Don't Dare a Dame (13 page)

   
“I need you to do something that’ll help more. We’ll use part of that plan of yours, though.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll explain tomorrow — once I’ve gotten everything you’ll need.”

   
“Equipment?” He’d been looking down in the mouth, but that perked him up.

   
“I guess you could call it that. Right now you can help me with something else. When I leave here, watch out the window and see if anyone follows me. Not necessarily anyone from the place you just visited.”

   
His face grew sober.

   
“You in some kind of danger, sis?”

   
“Nah.” I slid out of my chair and winked. “Just may have an admirer I don’t want.” I picked up my purse. “Don’t forget to get over to The Good Neighbor and ask for Clarice. Tell her I said put a pair of shoes for you on my tab.”

***

   
Heebs and I had met up so soon after my visit to Cy that I’d had no chance to think about what I’d learned. As I walked back to my office, I began to put that to rights .

   
I’d learned Cy knew about Alf’s love nest, for one thing. Maybe he’d only heard about the set-up second hand, but I was willing to bet a dime or two he’d had more contact with Alf than he admitted.

   
Maybe a lot more.

   
I wondered whether he might be the friend Alf was talking to in the back yard that night when two little girls were listening up in the tree house.

   
I also wondered whether the conversation the Vanhorn sisters had overheard that night was as sinister as they’d imagined.

   
When I’d removed my hat and had a cone of water from the cooler at the end of the hall, I began to update my notes. Most still went on a typed page, but now I also had a single hand- written page I kept beneath my typewriter when I went out. I started one when a case began to turn risky or odd, just in case anyone decided to snoop in my office, which had happened at least a couple of times. It had names and tidbits I wanted to keep close to my chest while I decided whether they mattered or not. The notes on it switched back and forth between English and Latin, in part because not many people inclined toward burglary would understand Latin, and in part because keeping my skills up to snuff was fun. If anyone invested muscle enough to lift the heavy old Remington, they’d be more irritated than enlightened by what they found.

   
Looking over my two lists of what I knew so far, one ugly little gap stuck out its tongue at me. It galled me I couldn’t find out more about Alf’s so-called suicide. Had the homicide boys decided yet if it was one?

   
Maybe I’d have to bat my lashes at Connelly. Now that I thought about it, he’d promised me a favor. Except I owed him one first, and I’d forgotten it.

   
I reached for my telephone book and flipped though pages to find the one I wanted. As I started to lift the receiver, the phone rang under my fingers.

   
“Hello? Hello?” The voice in my ear was hysterical. “Maggie? Are you there?”

   
“Isobel?” I said uncertainly. “What—”

   
“Help me! Please, you’ve got to help me!”

   
“Isobel, what is it? What’s the matter?”

   
“Corrine....” She hiccuped with fear. “They’ve taken — Someone’s taken Corrine!”

Fifteen

   
I drew a breath, trying to make out what she was telling me.

   
“Isobel, what do you mean? Who’s taken her? Where?”

   
“
I don’t know!
” She sobbed once, but struggled and managed to keep on talking. “I got a call at work. Someone — a man — said they had my sister. He told me to go home and wait if I wanted to see her again. He said if I told the police, they’d — they’d—”

   
“Are you at home now?”

   
“Y-yes. And she’s not here!”

   
“I’m on my way.”

   
I shoved my page of notes beneath the Remington and retrieved my .38.

   
My brain raced faster than the DeSoto as I made for the Vanhorn house, so I’d gone at least three blocks before I noticed the gray Ford behind me. It was an older model with headlights still on stalks. The left one was slightly out of alignment. Spotting it, I uttered a string of words which if overheard would have caused Mrs. Z to kick me out permanently.

   
Maybe it was just someone heading home, doing business, something innocent. To test the theory, I went another block and turned right. At the first opportunity, I pulled to the curb and unfolded a map. Rarely did I use it to find streets, but it made handy window dressing.

   
The Ford rolled slowly past and continued until it found its own place to park. I ground my teeth. I didn’t have time to play these games. Isobel was waiting. As soon as I had a chance, I eased back into traffic. All I could determine as I passed the Ford was that the driver appeared to be on the short side, and somewhat fleshy. He pulled out after me.

   
Circling, I got back on Brown with the gray Ford hanging back two cars behind me. I had a plan now. I dawdled until the car between us became impatient and passed me. Burns Avenue was just ahead. I slowed some. Sped up as I neared the intersection. Waited until the last minute. Then I cranked the wheel hard and shot left on Burns without sticking my arm out to signal a turn.

   
Behind me I heard brakes squeal. The rearview mirror provided a fleeting view of the intersection, just long enough to assure me my tag-along had come to a stop rather than risk being broadsided by the car I’d seen approaching.

   
With luck the driver of the Ford would think I was headed for Percy Street. If this had anything to do with that location, which seemed increasingly likely. I turned sharply into an alley, and watched in the mirror as the Ford went past at a clip that suggested he’d taken my bait.

   
I made my way to the Vanhorn place without picking up my shadow again and without any sign of him when I turned into their street. Before I got halfway up the walk, Isobel threw open the door. Her curly brown hair was disheveled, as if she’d been crumpling it with her hands. I could see she’d been crying.

   
“Why would anyone do this?” she burst out. “
Why?
To a woman who can’t even see? It’s... it’s....”

   
Taking her elbow, I steered her gently back inside.

   
“They’re trying to scare you,” I said.

   
Or me, I thought grimly.

   
Someone didn’t want any more digging into what had happened on Percy Street the day John Vanhorn had disappeared. Maybe they wanted to scare the Vanhorn sisters into dropping any further inquiry. Or maybe, having failed to scare me off with the threat on my license — and possibly the attack in the parking lot — they’d made an innocent woman a pawn to dissuade me. If that was their plan, it was much more effective than anything else they were likely to try.

   
Right now the only thing I could afford to think about was finding Corrine. Her sister refused to leave the hall, where she could reach their telephone in a flash. We stood there while I had her go through every detail, starting with the phone call.

   
“And you’re certain it couldn’t have been Neal?” I asked when she’d finished.

   
“Heavens no!” She looked at me in horror. “He has a short fuse, but he’d never do anything like this. Besides, I’d recognize his voice even if he disguised it.”

   
Having played some roles on the phone in my time, I wasn’t so sure. Still, I didn’t see what Neal had to gain. Especially since I’d already established he couldn’t have been the eavesdropper that first day I came to this house.

   
“I’m afraid they’ve already hurt her,” said Isobel lapsing into sobs. She gestured toward the parlor, unable to speak.

   
I went into the room where I’d sat on my first visit. A lamp was broken. A chair near the door was turned over. The gleaming poker from the stand beside the fireplace now lay on the floor at least six feet away.

   
“They didn’t even let her take her cane,” said Isobel looking in from the hallway. Her voice broke. “She hardly ever used it once she got Giles. But without either one of them, in a strange place, she’ll be utterly helpless!”

   
I eyed the white stick lying on the floor. Had Corrine hurled or brandished it in a futile effort at self-defense? Or had the intruders kicked it aside before she got the opportunity?

   
“They were probably afraid she’d wallop them with it the first chance she got,” I said in hopes of bolstering Isobel’s spirits. “Looks like she put up a pretty good struggle.” There was no sign of blood, which was good, but I didn’t mention that.

   
The phone rang. We both jumped.

   
“Yes?” said Isobel. “Hello?” She tipped the receiver so I could listen.

   
“Isobel? Oh, Isobel! Are you all right?” sobbed a voice.

   
“Corrie! Thank God! Are—”

   
“Come get me! Please come get me! Some awful men took me and drove me around and let me out and — I don’t know where I am!
I don’t know where I am!”

***

   
I drove north against traffic carrying people home after work. Isobel sat white-knuckled beside me, so close to the edge of her seat that she’d go through the windshield if I had to stop fast. A man with a kind voice had taken the phone and told Isobel her sister had found her way into his shop. At first she’d been almost unintelligible, she was so scared. Then she’d calmed down enough to ask him to call. He gave Isobel an address.

   
It could all be a setup.

   
The address took us north of the river to a rough neighborhood of hard work and hard drinking and more than a few shady businesses mixed in with honest ones. In the angle formed by Valley and Keowee, I parked in the first slot I found. Just a few blocks away there were factories and machine shops, scrap yards and auto repair places. This was a commercial district of sorts. Small businesses and eating places were interspersed with boarding houses, private homes and a few beer joints.

   
The shop we’d been directed to sold sewing supplies. One corner showed off a brand new Singer, along with used ones. The rest of the place held bolts of cloth and bobbins and whatnot. Corrine sat next to a small table that held pattern books, her hands knotted tightly together. Almost as soon as we’d stepped in, she seemed to sense her sister’s presence. She sprang to her feet.

   
“Isobel?”

   
Isobel ran to her and they embraced, clinging to one another. Corrine’s fingers dug into her sister’s back so deeply I winced, imagining the welts they would leave.

   
I thanked the balding, bespectacled man who came hastening toward us, and who doubtless was the one who had called.

   
“It’s shameful. Shameful someone would be so cruel to a blind woman,” he said. An accent I associated with Czechs and Poles edged his words.

   
There’d been a few customers in the shop when we entered. Two of them turned from a bolt of cloth to look at the embracing sisters, who were oblivious to them.

   
“Did you see anyone, a car that might have been involved?” I asked. I gave him one of my cards.

   
His eyebrows raised. “No, no one. But my window is small, you see. I don’t see much back where I stand.”

   
He spread his hands, indicating the counter where he cut cloth and rang up sales. A woman I took to be his wife stood there now.

   
“I think they must have pushed her out in the alley,” ventured the man. “We tried to ask her some questions, my wife and I, but she was so...” He hunted for the word. “...agitated. She kept talking about an awful smell and stumbling over things.” His head shook sympathetically.

   
I thanked him again and went over and stopped a few feet away from Corrine.

   
“Corrine, it’s Maggie,” I said softly. “I brought my car. Whenever you’re ready, Isobel and I will take you home.”