“Then you would have come to the right place.” He laughed in his warm and charming way. I felt a little butterfly in my stomach.
“If I left that with you, do you think we could meet up for coffee, and I could get all the nitty-gritty details?” I was nervous. I’d been badly burned in my relationship, hadn’t dated in a year, and even a fact-finding mission with a platonic friend was still too close for comfort.
“It would be my pleasure.” Damn that smoldering voice.
“Café Hudson for lunch? How long do you have?”
“For you I can take an hour. I’d like to catch up, hear about your time away.”
My lip was getting annoyingly sweaty. I hurried to get off the phone. “Sounds good, buddy!” Everyone knows that calling someone your buddy is an immediate mood killer.
Lance just chuckled. We exchanged cell phone numbers in case plans changed.
I shot a text off to Tiff. Meeting Lance for lunch at Café Hudson. Eat your heart out.
Tiff and I had loitered at that café an entire summer, when we weren’t “working” at Kelly’s Fine Antiques. It was a miracle we’d had anything left for our college expenses. Lance had been a waiter there, putting himself through library school at SUNY in Albany part-time. He was like a bronze god with espresso. We were instantly smitten. But life had other plans for us all, and a strong friendship blossomed instead. This didn’t affect how much Lance flirted, though.
I could just imagine Tiff’s reaction. She would turn green. But she took the high road: Wish I was there! Take a pic plz!
The Café Hudson was still just run-down enough to be chic. Young, angry-for-no-reason, heavily tattooed and pierced people enjoyed six-dollar coffees and checked their Facebook accounts on their phones. The players had changed, but the place smelled the same. It felt like coming home. Lance was waiting in “my” booth by the smeared picture window. It was well outside the scope of his job as a reference librarian, but Lance wasn’t one to be constrained.
For instance, I was unable to squirm out of a long hug. My relatives are not huggers, unless someone has something in their pocket that needs to be liberated.
“Sit down, tell me everything.” Lance beamed at me.
“Actually, as much as I’d love to sit here and talk about myself for an hour, I really need that info about the Van Alsts and maybe some guidance in finding out where to sell very rare ephemera.” Lance squinted his amazing green eyes, sizing me up. He could sense that I was all business. That sensitivity was one of his best traits. He let the personal update slide.
“Let me give you all I’ve got, and there is a lot.” This was a man who loved to ferret out information, loved to learn and loved to help. He was a born librarian, the Harrison Falls Senior Women’s Book Club must have thought they’d died and went to heaven when he walked in.
“The Van Alst Shoe Factory was founded by Herman Van Alst in the mid-1800s. Business was solid, right from the beginning.”
“So, all the Van Alst money came from shoes?” Nothing too insidious there.
“From what I could gather, it was a very modest enterprise up until the end of the nineteenth century when business began to boom.”
“That’s when the Van Alst house was built.”
“Then Van Alst was awarded a major military contract and his consumer business took off as well. The Van Alst shoes had style. After that there are records of expansions and upgrading to the factory.” Lance slid a printout toward me. It was a newspaper ad from an Irish paper.
“They started advertising for staff in Europe near the turn of the century, mostly Ireland and Italy. I guess they were expanding so fast, they just needed workers.”
“Wow, I wonder if the Kellys were among those who answered the call. I don’t know much about my family’s early days here.” Maybe that’s what had brought Sal’s people here too. The signora, though, she was a much more recent arrival.
“It’s possible, because Harrison Falls basically grew around Van Alst’s factory. This town sprung out of all those new employees.”
“I guess I’ve always known Van Alst basically founded the town.”
“Herman’s grandson, Leo, took over in the early seventies. He sold the company but it wasn’t worth much by then. Times had changed. The Atlanta Shoe Company acquired the operation and turned the whole factory into a shipping warehouse.” Lance handed me another stack of microfiche printouts, articles about the buyout. The headlines were about the factory closing and jobs being lost. “Of course, nowadays, we know that a lot of factory jobs are going offshore, but it was a shock back then.”
“Okay, so the factory fell on hard times and a lot of people lost their jobs, but why is it that everyone hates Vera?”
Lance looked at me carefully. “Don’t tell me you have a soft spot for your evil employer.”
“Soft spot? Are you kidding? She’s about as cuddly as a cactus. That would be one sore soft spot.”
Lance laughed, and women around the café swiveled in their chairs. Nothing had changed with our Lance. He was still the Pied Piper of Harrison Falls.
He said, “I don’t know why they hate her. I know she’s the only one of the Van Alsts left. Maybe because everyone in this town suffered and there she is still in that huge house with her servants and her precious books. You’re right, you know. She’s not all bad.”
I hadn’t actually said that. “How?”
“Well, I know she’s a major donor to Grandville General Hospital. She set up a small foundation and supposedly sheltered some of the Van Alst money there. I’ve heard she’s grateful for her treatment after the accident that put her in that wheelchair. Before my time, of course.”
“Mine too, but interesting.”
“Give me a little more time. I’d like to check out some more sources and I’m still vetting the stuff I found online. Oh, and I haven’t forgotten about the Agatha Christie info you were chasing either. I’m really enjoying the challenge of hunting for something unknown and possibly nonexistent.” His eyes twinkled. Lance reveled in research.
“I appreciate it.”
“The pleasure is mine. You know I always have fun getting embroiled in Jordan Bingham adventures.” He squeezed my hand. “Anytime.”
I could feel every woman in the café shooting molten-eye daggers at me from the corners of the room. I patted at Lance’s hand. “Thanks, buddy.”
He laughed. I grinned weakly.
* * *
DESPITE SPENDING A ridiculous amount of time sitting in my parked car outside the café trying to reach the organizers of the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair, I struck out. I didn’t give up, although once or twice I threatened to toss my iPhone out the car window in frustration. I tried Saint Sebastian’s. Someone there would know how to find whoever owned the concession stand, and they in turn could lead me to the girl who worked there. She’d had a clear view of the Cozy Corpse’s booth. She was bored and she was at the fair all the time. If anyone had seen Karen late in the day on Sunday, it would most likely have been that girl. But Karen had said that she’d seen someone who’d given her the information she thought I’d find so interesting. Karen must have met that person in the book fair. I had to assume that, like most of the dealers, Karen would have stuck close to her booth all day. I hoped that this girl had spotted someone noteworthy.
I kept getting the answering machine at Saint Sebastian’s. After repeated messages and no call back, I was ready to try another approach.
I pulled into Saint Sebastian’s parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. Several dozen cars were parked neatly on the shady side of the building. I pulled the Saab into one of the few remaining places and got out. The bright afternoon sun had turned the pavement into a cooking surface, and the scent of the now fading lilacs was heavy. I would have preferred not to be returning to the place where I’d found Karen Smith. Anywhere but. Still, Karen needed help and I sure needed information. I was betting that someone here would have to know how to get in touch w
ith the girl at the concession stand. This time I walked around to the front entrance, sticking to the cool lawn, ignoring the “Keep Off the Grass” sign. As usual, there was no one in the office.
The display by the entrance advertised a big payoff.
FIND YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL TODAY!!!
With renowned career coach Nancilee Cardiff
1–4 p.m.
Networking reception: 4–5 p.m.
The registration desk had an irritable-looking fortyish woman staring at a broken nail and guarding a few unclaimed name tags. Apparently true potential hadn’t been handed out to the hired help. Through the one open door, I could see rows of chairs, arranged classroom style, and rows of nodding heads swallowing the words of a woman with a shiny yellow helmet of hair, a jacket with serious shoulders and a smile that made me want to reach for sunglasses again. More to the point, I could also see that the concession stand was set up in the corner.
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” I said, reaching for the name tag of Nikki Renouf.
“It’s almost over. The networking party starts soon.”
“Ah yes, that’s the part I like best,” I said, picking up a binder of materials and waltzing through the door.
I took a seat in the empty last row as close as I could get to the concession stand. Only after I claimed a chair did I realize I was sitting close to where Karen Smith had been found. My stomach constricted at the thought, and I forced myself to keep from staring at the patterned carpet where a dark stain hadn’t been completely eliminated. I was surprised it was no longer a crime scene.
The woman, Nancilee Cardiff, I assumed, was reasonably diverting, with her exaggerated eyebrows and blinding teeth. The uncles would think this was a good gig. Nancilee had taken a few buzzwords from popular psychology and motivational pitches and was giving them a workout. She’d found an appreciative audience. I nodded and clapped along with the folks who’d just been separated from their hard-earned cash. From time to time I glanced toward the concession stand. Sooner or later, someone would have to show up.
I was rewarded for my patience—not to mention my nodding, clapping and sneaking in—when a familiar face appeared. I recognized the long dark hair. It was the same girl who’d been there on the weekend. From her draggy posture as she shuffled into the stand, I could tell she wasn’t any more in love with the job than she had been the last time I’d seen her. If anything, she was in a real slump. Never mind. She didn’t have to love that job. She just needed to answer my questions; she could search for her true potential later.
The minute she headed through a side door into another room, I whipped after her and closed that door behind us. As I should have expected, it was a claustrophobic storage room with towering stacks of supplies. She was reaching for a new batch of paper cups when I made my appearance. She whirled and gasped. I gasped too—at her two black eyes, one of them swollen. I had no idea what she was gasping at until it dawned on me that she was very, very afraid.
Of me.
She held her arms in front of her, classic defense position. And no wonder. Someone had really worked her over. “What do you want?” Her split lip quivered as she faced me down. She had guts to show up for work looking like that. I admired her backbone.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m Jordan Bingham. I was here the other day and bought a Danish.”
Her voice wobbled. “Your name tag says ‘Nikki Renouf.’ Oh my God, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything. I swear! Please. Get away from me.”
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she started to cry.
“What happened to you?” I blurted.
“I don’t know anything,” she wailed. “Why are you pretending to be Nikki Renouf?”
“To get in without paying hundreds of dollars.”
“Oh.” She got that. I knew she would.
“But you must know what happened to you,” I said reasonably.
But reason wasn’t going to cut it. “I told you. I don’t know anything.” Her voice rose even higher. Could they hear her in the next room? I was praying she wouldn’t scream. I held my own hands up to show how harmless I was. “Okay. Okay. I am so sorry. I don’t want to upset you. A friend of mine was attacked here, and I thought you might know something about who she’d been talking to.”
She stared at me. “Why does everybody think I know things? What things?”
“Who is ‘everybody’?”
Her jaw dropped. I figured that had to hurt. “I don’t know. I told you I don’t know anything.”
I reached out and gave her a soothing little pat, hoping I was touching a part of her body that didn’t ache.
She snuffled. “My world is falling apart.”
I managed not to say, “Imagine how Karen Smith feels.” I reached for one of the folding chairs that were stacked in the corner and set one up for her. “Sit down. Take a deep breath. Please.”
I opened up a chair for myself and sat down too. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
It took a while for her to compose herself.
“I hope you can help me. I am very stressed about my friend, Karen Smith. She was working right in front of your concession stand on the weekend at the book fair. She owns the Cozy Corpse. I thought you may have overheard a conversation she had on Sunday afternoon, late.”
“Karen Smith? She’s that red-haired lady who was right across from me. She was nearly killed. I heard it on the radio.”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t see that happen. I didn’t!”
“I’m not suggesting you saw it. I’m just asking if you saw her talking to anyone late in the afternoon.”
“I was having my own problems that night.”
“I can see that. Did you have a car accident?”
“No. Somebody came up behind me and threw me to the ground and beat the hell out of me.” She started to cry in earnest now. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. It just happened. The cop said it must have been just a random crazy person.”
“Where were you? Here? Because maybe it was the same person who attacked Karen.”
Her forehead puckered. “How could it be the same person? It wasn’t anywhere near Saint Sebastian’s. It was in my driveway. I live in Harrison Falls. I don’t see how it could be connected.”
Play from your strengths, my uncles always say. “Tell me, was it your boyfriend?” I thought she was going to lose it. She shook her head so violently that it must have hurt. She made a gargling noise. “No. No! I don’t have a boyfriend. And I don’t know who did this, and I don’t know why.”
The door behind me was wrenched open, and Nancilee Cardiff thrust her bright golden head in. No sign of the high-wattage smile.
“I’m delivering a session here, and you are supposed to be setting up for our networking party, not shrieking your silly head off. You are going to be out of a job if you don’t pull yourself together.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s how you follow your dreams? You bully innocent women who have been attacked and who probably should be in the hospital? Let me at the microphone and I’ll give you some comments they won’t forget in a hurry.” I stood up, knocking over a tower of paper cups.
The bright head snapped back. “Just keep it down and make sure we’re ready for our reception.” The door closed behind her.
The girl sniffed. “Bitch. Thank you for standing up for me. I deal with plenty of weirdos, but she’s been, like, totally impossible to work with.”
“Don’t worry. I can speak to your boss if you want. Explain.” Explain what, I wasn’t sure.
She gave a sad smile. “It’s my own concession. I own Yummers. It’s not easy trying to source decent products and dealing with horrible people, but I’m still not likely to fire myself.”
I felt a bit guilty over my comments about the Danish on my last visit, but I couldn’t resist a grin. “At least there’s that.”
“I guess so. But if she complains to the paris
h administration, I might lose the concession for the hall. It’s a big part of my business. Then I’d really be out of luck.”
“I hate to keep coming back to it, but I think someone came by to talk to Karen Sunday afternoon, and you may have seen that person. I believe he is connected with her attack. Do you remember anybody who looked out of place? Suspicious?”
“I see a lot of people. I don’t pay much attention anymore. No point asking me.”
“Think about it. What are the chances that you and Karen, two women who were at the same book fair on the same afternoon, would both be assaulted on the same night. The two attacks have to be connected.”
“It sounds horrible, but I’d be glad if they were connected because then it might make a bit of sense.”
“Somebody must think you saw something.”
“But I didn’t see anything. I keep telling everyone.” Her voice rose an octave.
“More likely you saw something that didn’t seem important and you wouldn’t imagine was important. Close your eyes. Try to remember people coming and going from the Cozy Corpse.”
She closed her eyes, although that looked like it might hurt. She kept them closed for a couple of minutes while I waited patiently. Finally she said, “I didn’t see anyone unusual. No one who looked dangerous. It was a book fair. Everyone is a little bit, you know, peculiar. They’re oddballs and they’re nerdy and tweedy, but they’re not going to attack someone. They just spend all their money on old books, and some of them walk around wearing clothes that look like they came from a Dumpster. It’s stupid, but harmless.”
I resisted standing up for the eccentric and Dumpster-dressed regulars. This description was, after all, quite true of Vera Van Alst. I couldn’t imagine her bashing anyone over the head, although she could certainly savage a person’s feelings.
“So, no one struck you as suspicious or unusual? No bad vibes from anybody?”
She scrunched up her face this time. I flinched just imagining how that must have felt given those injuries. “There was one guy. I’ve never seen him here before. He was in a real intense conversation with her. But it didn’t look like he’d hurt her or anything. Or I would have, like, stopped him.”
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