The Girl with the Phony Name (9 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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Lucy nodded. The man seemed to have all the answers.
The waiter returned with the credit-card slip. MacAlpin signed it, then came around the table to pull her chair out. Lucy stood shakily. MacAlpin put his arm around her shoulder and they walked in silence down the snaking marble tunnel.
Why didn't she feel anything? Lucy wondered. After all these years, she expected to feel something, some burst of recognition, of relief, of love. She glanced over at MacAlpin. He smiled. Lucy had always harbored a secret belief that when she finally found her family, they would turn out to be royalty or at least movie stars, not insurance salesmen. Was this how dreams ended? Stomped to death by the mundane?
“I wasna there when you needed me, Lucy,” MacAlpin was saying as they came out into the top level of the atrium. “I couldna even gi' you my name. But now I can make it oop to you. I hope you'll let me.”
They ambled the long way back toward the escalator, along the side of the building, then across a kind of skybridge stretching across the chasm of the atrium. When they got to the middle, Lucy stopped.
“I don't believe you,” Lucy said, her lip quivering. “You're not my father.”
The skylight ceiling was only twenty feet overhead from here. The illuminated waterfall began a few feet above them. Water trickled down the marble wall to the ground eighty feet below. There was no one else around.
“Why would I lie to you, lass?” MacAlpin replied soberly.
It was true. What reason could he possibly have to lie? Lucy knew she was being childish. Why couldn't she accept the truth?
“Canna we be friends?” MacAlpin said gently.
Lucy bit her lip, fighting back tears.
“I know this has been a frichtful shock t'ye, lass,” MacAlpin
continued soothingly. “I dinna expect after all this time for ye suddenly to accept me as a faether. We can go as slow as you like. I chust want to do something for you, now that I'm able to. Why don't I stairt by returning the brooch to the museum in Glasgow? I think Bethoc would like that.”
Lucy looked over the guardrail. The tables in the basement level far beneath looked like chocolates in a box. The water–fall was right next to them, water dripping down the red marble face like blood.
“You'd give away my brooch?” she said, reaching into her jacket pocket and clenching it in her fist.
“It doesna belong to us. Besides, wha' importance does it have now? It's done its job. It's brought us together.”
He clasped her shoulders. His hands were remarkably strong.
“Your luck has changed, Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine,” MacAlpin said, beaming. “Yes sir. We'll find a good job for you here. Harvard women are like gold in this town. I can get you into Home Trust. It's a good living. Come on. Why dinna ye let me hang on to the brooch now, for safekeeping? You canna be too careful in New York, you know.”
Lucy took the brooch out of her pocket and started to hand it to him, then pulled back.
“How did you know that I went to Harvard?”
MacAlpin shrugged. “You said so.”
“No I didn't.”
“When we talked that first time,” he said with the most benign of smiles. “You told me.”
“I never tell people I went to Harvard,” Lucy said, staring at him unbelievingly. “I failed out. And you knew about my working in hotels. You said something about it in your letter. How did you know that? How could you have known, unless …”
“I swear you mentioned it. What difference does it make?”
“Unless you read the resume in my computer! You were the one who broke into my hotel room.”
“Ye dinna know what yer sayin', Lucy.”
“It must have been you. I told you where I was staying. You knew I would be out that morning. You wanted to steal my brooch, didn't you? When you couldn't find it you took my computer and earrings to make it look like junkies broke in. Didn't you?”
MacAlpin's smile evaporated. His face turned hard, ugly. He reached out and grabbed her hand.
“Gi' me the brooch, lass,” he said quietly.
“What kind of father steals from his own daughter?” she hissed.
“I dinna want to hurt you. You couldna make it easy, could you? You Fingons aire all alike.”
“Fingons? Who are …”
MacAlpin grabbed her hand and wrenched the brooch out of it. Lucy tried to pull away. The waterfall roared in her ears. She started to scream, but MacAlpin clasped one hand over her mouth and spun her around, pinning both her hands behind her back with the other. Lucy could feel her brooch still in his hand as he pushed her onto the railing.
Lucy looked over her shoulder in helpless panic. MacAlpin's teeth were clenched, his face grim, determined. He was going to pitch her into the atrium!
All Lucy could think of was getting away. She struggled, squirmed furiously, but MacAlpin was too strong. He pushed her further up the railing. Without thinking, Lucy unlocked her trick shoulders, threw both arms up over her head, and sat down. MacAlpin stumbled offbalance above her, still holding on to her hands until it was too late.
He seemed to hover above her for a single moment, poised between heaven and earth, then sailed out over the rail upside down. Lucy lay on the floor of the skybridge and listened to the endless, fading scream until he finally crashed onto a table of snacking tourists a million miles below.
L
ucy sat in disbelief on the red marble floor for a moment, dazed by what she had done. Then she struggled shakily to her feet and looked over the rail. A charcoal gray ant lay broken on a miniature table in the café far below.
“This can't be happening,” Lucy whispered in a state of shock. The screams from the bottom of the atrium gradually subsided.
MacAlpin had ransacked her hotel room. He had stolen her earrings. He had tried to kill her! She had not imagined his hands at her throat, the atrium swirling beneath her head. Had she really hurled him to his death?
Lucy straightened her dress, ran a hand through her thick, black hair, and walked slowly to the escalator so as not to arouse attention. She fought the temptation to run down the moving metal stairs, and just stood statuelike while people beneath strained over the rails to catch a glimpse at what was causing the commotion.
Lucy had to change escalators at each level before finally stepping off into the buzz of stunned shoppers in the basement café. A ring of people blocked the center of the little court. Lucy eased her way through the crowd, feeling strangely calm, almost as if in a dream.
The Scot had smashed onto one of the tiny tables, collapsing it like an accordion. The floor around him was slick with spilled cappuccino. Two well-dressed women were lying several feet away, dazed but apparently all right.
Suddenly there was only one thought in Lucy's mind—she must retrieve her brooch. It had been in MacAlpin's hand
when he went over the railing. She had to get it back before the police came. It had her name on it!
Lucy edged closer. MacAlpin was bent into a strange shape, like a member of the Phoenician alphabet or a paramecium. He was obviously dead, his eyes open and unfocused, a pool of blood melting into the red floor beneath his head. A tall, red-haired man knelt next to him. As Lucy broke from the crowd toward them, the man turned. It was Fraser. In his hand was her brooch.
They stared at one another for a split second, then Lucy turned and ran, pushing her way back through the gawking shoppers.
“Wait!” she heard him shout behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Fraser was fighting through the crowd toward her. Lucy wasn't about to wait. Terrified, she tore down the marble hall, past the chocolatier and the newsstand.
Instantly she realized her mistake. If this corridor was like the ones on the floors above, it would simply come around in a circle and deliver her right back to the escalators. Fraser could be waiting for her. If he wasn't hot on her heels. She had killed his partner. He had her brooch!
Lucy tried to choke back panic. She had to get away. She wanted to scream, but didn't dare. If someone saved her from Fraser, how would she explain why he had been chasing her? She kept running. There was a sign for the rest rooms ahead of her. Was this a dead end? Had anyone seen her struggling with MacAlpin on the bridge? What would Fraser tell the police?
To her left was a fancy antique store. Inside Lucy could see a staircase leading up. There might be only seconds before Fraser caught her. Lucy opened the door and swept past the startled saleslady. At the top of the stairs she found herself amidst posh jewelry and antiques. Through the glass doors she could see the crowds on Fifth Avenue.
“May I be of help, madam?” asked a slim man in a three-piece suit, looking down his nose at her.
Lucy didn't even slow down. No one could help her now.
She had killed her own father. The awful destiny that had foreshadowed her life with failure had finally caught up with her, full force. Everything was clear now. God wasn't merely angry at her—He was Irate. Heart pounding, eyes full of tears, Lucy opened the door to the street and vanished into the moving carpet of people.
 
Lucy tried to act normal at dinner that night, but had no appetite and couldn't find much to say. After all the years of looking for her family, she had finally found her father and promptly tossed him down the Trump Tower atrium. If MacAlpin weren't dead it would almost be funny.
Lucy had returned from the city, pale and shaken, to find that Wing was throwing a little celebration for Tina. Tina, the shy little receptionist with the five earrings, had just been awarded a full scholarship by the Computer Science Department at NYU and would start classes in the fall.
Wing rapped his spoon on his club soda, pulling Lucy back from her jumbled thoughts. He raised his glass in a toast. Lucy held up her champagne with the others and tried to smile.
“Little Tina Snicowski. Remember when you first come to live here. Poor little runaway. No home. Play rock and roll all the time. Nothing but rock and roll. Talk about piercing ears, oy!”
Everyone laughed. Tina blushed.
“Now you have home,” continued Wing. “You work hard, study hard. No time for rock and roll, thank goodness. Make us very proud.”
“Speech, speech,” demanded Neal.
Aunt Sally poured herself another glass of champagne, smiled, and said, “Hurray for Tina.”
Wing motioned with his glass. “Tina? You say few words, yes?”
Tina stood up, looking around the table. Her eyes fell back modestly to her plate.
“I want to thank all of you for treating me so fantastic, for
making me, like, feel so welcome, so at home. Especially you, Mr. Wing. I know you have problems of your own, but I mean here you're going out of your way to do all this. I just want you to know that I, like, really appreciate everything, you know? You're all so great.”
Wing beamed. The Trenton bank had turned down their loan application yesterday. Lucy knew Wing was running out of time, but his face showed only happiness.
“You're my family,” continued Tina, getting misty. “I'm gonna work my buns off, I promise. I mean, I don't know why you're doing this for me. Everybody always said I was never going to amount to anything.”
“Don't you believe that, Tina,” said Lucy, surprising everyone with her vehemence, including herself. “Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not terrific, because you are.”
Everyone stared. Lucy put down her champagne, threw her napkin onto the table, and ran upstairs to her room.
 
The next morning, after a sleepless night, Lucy took Hewby for his walk. She couldn't get MacAlpin's last words out of her mind. “You Fingons are all alike,” he had said. What did people named Fingon have to do with this? Could it be possible that she wasn't a Trelaine or a MacAlpin at all, but a Fingon? It sounded like a little German sausage.
A less hypothetical sausage was tugging at his leash. Lucy returned to the matter at hand. The sad basset hound marched regally up and down the sidewalks and through the grassy park. He finally peed on a war memorial, the monument to Hamilton being safely out of range behind iron bars.
Satisfied that Hewby had discharged all his professional duties as a dog, Lucy picked up the fat weekend papers from the machines outside the little Spanish coffee shop at the top of the Weehawken Cliffs and went inside. The waitress automatically brought coffee. They were beginning to understand one another, language notwithstanding.
The
Daily News
had a story on the second page.
MAN IN DEATH PLUNGE AT TRUMP TOWER
A man mysteriously fell to his death from the sixth floor of the Trump Tower Atrium yesterday, narrowly missing diners in the basement cafe.
Robert MacAlpin, a Manhattan insurance executive, apparently was standing on the bridge across the atrium space in the midtown luxury shopping area, when he fell over the side. Two startled shoppers were treated for minor cuts.
Police are investigating the incident, but the possibility of suicide has not been ruled out. It was the first such incident since Trump Tower opened. A spokesman regretted the incident and the bridge has been closed until a full safety check has been completed.
Lucy took a sip of coffee and tried to think, but the image of MacAlpin's crushed skull and empty eyes kept swirling through her brain.
Nothing made sense. Fraser had said her brooch wasn't worth more than a few thousand dollars. Why would MacAlpin be ready to kill his own daughter for such a paltry sum? He'd just spent a hundred dollars on lunch, for crissakes.
Lucy put down the first paper and glanced through the
Times
. It, too, had a small story about the incident, but it was buried in the second section. To her surprise there was also an article about MacAlpin on the obituary page, along with a photograph, the kind of posed shot businessmen favored for press releases. MacAlpin stared out smugly, his tie perfect, the faintest of smiles across his thin lips.
To rate an obit in the
Times
, Lucy realized, MacAlpin must have been a substantial citizen. That meant the police wouldn't just let the case slide, the way they did when the person was unimportant. The way they had for her mother. Lucy fought down a wave of nausea and read the story.
ROBERT MACALPIN, INSURANCE MAN
Robert J. MacAlpin, 56, of Guttenberg, New Jersey, died yesterday in a fall in New York.
Mr. MacAlpin had been with Home Trust Life Insurance for 26 years and was a member of its “Golden Circle.”
He was born in Dumlagchtat on the Scottish island of Lis in the Inner Hebrides, but emigrated as a young man and eventually received U.S. citizenship. He is survived by his wife, Margaret.
Lucy read the story again, unable to believe her eyes. Dumlagchtat! MacAlpin had been born in a place named Dumlagchtat—the word written on the back of her brooch, the word MacAlpin had told her meant I love you in Gaelic. He had lied! What else had he lied about?
“Oh, God, please,” she muttered to her coffee, “please let him have been lying about being my father.”
The coffee steamed encouragingly. Lucy tore MacAlpin's picture and the obit out of the
Times
and put them in her wallet. Then she went into the little phone booth across from the
Hombres
room and closed the door.
“Glasgow information,” said a pleasant voice a few minutes after the international operator had patched Lucy through.
“Yes,” said Lucy, taking a deep breath. “I'd like the number for the Celtic Museum of Antiquities.”
“I'm sorry, but there is no listing under that name,” said the voice a moment later.
“There's no Celtic museum? Are you sure? Maybe you could try it under Celtic Art Museum or Museum of Antiquities or something like that.”
There was another, longer pause.
“I'm sorry. There doesn't seem to be anything like that.”
“Would you check and see how many listings there are in Glasgow under the name Trelaine, T-R-E-L-A-I-N-E.”
After a moment the operator returned again.
“Nothing under Trelaine as you spelt it. I do have several listings under Trelevens and Trelegens.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy. She hung up the phone and returned to her seat at the counter. It was a good thing MacAlpin hadn't thought to sell her the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Carmen,” said Lucy earnestly to the little Spanish waitress. “Take a look at a girl who just fell off the turnip truck.”
“Ah.” Carmen nodded, reached into the refrigerator, and handed Lucy a chocolate doughnut.
 
For the next two days Lucy walked around in a fog, unable to decide what to do.
MacAlpin had obviously made up the entire story just to get her brooch. There was no Celtic museum. There was no Bethoc Trelaine. Lucy desperately hoped that the man had been lying about being her father, too, but how could she be sure? Why had he wanted the brooch so badly? And if he wasn't her father, then who was he?
There was nothing further in the papers about the incident at Trump Tower, but that gave Lucy little solace. She had killed MacAlpin and fled the scene. A professional criminal was a witness. If Fraser hadn't gone to the police with the brooch, it probably only meant that he wanted to blackmail her with it.
For a moment Lucy had thought that since Dumlagchtat was really a place, then Trelaine might be, too. But there were no Trelaines in the atlas. There were no Bethocs. Nor could she believe that either Lucy, Louisiana, or Lucy, Tennessee, had anything to do with her.
“Why you so sad, Rucy?” said Wing, finally confronting her about her muddled state on their way to inspect the White Plains Neat ‘n' Tidy. “By Friday all worries will be over. First Connecticut Savings give loans to anybody. That why they in so much trouble.”
“Nobody is going to give you a loan unless you cut expenses
and sell off some of the branches,” answered Lucy unhappily. Somehow watching Wing founder made her own situation seem all the more hopeless.
“Cannot sell. Wing buy branches for cheap because no one want them. Who buy now?”
“Well, you have to find somebody,” she said angrily. “Or find a miracle.”

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