Out of the Cold (14 page)

“Back where?” Morgan said.

Aisha shrugged. “I asked him what he meant. But he just shook his head and said he was being foolish. He said probably he had imagined it, probably he was seeing things.”

“Seeing what?” I said.

“I don't know. He got up and walked away after that. He didn't even say goodbye to Yasmin. I don't think he was feeling well.”

“When did this happen?” I said.

“Not long ago. Maybe a week. The next day he gave me this. He asked me to keep it safe for him. He was always afraid someone would steal it from him. He said it was all he had.” She opened her hand to reveal a ring and a small envelope. Then she opened the envelope and took out a small black-and-white photograph that had been trimmed into an oval shape. It was a picture of a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old.

“Did he say who this is?” I said.

Aisha shook her head. “But it looks very old. I thought at first it was a picture of him, but it doesn't look anything like him.”

It sure didn't. But then, this was the picture of a boy. Mr. Duffy had been over sixty years old when he died, according to the coroner's estimate. Morgan took the picture from me and peered at it.

“Some things never change,” she said.

I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“School pictures,” she said. “They're like driver's license photos and passport photos. You always come out looking like either a geek or a criminal. This guy's definitely a geek—check the outfit.” Even though the picture was small—just head and shoulders—we could make out a white shirt, a jacket, and a tie.

Aisha handed me the ring. It was a school ring. The words
St. Mark's Academy
were inscribed on it. There was no date.

“You can take these,” Aisha said. “Maybe they will help you.”

I slipped the ring and the envelope into my bag. Morgan and I put on our boots and coats while Aisha tidied up the tea things and retied the string on the cupcake box.

“Aisha?” I said. I held out the bag from the toy store—a gift for Yasmin. Aisha peeked into it but shook her head. I didn't argue with her. She handed me the remaining cupcakes.

“But the cupcakes are for you,” Morgan protested.

I took the box from Aisha. “Thanks for your help,” I said. “We really appreciate it.” I fumbled in my purse until I found a piece of paper and a pen. I wrote down my phone number and handed it to her. “If there's anything I can do—if you need someone to babysit Yasmin, anything at all—call me. I mean it.”

She nodded and folded the piece of paper, then tucked it into her pocket. “If you find out anything about Mr. Duffy, will you tell me?” she said.

I promised I would.

When we were outside again, Morgan said, “Now what?”

I looked down at the ring and the small envelope.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

M

organ and I parted company. She was going home. I was heading over to my father's place, but I decided to make a stop along the way.

The staff and volunteers at the shelter were gearing up for another out-of-the-cold night. They were busy setting up cots and laying out blankets and pillows in the main hall. The place was more crowded than usual. I had to thread my way through people and bedding to get to the far end of the hall, where I'd spotted Art Donovan talking to a client.

“Robyn,” he said when he had finished his conversation. “I've already told Ben, and now I'm going to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That what you and Ben have been doing has resulted in some generous donations to our shelter.”

“Really?” I had already given him the wad of twenties that the man outside the office building had given me.

“I received a thousand-dollar donation from a judge,” he said. “And a man—a Mr. Franklin—wrote us an even bigger check. He mentioned you by name and said he thought what you were doing was admirable.” I recognized the name. It was the man who had given me his business card. He'd told Ben and me to let him know if we ever solved our “little mystery.” After hearing about his donation, I promised myself that I would do just that.

“That's great,” I said. “Mr. Donovan, I was wondering—”

“Excuse me,” someone said. A volunteer who was preparing to set up a couple more cots.

“We'd better step into my office,” Art said.

We had to squeeze through more people to get there. Cots filled the main hall, and some had already been claimed. I was surprised by how many faces I recognized: Andrew, some of the men I'd seen outside smoking, the man who wore all of his clothes rather than risk being robbed, the man with the black stocking cap from the funeral, even Aggie, who scowled at me and muttered something angrily under her breath. She still hadn't forgiven me for contradicting her.

We went into Art's office, but he left the door ajar to keep an eye on the proceedings.

“What can I do for you, Robyn?”

I handed him the little oval photograph that Aisha had given me and watched as he studied it.

“Am I supposed to recognize this boy?” he said.

“Do you?” I said.

He examined the photo again. “You don't by any chance want me to say this looks like a young Mr. Duffy, do you?”

I felt a small surge of excitement. “Do you think it does?”

He shook his head slowly. “I'm sorry, but not to me it doesn't.”

“And you've never seen this picture before?” I said.

“No.”

“What about this ring?” I showed it to him. He shook his head again.

“I'm sorry, Robyn. I've never seen either of them before.”

I had been hoping for a different answer, but I hadn't really been expecting one.

Betty gave me the same response. I looked around the main hall for Andrew.

“Do you recognize either of these?” I said, and showed him the photograph and the ring.

He inspected both items and shook his head. When he saw my expression, he gave me a sympathetic look. “Wrong answer, huh?”

“Well, it wasn't the one I was hoping for. Someone gave me these. They belonged to Mr. Duffy. I thought maybe they meant something.” I glanced around. The place was really filling up. I wondered what the chances were that Mr. Duffy had shown the photo and the ring to anyone else.

“Do you want me to ask around for you?” Andrew said in his soft, mumbly voice. “People might tell me things that they wouldn't say to you.”

“Would you?”

He started to smile, but quickly hid his mouth with his hand again.

He took the ring and the photo and began a circuit of the room. He spoke to everyone—the smokers, Aggie, the man with the black tuque, even the volunteers who were handing out blankets and pillows. Mostly I saw heads shaking in response to what he was saying. A few times, the person he was talking to turned and looked at me. Then, suddenly, a man grabbed the ring out of Andrew's hand and bolted for the door. Andrew ran after him and caught up just outside the front door. The man looked over Andrew's shoulder at me. It was the man with the mismatched eyes. He glowered at me just as he'd done the time I'd tried to ask him about Duffy. I heard Andrew mention the police. The man swore, but he thrust the ring at Andrew and stalked away. Andrew turned to come back inside.

“I don't like that guy,” he said. “He's crazy. Always trying to take people's stuff.”

We went back inside, and Andrew continued where he had left off. When he had finally spoken to every person in the room, he said, “Nobody knows anything.” He sounded more disappointed than I was.

“Thanks for asking,” I said. I slipped the ring and the photo into my coat pocket and said good night.

As usual, there was a small group of men on the sidewalk in front of the shelter. Most of them were smoking what looked like hand-rolled cigarettes. And, as usual, they ignored me—all except for the man with the mismatched eyes. He stared as I came down the steps. He looked fierce, but I told myself that it was just his strange eyes. I wrapped my hand around the ring and walked past him. As I started up the street for the bus stop, one of the shelter's vans turned into the church parking lot and unloaded more clients. Eileen got out with them. I doubled back and showed her the picture. She just shook her head. With a sigh, I headed back to the sidewalk. On my way I passed the man in the black stocking cap who had been at the funeral. I realized then that I had been wrong about him—he must have been a volunteer, not a client, because he got into a car and drove up the street past me.

The bus shelter was empty when I got there. It was dark and cold out, and I was tired and hungry. I glanced at my watch and then at the schedule posted on the glass. I'd just missed a bus and would have to wait ten minutes for the next one. I hugged myself and stamped my feet to stay warm.

Someone stepped into the bus shelter with me—the man with the mismatched eyes. He stared at me with his one good eye. Was he still after the ring? Did he think he could get it away from me now that I was all alone?

I closed my hand protectively around the ring and the photo in my pocket and glanced up and down the street, hoping to see someone, anyone, approaching the bus stop.

There was no one in sight, and the man kept staring.

At first I turned away and ignored him. Then he moved closer. I felt myself tense up. He moved even closer, blocking my exit. I saw the clouds of his breath in my peripheral vision. I decided to get out of there.

“Excuse me,” I said. The man didn't move. I darted around behind him, squeezed out of the bus shelter, and walked quickly away. I told myself to stay calm. Andrew had said that the guy was crazy, but he hadn't said that he was dangerous. Maybe he was really just waiting for the bus. Then I looked back.

He was following me.

I walked a little faster.

I could hear his footsteps quicken too.

I glanced over my shoulder again. He was right behind me, and there was no one else around.

I spotted a car coming in my direction. A lit dome on the roof—a taxi.

I raised a hand to flag it down, and jumped in as soon as it pulled over. “Where to?” the taxi driver said.

I gave him my father's address.

  .    .    .

When the taxi pulled up in front of my father's building, I told the driver that I would be right back, that I needed to get some money. But when I got out, the driver jumped out too and grabbed me by the arm. Maybe he hadn't understood me. Or maybe he was afraid I was trying to get away without paying him.

“I'll be right back,” I told him again. But he wouldn't let me go.

Fortunately, Lauren, the hostess at La Folie, spotted me out on the sidewalk and went to get my dad, who was occupying his usual table for dinner. He ran out into the frigid night and paid my fare. Then he shepherded me back into the restaurant, where he had been enjoying an afterdinner cognac with his business partner, Vern Deloitte.

“We were just talking about you, Robyn,” Vern said when I approached the table.

“You were?”

“Mac told me all about that homeless man who froze to death,” Vern said. “Sounds like you've been doing some good. This is the season for it.”

I nodded distractedly. I felt shaky all over and I couldn't stop myself from turning to look outside. I kept expecting to see the man with mismatched eyes.

“Robbie, are you okay?” my father said.

“Huh?”

He was staring intently at me. “You keep looking out the window. And you're shaking like a leaf.”

“There was this man,” I said. “He was following me. That's why I took a taxi over here.”

My father's expression turned grim. “What man?” he said. “What do you mean, he was following you?” He got up and helped me pull my coat off. That's when I realized that my hand was still clenched around the ring and the small photo. I put them on the table and pulled off my gloves.

“I think he wanted this ring. He tried to steal it when Andrew was showing it around the homeless shelter.”

My father looked at the ring and photo and frowned. “I think you'd better back up, Robbie. Whose ring is this, who is Andrew, and why was he showing it around?”

“Andrew is a regular at the shelter. He was showing it around to see if anyone had seen it before. Mr. Duffy gave it to someone for safekeeping. I was trying to find out if it was a picture of him.”

“The man who froze to death,” my father said to Vern.

Vern turned the photo his way. He glanced across the table at my father, their expressions both serious. Two ex-cops, their antennae up.

“Tell me about the man who followed you,” my father said.

“After Andrew caught him and made him give back the ring, he followed me to the bus stop,” I said. “He kept staring at me. He was making me nervous, so I started to walk away. He followed me again. That's when I flagged down a taxi.”