The Brooklyn Drop (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 4)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  “From that description, it couldn’t have been Liese Goncourt,” Lorraine said, and both women shared a laugh. The sparkle was returning to Phyllida’s eyes.

  “Man or woman?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Someone I knew.”

  “What about earlier? Tell us about your day.”

  “You mean shower, dress, eat breakfast?”

  Phyllida must have thought better of it, judging from the expression on our faces, because she told us nothing unusual had happened. Before going to the post office and KeyFood, she said she finished a book she’d been reading, checked her email and Facebook and did some laundry. In the afternoon, she went to BookCourt and browsed.

  “See anyone there?”

  We waited a few seconds, but she shook her head.

  “Later I treated myself to dinner at Frankies Spuntino because Kat wouldn’t be home for dinner. It was early and I saw a few regulars in the place, no one else.” She shook her head back and forth a few times. “Wait. I did run into someone else. It surprised me.” She paused, looking into space. “Who was it? I thought it so odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Odd that he’d be in Frankies Spuntino?” I asked.

  She made no reply.

  “Not his style? Not from around here?” Lorraine asked.

  “The person you met, male or female?” I asked and bit my lip for being so impatient. I looked over at Lorraine, who gave me a slight uptick of her cheek. That’s Lorraine: she never says anything critical, but her smiles have different meanings.

  “Don’t push yourself,” she said. “You’ll remember soon enough.”

  “Am I losing it?”

  Lorraine laughed. “It’s the drugs someone gave you. You remember most of what you did yesterday, which is more than I can say for myself.”

  “Last night before the police and their techs swarmed your house, we took your checkbook and laptop,” Lorraine said. “Is there anything else you want me to keep until you’re home, jewelry, for instance?”

  Phyllida smiled, said as how she was relieved Lorraine had them and asked her to keep them until she returned, saying there was nothing else of value in the house—she told us she kept all her jewelry in a safety deposit box.

  “And we found these on your dining room table.” I showed her the manila folders filled with legal documents. I’d had a chance to go through some of them, not reading them, of course—far be it from me.

  Phyllida took the documents and began leafing through them. “Why would these … I’m Kat’s legal guardian, her grandmother, after all, and the one her parents wanted to care for her in case something happened to them.” She handed them to Lorraine.

  “And you do such a beautiful job of it, too,” Lorraine said, placing the folders in her bag. “Mind if I keep them for a while?”

  “Why would I?” Again she looked lost for a moment before continuing. “After Norris and Henriette died, there was a legal battle for Kat started by her maternal grandmother.”

  “Liese Goncourt,” I said, just to make sure I’d gotten it straight.

  Lorraine and Phyllida both nodded.

  “Kat has no knowledge of the fight, and I don’t want her to know. It dragged on and on. You know what it’s like when lawyers get involved. But in the end, they awarded me guardianship.” Phyllida arranged the bedcovers. “But this is old news. Has nothing to do with today. Cold in here.” She turned to me. “Forgive me, I’m not usually like this, and you both look done in.”

  After a few moments of silence, Phyllida picked up the remote and pointed it at a small TV suspended from the ceiling. “How do you work this damn thing?”

  “You hate TV!”

  The doctor arrived, young and eager, Mr. Know Everything, but with an engaging smile, a little bleary around the eyes. His scrubs looked like they might pinch him when he bent over. He was accompanied by two nurses and an intern.

  He narrowed his eyes, like he was examining Lorraine, and looked at her while he spoke. “We found flunitrazepam in your friend’s bloodstream.”

  “I’m not dead, you know,” Phyllida said. “And I understand English.”

  Still disregarding Phyllida, he continued. “You might know them as roofies.”

  “Great. A doctor with no bedside,” Phyllida said.

  “Roofies: one of the date-rape drugs,” I said.

  The doctor nodded.

  I didn’t know all that much about the class of drugs except they were designed to incapacitate the victim, usually an unsuspecting young woman at a party who could be raped and the next day not remember anything. Roofies, for one, were a deep skeletal muscle relaxant, tasteless. Mixed with alcohol, they were dangerous, sometimes fatal. Totally illegal, easily obtainable. As the medical man talked, my mind began working. Who would give Phyllida date-rape drugs? Someone who knew her, wanted something from her, but the something wasn’t sex.

  Lorraine adjusted her glasses. “She wouldn’t take these roofies; she doesn’t know anyone who would give her them.” She turned to Phyllida. “Do you?”

  But Phyllida had closed her eyes.

  “She’s sleeping now,” the doctor said. “I suggest you return later today. She probably won’t remember anything of the evening or who gave it to her. And just to be on the safe side, we need to keep her overnight.”

  On hearing that, Phyllida’s eyelids shot up. “You’ll do no such thing.” This time she threw the covers off and stood, but clutched her heart and sank back down.

  “I think staying in the hospital overnight is a wonderful idea,” Lorraine said. “Don’t worry. We’ll see to Kat.”

  “It’s a wonderful time for both of them—they’re both fifteen, in upper level at Brooklyn Friends School. Lots to talk about—teachers and projects, boys, I imagine—so Kat’s always at Charlotte’s. Once in a while they stay with me.”

  I saw pride and love in Phyllida’s eyes. And something else. Fear, I guessed, or hurt. I’d have to talk to Lorraine about her friend. She’d know what was going on.

  Into the silence, I remembered me and Cookie at that age and how we disregarded anyone with graying hair. Face it, I’d done so throughout my life, discounting whatever my gran had to say. I’m not proud of it. Anyway, Cookie and I attended Packer Collegiate, but we hung with kids who went to Brooklyn Friends, the Quaker school in downtown Brooklyn. Been there since forever.

  Phyllida went on to say that ten years ago, when Kat first came to live with her, she was lucky to get Kat enrolled in Brooklyn Friends. Had to go through some kind of lottery and Kat had to be interviewed.

  “This was shortly after the crash that took her parents’ lives.”

  I must have shot a look at Lorraine because Phyllida launched into the story of the disaster and losing her son a few months after the death of her husband. After the crash, she thought life was over for her, she’d have to take pills or something, she couldn’t bear it. “And then Kat came along. Oh, we were so good for each other.”

  “You still are.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Phyllida said.

  “I am,” Lorraine said. “I can tell you’re going into one of your blue moods. I don’t blame you, but I meant to tell you, I have tickets to see the American Drawing exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum.”

  “Doesn’t open until March. By then, who knows where I’ll be, or if I’ll be.”

  We were silent. I’m not the greatest for trying to soothe, so I looked at the floor. Lorraine, on the other hand, moved closer to the bed and brushed a lock of hair from her friend’s forehead.

  “You’ve had a shock. You’ll be out tomorrow, Kat will be home, and all will be well, all manner of things shall be well.”

  At Lorraine’s words, Phyllida’s eyes smiled. Her lids grew heavy and she was asleep before we tiptoed out.

  On the way home, Lorraine was quiet.

  “I wonder who she met at Frankies Spuntino,” I said, mostly to myself.

  A Shadow

  The night nurs
e looked up from her desk. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” a volunteer asked as she filled jugs with water and loaded them onto a cart.

  “Nothing, I guess. Something flickered. A shadow.”

  They heard the elevator shaft, a thudding someplace in the ward, the hum of machines. Night noises.

  “Could have sworn I saw somebody pass the station.”

  “Patient?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe a visitor sneaking out? I’ll go have a look.”

  The nurse returned a few minutes later. “Some fellow lost. Said he’d been visiting on six and gotten off on the wrong floor. Directed him to the main bank of elevators at the end of the hall.”

  Two orderlies walked by with an empty gurney.

  “Still,” she shivered. “Something strange about him. I felt a touch of something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Face it, Gert, you like being spooked.”

  A Call

  It was late when Denny and I got home. Or early, depending on how you looked at it, and as we got ready for bed, our landline rang, sending Mr. Baggins under the bed. Dust flew, my temples pounded, and Denny walked downstairs to answer it.

  “Some guy,” he said, returning. “Wanted to speak with you. When I asked who it was, he hung up.” Denny’s eyes narrowed.

  “Must be a Lucy’s client who needs his building cleaned this morning.” From time to time, a few high-maintenance customers called me at home, but never at three in the morning. I’d phone Lucy’s in a few hours and talk to Minnie. She’d have an idea who it might be.

  “You didn’t see anyone lurking around Phyllida’s house?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I thought of the icicle crashing on Phyllida’s walk almost in front of our feet, wondering why it had picked that moment to break free from the soffit. Could someone have brushed against it? The same person who’d slipped Phyllida the drugs? My heart skipped a beat.

  Jasper and Vera

  Wan light slatted through the blinds as I snuggled closer to Denny. He kissed me once, twice, and we were off. Afterward he bounded out of bed and opened the blinds.

  “How can you be the Energizer bunny so early? We’ve gotten less than two hours of sleep.”

  “Day off. Coffee?”

  While he ran down to the kitchen, I stared out the window, its panes half-frosted over. Morning, with its frigid winds and leaden skies, had come too fast. A sudden movement and Mr. Baggins, cat at the ready, made a comfy spot for himself next to me, doing his deep throaty purr in my ear. He had a way of popping up out of nowhere, like he did the first time one spring day ten years ago, sitting in the garden like Alice’s Cheshire and smiling up at Mom. Both men in my life were telling me it was time to get up. Sand caked my eyelids as I fumbled for my phone. Ugh, six twenty-five.

  After breakfast, I thought I’d do some snooping around Phyllida’s neighborhood. I didn’t think she or Kat took care of the day-to-day maintenance on a three-story townhouse by themselves, so I called Lorraine, apologizing for the early hour. She said not to worry, she’d been up for hours, unable to sleep, and was about to leave for the hospital, but told me she thought Phyllida used Mr. Jerome, the neighborhood handyman, at least she thought she’d seen him shoveling Phyllida’s stoop the other day, so she gave me his phone number.

  My call went to voice mail, par for the course with handymen. I sat for a while, drinking coffee and thinking about what had happened to Phyllida, if you can call delta waves thoughts. I wondered what kind of a monster would feed an old lady date-rape drugs. In the middle of my reverie, my cell started vibrating and a voice like thunder made my eyelids quiver.

  “Yeah, it’s Jasper Jerome, that’s Jerome with a J. Says here I’m your man quick as I can. What might I do for you? I fix backyard fences, shovel walks, got an electrician’s license, do the odd plaster job, paint, change oil and filter, fix small leaks, you name it.”

  I asked if he’d done any work for Phyllida Oxley recently.

  “Phyllida? Let’s see, last time was the big snowfall, so the other day, I’d say, I was there shoveling. Always over there.”

  “So you’ve been her handyman for a long time?”

  “Got to know Terris Oxley during the war, see, and after they bought their four-flat, one winter he calls and says the furnace won’t kick in. Well, that’s me, Jasper Jerome. Jazz for short. Fix anything unless there’s a leak behind a wall or you want to extend a room or want the place rewired. Price is right, too. After that, I took care of most everything, especially after Terris’s death. Poor guy—here one minute, gone the next. Makes you think. Phyllida, she changes her own lightbulbs, but that’s about it. Calls me regular.”

  I told him about Phyllida and the date-rape drugs and listened to white noise for a couple of seconds.

  “Who’d do that to her?”

  I said I didn’t have a clue, but that’s why I’d like to talk to him.

  “Crazy types around here. See them every day on Court Street. In the park. Stoned.”

  “Whoever gave her the drugs knew her. No sign of a break-in.”

  “You don’t think it was me, do you?”

  I assured him he had great references, but we were trying to determine who might have given her the drugs. I told him I was a private investigator and had been hired to make enquiries, and since neighbors saw and knew more than they realized, he might be able to help. He said he’d be free to meet with me for the next couple of hours, after which, he had an all-day job.

  Jasper Jerome lived in a three-flat off Court Street and First Place, a few blocks from Lorraine and Robert. A tall man with a pronounced stoop and a fringe of yellow hair, he talked out of one side of his mouth, twisted it like, and pushed out his words. He wore crimson suspenders holding up his wool trousers. Judging from the thinness of his frame, he needed them. As I followed him into the hall, I could smell something scrumptious coming from the kitchen. His wife, a large woman in a blue print dress and slippers, a scarf wound over her ears and knotted on the top of her head to push dyed blonde curls away from her face, busied herself in front of an island, cutting pieces from a steaming loaf of bread.

  “There’s a girl who needs feeding,” she said, smiling and wiping some dough off the side of her face with her arm as she held out a dish with two thick slices, raspberry jam and a slab of butter on the side.

  “Vera here comes from a long line of bakers,” Jasper said.

  “Straighten yourself, Jazz.”

  I watched him stand tall. So not much of a permanent stoop, not yet at any rate.

  I straightened, too, which I tended to do around tall people or when my mother told me to stand up. They offered me a seat and a cup of coffee.

  The kitchen was warm, freshly painted, but it would be. Copper pots hung from the ceiling and one wall was a glass sliding door, steamed on the inside, frosted on the outside, so I could see only bits of their deck and backyard.

  After I showed them my ID, I thanked Vera and took a bite of her bread slathered with butter and jam, savoring its warmth and taste while she talked on about Phyllida and how she’d come to know her from church. “One of us, I’ll tell you. You’d never know looking at her.”

  I must have looked a question because Jasper said, “The woman has money. Loaded. Terris started his own company. Paper. All kinds, rolls, sheets, cardboard. Wholesale, of course. Has tree farms all over the place, in Canada, mostly. Factory used to be right here.” He gestured north, toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, with his thumb. “Later on, after it got to be so successful, he wanted me to work in the plant, someplace in New Jersey, I think. Or Canada, can’t say which. Both, probably, but it would mean a lot of travel. Relocating. I’m a Brooklynite, through and through. Born in this house. Work best with my hands. Made a good living as a mechanic. No kids.”

  Vera teared up. “Not that we didn’t try. Same with Phyllida and Terris, but they
got lucky. Norris came along late in their lives.”

  “Wish we could say the same.”

  “We were going to adopt, but it never happened. You were the one dragged your foot,” Vera said.

  “Just cautious, that’s all, sweetness. Turned around, you know how you do, and it was too late. When I go, Vera here will be all alone. Retired, now do the odd jobs around here.”

  “Odd jobs?” his wife asked, laughing. “We’d be in Florida for the winter if it weren’t for all your odd jobs.”

  He screwed up his mouth. “If it weren’t for all my odd jobs, we couldn’t afford to live here. No, the neighborhood keeps me busy. Getting so expensive, couldn’t stay here on a fixed income.”

  “No travel for us. But grass is always greener, I guess. I love my life.” Vera looked at the ceiling, then gave Jasper a peck on the cheek. “Can’t trade him in.”

  Jasper continued with his story. “Don’t know how the company was doing after his death, but old Terris must have been loaded when he died. Made a fortune and then some. Funny, all his money didn’t save him. Bum ticker.”

  “Did Terris Oxley talk much about his company before he died?” I was fishing, but I thought it might be a chance to get to know more about the Oxleys.

  He hunched his shoulders, shaking his head. “All I know, Terris made a fortune and then some. Right before he died, he told me he was about to retire, said Norris now ran the company. Often wondered what our life would have been like had I joined Oxley Paper.”

  “Terris had a sudden death, one of those now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t types,” Vera said, wiping her hands on her apron. She sat down and I could hear the air escaping from the cushion. “Shock for this guy, I’ll tell you.” She moved her head back and forth, indicating her husband. “Even got him to the doc. Hard when it’s your friend. Shared the war and all, and Jasper’s not one for making a lot of friends. Works too hard.”

  “Terris. Poor guy,” Jasper said, gulping his coffee and looking out the window. “There’s that raccoon, again.” He went to the far wall and tapped on the glass.