Havoc-on-Hudson (9 page)

28

It was well after dark by the time I returned home, took the doctor’s advice, and poured myself a snifter of Remy Martin. I sank into the soft leather armchair by the wide window that overlooked the river. The night was cold and clear. The river was beginning to freeze. And the bridge lights shone like diamonds. I was shaking and the ice clinked in my glass.

Andrew was out of town on business, and I didn’t want to bother him. I just wanted to sit still and pull myself together. Was it really my fault that Claire had been attacked? Should I tell the Chief about what I had done? What Claire had done?

Yes, I should. I would do it first thing in the morning.

It was a while before I noticed the blinking light on my landline telephone. Once I did, I debated with myself over whether or not I would listen to the message. It was late. How important could it be?

But, then, of course, I answered it.

Leah Goldman had left me a farewell message.

“Hello, Maggie. I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided I don’t want anything more to do with Danny Joe Farrell. That’s why I left the diner so abruptly this afternoon. I panicked a little. I don’t even want to talk to you about him anymore. It’s over. I’m done.

Except for one last thing—”

What the heck? I thought.

“Now that I’m widowed,” she went on, “I’m about to move to California. My son’s working out there, and I want to get away from these god-awful New York winters.”

She was silent for a moment, and then continued, “But there’s one more thing—I’ve been holding onto a second letter from Tessa, one that she wrote for her son, for when he got older. She asked me to personally hand it to him. But no way I’m going to go anywhere near him, seeing what he’s turned out to be. But, if they catch him, you’ll probably be seeing him—behind bars.”

Hopefully that will be the case, I thought

“No matter what, he should have this letter. It belongs to him and whatever it says might help him to forgive his mother for leaving. Tessa truly loved her little boy. He meant everything to her. But the abuse she suffered from Danny’s father just killed her spirit. That must be why she decided to commit suicide.

“I’ve tried and tried, but I haven’t been able to find Danny Joe, so I’ve put this letter in the mail to you, Maggie, to give to him if you ever can. Also Tessa sent me a folder of personal items, such as licenses and birth certificates. I’ve mailed them in the same envelope, and I’m going to trust, in all good faith, that you will give them to him.”

What?
I thought. Why the hell would I want to have anything to do with this errand?

There was a long pause, then an even longer sigh, then she spoke again. “Now that you will take this awful burden from me, I feel that Tessa will finally rest in peace.

“Thank you so much, Maggie. I’m trusting you on this. Please don’t try to get in touch with me. I don’t want to hear from you again.”

And she hung up.

29

The River Journal, Tarrytown, NY, Januar
y 18:

Local Real-Estate Agent Stabbed in Vil
lage:

Claire Burns, real estate associate at Maggie Mitty Real Estate in Hudson Hills, was brutally stabbed yesterday by a customer who had requested a home showing. Ms. Burns sustained lacerations of the neck and is recovering from surgery at a local hospital. The motive for the attack is unk
nown.

Due to ongoing investigation into an increasing number of attacks on real estate salespeople, Maggie Mitty, Principal Broker at Maggie Mitty Real Estate, has been called in as a consultant to the Hudson Hills police department as they pursue investigation into the suspect/suspects involved in these local attacks, the most recent involving the murder of agent Amy Honeywell last
July.

In an interview on the front steps of St. John’s Pavilion, Chief Betsy Colwell said, “I want the public to know that this attack is no longer just a local issue. It is a national one, and has all branches of law enforcement involved. There has always been the occasional attack on women (and men) throughout the real-estate industry, according to the Department of Labor and Statistics. The average number of rapes and/or murders per year is 70-80 nationwide. It is a cowardly form of terrorism against a specific group of vulnerable professionals. But a sudden escalation of attacks in the Hudson River area has agents—and law enforcement—conce
rned.”

In response to a question about whether any person or persons of interest had yet been identified, Chief Colwell said, “DNA testing is underway as we speak. When results come in will have answers that will prove invaluable in our investiga
tion.”

30

“Do you happen to know her maiden name?” Uncle Ralph asked, blowing a ring of smoke from his newly legal Cuban cigar. Ralph, Claire’s uncle, not mine, was a police officer in Nassau County, and Claire had enlisted him to help in my search for information about Tessa Farrell. She bragged that her uncle could search just about anyone online or in state records or even in police files. Well, yeah, he wasn’t supposed to access the latter for personal use, but that had never stopped old Ralph before. “What else are they there for?” he’d say when anyone asked.

“No, unfortunately I don’t know her birth name.” I had the thick mailer that Leah had sent me, and I knew there were personal documents included which might well provide that very information. But, for some reason, I’d been oddly reluctant to open it.

Now that I knew Tessa was dead, I’d been doing Internet searches to try and locate her burial place—without any luck. Not knowing which state she’d been living in at the time of her suicide twenty years ago made the job almost impossible.

Then, Claire, the online whiz kid—now recovered from her ordeal—stepped in, but even she couldn’t find information anywhere in the United States for a death under the name Tessa Farrell during the past twenty years. So, after several weeks of frustration, she’d called in the big guns, good old Uncle Ralphie. Now we sat in the real estate office afterhours drinking decaf Starbucks lattes and brainstorming with the pro. So far, he, too, was coming up zero.

“Could be,” Ralph said, making the office air blue with his cigar smoke, “that she destroyed her identity papers before she offed herself. Sounds like Tessa’d been making long-term plans to do herself in. Maybe she didn’t want the suicide to get in the papers under her name. The scandal, you know? Maybe she didn’t want anyone back home to know she’d done it.”

“Or maybe,” Claire added, “once she left Buffalo, she changed her name.”

“That, too,” Ralph agreed.

“Hmm,” I agreed, not really paying attention. I was still obsessing over the material Leah Goldman had sent me, and that I’d been so reluctant to open. But why hadn’t I opened it? I definitely wouldn’t feel right about reading Tessa’s last letter to Danny Joe, but the large white folder that had also come, why couldn’t I look at that?

But once it was opened, wouldn’t I have to share it with the police? Maybe I should do that without looking at it. But …

I was feeling a little sick. Cold decaf latte is more disgusting under fluorescent light than it is in the deliberately mellow mood lighting at Starbucks. Add Uncle Ralph’s cigar smoke to that and I was ready to go home.

“Sorry, Ms. Mitty.” Ralph suddenly slumped back from the computer and said, “Doesn’t look like I’m getting anywhere.” He chewed thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. Then he leaned his elbow on the desktop with the cigar still at his lips and waggled the damn thing as if he were Groucho Marx. “A child of five could do better than I could,” he said, in nasal tones, and blew another smoke circle. “Go get me a child of five.”

31

“What’s up, Mike?” I asked, as Officer Mike Pandolfo pushed open the office door a few mornings later and headed for my desk.

“I need some names,” he said, talking out of the side of his mouth like a B-movie heavy.

“That sounds sinister,” I replied with a grin. “You’re not going to hold matches to my fingernails, are you?”

But, no. Nothing so dire. He wanted names of contacts at whatever New York State department kept statistics about real-estate salespeople. The report of the attack on Claire had been sent out over the AP network. Now national media was interested, asking the town police for exact numbers of brokers in Westchester County who’d been raped, killed, or threatened.

“And we can obtain numbers only from the United States Bureau of Labor and Statistics, Maggie, and those are just national,” he said. “They don’t break down into states or counties. I don’t want to broadcast inaccurate information through the press.”

Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of what State division might keep records like that. If any. “Mike, I don’t know if there’s any one agency that collects such data county by county. You can probably compile it yourself by calling the various Westchester Police Departments and asking them about local incidents.”

His expression sobered. “Aw, Maggie. That’s a lot of calls. I don’t suppose you—”

“No.” I sputtered. “Don’t suppose any such thing.” I swiveled my desk chair away from him and pulled a stack of bulging manila file folders toward me on the desk. “I’ve got my own job to do,” I said, looking over my shoulder at him, “and I’ve already spent too much time working with you guys. Houses don’t sell themselves, you know.”

Silence.

When I glanced up from the teetering stack of folders, he was still there, looking uncomfortable.

“Maggie?”

“What!”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He was so young—couldn’t have been more than twenty-two—and so cute in his chagrin that I had to smile. “No, Mikey,” I said. “When you come at me with the matches, then I’ll get mad. I just can’t help you with this right now. Okay?”

“Great!” He turned to leave, and then swiveled back again.

“Oh, by the way, Maggie, did you hear about that last footprint? You know? At the house where the lady was murdered in the tub?”

“A new footprint? I thought each one had already been figured out.”

“No, one of them was never matched to an individual, and it was found in a number of the main rooms of the house. They’re frustrated, because everybody who either lived there or was there the day of the murder has been identified either from their size or the covers on their shoes. But now, finally, the lab has been able to identify at least the brand of the unknown shoe.”

“What brand is it?” I was fascinated by the news. “It could be the murderer’s. Or he could have had an accomplice. We’ve never given that possibility a thought.”

“We?” Mikey said, noting my enthusiasm. “Y’know what? Leave it to the detectives. “He beckoned toward my forgotten stack of files and grinned. “You’ve got too much to do already.”

I sat up straighter and cleared my throat. “Well, yes, of course I do. Just curious, that’s all.”

He continued, “The dicks and the techs are working on it. According to the report I saw, looks like a pair of expensive men’s shoes, made in Switzerland by a company named … er, what was it? Oh, yeah, Bally, or something like that. I think the report says they’re a size eleven.”

“Bally? That’s a good shoe,” I said. It made me think about my poor Ferragamos, languishing in the storage room at the lab, when I could be wearing them.

“Well, maybe this case will take on a different turn from what everyone bargained for.” I said, processing the news.

And the stack of folders teetered on the desk a while longer. As soon as the door closed behind Mike, I remembered about the envelope Leah had sent me. I still hadn’t been able to open it—some silly fear of betraying Leah and thus the poor dead Tessa. Some really stupid fear of betraying the young Danny Joe. And right now it was sitting in my top desk drawer.

Leah had trusted me to get that letter to Danny Joe. Was I being overly obedient to her wishes? Should I turn it over to the police immediately?

But they would confiscate the personal letter to Danny Joe, and Leah had made such a solemn promise not to open that letter. She felt Danny Joe had to read it first, before anyone else got their hands on it.

So, was the ethical thing for me to do, at least for now, to hide the personal letter from Tessa to Danny Joe until I could give it to him? Yes! That was it.

But the unknown information in the large white envelope might impact positively on the current investigation and save innocent lives in the process.

I took the letter opener from my desk and slit the top of the document envelope open. So now the deed was done and I’d be obligated to do the right thing and share these papers with Chief Betsy. What I learned might well break the case right open and bring Daniel Joseph Farrell to justice.

The letter I would keep to myself until I was able to deliver it.

But I set the opened envelope down on the desktop without taking anything out of it. Something about Bally shoes was trying to ring a bell.

32

At seven that evening I was to meet Andrew for dinner. I’d been feeling closer and closer to him. As for Andrew, he certainly seemed to be increasingly fond of me. And he knew Petite Auberge, with its brick walls, its authentic tin ceiling, and its rustic French cuisine was my favorite restaurant.

I took one last look at myself in the Auberge’s plate glass window as I walked toward the carved oak door: not bad, if I said so myself. Today was my birthday, and I’d worn my black silk Armani. The platinum highlights I’d had done that afternoon made my blonde hair sparkle. My brand-new Ferragamos, picked up after I was done at the hair salon, clicked smartly along the sidewalk. Opening the restaurant’s door, I heard the buzz of conversation and smelled the
coq au vin
. The popular bistro specialized in the chicken dish, and I just about swooned at the delicious odor.

“Maggie,” Andrew exclaimed when he saw me. “So gorgeous, tonight! Am I a lucky devil, or what?” He had chosen a private corner table and in its crystal vase were red roses tied with a gilded bow. I took a quick glance around. White and yellow daisies on all the other tables. Hmm. “The roses are from you, Andrew, aren’t they? Thank you! I’ll take them home with me, for sure.”

He smiled at me and signaled to the waiter. Francois, white napkin draped over his arm, brought a bottle of chilled French champagne and filled our flutes.

“To lives well lived!” Andrew toasted me. “Happy Birthday, my darling Maggie.”

“Oh, Andrew, I do love you,” I replied. I could feel my smile, wider than a Cheshire Cat’s.

Then, the dear, sweet boy plucked the linen napkin from Francois’ arm, pinched the top two corners between his thumbs and forefingers, flourished the napkin in the air until it was a wide, floating white square, something like a parachute. Then he leaned over, placed it on the floor next to my chair, and knelt down on one knee.

Francois stood to one side, grinning. Heads turned toward us. From somewhere, music began to play. Piano.
Some Enchanted Eve
ning
.

I gaped at Andrew. “Darling! What is this?” Although I thought I knew. But was I ready for such a commitment?

Andrew reached into his pocket and took out a small blue Tiffany box tied with a white ribbon. With a big smile, he held it out toward me.

As I instinctively leaned over and reached for the box, my eyes took him in. What a man! What a handsome man! So distinguished looking, with that gray flecking his thick dark hair. So impeccably dressed, in his custom-made gray tweed jacket, pleated flannel slacks, shiny oxfords. … Shiny oxfords! Oh, my God! Those shoes were Ballys! Bally shoes—like the ones that had made the prints in the house where Amy Honeywell was murdered! The just-now-identified prints that Officer Mike had told me about earlier in the day.

Then I recalled that Andrew had left a pair of Ballys in my front closet to wear after playing tennis! Were all his shoes made by Bally?

Slowly I sat back in my chair without taking the little box. My God, what if Andrew had been in that house the day Amy was killed? I knew he’d been in town for meetings that entire day.

The shock must have shown on my face, because Andrew sat back on his knee, frowning. The Tiffany box was still clutched in his hand. “Maggie? Dear Maggie? What is it? Have I overestimated your feelings for me?”

Francois stared at us, then began discretely to move away, motioning to the pianist to stop playing.

I swallowed hard and whispered. “Those are Bally shoes, Andrew.” Was I being stupid? I was in love with Andrew. My darling Andrew. It couldn’t be. I knew it couldn’t be.

Two deep lines appeared between his eyebrows. “Of course they are. I always wear Ballys. What’s the problem? You don’t like them?” He got up from his kneeling position and resumed his chair. His expression was baffled.

“N … n … no,” I stuttered. “That’s not it.” Millions of men wore Bally shoes. And eleven was an average size.

He grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “Because I can always change shoe brands. How do you feel about Canali? Or Maganni?”

“No, silly,” I repeated. “That’s not it, at all. I have something I need to tell you. Something about the Amy Honeywell murder case.”

I looked around the room to make certain people weren’t still paying attention to us. Good. Everyone had gone back to his or her meal.

But when I glanced at Andrew, I got a shock. His face had gone dead white.

Amy Honeywell? he whispered.