New Jersey Noir--Cape May

by William Baer

  “I like the action,” she said, simply. “Something you’d probably understand.”

  I did, but she elaborated anyway.

  “There’s plenty of desperation in the hospitals, and I enjoyed all my rotations at Cape Regional—surgery, pediatrics, psychiatrics, ER, maternity—but I always wanted to ‘save’ people, not just ‘help’ them, and when you’re out on the road, it’s very often life-and-deathish. A matter of minutes.”

  I understood.

  “So I gave up my hospital position and went back on the street. Nurses are licensed, and paramedics are certified, but I was both. Most people don’t realize that nurses aren’t allowed to intubate, do trachs, or do pericardial taps. But since I was also a para, I could do it all, and it’s come in handy. Very handy.”

  Sometimes, in my own sketchy life, I like to justify everything I do as essentially “good,” given my overall intentions. Justice. Protection. Stuff like that. But this young woman had been saving lives ever since she was a teenager.

  “It’s what we always wanted to do.”

  The two of them.

  The Bobbseys.

  “I saw the picture of Clara on your wall.”

  She was impressed.

  “You know the story?”

  “I’ve been to her grave.”

  “Wow, I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  I liked the sincerity of her “wow.”

  She looked at me with a look that I would have to define as innocently seductive.

  “Maybe you could take me sometime.”

  “Are you flirting with your father’s hired hand?”

  She smiled.

  “Maybe I am.”

  After tea time with Wendy was a wrap, I hit 287, then took 78 east into Newark. I know every single inch of Paterson, but I also know Newark very well. After all, I went to law school in Newark, and I knew that we could make a quick stop at the cemetery before we drove north to Newton.

  Uncertain what to do, I stepped over next to her and put my arm gently around her shoulders. Maybe it was a mistake, but my life is littered with mistakes.

  “She was our hero when we were little girls,” she said. “She was everything we wanted to be.”

  Excepting Clara Barton, Clara Maass was the most famous nurse in American history, and, of course, a Jersey girl from Newark. Back in 1898, when the Spanish-American War broke out, she left her hospital position in Newark and volunteered to serve, ending up in both the Philippines and Cuba, taking on all the big-boy killers: typhoid, malaria, dengue, and the killer of all killers, yellow fever.

  Known as “yellow jack.”

  In 1901, she was down in Cuba with Walter Reed trying to figure out how the “jack” was being transmitted. The suspicion that it might be mosquito borne was proving impossible to verify, so Clara and several others volunteered to infect themselves.

  She survived the first time, but not the second.

  It put an end to all “human” medical experiments in the US, but it did prove the mosquito theory, and it led to the near eradication of the yellow jack in Cuba and, subsequently, in all the Americas, saving millions of lives.

  She’d sacrificed her own life for others.

  Eventually, they brought her back home to Newark and lay her in the grave beneath us. They also renamed the Newark German Hospital the Clara Maass Medical Center, now located in Belleville, where my uncle was once treated for a gunshot wound.

  “What’s with the crybaby stuff?” I kidded, gently. “I thought it’s what you wanted.”

  She turned and looked at me, right through my shades, right into my eyes.

  “You’re too stupid to understand.”

  Maybe I was.

  I like to believe that I “understand” females more than most other guys, but the truth is, I don’t have a clue.

  She smiled.

  It was a smile that I’d like to see a lot more of.

  27

  Sussex County Courthouse

  Saturday, March 28th

  45°

  She was looking pretty good.

  Better than I remembered.

  Rita Sehorn was a young prosecutor at the Newton Courthouse, in the north country. The last and only time I’d seen her was at some stupid lawyers reception at the Brownstone in Paterson. We talked a bit, but when she got a bit loopy on the Chardonnay, she looked at me with a pair of mushy “want to” eyes, and I got the hell out of there.

  At the moment, she was sitting on the front steps of the old courthouse at High and Spring Streets, seemingly perfectly content, with a little notebook on her lap, and a pen in her hand. She was wearing a lovely green blouse, with a white knit sweater, and a pair of deadly black spikes. She was dirty blonde, neat, attractive, smart, and looking a bit like Helen Hunt.

  When she looked up, she saw the last person on earth she expected to see. Me.

  “Jack?”

  She placed her notebook on the step beside her and stood up. It was definitely awkward time. Do we shake hands, or hug (I’m not much for that), or just stand there awkward as hell? I preempted the problem by putting out my hand. She shook it like a dear old friend.

  “What’s the city boy doing up here in the country?”

  I didn’t think it was fair to beat around the bush.

  “I’ve been hired by Richard O’Brien to give the Nikki O’Brien murder another look.”

  She was surprised.

  “Why you, Jack?”

  “He thinks I’m good.”

  “Well, you are, Jack, but that’s a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, ten years ago.”

  “Can we sit? I’m on break from some stupid, ball-buster case, and I always come out here to wash away my mind.”

  We sat down on the steps, beneath the six huge columns of the old historic courthouse.

  “You were pals with Nikki and Rikki,” I started.

  “I was. Close pals. Everybody loved them back then.”

  “Did your mom?”

  She was surprised, and she smiled.

  “You are good, Jack.”

  Then she answered my question.

  “For some reason, my mom was always foolishly competitive. I was her only kid, and she wanted me to be first at everything, not second, certainly not third, but I didn’t mind. What’s so bad about being third?”

  When I didn’t respond, she remembered.

  “Besides, my mom always found them a little ‘too good to be true.’ But she didn’t know the twins like I did. Yeah, they were goody-goody and goofy, but no one cared, because they were such a lot of fun and such good friends. True friends. Loyal friends.”

  “Where’s your mom these days?”

  Rita knew when “the likes of me” was asking about a suspect, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “She died five years ago. She was visiting relatives in Tacoma, Washington, and she had a heart attack.”

  “Were you close?”

  “Yes, my father died when I was five. All we had was each other.”

  She smiled again, but it wasn’t a “come on,” and I was relieved.

  “You got any more rude, much-too-personal questions, Jack?”

  “Yeah, tell me about your husband.”

  “We’re separated.”

  The sadness was real.

  Intense.

  “You’re still wearing your ring.”

  She looked down at her wedding band.

  “Yeah, it’s hard to give things up sometimes.”

  I understood.

  I also noticed the pen she was holding. It had a little red martlet on it.

  She changed the subject.

  “I think I owe you an apology, Jack.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I think I got a li
ttle drunk at the Brownstone that night. Casey had left me, and I guess I was lonely.”

  I assumed that Casey was her husband.

  “We’re all lonely, Rita.”

  She nodded, then she left her apology right where it was.

  Rikki walked up.

  I’d told her to give me ten minutes alone with Rita because I didn’t want their mutual past getting in the way of my questions.

  Rita looked up.

  She was stunned.

  Happily stunned.

  She stood right up, and the two young women hugged in a way that only women who are very close friends can embrace each other.

  My cell vibrated, so I walked down the street towards the new courthouse and left the two of them alone. They were jabbering away, like the best of friends, like teenagers.

  I check Nonna’s text. There was no message, just the DMV photo of William Kelly from over ten years ago.

  Maybe I should have been surprised.

  But I wasn’t.

  28

  18 Marshall Street

  Saturday, March 28th

  43°

  As requested, Mrs. Doris Salerno, aka Nonna, had all the obituaries laid out neatly on my office desk, and the three of us looked them over: me, Nonna, and her new best friend Rikki.

  The obits were for all the funeral parlor viewings in the North Jersey/Kinnelon area that took place during the three days that Edward Colt claimed that he was going to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when his phone was actually pinging in North Jersey.

  As expected, there were no “Colts” on the table, but I did come across a “Mary Montgomery,” who’d been the “loving mother of Sean ‘Sonny’ (deceased) and Jennie Montgomery Asher of Morristown, New Jersey”

  My two co-detectives read the obit over my shoulder.

  “I wonder, sweetheart,” Nonna said to Rikki, “if Sonny boy was jealous of Billy.”

  I could see that this was her new method of busting my balls: talking to Rikki and pretending that I was too dumb to understand. Or that I wasn’t in the room. Or that I didn’t exist at all.

  I decided to play along.

  Addressing Rikki:

  “Yes, sweetheart, I believe that we considered that hyper-obvious possibility several days ago.”

  “That’s odd,” Rikki said, as if ignoring the both of us. “The same night that Nikki and the kids were together at the lighthouse, I was at home reading a novel about jealousy. About a particularly obsessive kind of jealously.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “The End of the Affair.”

  I wanted to say “great book”—actually, one of the best of the last century—but I stayed on course.

  “I thought you were reading Persuasion?”

  She looked at me with mock-frustration. Like I was a moron. So did Nonna, who always looked at me like I was a moron.

  “After I finished reading Persuasion that night, I started on Graham Greene.”

  She turned to Nonna.

  “How could anyone love such a silly and suspicious man?”

  Which gave Nonna the perfect opening.

  “None ever have, and none ever will. Both he and his Lenny-like best friend, who claims to be my grandson, have a long history of relationship disasters. I honestly have no idea how Luca finally found the woman he did. She’s oddly lovely, but I think she might also be retarded.”

  Although appreciating the allusion to Of Mice and Men, I felt obligated to defend Luca’s marvelous wife.

  “I hope Gina never hears you say that.”

  “I’ve already told her.”

  I gave up.

  I had a murder to solve.

  Two of them.

  “If I had a competent assistant,” I said to Rikki, “I’d ask her to get me the contact info on Jennie Asher.”

  The old goat looked at Rikki.

  “You know, honey, I get combat pay for working here. Three times what I’m worth. The truth is, he’s as inept with money as he is with women.”

  Rikki laughed.

  So did I.

  Nonna looked suspiciously at Rikki.

  “You’re not falling for him, are you?”

  Rikki took her rudeness right in stride.

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Try harder.”

  Then Nonna went into her reception room, sat down at her desk, and started clicking away at her computer.

  “She’s a piece of work,” I whispered to Rikki.

  “I heard that!” the Insult-Grandma called out from the next room.

  Rikki laughed again, sitting down in my “client” chair and looking at all the autographed photos framed on the wall: the Jersey singers, the NFL linebackers.

  From Frank Sinatra to Ray Nitschke.

  “It’s like sitting in a little boy’s bedroom,” she kidded.

  “Got that right!” Nonna called out.

  No man can ever get the upper hand with a wisenheimer woman, let alone two of them, so I muted myself.

  Nonna was back.

  “She runs a florist shop in Bloomfield. Here’s her number.”

  “Good job. Your bonus is in the mail.”

  Immediately, before she had a chance to respond, I stepped into my uncle’s office. When I shut the door behind me, I could hear them whispering like Roman conspirators, but I didn’t pay any attention.

  Before I dialed the number, Dawson texted:

  No prints on the Beretta.

  I wasn’t surprised, and I’m sure Dawson wasn’t either.

  I dialed Sonny’s sister.

  “Asher’s Flowers. How can I help?”

  “Is this Jennie Asher?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She seemed pleasant.

  “I’m Jack Colt. I’m a private investigator looking for Billy Kelly, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  I was on my best behavior. I really didn’t want to drive to Morristown tonight unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “I doubt I’ll be able to help. I haven’t seen Billy in ten years.”

  “Didn’t he show up at your mother’s wake?”

  “No.”

  I was surprised.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe he didn’t want to be seen.

  Maybe he went to the funeral and sat in the back.

  Maybe he went to the cemetery.

  “Jennie, I’m sending you a photo of Billy. Can you can confirm that it’s him?”

  It was Billy’s motor vehicles photo.

  I waited.

  “That’s him. I’m sure of it. He and my older brother were best friends.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I heard that Billy dropped out of college and hit the road.”

  “Where?”

  “Sonny once said that he was probably in Europe.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause he talked about it a lot when they were kids.”

  I tried to be tactful.

  “I understand that Sonny died five years ago.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How did he die?”

  “It was an industrial accident. He was working in a cable factory.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. In Paterson somewhere. I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work. We’re overloaded with orders to fill.”

  “Just one more question. Did you ever hear of Edward Colt?”

  She seemed confused.

  “I thought that was you.”

  “I’m Jack Colt. Thanks for your time.”

  I went back into my office and looked at Nonna. The kidding was over, and she knew it.

  “I want you
to check out Rita’s marriage to Casey Sehorn. Both here and in Canada.”

  “Canada?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Yeah, she was using a pen today with a little red martlet on it.”

  “What’s that?” Rikki wondered.

  “The mascot at McGill University.”

  Nonna nodded.

  She liked to complain a lot, but she also enjoyed all the difficult searches. The challenges.

  “What about Izzy? Did you find her yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m getting closer.”

  “I need to talk to her tonight. We’ll go over to Stone House and wait.”

  She was fine with that.

  As for Rikki, she was enjoying herself.

  “I like being a detective.”

  29

  Stone House

  Saturday, March 28th

  38°

  When she came back into the room, I put the book on the table. When people think about Shakespeare and jealousy, they naturally think about Othello, but there’s also Cymbeline and The Winter’s Tale.

  I was rereading the latter.

  It’s about some pea-brain king named Leontes, who decides that his best friend is having an affair with his wife, so he puts out a “hit” on his best friend and throws his virtuous wife in prison, where she dies. But hell, it’s not really a “tragedy,” because, after five acts, it all ends perfectly happily with a back-from-the-dead miracle and a party-down. It’s certainly not one of his best, but he doesn’t hesitate to characterize the absolute insanity of what the shrinks call “delusional jealousy,” what other people call “Othello Syndrome,” even though I’m not buying that General O actually had the O Syndrome. He got conned into thinking Desdemona was unfaithful. He didn’t just conjure it out of thin air like an idiot, like Leontes; he was a gullible moron who got cleverly duped by Iago.

  I looked at my house guest and thought how easily a man could get deluded about her.

  Or, I suppose, her dead sister.

  While we were waiting for Nonna’s text, Rikki was enjoying herself, checking the place out. Stone House, made of stone, sat at the top of Garrett Mountain, overlooking the night-lights of Paterson. It was small, neat, comfortable, and clean, with lots of wood and even more stone.