Listen to the Shadows (12 page)

Clutching the large painting awkwardly under her arm, Katie grabbed her purse from the desk and left the house.

Chapter 15

An hour later, having arrived near the end of the lunch hour, Katie was busily clearing away dishes and setting up fresh tables, glad of the familiar routine that left little time for thinking. Also, she appreciated the warm building. By the time she’d reached the main road from her house, she’d been numb with cold, and then there was a ten-minute wait at the bus stop. She’d had to keep shifting the painting from one arm to the other, so she could alternate putting her hands in her pockets to warm them. She’d been in such a state from the phone call, she’d forgotten to take her gloves.

Taking advantage of a brief lull, Katie phoned the repair shop about her car, and was told by a man with a bored voice that they were waiting on parts. Her car wouldn’t be ready for a couple more days at least.

Katie resigned herself to a week of walking. It couldn’t be helped.

She would just have to remember to dress properly, that was all. Some of the regulars questioned her about her accident and she’d answered as best she could, blaming it on the weather, remaining politely vague on the details. Though a few were genuinely concerned, she knew that someone’s misfortune often brought out a morbid curiosity in others. It would pass.

“I was thinking…”

Katie jumped at the voice behind her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrea said, alarm leaping into her own dark eyes.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” Katie assured the petite, red-haired girl. “I’m just a little unnerved, Andrea. What is it?”

“I sneak up on people,” Andrea said in self-chastisement, her French accent delighting Katie as always. “Francine says it’s a fault. I don’t mean to do it, though.”

Katie smiled. Francine and Andrea were twins, which sometimes played havoc with the cook and the customers, but Francine was the more aggressive of the two, managing to assume the role of the bossy, older sister. Katie could always tell them apart. “You didn’t sneak. I’m on edge, that’s all. What was it you wanted to say to me, Andrea?”

“Oh, just that you’re welcome to stay with Francine and me until your car is okay. I saw you getting off the bus. Was that one of your paintings you were carrying?”

“Yes, it was. And you must be psychic. I was just thinking about my car. I phoned, and they tell me it won’t be ready for another day or two. But I don’t really mind the walk,” she lied. “The exercise and fresh air will do me good. Thanks for the offer, though. I really appreciate it. And I’ll keep it in mind.” She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and felt her slightness under the white nylon uniform.

“Really, Andrea—thanks.”

“Okay. You know where we live, Katie,” she said before hurrying off to serve a waiting customer. Katie was touched and somewhat comforted at the thoughtful gesture. Andrea had asked no questions— merely offered her help.

But Katie had no wish to impose herself on anyone. Besides, she would be miserable living with two women, even for a few days. She liked—no—she needed her own things around her. She needed her privacy.

Threading her way to the table by the window where two overweight women in fur coats had just sat down, she wondered if she was becoming too set in her ways. As she handed each of the women a menu, she saw that her hands were shaking.

In the kitchen, she called out, “Two cheeseburgers, well done, with fries and coleslaw, Frank.”

“Food for pigs,” he grumbled, his back to her, steam rising from the grill in front of him. Frank was a short, compact man with closely cropped, curly, salt and pepper hair. “People don’t know how to eat anymore. Junk food, that’s all…” He tuned, his face opening in a smile that revealed crooked, though white, teeth beneath the neat fringe of mustache. He had deep-set, piercing eyes in a narrow, lined face. “Katie, for a minute there I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s good to have you back again, my little one. How are you feeling?”

With the exception of Mrs. Cameron, Frank called all women “my little one”.

“I’m not sure, yet, Frank,” Katie answered truthfully.

“Soon you’ll be your old self again,” he said, turning from her to plop two hamburger patties on the grill where they sputtered and hissed. The smell of frying grease made her feel queasy. “You’ll see.”

She welcomed Frank’s lack of curiosity. She wanted only to put the past weeks out of her mind, if only for a few hours. This more admirable side to Frank’s nature, however, did not blind her to other, not so becoming, qualities. He had a violent temper that something so simple as a steak being sent back for further cooking could set off. Then he would fly into a rage, ranting and raving about his talents being thrown away on bores who had no appreciation of his skills. These outbursts always unnerved Katie, but she thought she understood the real source of his frustration, and knew that his anger was aimed mainly at himself. Occasionally, she managed to calm him, but mostly she’d learned it was best just to let the tantrum run its course.

Frank Cramer had been chef at some of the most famous restaurants in the world until his addiction to alcohol forced him down the ladder to where he was now—a short order cook in a coffee shop. He’d even taught gourmet cooking for a time, but Frank could rarely manage to stay sober for more than a couple of months before all the signs began to appear restlessness, irritability, a frequency of the tantrums. The drunken bender would sometimes last up to a week and occasionally longer.

Restaurant proprietors of more elite establishments weren’t as tolerant as Mrs. Cameron. Mrs. Cameron knew that liquor hadn’t in the least dulled Frank’s culinary talents, which together with the homey atmosphere and reasonable prices, were the reasons The Coffee Shop enjoyed the success that it did. And Mrs. Cameron was first and foremost a businesswoman.

Picking up her orders and placing them on a tray, Katie made her way through the narrow hallway that separated kitchen and restaurant. She spotted Joey out in the alley through the open back door. He was frowning hard, intently stuffing garbage into a can to make more room for the listing green bag at his feet.

“How are things with you, Joey?” she called out, smiling at him, feeling the familiar surge of compassion he always brought out in her.

He looked up, and his long, child-like face, framed in greasy, dark-blond hair, reddened with pleasure. “G—good, Katie,” he stammered. “I’m glad you back now.”

Joey Smith had come to work at The Coffee Shop when he was sixteen, straight from the orphanage where he’d been raised. No one knew his last name, so he’d been tagged with “Smith”. He would be twenty-two now, Katie thought. She’d always suspected that Joey’s retardation was social rather than mental.

His grin showed bad teeth. “You still m-my gurfriend, Katie?” came the inevitable question. His feet shifted in their big, clumsy boots. Katie just smiled, but she didn’t say yes as she usually did. Joey didn’t seem to notice, and went back to stuffing garbage. Katie watched him a moment longer, taking in the hair that curled just above the collar of a faded green work shirt covering a large, no longer boyish, frame. She found herself wondering what Joey’s whisper would sound like over a telephone line.

It was ten past four when Katie left work with her painting tucked under her arm. In the late afternoon sun, the air had warmed considerably, and her spirits rose as she strode along the sidewalk absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the city. The blaring traffic, people passing dressed in brightly colored scarves and hats, but with coats now thrown open. Store windows displayed fall and winter fashions. Plaid was big this year.

Two teenage boys lounged against the red brick building with the sign CHAN ’ S CHINESE hanging over the door. They hunched over a suspicious-looking cigarette, an intensity about them as they passed it back and forth.

In the square, the bench-sitters had been chased away by the cold snap. Only the pigeons remained, cooing and waddling about the legs of the benches, optimistically awaiting their benefactors. She would pick up a couple of rolls from the bakeshop on her way back.

By the time Katie arrived at her destination, she was feeling much better. Relaxed, and more rational. It was ridiculous to think Joey was the one doing these horrible things. Joey wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he didn’t have a devious bone in his body.

***

Four blocks away, at 16 Highland Place, Dr. Jonathan Shea, dressed casually in cords and a denim windbreaker, entered the gray stone building that housed Belleville Police Department. Inside the building, the walls were a greasy green throughout, some hanging with wanted posters yellowed with age. The tall ancient windows hadn’t been washed since Dragnet played on television. The smell was one of accumulated human desperation, degradation, and fifty years of stale coffee and cigarettes. The department had been pushing City Hall for years for a new location and getting nowhere. Conversation was lively…a break out of raucous laughter from the back corner…phones ringing.

He stepped to one side as an aging prostitute, black-wigged and handcuffed, was led toward him by an amused officer. Tottering on spiked heels, she winked as she passed him, wiggled her bottom in its silver mini skirt. Further on, a boy of maybe fifteen, sat on a bench, legs akimbo, white knees protruding from holes in his jeans, trying to look like this was no big deal. Jonathan smiled at him. The boy mouthed “f…off,” and looked away.

“I’d like to see Captain Peterson, please,” Jonathan said to the officer at the desk. “He’s expecting me.” The captain had, over the years, sent some of his men to talk to Jonathan. Men who had a problem. Some were just average guys trying to do an insane-making job, idealists in the beginning, intent on cleaning up the streets, soon becoming jaded by the realities of a cop’s life. Others couldn’t handle it at all, and either quit, or found sustenance in a bottle. And then there were those who were already cold and mean even before they joined the force. It was why they’d joined.

He’d always tried to be there when the captain needed him, no matter how busy he was. This time he was the one who needed a favor.

***

“Mommy, that man lied,” Billy cried, fairly bouncing on his Nikes, his eyes flashing his indignation. “We didn’t go anywhere near that truck. We didn’t do nothin’. Just walked up the path like I told you and said ‘trick or treat’. We didn’t touch nothin’.” His little sister, Rachael, fervently echoed his indignation. “We didn’t do nothin’, Mommy, honest. We didn’t do nothin’.”

“Didn’t do anything,” Betty Martin corrected absently. Rose Nickerson had told her the reason the man had been a little rough on them was because he came out of the house to find them playing around the truck, with Billy actually sitting up in the cab fiddling around with the gears. He was sorry if he’d been overly harsh with the children, but he’d been afraid they might harm themselves, and wanted to throw a scare into them.

Well, he’d certainly done that, all right.

Billy and Rachael were normal kids like any other kids, and certainly capable of getting into mischief from time to time. But even while Rose was explaining to her what happened, the story had a false ring. It didn’t sound like their sort of mischief. Betty thought she knew these two pretty well; they were sensible kids. She also knew when they were lying and when they were telling the truth. And right now they were telling the truth.

“I believe you,” she said, tousling Billy’s hair. “Now, change into your play clothes, both of you, and get started on your homework.” As an afterthought, she added, “And stay away from the Nickerson place from now on.”

“Don’t worry,” Billy yelled behind him on his way to his room. “I wouldn’t go back there if you paid me a billion trillion dollars.”

***

Katie was swept through the revolving doors, and a minute later carried up in the elevator to the third floor of City Hall. A young woman shared the elevator with her. She held a child in her arms, a little girl, maybe five or six months old, with alert blue eyes and silky brown hair wisping out from beneath a pink frilly bonnet. The mother took the tiny fingers gently in her teeth. The baby grinned and made a sweet gurgling sound.

“She’s lovely,” Katie said, and the woman thanked her, beaming with pride at the child. Katie felt a deep, sharp longing within herself.

She was at the desk registering her painting with the receptionist when she heard a voice speak her name. A familiar, particularly irritating voice, thick with a phony French accent. But it wasn’t the accent, a silly ploy she might have found merely amusing in someone else, that irked Katie. It was Raymond Losier himself. “Katie, dear,” he said, coming to stand beside her, eyeing her painting which now stood against the wall with some others, “surely you’re not entering that ‘Moon over the Moors’ thing, are you?”

The receptionist was staring at him in unabashed admiration. Katie understood why. Raymond was a strikingly handsome man, dark-haired, deeply tanned, and just now beautifully turned out in a soft brown leather coat with a fur collar, an unlit pipe caught between his flawless teeth. The perfect ad for some expensive men’s cologne.

Katie’s eyes moved to her painting. As he had intended, Raymond’s words gnawed at her confidence. She tried not to let it. “Yes, of course I’m entering my ‘Moon over the Moors’ thing, as you’ve so unkindly titled it, Raymond. Why else would I have brought it here?”

He stroked his chin, looked at her in mock puzzlement. “Surely not for criticism, darling—unless, of course, under that cool exterior lurks a closet masochist.”