“Of course,” Pamela said, reaching for the door handle.
“A big tomcat’s been hanging around,” Bettina said. “I saw him creeping out of Richard Larkin’s yard while I was ringing your doorbell this evening.”
“Bettina!” Pamela scowled at her friend. “That is not funny at all.”
“I’m serious,” Bettina said with a laugh. “There really is a tomcat in the neighborhood. So you’d better keep close tabs on that kitty.”
Catrina met Pamela with a wail that sounded like a baby crying. She pranced around Pamela’s feet, weaving this way and that, her fur soft against Pamela’s bare ankles. “She’s been rubbing herself on everything,” Penny said from the sofa.
“Bettina says there’s a tomcat around,” Pamela said. “I suppose Catrina senses that and she . . . they . . . just like people . . . want to . . .” She paused, wondering where she had meant to take the thought.
“I know what you mean, Mom.” Penny looked vaguely embarrassed. “How was your meeting?”
“Fine,” Pamela said. “Harold Bascomb is a remarkable man.”
Chapter Eighteen
This note-writing occasion called for stationery other than a sheet torn from one of the free notepads that arrived almost daily from various charities. In the living room, Pamela opened a drawer in her old oak desk and picked out a card with a bouquet of peonies on the front. At the kitchen table, she sipped her coffee and pondered for a moment. As she pondered, Catrina strolled through from the back hallway. Pamela reached for her pen and wrote:
Dear Richard,
Thank you very much for the addition to my collection of deviled-egg platters. It was thoughtful of you to think of me.
Yours sincerely,
Pamela Paterson
“Thoughtful of you to think of me” was quite redundant, she realized, scanning the finished message. Had she come upon something like it in an article she was editing, she would have pounced. But instead of starting over with a fresh card, she tucked the finished note into an envelope, wrote “Richard Larkin” on the front, and set the envelope on the mail table. In a few minutes she’d leave to meet Bettina for the adventure they’d planned, and she’d drop the note in Richard’s mailbox on the way. But first she finished the last few swallows of coffee and rinsed the carafe and her cup at the sink.
She stepped onto the porch. The day was bright and clear, and the greenery all the greener for being washed by the heavy rain. But the wind had strewn lawns with twigs and even sizeable branches. She’d take a break from the magazine work later and spend an hour in the yard with a rake. She glanced toward Richard’s house. It was late enough, certainly, that he’d have left for work, and she wouldn’t come face-to-face with him as she hand delivered her thank-you note.
That errand done, she hurried across the street. Bettina was standing in the driveway, car doors already open.
“You don’t want to just walk?” Pamela said. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“I’m not walking up that hill in these.” Bettina lifted a foot to display a sandal with a delicate heel and narrow crisscrossing straps. The sandals complemented the rest of the outfit, a full skirt and a peasanty blouse with embroidered trim. “I could barely sleep,” she said. “Aren’t you excited?”
“I am curious,” Pamela said. “If the car Harold saw is there now, that could be a very useful clue. And if the door to the house is open, I’m sure Detective Clayborn would appreciate a call.” She slipped into the passenger seat. “Especially if we see somebody carrying out boxes.”
“Why involve Clayborn?” Bettina said. “Maybe we just introduce ourselves as neighbors, always up for a chat.” She settled herself behind the steering wheel and turned to Pamela. “What were you doing on Richard Larkin’s porch?” she asked.
“Dropping off a thank-you note,” Pamela said.
“Good,” Bettina said with a satisfied nod. “I’m glad you took my advice.”
“I always write thank-you notes,” Pamela said with a sideways glance at her friend.
* * *
Jefferson’s imposing house, with its half-timber details and steep roof, loomed ahead on its shrubbery-covered hillside. Bettina paused at the cross street and then continued up the hill, slowing to a crawl.
“No boxes in the driveway,” she observed.
“And no SUVs at the curb,” Pamela added. “But it might be interesting to see how things look inside. If somebody’s been carrying boxes out, what have they been taking?”
Bettina nodded. “Jefferson had an awful lot of nice stuff. But if the killer’s only motive was to get his stuff, why not just break in, like a burglar?” They had cruised past Jefferson’s house. Bettina put the car in reverse and began to back up.
Pamela squirmed around in her seat to make sure Bettina wasn’t about to back into anything. “You couldn’t carry away boxes and boxes of stuff in a break-in.”
“But somebody who knew about all his stuff—”
Pamela cut in. “Like the red-haired woman . . .”
“And now she’s raiding the house.” Bettina swung the steering wheel to the left and eased closer to the curb. “Maybe she’s even sleeping here. Sneaking around with candles so nobody will see lights.”
“But she couldn’t move in or get started with the raiding until the police were through.” Pamela turned to face her friend.
Bettina twisted her key in the ignition. The car’s engine growled and then was silent. “So she lies low for a few days. Then she gets busy.”
An exciting thought came to Pamela, and she greeted it with a sharp intake of breath. “I know how we can figure out if it’s her!”
“I’ll bite.” Bettina turned toward Pamela and waited, her eyes wide.
“See if the hat’s still under the pillow.” Pamela smiled a satisfied smile. “If I was her, I’d have grabbed the hat right away. Even if the police didn’t find it, I wouldn’t want anything lying around that could ever be followed up—by anybody—as a clue of any kind.”
Bettina set the emergency brake. Pamela opened the car door and swung her feet onto the grass. “Let’s go,” she said.
* * *
They found themselves tiptoeing as they made their way along the dim, wood-paneled hall. When they reached the doorway that opened into the living room, Pamela entered first. She scanned the room and heard herself whisper, “Uh-oh.” Brocade swags still accented the windows, velvety sofas and chairs still occupied their places on the richly patterned carpet, and elegant lamps still perched on graceful wooden pieces. But the walls were bare. Gone were the gold-framed paintings of landscapes, fruits, flowers, and beautiful women.
Bettina joined her and added her whispered, “Uh-oh.”
A peek into the dining room across the hall revealed walls stripped of paintings and a sideboard relieved of crystal decanters. “Well,” Bettina said, no longer whispering. “We’ve answered one question. The boxes on the driveway were full of Randall Jefferson’s goodies.”
“And to answer the question of who might be taking them—on to the second floor and the bedroom.”
They continued along the hall and up the wood-paneled stairs with their sweeping banisters. On the landing at the top, they hesitated. “His bedroom was this door on the left,” Pamela said, turning the knob.
This room looked just as it had looked on their first visit, with its grand bed, its reading chair, and its dresser, except—
“The cufflinks are gone,” Bettina pointed out with a laugh. “Gold, probably, and easy to carry off.”
“But let’s check what we came for.” Pamela advanced toward the bed. Legacy of the Revolution still rested on the night table to the right, as if waiting for its reader to return. And the quilted spread, even where it curved up over the pillows, looked undisturbed. Pamela edged along the left side of the bed and flipped the spread back. As Bettina watched, she lifted the pillow. And there, just as they had left them, were the skein of yarn, the neon-orange and chartreuse creation, an
d, dangling from one knitting needle, the beginnings of a tail—an incomplete version of the curious hat Pamela had found at St. Willibrod’s.
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“Want to take another look in his study?” Bettina asked.
“Might as well.” Pamela shrugged again. They headed toward the door, Pamela carrying the hat, yarn, and knitting needles.
Randall Jefferson’s study seemed undisturbed. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were still tightly packed with books whose sturdy spines hinted at the weighty content within. The huge wooden desk still dominated the room and was still bare, except for an expensive-looking pen and some paper clips in a crystal bowl. Apparently the police were still holding onto Jefferson’s computer.
“Bettina?” Pamela turned to see Bettina, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling.
“Shh!” Bettina raised a warning finger and whispered, “Someone’s up there.”
Pamela closed her eyes, held her breath, and listened. From overhead came the scuffling sound of something being dragged across the floor, then more scuffling, and more and more, as if several large objects were being repositioned. The scuffling stopped, but it was replaced by a series of thuds. The thuds grew steadily louder, resolving into footsteps.
“He’s coming down the stairs from the attic!” Bettina whispered, hugging herself, her face tight with fear. “What do we do?”
“Behind the desk,” Pamela whispered back. She motioned for Bettina to join her. Together they crouched close to the bookshelf, the massive desk between them and the door to the landing.
Out on the landing, the attic door opened and the footsteps came closer, but muffled by the carpet. Pamela and Bettina looked at each other. Pamela was aware that she was holding her breath. The footsteps paused and they heard a heavy thump, as if something ponderous had been deposited right outside the study door.
Pamela felt a clammy hand grab hers and squeeze. She squeezed back. From beyond the door, a male voice said, “Damn!” It paused and added, “Onward!”
Was it too soon to feel relief? Bettina relaxed the pressure on Pamela’s hand, and Pamela felt herself go limp, though her hairline still prickled with a film of sweat.
The footsteps were loud again for a moment, but then began to fade. Soon it was clear that the owner of the feet was heading down the grand staircase that connected the landing to the entry hall and thence—hopefully, Pamela prayed—to the door. She eased herself out of the uncomfortable crouch and rocked back so she was sitting on the floor.
“Wow,” Bettina said, latching onto the edge of the desk and pulling herself to her feet. “That was an experience.”
But they waited in vain for the solid clunk of a heavy wooden door being pulled shut.
“I do think he’s leaving,” Bettina whispered. “But maybe by the back door. Harold saw the boxes on the driveway.”
“Let’s see what’s happening.” Pamela bounded up and hurried to the window that looked out on the street that ran past the side of Jefferson’s house. “I can’t see the driveway from here,” she said. “Let’s check from another room.”
Walking on tiptoe in case they weren’t alone, they made their way along the edge of the landing to the room behind the study, one of the rooms still furnished as if for children. There, from the back window, they had a clear view of the driveway. A box sat on the pavers near the back door, but there was no sign of the person who had deposited it.
“He loaded up a bunch of boxes,” Bettina said, “and now he’s carrying them out one by one.”
Sure enough, in a few minutes they heard feet on the grand stairway. The footsteps became muffled as they reached the stretch of carpet on the landing, the door to the attic stairs opened and closed, and soon the feet were thudding about on the floor above.
Pamela and Bettina watched and waited. The pattern they’d heard the first time was repeated, complete with the exasperated “Damn!” but minus the “Onward!” Soon they saw a man emerge from the back door, bearing a gigantic cardboard box which he deposited next to the other box.
“It’s the ghost!” Pamela exclaimed.
“He looks just like Randall Jefferson,” Bettina said.
“It’s the man the gossipy dog-walking woman saw, the man she thought was Randall Jefferson returned from the dead.” Pamela studied the figure now heading back toward the door.
Instead of a linen sports jacket like Jefferson’s usual summer choice, this man wore a pale suit that, seen up close, might have been seersucker. But he’d accented it with a spiffy bow tie, and his smooth gray hair had been recently barbered.
“I don’t see a car.” Bettina crossed to the window that looked out the side of the house. “Nothing out here either.”
“Maybe he parked farther up the hill, or on a cross street. I doubt he wants to call attention to what he’s up to. Or he’s got an accomplice who’ll pull up as soon as he’s summoned.” Pamela raised a finger and modulated her voice to a whisper. “Shh,” she said. “He’s on his way to the attic again.”
Sure enough, footsteps were growing louder, and closer.
“We’ve got to find out where he’s going with all that stuff,” Bettina whispered back.
Pamela nodded, feeling her heart speed up. “As soon as we hear the attic door slam we’ll hurry down to your car. We parked in a good spot to watch the driveway, and when he takes off, we’ll wait a few seconds and take off too.”
Holding their breath, they made their way stealthily across the landing and down the grand stairway. In a few minutes they were back in Bettina’s car, Pamela still clutching the hat, the skein of yarn, and the knitting needles. She set them on the back seat.
Apparently, filling three large boxes and carrying them down two flights of stairs had exhausted the mysterious man’s energies for that day. Even before he reappeared, a black Mercedes SUV came cruising slowly down the hill, veered to the right, and backed into Jefferson’s driveway.
“New York plates,” Bettina observed. “We might be gone for a while.”
“Maybe we’d better drive up the hill and wait,” Pamela said. “It will seem too obvious if we sit here till they leave and then start right after them.”
From their new vantage point a block away, they watched the driver of the SUV get out, but he was too far away for them to notice more than that he looked young and thin. The huge SUV hid the back door of the house, as well as the boxes already piled on the driveway, but soon the car was in motion again, two figures visible in the front seat.
The SUV proceeded down the hill to Arborville Avenue and turned right, Bettina and Pamela following. The little procession passed the Co-Op Grocery, then turned right again and headed back up the hill for half a mile. “On his way to the bridge,” Bettina said. “Hopefully there won’t be much traffic this time of day.”
The lush greenery of Arborville receded behind them as they jogged left for the bridge ramp and joined the cars speeding along one of the concrete arteries that led toward the vast toll plaza and the George Washington Bridge beyond. Two lanes joined ten, and a rush of traffic converged on the long row of booths. A speedy little sports car cut in front of Bettina, and the black SUV sprinted across two lanes and made for a booth with a flashing E-ZPass sign.
“Don’t worry,” Pamela said. “I’ll keep my eye on him. Just stay in this lane and we’ll catch up with him on the bridge.”
Once through the toll booth, they entered the dim lower level of the bridge, the river and the western rim of Manhattan visible off to the right through the crisscrossed steel of the bridge struts. The river was flat and bright on this May morning, the Manhattan skyline jagged against the clear May sky.
“Middle lane,” Pamela said. “Three cars ahead. Get in the middle too, so we can go either way when we get to the split for the Cross Bronx and the West Side Highway.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Pamela tried to take a breath and realized she hadn’t exhaled lately. She closed her eyes an
d forced her lungs to empty and fill, sighed deeply, and breathed in again. In her chest, her heart was ticking like a busy clock.
Up ahead, the black SUV veered right. “He’s going for the West Side Highway,” Pamela said. “Get ready.” Bettina swung the steering wheel to the right and took the lane that curved off the bridge and down to parallel the Hudson.
Along the river they caught up with him again, as they cruised past runners bouncing down the path that bisected the flat grassy strip between highway and water.
Bettina allowed a van and a motorcycle to cut in front of her, but she kept her speed steady. “We’ll have plenty of warning,” she said. “The exits aren’t that frequent—just make sure to keep your eye on him.” They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Bettina spoke again. “I guess he’s not heading for the boat basin,” she said as they passed the exit for 72nd Street. Off to the right bobbed a cluster of boats, their sails white against the deep blue water. “And not Midtown either,” she added a few minutes later, as traffic clogged at the exit for 42nd Street but the black SUV made no attempt to move left.
Now they were speeding along the edge of Chelsea, old brick buildings in random heights alternating with sleek new construction and the High Line arching above. The roadway was divided here, the median strip a tangled jungle of carpet roses that thrived despite the exhaust fumes.
The SUV ignored several chances to exit, but just past 16th, Pamela leaned forward. “He’s edging left,” she said, her voice urgent. “Get ready—I think he’s going to take 14th Street.”
Bettina checked the lane to her left, let a truck pass, then sped up and slipped in behind the truck, eliciting a horn blast from the car behind her. “Here we go,” she said, making the turn. “Do you see anything along here that looks like a place an SUV loaded with antiques might be heading?”
“Not really.” Pamela scanned the buildings that lined the busy thoroughfare: a gym, a restaurant offering fried chicken, a Goodwill store, a hair salon with illustrations of various hairstyles in the window, and a couple of unprepossessing hotels.
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