by M. M. Mayle
“Kidding aside, are you saying you do want me to go on with the book?”
“Yeh, I do. Please. All this fresh publicity renews the need, plus now I know the story’s gonna have a happy ending.”
“We’ll see.”
“Does that refer to the writing or the happy ending?”
“The writing, silly.”
Laurel gets to her feet, rolls the chair back to its place and turns to find that Colin has anticipated her. Then, as his arms go around her and hers around him, Anthony makes his presence known with an exaggerated expression of disgust.
“Do you have to do that all the time?” he says of their embrace, something he should be used to by now.
“Yeh, we do,” Colin says,” and when we’re done we’re going up top.”
“To the roof?” Anthony’s face lights up with no suggestion of the guile that sometimes lurks there.
“Yeh, time Laurel saw the view, and I can dangle you over the edge till you promise to mend your ways.”
After fetching one of the upstairs maids to keep an eye on Simon, Anthony runs on ahead to the attic, where he practices leers and grotesque postures in front of the two tall floor mirrors. His reflected antics are visible well before she and Colin are fully emerged from the enclosed stairwell, where she makes a mental note to ask about the presence of the mirrors before the expedition ends. Then her attention is drawn to the complicated matter of gaining access to the roof.
The bar across the heavy door is secured with padlocks at both ends and the door itself is double locked with deadbolts top and bottom. After Colin keys open the locks and creaks open the door she expects to encounter stairs at least as sturdy as the door itself. Instead, she’s met with an open ironwork platform similar to a fire escape landing, with railed steps leading upward that are more ladder than staircase. A dizzying look downward reveals a spiral of narrow metal steps that disappear into an aggressive growth of wisteria she’s observed numerous times without realizing what it concealed. And therein must be the reason the wisteria proliferates behind bars, from within an enclosed garden with a locked gate. Those safeguards can only be another example of Anthony-proofing, as must be the multiple locks on the door leading to the roof.
Vertigo is more than a possibility when she reaches roof level. Although a waist-high parapet defines the perimeter, a sudden gust of wind increases a feeling of disorientation, adds to the same kind of disjointedness she experienced on the helicopter. But she got over that in short order, didn’t she?
When she gains her roof legs, so to speak, the view is indeed spectacular, and well worth a little discomfort. She can see all the way to the largest of the copper beech trees and the columned folly just beyond. In another direction, the peaked roofs of the oast houses thrust up on the horizon. From here, it’s easy to spot the break in the hedgerow that tempted Anthony and his friends to go adventuring. From this height, it’s possible to trace the symmetry of the formal gardens, comprehend the function of a water meadow, and embrace the sheer scope of the natural attributes.
Colin draws her attention to the raised rectangular skylight that centers this largest flat portion of roof. He explains that the earliest laird dignified his servants to the extent that they were provided light and ventilation in what might otherwise have been dark and airless quarters beneath the eaves. “Whilst any similarity can only be coincidental, Anthony likes to point out that the skylight looks like a glass casket for a giant Snow White.”
“It does at that,” Laurel says and gives Anthony’s arm an affectionate squeeze as she takes in elaborate detailing only hinted at in the view from beneath, and estimates the Snow White he envisions to be in the twenty-foot range.
“And if she didn’t wanna wait for the prince, she could just pull this chain, the slats’d open and she could get away.” Anthony indicates one of two chains that extend through to the floor below for the operation of the wide louvers at either end of the coffin-like structure.
Laurel laughs, kisses the top of his head. “What a mind you have.”
“Doesn’t he though—already thinkin’ of clean getaways at his age,” Colin says.
The boy joins their laughter without knowing what’s funny and it’s a moment to hold onto as they make one more stately promenade of the rooftop before the gusting wind chases them inside.
After the door has been closed and locked behind them, Laurel remembers to ask about the presence of the mirrors and banquet chairs.
“That’s for when I play dress-up,” Colin says.
“Be serious.”
“I am. When Chris and others were tryin’ to lure me back from Neverland, they’d bring me up here, where some of my old stage gear’s kept, and everybody would dress up and put on a show. Hence the chairs and mirrors—the mirrors in case I’d recognize myself.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeh, I’m gonna say it did to some extent, but I think you should ask Chris for his recollections because, like Nate’s, they’ll be better than mine.”
FIFTEEN
Afternoon, April 30, 1987
Late on a bleak Thursday afternoon, the last day of an even bleaker month of April, Hoop enters his motel room, where he casts a cold eye at ten day’s worth of magazines and newspapers that all say pretty much the same thing. No matter how plain or fancy it’s spelled out, they all report that Colin Elliot has reassembled his old musical group, Verge, and their early summer tour of Europe promises to rival the Second Coming for newsworthiness. The same issues also talk about the other endeavor Elliot is spearheading—the all-star event being put together to honor the memory and musical contributions of the late, lamented Rayce Vaughn.
News of the all-star concert was of far more interest, mainly because the wait wouldn’t be so long—it’s scheduled for just three weeks from now—and because the prospect of going to London, England, and searching out this Royal Albert Hall they’re making such a big fuss about, seemed preferable compared to taking his chances in Europe, where there’d be a lot more borders to cross, ground to cover, and foreign talk and queer money to deal with. But that prospect was trampled on when it was learned that you can’t get a passport without a certified birth certificate.
He stands perfectly still as that recognition rumbles through him again; he keeps his hands in his pockets, fisted as they were when he was struck down the first time. What could be more certified than a naming paper with your footprints stamped on it in ink along with the mark of a tribal chief? Hoop asks himself the same question he put to the know-it-all post office clerk an hour ago when his application was turned down flat—before his pictures were even looked at. The naming paper that he thought himself wise to bring along when he left Michigan, was good enough to get him admitted to grammar school and get him working papers and a driver’s license when the time was right, so shouldn’t it be good enough for the United Almighty States of America passport agency?
He could get himself vexed up again if he isn’t careful, so toward hanging on to the calm he does still own, he doesn’t think too long on what all would go into getting ahold of the paperwork the passport people want, and what all that would do to his chances of getting caught somewhere down the line. While he may be itching to take action, he’s not itching to surrender himself in the doing. And calling on Big Bill—the only one left who’s qualified—to swear to his date and place of birth back there in Bimmerman, would be like speaking his plans directly to the CB network of at least half the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
Rather than leave the trashy reading material for the room cleaner to pick up and pass judgment on, he bundles it together and heads for the dumpster that’s a steady presence behind the restaurant next door. On the way there, he shakes off the urge to pitch everything helter-skelter over the railing of the narrow walkway fronting the second story of the motor lodge. While it might feel good to make a show of his disappointment over this latest setback, it wouldn’t accomplish anything in the long run. And the long run is wh
at he’d better keep his eye on because it might be months before he gets his next chance.
At the dumpster, he thinks about getting rid of the objects taken from the leeches that fed on Audrey—the rock star, and the lawyerwoman—because no amount of trancing has turned any of them into the signposts he was looking for. Then he starts thinking about particulars, like maybe he should dump just the spoils taken from Gibby Lester because there’s no pride in owning things bought with ill-gotten gains, and there’s no point to spreading illegal substances around if no one’s made to suffer.
But those are only idle thoughts. He knows better than to cut off his nose to spite his face or he wouldn’t have lasted this long. He knows from long experience that what looks like garbage today can be tomorrow’s gold. He knows patience can be practiced again. He knows he can bide his time again. He knows he can learn how to make his own luck.
He knows he can convince himself this doesn’t have to be seen as a major setback, and the way to do that is to think about something that hasn’t crossed his mind till this very instant—about how much trouble would be involved in taking Audrey, the tool case, and a big wad of money and drugs out of the country. This kind of thinking could convince him he may be dodging a bullet by having to stay here in New Jersey, and he might want to go ahead and feel relieved about it.
Toward getting relieved, he circles around to the front of the Speedwell restaurant and goes in through the bar entrance like he did his first night here, two and a half weeks ago. Feeling like a cat that’s been talked down from a tree—still a little riled, but with pride restored—Hoop takes what’s become his usual seat at the bar and orders his usual libation, as they like to call the drinks here.
Hoop sips at the shot and takes a half swallow of beer before asking the bartender about job prospects in the area and if there are rooms to rent that cost less than motel prices. It’s a start, he figures; he may as well put down some shallow roots while he waits for Laurel Chandler to get over her jackassed-foolishness and come home, and for Colin Elliot to come running after her because he can’t take no for an answer.
SIXTEEN
Midday, May 5, 1987
With Amanda’s concise driving directions clipped to the visor, Nate makes short work of finding Glen Abbey and Old Quarry Court. This is the first time he’s been out of Manhattan since the Easter morning trip to Elizabeth two weeks ago and this inviting neighborhood is in such sharp contrast to those drab urban surroundings, it’s hard to believe both exist within New Jersey.
He moves along the court at a creep, counting off street numbers as he goes. The Chandler place, when he spots it, is less shabby than he was led to believe. Even so, the theory Laurel attributed to David Sebastian—that the real value is in the land—is supportable and best determined by the appraiser, who should arrive any minute for their noon appointment.
From the ring of keys couriered from London last week, he isolates the one most likely to fit the front door, exits the car with document case in hand, and proceeds up the front walk. He hasn’t gone far when a small grey-haired woman leaps out from behind a stand of rhododendron at the far edge of the property.
“Hoo-hoo! Halloo there!” she calls as though from a great distance, and bears down on him with purpose in her step.
“Shit,” he says under his breath. This has to be the infamous Mrs. Floss Laurel advised him to humor if an encounter was unavoidable.
“When I saw you drive up I just knew you had to be the new maintenance man and thank goodness because no one’s been here since the Monday after Laurel ran off.”
Right. A maintenance man driving a current model BMW sedan, carrying a Cartier document case, and dressed in clothing befitting the boardroom he’s just come from. On that basis, how will she perceive a casually dressed appraiser? As an escaped felon?
He tries to distance himself from her, but she keeps pace and keeps up the frenzied brand of chatter. Given an opening, he concedes to being an overseer of sorts before she resumes, now complaining about what a trial it’s been keeping track of the goings-on at the Chandler household.
To the best of Nate’s knowledge, there haven’t been any goings-on at the Chandler household unless Laurel forgot to mention something when she brought him up to date. And that doesn’t seem possible because Laurel was forthcoming about having neglected to engage a caretaker or even a security service after she left town; she was free about mentioning that her brothers and sister hadn’t been home since her departure, even though they objected to the possibility of her selling the place. That was information he didn’t need to have, but it might be useful toward determining if the busybody neighbor really did see unauthorized activity at the house.
The appraiser arrives just as she’s explaining that the previous maintenance man was darkskinned, didn’t speak much English, and drove a rattletrap truck with out-of-state license plates. Real or imagined, that describes a healthy percentage of the unskilled labor force these days, so what can it matter?
“He started out as a day laborer with the Edelweiss landscaping people.” She lays a restraining hand on his forearm—an inadvisable move coming from anyone but an addled old woman—and continues her gibbering. “But once he got steady work at the Chandler house, he spiffed himself up. He cut off his silly pigtail and got himself a snazzy little truck with a sign on it that said ‘Superior Home Maintenance’ and one day I could almost have sworn that sign was upside down. But that couldn’t have been, could it? I must have been imagining things, not that I make that a habit. Anyway, this foreign fella, he conducted himself in a professional manner. He knew his place and always parked a respectful distance from the house and always went in by the side door of the garage. Of course this was after I let him know in no uncertain terms that we don’t abide trash in this neighborhood and—”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Nate forcibly removes her hand and indicates the appraiser who’s coming up the driveway, dressed in khakis and sport coat as expected, and carrying with him the tools of the trade, including a step ladder. “I have to meet my associate and get started with our business here.”
“Humph,” she says and backs off a step or two. “Well, I suppose you must, mustn’t you?” She rearranges the pink cardigan draped around her shoulders as if it were a sable wrap, glaring disapproval over the tops of her glasses. “When you see Laurel, be sure to tell her I’m not at all pleased about her leaving her poor father and those poor motherless children to look after themselves. I never did approve of her going to school over there in the big city, but I suppose I could pitch in again if need be.”
If there ever was a possibility of taking anything she said seriously, it’s gone now. Never mind that at least one of her claims was proved true when the PI came clean about the guy on Laurel’s roof—an episode best forgotten.
She withdraws as abruptly as she appeared and Nate beckons the appraiser, who’s been waiting at a polite distance, to join him. They’ve just made it to the front steps when Mrs. Floss calls out a shrill postscript from across the lawn.
“And she could’ve given the foreigner more of a chance before she let him go, y’know, but I don’t imagine you want to pass that on seeing that you stepped into his shoes.”
After they’re safely inside the house, the appraiser naturally asks what that was about.
“Nosy neighbor, that’s all,” Nate says and encourages the guy to get started. “I’ll be in the kitchen as soon as I find it. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied, so don’t feel like you need to rush.”
In the kitchen, Nate loses himself to a set of earnings statements that could impact on Laurel Chandler’s financial future. He’s oblivious to his surroundings and unaware of the passage of time until the appraiser intrudes, saying that the job clocked in at two hours and a written report will follow within the agreed-upon three days.
“Preliminarily speaking,” the appraiser continues, “the house is sound.” He references the sheaf of papers fastened to his clipboard. �
�It has good bones, as they say, but those bones aren’t good enough or old enough to justify the expenditure it would take to make it prime—to make it sharply competitive in today’s market. And unless someone plans to occupy soon and perform essential maintenance work on an expedited basis, you could be looking at a liability that goes beyond the tax burden. That, coupled with the cost of general upkeep, puts the place squarely in the category of money pit, as they say, so I’ll have to factor that into the bottom line.”
“Thank you, that’s what the owner expected to hear. Invoice me when you send the written report.”
The appraiser provides a running commentary as Nate walks him to the front door, citing any number of minor deficiencies that are meaningless if the house is ultimately razed.
“You might want to mention to the owner that the grade door in the garage is out of alignment and can be forced quite easily. Oh, and attention should be called to the condition of the eaves troughs along the side porch where acorns could take root if accumulated debris’s not cleared right away. Another matter worth bringing up is the little store of items secreted beneath the loose floorboards in one of the bedroom closets. Along with a collection of marbles and sentimental gewgaws, I spotted some cash that should be kept in a safer place—you should point that out.” The guy drones on and on with more of the same, making Nate twice as impatient to get back to what he was doing.
In the realm of uber-nitpicking, the guy mentions that one of the garment bags in the cedar closet was unzipped, but not to worry, he took care of it.
Nate beats the appraiser to the front door by a full stride, opens it, and stands aside in a way that couldn’t be more obvious. And doesn’t the sonuvabitch stop just short of the threshold—another one with an addendum.
“You might also want to pass along to the owner that a powdered or granulated pesticide—rodenticide, technically speaking—isn’t always the best means of eliminating squirrel incursions. I’m saying squirrels because this is such a heavily treed area, and I did see evidence of gnawing and scratching in the attic space above the garage. I’m guessing the sprinkling of the product between the rafters nearest the hatchway into the house was intended to forestall one of the little buggers getting into the house proper, and I can certainly see why that would be a consideration what with—”