“I understand her reluctance,” I said. “My mother wouldn’t agree to one when her sister died.”
“That’s different. She died at home like my Robbie did,” Lorraine said. “Ronnie Clauson died on the street with no prior indication of a heart problem.”
“I’m confused. What does his death or Powers Lake have to do with anything?” Denny asked.
Lorraine held her hand in the air. “I reread the police report about a dozen times before I discovered something important. At least it connects everything together.”
She hesitated, I supposed for effect. Denny went over to his mother and put his hands on the back of her chair.
“He died in the middle of town, I remember Cassandra saying,” I said.
Lorraine’s back straightened. “Ronnie Clauson died in front of Ellston Drugs.”
Again she paused and I felt a stab somewhere in my lower region.
“A witness stated she’d seen him staggering out of the store seconds before he fell onto the sidewalk.”
No one spoke for a few seconds and I heard the wail of a distant siren. I hoped little Robbie wouldn’t hear it and held my breath.
But the twins were silent and Lorraine went on. “Ellston Drugs is the connecting piece. It links Ronnie Clauson’s death, the drugstore robberies, and Dorset’s kidnapping. It is the still point around which all events in this case revolve, the place of connection.”
I was getting angry. “So you’re trying to tell us that Ronnie Clauson was killed in front of Ellston Drugs and that has something to do with his daughter’s disappearance? And Dorset went to an apartment above that drugstore ostensibly to see her friend’s collages? Just a coincidence, and a very thin one at that.”
“You told me once there was no such thing as coincidence,” Denny said. “It’s getting late.”
“Wait. There’s more,” Lorraine said. “Late this afternoon I got a call from Powers Lake. It seems we owe Gladys Kemp. She is quite the tenacious snoop and couldn’t forget my call. So she went to visit the local historian I was telling you about. Although still in rehab, he’d recovered enough to tell her an interesting story about one of the residents.”
This was getting too complex for me, a story within a story. It seemed to go on forever and meanwhile it was way beyond my bedtime and I had no clue who had taken Dorset.
“The historian told her about a girl who was born in Powers Lake, North Dakota, and who wound up in Brooklyn, New York,” Lorraine said.
“At one time or another, the whole world winds up in Brooklyn,” Denny said.
Lorraine gave me a look.
Denny stared at his watch. “Mom, it’s late. I’ve got an early shift tomorrow. Can’t we continue this some other time?”
“I’m not finished, and this part’s the key. The Powers Lake girl had two sons out of wedlock when she was a teenager. Her parents forgave her the one child whose father was the son of a neighboring farmer, but when she came home pregnant again, that was too much. Shunned by her parents, she disappeared with her toddler and the second one on the way. For years they didn’t hear from her or discover where she’d gone until she sent her friend a Christmas card. It had a picture of her standing next to a man, presumably her husband, in front of a store. The caption read ‘Ellston Drugs Wishes You Happy Holidays.’ Underneath were the words ‘Brooklyn, New York.’ And it was signed ‘Your dear friend, Shirley.’”
Denny looked at his mother. “One man’s story, and he’s halfway to la-la land. It’s an interesting tale, but what does it have to do with Dorset’s kidnapping?”
I felt cold. “One question, what was the father’s name?”
“The farmer’s son?”
I nodded, waiting for Lorraine to scroll through her notes. It took a while, and I wondered if she, who prided herself on thoroughness, would think to catch that detail.
“Here it is. The Powers Lake historian couldn’t remember his first name, but told Gladys he was old man Koznicki’s son.”
Denny shook his head. “Way too far-fetched. Gladys tried too hard to please.”
I stood in the living room while the world around me went silent and, all at once, everything fell into place. Shirley Ellston was born in Powers Lake, North Dakota. She was the mother of two boys and Koznicki was the name of the father, the surname of the upstairs tenants. I slammed a fist into my thigh.
“Fina?” Someone called my name.
Oh, sure, there were a bazillion loose ends and Jane would never believe me. Ronnie Clauson was a chemical engineer, right? And Ellston’s was the closest drugstore to his home. He might have gone there several times a week to pick up supplies—shaving cream, combs, this and that. There’d be the usual drugstore stuff to buy, and didn’t Mrs. Hampton tell me he was the one who’d gotten those red notebooks for his daughter?
“Sit down,” I heard Denny say. His voice seemed far away.
What had Ronnie Clauson seen in that drugstore? Kids and adults frequenting the prescription counter? Maybe he’d watched a steady stream of them, maybe even low-life pushers who were there on a daily basis. He must have known what was what—that Shirley and Stanley Ellston had been dispensing illegal drugs, or dispensing drugs illegally. He probably suspected his stepson of at least using. I knew I was getting ahead of myself, embellishing, but it all made sense. And observing the operation day after day and knowing it for what it was, he’d know if Shirley and Stanley had been dispensing illegal drugs. Maybe he’d said something to Stanley.
“Fina? What’s wrong with you?”
Denny again. I told him I was fine. I just needed to think.
“Leave her alone,” I heard Lorraine say. “She’s working it out.”
Sure, that was Ronnie Clauson all over, an innocent: he’d unwittingly stepped into a dysfunctional family and now would get himself embroiled in an impossible situation, trying to stop the inexorable flow of drugs into this country from one of the cartels, probably figuring that nothing could hurt him—after all, he was the chief’s good friend.
So. Ronnie Clauson had to be eliminated. I could see the Ellstons plotting his demise late one night, a single light illuminating their front room as, heads together, Shirley and Stanley concocted their plan. Whispering low. And the next time Ronnie Clauson came into their store, questioning Stanley, tightening the screws with a remark, something like, “I know you’re dispensing illegal drugs,” the cunning druggist and his doe-eyed wife walked him to the front, slipping him a goodbye-forever syringe loaded with an instant kill, most likely a megadose of potassium chloride. I pictured him staggering out of Ellston Drugs, never knowing what hit him, eyes bulging as he loosened his tie, opened the door, and did a free fall to the cement.
Their plan had worked except for one small detail. Instead of making money on the brisk sale of opioids—some of them no doubt laced with fentanyl—they found themselves deep in debt. It was an old story: the only ones who cashed in on the sale of drugs were the big guys, the untouchables. So instead of landing on easy street, the Ellstons found themselves owing the cartel big time.
What to do? The Ellstons scoured the neighborhood for quick money and found it in Ronnie’s wife, Cassandra Thatchley, who, by her own admission, looked, smelled, and sounded like major ca-chink topped off with a generous portion of ditz. After all, if she wouldn’t file with the 9/11 commission for a settlement in the death of her first husband, and she wouldn’t question the instant death of her second husband, then she’d absolutely go along with any demand. All they needed were a few million, say, ten or twelve, plus several more and they could sell the drugstore and retire to their farm in Dutchess County.
That was when they hit on kidnapping Dorset.
I’d been duped by Shirley Ellston’s kind eyes. She’d used another innocent, her youngest son, Jerry Koznicki, to befriend Dorset. Easy, since the two brothers could meet the girl at the soup kitchen. Jerry showed her his collages and Dorset was hooked, dazzled by the work of a fellow artist. Their friendsh
ip grew and they started meeting at the park.
The only thing that didn’t quite fit were the drugstore robberies. Unless they were camouflage, two law-abiding innocent drugstore owners bilked by questionable tenants, the two who in the end would be blamed for Dorset’s kidnapping. Only something went terribly wrong: the death of Dorset’s artist buddy, Shirley’s second child, Jerry Koznicki. Shirley’s beloved.
I smiled, picturing Jane’s face as I left her my second message of the evening, rattling on with the long explanation of what I was certain had happened to Ronnie Clauson and his daughter. No time to dwell on the detective’s objections, though. I knew in the end she’d buy my reasoning and meet me outside the drugstore. She had no choice: I thought I could hook her into it. After all, it was the truth, and with the help of Lorraine’s research, the Fina Fitzgibbons Detective Agency had discovered it. Maybe too late.
By now I was certain Dorset was in the basement of the drugstore in the dark—freezing, hungry, and totally frightened. I made a beeline for the closet and threw on my coat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Denny asked.
“To pay a visit to ‘our dear friend, Shirley.’ Don’t worry, Jane will protect me.” I punched in her number and was leaving her another message when my phone began vibrating with the blonde detective’s insistence.
“Don’t you know it’s after two in the morning?” It was Jane, her voice thick with sleep.
“Didn’t you listen to my message?”
“Are you kidding? Way too long.”
She couldn’t have fathomed the half of it, not in a bazillion years. “Meet me at Ellston Drugs. I know what happened. Shirley and Stanley Ellston killed Ronnie Clauson. They kidnapped Dorset. I’ll explain everything.”
No time for disguises, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door. I was almost at the bottom of the stoop when I could hear the faint sounds of a phone ringing, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched the front door open. This time it was Lorraine standing in a wedge of light from the hall.
She called out to me. “The hospital was on the line just now. Better get over there if you intend to say goodbye. Your father doesn’t have long to live.” She waited, one hand holding the door open for me, expecting me to nod or say something.
Denny stood by his mother’s side. “No matter what he’s done, your dad doesn’t deserve to die alone, and if you don’t go to the hospital now, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
The Search
Denny might be right, but I made a decision as I huffed it to the car. I weighed my future emotional stability against the life of a ten-year-old. No contest. I sat in my BMW, aimed in the direction of the drugstore, figuring I could rescue Dorset in a few minutes, leave her with Jane, and head over to the hospital in time to see my father before he passed. I pictured him dying alone in a stiff hospital bed, attended by a single nurse, then remembered his current wife holding his hand and my half sister’s shapely legs. I gritted my teeth and stepped on the gas.
The blonde detective could call for backup, but just in case, as I drove, I put in a call to Tig Able, who naturally did not answer on the first ring. I kept ending the call and resending it until his groggy voice came on the line, accusing me of disturbing the peace.
“One day electric shocks can be sent through the ether and then I’ll be in trouble.”
“Too complicated to explain how, but I’ve found Dorset Clauson.”
“Who?”
That didn’t sound so good. “The missing ten-year-old?”
“Right. We’re on it.”
“At least I think I’ve found her.”
“I don’t like the sound of that last sentence.”
“Have you ever known me to exaggerate?”
Silence.
Realizing what I’d just said, I added, “I know, I know. But trust me on this one. I have it all worked out.”
“I don’t like the sound of that sentence, either.”
I began telling him what I’d just learned about Cassandra’s second husband, how he’d died two years ago staggering out of Ellston Drugs.
“Ronnie Clauson,” Tig said. “We were called in on that one, too. Nothing ever came of it.”
“Because Cassandra Thatchley wouldn’t go for an autopsy.”
“And because we watched the drugstore for several weeks.”
“While the Ellstons laid low. So the drugstore and the two apartments above it are the key to Dorset’s disappearance.”
“Were any drugs found in Ronnie Clauson’s system?”
“No autopsy, remember?” I told him about the dead man we’d just discovered in the third-floor apartment and the collages we’d found in a back room, an artist’s studio. “Created by the dead man, Dorset’s friend.”
“Get serious. A ten-year-old has a male friend?”
“Had. An artist acquaintance of Dorset’s.”
“Way too much information.”
“I found Dorset’s notebook there.”
I could feel his attention riveting.
“I think the druggist is behind her father’s death and Dorset’s kidnapping. I’m sure they’ve hidden her somewhere on the premises. She’s probably there as I speak, hands and feet tied, mouth and nose gagged. She’s gasping for air, about to pass out!”
“All right, all right.”
“Jane Templeton said she’d meet me there, but I can’t take a chance—we’ll need cover. Get some of your agents to meet us in front of Ellston Drugs.”
Tig cleared his throat. “I’ll see what I can do, but for sure we’ll be near the bridge tomorrow for the ransom handover.”
“How did you know about that?”
Without another word, Tig ended the call.
Swell. I slowed, turning onto Montague Street, and inched past the drugstore. Its front window reflected light from the streetlamp and just the sliver of a rising moon. No stars, but then there seldom are in Brooklyn. Otherwise the building was in total darkness, like the surrounding stores on both sides of the block. Not a sound except for my breathing and the whispers of my BMW as it rolled to the other side of the street and stopped. No sign of Jane. I parked in the hydrant space across from the drugstore and waited.
Still no Jane.
I was about to knock on the Ellstons’ apartment door when a car flashed its brights about fifty yards away. It had to be Jane. Sure enough, I watched as she double-parked and got out, her car door closing with a soft thwack.
She was still dressed in dark jeans and the black hoodie she’d been wearing all evening. “This better be good.”
I said nothing as we walked to the building, but I could hear her breathing as I hit all the bells. They pierced the stillness.
Jane kicked the door. “Open up.”
Silence.
“No one home?” At that instant I heard footsteps nearing, tumblers turning.
The door opened, showing a crack of light from inside, and before I knew it, Shirley Ellston stood before us, an overhead light rimming her head and shoulders. My heart rose in my throat. I thought of Denny and wished he were here. I inched the door open with my foot. The woman had removed the curlers from her hair and changed out of her robe and into a barn jacket, which she wore over slacks and a blouse, a strand of pearls at her throat. Her transformation startled me. No longer the frightened old woman, she seemed in charge. Except for her mouth, which trembled around the edges.
Without acknowledging us, she turned her upper torso toward the stairs and called up, “Stanley, where are you? Guess who’s here?” Her voice was different from a few hours ago. She seemed almost in command. I was glad Jane was by my side and hoped she’d brought her gun.
“Where’s the girl?” That was me, all bluster, except at the end of the sentence, I could hear my voice crack.
Shirley tried to close the door, but before she succeeded, Jane, to her credit, reached out and shoved the edge of it into the woman’s shoulder, almost knocking her down.
> “She asked you about Dorset Clauson. Where is she?” Jane held out her shield. I fingered the spray can in my back pocket. Still there.
“There’s been a huge mistake,” Shirley began as her husband came lumbering down the stairs, pulling on some leather gloves. He’d changed from his robe and pajamas into slacks and a wool plaid jacket, open at the neck. By contrast, the collar of his starched white shirt shone, even in the dim light. He wore country clothes, I realized, like he was about to go somewhere.
“What’s this about? Haven’t we had enough drama for tonight?” he asked as he stood before us.
“We’re looking for Dorset Clauson, the girl who is missing? Cookie told you about her,” I said. “We have reason to believe you know where she is. You won’t mind if we search here for her.”
For a second too long he stood before us, his eyes unfocused before they slipped to the side, dark and calculating. He frowned but said nothing.
Shirley crossed her arms. “Your warrant? We know our rights.”
“Now, darling, let’s be reasonable,” Stanley began. “We don’t know where this girl is.”
“Why reasonable?” Her voice was high-pitched. “Reasonable, Stanley? After all that’s happened? First, the—”
“You two ladies, go ahead and search for this girl all you want. In the drugstore. In our apartment. Be our guest. We don’t mind, do we, my love? We have nothing to hide, least of all a missing girl.”
He stopped talking and I listened to the silence. Except for tires rolling on the street outside, the shifting of gears, there was no noise.
“Here,” he said, pulling out some keys and handing them to Jane. “Although we were trying to beat the rush hour and now it seems we’ll have to fight morning traffic on the FDR.” As Shirley was about to object, he put one arm around her. “That’s enough, my sweet.” He turned his face to us. “Have at it, both of you. Take as much time as you want. We can wait. And don’t mind Shirley here, she’s in shock. We’ve lost our upstairs tenants, both of them. Poor Jerry, the boy she favored. Dead on the apartment floor, and his brother, nowhere to be found.” His eyes bored into his wife’s face, willing her to be silent.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 25