Out of the Cold (20 page)

“Mrs. Braithwaite,” I said hesitantly. “You said your husband worked on programming, debugging. Was he in the computer business?”

She nodded. “He'd been fascinated by computers ever since he first heard of them. This was the early days of the business. Max was a real innovator.”

“Did you by any chance live out west when you were married to him?”

“Yes,” she said. She gave me a curious look. “How did you know?”

I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence. But I couldn't help thinking about what people had told me—the daffodils he'd mentioned, the computer magazines he used to read, the photo, the ring, what Tara had said about hard times changing a person's face.

“I'm pretty sure that the man who froze to death lived out west for a while. And he knew a lot about computers.”

“What are you saying?” said Edward.

“I also know that he was in some kind of accident a long time ago—he'd had a serious head injury. It might've affected his memory.”

Mrs. Braithwaite stared at me. “I don't understand,” she said.

“You said they never found your husband's body,” I said slowly. “So it's possible ...” My voice trailed off. Was it
really
possible?

Mrs. Braithwaite's face turned pale. She stared at the locket in her hand. “It can't be,” she said firmly. Then she looked up at me. “Can it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But there might be a way we can find out.”

I told Mrs. Braithwaite, Jenny, and Edward about Tara.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

“D

o you have any photographs of Mr. Templeton before he disappeared, Mrs. Braithwaite?” Tara asked.

Braithwaite didn't answer. She still looked pale and rattled.

“I have one,” Jenny said. She disappeared from the room and returned a moment later with a framed photograph. It showed a small girl smiling on the lap of a handsome man who looked like an older version of the boy in the yearbook photo. But he didn't look anything like Duffy. Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe I was upsetting this woman for nothing.

Tara examined it. “Do you have any other pictures?” she asked Mrs. Braithwaite.

Braithwaite managed to nod. “But they're still in storage back home. I moved here a few months ago, but not everything has followed me yet.”

I pulled the photocopy of the yearbook picture from my pocket. Tara studied it, frowning a little. “The quality isn't very good,” she said. “I don't know if I can use it.” Tara looked at Braithwaite. “How about photos of any of his relatives? His father or mother. Did he have any siblings?”

“What do you need those for?” Jenny said.

“Well, say the police came to me and wanted me to age the photo of a fugitive who committed a crime, oh, thirty years ago. In the photo they give me, the person is twenty-five. If I know who the person is, I'd try to get photos of some of his relatives—brother, sister, father, mother—at age twenty-five, and then at age fifty-five, which is how old the person would be now. That gives me some idea of how the faces of people in his family change as they age and how his face might have changed.”

Mrs. Braithwaite shook her head. “I don't have anything like that here.”

“What about that photo Dad gave you?” Edward said to Jenny. “That might help.”

Jenny hurried from the room again and returned with a second photo: two young men flanked by an older couple. I recognized one of the young men as Max Templeton.

“This is my father and Edward's father just after they graduated university,” Jenny told Tara. “That's my grandparents with them.”

Mrs. Braithwaite looked surprised to see the photograph. “Where did you get that?” she said.

“Edward's father brought it with him. He said he'd found it while he was cleaning out his office. He thought I'd like to have it.”

“It'll be a big help,” Tara said. She nodded at a tidy, antique desk. “May I set up here?”

Mrs. Braithwaite nodded. Tara unzipped her computer case, pulled out her laptop and a scanner, and set them up on the desk. She scanned the photographs that Jenny had given her.

“Can we watch you work?” I said.

Tara nodded.

We looked on in silence. I was amazed, but not surprised, when the bright-eyed young man in the original photo gradually transformed into an older, more wrinkled, and jowlier man. I glanced at Mrs. Braithwaite, who frowned at the image that was taking shape.

“Did Mr. Duffy wear glasses?” Tara asked. “Was he bald? Did he have facial hair—a beard, maybe, or a moustache?”

“I don't think he wore glasses,” I said. “If he did, I never saw them. He wasn't bald. His hair was long and gray and kind of wavy. It hung down over his collar. He didn't have a beard exactly, but the times I saw him, he looked like he needed a shave.”

“What about that accident he had?” Tara said. “Did it leave any permanent damage—scars, anything like that?”

“His head was caved in on one side,” I said. “And he had a scar over his left eye.” I used a finger to show on my own face what I meant. “The eye was deformed. It looked like it been twisted.”

I heard an intake of breath beside me. Mrs. Braithwaite's lips trembled as she watched Tara adjust the images on the screen.

“Like that?” Tara said.

“The scar should be bigger,” I said. “And the eye should be more scrunched up.”

Tara made more adjustments until—

“That's him,” I said. “That's Mr. Duffy. That's what he looked like.”

“Really?” Tara sounded pleasantly surprised.

“My God,” Braithwaite said. She swayed on her feet. Jenny and Edward each took one arm and lowered her into a chair. “I've seen that man before,” she said. “I've dropped money in his hat. But I never spoke to him, and he never said a word. Most of the time he had his head down. Except for once. One time he looked up at me. I saw all those scars, that ravaged face. I felt so bad that I opened my purse and I gave him a twentydollar bill. I don't think I saw him again after that.”

“When was that?”

“I don't know,” she said. “A few weeks ago, I think.”

Edward came over to look at the computer screen. “He looks familiar,” he said.

“He always begged in front of the same office building downtown,” I said. I told him which one.

“That's it,” Edward said. “I saw him a couple times, just down the street from the company's new offices. A couple of weeks ago I was going to meet Dad at a restaurant near his building. While I was crossing the street, I saw Dad drop some money into the guy's hat. The man said something to Dad.” He thought a moment. “Something about a fanny. I remember thinking he must be a bit crazy.”

I thought about the name engraved in the locket.

“Are you sure he didn't say Franny?” I said.

“Franny?” He started to shake his head. Then he looked at Mrs. Braithwaite and his eyes widened. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “It could have been Franny. I didn't hear clearly.”

“Max used to call me Franny,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “He's the only person I've ever let call me that.”

“I saw him a second time a few days later. I gave him money,” Edward said. He glanced at Jenny, who was still staring at the computer screen. “I'd better call Dad,” Edward said. “He'll want to hear about this.”

He tried a number, then shook his head. “His phone's off. Maybe I can catch him at the hotel.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a business card, and dialed the number on it. While he waited for an answer, the doorbell rang. Jenny went to get it.

“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Edward was just calling you.”

When she returned a moment later, a man was with her. I was as surprised to see him as he was to see me.

“Mr. Franklin,” I said.

“Robyn, isn't it?” he said.

“You two know each other?” Edward said.

“I met Robyn outside the other day,” Mr. Franklin said. “She was playing detective.” He smiled at me. “I made a donation to your shelter.”

“I heard,” I said. “They were really happy about that.”

“As for the rest of the matter,” he said, “I've asked around the office, but I'm afraid I wasn't able to discover anything. A few people remembered the man, but nobody had spoken to him.” He glanced at Tara and Edward quickly introduced her.

“Dad,
we've
just discovered something,” Edward said. “At least, I think we have.”

“That homeless man who froze to death,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, her voice trembling. “James...we think it might have been Max.”

“
Max?
” Franklin gasped. “What do you mean?”

Jenny filled him in.

“That's preposterous,” Franklin said when she had finished.

He looked at Mrs. Braithwaite. His tone was softer when he spoke to her. “Frances, it can't be Max. Max is dead. This picture—” He nodded at the computer screen. “It's not even science.”

“It's not
conclusive
,” Tara said. “But it is pretty accurate. There are more reliable steps you can take to confirm his identity. DNA, for example.”

“But his body was never found,” Braithwaite said to Franklin. “What if he didn't commit suicide? What if he didn't
die
? Robyn said he had a serious head injury. What if he didn't come home because he
couldn't
? My God, what if his funeral was only last week?” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Jenny hugged her mother tightly. “You couldn't have known.”

“You can't seriously think Max has been alive all this time,” Franklin said.

“Look, Dad,” Edward said, turning Tara's computer around so that his father could take a good look at the screen. “We saw this man, remember? He said something to you about Franny.”

“We
saw
this man?”

“You gave him money.”

“Did I?” Mr. Franklin shook his head. “That cannot possibly be Max.”

“There's a very good chance it is,” Tara said.

“He froze to death, James,” Braithwaite said. “Max froze to death. On the street. Only a few miles from where we are right now.”

“Frances, we don't know anything for certain. I'm sure there are ways to find out, like this young woman said. There must be steps we can take. But really, it seems highly unlikely that that man was Max.”

“But what if he was?”

“If he was, we'll deal with it. But Jenny is right—you couldn't have known. Apparently
I
dropped money into his hat and I didn't recognize him, either. Certainly no one can fault
you
, Frances. You're one of the most generous people I know. If it will make you feel better, we can keep supporting that shelter of Robyn's. You can help to make sure that no one else has to freeze to death in this city.” He looked at me. “How
can
such a thing happen? How can a man freeze to death in the middle of a big city like this? It just doesn't seem right.”

“According to the pathologist, Mr. Duffy had had a lot to drink that evening. He passed out with only one thin blanket over him. That's why he froze.”

“Drinking?” Mr. Franklin shook his head again. “Well, that sounds like Max. He never could resist his Napoleon ...”

That wasn't entirely true, I thought. According to Aggie and Dr. Antoski, Duffy hadn't had a drink in months.
Why did he pick the coldest night of the year to backslide?
I wondered. I hoped it wasn't because he had been barred from the homeless shelter.

Mrs. Braithwaite wiped her tears and turned to Tara. “Who can we contact?” she said. “Who can help us prove this one way or the other?”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

“I

wasn't kidding,” my father said. “You're a natural.” He looked up from the newspaper and beamed proudly at me. “And, if you ask me, they should have put your picture in the paper along with those pictures of Max Templeton.”