When I heard the cops arrive upstairs, I stepped into the living room.
“Nobody down there,” they said, sounding quite disappointed. I said to them, “That’s good, but I think I’d better go check the basement windows to see if they’re secure. Just in case. Maybe a person could get access that way.”
“We’ll do that,” the first cop said, putting me in my civilian place. As soon as they’d swaggered down the stairs, I picked up the receiver, which had recharged enough to use it. Karen had called only one number on Sunday, and she’d received only one call. As the cops didn’t show any signs of coming back yet, I called that number. No answer. It rang and rang. Someone with no services, I supposed. Or someone who wouldn’t answer the second line if they were on the phone. Then I tried again.
“Hello?” I said, when I heard the sound of a pickup at the other end. “I’d like to speak to you about Karen Smith. You called her yesterday.”
Well, thanks for that dial tone, dude.
I tried the number again. A male voice answered. He didn’t seem happy to get a call. I hesitated briefly and decided to go for it. I said, “May I speak with Merlin, please?”
“Who is this?”
I hesitated again. I didn’t want to tell the truth, but I had to pick the right lie. “I am a friend of Karen Smith’s. Who is this?”
“Why are you calling here?”
“I believe Karen spoke to you yesterday. I’d like to know what it was about.”
“I didn’t speak to her.”
“Your number is on her telephone. Someone called.”
A pause. “Are you calling from her house?”
Okay, this was tricky, but might flush him out. “I am.”
“I told you I didn’t speak to her. Don’t call here again.”
I listened to the dial tone. I was about to copy down the number when I heard the officers call out. On an impulse, I pocketed the receiver. It was time to head to the living room. The officers were already back upstairs and getting restless.
“That will do it,” I said, smiling brightly. “I have everything I need. I appreciate you both helping me. I would have been very nervous here alone.”
They both managed to look a bit bashful. That might have been cute if they weren’t cops.
Outside, they asked about my vintage Saab. “Waiting outside the shop,” I said, truthfully. “Sometimes I wish I was a mechanic,” I added. That was true too. Sometimes. They nodded in understanding, and we all waved as we drove away. I took my invisible Focus around the block. High fences with sprawling vines, clumps of lilac, and tall cedar hedges made this street pretty, but also private and perfect for hanging around unseen. I returned and backed the car into the driveway of the house next door. I angled the car so I could see through the yew hedge without being too noticeable myself. No one was home, judging by the flyers sticking out of the mailbox. This couldn’t have been the neighbor who’d called the cops. I hoped they would continue to stay away wherever they were. I wanted to be able to get out of the neighborhood quickly in case I needed to. I adjusted the poor boy hat, locked the car doors, slouched down in the seat and waited.
The minutes seemed like hours, but according to the clock on the dash of the Focus, it was less than a quarter of an hour later when I spotted a vehicle turning onto the street. A battered red pickup crept along past Karen’s house. I thought it was a Ford, but that was just a guess. Trucks are not one of my interests, even vintage ones. The truck rolled along and parked two doors down. That was exactly the type of trick I was employing, so I wasn’t really taken in by it. The person lumbered along, hugging the overhanging lilacs and vines. I couldn’t really see a face because he also had a baseball cap pulled low, but it was definitely a man and he seemed to have a limp. And I couldn’t make out the license plate on the truck, mainly because of the shadows and the distance. I squinted, straining to see while at the same time trying to remain as invisible as my temporary car.
I was distracted by another car turning into the driveway across the street.
In the time it took to turn and glance, the lumbering, limping truck guy had turned into the path toward Karen’s backyard and, I figured, the door leading to her apartment. I’d missed seeing his face.
Now what?
I was pretty sure that my phone calls from Karen Smith’s place had led to this guy’s arrival.
At that moment a whoop! cut through the air and a police black-and-white careened onto the street and parked, angled, blocking the path to Karen’s backyard. As I sat there with my mouth open, a familiar cop bounced out, leaving his driver’s-side door open. I heard him yell something. I rolled down the window—the Focus didn’t have automatic anything—to hear better. As my own personal officer Smiley hurtled down the pathway, I spotted the truck guy pull himself to the top of the chain-link fence behind the lilacs and drop to the other side. He might have been sinister and he might have had a limp, but he was definitely in good shape. Officer Smiley did not return. I sat there scowling, trying to figure out what kind of hornet’s nest I had stirred up. About two minutes later, I spotted a figure limp along the sidewalk, leap into the pickup and screech down the street.
Fifteen minutes later, Officer Smiley still hadn’t returned.
Was he all right? Had the truck driver injured him? From what I’d seen, that didn’t seem possible. The guy had practically catapulted over the fence. But where was Smiley? There was nothing to do in the backyard, so the obvious answer was, in Karen’s apartment. Why was less obvious. And winning the prize for least obvious was, why was he here in Grandville again?
I started up the Focus. Lucky me, I still had Karen’s receiver and it was close enough to her apartment to work. I made a 911 call and said nothing when it was picked up. I hung up, wiped off the receiver, tossed it into the neighbor’s koi pond and drove off, leaving Officer Smiley to explain himself. It was only much later that I realized that I should have copied down the telephone number I had dialed earlier, in Karen’s apartment.
* * *
I EASED THE car into my dusky parking area at the rear of the Van Alst house. I spied a note taped to the door and was focusing on it intently, stepping through the threshold of the back entrance, when Eddie, the mailman, appeared behind me. For that scary surprise he very nearly got a sharp kick in the shins.
“Jorduff, caan I spweechwff chew?” Eddie mumbled incoherently.
At first, I thought he might be drunk. Then I noticed the huge biscotti in his hand.
“Sorry.” He swiped at the crumbs spraying past his lips. “I was waiting for you when Fiammetta ambushed me with snacks.”
He held the homemade treat as evidence and smiled meekly.
I put down my bag and stepped back outside with Eddie. The early evening was casting heavy fuchsia shadows. He seemed shifty and nervous about being in the open. Perhaps he feared the ninja-like Signora Panetone would cram more biscotti into his empty mouth.
He looked me square in the eye and drew a long breath.
I would not have described this as a threatening situation, but I was very uncomfortable. “What is it about, Eddie?” I figured not a postal issue.
Eddie seemed to get even jumpier and edged away from me now, pressing himself into a forsythia bush as if to stay out of sight. Who was he hiding from? Vera? The signora? Eddie began to sputter quickly. “You had better be more careful, Jordan. Not, not, not just for your sake, but Vera’s too. She’s all alone out here.”
All alone out here? She was surrounded by paid helpers in a house with excellent security. Anyone who got past the gardener, the coded security system, Fiammetta and the damn cat, not to mention Eddie and me, would have to contend with Vera herself, who was about as helpless as a bear. On the other hand, she did live in a house that still held valuables, including her collection. How long would it take the police to get all the way out here if there were a break-in?
As if to answer my unspoken question, Eddie said, “The police would take ten minu
tes, minimum, to get here.”
Of course, Officer Smiley seemed to be able to teleport himself, but if he wasn’t available, the ten minute estimate was probably true, even optimistic. I was keenly aware that I was also “all alone out here” at the edge of town. Eddie’s nervous behavior was unsettling me. Was he on something? He certainly was twitching, and also he’d been hiding in a forsythia bush, which seemed unusual. But what did I know of the strange people connected with the Van Alst house?
“Just watch yourself!” Was he threatening me? I wasn’t particularly scared, but I was so frazzled, my instincts were suffering, but not so much that I couldn’t snap a picture of him with my iPhone.
That seemed to make him even jumpier. Whatever it was he’d been trying to accomplish, he gave up, darted ahead of me and slunk off into the house, shaking his head.
What the heck was that?
I stepped into the back entrance and shut the door on anyone else who might be lurking in the bushes. I started up the stairs, uncrumpling the note I hadn’t had a chance to read yet.
Dear Miss Bingham,
I would like to speak with you at my earliest convenience. That would be at dinner. Please bring your notes and research.
Sincerely,
Vera Van Alst
Oh yeah, that. I’d been so busy trying to figure out what was going on with all the people around me, I’d forgotten why I’d been speaking to them in the first place. Not for the first time, I asked myself what kind of mailman comes to your house at seven p.m.
This place was starting to give me the willies, and I guess, the Eddies too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE THING WITH Vera Van Alst is that you always need to play from your strengths. I wasn’t even sure what mine were as I headed for dinner, with my notebook tucked under my arm. I certainly didn’t have any definitive answers for her. Questions, yes. I was going to be faking my head off, while trying to extract useful information from her.
I kept my head high but also kept an eye out for Eddie in case he jumped out of some alcove as I strode by. Didn’t he have a home?
In the dining room, the table was set for one. The place setting was in my usual spot, so I could only assume it was for me.
The signora arrived, swooping as usual, as soon as I sat down.
“Eat,” she said firmly. Tonight’s temptation was a spinach fettuccine, homemade, with a dusting of fresh shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano.
“Sure thing,” I said. “Where’s Miss Van Alst?” I added as she heaped the fettuccine on my plate. I tried to limit the amount, knowing that this course was just the warm-up for the main event, but the signora ignored my pathetic attempts. Oh well. I didn’t ask, where’s the cat? But I did wonder.
“Vera sick.”
“Sick?” How sick could she be? She’d just left me a typical bullying note.
“Bad back. Very sore. Pain. You eat. Eat!”
“But I just—”
“Doctor here. You want more?”
“No thank you. This is lovely. The doctor’s here? Now? How sick is she?”
“Vera, Vera. Always sick. Always. Bad pain. Eat more. Get better.”
Eat more. Get better. Words to live by. I got busy with the fettuccine and the extra bowl of lovely cheese for my health.
What was the history of the signora and the Van Alst family? Why did Vera treat her like an old shoe? Signora Panetone, although she took a little getting used to, obviously cared about Vera. Vera, just as obviously, needed people to care about her. She hardly ate. She never seemed to leave the house. She didn’t appear to ever get any kind of exercise, nor have the slightest joy in life. I wasn’t even sure the books brought her pleasure. Maybe they just took the edge off her misery. Vera was very lucky to have these people and this house, and equally oblivious to her good fortune. But I hear pain can change the way you view the world. Is that what had happened to ruin Vera?
Dinner was veal and lemon saltimbocca and fresh local asparagus. Hard to beat. I felt extra sorry for Vera, even though she was her own worst enemy.
Every time the door opened, I thought I caught a glimpse of Eddie, pacing. Come to think of it, what was his story? What role did he play in the household? What was he trying to do? Scare me? Warn me? Creep me out?
I figured I had a hope of getting some answers to the Eddie questions, at least. I got out of my seat and headed for the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door expecting to confront him. Instead of Eddie, I found the signora, who chased me back to my seat with the dessert.
Sit! Eat!
Toasted angel food cake slices with lemon sauce.
Vera missed the toasted angel food cake too.
* * *
I WAS SO happy to flop onto my own bed, I didn’t even care if there was someone (or some cat) lurking behind the door. If I hadn’t been in such a zombie-like state, I would have had the presence of mind to let my buzzing iPhone go to voice mail.
“Oh good, you’re home!” Tiff chirped before I’d even said hello.
“Barely. I feel like I’m still dragging some parts of me up the stairs.” I propped myself against the feather pillows as Tiffany began to vent. My job was to listen. That’s what friends are for. I did that. Despite my wonderful dinner, I was far too exhausted by the day’s extraordinary and confusing events to rehash them and reassure Tiff that I was in no grave danger. This was something I had yet to convince myself. Better she didn’t know.
Instead, I zoned out on my room, letting my eyes trace the cabbage roses and curlicues on the wallpaper while Tiff went off about the boom operator and how she loathed him. “He’s reckless! We’re out here in the middle of nowhere and he’s injuring people.” I wasn’t even sure what a boom operator did, or even what a boom was, so I allowed my weary mind to saunter around the room once more. I paused to contemplate the alcove where the patterns didn’t match up. Like a big knife had sliced all the beautiful roses in half. I didn’t remember it being like that earlier.
“People could be killed!”
“What?”
“Listen, if this guy doesn’t smarten up and stop partying his paychecks away, someone is going to lose their life. These pipes weigh about a ton each segment, and this hungover guy is swinging them around on his boom like they are Lincoln Logs.”
“Oh, well, yes, that sounds dangerous. Someone should tell his foreman.”
“He is the foreman.” As Tiff launched into another tirade, I was beginning to think I wasn’t the only one finding my new employment stressful. Tiff was always consumed with the well-being of others and considered herself a “safety inspector to the world.” Yet another reason to hold my tongue about all the creepiness on my end. It would only worry an already overloaded woman. Worse still, it would create more work for me.
Something fluttered in the alcove, and I pulled myself out of bed to shut the window. It was getting chilly now that the sun had set. Looking down beside my Saab, I could see a figure, dark clad. My arm hair stood at attention.
Behind me something rustled, and this time I did shriek.
“You okay?” Tiff stopped counting the flaws of her least favorite coworker.
“Yes,” I said shakily. I’d spotted the source of the noise: a cat curling itself into a ball on my library books. “That stupid cat keeps getting into my apartment.” I have been known to have an overactive imagination. Was this just another one of those times?
My mouth went dry. “Tiff, I need to catch this cat. Can I call you in the afternoon tomorrow?”
“Sure, sweetie, sorry for all the dumping.”
“No worries. Talk soon.” If I’d dropped one hint of what I’d seen, Tiff would have been on me to get out of there. It wasn’t like she could have done much except worry herself sick up there in northern Alberta. I didn’t want that. So I was on my own. When I turned back to the window, the lurker was now crouched almost out of sight behind some boxwoods. But he was definitely getting closer to the house. It wasn’t Eddie. Too big. I strained to
see. Did he have a limp? I couldn’t be sure. Was he even real?
I opened the window and yelled, “Hey, get out of here. The police have been alerted and they’ll be watching.” I couldn’t believe I’d said anything so ridiculous. The police were hardly likely to hang around watching Vera’s place on the strength of one phone call. But it did the trick.
I figured an innocent man would have looked up in confusion. This one bolted. Of course, he could always wait and come back.
I double-checked the lock on the foyer door. Back upstairs again, I pushed the rolltop desk against my apartment entrance. I wasn’t even going to bother to show the cat out. Felines were the least of my worries now.
* * *
I DIDN’T HAVE the best night’s sleep. It was full of limping strangers, cats with keys, postmen wearing fright wigs and Miss Jane Marple hanging upside down like a bat. The signora pursued me with plates full of food, and all my vintage clothes were now too small. Nightmare alley.
When morning came, there was no sign of Vera in the conservatory. No sign of Eddie and for once, no sound of the lawn tractor or the busy-bee gardener. On the other hand, the signora was fresh as a daisy and in a mood to dish out food. Why not?
* * *
I DECIDED TO give Lance a call to see if he had any helpful information. I needed to keep digging about Christie and the unpublished play, but also I was troubled that I really did not understand my client. The uncles have a saying: know your mark. I suppose it’s not such a bad thing when it comes to employers too.
“Harrison Falls Public Library.”
“Hi, Lance. It’s Jordan.”
His tone switched from helpful public servant to flirtatious. “Miss Bingham, to what do I owe this delicious surprise?”
I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl, despite the fact that Lance and I were merely friends. He certainly had a way with the ladies, but I wasn’t ready for a romance, let alone one that could mess up a friendship. “Suppose I was looking to find out the history about the Van Alst Shoe Company.”
The Christie Curse Page 14