Secrets typed in blood, p.15
Secrets Typed in Blood, page 15
She started to object but I talked over her.
“You’ll need the extra hands. I’ll tell my ladies to go practice their flips at home.”
“Make sure…Mrs. Campbell…”
“Yeah, I’ll make sure they get a hot meal before I send them off.”
That was a bonus for anyone coming to Saturday open house. Mrs. Campbell made grub like she was the Bowery Mission, but with better food and shorter lines.
“Can you get yourself ready, or do you need me to scrub your back?” I asked.
Lillian Pentecost would never give anyone the one-finger salute. But the look she shot me was a decent substitute.
I left her to her eggs.
* * *
—
I won’t run through that Saturday’s clients. Let’s just say that the day went about as badly as I expected.
With each successive visitor, Ms. P’s symptoms got a little worse. By the time the clock struck four, the hitch in her voice was so bad she could barely sweat out a sentence.
We would usually keep the doors open until five, but I called it quits an hour early. My boss didn’t even argue.
After I ushered out the latecomers—instructing them to write, or to come back the following weekend—I helped my boss up the stairs to her bedroom.
I got her back into her nightgown and propped up in bed, a stack of newspapers and a few copies of Strange Crime sitting nearby. Never once during the process did she chide me for mothering her. Which told me everything I needed to know about how bad she was feeling.
“I’m gonna have Mrs. Campbell bring up dinner,” I said. “Something easy.”
Translation: Something that doesn’t require too much utensil work.
“Maybe try and get to sleep early tonight.”
She shot me that single-digit look again.
“I know, I know,” I said. “You’re an adult woman who can manage her own life. But you’re juggling three murders and the Waterhouse caper, and you know how a bad day can turn into a bad week at the drop of a hat.”
She mouthed, “Thank you.”
I left the room, went downstairs, and gave Mrs. Campbell her dinner instructions. Being a smart woman, she already had a collection of finger food at the ready.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“She wouldn’t give me a number, so I have to assume it’s at least a six.”
She grunted something in Scots.
“I’m going to mix up some cookies. She likes the oatmeal raisin.”
“So do I,” I said. “Better make a double batch.”
She retired to the kitchen and I to the office, where I started planning for worst-case scenarios.
Or maybe not worst-case. But worse-than-average.
That would be Ms. P having a full-on bad week. Those were where she was consigned mostly to her bed for the duration. There was a phone line in her bedroom. I just needed to take the receiver from her desk and move it upstairs.
But if the dysarthria—that was the five-dollar word for the vocal troubles—stuck around, phone calls were out of the question. Which meant her pitching in with our to-do list was out as well.
I weighed the chances she’d let me drop Shirley & Wise for a couple of days and didn’t like the odds. I started making a new list: other independent operators we could hire.
Sure, we could go back to Klinghorn, but he was already suspicious that the cases were connected. Also, I didn’t like him.
Besides, taken separately, the to-do list didn’t require all that much skill. There were plenty of private investigators in the city we could trust to do it. We could even farm it out piecemeal to lessen the chances of anyone connecting the cases.
I was mid-alphabet when the phone rang. I looked at the clock. Seven o’clock on the dot. I picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Miss Quick.”
I have no psychic powers. Holly had been calling us nearly every evening since we’d taken the case, asking for updates. I haven’t mentioned it previously because I’d given her the stock answer every time: “We’re working a number of promising leads and should have information for you shortly.”
Sure, we were treating her with kid gloves, but that didn’t mean giving her more than we’d give any other client. When we needed her to know something, she’d know.
Consequently, the calls were brief, awkward, and unsatisfying for both parties.
This call was different.
“I wanted to let you know that I’ll be out most of the day tomorrow,” she said. “It will probably extend into the evening. Just in case you tried to get in touch with me.”
“I’m sure if we have anything to report, it can wait until Monday morning,” I told her. “Planning a Sunday outing?”
“Hardly,” she said. “I’ve finished my latest round of stories for Strange Crime and I’ll be delivering them to the office. Brent and Marlo and I sometimes go out to dinner after. Not always, but usually.”
After that, she transitioned into her usual barrage of questions: Did we have any news? Any updates? Any more information about the victims?
I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about the paper still tucked in my back pocket. Specifically the fourth item on the list.
I dove into her stream of questions.
“How would you like a ride?”
“I’m sorry—a…a ride to where?” she asked.
“To deliver your stories. Trains are sparse on Sundays. Cabs are expensive. Also, we need a list of Strange Crime’s subscribers.”
“Well, I can get that for you myself,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to come. I really was not comfortable last time, and I don’t want to put on that—that charade again.”
If my boss was within earshot, I’d have employed some finesse. But it had been a long day and I didn’t have the patience.
“No offense, Miss Quick, but I don’t trust you to get the job done.”
She started sputtering, but I kept going.
“It’s not that you’re inept,” I clarified. “It’s just that these are your friends and you’ve already admitted you aren’t comfortable lying to them. When you ask to see the list, you’ll have to stick to the cover story. Maybe you’ll decide last minute that you don’t want to do it. Or maybe they’ll sidestep. Tell you they can’t really hand out that kind of information. You’d have to give up. Whereas I could employ some elbow grease.”
She waited a beat until she was sure I was finished.
“I’m afraid the answer is still no.”
I covered the mouth of the receiver, said a few words, then got back on.
“Let me be honest with you, Miss Quick. I am going to ask them for the subscription list. In person, because I like looking into a person’s face whenever possible. Now, I can do that with you by my side, where you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t say or do anything compromising to you. Or I can go on my own.”
Unspoken, but certainly implied, was that if I was to go alone, I would absolutely be asking as many questions as I could before they threw me out.
“I would like to speak to Ms. Pentecost, please.”
“She is indisposed and not taking calls at this time.”
“I…I would…I demand to speak—”
“Miss Quick!” It wasn’t a shout. I promise. More like a firm, verbal slap. “You have hired us to do a job. And you’ve placed some pretty severe tethers on what we can and can’t do in the course of that job. Against my better judgment, we have honored that deal. I even went to the trouble of concocting this whole harassing-phone-call story just so you don’t have to tell your friends the truth. I would appreciate it if you would meet us halfway. You do that and, I swear on my mother’s grave, I will do my damndest to keep our deal.”
Silence from the other end of the line. Then, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You can pick me up at noon. In front of my apartment. Good night.”
A click and a dead line.
After a week of little white lies, it felt good to have success with simple, brutal honesty.
CHAPTER 23
Seventeen hours later, I pulled the Caddy up to Holly’s tenement, its grit and grime all too evident in the bright sunlight.
If you’re wondering whether Ms. Pentecost’s bad day had stretched into two, so was I. She’d still been asleep when I left. I hadn’t wanted to bother her the night before, so I wrote a note for Mrs. Campbell to deliver with lunch.
Accompanying client to magazine office to get subscription list. Will be on best behavior and home swiftly.
Will
I was a good fifteen minutes early, but apparently that wasn’t enough for our client. Holly was already waiting on the stoop, working on the last half inch of a cigarette.
I didn’t feel too badly. It was one of those unseasonably warm days that we occasionally get in New York City around the beginning of February. Each year I start to think that maybe I can pack away my wool frocks and each year I’m disappointed when, a day or two later, the bottom gets pulled out of the thermometer and winter clamps its hungry jaws back down on the city.
Even though I knew better, that day I decided to let myself be fooled. I’d broken out a cadet-gray two-piece suit over a short-sleeved blouse the store clerk had called plum. Daringly, I’d neglected a coat.
All of that’s to say if Holly decided she needed to be early to her own front stoop, at least it was a balmy fifty degrees Fahrenheit. She’d decided to celebrate this faux spring with a bluebird ensemble: a robin’s-egg-blue blouse paired with a navy plaid skirt and cardigan. She had her ten-gallon bag slung over her shoulder.
She’d also made some adjustments to her face: rouge, blue eye shadow peeking out above the frames of her clunky glasses, a touch of Victory Red lipstick. The blue didn’t do her tawny complexion any favors, but overall she looked good.
She dropped the cigarette, the filter now smeared red, and toed it dead. I leaned across the seat and opened the Caddy’s door.
“One personal taxi service for Holly Quick,” I announced, hoping cheerfulness might erase the less-than-pleasant tone of our last conversation.
She slid into the car with the enthusiasm of a woman dipping into an acid bath.
“How are you today?” I asked, pulling out from the curb.
No answer from the passenger seat.
“Me? Well, as our housekeeper sometimes likes to proclaim, I’m not doing too shabby,” I said. “Sure, I’m working on the Sabbath, but I’ve never been the religious sort. And it’s a nice day for it. If a guy with a Lincoln convertible propositioned me in a bar, I might actually say yes.”
She gave me the kind of look you’d expect.
“It is very nice out,” she said finally.
“You make that sound like a demerit.”
“No, of course not, it…May I smoke?” I gave her a reluctant nod and she rolled down the window. “It’s just that usually I would visit my mother on Tuesday, not Sunday. But she likes to go for walks, or I think she does. I imagine she does. It’s hard to tell these days. So I think I should probably go today to take advantage of the weather.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, making conversation as I navigated toward Manhattan.
“But if I did it after dropping off my stories, I would have to cancel dinner with Brent and Marlo,” she said. “And who knows if this weather will even last into the afternoon.”
She bent her neck to try to catch a view of the sun through the windshield, then looked down at her watch, then back at the sun. She sucked in a frustrated lungful of Chesterfield and chimneyed it out the window.
“Another thing we could do…” I began.
* * *
—
Which is how I came to be pulling the car into the tiny parking lot of the Golden Green Convalescent Home, which was situated on a tiny hill next to the historic Green-Wood Cemetery in Greenwood Heights, Brooklyn.
That’s a lot of green, which was probably true in the summer months. That afternoon, the sun was shining down on dead grass, lingering piles of dirty slush, and the unrelenting gray of parking lot, building, and tombstones.
It was rather grim, I thought, as I followed Holly into the sprawling one-story building, to give its residents such a good view of the next stop on the line.
The lobby space had low ceilings, low lighting, and was about five degrees too cold for comfort. The receptionist at the front desk—a woman in her forties who bore a striking resemblance to a Romanian strongwoman I used to know—had a gray wool cardigan pulled as tight as her shoulders would allow.
She looked up from her copy of Screen Romances, this one with Gregory Peck looking out from the front cover. She gave a few quick blinks to shake off whatever warm fantasy she’d immersed herself in and attended to the reality in front of her.
“Oh, Miss Quick. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
She didn’t sound disappointed, but she was a long way from thrilled.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Simpson. I thought I’d take her outside, since it’s so nice.”
“That sounds just fine,” the receptionist said. “Could you and your friend sign the guest book, please?”
As we scribbled our respective John Hancocks, Holly asked, “Is Mr. Dobbin in?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s Sunday, after all. But if you leave a message, I’ll be sure he gets it.”
“That’s strange,” Holly said. “I remember him saying that he likes to be here on Sundays because that’s when families like to visit. And I’m sure I saw his car in the parking lot. He drives a new Plymouth, doesn’t he? I never notice cars, but this one is that bright shade of blue, so it’s really very hard to miss. Maybe that color is popular, I don’t know. I don’t drive. But I don’t think I’ve seen another like it.”
It was educational seeing someone else be on the receiving end of Holly’s verbal barrage. Before the receptionist could entirely crumple under the weight of it, a door behind her opened and a man stepped out dressed in his Sunday best.
“Holly, I thought I heard your voice. What a pleasant surprise.”
He came around the desk and gave Holly the kind of lingering handshake that made me wonder if he was trying to read her palm. Unnoticed by anyone but me, the receptionist was giving them a poison-wallflower glare.
Dobbin wasn’t Gregory Peck, but he could play his older brother. Tall, lanky, with a swoop of hair that was now more silver than brown, and a face that was all cheekbones and eyebrows. You could probably rig up a daydream or two involving him if no one else was available.
“Mr. Dobbin, hello. Yes, I thought I would take my mother for a walk,” Holly said, gently repossessing her hand.
“The weather is unseasonably nice, isn’t it? And, please, I keep having to remind you—call me Jerry.”
Holly made a noise that was open to interpretation, but I had the feeling she would be doing no such thing.
He turned to the strongwoman at the desk.
“Go find Terry, please. Tell him to bring a chair to Mrs. Quick’s room.”
The receptionist went off to do as instructed, but she wasn’t happy about it. Not that Dobbin noticed. He only had eyes for our client.
“I wanted to ask about a charge on the latest bill,” Holly was saying. “Four dollars and seventy-five cents for specialized laundry service. If I’m not mistaken, all of my mother’s clothes are simple cotton and wool and I don’t see—”
I looked down to make sure I hadn’t turned invisible before taking the initiative and holding out my hand.
“Hello, I’m Miss Parker. Holly’s friend.”
Both of them were startled. Not invisible, just forgotten.
Dobbin took my hand. It was the standard shake. No palmistry involved.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Parker.” Then back to Holly. “Why don’t I walk you to Naomi’s room and we can talk about those charges?”
Dobbin and Holly took the lead, running into the weeds about dry-cleaning costs and Irish wool sweaters. We navigated a series of narrow corridors with patient rooms spaced on either side. Most of the doors were closed, but when we passed an open one, I took the chance to peer in.
Through the open doorways I saw men and women, sleeping or sitting, mostly vacant-eyed, some listening to the radio, several looking out a window at the cemetery on the other side, not a one tucked into a book or thumbing through the Sunday Times. We paused to let an old man wielding a pair of canes squeeze by. He probably cracked six feet when you straightened him out. As it was, he barely reached my chin.
“Good morning, Solly,” Dobbin said.
He gave us a toothless smile and muttered something Henry Miller would have cut as too obscene. I wasn’t expecting it, and he had shuffled past before I arranged a comeback.
Dobbin turned back to me.
“Please pardon Solly. It’s the dementia.”
“Ah. Most men can only blame poor breeding.”
It didn’t get a laugh, but it probably didn’t deserve one.
Eventually we reached a room located deep inside the maze. Dobbin stopped just short of the door.
“I’ll leave you to your visit. And I’ll write a note to our laundry service to see if they can’t do all of Naomi’s things together. Have a lovely walk, Holly. Miss Parker.”
She got another lingering handshake. I got a nod.
I waited until he was around the corner and his footsteps had faded to say, “Call me a detective but I think he has a crush on you.”
She made a face like I’d shoved a lemon wedge in her mouth.
“I’m very aware,” she said. “Early on I made the mistake of flirting back. I thought it might get my mother some more attention or a better room, and it’s only flirting, after all. But it certainly didn’t help with the bill, and now I’m stuck with it.”
