by Neil Plakcy
Had any of his old friends done that for Peter Breaux? Would they have seen him, spoken to him? How could I track them?
I looked for records of his high school, and found that there was a group for its graduates at one of the school reunion sites. But when I tried to get in to view its members, I got a pop-up message that it was restricted, and I’d need an invitation to view it.
That was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. My fingers danced across the keyboard, initializing my hacking software, going online and finding an unsecured port I could use to launch my attack. The site security was pretty good, but they allowed members to use very simple passwords, and within an hour I had a list of all the people who had graduated from Peter’s high school.
It was only then that I realized what I’d done. Despite all my protests, and my attempts to stay on the straight and narrow, I’d hacked into a protected website without even thinking about it.
I stared at the screen, at the list of names that meant nothing to me. Why had I done it? Risked everything I cared about for something so ultimately meaningless?
Rochester came padding across the carpet to me. He put his paws up on the desk and looked at the screen, then he woofed.
“I know, puppy, I shouldn’t have done it,” I said. But I didn’t close the window either.
He licked my face, and I laughed. “Does that mean you approve?”
He woofed once more and then settled to the floor beside me.
“And you’re supposed to be looking out for me,” I said. “Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound.” I copied all the names and their contact information into a file, then logged off the website and shut down my hacking software.
Most of the alumni of Peter’s high school had included their addresses and phone numbers. I picked up my cell phone before I could think too much about it, dialed *67 to hide my number, and began calling.
I introduced myself as an old college friend of Peter Breaux’s, trying to get back in touch with him. A few people had no idea who I was talking about; a few others had known him long before but lost touch. Finally, I hit pay dirt – a woman who had graduated with him and who’d seen him at his mother’s funeral.
“He was there?” I asked.
“He come in a few days before she passed,” the woman said. “She was at the hospital in Morgantown, and he stayed with her there. Then he come back to town for the burial, and to close up the house.”
“Did you talk to him at all? Find out where he was living?”
“He said Canada somewhere,” she said. “I’ve forgotten exactly where.” She paused. “Now who exactly did you say you were? You’re not a bill collector, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you for speaking to me.” I disconnected quickly.
So Peter Breaux was alive at the time of his mother’s funeral. I made a note of the woman’s name and phone number, in case Rick had to call her to confirm.
There was something else in what she’d said, though. I sat back in my chair and went through the whole conversation. He’d closed up the house. Of course! Why hadn’t Rick and I thought to check property sales records, or for the probate of a will?
I was ready to get right back on line, but I stopped myself. It was up to Rick to continue that search, legally. I dialed his cell.
“I have a confession to make,” I said.
“Call Father Donelan at St. Ignatius,” he said. “I’m no priest.”
“But you are my confessor,” I said. “I hacked into a database online.”
“Christ, Steve.”
“I know, I know. It was stupid. I didn’t even think about it.”
“And you want me to say that makes it all right?”
“No. I just wanted to tell you. And I’m going to tell Lili, too.”
“There’s a but coming,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“I found out that Peter Breaux was alive at the time of his mother’s funeral. Did you ever check to see if she had a will probated, or if her house was sold after her death?”
He didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if he was writing, or just trying not to lose his temper. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “No wonder I always need your help.”
“I’m guessing the answer to my question is no.”
“I kept searching for Breaux himself. I didn’t think to look for anything under his parents’ names. But I’m almost certain that the search I ran would have included probate records, so if he’d been listed in the will he should have come up. And I know for a fact there was no property under his name in that town.”
“Maybe he never sold it, never changed the name on the deed,” I said.
“I’ll look into it. This doesn’t make what you did right, you know.”
“I know. Do you want the name and phone number of the woman who saw him at his mother’s funeral?”
He groaned. “And that would be a name and number you got by hacking?”
That didn’t seem to require an answer, so I didn’t say anything.
“Email it to me. Just the name and number, nothing else.”
“I have her address, too.”
“Just the name and number,” he said very slowly. “Thank you for finding the information, but don’t ever feel like you have to do anything illegal to help me. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I hung up and called Lili. I got her voice mail but my message wasn’t one I wanted to leave without explanation, so I just said I was thinking of her. I went online to my hacker support group and typed out a message, and I felt a little better after that. But I was still unsettled by the experience and I looked around for something else I could do.
I remembered that I had wanted to go over the list of names with Edith and see if she recognized any of them, so I called and asked if I could come over.
“Only if you bring that adorable dog of yours,” she said.
Great. My dog was the handsome one, and it seemed that wherever I went people were happier to see him than they were to see me.
It was a crisp, sunny afternoon, and the roadsides were cluttered with fallen leaves and osage oranges, bumpy yellow-green balls filled with a sticky white sap. I remembered collecting them as a kid for my mom, who piled them by our front door along with Indian corn and colored squash.
I pulled up in front of Edith’s Cape Cod. “You behave in there,” I said to Rochester as I hooked up his leash. He shook his big shaggy head.
“This is such a treat,” Edith said, when she opened her door to us. “My family always had dogs when I was a girl, but Lou was allergic, and after he passed I didn’t have the energy for a dog anymore.” She reached down to pet Rochester’s head and he licked her fingers. She giggled. “Come on in.”
Rochester was eager to sniff everything in Edith’s living room. “I have this list,” I said. “I think it’s the volunteers who worked with John Brannigan back in the sixties, but I can’t decipher all the names. I was hoping you could help me.”
I showed her the paper I’d written the names on, with the first letters capitalized so that they would look more like names.
Edith Fox
Vera Lee Isay
_ e _ _ y H o d _ _ i _ s
S a _d y _ h i _ _ a d i a
E l l e_ _ o o d
De_ o r a h / A l l e_
“Do you recognize any of these?” I asked.
“Why, it’s like a puzzle,” she said. “Let me get my reading glasses on.”
As she pulled them out of her case, I explained the principle of the cipher. “I was able to figure out your name and Vera Lee’s,” I said. “So I filled in those letters. The blanks represent the letters I haven’t matched yet.”
“This one is easy,” she said, pointing to the third name. “Ellen Wood. My cousin. She passed away two years ago.”
By filling in those letters, I had:
Edith Fox
Vera Lee Isay
_ e n n y H o d _ _ i n s<
br />
S a n d y _ h i _ _ a d i a
E l l e n W o o d
De_ o r a h / A l l e n
Edith looked over my shoulder. “Of course, the first name there is Jenny Hodgkins. She married one of the Scudders from Scudder’s Falls. They retired and moved to Florida. I haven’t heard from Jenny in, oh, ten years or so.”
I filled in the J, G and K which didn’t give us any new clues. “Can you recognize any of these others?” I asked.
Edith stared at them. “I’m sorry, Steve.”
“How about thinking back to those days? Do you remember anything more about them? Anyone named Sandy or Sandra, or Deborah or Debbie?”
She closed her eyes and thought, then opened them quickly. “Of course! How could I forget Sandy Chizmadia? She married John Shea and I was a bridesmaid at her wedding.”
“Wait, Sandra Shea? My social studies teacher?”
“Yes, she did teach for a while, didn’t she? But then her husband was transferred somewhere. We kept in touch for a while, but then, you know how things go.”
That left us with:
Jenny Ross
Sandy Chizmadia
Ellen Wood
De_ orah Allen
“So this last woman must be Deborah Allen?” I asked.
“Of course!” Edith said. “Debbie Allen. She married… who was it? She’s still here in Stewart’s Crossing – I saw her at the Harvest Festival.” She took off her reading glasses and put them down. “She makes these horrible crocheted toilet paper covers, with dolls on top. I didn’t talk to her because I was afraid I’d have to buy one.”
I remembered those dolls. Where had I seen them? I tried to recreate the Harvest Festival in my mind – walking around with Lili, helping Gail….
“Mrs. Holt!” I said.
“Yes, that’s it,” Edith said. “How in the world did you know that?”
“Lili and I helped Gail out that day,” I said. “Mrs. Holt’s table was next to hers. Those crocheted monstrosities are imprinted on my brain.”
Edith laughed. “Debbie was a silly girl even back then,” she said. “She was always contriving ways to meet the boys, volunteering to bring them food. She’d go on and on about how cute this boy was, how brave this one was to stand up for his beliefs. How tragic it was that they had to move to a foreign country.”
“We were all young once, Edith,” I said. “Do you have Mrs. Holt’s number?”
“I think she’s in the book,” Edith said. “But should you be going to talk to her yourself? Or asking Rick to do it?”
“I was going to tell him,” I protested.
She smiled. “You were always so curious when you were a boy, Steve. I remember when I was teaching you, you wanted to know everything – what wood the piano was made of, how the hammers made the sounds, was that real ivory on the keys.”
“You remember all that?” I asked.
“Things come back to me now and then,” she said. “Getting old is a terrible thing. But then you consider the alternative.”
I knew all about that.
25 – His Girls
I thanked Edith for the help, and took Rochester outside, where I called Rick and told him what she had said.
“You say you know this woman?” he asked.
“Not really. Lili and I worked at the table next to hers at the Harvest Festival and we talked a bit.”
“Close enough. I’ll call her and see if we can come over this afternoon. Between you and your dog, you’ve got a knack for talking to civilians.”
I walked Rochester up Edith’s street so he could sniff some new smells and relieve himself, and by the time we got back to the car Rick was on the phone again. “I spoke to her and she said she has some errands to run in town. I suggested meeting her at The Chocolate Ear, and she agreed. Two o’clock.”
That gave me and Rochester an hour to kill. “That’s good. I’ll see you then.”
I wanted to enjoy the fall afternoon and give Rochester a walk, so I parked at the VFW Hall at the far end of town and we strolled to The Chocolate Ear. Mark Figueroa was sitting at a table outside, reading the New York Times and nursing a cappuccino.
“How’s it going?” I asked, settling into the chair across from him. Some red and gold leaves from the maple above had already fluttered to the ground.
“Well, if it isn’t Cupid,” he said drily. “Planning to shoot any more arrows today?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feigning innocence.
“You’re trying to hook me up with Joey Capodilupo. I told you, I don’t need your help to find a date.”
“He seems like a nice guy,” I said.
“Yeah, they all seem like that at first.”
I remembered that like Rick with Tamsen, Mark had had a date the night before. “Did you go out with him last night?”
“Yes. And we had a good time.”
“So why are you busting my balls?”
“Because he’s going to turn out to be a jerk, and I’ll have to work with him. And I don’t need this kind of drama.”
Rochester put his head on Mark’s lap and for once Mark didn’t complain about dog hairs. “I should get a dog,” he said. “A Rottweiler or something that could keep men away from my door.”
I stood up. “Well, you can practice with Rochester. I’m going inside to see what kind of pastry Gail has.”
“Get me a napoleon,” Mark said. “Maybe if I get fat Joey will leave me alone.”
I laughed. Mark was six-five at least, without an ounce of fat on his bones. I doubted a dozen napoleons would make much difference.
When I walked inside, I saw Gail and Declan sitting at a table by the wall, deep in conversation. None of the other tables were occupied. “I guess this is why I couldn’t get service outside,” I said.
“Oh, gee, I didn’t even see you come up,” Gail said. “I’m sorry.”
I waved my hand. “Love comes first.”
She blushed. “What can I get for you?”
I ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant for myself, a biscuit for Rochester and a napoleon for Mark. Gail disappeared into the back. “How are things going?” I asked Declan.
“Very well, thank you,” he said. “I’m hoping to spirit the chef away to dinner when she closes down.”
“Good luck with that. Gail works hard.”
“I’m discovering that,” Declan said.
I went back outside, and Gail delivered my order and Mark’s napoleon a couple of minutes later. I shook my finger at her. “Remember, nobody ever said on her deathbed I wish I’d worked more.”
“I know. But it’s hard running your own business. If I want to go off with Declan I have to close down, and I need to squeeze every bit of revenue I can.”
“It’s not like you’re bombarded with customers,” I said. “And what time do you usually close, anyway?”
She looked at her watch. “In about an hour.”
“I’m supposed to meet Rick here in….” I looked at my watch. “A half hour. If anybody comes up after that we’ll tell them that you closed.”
I paid her for the coffee, the croissant and the biscuit for Rochester, and she went back inside. I delivered Mark his napoleon, and we sat together for a few minutes, eating and watching traffic along Main Street. When he finished, he said, “I’ve got to get going. I have a new assistant at the store and I’ve already left her alone too long.”
A few minutes later, Rick took his place. “You know anything about this Holt woman?” he asked, as he slid into the chair and then scratched behind Rochester’s ears.
I shook my head. “Just that Edith said she was silly back then. Which matches her hobby, I guess.” Rick had never seen the toilet paper holders, and I was describing them when a Mini Cooper pulled up. I recognized Mrs. Holt; she had straw blonde hair with an unnatural brassiness and skin so tight it had to have been artificially augmented. I stood up to greet her. “Mrs. Holt? I’m Steve Levitan. We met at the Harvest
Festival, when my girlfriend and I were helping out at Gail’s table.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said. “Gail’s pastries are so delicious!”
I introduced Rick, and he offered to go inside and get a coffee for her. “And one of those delicious pastries, if you like.”
“I adore her rum balls,” Mrs. Holt said, and she giggled girlishly. “And there’s something so naughty about asking for them, don’t you think?”
“Coffee and a rum ball,” Rick said, and he went inside.
I introduced Mrs. Holt to Rochester, and she smiled nervously. “I’m not much of a dog person,” she said.
“Don’t worry, he’s very attuned to people,” I said. “He won’t bother you.”
And he didn’t. He stayed on the pavement and continued chewing his biscuit.
“The detective said you had some questions about the 1960s,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
“Why don’t we wait for Rick to come back,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll want to ask the questions. I agreed to join him because I mentioned that I’d met you at the Harvest Fair.”
Rick came out a few moments later, balancing two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a paper plate of rum balls. “Gail said to tell you last call,” he said to me. “She’s closing up.”
“I’m good.”
He sat between us and turned to Mrs. Holt. He explained that the bones found at the Meeting House belonged to one of the last boys who had passed through en route to Canada.
“Not Peter!” she said, her mouth opening.
“You remember him?” Rick asked.
“Oh, yes. I made a point of meeting all the young men we helped. I wanted them to know that someone at home would be thinking of them. I often went over to the Meeting House to talk to them.”
“Did you talk to Peter and the other boy with him?” Rick asked.
“Well, just Peter,” she said. “The other one wasn’t very friendly. And he was too restless to sit around. He went out for a while, and Peter and I sat in one of the offices at the back of the Meeting House and talked, oh, for hours.”
“What can you tell me about Peter?” Rick asked.