The Girl with the Phony Name (7 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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“Maybe my luck is finally changing,” she said softly to the stuffed teddy bear Aunt Sally had pressed into her arms after dinner. “What did I need all those MacAlpins in the computer for, anyway? None of them knew anything. Now I have new friends, a place to stay. What do I want to hang on to the past for?”
The teddy bear didn't feel the need to answer.
It would be strange to sleep in the same bed for longer than a week, Lucy realized, putting her hands behind her head. She could even unpack all four of her suitcases. She had never done that before.
Lucy tried to picture her mother, but all she could see was the little grave marker at the church cemetery. Lucy fought the image out of her mind. Somewhere across the river might be her past. And her future.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
“I
'm sorry, Mr. Wing,” sniffed the chinless person who a plaque proclaimed was Edward M. Leach. “We've done a discounted cash–flow analysis on your new branches and calculated the weighted average cost of your capital. Your net present value is substantially negative and …”
“Woa,” muttered Wing, obviously confused. “Translate into English, please.”
Lucy looked around the ornate Manhattan bank. Walnut paneling rose thirty feet up the walls to a gilded ceiling. The tellers stood like exotic zoo animals behind carved steel bars. Leach rocked back smugly in his leather armchair. They had been here ten minutes, seven of which Leach had spent on the phone with his stockbroker.
“I'm telling you that acquiring all these new branches made no sense,” said the goony-looking banker, examining his knuckles, perhaps for signs of hair. “Your current returns aren't enough to justify the carrying costs.”
“Numbers not tell whole story,” protested Wing. “Wing buy not what is, but what might be.”
“Well, it might be, Mr. Wing, but not with our money.”
Wing stood, bowed, and walked out, head high. Lucy rose and glared at Leach, who was stifling a smirk. She had half a mind to throw a wastebasket at him, but hurried after her employer instead, catching up with him at the car.
“So how'd it go?” asked Neal Bell, opening the back door for them.
“Big man, little mind.”
“Didn't get the loan, huh?”
“There are plenty more banks. Cannot all be run by dopes. We work up new business plan, Rucy, yes?”
“Yes, Mr. Wing,” she said, trying not to sound worried. Neal got behind the wheel and started the car. In twenty minutes they were out of midtown Manhattan and on the road to Connecticut to inspect the Bridgeport Neat ‘n' Tidy. Wing made it a point to visit at least one branch each day.
This was the ninth loan application Lucy had seen turned down in the three weeks she had worked for Wing. It hadn't taken her long to understand how grim the situation was: Wing was leveraged to his eyeballs and needed at least $3 million to keep operating.
It was a shame, Lucy thought. Wing was the best boss she'd ever had. He came up with new ideas as easily as lesser men percolated coffee. He was on top of every problem, understood each opportunity, knew every one of his many employees by name. His innovations had transformed one nearly bankrupt funeral home into a money machine. Although Lucy still had reservations about his “product,” she had to admire the boldness of his vision.
“Soon have Neat 'n' Tidy everywhere,” Wing had proclaimed during her first day on the job. “People no more waste money on big funerals for dead relatives. Wing set up branches in inner cities. Pay less rent. Give jobs to poor people. Give them hope.”
The only problem in the scenario was the fact that Wing's dreams were bigger than his financing. A new branch took only a year to begin making money, but Wing's balance sheets were drowning in red ink from the start-up costs for so many new branches. If he had slowed down, digested his gains, everything would have been fine, but Wing couldn't wait. He plunged ahead, blindly optimistic, using his genius to increase sales rather than reduce expenses, buying new branches with his profits rather than covering his debt.
They drove in silence into the tangle of roads that had so frightened Lucy that first night. Even in daylight the tenements below looked menacing, but Neal navigated confidently
through the devastation and finally into the sunny greenery of the Connecticut Turnpike.
Of the people in the big house in Weehawken, Neal was Lucy's favorite after Wing. Over the past three weeks he had gone out of his way to make her feel at home, driving her to a mall in Passaic to pick up some new clothes, giving her knickknacks for her mantlepiece and plants for her windowsill. The little apartment on the third floor was beginning to feel really cozy.
Lucy had also struck up a friendship with Tina Snicowski, the little receptionist. Tina was a runaway whom Wing had taken in and was sending to night school. Despite her five earrings and the occasional patch of orange she put in her hair, Tina turned out to be painfully shy. She blushed crimson when Lucy offered to help with her homework, but finally accepted.
Even Aunt Sally seemed less menacing once Lucy figured out that the verses she constantly muttered were not incantations, but nursery rhymes.
“Stop the car! Stop the car!”
“What's the matter, Mr. Wing?” said Lucy as Neal pulled the Cadillac onto the berm.
“Look! Look at beautiful tree!”
“It's very beautiful, Mr. Wing, but why have we stopped?”
In addition to taking notes, helping with loan applications, and managing his correspondence, Lucy was also responsible for keeping Wing on schedule. They were due in Bridgeport in ten minutes.
“How many people have beautiful tree in backyard? People cherish beautiful tree, but loved ones end up in urn on TV set. Rucy, make note for new ad campaign. ‘Have your ashes planted under your favorite tree. Do-it-yourself perpetual peace.'”
Lucy wrote down the suggestion, amazed again. She wished her own life were so simple, that like Wing she could
forget about all her problems just because she saw a beautiful tree.
But that was impossible. It was May 1. Theresa Iatoni would return from California today.
 
As usual Wing was oblivious to the seriousness of his financial situation at dinner that night, recounting over a roast chicken wild, obviously fictional tales of fishing in the China Sea.
After dessert—a peach cobbler that Aunt Sally delivered from the kitchen with as much pride as other women delivered children—Lucy went up to her room and closed the door. She had purposely waited until evening to make her call, wanting Theresa Iatoni to be settled in and comfortable when the phone rang.
For moral support Lucy had brought hang–jowled, floppy–eared Hewby upstairs with her. The basset hound sprawled on the rug at her feet, looking up with mournful eyes. Lucy had never had a pet before and was surprised at the deep rapport she and Hewby had quickly established. The dog shared her enthusiasm for both junk food and Gershwin, and they often listened to the stereo, sprawled on the living-room sofa together, munching potato chips.
“Okay, are you ready?” Lucy asked the dog. She was seated on the edge of the bed, holding the phone in her lap with one hand, the teddy bear with the other.
Hewby adjusted his chins.
“I'm glad you're here,” confided Lucy. “I used to talk to inanimate objects.”
“Woof,” said Hewby sadly.
“Okay, now, be quiet while I make my call.”
The dog stared at her, licked his face, went back to sleep. Lucy dialed.
“Yes?” answered a small voice after three rings.
“Theresa Iatoni, please,” said Lucy, half confident, half terrified.
“Speaking,” the voice cracked.
“Miss Iatoni, my name is Lucy Trelaine. I was the baby who survived the crash that killed your brother. I'd like to talk with you.”
The line was silent for several seconds. Finally the little voice spoke again.
“What about?”
“I'm trying to find my family, Mrs. Iatoni.”
“Oh. I don't know how I can help you.”
“I don't know, either,” Lucy said, trying to put a chuckle in her voice, to sound disarming.
“So why are you calling me?”
“I only found out about your brother a few weeks ago and there are a million things I don't understand.”
Hewby sniffled audibly. Lucy knew she was blowing it.
“It was all such a long time ago,” said the voice in her ear unhappily.
“Yes, I know, but I'm not trying to make trouble or anything, Mrs. Iatoni,” Lucy said desperately. “I grew up in foster homes. Nobody knew where I came from. A few weeks ago I found out about the car crash that killed my mother. I just want to know the truth, whatever it is.”
There was a pause.
“What do you want to know?” said the voice finally.
“It's hard for me to do this over the phone. Can I come and see you?”
“Oh, I don't know … .”
“Please, Mrs. Iatoni. It can't matter that much to you anymore, but it means a great deal to me. Please.”
“Well …” said the voice. Lucy held her breath. “All right, honey. Can you come out tomorrow?”
When Lucy put down the phone, her hand was trembling. Hewby roused himself from his lethargy and waddled over to lick it. Lucy scratched his raggedy ears.
What was she going to say to this woman? And, more important, what was Theresa Iatoni going to say to her?
T
he Audubon Park Condominiums in Amityville looked like books on a shelf from a distance. Closer up, you could discern the six different styles, the eight available colors, and various other options that differentiated the abutting townhouses. Interconnecting streets of them radiated off a main drive. In the center of the development was a manicured lawn and a shallow pool surrounded by a waist-high chain-link fence—a precaution against grandchildren and other unenlightened visitors who might mistake the pool's symbolism for an invitation to wade.
Lucy steered the big Cadillac down Blue Jay Cove and onto Turtle Dove Lane. When she had asked for the day off, everybody had been pointedly discreet. Wing had even insisted she take the car, and Lucy had been too embarrassed to refuse. It was like driving a boat.
There wasn't a living soul to direct her through the maze of streets, so the only way to find 1451 Bobolink Place was trial and error. After several wrong turns and cul-de-sacs, Lucy found the address she was looking for. She parked the car at the end of a row of townhouses and walked to the door of the only one painted green.
She pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened at first. Then the door opened and Lucy found herself facing a squat, blue-haired woman. Was this her aunt?
“Hi,” said Lucy, nervously manufacturing a smile. “I'm Lucy Trelaine.”
The little woman looked her up and down, then nodded.
“Come in please,” Theresa Iatoni said stiffly, and led Lucy into the living room, a narrow white box.
“Can I get you anything?” said the woman.
“No, thanks.”
“Coffee? Soda? I have some iced tea.”
“No, really, I'm fine.”
Lucy sat down on the orange sofa. Mrs. Iatoni sank into a paisley chair. There were two white table lamps in the shape of poodles. The rest of the furniture was the sort of thing Lucy would expect to find on top of a wedding cake.
“This is very … homey,” Lucy said brightly.
“We like it,” said Mrs. Iatoni, primly straightening her dress.
“Well,” said Lucy. “So here we are.”
“So here we are,” repeated the little woman, and she smiled for the first time.
“Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Iatoni.”
“Well, like I told you on the phone, Lucy … may I call you Lucy?”
“Please.”
“Well, I really don't know anything. Look, I'm sorry about what happened, but it was such a long time ago.”
Lucy nodded. “If you could just help me understand what your brother was doing with … with my mother … .”
Mrs. Iatoni crossed her arms in front of her defensively. “There was nothing between them, if that's what you mean.”
“Maybe I will have some coffee,” said Lucy, hoping to head off any confrontation.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Iatoni, her features frozen into a mask, and left for the kitchen.
Lucy stood and tried to admire the black velvet painting of a matador that hung over the fireplace. The woman obviously still felt guilty after all this time. How could Lucy get through to her? After a moment Theresa Iatoni returned with a coffeepot and two plastic cups on a tray. She sat on the sofa and placed the tray on a low table.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Iatoni,” said Lucy, easing down onto the sofa next to her. “You didn't have to see me, I know. It must have been hard for you—your brother dead, a strange
woman, a baby. I want you to know that I'm not mad or anything. I just want to find out who I am.”
The hard face softened.
“Look, honey,” said Mrs. Iatoni, pouring them each a cup of coffee. “The police called from Massachusetts and said that Alex was dead. This was such a long time ago.”
Lucy didn't say anything. Finally the woman continued.
“My brother and I had had a falling out long before that. I hadn't seen him for months. The police wanted to know who he might have been with, but how should I know?”
Lucy nodded.
“My husband and I went up there to identify the body,” said Mrs. Iatoni, making a face. “It was horrible. Stephen didn't want me to go in, but I had to see. My brother was all burned up, like a piece of meat. Cream?”
“I take it black.”
“I recognized him by his teeth, really. We had been brought up in the depression, so we couldn't afford orthodontists like the kids today. Alex's teeth always looked like a train wreck. Really awful. We were amazed he could chew.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Well, that was a long time ago. All my grandchildren wear braces, you know,” said Mrs. Iatoni, brightening.
“I take it he wasn't married,” said Lucy, bringing the cup to her lips. The coffee was still too hot to drink.
“That was the point, Lucy. And it wasn't because of his teeth, if you understand my meaning.”
Lucy didn't. Mrs. Iatoni saw it on her face. She smiled and spoke softly.
“My brother was a homosexual, dear. It wasn't fashionable to be a homosexual back then, especially in an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn. But that's what he was. That's why I knew he couldn't have been involved with that wo … your mother … like they suggested. I couldn't say so at the time, but there you are.”
Lucy sat back, stunned.
“Oh, look, honey. I wish I could help you. At the time I was pretty ashamed of my brother. And not just for … you know. Alex had also been arrested a few times for taking tourists for rides.”
“He hired out his car, right?”
“When I say he took tourists for rides, I mean he took them for rides. He could somehow persuade foreigners that America had no dependable trains or buses. He would drive them to Cleveland or Nashville or wherever. They'd pay his expenses plus who knows how much? The only reason I know is because he kept hitting me for bail when he got caught. That's why we had the falling out, in fact.”
“The police in Pittsfield never mentioned any of this,” said Lucy.
Mrs. Iatoni shrugged. “The charges were always dropped. When he was caught Alex would plead ‘simple misunderstanding' and return the money. No tourist was going to wait around months for a jury trial when they could just take their money and run.”
“So you're saying that my mother could have been a tourist. Your brother could have picked us up at the airport and been taking us practically anywhere.”
“That's right. My guess would be that they were heading for Boston—the scenic route—but who knows?”
Lucy's heart sank. Boston, of course, was the first place she had looked for Trelaines, paging through the phone books at the orphanage when she was seven years old. If there was one thing in the world she was sure of, it was that there weren't any Trelaines in Boston.
Theresa Iatoni smiled sweetly, her conscience cleared at last. Lucy tried to smile back. She had come a long way to find such a dead end.
 
“You got some mail, Lucy,” said Tina as Lucy dragged herself through the front door feeling like a sack of overcooked pasta.
“I did?” said Lucy absently, taking the large manila envelope with a New Hampshire postmark.
“You have fun crusin' in the Neal-mobile?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. Anybody asking for me?”
“Nope. Mr. Wing's in the basement, inventing. Neal is out with Hewby.”
“Thanks, Tina,” said Lucy and headed for the back stairs, trying to fight the depression that had veiled her since her conversation with Theresa Iatoni. If her mother was just a tourist passing through, then searching for birth records in New York City was pointless. She could have been born anywhere.
“At least I won't pass along the tacky furniture gene,” Lucy advised the door to the rear of the house as she opened it. Aunt Sally was in the kitchen.
“I made you a sammich, Lucy,” said Aunt Sally in her frightened child's voice. Lucy wasn't really hungry but couldn't bear to hurt the woman's feelings.
“Thank you, Aunt Sally. I'll take it upstairs with me.”
“Would you like a glass of milk?”
“No, just the sandwich will be fine.”
Aunt Sally padded over to the refrigerator and handed Lucy a plate draped in wax paper.
“Thanks very much,” said Lucy, bounding up the stairs, feeling guilty. Not only was she not helping Mr. Wing raise money, she was eating him out of house and home as well.
Flopping listlessly on the bed, Lucy unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Tuna fish. Her least favorite. Chewing unhappily she tore open the manila envelope. It was her mail that Billy Rosenberg had forwarded, of course. Lucy had finally called to touch base with him last week.
The envelope included the usual bank and credit-card statements, some junk mail, a tax form. One letter, however, caught her eye. The return address was from a Robert MacAlpin in New York City. Lucy liked to hear from MacAlpins,
but couldn't place the name at first. Then she remembered. The insurance man. This really was her lucky day.
She sighed and opened the letter. It contained a single sheet of Home Trust stationery and was dated three weeks ago.
Dear Miss Trelaine,
I've been doing some thinking since our conversation and realize now that I do know something about you. In fact I think I can clear up the whole mystery.
I tried to reach you at the TownLodge, but you had already checked out. With your experience in hotels I would have thought you might have left a forwarding address, but I'm writing to the address in New Hampshire you gave me in the hopes that you will receive it before too long.
Please call me at the telephone number above as soon as you receive this. I am very eager to meet with you and explain everything.
Yours truly,
Robert MacAlpin
Lucy had dropped the sandwich and was sitting straight up on the bed, her depression not even a memory. She read the letter again with growing excitement.
After losing her computer she had tried to forget about MacAlpins altogether. Wouldn't it be something if a MacAlpin solved the puzzle now, after all these years?
“Can I ask for another day off this week or is that too much?” she asked the remains of the sandwich.
The sandwich didn't answer. Lucy took another bite.
“All right,” she said with her mouth full. “But there's no reason I can't meet with Robert MacAlpin on Saturday, is there?”
What could the sandwich say?
Still, there was something about this that bothered Lucy, something that seemed out of place, out of joint, though what it was she could not say.

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