Out of the Cold (21 page)

The story hadn't made the front page, but it was Christmas Eve and a slow news day, so our local paper had run a longish article that described the photographic ageing that Tara had done, then detailed some of Maxwell Templeton's known history. It showed four photos of him—the two Jenny had provided, the one Tara had created, and the group photo from Art Donovan's shelter, enlarged to show a grainy image of Mr. Duffy's face after years of living on the street. The article mentioned that James Franklin was Max Templeton's former business partner and now a major shareholder, along with Frances Braithwaite, of the company he and Max Templeton had founded.

“Mrs. Braithwaite phoned me,” I said. “She had some of Max's things taken from storage. Apparently somewhere in there was a box he'd got from his mother—his first pair of shoes, a silver baby cup,
and
the first tooth he ever lost. She found a private lab that will do a DNA analysis for her—although she seems pretty sure now that Mr. Duffy and Max were the same person.”

My father kept right on beaming. “And she owes it all to my little girl,” he said.

“It's such a sad story,” I said. “Poor Mr. Duffy. He had lost so much. And to think that he and Mrs. Braithwaite actually saw each other, and she didn't even recognize him.” I shook my head.

“Head injuries can be pretty dicey,” my father said. “People's personalities can change dramatically. Their memory can be seriously impaired.”

“You know what bothers her the most? The fact that she'll probably never know what happened to him—how he got hurt, why he never contacted her.”

My father shook his head. “Some mysteries are a lot harder to solve than others.”

“Mr. Franklin feels terrible that he didn't recognize Mr. Duffy either, she says. He thought Duffy was just ranting—he never made the link between the name Franny and Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“Well,
you
did a good job, Robbie.”

“I guess,” I said. “But I feel like I only found out half of Mr. Duffy's story.”

“You know what they say—half a loaf is better than none.”

I glanced at my watch. “I gotta go, Dad, or I'm going to be late. Ben's waiting for me.”

My father gave me a mischievous grin. “Ben again, huh?”

I shrugged, but I couldn't keep myself from smiling just a little. When I had told Ben what had happened, he had grabbed me and hugged me tightly. When he'd finally let me go, he'd looked into my eyes and said, “I was really wrong about you.” And then, just like that, he'd kissed me. And I'd kissed him back. Without even thinking about it. Later, when I was in bed, I thought about Nick—about how it had felt when I was with him and how sure I had been that he loved me. But he was gone. He'd been gone for weeks. Maybe that's why, when I closed my eyes that night, I was thinking of Ben, not Nick.

“We're going to the shelter,” I told my father. “Some kids are coming in to decorate a Christmas tree.” And tomorrow, before Mom and Ted and I had Christmas dinner, Ben, Billy, Morgan, and I were going to serve food at the shelter.

“Will you be back for supper?”

I nodded.

“Do me a favor? Pick up some olive oil, will you? I'm all out.”

“Sure,” I said, then headed out.

  .    .    .

A lot of heads turned when Ben and I arrived at the homeless shelter. Art Donovan spotted us from across the hall and strode toward us, smiling. He shook my hand and congratulated me on what I had done. So did Betty. Andrew was holding a copy of the newspaper and seemed to be studying it. He came up to me and quietly said, “That was good, what you did.”

Betty asked me how I had managed to get so much information on a man as quiet as Mr. Duffy. I explained how Morgan and I had trudged all around the neighborhood, how I'd stood where Mr. Duffy would sit to gather information, how Ben and I had tracked down Frances Braithwaite...

“It's so weird about Mrs. Braithwaite, though,” Ben said, not for the first time. “She actually gave him money but didn't recognize him.”

“Same with James Franklin,” I said.

“And that guy,” Andrew said, nodding at the newspaper.

“What guy?” I said.

Andrew tapped James Franklin's face. “
That
guy.”

“That's James Franklin,” I said. “See?” I pointed to his name, which was printed in the caption under the photo. Andrew looked embarrassed. “He and Max were in business together. Max even spoke to James Franklin. But Franklin didn't recognize him.”

“Max?” Andrew said. “Who's Max?”

“Max Templeton. That was Mr. Duffy's real name,” I said. The headline above the photos read
Deceased man revealed as computer whiz Max Templeton
. I was beginning to realize at least one reason why Andrew was on the street.

“He gave him something else, too,” Andrew said. “And Mr. Duffy shoved him away. Remember?”

“Who gave who something? What are you talking about, Andrew?” Ben said.

“Remember, Robyn?” Andrew said. “I told you I saw a man trying to give Mr. Duffy something, and Mr. Duffy yelled at him?” Andrew had mentioned it the day Morgan and I had come down to the shelter to start asking about Duffy. “That guy,” Andrew said. He pointed again at James Franklin's face.

That didn't sound right. Edward had seen his father give money to Mr. Duffy, and he'd said that Mr. Duffy had mentioned the name Franny. But he hadn't said anything about Mr. Duffy yelling at him. Nor had Mr. Franklin.

“Are you sure that's the same man, Andrew?” I said.

He nodded.

“Did you see another man with him? A younger man?”

Andrew shook his head.

“I don't get it,” Ben said. “Are you saying that Mr. Franklin gave Mr. Duffy money, and Duffy yelled at him?”

I thought back to what Andrew had told Morgan and me.

“Mr. Duffy collected money in a hat, right?” I said.

Andrew nodded.

“But you the man you saw was trying to give Mr. Duffy something.”

“He was trying to put something in his hand,” Andrew said.

“You're sure?”

Another nod.

“That happened a couple of days before Mr. Duffy died, right, Andrew?” I asked.

“It was the day before you came to here for the first time,” Andrew said.

“What's going on, Robyn?” Ben asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don't know. Probably not,” I said. But something was bothering me. Edward had said that he had encountered Duffy twice. But James Franklin remembered seeing Duffy only once, and he'd remembered only
after
Edward had reminded him. He hadn't volunteered that he'd seen him again. Maybe it had slipped his mind. But after that first time he would surely have remembered a face like Mr. Duffy's—especially if he'd been trying to give him something and Duffy had been resisting.

“You didn't see what he was giving him, did you, Andrew? Was it money?”

Andrew thought hard. “I don't know. That's what most people give—if they give us anything. Sometimes someone will give us food or a cup of coffee, but that guy wasn't doing that.”

“Why would Mr. Duffy refuse money?” Ben said.

The question was still on my mind when Ben drove me back to my father's place later that day. He came upstairs and I introduced him to my dad, who promptly invited him to stay for supper—“Unless you're expected home,” he added, “this being Christmas Eve.”

Ben glanced at me.

“I can stay,” he said. “Thank you.”

We went into the kitchen, where my father had already started grilling chicken for his famous Cajun chicken wraps. Ben offered to help. My father handed us each a knife and gestured toward the heap of vegetables on the counter. While we washed and sliced green onions, peppers, and tomatoes, Ben and my father chatted about sports and school. They seemed to be getting along great—just like Nick and my father had. A wave of sadness and anger washed over me. But Ben was here, and Nick wasn't. And that wasn't my fault.

“Now for the salad dressing,” my father said. He looked expectantly at me.

“What?” I said.

“I asked you to bring home some olive oil. Tell me you remembered, Robbie.”

“Oh, no!” I gave him a distressed look. My father looked exasperated—for a split second.

“Nice try,” he said. “Where is it?”

“In my bag.” I went to fetch it. The two paperback novels that Duffy had bought from the library were sitting on a small table beside the door, where I had left them. I didn't even know why I'd hung onto them. I looked at the small rectangle of stiff paper that was sticking out of one of them—the business card that Duffy had been using as a bookmark. The business card of one of the best hotels in town. I pulled it from between the pages and stared at it.

“Robbie, do you think I could have that olive oil sometime before the start of the New Year?” my father called from the kitchen.

I walked slowly back to the kitchen with the card in my hand.

“Robbie?” my father said. “Are you okay?”

“This is the hotel where James Franklin is staying,” I said. “His son phoned him while I was at Mrs. Braithwaite's. He had the same business card.”

My father gave me a peculiar look.

“We found this card in one of Mr. Duffy's books,” I said. “Remember, Ben?”

Ben nodded.

“Mr. Franklin is staying at this hotel. Edward says he saw his father give money to Duffy and heard Duffy say the name Franny a couple of
weeks
ago. Andrew—the guy I told you about from the shelter—he saw Mr. Franklin give something to Duffy a couple of days
before
he died. See? Andrew saw the two together. He saw Mr. Franklin trying to give Mr. Duffy something
after
Mr. Franklin had already seen Mr. Duffy once and
after
Mr. Duffy had mentioned the name Franny. Just
before
Mr. Duffy died. I don't think it was money, or he'd have dropped it into Duffy's hat. Andrew says he didn't do that.”

“What are you saying, Robbie?”

“I'm not sure.” But I was thinking fast. “What was Mr. Duffy doing with a card to the hotel where James Franklin was staying? How'd he get it unless Franklin
gave
it to him? And why would Mr. Franklin give the hotel's card to a homeless man he claimed he didn't know?”

Ben looked baffled.

“What exactly do you know about James Franklin?” my dad said.

“Not much,” I admitted. “He seemed nice the first time we met him.”

“The first time?” my father said. “You mean, at Mrs. Braithwaite's house?”

“No. I met him before that. Ben and I both did, two days before the funeral, when we were trying to find people who might have spoken with Mr. Duffy.” I described how Mr. Franklin had approached me in front of the office building and how I'd told him all about the homeless shelter. “He made a donation,” I said. “A big one.”

“So he knew who you were, that you volunteered at the shelter,” my father said. “And that you were trying to find out who Mr. Duffy was.” He thought about that for a few moments. “After you first met James Franklin, did you notice anything unusual?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe someone taking a special interest in you?”

I shook my head.

“What about the night you were mugged?”

That's when it hit me.

“There was this guy who showed up at the funeral,” I said. “The day after Ben and I met Mr. Franklin for the first time. This man sat near me at the ceremony. I'd never seen him before.” I described everything that I remembered about the man in the black hat. “He was also at the shelter the night I got mugged, when Andrew was showing the ring and the picture around. At first I thought he was a client. But then I saw him get into a car as I was leaving. What if ...” I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Then I shook my head. “He left before me. So he couldn't have followed me.”

“That's not necessarily true,” my father said. “James Franklin found out who you were and what you were doing two days before the funeral. Suppose he hired someone to check you out.”

I was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“If he did, that person would know that you traveled by bus. The best way I know to make someone think they're not being followed is to get out in front of them. He left before you, but I bet he was watching you at the bus stop. And I bet when you got into that taxi, he followed.”

“You think he's the one who mugged Robyn?” Ben said, incredulous.

“Whoever took your purse kept the money and the ring, which makes sense. They're worth something,” my father said. “They tossed everything else. We found your wallet, a few other items. But we never found that picture. You want to tell me why a mugger would keep a useless old photograph?”

I looked at my father. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was.

“Someone wanted to stop me from finding out who Mr. Duffy really was,” I said.

“Could be,” my father said.

“Do you remember that bottle I saw, Dad?”

My father nodded.

“What bottle?” Ben said.

I told him about the empty cognac bottle that had rolled out of the alley right beside where Billy and I had found Mr. Duffy.

“It was the Napoleon brand,” I said.

“Fine stuff,” my father added.

“You remember what you said, Dad? You said you'd be surprised if a homeless person could afford to buy that brand.”

“It's top-of-the-line stuff. Why? What are you thinking?”

“I told Mr. Franklin that Max froze to death after passing out from too much alcohol, and do you know what he said? ‘Max never could resist his Napoleon.'”

“Well, he
did
know the man,” my dad said. “They started a business together. They worked together.” But I could tell he was thinking it all through.