A Tap on the Window (19 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

I
hung up.

Donna said, “I’ll get breakfast going.”

A few minutes later, in the kitchen, things felt slightly different. Not unlike the feeling after a tornado whips through. You’ve been through this horrendous storm, wondering whether the roof will fly off, the walls will come crashing in, the car will get flipped over onto its roof.

But then the storm’s roar fades away and you think it’s safe to venture outside. The sun is coming out. You’ve lost a few trees, the power’s out, half the shingles on the roof have been blown off.

But you’re still standing.

We brushed against each other as we went about our morning routine without the recent awkwardness. I placed a gentle hand on her hip in a way I hadn’t in some time. She made enough coffee for two. Most mornings, lately, she had been grabbing coffee on her way to work and I’d stopped by a drive-through en route to whatever job I had at the time.

While we sat at the kitchen table eating some English muffins with jam, I opened up the laptop and looked up Griffon-area landscapers. There were four listed, but when I went to their respective Web sites, one—Hooper Gardening—had photos of orange pickup trucks. I made a note of the number. It wasn’t even eight a.m., so I’d give them a call in another hour or so.

There were other things I could get started on first.

There were two self-serve gas stations within sight of the restaurant. If I checked their security footage from two nights ago, I might be able to get a better look at that Volvo. Maybe I’d be able to pick up a license plate, or see the driver.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I was also thinking about Patchett’s, and whether there might be more leads worth following from there. Owner Phyllis Pearce seemed to know everybody’s business. Maybe she knew something about Claire Sanders and Dennis Mullavey. I’d gone back to Claire’s Facebook page to see if he was among her friends, but his name didn’t come up.

Donna was ready for work ahead of schedule so she could get a ride with me in her Corolla. She didn’t lean over for a kiss as she got out the passenger side, but she reached over and squeezed my hand.

Neither of us said a word.

From there, I drove to the first of the two service stations on Danbury within walking distance of Iggy’s. I pulled up to the pump, got out, and put a quarter of a tank of unleaded into the car, casting my eyes around as I did so, taking in the cameras. Most self-serve places now required you to put your credit card in first and have it approved, so you couldn’t take off without paying. If you wanted to pay cash, you usually had to go in and put down a deposit before they’d activate the pump.

Those cameras had been more important back in the day when people filled their tanks before they paid. Station owners no longer had that kind of trust in their customers, but the cameras remained.

Even though I’d paid at the pump, I went inside on the pretext of buying a treat. As I was getting out a five to pay the woman standing behind the counter for a Mars bar, I brought out my detective license as well.

“What’s this?” the woman asked tensely. She was in her mid-twenties, and thin enough to make one wonder whether she was anorexic. “You a cop? Because if you are, I’ve got the petition right here. I don’t always remember to get everyone to sign it, but most of the time I do. And I get the people to write down their addresses, too.”

“I’m private,” I said. “I don’t care if anyone signs that thing or not.”

That seemed to relax her. “That’s good, because I hate asking. Why the fuck should I have to do PR for the cops, right?”

“Right.” I explained I was looking for a vehicle that might have filled up here a couple of nights ago.

“What for?” she asked.

“Some guy who may have picked up a girl out back of Iggy’s.” I implied menace.

“Oh, okay. When was this?” When I told her the time period I was interested in, she shook her head. “Sorry. We erase everything after twenty-four hours if nothing happens so the hard drive or whatever doesn’t get all filled up.”

I sighed. “Did you happen to be on night before last? Between nine thirty and ten thirty?”

This time, a nod. “Yeah, I did a double, because Raul had the flu, although I think he was faking it.”

“You remember a Volvo station wagon coming in around that time? Silver or gray, I think.”

“You’re kidding, right? I couldn’t even tell you what kind of car you’re driving, and it’s sitting out there right now.”

I thanked her, paid for the Mars bar, and left. I was doing up my seat belt when I thought I noticed an old silver Hyundai with tinted windows parked on the other side of Danbury. I was staring at it, wondering if it could be the car that had been following me the night before, when it started up, pulled onto the road, and drove off.

The second gas station was just behind me and across the street. I wheeled out, spent ten seconds tops on the road, then pulled up at another set of pumps. I filled the tank another quarter, which pretty much topped up Donna’s car, and scanned the area for cameras at the same time. When I went inside, I didn’t bother buying another candy bar.

“I am very sorry, sir, but our cameras are not even working,” said the East Indian man at the cash register when I asked him about seeing surveillance footage. “They are still up there to scare the customers, but we do not record anything.”

I asked him if he had any memory of a silver or gray Volvo wagon from two nights ago.

“I was not on,” he said.

“Who was here that night?”

“Samuel. He was here. But I can guarantee you he did not see a thing.”

“Why’s that?”

The man pointed to a stack of skin magazines on the counter behind him, next to a display of cigarettes. “Samuel looks at porn all night and only gets his nose out of the books when there is someone standing right in front of him.”

“I thought everyone looked at porn online now,” I said.

“Samuel is seventy years old. He has never got into the computer thing,” the man said. “I am sorry.”

So was I. It had been a long shot, at best. Time to move on to something that might be more productive.

I got out the number for Hooper Gardening and dialed. I asked the woman who answered for the owner/manager, and she said Bill Hooper was out of the office. I gave her my number and she said she would have him return my call.

“How soon will he get back to me?” I asked.

“Beats me,” she said.

I couldn’t sit around doing nothing, so I drove to Patchett’s. It wasn’t even nine thirty, and the place was dead. They opened at eleven thirty for lunch. The front door was locked, but I found a service door open around back, and two men were in the kitchen, getting things ready for the day.

“I was looking for Ms. Pearce,” I said.

“She doesn’t come in until the afternoon,” one said. “Maybe two or three.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I supposed that when you ran an establishment like Patchett’s, it was the evening hours when you most needed to be around. Once I was back in the car, I looked up her home address on my phone. There was only one Pearce listed for Griffon, on Windermere Drive, which was on the road heading north out of town.

It was a house I’d driven past a hundred times, but had never known who lived there. What had always caught my eye about it was that it was an imposing structure. It sat up from the road on a gentle hill, surrounded by trees. The homes were well spaced, a good hundred feet between them. The place had something of a plantation feel to it. Two stories, a broad porch with thick, sturdy columns, white wood furniture with colorful cushions. The grass was overgrown, but other than that, the property was well tended. A tan Ford Crown Victoria sat in the drive.

I parked behind it, got out, and walked up the porch steps. From this vantage point, you could see down into Griffon, rooftops, a church steeple. Sitting out here, I could imagine myself presiding over it. This would have been a better house for Bert Sanders.

I knocked on the heavy wood door, heard footsteps approaching.

The door opened about six inches, and Phyllis Pearce’s face was framed between it and the jamb.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Pearce?” I said. “You remember me? We spoke the other—”

“Oh yes, Mr. Weaver.” She opened the door wider. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. Sorry to bother you so early. Patchett’s must keep you working most nights.”

“It does. I’m often there till ten or eleven, even midnight, but I still wake up at six. Harder to sleep in when you’re older. What do you want, Mr. Weaver?”

“I’m betting you’ve heard about Hanna Rodomski.”

Her face darkened. “I have. Horrible. A horrible, horrible thing.”

“I was the one who discovered her body under the bridge and—would you mind if I stepped in?”

“Why don’t we sit outside?” she said. “It’s a nice day.” Phyllis stepped out onto the porch and we each settled into a white chair. “That must have been awful to come upon. Her body like that.”

“I was looking for Claire Sanders when I was at Patchett’s last night. It was important to me to find her then, but it’s far more urgent now in light of Hanna’s death. Her father’s asked me to find her. Once I have, and made sure she’s okay, I’ll be asking if she has any idea who might have killed Hanna.”

Pearce nodded. “Of course. But what brings you to my door?”

“Last night I got the impression not much happens in this town you don’t know about. And you invited me to come back if I had any questions.”

A weary smile. “I did, didn’t I? I doubt I know anything useful, but if you have something you want to ask me, go ahead.”

“Did you ever notice Claire around Patchett’s with a young man named Dennis Mullavey? He might have stood out some. He’s black, and Griffon’s not exactly Motown.”

Phyllis pursed her lips. “Maybe. But I think you’re being a little unfair about Griffon. There are plenty of people of color living here. There’s Dr. Kessler, for example. She’s the coroner around here.”

“Yes, I know her. So did you ever see Claire and Dennis Mullavey?”

“I might have.”

“I have a call in to who I think he worked for, but do you have any idea where he was from? He’s not a Griffonite.” I smiled. “Is that we call ourselves? Griffonites? Sounds like something that grows in a cave.”

“I’ve always said ‘Griffoner.’ I’m not always crazy about being a Griffoner, but it beats being a New Yorker.”

“The traffic’s better,” I said. “Anyway, he wasn’t from around here, but I’d like to know where home is for him.”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“I was thinking he might have put drinks on his credit card at Patchett’s. You might have receipts. If I got a number, I could check with the credit card company, maybe track him down that way.”

“And why are you looking for him, exactly?”

“He was Claire’s boyfriend. Claire’d been going out with Roman Ravelson, but broke off with him to go out with Dennis. But then Dennis up and left town a few weeks ago, breaking up with Claire at the same time. She was pretty upset about it. I’m wondering if they got back together, if she might have gone looking for him.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I was trying to think of what would make a young girl take off. I can only come up with two things: fear or love.”

Phyllis Pearce gave that some thought. “So if she disappeared to be with Dennis, it was love. But what would she have been fearful of?”

“This trouble between her father and the chief. It’s been pretty stressful in that household.”

“Or maybe the ex-boyfriend,” Phyllis said.

“Roman?”

“We’ve had to throw him out of Patchett’s once or twice. Of course, seems we end up throwing every young man out at some point.”

“You think Claire could have been scared of Roman?”

“Who knows? As for Mr. Mullavey, I think you may have overestimated my knowledge of what goes on around here. I don’t know anything about the young man, I’m afraid.”

“Bert Sanders is calling everyone he can think of who might know where Claire has gone. You have any ideas?”

She shrugged.

“Did you know that Hanna and her boyfriend, Sean Skilling, were delivering booze for Roman Ravelson?”

That made her sit up. “I’m impressed,” she said. “You really are starting to find out how Griffon operates.”

“Roman’s old enough to buy the product, and Sean and Hanna were delivering, and far outside the town limits. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, am I?”

“Yes and no,” she said. “I didn’t know Sean and Hanna were involved.”

“But you knew about Roman.”

She nodded.

“That bother you?”

“Bother me?” Phyllis said. “Does my place look like it’s suffering? You come in there any night of the week, the place is hopping. If Roman wants to help out a few home parties, I couldn’t care less about it. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Weaver?”

“No, you’ve been most generous with your time.” I surveyed the porch and the surroundings. “This is a beautiful house, and a gorgeous location. You’ve lived here long?”

“My first husband and I bought this house in the early eighties. Had to do a lot of work on it over the years. When I met Harry, he moved in with me.”

“You decided to hang on to it after he passed away.” Seven years ago, I recalled her saying.

“That’s right.” Phyllis Pearce smiled wryly at me. “Everyone knows the story, but if you moved here six years ago, you probably don’t.”

I nodded. “You’re right.”

She had to collect herself. “Harry could be so stupid. He was a damn fool, is what he was. Late one night, he gets it in his head to go fishing. He hitches the boat—just a fourteen-foot aluminum thing with a ten-horsepower motor bolted to the back of it—to the car and drives down to Niagara Falls, finds a place to launch the boat just off the Robert Moses Parkway, and out he goes, less than a mile upriver from the falls.”

Pearce took another moment, steeled herself. “He had to have been drinking. There’s no question in my mind. If he’d been sober he’d have had the presence of mind to have some oars in the boat, and make sure he had a full tank of gas. He got out there, buzzing around, and the tank ran empty. Motor died on him. Couldn’t get it started. And the current started taking him away, over into the Canadian channel, and then over Horseshoe Falls.”