, which had grown angrier, told herself to get real and for a few seconds watched the traffic, which, on Joralemon Street, was its usual lunchtime heavy. Her priority, she knew, was to check all the coffee shops in the neighborhood, but first Cookie needed to absorb what had happened to Cassandra Thatchley’s little girl, and the only way to do that was to visit the place where the take had occurred and absorb whatever vibes remained. She thought of the little girl and how scared she must be. They hadn’t heard from her, and now Cookie was totally convinced the girl had been abducted.
Fina might brag about having a sixth sense, but what was that spine tingler all about after she’d left the last shop, Schwartz’s Deli? She had combed the streets around the park, looking into coffee houses and deli windows, peering at their stacks of cups and napkins, looking for all the world, she was sure, like a street weirdo. Even the napkins had writing on them, except those in Schwartz’s. “No freebees, lady.” The clerk had scowled when she’d taken her time looking at the merchandise. As if she resembled a street person. Brushing back her hair, she glanced at the sleeves of her coat and noticed for the first time they were frayed and that one of her front buttons was missing. She should have taken the time that morning to sew it back on, but she was in her usual rush—Fina never liked it when she was late for meetings.
Schwartz’s Deli—the closest one to the park where Fina had found their latest client—kept neat stacks of plain paper cups near the coffee machines in the front of the store, and trying to smile, she asked the clerk if he’d remembered his morning customers. “Just got here,” he told her, wiping his fat paw on the front of a stained apron, a greasy curl flattened on his forehead. He didn’t look at her, but resumed slicing a hunk of ham. The pieces of meat landed on top of one another with a soft slap, the machine making a whirring noise. She could feel the refrigeration in the room, but the food smelled spicy and fresh and she’d asked for a taste. It would go down so good right about now, and if it had the flavor she thought it would, it would go well with the mustard her mother made. That was when he’d accused her of wanting a handout. She’d just started her assignment and knew it would stretch into late afternoon, so it was too early to buy some for their dinner, but she told him she’d be back. “And God doesn’t make sour apples.” She felt anger rise in her throat and told him off good then, telling him she had two kids whining at home and had to wait for her mother so she could go to a meeting, all the while hoping she wouldn’t be late because she’d needed the money and men never knew what women had to go through just to make it downstairs with everything in order. Where had that come from? Anyway, the guy kept staring at her and even stammered an apology. Whatever, she knew one thing: she wasn’t about to cook that evening. Besides, she was sure Brooklyn, the fussy eater in the family, would at least taste the ham if Cookie cut it up small enough. The guy told her he had a mother and sister at home and he knew when to expect their moods; then realizing what he said, he choked on more words and apologized again. He told her to come back later around six or seven that evening—the owner opened and closed the store. “He would have been here this morning. The guy remembers what he ate for breakfast two weeks ago. Mind like a trap, but be careful of its teeth. So if two men came in for coffee, he could tell you. Probably give you a good description, too.” But there was something about the guy and the shop she didn’t like. Later she’d swing back with Clancy. The deli owner was sure to be more helpful, especially when Clancy gave him the off-duty-cop spiel.
She crossed to the other side of the street and walked over to Hicks, stepped on it until she reached the park where Fina said she’d run into a slumped-over Cassandra Thatchley. After taking out her mirror, she adjusted her wig and made sure her lipstick, which she’d put on real heavy before leaving, hadn’t grazed her teeth. Disguised or not, Cookie cared how she looked and she hoped she always would. Surveying her nails, she decided maybe she could squeeze in a manicure that afternoon before she went home, but she discarded the idea, telling herself she could do her own nails and save the money. Besides, there wouldn’t be time and Cookie had one of her feelings: this afternoon she was going to get lucky and pick up Dorset’s trail. Or part of it, at least. She pictured the celebratory dinner at the end of the case, how the room stopped when Fina singled her out as her most valuable employee. All eyes would be on her for a change and not on Lorraine, as they usually were. Cookie stopped herself and swallowed down what she knew was jealousy, old enough to know that was what it was. She crossed herself.
As she walked into the park, she watched the crime scene super talking to one of the investigators and pointing at something. Cookie noticed they were just finishing up, so she skirted around them, making sure they didn’t see her, and walked to the far corner of the park over by the clump of trees Fina had told her about, the one where she’d seen a flash of light that morning. She stood for a moment a few feet away, facing the trees and surveying the area, as she’d been taught. She walked closer and peered through the branches. She saw no one, heard nothing except for a group of runners passing on her left and heading for the Promenade. She walked into the trees and saw that someone had been using the spot as a shelter—maybe one of the homeless people in the neighborhood. Sanitation had cleaned up all the dead leaves and crocuses were in bloom.
Cookie unfolded her stool and peered up at the sky before sitting. The clouds looked angry. She was glad for some shelter, glad she’d worn a raincoat, glad she’d brought Emma with her. A torn cover with some of the pages ripped, thanks to Cookie’s daughter, it would help her pass the long hours she knew she’d have to spend. She’d read all of Jane Austen’s novels, but this was her favorite. She could read the book a dozen more times and learn something new, be struck by a new mood, a sudden insight. Amazing since Jane Austen lived most of her short life centuries ago. Not only that, Emma was perfect for her on-the-job cover.
Today as she stared at the words, her m
ind wandered to Clancy and his latest preoccupation, moving away from their neighborhood. True, it had grown expensive; some of the streets unrecognizable, what with all the new buildings going up, like those monstrous high-rises near the harbor. So he had a point; last month wasn’t the first time they’d had to dip into their savings. She tried to shake the disappointment from her mind as she considered her husband, the fear he’d told her about recently. It hit him, he said, each time he’d begun driving to work. Before he could pull away from the curb, it was like his body was in some terrible grip and he couldn’t move. Yesterday he’d had to sit for a while at the wheel, telling himself that one day all the animosity and violence would pass; he’d survive and be able to afford the things he wanted for his children.
Something brushed her shoulder. Startled, Cookie spun around and looked up into the face of a stranger. No, more an apparition, a woman smelling of the earth and ripened garbage and something else. She was pushing a grocery cart. Dressed in layers, she wore a long black skirt torn at the hem, a dark shapeless sweater over her generous top, a worn jacket over it. On her feet were laceless canvas sneakers, which had once been white. The woman brushed dirt from her sleeve, stared at Cookie and quickly turned away, shielding her eyes with one hand.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Go away,” the woman said. “This is my territory.” Brushing dirt from the side of her face, she looked down, as if to hide from Cookie. She took a few steps backward.
Cookie couldn’t help herself. She stared at the woman but didn’t move. “Okay, I’m leaving. But I was hoping to find you. I don’t want to hurt you or take you anywhere. I just need your help.”
“That’s what they all say. Now clear out.”
“A little girl is missing.”
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 13