William grinned again. “Don’t worry. I’ve had some practice at making myself invisible.”
That was an ambiguous statement, Laura thought, and filed the information away for future contemplation.
“I’ll make a diagram showing where everyone was,” William went on. “It’ll be fun, and it might help us to see who could have done it.”
He unfolded his lanky frame. “I think I’ll see how my grandmother is managing with Mrs. Takara. She’s a weird one. Repressed anger, I’d say. That husband of hers is a real shit-head.” He ambled off, and Laura was glad to note that he looked carefully in both directions before he crossed the street.
“I wish he would leave the whole thing alone,” she lamented, “his grandmother too. You’d think seeing a second person almost run down would convince them that the situation could get dangerous, but I don’t think it has. I can’t imagine why they are so determined to get involved.”
Violet’s forehead creased with worry. “Nor can I,” she agreed. “It doesn’t make any sense, especially since William is the most likely person to be hurt.”
Laura’s mouth tightened. Violet was right. William really might become the next victim unless she found out what was going on soon. She had said she would leave the investigation to the police, but that didn’t seem to be working. Besides, she was tired of being a target. She didn’t have any practice at making herself invisible, but she did know a few things about disguise after her experiences last year.
Claudine joined her as she walked back to the bus, and Laura saw with surprise that she no longer had her shopping bag. “What happened to the things you bought?” Laura asked impulsively.
Claudine looked flustered, almost frightened. She seemed to be casting around for an answer. Then she spotted her husband, who was already standing beside the bus, and pointed at him. “He told me to take them all back,” she hissed, and the underlying fury in her tone made Laura wince. “He said they were too extravagant.”
Claudine’s lips closed tightly after the outburst, as if she regretted the words, and Laura didn’t have the heart to question her further.
Who was lying? Laura performed a quick mental calculation and decided it had to be Claudine. There hadn’t been time for Dr. Bernstein to find her and for her to return the clothes. Returning items often took longer than buying them.
Another thought popped into her mind. Claudine might not have bought anything at all. Maybe what had been in the missing bag was her husband’s disguise.
Laura watched carefully as the bus negotiated the narrow street past the psychic’s shop and the next one, where Claudine had lingered. When the bus turned, she saw that there was an alley behind the shops where owners put out their trash, and each had a back door that led to it. Maybe Claudine had gone out the back door of her shop, he out of his, and they had met in that alley. The shopping bag could have contained first his disguise, then his own clothes, then the revealing disguise again, which had been left behind, probably in a rubbish bin.
Tonight, she would go to the alley and see what she could find.
***************
Getting away without arousing suspicion proved harder than Laura had anticipated. People lingered over dinner, chatting compulsively, and Alan insisted on escorting her to her room and checking it once they got there. “I want to make sure there are no intruders in your closet,” he joked, but he didn’t go to the door once he had looked into them, only half humorously, but stood looking at her thoughtfully.
“You are an unusual woman,” he commented in a soft tone that made Laura wonder if he had other motives besides a security check. She had pegged him as a man who wouldn’t be averse to a brief romance if one came his way, but surely he didn’t have her in mind?
“And a weary one,” she countered, standing rather stiffly by the door.
“You are sure you will be all right?” Alan persisted. “I shall be just down the hall, in number fifteen.”
“I will be fine,” she assured him, wondering if that had been a veiled invitation to join him if she wanted. “Violet should be here later, too.”
Alan laughed. “You’ll make a pretty tough pair.” Reluctantly, he started for the door, and Laura stepped aside to let him pass.
“Goodnight,” he said, and gave her such a charming smile that she began to wonder all over again whether she was imagining things. Maybe after all, he was just a very nice man who was concerned for her welfare. She wished, not for the first time, that she had more experience in these matters. Twenty years of marriage hadn’t equipped her to evaluate masculine attention. A great deal of knowledge about gender differences didn’t seem to help, either.
This was not the moment, however, to dwell on her deficiencies. Moving fast, Laura scoured her suitcase for anything that would look out of character. She almost cheered out loud when she spotted a voluminous outfit she had bought at a sidewalk sale for her daughter, who loved ethnic clothes. Shoving her feet into the baggy harem pants, which looked like extra-large pajama bottoms to her, she pulled the low-cut, midriff-baring top over her head. It was a good start, but she needed to do something about her hair. That always gave her away. The huge scarf she had bought for a friend might do the trick. Laura wrapped it around her head like a turban and fastened it securely; then she applied as thick a layer of make-up as she could with her limited supply of cosmetics, and added beads and huge clunky earrings.
A quick glance in the mirror told her that she looked like an over-dressed prostitute with terrible taste. Still, it would have to do.
No one was in the corridor, so she went out. A movement stopped her after she had taken only a few steps. Someone had entered the hall at the other end, a tall red-head according to the gleam of russet that flashed as the woman passed one of the dim wall lights. Could it be Violet? Laura ducked into a closet full of cleaning supplies. Right now, she didn’t want even Violet to see her.
No, it wasn’t Violet. Instead, it was another redhead, quite a gorgeous one. The woman looked around furtively; then, to Laura’s astonishment, she hurried down the row of rooms and knocked quietly but insistently at number fifteen - Alan’s room. The door opened and she slid inside. There was no exchange of words, not even a greeting.
Laura expelled her breath with a whooshing sound. Who could the woman be? A girlfriend or wife? But why then would she come in so stealthily?
To her horror, a sneeze threatened to emerge. The floral scent in the closet was stultifying. Holding her nose, Laura charged out of the closet, ran downstairs and erupted into the hotel’s small garden, where she muffled the sneeze in a thick bush.
Disguises weren’t much use to people with allergies, she reflected dispiritedly as she slid from bush to bush, and finally out into the street.
Fortunately a lot of people were out taking a late stroll, many in unusual clothes, so she wasn’t too conspicuous in her costume. Laura began to relax. If she just ambled along casually, no one would notice her - unless, of course, that person was Lady Longtree, who had just come into the street. And William, Laura saw with alarm, as he joined his grandmother.
She ducked through the nearest door to elude them, and found herself in a smoke-filled pub. All conversation at the bar ceased at her abrupt entry and twenty or more pairs of masculine eyes turned to survey her through the smoky haze, if not with hostility, certainly without enthusiasm. The men waited.
Laura licked her lips. This must be one of the local’s bars her landlord had warned them about. Some of them were a bit rough, he had said, and it was best to patronize the ones that catered to tourists. She couldn’t leave, though, not until she was sure Lady Longtree and William were out of sight.
Deciding to ignore her, the men went back to their beers and cigarettes, and resumed a low-voiced conversation. Laura caught the word baby, and her ears pricked up. Maybe she would learn something if she stuck around.
The bartender’s voice broke in. “May I help you, Madam?” His tone wasn’t very welcoming
. The men stopped talking and waited again.
Laura squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she answered firmly, determined not to be intimidated. She had as much right to be here as anyone else. “I’ll have a beer.
“A small one, a half-pint,” she added hastily, recalling the correct term. “Do you have a recommendation?”
“Our Glastonbury special is popular,” he told her. “It’s a pale ale called Courage, not too strong. The ladies seem to like it.”
“Excellent,” Laura agreed. “Could you bring it to one of these tables?” She didn’t have the nerve to elbow her way through that crowd of men and get it for herself, as was the custom here. Maybe after a glass or two of Courage, she would.
She looked longingly at the table furthest from the bar but decided on a closer one where she could hear if the conversation about babies resumed. Pulling out her map of the town, she pretended to study it so the men would think she wasn’t listening.
The bartender brought her drink to the table and she paid him absent-mindedly, still deep in her map. Returning to his post, he propped his elbows on the bar and waited expectantly. His pose helped. The customers began to chat amiably again.
One of the men shook his head. “Terrible thing,” he intoned dramatically. “Two little babies, taken just like that!” He snapped his fingers hard to demonstrate. “Girls, both of ‘em. Straight outa’ the maternity hospital this time, not one of those touristy places like the other one. Last night, they did it. Right in front of the bloody coppers’ noses. Morning papers are full of it.”
“Bastards!” one of the men said succinctly.
Laura heart sank at the thought of still more babies destined for an unknown and probably horrible fate. On the other hand, this was helpful information, and if it had only just happened, she might be able to help if she found out more about it.
“Good hospital, too, I’ve heard,” another man contributed. “Oughta be able to take care of the poor little things better’n that. I know what I’d do if anyone stole my kid. Bloke would be dead before he hit the street.”
The other men nodded emphatically. “String 'em up,” another suggested. “Cut off their bloody damn balls, too.”
“Up north someplace, wasn’t it?” the bartender asked.
“Nah. Near here, my missus said. Bristol. She reads all that stuff. Can’t get her away from it long enough to cook the bloody food.”
Laura stiffened. Didn’t Amy and Margaret work in Bristol?
“Another case like that in Dublin last year,” a man with an Irish accent told the others. “I was there then. Papers were full of it for a while. Both girls that time, too, but they didn’t bother with hospitals or tourist places. Taken right outa their prams instead when the Mum was in a store. No one ever saw ‘em again. No ransom notes, nothing. Just vanished.”
“Bloody world’s falling apart when you can’t keep kids safe,” his companion grumbled. “Don’t have girls myself. Glad, too. All those wierdos hanging about. Ought to lock ‘em up where they can’t hurt anyone.”
Another man came in and the conversation shifted to football, European for soccer. Laura headed for the door. She could find out more about the thefts in the papers, and Lady Longtree and William must have reached the hotel by this time.
The streets were emptier now, almost too empty. Laura’s skin began to prickle, as if once again she were being watched. There were footsteps behind her, too, footsteps that seemed to stop whenever she did.
She went into a late-shop and watched out the window, but saw only a dog-walker and an elderly woman, stooped and slow, making her way from one trash bin to the next. Maybe she was the source of the footsteps. The woman discovered a half-eaten bag of fish and chips and disappeared down an alley with her prize, clucking with satisfaction.
“Damn,” Laura muttered to herself. “That’s my alley.” Venturing out again, she stood at the mouth of the alley, which was indeed the one behind the shops where the Bernsteins had lingered. There was no sign of the bag lady now.
Laura crept stealthily down the alley. No footsteps behind, she reassured herself as the darkness closed in, none ahead.
A rustling sound stopped her. Probably a rat or other animal, attracted by the smell of garbage. Laura aimed the beam of her flashlight at the noise. She heard a startled gasp and saw the bag lady in the act of pulling a garment up to her eyes to shield them. Other clothes littered the ground by her feet – clothes like the ones worn by so many of the women. A long skirt, a big shawl…
Excitement made Laura’s stomach flip. So her guess had been correct. She turned the light away from the woman’s face, afraid of alarming her further. Oddly, thought, the bag lady didn’t look frightened, only determined.
“I found ‘em first,” she stated defiantly in a high, nasal voice.
“You did,” Laura agreed amiably. “Nice clothes, too. Mind if I have a look at them? I design fabrics,” she lied, “and these patterns look very unusual.
“I won’t take them, I promise,” she added as the woman snatched them up and held them protectively to her chest. “I just want to look at them.”
“What’s your name?” she added, when there was no response.
“Name’s Maisie,” the bag lady admitted.
“Do you live in Glastonbury, Maisie?”
Maisie stared at her for a long moment but made no answer. “You’re the one got pushed into the street,” she said unexpectedly.
“You’re right, I am,” Laura agreed. “Did you see what happened?”
But Maisie didn’t seem to hear. “You can look at this one,” she conceded, holding out a shawl with a lurid floral pattern before turning to rummage in the garbage bin again.
“Thank you.” Laura took the shawl, wondering what she was going to do with it. She hadn’t seen the man dressed as a woman. Violet had. Still, she might be able to describe the shawl to Violet later. Maybe, though, there was another way. Holding it up to her nose, she sniffed it. Surely, a scent as strong as Dr. Bernstein’s dreadful aftershave would cling to fabrics. How wonderful if that should be the instrument of his undoing!
Her nose wrinkled with distaste. The shawl smelled mostly of rotting garbage. She thought she caught a vague scent of perfume, but it was hard to identify as belonging to Dr. Bernstein or anyone else after its sojourn in the can.
The bag lady straightened and held up a ragged and hairy brown object with a gesture of triumph. Plunking it on her head, she danced clumsily around the garbage can. Laura laughed, feeling triumphant. So there was a wig.
“It suits you,” she said. “All you need is the shawl to put over your head. Here, you can have it back now.”
Maisie gave her a wide smile, revealing a mouth that was almost empty of teeth. Abruptly, her lips clamped tightly closed again and a look of abject fear came into her face. She gave a small screech of terror, grabbed what she could of the clothes at her feet and fled into the darkness with remarkable agility for such a stiff-legged old lady. The wig flopped furiously on her head and then fell off.
Laura whirled. Maisie must have seen something - or someone - behind her. Steeling herself not to run, she shone her light into the darkness, moving it in a wide arc around the alley. A flash of pale cloth caught in the arc; then it disappeared and the person in the cloth was swallowed into the darkness again. A dress or a long coat, Laura thought. She ran toward the place where she had seen it but no one was there.
Then, without warning, she heard the footsteps again, just behind her and to the left. They came closer and closer still. Every instinct told her to run but she stood her ground, shaking. She had to know who the person was.
An unearthly scream bounced against the walls of the alley. Laura froze. A second scream followed and then a third - howls so ferocious that they propelled Laura’s paralyzed limbs into action. Utterly unable to control her panic now, she fled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Laura hurtled out of the alley. Surely, there must be still be a few people o
n the main street. There was one - a man walking his dog with leisurely steps. She ran up to him, casting caution and discretion to the winds.
“Hello!” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “You look as if you’ve had a fright.”
“Yes. I was… I was taking a shortcut through the alley. Not a good idea, I guess,” Laura said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“No,” he agreed, regarding her strange costume with politely restrained curiosity. Laura was grateful for the streetlights after the darkness of the alley, but she wished they weren’t quite so bright. They made her look positively garish.
“That awful scream terrified me,” she added, wanting to distract him from her appearance. “Did you hear it?”
He chuckled. “I certainly did. “We hear a lot of that sort of howling around here. Too many abandoned cats.”
“A cat?” Laura was horrified. Had she run away instead of rescuing a poor homeless cat that was being brutally attacked?
“A female in heat,” he explained succinctly, and gave her another curious look. “They always make a noise like that. Looking for a mate.”
Laura went pink with embarrassment. She had panicked because of a randy cat!
If nothing terrifying awaited her in the alley, she ought to go back for the clothes and the wig. They could be valuable evidence. The thought was appalling.
“If you will tell me where you live, or are staying,” her companion said in the same polite tone, “I shall be happy walk you back. Lucy is small but she’s fearsome when she wants to be.” As if to confirm his statement, the dog, an irascible looking terrier, growled at something unseen down the street.
Laura grasped at the excuse. She would go back to the alley early in the morning, when she could see but no one would be around. “That’s good of you,” she agreed.
Her rescuer cast her still another ambivalent glance, and it occurred to Laura that she should at least try to explain her unusual attire.
“We had a kind of fancy dress routine this evening,” she ventured. This time the man’s look was frankly skeptical.
Wading Into Murder Page 7