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Authors: Linda Barnes

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Private Investigators

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BOOK: A Trouble of Fools
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She nodded gratefully, and took her time crossing the living room. I couldn’t tell if she moved slowly because of her age, which I put in the high sixties, or because she was checking out the decor. Her eyes lingered on the furnishings and she clucked and murmured as if she approved.

If she was using the living room furniture as a clue to my character, she was making a big mistake. Mostly it’s the way Aunt Bea left it when she died. I even kept her dumb parakeet, but I moved the cage to one side of the bay window so it didn’t block the light. Old Fluffy squawked indignantly for a week. The living room’s not my style, but I don’t mind it.

The oriental rug’s a little threadbare, but it looks terrific when the sunlight pours in, like some glistening ruby-and sapphire brooch. The sofa velvet is worn around the wood scrollwork, and I don’t polish the mahogany the way my aunt did. Neither does Roz. Her idea of cleaning is a halfhearted flick of the feather duster here and there, but then she’s got her thoughts on higher things.

Margaret Devens went unerringly for Aunt Bea’s favorite rocker, and settled her narrow backside against the embroidered cushion with a satisfied sigh. She fit the chair like the missing piece of a puzzle. I half expected her to yank out her knitting and clatter away. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that sound.

I fetched coffee, a cup for myself, too—cream and two sugars—and crammed a quick bite of sandwich into my mouth. Chewing steadily, I rolled a few chocolate chip cook

ies onto a plate. By the time I got back to the living room, Miss Devens was rocking steadily, staring straight ahead, chin high. She looked like a woman who’d made up her mind, bitten the bullet, and disliked the taste.

 

I sat on the sofa, which creaked to let me know that while it hadn’t collapsed under my weight, it was only a matter of time. I steer plump clients away from the couch. No danger with Miss Devens. She touched her coffee cup to her lips, and gave the cookie plate a welcoming reception.

 

“You know, I’m only here because my brother’s gone,”

she said between bites, as if we were continuing a conversation instead of starting one.

 

“Gone?” I wasn’t sure if she was using a euphemism for “dead” or what.

 

“You handle that kind of thing, do you?”

 

I don’t handle communication with the dead, so I assumed she meant just what she said. Gone, as in vanished. I wondered if she’d seen my ad in the Yellow Pages. I wondered if anyone did. I paid extra for fancy red print. “If you’re talking about a missing persons investigation,” I said gently, “the police are the place to start. More personnel, more clout. Step number one: file a missing persons report.”

 

She bit her lower lip, and looked helpless. “I wouldn’t like to involve the police.”

 

“Any particular reason why not?”

 

She examined her hands as if she expected to see the right answer written on them. “Well, you see, I’d hate to embarrass my brother, you know. He’s younger than I am, and a bit foolhardy still. But a good man, you understand, a good man.” There was something almost defiant in her insistence.

She started another sentence, gave it up. Her hands fluttered.

 

I eyed the pile of past-due bills next to the cat’s mail on the dining room table. Had to keep T.C. in Tender Vittles until I could figure out how to collect his twenty grand. Of course, I could always take in more tenants. I’ve got rooms galore, and students will kill to be within walking distance of Harvard Square.

 

“What’s your brother’s name?” I asked.

 

“Bless you,” she said, “bless you.”

 

“Whoa. I haven’t decided anything yet, Miss Devens.”

 

“Oh, of course.” More fluttering of hands. “Well, you haven’t decided against it, have you?”

 

“I need a little information. Like your brother’s name.”

 

My tone must have gotten sarcastic. The lady’s lower lip trembled, and I felt like I’d kicked my unknown grandmother down the stairs. My tour of duty as a cop did not do much for my manners or my vocabulary. The sleazebag bastards I dealt with did not go in for “please” and “thank you.”

 

‘Take your time, Miss Devens,” I muttered. “More coffee?”

 

“Thank you,” she said, beaming as if I’d given her a present.

The smile faded quickly from her eyes and she pressed her lips together, as if embarrassed that they’d been caught tilting up. “My brother is Eugene Paul Mark Devens.”

Again, I had the feeling that she expected more of a reaction from me than she got. I wondered if she always gave his full baptismal name.

 

“How long,has he been missing?”

 

“All of ten days,” she said, not trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “And he’s lived with me for sixteen years, ever since his wife passed on.”

 

“And?”

 

“That’s it. It’s hard to imagine, much less say, but one day he was there, and the next day he wasn’t.”

 

“You, uh, had some kind of quarrel?”

 

“I’m not much of a fighter, Miss Carlyle.” She patted her white hair, and rocked gently back and forth. “Truly, I’m at my wit’s end.”

 

“What about work?” I asked. “Does your brother work?”

 

“Sure, he’s a driver, nights mostly, for the Green and White Cab Company. That’s why we don’t talk as much as a brother and sister should. The hours, you know. I’m a busy woman myself, with my volunteer work and all, and our hours didn’t—our hours don’t coincide.”

 

Green & White. Bingo. Light bulbs lit over my head.

That’s where the name Devens came from. I had only the faintest recollection of the guy’s face, but I remembered those smelly cigars of his. His term at G&W had overlapped mine on both ends, but the part-time drivers, especially the ones labeled “college kid” like me, didn’t mix much with the lifers.

Green & White. That answered the referral question.

G&W’s dispatcher, the formidable Gloria, was always good for a boost. Someday one of my old cop buddies would tip someone off to my existence. I wasn’t holding my breath.

“A cabdriver.” Miss Devens pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. “He could have done better for himself, no doubt about that. If ever there was a boy with all the advantages, well, that was Eugene. I can’t say he was lazy, but he had a mind of his own always, and no will to follow the plans of others. Not his mother, not his wife, not his big sister, surely … But that’s no matter now, is it? I saw my brother last on Wednesday, September tenth, before he went off to work. And then I haven’t seen him since.” Her hands clutched each other for support. “Should I write that down for you, now?”

“I’ll remember. I have a good memory.” Once it’s jogged.

“I did, too,” she said, “once upon a time.”

 

I said, “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said he was married …”

“Could have done better for himself there, too. The story of his life. Could have, should have, might have. But he married the first girl… his wife, Betty … well, she wasn’t our kind of people.”

“Irish?”

“Oh, she was Irish all right, I’ll give her that.” Miss Devens used the word “Irish” the same way my Dad’s relatives, lace-curtain Irish all, used it when they talked about the folks they called shanty Irish. “It wasn’t what you’d call a happy marriage. I think, when she died, it was a release for him. But who am I to judge? What do I know about it, love and marriage, happy or not?” She smiled ruefully. “I could have joined the convent for all I know about it.”

 

“Your brother have children?”

She sighed, and the smile faded. “The union wasn’t blessed. In many ways.”

“Could your brother be staying with a friend?”

“I’m afraid I—I don’t know his friends as well as I might.”

“Does he drink?” Considering cabdrivers I have known, I thought I’d better get that one out of the way.

“Some. At an Irish pub.”

Ah, now I knew where to look. There are two hundred Irish pubs in Boston. Maybe another hundred in Cambridge.

“To excess?” I inquired, putting it as politely as I knew how.

“At times,” she answered cautiously. “You know what men are.”

I ignored that one. “Has he gone off on benders?” I asked. “At times?”

“Well, I can’t say no. After Betty died, he’d go off once in a while. He’d get, well, bleak-looking, and then he’d be out a night or two. But it’s been years now. And he never stayed away so long. Never.”

I bit into a cookie. “Did he take things with him?”

“Things?”

“Did you check his room? Did he pack a bag?”

 

“If he had I wouldn’t be here, would I? If he’d taken a trip, I’d know where he was. My brother and I are close, truly we are.” She fumbled in her lumpy handbag. “I brought his picture,” she said, and when she looked at her brother’s photograph, her face melted. She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“May I see it?”

She offered it with a shaky hand.

If there ever was a man with the map of Ireland on his face, Eugene Paul
et cetera
was it. I recognized him from the cab company, remembered him vaguely, a cheerful red faced man with unruly hair. He looked a bit like his sister with a fuller face, minus most of the worry lines. He looked like he knew how to have a good time.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Fifty-six. Doesn’t look it, does he? Baby of the family and all. Spoiled.”

He seemed a lot younger, boyish even. Charming.

When my Aunt Bea looked at you in a certain way, you knew all was lost. She knew you hadn’t done your homework.

She knew you’d failed that history test. She could see clear to the back of your soul, and plumb the depths of unworthiness lurking there. Imagine my surprise when I

glanced up and found Margaret Devens peering at me with eyes like that—determined, purposeful eyes.

Quickly, she turned away, and made fluttery motions with her hands, distractions that came too late. I’d recognized her.

No, I didn’t know her from some other time or place, not personally. But I have known women her age, women of steel who grew up in an era when feathers and fans and batted eyelashes were the name of the game. The smart ladies learned the score, played along. I recognized Margaret Devens’s silly gestures and flowered dresses and wooly pink coats and white cotton gloves for what they were: camouflage fatigues.

She might have slipped past me if she hadn’t been sitting in Aunt Bea’s chair. Aunt Bea’s shawls and scarves and bangles and hats were armor-plated, every one.

“What exactly do you want?” I asked. “To know where he is? To talk to him, to see him? Do you want him to move back?”

“I want you to find him,” she said, smiling and nodding and dithering away. “That’s all.”

“Women?” I asked.

“Possibly.” She blushed demurely, and for a moment I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing. I mean, she was sitting in Aunt Bea’s chair. Maybe I’d had some kind of flashback. Certainly there was nothing in her demeanor now to suggest anyone but a dear old biddy come from church to set her mind at rest about her brother.

So I didn’t mention the dire possibilities—the hospitals, the refrigerated drawer in the morgue—because of the blush, out of deference for her age, because of the look on her face when she saw her brother’s photo. I don’t have a little brother, but I’ve got sort of a little sister, and I have the feeling that when I look at Paolina’s school photos, I get a goofy expression on my face, too.

“How much do you charge?” she asked.

I glanced down at her shoes. My full-price clients are mainly divorce lawyers with buffed cordovan Gucci loafers.

Margaret Devens wore orthopedic wedgies with run-down heels, much worn, much polished, shabbily genteel. My pay scale started a downward slide.

“I’m not a charity case,” she said firmly. “You tell me the same price the rich ones pay. I’ve plenty of money. What do the wealthy pay you?”

“Three hundred a day plus expenses,” I said, knocking a hundred off the top. “But with missing persons cases, I generally take some expense money up front, and charge a flat fee on delivery. Maybe I’ll find him with one phone call.

Maybe I never will.”

“Will a thousand do for a retainer? Or an advance, whatever you call it.”

I nodded. It wasn’t the cat’s twenty K, but it would sure help pay the bills.

I waited for her to pull out a checkbook, but she took a fat leather change purse out of her handbag. She crowded it behind her purse, trying to block my view.

By sitting up tall, I had a perfectly clear view of a huge wad of bills. She peeled off ten hundreds, squared the edges neatly, and placed them on the cookie plate.

So, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I didn’t think something was fishy right from the start.

CHAPTER TWO

“Workers of the world, unite!” I intoned, enunciating carefully.

“Fluffy wanna drink,” Red Emma chirped. Seeing she hadn’t pleased me, she tried again. “Huffy is a dirty bird,”

she said.

“Fluffy is a twit,” I responded.

To tell the truth, I didn’t rename her just because she squawked so much. “Red Emma,” Emma Goldman, the infamous anarchist of the teens and twenties, was one of my mom’s heroes. One of mine, too, I guess, even if I tend to see her as Maureen Stapleton in Reds. I grew up on my mom’s glorious tales about her mom and the New York garment workers’ strike. My grandma-to-be evidently bopped a scab on the head, got caught, and spent the night in the Bowery lockup. My mom made that night in jail seem like the Medal of Honor—my dad called grandma a jailbird. As I grew older I recognized those as fighting words, and I’d sit on the front stoop till the barbs and pots stopped flying through the air.

Maybe I could teach the bird to swear. She seemed to have no trouble with F words.

If I could teach her to swear intelligibly, I could put her on the phone the next time some hospital’s Patient Information Department zapped me on hold before I could blurt out a protest.

BOOK: A Trouble of Fools
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