Five Classic Spenser Mysteries (58 page)

Inside the hearse was a coffin made of scrap plywood. The plywood wasn’t new, and the carpentry was not professional. It was padlocked. One of the prowl car cops got a tire iron, and Trask, squatting in the hearse, pried the hasp off. Healy lifted the lid. I bit down hard on my back teeth. A life-sized rag doll dummy sat bolt upright in the coffin and leered at us with its red Raggedy Andy lips. Still squatting, Trask started back with a yelp, lost his balance, and sat down awkwardly on the floor of the hearse. Healy never moved. The dummy flopped over sideways, and I could see a rusty spring attached to its back. I realized that my right hand was on the gun butt under my shirt. I took it away and rubbed it on my pants leg. The crowd was absolutely still. I said, “Trick or treat.”

Healy said, “Get that thing out of there.”

The two patrolmen lifted it out of the hearse and set it on the ground. Healy and I squatted down beside it.

“Shirt and pants stuffed with newspaper,” Healy said. “Head seems to be made out of a pillowcase stuffed with cotton batting. Features drawn on with Magic Marker. Spring looks like it came from an easy chair.”

He stood up. “Trask,” he said, “keep people away from this area. I’ll have some technicians come down and assist your people on the fingerprints and all.”

Trask nodded. “Okay,” he snapped to the crowd, “back it up. We’ve got to get lab specialists right on this.” He spoke to the two prowlies. “Move ’em back, men. We’ll seal this area off.”

I wondered if he rode a white stallion in the Memorial Day parade.

Behind the school was an athletic field ringed with high evergreen woods. Healy walked out toward the trees; I walked along with him. He paused on the pitcher’s mound and picked up some clay and rolled it in his right hand. He looked down at the pitching rubber. And then at home plate. He took his hat off and wiped his forearm across his forehead. He put his hat back on tipped low forward, shading his eyes, and looked out toward center field and the trees beyond it. He put his hands in his back pockets and rocked silently on the mound, his back toward home plate, staring out at the trees behind center field.

“Ever play ball, Spenser?”

“Some.”

“I was a pitcher All-State at Winthrop High School. Had a tryout with the Phillies. Coulda signed but the war was on. When I got out of the army, I was married, had two kids already. Had to get a steady job. Went with the state cops instead.”

I didn’t say anything. Healy continued to look at center field, his head tipped back a little to see out under the brim of his hat.

“Almost thirty years.”

I didn’t answer. He wasn’t really talking to me, anyway.

“Got any kids, Spenser?”

“Nope.”

“I got five. The little one is fifteen now; only one left at home. Plays for St. John’s. He’s a pitcher.”

Healy stopped talking. The wind moved the pine
branches in the woods. The trees had a strong smell in the September heat. Some starlings hopped about the infield near second base, pecking at the grass. Behind us the police radio squawked.

“Sonova goddamned bitch!” he said.

I nodded. “Me too,” I said.

State and local cops swarmed over the hearse like ants on a marshmallow and learned nothing. It had been stolen six months before from two brothers in Revere who had bought it at a sheriff’s sale and were going to fix it up as a camper. There were no fingerprints which meant anything to anyone. There was no opium stashed in the spare tire well, no hardcore porn taped to the chassis, no automatic weapons being smuggled to the counterculture. There were no laundry marks in the shirt and pants. The newspapers used to stuff the dummy were recent issues of
The Boston Globe
obtainable at any newsstand. The plywood and the hardware from which the coffin had been made were standard and could have come from any lumberyard in the country. There were no lube stickers or antifreeze tags anywhere on the vehicle to tell us anything. In short, the hearse was as blank and meaningless as a Styrofoam coffee cup.

Marge Bartlett was under sedation again. Roger Bartlett was mad, scared, and mournful. It was the mad that showed. As I left he was yelling at Healy and at Trask. He’d already yelled at me.

“Goddamn it! What’s going on? You people have found nothing. What’s going on? Where’s my son? I did what you
said, and I get the bullshit with the funny coffin. You people have found nothing …” The door closed behind me. I didn’t blame him for yelling. I looked at my watch—four fifteen. Time to go home.

When I got home the Amstel beer was still there in the refrigerator, a gift from a girl who knew the way to my heart. I popped the cap off a bottle and drank half of it. Jesus, the Dutch knew how to live. I remembered a café in a hotel in Amsterdam where Amstel was the house beer. I finished the beer, opened another, drank some while I got undressed, put it on the sink while I took a shower, finished it while I toweled off.

I went to the kitchen in my shorts, opened a third bottle, picked up the phone, and called information. I got Susan Silverman’s number and called her. Her voice sounded very educated on the phone. She said, “Hello.”

I said, “Help.”

She said, “I beg your pardon?”

I said, “I am in desperate need of guidance. Do you make house calls?”

She said, “Who is this?”

I said, “How quickly they forget. Spenser. You remember … proud carriage, clear blue eyes that never waver, intrepid chin, white raincoat that makes me look taller?”

And she said, “Oh, that Spenser.”

“I know it’s late,” I said, “but I’m about to cook a pork tenderloin
en croûte
and wondered if you would be willing to eat some of it while we talk more about Kevin Bartlett.” She was silent. “I’m a hell of a cook,” I said. “Not much of a detective, have some trouble locating my own Adam’s apple, don’t have much success with kidnapping victims, but I’m a hell of a cook.”

“Mr. Spenser, it’s five thirty. I was just about to put my own supper in the oven.”

“I’ll come out and get you if you wish,” I said. “If you’d rather, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“No,” she said. I could almost hear her make up her mind. “I’ll come in. What is your address?”

“Do you know where Marlborough Street is?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m in the last block before you get to the Public Garden.” I gave her the number. “It’s on the left-hand side. How long will it take you?”

“Would seven thirty be all right?”

“Just right,” I said. “I’ll look for you then.”

She said good-bye and we hung up. “Ha!” I said out loud. I drank down the rest of my beer to celebrate. Still got the old sex appeal, kid, still got all the old moves. She couldn’t resist me. Or maybe she just liked pork tenderloin
en croûte
.

I turned on the oven to preheat, took the pork out of the meatkeeper to warm up, and set about making the crust. I opened another Amstel. Better watch it, though; didn’t want to be drunk when she got here. It was, after all, business, or partly business. I made a very short crust and laid the tenderloin across it. I sprinkled in some thyme, some black pepper, and a dust of dill. I rolled the crust carefully around it and put it on a roasting pan. I brushed a little egg white on the top to glaze it and put it in a medium oven.

I peeled and sliced three green apples, some carrots, and some red onions. I added a lump of butter and put them to simmer in about an inch of cider in a tightly covered sauce pan. I made a Cumberland sauce for the pork. Then I went to get dressed. I decided against a gold lamé smoking jacket and white silk scarf. Instead I put on a black polo shirt and white trousers with a modest flare. I put on my black loafers, still shined, and walked up Arlington Street two blocks to Boylston and bought two loaves of hot French
bread from a bake shop. Then I walked back to my apartment and put a bottle of red wine in the wine bucket, opened it to let it breathe, and packed it in ice. I knew that was bad—I was supposed to roll it on my palate at room temperature, but once a hick, always a hick, I guess. I liked it cold.

At seven fifteen I took the pork out of the oven and put it on the counter to rest. I took the lid off the vegetables, turned up the heat, and boiled away the moisture while I shook the pan gently. It made them glaze slightly. I put them in a covered chafing dish over a low blue flame. I put the French bread into the still warm oven. I had stopped on the way back from Smithfield and bought a dozen native tomatoes at a farm stand. Each was the size of a Softball. I sliced two of them about a half-inch thick and sprinkled them lightly with sugar and arranged them slightly overlapping on a bed of Boston lettuce on a platter and put them beside the roast to warm up. Tomatoes are much better at room temperature.

I had just finished washing my hands and face when the doorbell rang. Everything was ready. Ah, Spenser, what a touch. Everything was just right except that I couldn’t seem to find a missing child. Well, nobody’s perfect. I pushed the release button and opened my apartment door. I was wrong. Susan Silverman was perfect.

It took nearly forty years of savoir faire to keep from saying “Golly.” She had on black pants and a knit yellow scoop-necked, short-sleeved sweater that gaped fractionally above the black pants, showing a fine and only occasional line of tan skin. The sleeves were short and had a scalloped
frill, and her black and yellow platform shoes made her damned near my height. Her black and yellow earrings were cubed pendants. Her black hair glistened, her teeth were bright in her tan face when she smiled and put out her hand.

“Come in,” I said. Very smooth. I didn’t scuff my foot; I didn’t mumble. I stood right up straight when I said it. I don’t think I blushed.

“This is a very nice apartment,” she said as she stepped into the living room. I said thank you. She walked across and looked at the wood carving on the server. “Isn’t this the statue of the Indian in front of the museum?”

“Yes.”

“It’s lovely. Where did you get it?”

This time I think I did blush. “Aw hell,” I said.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, it’s very good.” She ran her hands over the wood. “What kind of wood is it?”

“Hard pine,” I said.

“How did you get the wood so smooth?”

“I rubbed it down with powdered pumice and a little mineral oil.”

“It is very lovely,” she said. “Did you do all these wood carvings?” I nodded. She looked at me and shook her head. “And you cook too?”

I nodded again.

“Amazing,” she said.

“Can I get you a drink?” I said.

“I’d love one.”

“Would you take a vodka gimlet?”

“That would be splendid,” she said. Splendid. In her mouth it sounded just right. Anyone else who said “splendid” would have sounded like the wrong end of a horse.

I put five parts of vodka and one part Rose’s lime juice in
a pitcher, stirred it with ice, and strained some into two short glasses.

“Would you care to sit on a stool and drink it while I make last-minute motions in the kitchen?”

“I’ll do better than that, I’ll help set the table while I’m drinking my drink.”

“Okay.”

The kitchen area was separated from the living-dining area by a waist-high partition and some lathe-turned risers extending to the ceiling. As I poured oil and vinegar over the tomatoes, I watched her through the partition. She was probably between thirty-five and forty. Her body was strong, and as she bent over the table placing the silverware her thighs were firm and smooth and her back and waist graceful and resilient where the blouse gapped. She moved surely, and I bet myself she played good tennis.

I sliced half the pork
en croûte
in quarter-inch slices and arranged them on the serving platter. I put the chafing dish of vegetables on the table, put the tomatoes and roast out also. Susan Silverman’s glass was empty, and I filled it. My head was feeling a little thick from five beers and a large gimlet. Some would say a thickness of head was my normal condition.

“Candles too hokey?” I said.

She laughed and said, “I think so.”

“Shall we finish our drinks before we eat?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

She sat at the end of the couch and leaned back slightly against the arm, took a grown-up sip of her gimlet, and looked at me over the glass as she did so.

“What ever happened to your nose, Mr. Spenser?”

“A very good heavyweight boxer hit it several times with his left fist.”

“Why didn’t you ask him not to do that?”

“It’s considered bad form. I was hoping for the referee.”

“You don’t seem to choose the easiest professions,” she said.

“I don’t know. The real pain, I think, would be nine to five at a desk processing insurance claims. I’d rather get my nose broken weekly.”

Her glass was empty. I filled it from the pitcher and freshened mine. Don’t want to get drunk on duty. Don’t want to make a damned fool of myself in front of Susan Silverman, either.

She smiled her thanks at me. “So, sticking your nose into things and getting it broken allows you to live life on your own terms, perhaps.”

“Jesus, I wish I’d said that,” I said. “Want to eat?”

“I think we’d better; I’m beginning to feel the gimlets.”

“In that case, my dear, let me get you another.” I raised my eyebrows and flicked an imaginary cigar.

“Oh, do the funny walk, Groucho,” she said.

“I haven’t got that down yet,” I said. I gestured toward the pitcher, and she shook her head. “No thank you, really.”

I held her chair as she sat down, sat down opposite her, and poured some wine in her glass.

“A self-effacing little domestic red,” I said, “with just a hint of presumption.”

She took a sip. “Oh, good,” she said, “it’s cold. I hate it at room temperature, don’t you?”

I said, “Let’s elope.”

“Just like that,” she said. “Because I like cold wine?”

“Well, there are other factors,” I said.

“Let’s eat first,” she said.

We ate. Largely in silence. There are people with whom silence is not strained. Very few of them are women. But Susan Silverman was one. She didn’t make conversation.
Or if she was making conversation she was so good at it that I didn’t notice. She ate with pleasure and impeccable style. Me too.