Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (21 page)

“What the hell are you lurking there for?” demanded the sun-crinkled old man in the backseat.

“Just counting pledges.” Nick was all earnest innocence. “We’re having a local fund-raising drive, and I’m only a thousand dollars or so from my goal today. Would you like to—”

The old man’s hard eyes skimmed over Nick. “Anh, he’s all right, Bill. Just some do-gooder. What’re you collecting for, son?”

Nick cast about for an innocuous cause. “The YWCA,” he said proudly. “We’re trying to raise money for—”

But the old man exploded. “The YWCA! Bunch of anti-Americans!”

“Oh. I’m sorry, sir.” Nick backpedaled. “It’s actually for swimming lessons, here locally, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re going to claim you’re not responsible. Second Amendment in shreds, Russians on the borders, the goddamn YWCA inviting them in for tea! You’re not responsible for that either, I suppose?”

“I certainly hope not, sir!”

“Well, you just get the hell off my daughter’s street. And tell your namby-pamby YWCA to keep out of matters they don’t understand. And tell them my money’s going to the Sportsmen’s Alliance. Every penny.” A spasm of pain crossed the wrinkled face and he closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. “Get moving, Bill. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

The limousine pulled away. Nick, shaken by the diatribe, managed to stay in character. He made a show of looking hesitantly at his notebook, then at the Bradford house, then at the retreating limousine. Out of the corner of his mouth he muttered to Maggie, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to choose such a subversive charity. What the hell is the YWCA doing to the Second Amendment?”

“I think I read somewhere that they support handgun registration.”

“Ah, of course. The primrose path to a Russian takeover.”

“Well,” said Maggie pragmatically, “at least you convinced him you weren’t interested in his family especially.”

“Only in selling out my country. He’ll probably turn me in to the CIA.”

“Right. What now?”

“Let’s not bother the blonde if we can help it,” said Nick. That tense face haunted him.

“Yeah,” agreed Maggie soberly. “If Muffin’s sick, I have a feeling she’s very sick. But I still want to scout a little here. We can always catch Buzz in Manhattan, now that we know where he works.”

“Okay. Game time. I play private eye, interview the expectant friend. You and Sarah play Peeping Tom, see if you can spot Muffin through a window. Okay?”

“Fine. There’s lots of foundation shrubbery. Plenty of cover.”

“Looks like plenty of money,” said Nick, helping Maggie tuck the flaps of the carrier around Sarah’s head for protection against branches.

Maggie mused, “Think we’d look like plenty of money if we bought shrubs to plant in front of our brownstone?”

“No need. We can just transplant the mold in the fridge.”

“Luxurious.” She grinned, then pointed at the house where the pregnant woman had disappeared. “Give me two minutes to slip over to the side away from Buzz’s. His front lawn is more open, so I’d rather work along the hedge there and around from the back. I’ll meet you back here when we’re both done.”

“Sarah, you’re going to love this,” said Nick.

He watched them disappear into the hedge, Maggie agile and solicitous of the bundled baby, and remembered Maggie when he had first met her, winging among the catwalks high above a college stage. She had always loved action, games, justice, jokes. Had always felt responsible for friends, for children. Had never flinched from adventure. Sarah may have diminished the opportunity, but she hadn’t damped that life-embracing curiosity.

And hell, admit it, Nick, you old meddler. You enjoy a spot of adventure too. Why else would you stick with such an idiotically risky profession? Anyway, this was better than brooding over lost jobs.

He checked his wallet and selected a library card with official-looking print, assumed his best Philip Marlowe air, and strode to the door of the colonial. Indian-red door against gray clapboard and white trim. He rang the bell.

XII

Friday, 1:30 PM

March 9, 1973

At close range the young brunette who answered was heavy but attractive. She had strong features with a lazily humorous cast, and thick, gleaming hair.

“My name’s O’Connor. Private investigator,” he said, flashing the library card at her.

Her eyes darted to the Bradford place as she said, “Jesus, who the hell sent you?”

“Busby Investments,” improvised Nick.

“God, that old fart! So that’s why he was talking to you out there!”

Not the answer he had expected, but an interesting one. He said, “I just have a couple of questions. About the Bradfords.”

“Well, get the hell inside before the whole neighborhood sees you.” With a disgusted gesture she waved him inside. “Have you talked to Steve and Elaine?”

Elaine. That must be the tense blonde. Steve’s wife. The old man’s daughter, whose street Nick was to get the hell off of. Nick said, “I had a couple of minutes with Steve. That’s all.”

“Will you have to talk to Elaine?”

She was a bit bristly. Protective of her neighbor. Well, the Montessori woman had been too. And Nick’s own glimpse of that lovely taut face made their attitude understandable. Muffin had more than a cold, he knew already. He said, “Elaine’s very upset, I understand. So I won’t bother her if I can get the information elsewhere. One reason I’m talking to you.”

She relaxed, resting her hand against her swollen belly. “What a mess. But if old man Busby sent you, who am I to complain? You know that Steve and Elaine think he shouldn’t even have called the police. And now you! Steve must have hit the ceiling.”

“Yes, he did.” Was this a police matter, then?

“But you take orders from the old man no matter what Steve says?”

“Who’s paying me? But I’ll try to be discreet.”

She gave him a wry look. “Well, off to a great start, aren’t you? At least the police had the sense not to come banging on the front door!”

He put on an abashed face. “Gee, you want me to try again, I’ll come down the chimney.”

This evoked a quick laugh. “Oh, hell, come on back and have some coffee.” She led the way through an early American living room, some authentic old pine pieces there, to a modern kitchen with a clutter of expensive breakfast dishes still stacked by the sink. The place smelled clean, spray wax and fresh coffee. Once, before Sarah, Nick’s house had sometimes smelled like that. She asked, “Cream and sugar?”

“Black’s fine.”

She poured two mugs, arranged her spreading body in a caned Breuer chair at the round oak table, and motioned Nick to take another. “Okay. What does old Busby want to know?”

Nick pulled out his notebook, filled with casting directors’ names. “It’s usually best if you tell me in your own words. So I don’t put ideas into your head.” As though he had any ideas to put there.

“You look for discrepancies, huh? And then whirl and point your finger at me and announce, ‘Hah, Rachel did it!’”

Nick grinned at this pleasant, mocking mother-to-be. “Wow. Sounds like fun. Maybe I should change my technique.”

“It’s not like that, huh?”

“It’s usually sitting in a car for hours going numb while some guy goes to work and to business meetings instead of having the affair his wife thinks he’s having. Or it’s sitting at a typewriter for hours attempting to compose a report that won’t put the client to sleep too. Hell, you’re the high point of my week!”

She laughed again. “Poor little man! No one ever said that to me, not even when I still had my figure!”

“Shucks, no one ever said it to me either. And my figure’s as good as it ever was.”

She looked over his broad build with unconcealed amusement. “Yeah, we’re a couple of battleships, aren’t we? Okay, you want my own words on this, you say.”

“Right.” Nick found a clean page in his notebook.

“You mean just the part I was involved with? Because Steve or old Busby must have told you about the kidnap note.”

Something icy clamped in Nick’s chest. Worse than a cold, indeed. But he stayed in character. Coolly professional, Nick the private eye replied, “Yes. But tell me about it in its proper place. And why Steve and Elaine are worried about police and detectives, because so far I only have Busby’s side.”

“Steve was short with you? I thought so.”

“Very short.”

“Okay.” The coffee mugs were expensive and Danish. She held hers in both hands as she sipped. “Let’s see. Begin at the beginning. Elaine had to go to Palm Beach because your employer was having a prostate operation. Hah, bet he didn’t tell you that detail!”

“No, he didn’t,” said Nick truthfully.

“Yeah, wouldn’t fit his image,” she said with satisfaction. “The old fool came up here personally with the money, dragging that male nurse. Pardon me for insulting your source of income, but he really is antediluvian. Big money, big game. Elaine says he’s got lions, rhinos, et cetera. A whole herd of heads looking down at you in his billiard room. How could he shoot those beautiful creatures just for his billiard room?” She regarded him belligerently.

“Gives him a sense of achievement?”

“Achievement! No doubt it makes him feel all male and primeval. Except he needs about a million dollars’ worth of technology for killing to bring him up to the ability of one of the animals he shoots. How primeval is a rifle or a jeep? Listen, I’m boring you, but I don’t like hunting.”

Nick tapped his notebook. “Yeah, I’ve already put you down as pro flowers and puppies.”

She grinned her lazy grin. “Pro motherhood and apple pie too, as you can see. Okay, so Elaine took Muffin to school and then flew off to help restore her dad to manhood. I’d offered to help with Muffin, but Steve said no need, he’d pick up Muffin himself. Then, Thursday afternoon—God, that’s just yesterday, isn’t it?—he called. Some big job had come up at the office, and he hated to bother me, but could I pick up Muffin after all? Okay, no big deal, a thirty-minute train ride. So I went waddling off to the big city. Hi, I say brightly, I’m here to get Muffin. Oh, sorry, she says, Muffin went with someone else.”

“I see.” Nick was scribbling in his book, trying to imagine Rachel at Steve’s little SoHo apartment with the voluble Mrs. Golden. “Who did she go with?”

“Tall, curly black hair, a baby of her own. Seemed bright and competent, and Muffin took to her, she said. So it didn’t occur to her that Steve had meant me instead of her.”

“I see.” Nick hid his dismay by chewing on the pencil. Was this story leading where he feared?

Rachel leaned forward earnestly. “It’s got to be someone at Steve’s firm, don’t you think? How else would this curly-haired woman have known to cut in line ahead of me? But if someone overheard his call to me, they’d know it was their chance to get the baby. Might have planned it a long time ago and waited till a chance like this came up.”

“Makes sense,” said Nick slowly. He was right, damn it; Mrs. Golden had told Rachel that Maggie had taken Muffin! And they’d already failed to find Mrs. Golden, who had left no traces. Poor Bradford was doubtless in the same situation and had only her false references.

Had he seen her face-to-face? Possibly; but Nick remembered that Maggie had delivered the envelope with the pay. Perhaps Rachel was the only one who could identify the woman, if she could be found.

Rachel; and Maggie.

Who was the prime suspect until the truth was found.

There was another possibility, he realized. Could Rachel be lying? Must be someone at Steve’s firm, she’d suggested, someone who had overheard Steve’s arrangements with her and could send the kidnapper ahead. But she, Rachel, also knew the arrangements, also could send someone ahead. And she knew intimate details of the Bradfords’ life, the source of their money, where they spent their time and when. Everything a kidnapper needed. In that way, perhaps a more likely criminal than Mrs. Golden.

Rachel said, “You’re big on thinking, aren’t you?”

Nick pulled his thoughts back from theory and shrugged. “Well, when I started out I used six-guns instead. But I’m a low-budget operation and bullets cost more than thoughts.”

She smiled. “In every way.”

“Anyway, I think you’re right about the coworker,” he said. “They probably had a plan made up waiting for the right situation to come along. And of course I’ll be checking out the firm, though not openly. Busby insisted.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Okay. What did you do when you heard someone had already taken Muffin?”

“Well, I didn’t know what to think. She was so sure about it. Said Steve had mentioned a baby. I told her he probably just meant I was pregnant. Right? But she gave me this funny look and I realized she really believed the curly-haired woman. And furthermore, she thought I was a kook! Well, I am, but not that kind. I tried to call Steve but he’d already left the office. I decided maybe he’d found someone closer but by the time he’d tried to call me back I’d left. So I went home and waited for Steve and Elaine to arrive from the airport. Worried as hell.”

Nick had finished his coffee. He pushed the mug aside. “And rightly so.”