Before I Say Good-Bye (34 page)

The captain glanced at Dan, who was listening attentively, his eyes downcast, his hands folded on the table.

“It may be some consolation to know that the fire never touched her. The intense heat and smoke, however, did kill her.”

“I appreciate that,” Dan said, “but what I need to know is why she is being held responsible for setting the fire.”

“It began in what had been the library on the first floor. The window of that room blew out fairly quickly, and some papers landed on the street, including a human services or soup kitchen card as we call them. That was why your mother was misidentified for some time. It turned out that the card belonged to another homeless woman who claimed that one of her shopping bags had been stolen hours before.”

“Are you saying that there was
another
homeless person in the building?”

“We have no reason to think so. There was certainly no other victim, and traces of some food and a bedroll were found in the library. We believe your mother must have been cooping in the Vandermeer
mansion, started the fire accidentally—perhaps while trying to fix herself some dinner—and then went upstairs to use the bathroom. As it happens, it was the only one that still worked. She was trapped up there. If she
did
try to get out, the smoke was so dense she probably wouldn’t have been able to find the staircase.”

“Now let me tell you something about my mother,” Dan said. “She had a pathological fear of fire, and perhaps especially fire in an open fireplace. There is no
way
she ever would have started a fire in one.”

He saw the look of polite disbelief on the faces of Captain Murphy and the detectives. “My father walked out on my mother when I was three years old. She went into a state of clinical depression that led to heavy, steady drinking. She controlled it during the day, but once I was in bed, she would drink until she had drunk herself into a stupor.”

Dan’s voice faltered. “I remember as a child that I used to worry about her. I’d wake up and tiptoe downstairs, clutching my blanket. Invariably she’d be asleep on the couch, an empty bottle next to her. She loved a fire then and used to read to me on that couch near the fireplace before I went to bed. One night when I went down to check on her, she was passed out on the floor right in front of the hearth. I shook the blanket out to cover her, and part of it went into the fire. When I tried to pull it away, the sleeve of my pajamas caught on fire.”

He stood up, took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirtsleeve. “I almost lost this arm,” he said as he rolled up the sleeve. “I spent almost a year in the hospital, going through a series of skin grafts, and then a period of learning to use the arm again. The pain was awful.
My mother was so guilt ridden and afraid of facing possible charges of negligence that, one day, after an all-night session at my hospital bed, she left and never came back. She couldn’t stand seeing what had happened to me.

“We had no idea where she was, until seven years ago, when we saw her on a television documentary that was all about the homeless in New York. A private investigator we hired talked to some of the people in shelters here who knew her. They all had different stories about her, but on one point they all said the same thing: she panicked at the sight of an open flame.”

Dan’s left arm was a solid mass of stretched, scarred flesh. He flexed his hand and extended his arm. “It took a long time to get movement and control back into it,” he said. “It’s not a very pretty sight, but the kindness of those doctors and nurses when I was a kid is the reason I’m a pretty damn good pediatric surgeon today, and in charge of a burn unit.”

He rolled his shirtsleeve down and buttoned it. “A few months ago I met a homeless woman named Lilly who knew my mother well. We talked about her at length. Lilly also brought up the subject of my mother’s fear of fire.”

“You make a very strong case, Doctor,” Jack Sclafani said quietly. “It is entirely possible that Karen Renfrew, the woman who claimed her soup kitchen card had been stolen, was the one who actually started the fire. The mansion was a very large house. She might have been totally unaware that your mother was also in it.”

“I think that’s entirely possible. From what I understand, when my mother was in one of her darkly
depressive moods, she tried to find a place where she’d be totally alone.”

Dan put on his jacket. “I couldn’t save my mother from herself,” he said. “But I can save her reputation, such as it is. I want her name removed as a likely suspect in setting that fire.”

The phone rang. “I told them to hold calls,” the captain muttered as he picked it up. He listened. “It’s for you, Jack.”

Sclafani took the receiver from him. “Sclafani here,” he snapped.

When he hung up, he looked at Brennan. “Nell MacDermott left a message a little over an hour ago. She’s found the bank. It’s in Westchester near the nursing home where Winifred Johnson’s mother lives. She told them we’d be up with a search warrant.”

He paused. “There’s something else. I called North Dakota this morning to find out what’s keeping our guy from getting back to us. He just picked up the call and left a message. He’s compiled a full report on Adam Cauliff, and he’s faxing it now.”

“What are you talking about?” Mac demanded. “What is Nell up to, and why are you investigating Adam Cauliff?”

“As I said before, your granddaughter has been very helpful in our investigation, sir,” Sclafani replied. “As for her husband, our contact in North Dakota has been digging into his background. Apparently he’s come up with some very disturbing information. Clearly there are things about Adam Cauliff that he wanted neither you nor your granddaughter to find out.”

seventy-nine

T
HE RAIN BEGAN TO FALL AGAIN
as Nell drove back to the city—a hard, driving, torrential rain that beat ferociously against the windshield.

The brake lights of the car ahead flashed glimpses of red, interspersed with sustained, brighter red, as the pace of the stream of traffic slowed almost to a standstill.

Nell gasped as a fender bender in the left lane sent one car veering into her lane, only inches away from her. She literally could have touched the passenger door.

Her mind had been racing with the events of the morning, but now she sternly willed herself to concentrate solely on her driving.

It was only when she drove into the garage in her building and had parked her car that she permitted herself to absorb the full impact of what she had learned.

Winifred had shared a safe-deposit box with Harry Reynolds.

Adam had a key to that box.

She hadn’t figured out how to make sense of it, but there was a very good chance that Adam
was
“Harry Reynolds.”

“You okay, Ms. MacDermott?” Manuel, the elevator operator looked at her solicitously.

“Fine, thanks, just a bit shaky. The driving is pretty rough out there.”

It was nearly three o’clock when she opened the door of her apartment and went in.

Sanctuary!
Now she was almost frantic to be rid of Adam’s possessions. No matter what else was found to be true, he and Winifred must have had a secret relationship of some sort. It might have been strictly a dishonest business relationship. It might have been what he had made her think was a romantic relationship. Although Nell still was not ready to believe that, it could have been true. No matter what the answer turned out to be, she wanted no reminder of Adam’s presence left in the apartment.

I fell in love with love . . .

I never will again! Nell vowed silently.

You never will have to make that mistake again,
she thought.

The blinking light on her answering machine indicated that there were messages. The first was from her grandfather: “Nell, Dan and I were checking into the investigation of his mother’s death. We happened to meet Detectives Sclafani and Brennan. You left a message for them, and now they seem to have some information about Adam. Unpleasant information, I’m afraid. They’re coming to my office around five. Dan will be there. Please plan to join us.”

Next was a message from Dan: “Nell, I’m worried about you. I’m carrying my cell phone. Please call me as soon as you can. The number is 917-555-1285.” She was about to turn off the machine when his voice came on again: “Nell, I’ll say it again. I need you.”

Nell smiled wistfully as she erased the messages. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I had some nerve telling him that he had a poorly stocked kitchen, she thought as she surveyed the meager contents inside.

I’m not hungry, but I
do
want something. She settled for an apple, and as she bit into it, a memory from a long-ago history class struck her. Anne Boleyn on her way to the executioner’s block had requested—or eaten—an apple.

Which was it? For some reason it suddenly seemed important to know the answer.

Let Aunt Gert be home, Nell prayed as she reached for the telephone.

Fortunately, Gert answered on the first ring. “Nell, dear, I’m having one of those days I so enjoy. I’m putting photos in my album—the ones that I took of my psychic group at my parties. Do you know that Raoul Cumberland, who is so popular on that television show now, was at my house four years ago? I’d forgotten that. And—”

“Aunt Gert, I hate to cut you off, but this has been a crazy day for me,” Nell said. “I have to ask you something. I’m bringing in five boxes of clothes tomorrow. That’s a lot for you to be lifting and hanging and sorting. I’ll be glad to dismiss the driver and stay and sort them with you.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet?” Gert laughed nervously. “But that won’t be necessary, dear.” She laughed again. “I do have someone who’s already volunteered to help. I promised her I wouldn’t tell anybody, though. She simply doesn’t want to be involved in any way with her clients’ personal lives, even though—”

“Aunt Gert, Bonnie Wilson as much as told me that she was going to volunteer to receive donations at the thrift shop.”

“Did
she?” Gert asked, the relief in her voice mixed with surprise. “Isn’t that sweet of her?”

“Don’t let on to Bonnie that I’m going to be there too,” Nell cautioned. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring my album,” Gert promised.

eighty

K
AREN
R
ENFREW LIKED TO SIT
in Central Park, on a bench near Tavern on the Green. Her bundles around her, she enjoyed the sunshine, the comings and goings of the Rollerbladers, the joggers, the nannies pushing carriages, the tourists. She especially enjoyed the tourists, gaping as they took in the sights.

Her
sights.
Her
New York. The best city in the whole world.

Karen had been in a hospital for a while after her mother died. “For evaluation,” they said. Then they let her go. The landlady didn’t want her back. “You’re nothing but trouble,” she said. “You and all that junk you collect.”

But it
wasn’t
junk. These were her things. Her things made her feel good. Her things were friends. Every single bag in her two carts—the one she pushed and the one she dragged—was important to her. And every single thing inside those bags was important.

Karen loved her things, her park, her city. Today, though, was not one of her favorite days. Today there was almost no one in the park. It was raining too hard. Karen pulled out her plastic wrap and put it over herself and her carts. She knew that when the cops drove
by, they’d probably chase her. But until then she would enjoy the park.

She even liked it in the rain. In fact, she actually
liked
the rain. It was clean and friendly. Even when it fell as hard as this.

“Karen, we want to talk to you.”

She heard a gruff, masculine voice and looked out from under her plastic tarp.

There was a cop standing next to her carts. He was probably going to yell at her for refusing to go to the shelter. Or worse, he was going to force her to live in one of those dumps, with all those awful crazy people.

“What do you want?” she asked angrily, but she knew. She was going to have to go with him.

This cop wasn’t mean like some of them. He even helped her with her things. At the street he lifted one of her shopping carts onto his van.

“Stop that!” she screamed. “That’s my stuff. Don’t you touch it!”

“I know it is. Karen, but we have to ask you a few questions at headquarters. Once we’re done, I promise I’ll drive you back here with all your things, or I’ll drop you off somewhere else if you want. Trust me, Karen.”

“I’ve got a choice?” Karen asked bitterly as she watched to make sure the cop didn’t drop any of her precious belongings.

eighty-one

N
ELL DIALED
B
ONNIE
W
ILSON’S NUMBER.
On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on.

“If you want an appointment with internationally famous psychic Bonnie Wilson, please leave your name and phone number,” the tinny-sounding voice intoned.

“Bonnie, this is Nell MacDermott. I don’t want to bother you,” she said, using an apologetic tone, “but I feel it’s very important that I see you again. I don’t know if it’s possible, but do you think you could channel Adam to me again? It’s urgent that I talk with him. There’s something I just have to know. I’ll be at home, waiting for your call.”

The phone rang nearly an hour later. It was Bonnie. “Nell, I’m sorry not to have called sooner, but I just got your message. I was with one of my new clients. Of course, you can come over immediately. I’m not sure if I can contact Adam, but I will try. I’ll do my very best.”

“I’m sure you will,” Nell agreed, her voice carefully neutral.

eighty-two

J
ACK
S
CLAFANI AND
G
EORGE
B
RENNAN
brought sandwiches in from the delicatessen and dropped them off at the squad office. Before they could break for lunch,
there were a number of things that had to be taken care of. First they phoned the branch manager of the Westchester Exchange Bank. After that, they went before a judge to request a search warrant for safe-deposit box 332 at that bank. Finally, they asked the D.A. to give the assignment to open the box to other members of their squad.