The Fitzgerald Ruse (3 page)
She smiled. “Of course.”
I didn’t know whether “of course” meant she’d heard we were coming or that Sam Blackman and behaving like a dog went together like a burger and fries.
“I’m Cory DeMille. I work for Hewitt Donaldson.” She said the name as if I should know it.
“Is that a law firm?”
She laughed. “Sort of. If you count one lawyer as a firm. Hewitt Donaldson’s a person. I’m his paralegal, and we have an administrative assistant. Hewitt works solo, often for other firms. He’s a defense attorney. The best in town.”
To me defense attorney translated into potential client.
“Well, I’m a private investigator. The newest in town.”
Behind Cory, the elevator doors opened and Nakayla stepped into the hall.
“And this is my partner, Nakayla Robertson.”
Cory turned around, and I saw Nakayla’s eyes narrow.
“We’ve met on a few depositions,” Cory said. “Will insurance fraud be your specialty?”
“No,” Nakayla said coolly. “Finding the truth will be our specialty.”
“Then I wish you luck. Most clients don’t want the truth. But if anyone can find it, I’m sure you and Mr. Blackman will sniff it out.” She looked from Nakayla to me. “Anything we can do to help you get settled, our office is just down the hall.”
“Thank you,” I said, and took a step backwards to let her pass. The crunch of my foot smashing through the box of muffins almost drowned out her “You’re welcome.”
We started with Nakayla’s office, arranging her desk so that she faced the window overlooking Pack Square. Then plastic protective covers were removed from chairs, lamps unboxed, and a filing drawer positioned as a credenza. We worked steadily, keeping our conversation focused on the task at hand.
I preferred my office to be the mirror image of Nakayla’s. With my back to the window, I could get some work done. Otherwise I’d spend my days gazing at the square and mountains behind it, finding the vista an easy excuse to avoid work.
When the basics were in place and we took a breather in the more comfortable furnishings of the central waiting area, I asked Nakayla the question that had been on my mind all morning. “Why don’t you like Cory DeMille?”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Maybe not to the average person. You forget I’m a trained detective.”
“Who observes all, if you don’t count blueberry muffins.”
Amanda Whitfield’s gift had been smashed flat and became the first item to land in Blackman and Robertson’s wastebasket.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Is she someone we should stay clear of?”
“No. I’m just not nuts about her boss. Hewitt Donaldson will do whatever he can to get people off. When I was at the Investigative Alliance for Underwriters, I had to testify in court against some of his clients. They’d submitted fraudulent medical claims that anybody could see were forgeries. I’d observed his clients performing physical activities that the phony claims stated would be impossible due to pain and suffering. During cross-examination, Donaldson went after me like a pit bull, basically calling me a liar and a pawn of the big insurance companies.”
“Who were you working for?”
Nakayla glared at me. “A big insurance company. What of it?”
“And did his clients get off?”
“No. They were convicted.”
I laughed. “Then I guess the jury saw Donaldson for what he was, a desperate defense attorney grasping at straws.” I leaned forward in the new chair. Nakayla was curled up on the leather sofa, and I realized we had each staked out our territory. “One of my best friends in the service worked as an advocate for defendants. Whenever I had to testify at a tribunal, I dreaded his cross because he was doing his damndest for his client. He once told me if he could rattle a prosecution witness, then the emotion unleashed usually undercut the facts of the testimony. It was advice I took to heart, although there were times I’d liked to have jumped out of the witness chair and punched him.”
“Well, I guess Cory’s all right,” Nakayla conceded. “And if she works with Donaldson, he must not be a total jerk.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“On the other hand, I work with you.” She grabbed a decorative pillow and threw it at me.
Before I could escalate the battle, a knock sounded from the door.
The AT&T serviceman entered pushing a cart with boxes of phones and small spools of wire. “Is this Blackman and Robertson?”
“We are,” I said, “and we’re ready to be connected to the world.”
Since we’d placed our desks close to the existing outlets, the man took less than fifteen minutes to install everything.
“Here are the manuals for your phones.” He set them on my desk. “They’re simple enough to understand. Each line lights up when in use.”
“Okay,” Nakayla and I said together.
“You have AT&T voicemail?”
“No. We have an answering service.”
“Oh.” He looked as dejected as if we’d run over his dog.
“We might add it later,” Nakayla said.
“Good. I can set it so it doesn’t pick up till after a large number of rings. You know, in case your service can’t get to it.” He pulled a sheet from his clipboard. “If you’ll just initial the order form. And here’s a card with your four numbers on it. I’ve sequenced the three voice lines to roll over in ascending order.”
Nakayla signed the form while I memorized the phone numbers. Now we’d need to order business cards.
“Does directory assistance have these numbers in case anyone should ask for us?”
“Definitely. All I need to do is activate the lines at the junction box on this floor and you’re good to go. I’ll call when they’re hot.”
In not ten minutes, the first line rang. I picked up and heard him say, “Good on that one. Leave the line open and I’ll keep calling to check the rollovers.”
All three lines lit without a problem.
“I’m coming back to check the other fax/DSL line with my meter,” the tech said.
Before he returned, the first line rang again. “Blackman and Robertson,” I said, winking at Nakayla.
“Sam, that you?” The voice creaked like dry wood.
“It is.”
“This is Captain.”
“Good to hear from you. How’d you get the new number?”
“Information. Listen, you guys open for business?”
“Yes, and you’re our first call.”
“I know you’re busy, but I’m worried about Ethel down the hall. You think you could come talk to her?”
I had no idea who Ethel was. “Sure. What’s it about?”
“She won’t tell me. Just that she’s got something weighing on her heart and it will kill her before she dies.”
I let the convoluted logic of the statement pass. “And you think I can help?”
“She asked for you, Sam. All she said was get me that man who found Thomas Wolfe. F. Scott Fitzgerald needs him.”
“Captain, is she mentally alert?”
“Of course not. What should I tell her?”
“That I’ll be by this afternoon.”
“Great. And be sure and wash your hands.”
“Well?” Nakayla asked, as I hung up the receiver.
“Dust off the file. We’ve got our first case.”
She beamed. “Who is it?”
“F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
She stared at me, completely speechless.
“So where’s the washroom on this floor?”
Captain, whose real name was Ron Kline, lived at Golden Oaks, a retirement community atop a mountain in Arden, a small town outside of Asheville. The octogenarian was actually a retired Army colonel, but he’d been a captain in the Second World War and claimed it was the highlight of his military career, the time when his command meant the most to his men and his country. In his old age, he’d reverted to his favorite rank as a nickname.
Nakayla and I had first met Captain several months ago when we were tracking leads in the murder of Nakayla’s sister. The title aptly described his role as chief organizer and motivator of his fellow Golden Oaks residents. Nothing got by Captain, and if someone named Ethel had a problem, Captain would take care of it.
Nakayla had decided to let me handle this initial interview on my own while she made another run to Office Depot. Chances were that Ethel Barkley just wanted fresh ears to hear an old story and there would be nothing for us to do other than say “how interesting” and “we’ll get back to you.” The only mystery might be why Captain wanted me to wash my hands.
A guardhouse stood sentry between the split of entrance and exit lanes at the foot of the road up to Golden Oaks. A crossbar blocked my way, and instead of an officer on duty, security had been reduced to an intercom box on a pole and a video camera mounted under an eave of the roof. I reached out my window and pressed the button by the speaker.
“Welcome to Golden Oaks,” a woman said. “How may I help you?”
“Sam Blackman to see Captain Kline.”
“Certainly, Mr. Blackman.”
The bar immediately rose. It’s good to know important people in high places.
The road merged to two lanes and twisted up the mountain at least half a mile in its ascent. Perhaps that extra elevation closer to heaven was comforting to some of the occupants of what Captain once called the extended waiting room for a funeral home.
I parked the CR-V in a visitor’s spot and saw Captain waiting for me in front of the entrance to the main building. He leaned against his walker like a thoroughbred at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby, but he didn’t risk cutting across the well-tended flowerbed to intercept me. I quickened my step in case his enthusiasm to see me got the better of him. We exchanged our customary greeting, a brisk military salute.
“Sam, you’re working that leg of yours like a champ. I should get two of them and throw away this glorified towel rack.” He bounced his walker up and down on the sidewalk for emphasis.
“Who are you kidding? Everybody knows you only use it to fend off the ladies.” I was only half joking. With a ratio of six women to each man, any male in Golden Oaks with a pulse was a hot prize.
Captain laughed and whipped his walker around with military precision. “Follow me. Ethel’s waiting.”
I hurried to catch up. “Why’d you ask me to wash my hands?”
“Because she’ll want to see them. Ethel’s a strange one. You just hold your peace. She’ll let you know when she wants you to talk.”
We stopped outside the closed door to one of the apartments at the end of a ground-floor wing. The name Ethel Barkley had been engraved on a brass plate centered beneath the peephole. On the wall to the left hung a memory box, a foot-square display case with a glass front that protected photos and personal mementos. The box served to share the occupant’s history with neighbors and provide opportunities for conversation; in the Alzheimer’s unit, the memory box became the means for a resident to find his or her room and to hold onto a fleeting identity.
If Ethel suffered from early dementia, it wasn’t severe enough to cause her transfer out of the independent living section. Her display contained a black-and-white picture of a young woman that had been taken in the 1930s or ‘40s. A mammoth stone wall filled the frame behind her. She stood with one foot on the running board of a luxury convertible crafted by some long defunct automaker. Another photo showed the woman, slightly older, with a young man and a boy and girl. The woman held the girl, who couldn’t have been more than two, on her hip, and the man had the boy by the hand. The lad wore a cowboy hat and chaps and must have been around five. I assumed I was looking at Ethel with her husband and children. They posed in front of a small bungalow. The mountain background suggested the picture had been taken somewhere in the Asheville area.
A larger photo showed the woman much older and seated in a group shot with two younger adults and four kids from pre-teen to toddler—grandmother surrounded by her family. All of these pictures were arranged around a headshot of an elderly lady whose wrinkled face bore but a faint resemblance to the young woman beside the vintage convertible.
Captain rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Might take her a spell to answer. She dozes in the afternoon.” He turned to go.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
He headed down the hall and called over his shoulder, “Son, you know your name, she still knows hers. This way she won’t have to ask me to leave.”
I waited a few minutes, straining to hear any sound of movement from within. Then I knocked again, louder than the Captain. The door immediately opened.
Ethel Barkley peered up at me. She couldn’t have been more than four-and-a-half feet tall and the thick lenses of her glasses made her more owl than person. Her bony left hand clasped the ends of a green shawl that draped around her stooped shoulders and covered a floral print housecoat.
“You from Captain?”
I nodded.
She reached out and grabbed my forearm, not in greeting, but for a brace as she leaned into the hall. She looked one way and then the other before pulling me inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “My ears play tricks on me and I’m too short to see out the peephole.”
Her apartment had two mismatched armchairs, a burgundy velvet loveseat, and a dinette table with two wooden chairs set under a heavily curtained window. A small kitchen lay off my left and a closed door on the right must have sealed off her bedroom and bathroom.
“Let’s sit by the light,” she said.
I followed her to the table and sat in the chair she indicated. I expected her to open the curtains, but she bent over and retrieved a goose-necked desk lamp that had been sitting on the floor. She set it between us and twisted the flexible neck so that the rounded metal shade kept the light from our eyes and concentrated on the bare wood of the tabletop.
“I’d like to see your hands,” she said. She stuck out her own with the palms up, expecting my compliance.
So Captain knew this would be part of her routine. Fortunately, I’d taken his request to heart, even scrubbing under my fingernails. I held my hands a few inches above hers, palm to palm. Grabbing my wrists, she turned them over. Then she leaned forward in her chair, hunching over the table and bringing her face to within a few inches of my skin.
“Good,” she said under her breath. “Napoleonic in both.” She hooked my right thumb with her left hand and bent it back, arching my palm even closer to her thick lenses. With the fingers of her right hand, she rubbed it as if trying to smooth out the surface. For a few minutes, she made only faint clucking sounds as she extracted some meaning from what appeared to be a meaningless crisscross of lines. Then she dropped that hand and repeated the entire process with the left. “You’ll do,” she said, and looked up at me for the first time since we’d sat down.
“I’ll do for what?”
“The mission. You’re not perfect, but you’re acceptable.”
“Mrs. Barkley, I’m the one who has to accept this mission. I have to know what we’re talking about.” Even though I’d been brought up to respect my elders, this woman annoyed me. She was assuming I’d do her bidding. And why wasn’t I perfect? And what did my hands have to do with anything? Ethel Barkley had crossed into a realm I didn’t care to follow. Next she’d pull out a Magic 8 Ball and ask me to use it during interrogations.
Instead of taking offense at my tone, she laughed. “The hands never lie. You’ve got strong, intertwined heart and head lines with veins running beneath them. The analytical and the emotional in conflict. You’re constantly torn between two poles. Your blood flaring up and cooling down. Serves you well but it can also be your undoing.”
I was now annoyed and unnerved because she’d read me like a book. I wondered if Captain had given her insights to use in her palmistry shenanigans.
“There’s the question of expense, Mrs. Barkley. Sometimes a potential client discovers that the cost of mounting the investigation outweighs the value of a successful solution.”
She flicked her hand, dismissing the possibility. “You don’t care about money. That’s not what motivates you. Your Napoleonic lines in both hands are subjugated by your quest for the ideal.”
“The ideal?”
“The way you think things should be. Righting a wrong is more important to you than collecting a fee.” Her gaze returned to my hands, now resting on the table. “But you don’t like to show people that side. You’re wary they’ll take advantage of you.”
Now I smiled. “Like asking me to investigate a case without paying me.”
Her thin, gray eyebrows arched above her glasses. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay you. I said you’d be motivated by righting a wrong.”
“So, a crime is involved?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to discover who committed it?”
“Sorry. I don’t remember your name.”
“Sam Blackman. And I’m not a descendant of Napoleon.”
Although I’d suspected Ethel Barkley of dementia, this was the first time she looked confused.
Then her face brightened. “Napoleonic lines, Mr. Blackman, don’t refer to genealogy. They’re your head and heart lines. That’s what Laura Guthrie called them. She’s the one who taught me to read.”
“Your school teacher?”
“Laura taught me to read hands. She entertained the guests at the Grove Park Inn. Mr. Fitzgerald called her his dollar woman.”
“F. Scott Fitzgerald?” Finally we were getting to a connection with Captain’s phone call.
“Yes. He named her that because she read his palm for a dollar. Then he hired her as his secretary.” Her eyes lost focus as if she were looking back across the years. “Laura’s dead now or I’d have her fix it for Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“He’s dead too.” I said, just to make sure we were intersecting somewhere on the same plane of reality.
Ethel clicked off the light. “But that doesn’t make him any less a victim.”
“When did this crime occur?”
“1935.”
“1935? Mrs. Barkley, that’s nearly seventy-five years ago. I’m sure any statutes of limitations expired long ago, not to mention the guilty party.”
“There you’re wrong, Mr. Blackman. The guilty party is very much alive.” She patted the back of my hand. “She just read your palm.”
Her smile wilted and in the dim light I saw magnified tears well up behind the thick lenses.
“And there’s no crime worse than betrayal, Mr. Blackman. A betrayal has to involve trust, even love.” She took a deep breath and the air caught in her throat. “I betrayed Mr. Fitzgerald and I’m counting on you to make it right.”
Ethel Barkley got to her feet and took slow, short steps to the bedroom door. She opened it and disappeared into the gloom. I heard the squeal of a drawer, and then she returned, her right hand clenched in a fist. Instead of sitting, she stood beside me so we were at eye level.
“Take this,” she said. She dangled a small key in front of my face. “It unlocks a safe-deposit box at my bank.” She studied the tag attached to the key by a string. “Wachovia. The banks keep getting bought up so I can’t remember the names. The box number is written on here.”
I took the key and saw the name and a number. “Is this a main branch?”
“Yes. On Haywood Street. I haven’t been there since I gave up my driver’s license.”
“You want to go with me?”
“No. I’ll call the bank manager and let him know you’re coming.”
“He’ll allow access to your safe-deposit box based on a phone call?”
She nodded. “All pre-arranged. I have to give him a password. So do you. Can you go this afternoon?”
“Yes. What am I getting?”
She moved around the table and sat. “A metal lockbox, not much smaller than the safe-deposit box. Bring it here this evening. After six would be best. We eat early and if I’m not at my usual table, folks will wonder why.”
“That’s it?”
“For right now. And, Mr. Blackman, keep this between us. There are certain people who would love to get possession of it.” She got up again. “I’d better get you something to put it in. Everybody in this place is always snooping in other people’s business.”
She returned to the bedroom. A few minutes later, she emerged carrying a folded bag with stiff twine handles. “See if this is big enough.”
I opened a shopping bag that could hold at least four shoeboxes. The logo for Ivey’s Department Store was printed on the heavyweight paper. “This should work. Maybe I’d better get your phone number in case I run into any problems.” I pulled a notepad out of my coat pocket. “And I’ll give you the one for my cell if you need to reach me.” I tore a sheet from the pad, jotted down my number, and slid it across the table. Then she told me hers.
I stood and slipped the key in my sport coat. “Until this evening.” I reached out and shook her hand. Then I looked at my palm. “Good Napoleonic lines, huh?”
She smiled. “Mr. Fitzgerald’s dollar woman would be impressed.”
I turned to go.
“Your fee, Mr. Blackman?”
“We can talk about it later, when you require more than a courier.”
She shrugged. “See, money isn’t important to you.” She clasped her hands in her lap and looked up, the tension in her narrow face clearly visible. “But I’m a ninety-year-old woman and if something were to happen to me, there’s a gift in the lockbox. From Mr. Fitzgerald. I want you to have it.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s very valuable.”
She had to see my confusion.
“Another woman had sent it to him,” she explained. “He refused to accept it. Told me to get the package out of his sight and for all he cared I could keep it.”