by Ann Cook
Brandy followed him while he groped in a half-empty cupboard and took down two mis-matched cups, one cracked. “Should’ve hired a packing crew.” His faded blue eyes looked soulful. “My wife always did the packing. We hadn’t moved in twenty-five years. Now on this block we suddenly got gentrification. Everything upscale.” He scraped a teaspoon of dried out coffee into each cup and gave them a vicious stir. “Could’ve stayed, of course, because of my age. Could even buy into the co-op. It would’ve cost an arm and a leg.”
Brandy picked up her coffee and trailed after him into what had been the living room. The sun burned through the curtainless window on several cartons and boxes and a threadbare oriental rug. “Might as well move near my daughter in Jersey. Nothing’s going to be left of the old Chelsea.”
With a sigh he dropped into one of two upholstered chairs beside a half-filled bookcase, set his cup on a shelf, and began stacking volumes into a narrow oblong crate. Brandy recognized a few titles, The Ordeal of Richard Feveral, Martin Chuzzlewit, The Vicar of Wakefield. A Victorian enthusiast, she thought. My story might appeal to his sense of drama. On the opposite wall stood a glass-paneled cabinet, crammed with sentimental ceramic figures—tiny boys and girls, puppies, and kittens, bright blue and pink birds. His wife’s collection, probably. Brandy had more respect for the husband’s taste.
“Mr. Grosmiller, I told you on the phone I’m a reporter from the Gainesville newspaper. Your wife commissioned a private investigator to locate her niece. I need to know the niece’s identity.”
“We paid the man for his time,” Grosmiller said in an irritated tone. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but I don’t want to get involved. I’m too busy just now.”
If the story of the murder even made the New York papers, it would’ve been a small item. He didn’t understand the urgency. Brandy leaned toward him. “The investigator was murdered two days ago in Florida,” she said.
His bony hand halted in mid-air, still holding a slender volume of Aubrey Beardsley. “I haven’t read the newspaper in days.” Finally he inserted the book into the box.
Brandy reached into her bag for a note pad, forcing her voice to sound gentle. “Tell me about your wife’s niece.”
He slumped back in his chair. “Her mother was my wife’s sister. The family lived over on the east side, Tudor City. To start with, when the daughter was a teen-ager she give her parents problems. An only child. Sometimes ran in a crowd they didn’t approve of. Then there was the tragedy.”
“Tragedy?”
When he pursed his lips and glanced at her note pad, Brandy returned it to her bag. Better to trust her memory than stifle an interview. Note-taking made some people nervous.
“Both parents were killed in a car accident up in New England one summer, my wife’s sister and her husband. Her niece was nineteen, at New York University.” He shook his head. “Allison’s her name. She dropped out of college, went through a bad time, I guess. We saw something of her for a while. My wife felt an obligation, you know.” He resumed his slow packing. “The girl turned to her father’s attorney for advice. Natural, I suppose. He had to close the estate, take it through probate. She got to depend on him for every decision. Turned out her father was a poor businessman, left a lot of debts and not much else. She came out with a lump sum. Not much, my wife said.”
Brandy wondered where the story was leading, but at least she had a first name now, Allison.
“She didn’t want to go back to school, anyway. Well, one thing led to another, and by the end of the year, she up and married the attorney. My wife was upset. He was probably twenty years older, but then he was a wealthy man. She figured that was some compensation. He was on the rebound, like they say. Divorced his first wife the year before. An ugly business. That wife told all sorts of outrageous stories about him, but he held firm. He said the woman was running around with another man. He finally got custody of their son.”
Grosmiller took a long sip of coffee that dampened his drooping mustache. For a doleful moment he reflected. “So Allison and the attorney married, but I guess it didn’t work out. They started having trouble early on. When she got over grieving for her parents, I guess she started thinking about having a good time again. But as you young folks say, he wasn’t into her scene.
“The little girl was born about a year after the wedding. About two more years went by and we didn’t hear from her. Then she called my wife a couple of times, and I think they met somewhere. Next thing I knew, Allison left her husband and took the little girl. My wife figured Allison had seen Frank Bullen as a substitute for her father, and she tired of being married to a father figure.”
Allison’s other name had dropped. “Why would Mr. Bullen let her leave with their child?”
“My wife said he might not want to hold Allison against her will, but Allison was afraid he’d fight for custody of the little girl. Mr. Bullen said she was running around wild. Remember, he got custody of his son after his first marriage.”
Brandy reached down, opened the Beardsley volume to one of the artist’s typical illustrations—a Victorian beauty with delicate features, fluid neck, up-tilted head of dark, flowing hair. “That little girl has grown up to look very much like this picture, Mr. Grosmiller. It’s for her that I’m bothering you this morning.”
Silently the old man stared at the page. Then he passed his hand over his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to cause trouble for Mr. Bullen,” he said at last. “Seems like a decent fellow. I see their pictures in the papers, at charity functions sometimes. He finally got a divorce for desertion, my wife said. A couple of years ago he married again.”
“Did your wife ever hear from her niece?”
“Once, I think. A card, right after she left. My wife told Allison where to go that her husband couldn’t find her, and she gave her a letter of introduction to an old friend who would help her. When she didn’t hear from Allison again, she thought she’d settled in all right. I never knew where. When my wife got so ill—” he paused to get control of his voice—”she wanted to find her niece. She tried to get in touch with her old friend, but the woman had moved away. No one knew how to reach her anymore.”
“Do you know what happened to the card her niece mailed?”
He thought a moment. “Might be in my wife’s safety deposit box. She didn’t keep much stuff. A tidy sort. I forgot about the box, and it was sealed. Now I’ve got to wait until later this week to get into it, look for some bonds.”
Brandy steered the conversation back to Cara. “Were you aware that a woman was murdered in Cedar Key, Florida, about the time Allison disappeared? A woman who had a two-year old girl with her?”
He glanced up, startled. “My wife never knew that.” He’d stopped packing now. “Name of the town rings a bell. As a kid my wife spent some time in Cedar Key. Had relatives used to live there. Talked about what a quiet, out-of-the-way place it was, miles off the main highway.”
Brandy felt for her note pad again and gripped her pencil. “The murdered woman’s skeleton was never identified,” she said. “Do you know who Allison’s dentist might be?”
“I suppose you’re looking for positive identification.” He rose, shuffled over to an open box, and rummaged among manila folders, albums, and small notebooks. “Methodical, bless her.” He straightened up with a pocket-sized address book. “Kept important names and addresses. My wife and her sister went to the same guy for years. Allison might have, too.” He carried the small book back to his chair, flipped a few pages, and peered at the neat handwriting. “It’s my wife’s, all right.” He swallowed, fumbled in his pants pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “Got no idea if the guy would still be practicing. Dr. Edward Linebaugh. Had an office over on 42nd Street off Madison.”
Brand jotted down the name and number. She also scrawled “Frank Bullen, attorney,” and “Allison” after it. “The local sheriff
’s office may be interested. The murder case is still open, of course. They’ll want Allison Bullen’s dental records.”
Grosmiller drained the remainder of his cold coffee and placed his cup on the shelf. “Sure don’t want to cause problems for Mr. Bullen. He’s had enough. He may not want all this business raked up again. If Allison was killed, I’m glad my wife didn’t know.”
Brandy doodled a tombstone and thrust her note pad back into her purse. “You’ll be doing Mr. Bullen a favor. While he thought his wife was making a new life for herself, she was probably lying dead in a basement, and his child was being reared by a stranger.” With a twinge of guilt she thought of Marcia Waters, but she plunged on. “The person I’m working with may be that daughter. She’s grown up in Cedar Key, not knowing who she really is. She’s a young woman anyone would be pleased to have as a daughter.” Frank Bullen, she thought, must be the source of the money the private detective said would come to Cara. Maybe he was the other party Rossi said would be interested in the investigation.
“I don’t know,” the old man said, shaking his head. “There’s a lot of truth in the saying, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’”
“That would be Mr. Bullen’s decision,” Brandy said. “Do you know how I can reach him?”
Grosmiller pointed to a stack of phone directories on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. “Help yourself. He’s a partner in a big law firm here in Manhattan. Be a shock to him, not to mention his new wife. I imagine his home phone’s unlisted. Try “attorneys” in the yellow pages. He works with probate, trusts, things like that.”
The bottom bookshelf was now bare. He scooted his chair to the cabinet, laid a stack of old newspapers next to it, and began wrapping the ceramic figures. After several frustrating minutes, Brandy found the trust attorneys and a firm called “Brett, Adcock, Bullen, Sturdevant, and Crye.” The phone was picked up by a woman with a frosty voice. “Mr. Bullen is in conference. I can see about making an appointment some time next month.”
Brandy winced. “This is a personal matter. I think Mr. Bullen will make time to see me. Will you please tell him I’m here from Florida with information about his daughter.”
The superiority in her tone increased. “Mr. Bullen has a son, not a daughter.”
“Mr. Bullen has a daughter he’s lost touch with. She’s grown now and would like to meet him.”
A stunned pause followed. “Can he get back to you?”
“I’m only here through today.” Brandy glanced at her preoccupied host, then at her watch. Ten-forty-five. “He’ll have to call me here within the next half hour.” She gave Grosmiller’s phone number. “Later I can be reached at another apartment.” She extracted her address book from her bag and repeated Thea’s number. “I leave in the morning on an eight o’clock plane. And I won’t be back.”
She walked to the front window and looked down at a busy fruit vendor’s cart, the crush of shoppers, the cabs and cars jockeying under the traffic light, heard the rising din of voices, horns, car engines. She remembered the razor ribbon between buildings, and felt an unexpected sadness. Cara had been raised in the still backwater of Cedar
Key. Its people weren’t blood family, but they were dear and concerned friends. Marcia had been a devoted foster parent. What destiny was Brandy about to hand to Cara?
As Grosmiller continued his patient wrapping, Brandy sat down beside him, picked up a length of newsprint, and wadded it around a tiny bear. He held up a slim porcelain figure in a hoop skirt. “Almost sixty years together,” he said quietly. “I won’t last a year without her, you know.”
Brandy raised her eyes, touched. Would John ever make such a remark about her, perhaps fifty years from now? She could not be sure. When the telephone rang, Grosmiller nodded to her and she picked it up. The same clipped female voice spoke. “The only time Mr. Bullen can see you today is during his lunch hour. What did you say your name was?”
“Brandy. Brandy O’Bannon, Gainesville Tribune.”
“He says it would be best to meet him at his apartment, Miss O’Bannon. His housekeeper will be there to let you in. His wife’s out for the morning. He’ll meet you there about twelve-thirty.” Brandy wrote down an address on Sutton Place.
At the apartment door she shook Mr. Grosmiller’s frail hand. “I’d as soon you didn’t mention me when you meet Mr. Bullen,” he said. “I’d like to stay out of this whole wretched business.”
In the elevator Brandy had a sudden feeling of insecurity. She was out of her depth. What was she doing in Manhattan, preparing to talk to a powerful New York attorney, to tell him his daughter might lay claim to him after twenty years?
She comforted herself with the thought of Cara, safe in the cocoon of Cedar Key.
CHAPTER 15
Cara was conscious of a vise-like headache, of being prone and joggled in the back seat of a car. She longed to cry out for help. When she was twelve, she had broken an ankle playing soccer. It was Marcia who comforted her in the jolting ambulance. But Marcia was not here now. Cara had shut her out of her life.
She tried to lift her hand to her head, and remembered that her wrists were bound behind her. Rigid with fear, she waited several minutes while her memory flooded back, afraid to speak, afraid the thug who drove would bind her mouth as well. She’d read that a captive had once suffocated because of a clumsy effort to stifle her voice. Cara couldn’t sit up; she couldn’t move her ankles or legs. By twisting her neck, she could see the tops of trees flashing past in growing darkness. The bumpiness of the road must mean the driver had veered off the highway, away from any town, and onto a dirt road.
At last the car ground to a halt. The brute who drove snapped open his door, stepped out, and slogged around to the passenger side. Cara stiffened.
Her door swung wide. “Okay, girlie. Time to get out. We gonna switch cars. Move!”
“I can’t move,” Cara said, her voice soft, non-threatening.
“Damn. I ain’t gonna carry you. I’ll loosen the ankle rope some. One false move, you know what’ll happen.”
Cara rolled out of the seat and wobbled to her feet. She stood in a sandy road, tall trees rising around them, no lights, no sounds except the sighing of the wind. She could see before them the square bulk of an open vehicle. Rough hands shoved her the few feet to a swamp buggy, and half lifted her onto the passenger seat.
Cara whispered, “Someone will find my car.”
He looked at her, his grin wolfish. “Don’t count on it, sister. No one will find your car for a long, long time. And nobody knows where you’ve gone.” She had seen to that herself, she thought bitterly, her heart sinking.
The car keys were in her purse and it was gone. Anyway, thugs like these would not be stopped by a locked car. Surely she was dealing with more than one person. Maybe, she thought, the homicide detective was right. Maybe Rossi had crossed a gang of drug dealers, and she had taken the leader’s picture. If true, she and Brandy were wrong about a connection with her. Brandy’s trip to New York would be useless. Cara slumped down in the seat, her chest knotted in a tight fist.
After the swamp buggy swerved around a curve in the two track road, its dim headlights shone on the broad, black waters of a river. The Suwannee, she thought. No other nearby body of water stretched so far across. She could see the distant shore, thick with bald cypress, slash pine, and red cedar. When her driver jammed on the brake, the tires slid a few feet in the wet soil.
“Out!” He grunted, lifting his bulk out of his seat.
The passenger seat was too high for Cara to jump down. When his fingers tightened around her arms, she almost fainted with fear before he half dropped her to the ground. A small skiff had been tied to a tree by the shore, and beyond it, anchored off a small island, a houseboat rose and fell with waves kicked up by the wind. She could not look at him. It was bad enough to be next to his sour smell. “What ar
e you going to do with me?” she asked.
He did not answer, and instead half pushed and half carried her across the damp river’s edge and over the side of the little boat. He yanked the rope on a small kicker, waited for the engine to catch, then steered across to the houseboat. In the failing light, Cara stumbled up the short ladder though a gate onto the deck and was hustled past the wheel house. She glimpsed a whiskey bottle and a wall phone. Then he pushed her though a pocket door, and into a cramped bedroom with bunk beds, one dresser, and a tiny bathroom off the short hall.
“My hands,” she said, trying to steady her voice. She nodded toward the head. “I’ve got to use my hands.”
“Shit.” He grabbed a pocket knife from a jacket pocket and cut the heavy bands that had rubbed her wrists raw, in a hurry to waddle out of the room, slam the door shut, and lock it. Probably eager to get to the whiskey and the phone. She didn’t know whether to hope he’d get so drunk he’d pass out, or to fear the liquor would inflame him. By pressing against the door, she could hear his gruff voice rise and fall on the cellular phone, but she could not make out any words except “bitch.” He was reporting to a superior, she thought. He had told her no one knew where she would be. Only a few people in Cedar Key would have known that fact.
Through two high, narrow windows, locked tight, she could see a thin strip of sky, heavy with moving clouds. The hurricane was beginning its rush up the coast. The bushy-haired brute in the next room was not the only horror she had to confront. There would be wild winds and lashing rain. Too petrified even to cry, Cara fell on the lower bunk and curled into a fetal position.
* * * *
After Brandy emerged from the subway at 59th Street on her way to Mr. Bullen’s address, she turned east. The streets grew wider, cleaner, the shops more elegant. Canopies blossomed above sidewalks patroled by uniformed doormen. Beside a small park, floored with brick overlooking the East River, Brandy found Frank Bullen’s townhouse, walled off by a wrought iron fence and a grassy terrace.