In school we have these discussions about the knowns and unknowns, about college and life beyond Brooklyn Friends, about mindfulness, a condition of being in the present, where it’s all a flowing river, a place of light fed by books and talking, thinking and feeling. Being free. Being in my head, where life never changes. A fine place to be.
Granny and Charlotte and the other kids at school save me, and mindfulness, of course. If anything happened to Granny … Because she’s old, so I wonder about her sometimes. Well, more than sometimes. I’d be shunted around again. Billy says I should call her Gran now that I’m older, but when I told her, Granny laughed. “Billy?” she goes. “You don’t call him Bill?” Then she breaks up.
Billy is special. I met him at Brooklyn Friends, of course. He’s not exactly my boyfriend, but we usually sit together at parties or after school in Elaine’s or in a show, especially after seeing The Fault in our Stars, my favorite movie, at least for now. Billy’s the only boy in our group who doesn’t try to hide his tears. You know how guys do, looking at one another and sort of smirking in the sad parts. I see him sitting there next to me in the packed house, his black lashes wet. I had to hold his hand then, didn’t I? Granted, he’s cute, probably the cutest one in our class, not the cutest in the whole upper level, of course, but really sharp. Irish, he told me once, “came over with my folks from Dublin years ago” and that explains how he talks. The music is in him, Granny says. Taller than me. We kissed once. It was a good one. A good one is the kind you can feel all the way down to your toes. That’s all I’ll say. Don’t get me wrong, we talk more than anything, Billy and me.
The other day we were in Elaine’s, a coffee shop on Court Street where a bunch of us hang after school. Old people stay away weekday afternoons because it’s packed with kids from all different schools, Brooklyn Friends, Packer Collegiate, St. Anne’s, even Brooklyn Collaborative. It’s got an old-fashioned counter à la the fifties with these chrome seats covered in red leather that spin around until you’re so dizzy the turquoise and red colors on the walls run together. They make the waiters wear these hats so they look super dumb, and in back of the counter is a huge mirror where you can see everyone practically that’s in the place. On the far wall are black-and-white photos of the Promenade in the old days and Court Street with old-fashioned cars—you know the ones I mean, pointed in the front and rounded in the back like you see in pictures of Havana. They serve hamburgers, hot dogs, egg creams, toasted cheese, like that. One thing good is they have a jukebox and you don’t need to get up from where you’re sitting, you can select the song you want to hear right from the booth, sort of like that place on Seinfeld only better and just as crowded and you put your quarter in and it plays. Not loud enough, but still.
We were sitting in our favorite booth when Billy said, “I saw two old people walking down Henry. They were holding hands.”
“You’re weird,” Brandy said.
The noisy guys sitting behind us kind of got still, like they were listening in, but I didn’t blame them because Billy was about to tell one of his stories. He wants to be a writer, so he collects people. He said he only saw their backs until the man turned to talk to the woman, bending to her and smiling. Then he saw that the old guy had on a plastic nose and mustache and furry eyebrows, which he moved up and down, making the woman laugh. “They stopped and kissed, right there on the sidewalk.”
“Yuck,” Brandy said.
“I put them in my ‘Only in Brooklyn’ drawer. It’s in my head,” Billy goes. “Someday they’ll tell me a good story.”
“They’re actors,” someone said.
Actors, the word made me think of my other grandmother. I’d hate to live with her and the rest of them in that dark, turreted house near the park. A place of disaffection—Billy again. I almost had to live there once when she fought Granny in court over me. That was right after the crash. My other grandmother is weird, her whole family is. Actors in a bad movie. They’re scary, like really, except for my uncle’s wife, Kirsten. Only sometimes I wonder about her, too, especially after that one time when Old Liese did what she did to me, and Kirsten didn’t try to stop her. I’d never tell anyone about it, not even Charlotte. I just shake my head when she asks me about them. “Someday you’ll meet them and you’ll see.” After that time, I began calling her Old Liese. Not to her face, like, get serious.
When I return from being with Old Liese, Granny says, “How was your weekend?” and I shut my eyes.
She laughs. “Your visits aren’t that bad, are they? Three or four times a year?”
Lucky my tees cover the marks, so I don’t have to explain. If I did, I know Old Liese would find out.
Searching for Clues
After assuring myself that Phyllida was still breathing, we climbed the stairs to Phyllida’s bedroom. Bed made, dresser clean, closets immaculate, no dust in the crevices. Nothing out of place, and I ought to know—I run a cleaning service. My eyes traveled to shadows and light in one corner of the room. It was made by the screen saver of a laptop. I closed the lid and shoved it and the cable into my bag while Lorraine rummaged in the desk drawer and took something out of it, a notebook and more papers, I figured. She carried them over to me and shoved them into the bag. “I left the checkbook. I don’t think we’ll need it.”
I shook my head. “Get it. For safekeeping, just in case. We’ll tell her we have them when she wakes up.”
Lorraine hesitated, but she retrieved it.
I heard the buzzer sound.
“They’re here!”
“Got one more place to search,” I said. On the off chance Phyllida had taken something earlier, I hurried into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, where I found a couple of plastic bottles, ibuprofen and some generic medication for cholesterol—Mom used to take the same thing.
I rummaged in the cabinet below the sink but found nothing else except for shampoo, nail polish, remover, wads of cotton, cleaning fluid, the usual.
“Kat’s room is down the hall, I believe.”
“No time.” It was the best I could do. Now we’d have to wait until after the crime scene techs were through rummaging around Phyllida’s home.
Making a mental note to have Lucy’s do a sparkle job on our place, we were back downstairs and were standing next to an unresponsive Phyllida when Jane Templeton and her crew arrived.
Jane Arrives
EMS rushed in and started doing their thing with Phyllida, taking her vital signs and attaching an IV. They were followed by NYPD Detective First Grade Jane Templeton, my on-again, off-again colleague, who charged in, wagging a finger and looking around. She wore her usual impeccable attire, an Armani suit hugging her hips and ample set like the fumes from the back end of a NASCAR racer. Her unblinking orbs looked like they’d been born in the coldest, deepest part of the Pacific when they rested on me; but when she saw Lorraine, they took on a watery feathering about the edges, and she smiled.
“The voice of reason,” she said, extending her hand to Lorraine. She frowned at me. “And you’re here because?”
I told her about Phyllida’s call for help, dwelling on Lorraine’s twenty-year friendship with the victim and what we’d observed since arriving about ten minutes ago. I offered to fill out a statement.
“I understand why you’re here,” she said to Lorraine, “but her?”
“I have a name.” I felt the blood rush to my face.
“I’ve hired Fina to investigate,” Lorraine said.
“You can’t hire her. You work for her.”
I shrugged.
Lorraine smiled.
Jane frowned, but I saw that the wicked witch in her was melting fast.
While we were talking, Willoughby entered, took one look around, and flapped his tie. “Seems the old gal had a happy time of it last night.”
That’s what I love about Willoughby: he gets it wrong almost every time.
Two uniformed officers accompanied the two detectives, one of whom I recognized
as one of Denny’s friends.
The buzzer sounded again, and before anyone could object, I answered it. A few seconds later, Denny entered, talking to Clancy.
“A homecoming, is it?” Jane asked.
“I think she’s been given something,” I said to the paramedics who were wheeling the gurney away.
“Date-rape drug, more than likely,” one of them mumbled. “Acts like it, anyway.”
“You know better than to say anything,” Jane said, interrupting a phone conversation she was having with whomever, to scold the gurney guys. She looked at me and narrowed her eyes. “And until I determine otherwise, this is a crime scene. CSU will be here any minute and you’re in the way. Denny can drop off your statements tomorrow.”
“Where are you taking her?” Lorraine asked the paramedics.
“Brooklyn General.”
Brooklyn General
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and meds and tension. Night was day in this place of endless waits and cardboard food while nurses and orderlies roamed the halls with machines as if it were noon. When the nurse told us we could see Phyllida, Denny stayed behind, explaining that he hadn’t seen her in ages, doubted she’d remember him, and wouldn’t want to give her the burden of having to deal with a stranger and a male one at that. That’s my Denny, Lorraine’s son.
As we entered the room, Phyllida pulled at the sleeves of her washed-out hospital gown. She mumbled something, but in a few minutes, seemed to collect herself. “Why am I here?”
Lorraine started explaining, but Phyllida interrupted.
“I called you for help?”
Lorraine nodded.
She shook her head, fidgeting some more. “I don’t remember that at all. Not at all.” Her eyes roamed the room. “I don’t understand. Where did you find me? My mind’s a blank.” She cupped a hand over her mouth, shooting Lorraine a look. “Oh, Lord. They’re going to give me one of those tests and take Kat away.”
Lorraine pushed up her glasses. “Nobody’s going to do any such thing. You’ll be fine as soon as whatever’s in your system wears off. Someone must have given you something or you ate some bad food or—”
“Someone slipped you a mickey,” I said.
Phyllida frowned, looking into the darkness out the window. “But why? I have no enemies … except for Liese Goncourt.”
“She dislikes you, that’s clear,” Lorraine said. “But an enemy?”
I must have looked puzzled, so Lorraine explained who Liese Goncourt was—Phyllida’s deceased daughter-in-law’s mother. While I tried to wrap my mind around that explanation, Lorraine summed up the Phyllida-Liese relationship in one phrase: mothers-in-law pitted against each other big time.
“I’ve tried to get along with her, God knows,” Phyllida said. “She’s Kat’s other grandmother, so we’re bound together.” She told us the story of her son’s wedding day when Liese, out of spite, or as the woman later claimed, clumsiness, spilled champagne on Phyllida’s dress. “And not just a drop or two. She threw the contents of her flute at me. Something I’d said, apparently. Jazzed the reception, I’ll say that much.”
“Why did she do that?”
Phyllida shrugged. “Why does Liese Goncourt ever do anything? I suppose she did it out of frustration. A marriage isn’t just between two people; it cements two families, and at that moment, she must have realized we were there for good. In her mind, no one could measure up to her Henriette, least of all Norris. Forget that he’d take over Terris’s business one day; forget that financially she could never compete. She made it clear we were beneath her.”
“Liese and I have worked together in the past,” Lorraine said. “Altar and Rosary business. I won’t get into it now, but she can be an explosive woman. One minute nice, the next, a horror. Flips personalities.”
“Sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?” I asked.
Both women nodded and Phyllida told us about the first time they’d met way back when Henriette and Norris had begun dating. “Terris and I were invited for dinner. The hors d’oeuvres were a disaster, conversation nonexistent. Norris tried to put us at ease. And then it came time for dinner. Served by poor, myopic Ameline, Liese’s ancient crone of a maid. She was having difficulty plating the food, so I offered to help. ‘Only peasants serve,’ I was told. Right in front of Ameline, poor woman. What a degrading moment, but the housekeeper would never leave. She’s devoted to Liese. To make matters worse, Terris spilled a tumbler of water on his entrée.”
“So?”
“After that, Liese made us so uncomfortable. I pitied Henriette, having a mother like that.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She disappeared. Not physically. Her mind went elsewhere.”
Lorraine and I looked at each other.
“How did Norris get along with his mother-in-law?” I asked.
Phyllida shrugged. “Poor Norris. He was in love with Henriette, you see.”
“What happened to your dress?”
“I took it to a specialty cleaners, but when he examined the stain, the man shook his head and said he’d never be able to get all of it out. Spots were all over the bodice. But, you see, I’d worn it to my only son’s wedding, so I couldn’t throw it out. It’s still in the closet. I’d paid way too much for it.”
Lorraine patted her friend’s hand.
“Liese’s food tantrums were easy to deal with. It’s her words that hurt.”
“Words always do,” Lorraine said. “And their damage goes on forever.”
“What about Liese’s husband?” I asked.
Phyllida pulled the covers around her and shivered. “Once I asked Henriette about her father, but I was sorry I did. She shook her head and began crying.”
Without warning, Phyllida began climbing out of bed. “Where are my clothes? I’ve got to get home.”
“But …” I began, and stopped when I caught Lorraine’s eye.
“When we found you in the dining room, there was a bottle of pills by your coffee mug,” I said.
Phyllida sat on the side of the bed and took her time answering, doubtless trying to focus. For her it must have been like climbing out of a hole. Finally she said, “I must have been having palpitations, but why did they land me here?”
“You take them with coffee?”
She didn’t answer because just then a nurse bustled in, whisked Phyllida back under the covers, and stuck a thermometer into her patient’s mouth. “Doctor will be in soon.”
“I’ve seen one doctor already.”
“I mean the doctor in charge.”
“I’ll call him when I get home.” She tried to get up again, but the nurse started in with her words—you know how they are, cheery and bossy at the same time—and asked her to wait for the doctor, saying as how it was for her own good, sending us an over-the-shoulder eye roll.
“Want to give us the address of Kat’s friend?”
Phyllida didn’t answer me, but looked instead at Lorraine. “Oh, my God. Kat.” After spreading a blanket over the bed, the nurse left, saying she’d be back soon.
“Kat’s with Charlotte DuPré. They’re inseparable. Met in kindergarten on Kat’s first day. I’ll never forget it.”
She was silent for a while, then turned to me, explaining, “After the accident that killed her parents, Kat came to stay with me. She was a listless child, too young to know what she was going through was grief. We read stories together. I took her to the park. We went for boat rides, hit every children’s museum in town, the zoos, puppet shows, took walks by the sea. Nothing cheered her up. But two minutes after she met Charlotte, her little face lit up. They’re like you and me, Lorraine. So close.” Phyllida smiled, remembering, I figured, while she gave Lorraine the DuPrés’ address in Dumbo and Kat’s mobile number. “I should have given you these a long time ago, just in case, but I’ll call them in the morning.”
We were silent for a while. I heard machines gurgling, carts in the hallway, the usual sounds of hospi
tal life.
Lorraine told Phyllida about removing some legal papers from her home, her laptop and checkbook, too. Phyllida smiled and told Lorraine how she’d thought of everything. “My mind’s a sieve. But oddly enough, I do remember filling out forms when I first got here, you know, the place where they probe you and stick you with needles and stomp in and out while you try to sleep or have to pee so bad you can’t stand it. Just so you know, I named you as my emergency contact.”
“Isn’t Kat next of kin?” Lorraine smiled.
“Too young to get one of those calls.” Phyllida smiled.
I began to see more of the woman I’d met through Lorraine. I knew they did lots of stuff together, went to plays and museums, that sort of thing.
“And seeing as how you’re my executor …”
I looked at Lorraine, who nodded.
Phyllida went on. “You can put me down as your emergency, but, of course, you have Robbie and Denny … and this one, too,” she said, looking at my ring.
“I’m honored,” Lorraine said. “But you have a sister, don’t you?”
“We’ve been through this. I’m the youngest by ten years. My only sibling lives in Kansas City in assisted living. Last time I visited her, she didn’t know my name. I’ve lost everyone. Except for you and Kat.”
“What happened last night?” Lorraine asked again.
Phyllida shook her head. “I remember the doorbell ringing. I thought it might have been you, but no, it wasn’t.”
“Not me,” Lorraine said. “We had the kids over for dinner. That stupid football game was on. Too bad you missed it.”
“Lucky you.” She gave a slight smile and went inside herself for a moment. “I recall someone at the door. It’s vague, a faint image, like in a dream. There was laughter and small talk or something. But who was it?”
The Brooklyn Drop (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 4) Page 2