“Oh hell, sure, if it makes you feel better. If she doesn't turn up right away, a detective would be assigned anyhow. But she probably just got lost or something, don'tcha think? I mean, you said she's what, eighty-four?”
“But she's sharp as a tack.”
“Yeah, okay ⦔
Landis was quiet a moment, weighing the possibilities. A person finds her way around for eighty-four years, all of a sudden she can't, that is a little screwy. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd had a heart attack or been hit by a car and was in the hospitalâor worse. But he didn't want to alarm Juliet.
“Anyway, I'll get myself over to your friend's B and B with a couple of the guys,” he said aloud. “Say half an hour?”
Juliet went across the street to wait for him with Suzy. The “uniforms” got there first: a very young, very thin man named Glowacki and a thicker, more senior officer called Lopez. Landis arrived a few minutes later, in an unmarked car.
The last time Juliet had seen Murray was in late November, when she had gone to the opening of a show of sound art at Pierogi in Williamsburg. The artist was an acquaintanceâsomeone she'd met through Suzy, in fact. Murray did a double take when he saw
her, as if he could not believe that she, Juliet Bodine, had found her way across the river to Brooklyn. Despite his having spent four years at Harvard, it was always like that with him, this undercurrent of, “You're fancy, I'm regular; you're Manhattan, I'm Sheepshead Bay; you're class, I'm street.” It bothered Juliet very much. She felt he would like her to wipe her nose with the back of her arm, or mangle her English, to show she was just folks. It seemed disingenuous on his part; she considered him a reverse snob and, as such, no better than the usual kind.
On the other hand, there was a lot to like about him. His mind was quick and original. She had visited his studio once and found his work extremely interesting. Soon afterward, he had asked her to brainstorm with him on the think-tank case. She admired him for reaching out to her that way. She admired him for choosing to do police work, which he clearly thought of as a way to help people. Moreover, she still found him good-looking, quintessentially male in a dark, lean, nervous way. Last summer, when their college attraction to each other had briefly, very quietly, made itself felt again, she had thought for a while that they might make the jump from casual friendship to romance, sex. Instead, Murray had choked on her, folding his arms when he ought to have reached for her, failing to call when he said he would. He had let it fizzle outâor maybe they both had. Maybe she had been equally timid, equally to blame for not giving the little spark the tinder, the oxygen it needed. Though Rob's lovely young actress had precipitated the final crisis, Juliet believed her marriage had collapsed in large part because her career had outstripped that of her husband. The experience had left her wary of men whose savings accounts were smaller than hers. And Murray, no doubt, had reasons of his own for keeping his distance from her. All the same, she liked him, respected him. Murray had substance. As her oldest friend, Molly, would put it, he was a person.
They kissed hello. She was surprised to feel her blood quicken with pleasure.
“Good to see you; thanks for coming,” she murmured.
Murray said nothing, but his eyes held hers a moment longer than she would have expected. An instant longer, a split second.
Didn't they?
They all sat down in Suzy's living room. The toothbrush picture was done, Juliet noticed, and had been replaced by a sketch of a space-sauceresque CD. Murray's eyes wandered approvingly over the walls, where various examples of Suzy's past work hung, while Officer Lopez began a long series of questions, occasionally glancing at Landis as if he expected the detective to correct him. How old was the missing woman? What was her full name? Where did she live? Was she ill; was she on medication? When was the last time she had been seen, where, by whom, where was she planning to go after that? What was she wearing then? What did she look like? Did Suzy have a picture of her?
Suzy had no picture but went to her drawing board and, in a few pencil strokes, produced an extremely good likeness.
The questions resumed. Did she have credit cards? Suzy and Juliet rather thought not. She had not paid for her lodging yet, so they couldn't be sure. Did she own a car? It seemed very doubtful.
When the policemen had finished their questions, Officer Lopez explained what they would do. They would broadcast Mrs. Caffrey's name and description over the police radio, notify the MTA officers, the Port Authority, the airports. They'd run her name, description, and where she was last seen through the NCIC, a national data base listing people the police were looking for, send a description in if they didn't find her there already. They'd see if they could pick up a credit card chargeâmaybe she'd charged a theater ticket last night. They'd talk to the police in Espyville, get the names of some neighbors and relatives. And of courseâLopez gave another glance at Landisâthey would check the New York hospitals. And the morgue.
If Suzy would kindly call her phone company now and get a
list of outgoing calls since Mrs. Caffrey arrived, that might help, too. It was a lot quicker for Suzy to ask for this than for the police to get it, they explained. They would also search her building from top to bottom, beginning with the old lady's room, if Suzy didn't mind.
At this, Suzy's hands, already tightly clasped together, began to writhe. Could they please just tell anyone they spoke to that a friend of hers had vanished, not a paying guest? A furtive awareness that she had never paid the tax due to the city for the room she rented out told her to keep her mouth shut, but the vision of cops knocking on her neighbors' doors, referring to “Ms. Eisenman's bed-and-breakfast” trumped this. Lopez and Glowacki had no objection.
As Suzy picked up the phone to call MCI, they went into Ada's room. Landis also stood up to go. He winked at Juliet.
“I'll get back to the house now and get ahold of my partner. We'll call your friend Dennis, start from that end, retrace her steps. Don't worry,” he added, smiling into Juliet's anxious face. “We're gonna find her. She's gotta be somewhere, right?”
He meant it for comfort. But both women immediately pictured Ada dead.
Mrs. Caffrey Back Again
On the following Tuesday, the day when Ada Caffrey indeed proved
to be “somewhere,” Juliet was busy making Selena Walkingshaw discourse with her younger sister on the always interesting (Juliet hoped) topic of love.
The two girls were seated in a gazebo at their uncle's estate waiting for a summer shower to pass. Catherine was arguing that love between man and woman was a thing apart from other kinds of affection. Romantic love, she said, “comes suddenly and gives the heart no more notice than a springing tiger.”
But Selena (thinking secretly of Sir James, of courseâshe was unaware of Captain Vizor's infatuation with her) insisted that, like friendship, romantic attachment could grow “quietly, by degrees, from affinity through affection and so on toâ”
Here Selena blushed, to the puzzlement of her sister, who was evidently too much of a dork to realize her sister was in love with Sir James. Neither lady mentioned that they were having this conversation only because the author responsible for them was vamping until she could come up with the next piece of plot, though that would have been truer and more to the point than their various observations.
Instead, Selena was attempting to divert her sister's attention from her own scarlet cheeks by pointing out a cardinal perched on
a nearby branch (were there cardinals in England in 1813? Did they turn up in the spring? Were they rare enough that it would be worth a person's breath to point one out?) when the phone rang in Ames's office. A few moments later, there was a reluctant tap on Juliet's door.
“I'm so sorry, Dr. Bodineâ”
“That's okay,” Juliet called. “What is it?”
“Detective Landis is on the phone.”
Ames opened the door, and at the sight of her large, plain face, Juliet felt a jolt of fear. For once, blankness had eluded her assistant: Ames was upset, and Juliet thought she knew why. Four days had passed since Ada's disappearance, but the police had found nothing.
It wasn't for lack of trying. On the contrary, they had been extremely thorough. Glowacki and Lopez had turned Mrs. Caffrey's room upside down, checked Suzy's building from rooftop to basement for any trace of the missing woman, asked all the neighbors whether they'd seen her come in that Friday, canvassed Riverside from there to Rara Avisâand past itâfor people who might have noticed her on the street. They went door to door on the side streets, first with Suzy's sketch, later with a photograph FedExed down by Cindy Giddy, the neighbor who sometimes helped Mrs. Caffrey with errands and who was now looking after her cats. (A call made Wednesday evening to Tom and Cindy Giddy's number had turned up on the print-out from Suzy's phone company; indeed, Suzy remembered overhearing the call. Her guest had asked how “Zsa Zsa and Marilyn” were and had mentioned she would not be home before Saturday, since she had an “important appointment” Friday afternoon.) The photograph, taken from a local newspaper account of an AdirondActors's production of
Arsenic and Old Lace
some twenty years before, was somewhat misleadingâit made Mrs. Caffrey look like a sweet old lady, as Juliet pointed out. But Mrs. Giddy said it was the best she could find, and along with Suzy's sketch, it gave a pretty good idea of the missing woman's appearance.
With all of this, no trace of Mrs. Caffrey or her purse had shown up. Nor was the manuscript found. It wasn't among the old lady's things in Suzy's spare room. Dennis didn't have itâthough he didn't have a receipt showing he'd given it back to its owner, either. John Fitzjohn, the collector who had also been at Rara Avis that Friday afternoon, said he had not noticed where it was when he left the dealer's.
With his partner, Lizzie McKenna, Murray himself conducted the interviews with Dennis, with his elusive client Fitzjohn, with Pierre the waiter, even with Parker Scutt. Together, they reinterviewed the only person who did remember seeing Ada Caffrey on Friday afternoon: Ernesto Guerro, the doorman on duty that day at Juliet's building. He remembered Mrs. Caffrey from the day he'd first announced her, the day she and her antique suitcase had first arrived in New York. He had noticed her going out in the blizzard with Ms. Bodine's friend Suzy around three or so on Friday; it stuck in his mind because the veiled purple hat looked so funny in all that snow. And yeah, he did think he saw her go back inâmaybe an hour or so later, with a big guy in a dark hat and a dark jacket. Was that any help?
Daignault confirmed that Mrs. Caffrey arrived at his place at three-thirty and left perhaps half an hour later, going into the elevator with Fitzjohn, a collector of erotica who had come to look at the manuscript. She had been angry at Dennis when she left because she thought he was undervaluing the manuscript, trying to take advantage of an old lady. He'd offered her five thousand dollars for it; she wanted many times that. All in all, it had been an unfortunate interaction.
During her visit, Mr. Fitzjohn had been examining the manuscript. Before handing it back to Mrs. Caffrey, Dennis had placed it inside an archival glassine envelope. He was quite sure she had taken it. She also had in her hands a purple purse and a paperback romance novel with a picture of a girl in a long dress on the cover.
Was the book Angelica Kestrel-Haven's
Cousin Cecilia
? Ms. Bodine had told them Ada was carrying the Wilson manuscript inside a copy of
Cousin Cecilia
when they first met.
It might have been, Daignault thought. But it might not; he hadn't really noticed. Not to be rude, and please don't tell Juliet, but all romance novels looked kind of alike to him. Even Juliet's titles tended to run together in his head.
Landis gave him a disparaging look verging on frank dislike. Juliet had said just enough about Daignault to let Landis guess the two had been dating. However, Ada's signed copy of
Cousin Cecilia
had already been sought out and found in her bedroom at Suzy's, along with three other Angelica Kestrel-Haven books.
Landis and McKenna caught up with John Fitzjohn, an investment analyst, at his office in a glass monolith near Grand Central Station. Fortyish, six feet tall, blond, trim as a Navy SEAL, Fitzjohn received them with ostentatious signs that he was a busy man, too busy for such an interview. He had looked at the manuscript while Daignault and the owner argued about it, he said. It was a nice property, but he wasn't interested in buying. Yes, he remembered using the bathroom shortly before he left the dealer's. He then went downstairs with Mrs. Caffrey, talked to her briefly, shook her hand on the sidewalk outside the building, then walked away east on Eighty-eighth Street while she went south on Riverside.
What was he wearing? McKenna asked. Did he remember?
“God, I don't know. What does it matter?” Fitzjohn had said. “Probably jeans and a flannel shirt. It was casual Friday. Doc Martens.”
And his outerwear?
Fitzjohn nodded to a coatrack in a corner of his impressive office. On it hung a navy blue down jacket and a black knit cap with a design of white skiers knitted in.
And where had he gone when he left Mrs. Caffrey? Back to work?
No, it was after four, and the office was practically shut down on account of the blizzard. He'd goneâhe'd gone for a walk through Central Park. Walked all the way home, in fact. He liked the snow.
McKenna and Landis had both felt the lie in his answer, but you can't arrest a man for wearing a hat and a jacket.
On the chance that Ada had gone to the East Village slam, not realizing it had been canceled, they checked with bus drivers and token clerks who might have seen her heading downtown.
Nada.
The club, called Jade, had itself been locked and shuttered, the manager home in Queens. Doug Renny, who emceed the slam at the Ashtray and was slated to do the same that Friday night at Jade, lived around the corner on Avenue A. He remembered Ada Caffreyâwho could fail to?âand admitted he had gone to Jade around 9:00 P.M. to put up a notice saying the rondeau slam would be rescheduled. But he had seen neither Ada nor anyone else he recognized there, he said, and had gone straight back home, where he had stayed until the following morning. No, he could not produce a witness to verify that claim. Since when was it against the law to stay at home reading WisÅawa Szymborska during a blizzard?
Pierre Goujon, waiter
élégant et extraordinaire,
had spent Friday afternoon at the dentist's office, where he had endured an extremely painful emergency extraction, followed by a codeine-aided fourteen-hour sleep.
Parker Scutt did know Suzy had a boarder when he stayed at her place Friday night, but he never saw her or any trace of her. To be honest, he had forgotten all about her in the heat ofâyou know, the moment. He'd woken up at six, scribbled a note for Suzy, and left without seeing anyone.
Calls to Espyville and Gloversville were equally fruitless. Claudia Lunceford, whom police in Gloversville identified as Mrs. Caffrey's closest relationâshe was a nieceâhad neither heard from her Aunt Ada nor, her tone added, cared. No local cab had picked Ada
up at the fitfully manned train station, where no one had seen her arrive, nor at the bus depot. The friend Ada had mentioned to Juliet, Matt McLaurin, the one who took the old lady to slams in Albany, said he had last heard from Ada the day before she left for Manhattan.
In New York no hospital or shelter had a match. Nor had the morgue. A description of the manuscript had been posted on the NCIC, but so far, no dealer had reported having seen it. Landis and McKenna worked the case on and off all weekend. By Sunday, they had three candidates for the big man Ernesto Guerro thought he had seen: Fitzjohn, Daignaultâhe was maybe five ten, not tall, but huskyâand Doug Renny. Guerro had seen Mr. Daignault at least once, when he came to visit Ms. Bodine. At first, he believed this might have been the man he saw with Mrs. Caffrey on Friday.
But when Landis and McKenna came back to talk to him on Sunday afternoon, Guerro was having second thoughts. He was not so sure Mrs. Caffrey had really been with the guy he'd noticed anyway. It might have been just some guy going by on the sidewalk behind her. Come to think of it, maybe he hadn't seen Mrs. Caffrey twice. He wasn't really thinking about her at the time, you know, he was busy shoveling snow from the sidewalk; and hundreds of people passed his building on any given shift; and he had worked two shifts that day on account of the night man couldn't get in on account of the snow.
It was, inarguably, a thorough investigation, and by Monday, when Landis had phoned to fill Juliet in on the weekend's progress, she could hear in his voice that he thought the worst. And so, as Catherine Walkingshaw might have said, on Tuesday morning, when Ames came in to say Landis was on the phone, the conviction that he was calling to tell her Ada was dead sprang upon Juliet like a tiger.
Â
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“Jule,” came Murray's voice over the phone, not shouting today but
quiet, almost gentle, “listen, I hate to say it, but I just heard a body turned up in the precinct this morning that I think has to be your friend. She had on the sealskin coat you described and even the purple gloves and hat, and a purple purse with a Social Security card belonging to Ada Caffrey was ⦠ah, was with the body. No manuscript, though. Eventually we're going to need a family member to make a positive ID. But as a matter of practicality, you think you'd wanna come down to the morgue and take a look?”
Juliet resisted the temptation to say no, hang up, and forget she had ever heard of Ada Case Caffrey.
“If it would help,” she said, her voice small and tight.
“I could ask Suzy Eisenmanâ”
“No, it's okay. Where was the”âthere was a pause as she forced herself to say the wordâ“the body?”
“Inside a plastic garbage bag, shoved under the back end of a Nissan Xterra parked on Riverside. Right near you. Whoever it was did a neat jobâshoved her in, tossed the purse in too, and knotted up the top nice and tight. Nobody knew she was there till this morning, when the owner of the vehicle finally went out with a shovel to dig it out of the snow. They've still got him down here now, but it doesn't look like he did it. Guy's almost seventy himself, Puerto Rican, owns a dry-cleaning shop up in Harlem. It's hard to see a connection.”
“Where do I need to go?”
“I'll get a car and pick you up,” Murray offered. “How's fifteen minutes?”
Juliet gave her pages to Ames and dressed to go out in a sort of trance. Downstairs, she slid into the passenger seat of an unmarked car and kissed Murray's cheek. It was scratchy, like Daddy's in the
Pat the Bunny.
“I'm sorry about this,” he said, squeezing her arm.
Though it was the first time they'd been alone together in months, they drove across the city mostly in silence. Juliet asked how Murray's New Year's had been (“Quiet”) and whether he was finding time to sculpt (“Some”). If he was curious about her New Year's, her work, he contained himself. It crossed her mind to ask him why he hadn't come to the New Year's Day open house she'd invited him toâhe hadn't even RSVP'dâbut she decided not to bring it up.