Black Orchid Blues Page 8

  And now I’d have to deliver this box to them. Once more, I’d have to act on the kidnappers’ behalf.

  I narrowed my eyes. The kidnappers. Who were they? How would they have known to contact the Bernards? Surely, not many of the family’s friends knew about Queenie. So were the kidnappers from Queenie’s past, privy to his secret? Or were they simply desperate strangers who’d lucked out? Had they terrified Queenie so badly that he’d told them his true identity?

  One thing was sure: the kidnappers had been busy. While everyone had been waiting for them to contact Fawkes, they’d brutalized Queenie and gone after his family.

  And then, by accident or intent, they told a reporter about it.

  I used the spoon handle to flap the handkerchief back over the finger, replaced the paper separator, and slid the letter back into the envelope. Then I went back upstairs, taking the obscene package with me. I left it on the parlor room coffee table and went to the phone. I reached for the receiver and glanced at the clock.

  It was 3 a.m. Would Sam be home?

  I dialed his number and let it ring five times. It occurred to me that maybe Sam shouldn’t be involved. He would insist that I take the box to the cops. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that, not yet. I was about to hang up.

  Too late. His voice stopped me.

  CHAPTER 14

  Forty minutes later, Sam and I were sitting over coffee in my parlor. The cigar box sat closed on the table before us. I wasn’t sleepy and neither was he, so we didn’t need the java, but it provided familiar and comforting qualities to help us in light of this unusual and disquieting delivery.

  I told him about my talks with Fawkes and Morgana and Jack-a-Lee. I mentioned that I’d stopped at the station to talk to Blackie.

  “Did you tell him about Olmo?”

  “No, I wanted to check with you first.”

  “Good.” His gaze dwelled on the box. “Do we agree that it wasn’t an accident, or mistake, it landing on your doorstep?”

  “You think it’s a trap?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But what kind?”

  “Again, I don’t know. But the best way to avoid falling into it is to take a step back—and get help.” He sipped his coffee. “We need to decide what to tell the police.”

  “Don’t you mean whether? The letter states that the police are not to be involved.”

  “Kidnappers always demand that.”

  “Normally, I’d say, ‘So what?’ But this time we’re dealing with someone’s life.”

  “You’re always dealing with someone’s life in a kidnapping.”

  That was true. I hesitated. “You’re saying we have to take this to the cops?”

  “Are you actually suggesting we shouldn’t?”

  “I’m saying … that maybe we should let the family decide. Or, at least, not do anything until they’ve been informed.” I paused. “I’m asking for time.”

  “Do you actually want to be the one to give them this?”

  He had a point.

  “No,” I said, “but …”

  He sighed, set his cup aside. “I don’t know. We’d be taking an awful gamble.” He got up, moved to the window, and peered out. Worry puckered his forehead. “We should take that damn box to the cops. Let them handle it.”

  I went to him, put my arms around his waist, and rested my head on his back. He hugged my arms to his sides and lightly drew his fingertips over my clasped hands. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. He radiated such a sense of comforting warmth. He smelled faintly of herbs and tobacco. Lately, he’d taken to smoking a pipe.

  “Looks can be so deceiving,” he said.

  I could feel his voice rumble through his chest. I raised my head. He nodded toward the Bernard house.

  “You can read the address that clearly from this distance?” I asked.

  “No, I took a walk past the house before coming here.” He sighed. “Looks so peaceful. God only knows what they’re going through.”

  The house was dark and still. It was a stately redbrick building, three doors down from the equally elegant McKay house, which had been the scene of two very inelegant murders.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go to Blackie with this?” Sam asked.

  “Not until I’ve talked to the Bernards. Telling the cops, that’s their decision to make.”

  He hugged me close. “But you know what they’re going to say.”

  I rested my face against his chest and nodded. “No cops.”

  “We’ll be sitting on a ticking bomb.”

  “I know.”

  The room was so quiet we could hear the sound of our own breathing. His heart beat steadily beneath my ear.

  “All right,” he whispered into my hair, “we’ll try it your way. No cops. For now.”

  CHAPTER 15

  While I lived in a limestone town house on the south side of 139th Street, the Bernards lived in one of the Roman redbrick houses on the north side. Many people loved the sunny yellow limestones, designed by Bruce Price and Clarence S. Luce, but the stately redbrick homes caught most of the accolades. They were designed by Stanford White, one of New York’s leading architects, and they were eye-catching.

  Like its neighbors, the Bernard home was beautiful and manicured, but unlike the others it was also shrouded in shadow that Friday morning. I told myself it was merely an accident of foliage: a large tree stood just east of the front door. It filtered most of the early-morning sunlight, and, with its wide expanse of branches, blocked most of the afternoon’s too.

  It was around nine when I rang their bell and waited expectantly, the cigar box tucked under one arm. I’d rewrapped it in the brown paper and found some fresh twine for a simple knot. From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement: that of a curtain being drawn back, then quickly let go. That didn’t bother me. It made sense to check who was at the door. But as the seconds ticked by, it did begin to frustrate me that someone was home, knew that I was out there, and still wouldn’t answer the door.

  A moment later, the Bernards’ neighbor Gladys Cardigan stepped out from next door, dressed in slippers and a flowery pink housedress. She was about seventy years old and small. She appeared to fit the textbook definition of a cute, little old lady, but she was tough and sinewy. Her eyes were bright and shrewd. She’d buried two husbands, along with two sons who died on the battlegrounds of France.

  Mrs. Cardigan was a retired teacher and now volunteered at the New York Public Library. She assisted librarian Ernestine Rose in setting up the monthly poetry readings and book discussions at the Harlem branch on West 135th Street, just off Lenox Avenue. To me, Mrs. Cardigan was an inspiration. To most everyone else, she was simply an inveterate snoop.

  She stood on her threshold, half in, half out, and gestured toward the Bernards’ front door.

  “You’ll be waiting there for ages. They’re home, I’m sure of it. But if they didn’t invite you to come over, they’re not going to answer the door.”

  “Oh, really?”

  True, the couple of times I had visited the Bernards’ house it had been by invitation. I had never before just stopped by. In a brutal sort of way, it made sense to apply that attitude to certain types of strangers. It was clearly an effective way to avoid panhandlers, religious zealots, salesmen, and a motley crew of drifters who would happily waste your time if you let them. I didn’t think it right, however, to extend that attitude toward neighbors.

  Mrs. Cardigan glanced at the package under my arm, her eyes curious, then smiled at me. “Why don’t you come over here for a minute or two? Have a cup of tea?”

  Hmm. A chat. So she could pick my brains.

  I could turn the invite down, make enough of a nuisance out here to convince the Bernards to let me in, or … maybe it would be wiser to hear what Mrs. Cardigan had to say about our neighbors.

  She had a lovely, frilly house, overstuffed with decor. There were lace doilies and china dolls, brocaded furniture and fringed lam
ps. The overall effect was slightly suffocating, but I enjoyed it. It reminded me of my maternal grandmother, Great Nanny Belle. There were pictures of Mrs. Cardigan’s lost family everywhere.

  Like Nanny Belle, Mrs. Cardigan provided her company with butter cookies and tea. She kept glancing at the box but bided her time. I’d decided to let her take the lead. Once we were settled in the parlor, she did. She sat across from me, sipping her tea. She darted her eyes at the parcel, which I’d placed next to me on the parlor sofa.

  “A present for the Bernards?” she asked.

  “A mistaken delivery.”

  “Oh,” she smiled. “That does happen, doesn’t it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I don’t see an address on it,” she said. “How do you know it’s theirs?”

  My, she had good eyes.

  “Did you open it?” she asked.

  “Well, I had to.”

  “And?” She waited.

  “And,” I shrugged, “it’s theirs.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  She pursed her lips, evidently disappointed, then reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the box. She took another sip and looked at me. “You used to go over there a lot, didn’t you?”

  “Sometimes, when my husband was alive.”

  “How did they seem?”

  “Normal,” I said, intentionally downplaying my interest.

  She gave a snort. “I guess normal is as normal does.”

  “Why? You don’t think they’re—”

  “They almost never go out. Never have company.”

  “True, but—”

  “I’ve been trying to get that woman to join my poetry readings for years. At first, she’d open the door and speak politely, but she always stood firmly in the entrance. Now she won’t even do that. Never once invited me in for coffee or tea. Nothing.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Warming to her story, she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I used to know them before they moved to Strivers.”

  “Where from?”

  “Brooklyn. My baby sister Lucile went to school with Phyllis. It was just coincidence that we ended up on the same block. Strange how that can happen.”

  “Fate,” I said.

  Mrs. Cardigan nodded, lost to her memories. “I remember how, when Sheila was a little girl, they used to dress her up. Fine outfits. Everything fine. Always had to be the best. Only they didn’t call her Sheila then. Her name was …” She frowned in thought, then snapped her fingers. “Janie. That’s right. They used to call her Janie. She was a pretty little thing. Too bad she didn’t stay that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she was rather light-skinned back then. And pretty, real pretty. They’d get her all dolled up in ruffled lace dresses and Mary Janes. The whole nine yards. They’d parade her up and down DeKalb Avenue like she was the finest thing since hot cocoa.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying there was something wrong with it. But it was a bit odd, I think, how they just up and sent her away.”

  I cocked my head. “What? Did something happen?”

  “I don’t know. I remember seeing Phyllis on the street and asking about her. She got this funny look on her face. Then she said something about sending the child down South to stay with her sister. I was so surprised. They doted on that child. She must’ve been around eleven or twelve at the time. I couldn’t imagine them sending her away.”

  “Did you ask them why?”

  “They wouldn’t say.” Concern wrinkled Mrs. Cardigan’s brow. “You know, you couldn’t ask for nicer-looking people. But they’re strange, Lanie. Strange. And nice-looking people aren’t always nice.”

  “’Tis true.”

  “Why, I was just reading the other day about that doctor in Chicago. He killed five women. Married them for their money, then killed them all dead. They had his picture in the paper. You couldn’t wish for a better-looking man. But he’s evil.”

  “No, you can’t judge a book by its cover.” I took another sip.

  “I think it’s been ten years now since they sent that child away. One day, she was here; the next, she was gone. Just like that. You didn’t see hide nor hair of her.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Of course, the child was so moody.”

  “You mean sad, or temper tantrums?”

  “Kind of hard to say. Sometimes, she’d be so quiet, you’d think she was scared to talk. But then she’d get right smart and sassy. She’d say things that would make you blink.”

  “How so?” Recalling the Sheila I’d met, I found that hard to imagine.

  “Knowing, like a little adult. She had a keen intuition, and when she got like that, it was almost—almost, mind you—as if she was the one in charge. She’d say something and Phyllis would get this expression, like she was …” Mrs. Cardigan frowned, searching for the word.

  “Angry?”

  “No, scared.”

  “Of her own child?”

  “That’s right. And that’s why I used to think they’d gone and made that child disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  “Mm-hmm. I was so glad to see her when she moved back. I don’t want to tell you what I thought they’d really done.” She gave a delicious shudder. “Anyway, years went by. I’d see them and ask about her and they’d give me some vague answer. Never said nothing about her coming back, and when I mentioned that they must miss her, they’d just glance at each other and then give me the same old smile. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I used to wonder if Janie was even theirs, if they’d perhaps kidnapped her.”

  I nearly choked on my tea. “Seriously?”

  Mrs. Cardigan waved her hand. “Oh, I was being a fool. She looked just like them back then. But I used to love to pretend. It just irked me that … well, that they’re so mysterious.”

  “Some people like to keep to themselves.”

  “Maybe.”

  I frowned as though I’d had a sudden thought. “Is Sheila their only child?”

  “Oh, yes. For sure.”

  “No son?”

  “No. Why?” Now she frowned too, intense with curiosity.

  I shrugged. “Just wondering.” I took another sip. “When was the last time you stopped by to see them?”

  “Yesterday. I went over to ask her about sharing a monthly subscription to a magazine I thought she’d like.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Dr. Bernard answered. He slammed the door in my face.”

  “He didn’t!” I tried to make light of it. “Well, you’ll just have to polish your approach. There’s always one hard nut to crack. I guess they’re it, for you.” I glanced at my watch, saw that some twenty minutes had passed, and reached for the package. “I’d better go now. But thank you. It was good to see you.”

  “Yes, it was nice having you over. You must come again,” Mrs. Cardigan struggled to her feet and took a firm hold of my forearm. “Here, let me lean on you.”

  With exaggerated slowness—she’d certainly moved faster when she let me in—Mrs. Cardigan escorted me to the door. She reached to open it, but then paused and put a wrinkled hand on my wrist.

  “I like you Lanie Price. Always have. Quite bluntly, you’re the daughter I wish I’d had—not that I was unhappy with my sons, but they’re gone now. All I have left is memories, wonderful memories to be sure, and some people would be content with that, but not me.” Her grip on my wrist grew stronger. “You’re here, you’re now, and so am I. We’ve got to make the best of it. We have to stick together and help each other whenever we can. Understand? I can help you keep an eye on things. And no one need ever know, no one but you and me.” Mrs. Cardigan put a trembling index finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said, and smiled. “Partners?” She extended a hand.

  I was totally charmed. “Partners,” I replied, and shook on it.
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  CHAPTER 16

  It was Sheila who finally answered the door. Her complexion had a pallor that had grayed her skin. Her lips were drawn, her dark eyes quick and nervous.

  “Oh, hello,” she said in a short, breathy voice. She sounded as though she’d raced to the door. She was about my height, quite thin, and more plain than pretty. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was gripping a handkerchief so tightly that her knuckles gleamed under her skin.

  I identified myself, just in case she didn’t remember me. I explained that I needed to see her parents.

  She fingered her handkerchief. “I … I don’t know.” She glanced over her shoulder. “They’re really busy right now and—”

  “Sheila?” a loud male voice called from within. “Who is it?”

  Dr. Bernard emerged from the parlor. He wore a pale blue shirt under a V-neck navy-blue cashmere sweater, and pale gray pants. His black leather shoes were polished to a soft gleam. He came up short when he saw me. He looked not only surprised, but irritated. Then he seemed to make some inner mental adjustment.

  Sheila willingly stepped aside to let him deal with me. He blocked the door; his attitude was polite, but it was clear that he wanted to get me away from the house as quickly as possible. There was no sign of the charm I remembered.

  I decided to preempt him. “Dr. Bernard, I’m sorry, but I have news.”

  “I’d love to invite you in,” he answered, “but I don’t have time.”

  “You do for this.” I tapped the box under my arm. His gaze slid to it and lingered for a moment. Then he glanced back at me, wary and puzzled.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  His eyes met mine for an instant. He gave a tight-lipped nod, then turned away and headed back down the hall. I stepped inside. Sheila closed the front door.

  “This way,” she said, and showed me into the parlor.

  The room was Spartan. The largest piece of furniture was a shiny black baby grand piano that sat near the front windows. The keyboard lid was down. A cluster of gilt-framed family photographs, set on a large white crocheted lace doily, decorated the top. I squinted at them. The photos hadn’t been there the last time I visited. But then that had been a couple of years ago.