"Do you remember who his friends were back then?"
"I don't think he had any … well, no one special anyway. Normie's always been something of a loner. He learned to be on his own as a kid, being sick and all, like I told the policeman, Sergeant Nelson. Yes, that was his name. I remember now. As a child, Normie was small for his age, a little different. No, I don't recall anyone in particular. So long ago."
The outcast she was describing might be vulnerable to someone with a stronger personality, Naomi thought. Someone who befriended him, made him feel like he belonged.
She had to ask it. Be double-sure. "Then you're absolutely sure the voice on this tape belongs to your husband. You could swear to it in a courtroom if you had to."
She looked surprised at the question. "Courtroom? Yes, And of course, I'm sure. Just a minute. She left the room and came back minutes later with miniature a tape exactly like the one in the recorder. She played it.
"Hi, you've reached the Banks' residence. We're not available to come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep and we'll get back to you."
A generic message, but definitely the same voice. A relaxed, easy voice, not afraid or secretive.
"Can I take the tape with me?" Naomi asked. "I know it's important to you and as soon as I make a copy, I'll bring it back"
"Okay. I took it out of the machine because hearing their dad's voice upset the kids when they called. I didn't mind for myself personally. I like hearing his voice. I imagine he's still here, that none of this … happened."
Naomi nodded. She had another thought. "Do you remember where he was working when you met him?" He'd crossed paths with this guy somewhere during his lifetime. They didn't just meet on the night they took Mary Rose.
Thin brows furrowed, trying to recall, Mrs. Banks finally told her he had worked in an auto body shop. "In River's End, on Pine Street. He quit not long after we got engaged and went to work for Harris Woodworking. That body shop was torn down years ago. I think there's a Wendy's there now."
She had to start somewhere. "That place where he worked. Do you remember the name?"
The frown deepened and she shook her head. "'The Shop' was all I ever heard it called." She glanced at her watch. Naomi stood up at once.
"I'm sorry. I'm holding you up. You've been a great help, Mrs. Banks. She scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. "If you think of anything else…."
"Call me Debbie, please. I'll call you, of course, if I think of anything that might be helpful. I want Normie's killer found as much as you do. More, I expect."
Naomi didn't argue the point.
The woman put on her coat and picked her purse up from the sideboard, and the two women left the house together. Debbie Banks was locking her door when the neighbour's dog began barking again.
* * *
As Naomi drove back to town, Sergeant Graham Nelson was still in his striped pajamas and robe sitting in the La-Z-Boy, half-watching CNN on TV, and mulling over the Mary Rose Francis case. And he was thinking of Naomi, which would have surprised her. Thinking how abandoned she must have felt when he didn't call her back. She probably knew by now what had happened; she would have called the police station. She wasn't the type to go away without answers. If she tried to engage anyone else's help at the station, he hadn't heard about it. He'd called a couple of times to see if there were any breaks in the Norman Banks case, and was told there was nothing. He mentioned the tape Naomi had left and the possible connection with the Banks' murder, but it didn't garner much interest, and he got the distinct impression that he was being blown off, that his opinions were not welcome, and tolerated at best. "Enjoy your retirement, old man" was what he heard loud and clear, though not in so many words. What was actually said were things like, "Get well soon" and "take care of that ticker". Oh, yeah, and they envied him. He heard that a lot. Lucky him, done with all this crap that never ended. Rest, they said. Only thing you need to catch now is fish. Ha ha.
A call came over the police band amidst crackle and static and he leaned forward, eager to catch the details, engaged in his day once again, grabbing on to the link to his old life. A service station had been held up over on Elm, near the baseball field. The perps, who appeared to be a couple of kids the owner thought he recognized, took off running when he grabbed a baseball bat from behind the counter.
Out of habit, he jotted down their descriptions in his notebook as they were related, trying to ignore the fragility of his body since the heart attack, that he felt like a very old man, shaky and weak, like his guts had been hollowed out. They told him he had to give himself time to recuperate. He had to take it easy. Well, he wasn't stupid; he knew that. Didn't mean he had to like it.
He sipped his green tea brought to him by his health-conscious younger sister, Angie, grimacing at the fruity taste and longing for a strong coffee. He was bored out of his mind with all the resting. Too much resting could kill you.
And he hated fishing.
* * *
The auto body shop was a long-shot, Naomi thought, but worth a try. She'd drop in at the library on her way home and check out the city directories from that time. Shouldn't be too hard to find an auto body shop that had been operating on Pine Street in the mid to late eighties.
As if reading her mistress' mind, Molly protested loudly from the back seat, and Naomi decided she'd had her fill of travel for today. "Okay, Molly, take it easy. We're heading on home." The library would have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe she'd even get lucky and find something useful online.
The visit to Deborah Banks hadn't gone as badly as she'd feared. In fact, she wished Sergeant Nelson was still on the job so she could call him and give him her news.
Where from here? she asked herself.
She could still take both tapes to the police station, maybe talk to that Detective Karen Henderson, let her listen to them. But what did they really prove? Only that one of the two men who grabbed Mary Rose that night called to warn Naomi that she was in physical danger. A man who turned out to be one Norman Banks and who himself had ended up dead.
Maybe that's enough, she thought. Enough to persuade them to open the case again. But she wasn't convinced. I need to find out who killed him. I need a name.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Had she continued on to the library she would have missed Charlotte, but as it was, she found her waiting for her on the front doorstep, looking tentative but with heels dug in, as only Charlotte could.
"If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohammed, right? Ya gotta admire my timing."
Charlotte's grin was a tad forced, but she had an air of determination that Naomi had witnessed a long time ago in little skirmishes with Aunt Edna. She'd been ringing the front doorbell when Naomi pulled up at the curb. Her blue and silver mountain bike was propped against the house.
"Good to see you, Cuz," Naomi said, and it was. She could use someone to talk to. "I actually was planning to drop in to see you at the gym tomorrow."
"Sure you were. Here, let me take Molly. You get the door. I need a coffee."
"Me too." She had to admit, Charlotte was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise heavy-air day. You couldn't be with Debbie Banks and not carry some of her pain away with you. It didn't help that she'd intruded on that pain. "How are you?
"I'm good, mostly," Charlotte said, letting a grateful, but indignant Molly out of the cage. "Have you taken Molly to the vet?"
"No. We just went for a little drive."
In the kitchen, Charlotte slipped out of her blue nylon jacket with the gym logo on the pocket, a tiny barbell, and draped it over the back of her chair. "You didn't call me back," she said matter-of-factly. Smiling, but still accusatory.
Naomi plugged in the kettle and got the Maxwell House instant out of the cupboard. "I know. I'm sorry. I owe you an explanation."
"Hey, I didn't just fall off a turnip truck. I know why. You want to avoid Mom, and you think having lunch wi
th me is a lousy idea for that reason. I get it."
Naomi shrugged lightly, spooned the coffee into their cups. "Something like that."
"Something?"
The water began to boil and Naomi poured it over the grounds, releasing the aroma of roasted coffee into the room. They made great instant these days. "Actually, exactly like that. Everything seems so complicated ever since Mom died. I guess I always knew your mom had no love for me, but I never realized how deep it went." Sure you did, you always knew, you just didn't know why.
"You wanna know the truth, I don't get it myself. I was shocked when I read Aunt Lili's obit, and I'm not the only one. Poor Dad he felt horrible. We all did. Mom can be difficult, believe me, I know. But I've never known her to be so vindictive. Maybe she's in the change or something."
Naomi smiled indulgently as she set their coffees on the table and sat down across from her cousin.
"No, I don't think that's it, Charlotte. Never mind, I'm glad you're here. It's good to see you. How are things with you? What's happening in your life? You said you were good mostly? "
"Same ole, same ole. Well, a few changes. I have my own apartment now, so my mother doesn't have to know my comings and goings, or that I stopped by, or anything else I don't want her to know. So you don't have to worry. I just want you to know I'm really sorry about all this. I've been thinking about you a lot and wondering if maybe I can do something to help."
"I appreciate the offer. But I'm doing okay."
"Your vibe belies your words, my dear."
My vibe. A new age terminology. But, in truth, she’s not that far off. I am feeling stressed out right now. "Okay, granted, I've been better," she conceded. "I guess I just miss Mom."
"That's a given. You guys were close. But it's more than that, isn't it? Even more than finding out you were adopted. You seem haunted." She glanced at the chair propped under the back door knob, and frowned, but made no comment.
Charlotte was more than a little perceptive. Wonder what she'd say if I told her I thought a killer was stalking me. Or that I'd heard a young girl's cries when I was at the cemetery. A girl who'd been dead for nearly three decades. But what would be the point of that? It wouldn't help anything, and it would freak her out. Or she'd think I was losing my grip. And maybe she'd be right. Not, that that wasn't true. I'm fine. I'm perfectly okay. Or I will be when they put that monster away.
Ever since she found Molly shut up in the bureau drawer, she'd been a nervous wreck, jumping at every sound, looking over her shoulder and finding no one there. Last night she was sure she'd heard someone outside her kitchen window, but when she moved the curtain aside to look, there was only the darkness to greet her, and her own ghostly reflection in the glass. Even turning out the light had revealed nothing ominous, no one lurking outside her back window. Once, she thought she saw the doorknob turn, but she was no longer certain about that either.
Unable to sleep, she even found herself getting up in the middle of the night, padding about the house checking on doors and windows she'd already checked, to be sure they were locked, that the chair was wedged firmly under the back door knob. And there was also that knife under her pillow. Would she even have the guts to actually use it if it came down to that? Hardly surprising if she looked 'haunted'.
She needed to find out who he was, she told herself again. That single thought was becoming a mantra for her. Find him. Put him behind bars. Until that happened, nothing would change. The situation could only get worse, dire. She wasn't fool enough to think a killer couldn't find a way into this house if he really wanted to. He'd already proven that much. But he hadn't hurt her, had he? Not yet, she thought. Could be the right opportunity just hadn't presented itself.
"Naomi? Hey, where did you go?"
"What? Oh, sorry, Charlotte. What were you saying?"
"I asked if you've gotten any leads on the bad guys."
"Oh, no. Nothing definite. You look good, Char. Love that sweater. Blue's your colour. And you should always wear jewelry."
"Thanks. But you're changing the subject."
Naomi smiled. "Matching lipstick and fingernail polish, too," she teased, knowing Charlotte had never been one for any kind of adornment. Her disinterest in fashion drove Edna nuts. Times changed. Maybe there was a lover in the picture. Lucky her. She'd always been pretty sure Charlotte was gay. And she understood her reluctance to come out of the closet, considering Edna was on the other side of the closet door. "You're in fantastic shape. I was thinking I should start back at the gym."
"If you need it, it doesn't show. But I'd love having you in my aerobics class."
"Sounds like fun. But I'm more a yoga kind of girl," she grinned.
"We have a yoga class."
"One of these days I'll surprise you and show up. But I do want us to have lunch sometime soon. And that's a promise. Just as soon as…."
"Forget lunch. We'll go someplace nice for dinner. My treat. Maybe Top of the Town. They've got a great blues singer this month, from Montreal. Really, she's terrific. Joanne LaRoche. You'll love her."
"Sounds good," Naomi said, meaning it in that moment. "But it'll be my treat."
Does that sound like I'm rubbing it in because Mom left me the bulk of her estate? Frank said Edna had already started legal proceedings to fight the will in court.
Against Frank's advice, Naomi was seriously considering offering an even split. But now she wondered if even that would satisfy Edna?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Naomi was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang downstairs. With yet another promise to get herself a cell phone one of these days, she raced downstairs, tying her robe about her as she went, and grabbed the receiver with a damp hand as Debbie Banks was beginning to leave a message.
She hadn't found anything about the auto body shop online so she was headed for the library, having made arrangements to drop Molly off at a pet daycare for a couple of hours. Better than leaving her in the car.
"Mrs. Banks, Debbie, sorry. I was in the shower. Did you think of something?"
"Uh, maybe, I don't know. When I was at the doctor's yesterday, someone broke into the house. I called the police."
"What?" A cold sensation passed through her. Had her visit put Debbie Banks in danger?
"Yes, they broke a back window and crawled inside. Nothing was taken but my photo albums were all out of place, and drawers had been gone through, some left open. Like whoever it was was looking for something in particular. I have no idea what. The neighbour's dog set to barking like crazy, but my neighbour, Mrs. Cross, said she didn't see anyone."
He must have followed me yesterday.
"Maybe he didn't know what he was looking for either, Debbie," Naomi said. "If it was who we're both thinking of, I think he was just blindly looking for anything that might connect him to your husband. Sounds like he's getting a little paranoid. Your photo albums, huh? Are there any pictures of your husband with male friends that you can recall?"
"None I've ever seen. Like I said, Norman wasn't one for going out with the boys. He was a family man. But I did wonder if looking at his high school yearbook would be of any help. It's around here someplace. If I come across it, I'll take a quick look through, but I doubt I'll find anything of significance. No reason I would. I didn't know Normie then. I'm on my way into town and if I find it, I'll drop it off."
Naomi thanked her, and told her to come ahead. She was suddenly afraid for the woman. Would he pay her another visit? Wondering if, in a weak moment, Norman Banks had confided his sin to his wife. With a sense of time running out, her eye drifted to the little clown on the coffee table and she saw it again rocking to and fro on its parallel bars, imagined the hand that had set it in motion. Hands capable of beating a woman to death. She suddenly knew he would not have left fingerprints on the clown, or the doorknob or Debbie Banks' photo albums or anything else had touched. He would have worn gloves. He was no novice at not getting caught.
She might have passed
him on the street over the years. Seen him in a grocery store lineup, or at the post office. What kind of work did he do in his regular life? Who sees him, talks to him every day, and has no idea of the monster behind the mask.
Who are you?
* * *
After Debbie Banks had come and gone, leaving her with the yearbook, Naomi drove to the library, returning home a short time later with Molly in the carrier and a scanned page from a 1979 city directory in her purse, along with a borrowed copy of Eric Grant's book, "Freakhead". She was curious. He'd sent her a note of apology and asked her to lunch. He’d included his email and phone number, which she didn't respond to, but neither did she throw the note away. She was hardly ready for a new relationship right now, and even if she was, she definitely didn't think becoming involved with Eric Grant was a good idea. But she couldn't deny the warm flush that came to her cheeks when she read his note.
The Body Shop, which turned out to be the actual name of the company, was listed in the directories from 1962 to 1984, always on Pine Street. It was possible Norman Banks and his pal had worked together at this place. She'd been excited to see the proprietor's name, Craig Kelly, included in the listing. Would he remember who worked for him back then? He might, especially if they were long term employees.
Thumbing through the phone book, something kept niggling at the back of her mind. Some important detail she had overlooked or forgotten, something in her subconscious trying to surface like a fish in murky water. But before it could, a woman answered the telephone. Naomi asked to speak to Craig Kelly.
"Mr. Kelly hasn't lived here in ten years," the woman said stiffly. "We're divorced. Who's calling please?"
Naomi introduced herself, told her she was trying to reach one of his old employees. A personal matter.
"Last I heard, Craig's in Mexico. I heard he's into stealing cars. Well, he probably doesn't steal them himself, he's too old for that. But he does the body work. I can't swear to that, 'course, just what I heard. Sorry I can't be of more help."
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 13