Second Street Station (23 page)

In a way, Mary welcomed the trip to Philadelphia. A pleasant train ride and a change of environment could clear her head of all the recent trying events in her life and allow her to refocus on the Goodrich case. She had no illusions about the outcome of the trip. Purportedly, the commissioners had sent notice to Boston, Philadelphia, and other neighboring cities to be on the lookout for Roscoe, and Philadelphia had responded. However, the clues she had been given about Roscoe’s
whereabouts—more
specifically sightings of the man—were too vague. No names were given, just places where he had supposedly “been seen.” On that memorable night she spent drinking with Tesla, he had criticized Edison’s scientific methods as “going straw by straw to find a needle in a haystack when ninety percent of that labor could be erased with simple theory and calculation.” With the information provided to her, she would have to go straw by straw, and it was unlikely the needle would still be there, if it had ever been at all. When she had questioned Chief Campbell about the feasibility of such a trip, he’d skirted the issue.

“It came from upstairs. The department is built on orders, and we must all take them. We can only hope there is a greater plan.”

That was all Chief Campbell could say. The fact was, he didn’t know what Briggs and Jourdan had brewing, but he figured they had to be pretty sure of themselves if they were willing to spend department money on a trip to Philadelphia. Maybe they were planning to blame it on him when the trip proved to be a fiasco. One truth was sacrosanct: his and Mary’s heads were on the chopping block, and he had to be on constant alert for the ax. It could come from any direction. Hopefully, they’d have enough time to duck.

Without unpacking, Mary dropped her bags at the William Penn Hotel, a place with modest accommodations but centrally located on Market Street. She hadn’t chosen the hotel—the police department had—but she didn’t care. Almost anything was nicer than her tenement. The search would be a long one, and she was eager to get started. Mary decided to go down the list of leads she had been given, taking them one at a time, straw by straw.

Her first stop was at the Philadelphia Baseball Grounds. Supposedly, Roscoe had been spotted there. She didn’t have the luxury of the name of the spotter, just that an employee at the ballpark had seen him. Baseball was growing and becoming very popular, and so on game day, the Phillies had a lot of employees to handle the crowd, which often totaled ten thousand or more. There was also a reasonable amount of turnover, so whoever might have seen Roscoe the week before might no longer be working there. To somewhat prepare herself, Mary had had Kate describe Roscoe to an artist who sketched a rendering of him, but she knew finding him on this type of search was highly unlikely. Still, Mary methodically went from employee to employee and received the answers she expected—a shake of the head or an emphatic no. One of the vendors thought he had seen Roscoe, then realized he was thinking of a baseball player, Charles Roscoe Barnes, and he didn’t play baseball anymore and didn’t look like the sketch. That was the way Mary’s day was going.

After the baseball grounds, she proceeded to the Episcopal Church of St. Thomas, where a black woman pointed out the folly of her mission.

“You’re looking for a white man? You see anyone white around here?”

The woman gestured toward the parishioners, who were all filing out of services and all black. Mary was just doing her job, no matter how ridiculous it made her feel.

It didn’t help that the woman added, “They got you good. Like my kids. They love sending others on wild goose chases.”

By now, Mary was certain the woman was right. She thanked her for her time and moved on. She spent the rest of the day and into the night chasing down phony leads at the U.S. Mint, up and down Market Street, and Benjamin Franklin’s grave. When she got back to the hotel, she was so tired she lay down on the bed and fell asleep with her clothes on.

The next morning she woke up, somewhat refreshed, and went out again, expecting more of the same. Her expectations were met. At noon, she was at Independence Hall after suffering a morning of nos and a multitude of looks doubting her sanity. As always, the hall was crowded with patriotic tourists and history buffs who had flocked to the birthplace of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution before ambling across the street to see the Liberty Bell.

She was interviewing an eighteen-year-old security guard who was trying to impress her. There were eighteen-year-olds who were men, and there were those who were boys. This one was unquestionably a boy, a boy who had fantasies about pretty older women in their twenties.

“Never saw Roscoe,” he said. “I’d remember. I have a keen eye for detail.”

“No doubt. I could tell straightaway that you’re a master observer.”

He mistook Mary’s sardonic response for flirting.

“Come back later. I’ll provide you with a personal tour, and then we can have dinner. I’ve been told that I’m a wonderful cook.”

“Really? What a delightful invitation.” Mary’s words dripped with sarcasm, but his adolescent exuberance interpreted it as encouragement.

“I have the whole house to myself. My parents are out of town in Haddonfield.”

His comment almost demanded a wink, but even he stopped short of that. Mary had been preparing to let him down gently and wander on to conduct more pointless conversations when his remark stopped her.

“Did you say Haddonfield?”

“Yes, Haddonfield, across the river in New Jersey. They’ll be there all week.”

Mary immediately turned and started heading for the exit. The boy became anxious. He could see that he was losing the woman he’d never really had.

“Where are you going?”

“Haddonfield. I’ve had my fill of goose.”

The boy looked confused. “Goose? I was thinking of hamburger steaks.”

For over a year Mary had listened to Kate’s stories about Haddonfield. As she traveled across the river on the ferry and took a buggy into town, Mary’s mind was on her. From everything Kate had told her about her family, Mary felt she knew her parents, and they had to be worried. She wanted to assure them that though Kate had been through a traumatic experience, she had withstood it and was doing well. Besides, she needed a respite from this pointless Philadelphia sojourn, and if she could accomplish something positive and good, it would at least give some meaning to this wild goose chase of hers.

As Mary passed quaint vacation cottages, small farms, and quiet roads, she couldn’t help smiling. Kate had painted a vivid picture of her small-town life where everyone was on a first-name basis and they all knew each other’s business. For a multitude of reasons, people often exaggerate descriptions of their background. As far as Mary could see, Kate hadn’t. It all appeared to be just as she had described it.

The town of Haddonfield was all of two blocks long and consisted of a bank, a post office, a print shop, a pharmacy, and a general store. The bank and post office took up the first block and the others the second. Mary had always lived in a big city. Though Haddonfield looked charming, she sympathized with Kate’s desire to escape it. The lack of stimulation had to have been maddening.

The Haddonfield General Store was between the print shop and the pharmacy. It was a little larger than Mary had imagined, but she reasoned that it made sense. A general store had to stock a wide variety of products. When she got out of the buggy, the driver informed her that when she was ready to return to the ferry, she could find him at the pharmacy having an ice-cream soda. Mary nodded and went inside.

The store was a study in precision and tidiness. All the clothes were neatly folded and the cans evenly stacked. Products in boxes were lined up one behind another, and absolutely nothing was out of place. Evidently, an inordinate amount of care went into maintaining this store, and it was easy to conclude that Kate’s parents took great pride in their business. As Mary browsed, trying to imagine Kate in the center of it, a slightly pudgy middle-aged woman approached her. Her pleasant smile was infinitely more inviting and sincere than that of any Brooklyn shopkeeper.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“I was just admiring your store.”

“We take great pride in it. Been in my husband’s family for forty years now.”

Mary studied the woman’s face. This was Kate’s mother, and she could see a resemblance.

“You must be Mrs. Stoddard.”

“No, can’t say I am. The name’s King.”

“King?” Mary wanted to make sure she heard her correctly.

“Been so for the twenty-seven years Isaac and I have been married.”

“I’m sorry. I thought the Stoddards owned this store.”

“Stoddards, huh? Never heard of ’em, and we’re the only general store in Haddonfield.”

Mary couldn’t understand how she could have gotten her facts so confused. She slowly turned to leave and spotted a photograph. It was a framed photo portrait of the King family hanging on the wall behind the cash register. Besides the parents, there were two girls, one about nineteen, the other sixteen, and the latter was clearly Kate. Mary went to it and stared for a moment to make sure.

“Charming photograph, huh?” commented Mrs. King.

“Yes, lovely.”

“Those are my girls, Franny and Lizzie.”

“They’re beautiful,” said Mary, encouraging her to continue.

“Franny, my eldest, lives in Philadelphia now. Married to a very prominent lawyer.” She was bragging, but within the limits of a proud parent. Mary liked that. She knew she’d never catch her mother boasting about her. What was more important, though, was that Mrs. King seemed to be in a talkative mood. Mary had questions.

“You must be very proud.”

“Yeah, that Franny is something. Pregnant with her first child.”

“Oh, wonderful.
Congratulations.”

Mrs. King smiled her thanks. Mary tried to be as nonchalant as possible as she asked, “And what about Lizzie?”

Mrs. King shook her head. “It’s funny how one child goes one way and the other, well, nothin’ ever goes right.”

“Lizzie was trouble?”

“It happened sudden-like. One minute she was perfect, the apple of her daddy’s eye, the next…” Mrs. King stopped. “But you don’t wanna hear…”

“No, no, go ahead, please.”

“When Lizzie was seventeen, we sent her to Taunton to straighten her out.”

“Did boarding school help?”

“Boarding school?” Mrs. King squinted at Mary. “Honey, Taunton’s a lunatic asylum. Lizzie shot a boy, wounded him really bad, ’cause he broke their date to the school dance.”

Mary was floored. She was having trouble absorbing this information. “Because he broke their date?” she repeated, trying to make sure she had heard correctly.

Mrs. King nodded solemnly. Whirling, Mary turned to digest Mrs. King’s words. Everything suddenly took on a new perspective. It was as if she had entered a surrealistic world where formerly benign things were jumping out at her. For the first time she noticed that a large section of the store was devoted to hunting equipment and firearms. There were many varieties of rifles, including long-range ones that were American-made but also ones of German, French, and English origin. The pistols were displayed in order of size, from the double- and single-action revolvers down to palm pistols like the derringer. There were also bowie knives, hunting knives, brass knuckles, some by themselves and some incorporated into knife-and-gun combinations. If it could kill, this store had it. Statements Kate had made kept flashing through Mary’s mind. “My father always said a lady should know how to protect herself,” “Charlie and I were not everything I made us out to be,” and “They think I’m crazy.” The last one kept repeating and repeating in her brain.

Mary was finding it hard to breathe. Mrs. King noticed.

“Are you all right, honey?”

Mary was quick to cover. “Nothing, just a dizzy spell. Happens all the time. So, whatever happened to Lizzie?”

“God knows. She escaped from Taunton three years ago. Sure hope she’s found peace.”

Mary had been wishing for a magic answer that would absolve Kate, but all the magic had been sucked out of the air and she was left with only logic. It was very possible, more than possible, that Charles Goodrich had called off their engagement and that Kate had killed him. Mary chastised herself for her stupidity. Kate was the fiancée. She should always have been a viable suspect, but Mary had completely overlooked the possibility. What was it about her that made her completely miss gaping flaws in the people she liked? First there was Charles and now Kate.