Getting Old Is to Die for (15 page)

JERSEY JACK

J
ack hopes he'll find Barbara Sutterfield sitting at a patio table at the rear of the Nabisco factory. The weather is still playing at Indian summer and it's pleasant outdoors. If he's wrong, he'll try the inside cafeteria. He hopes he won't have to do that. Then he might have to go through the rigmarole of the front office and state his business and the probability of being refused admittance. Maybe he'll get lucky back here.

He glances around, assessing what he sees, what he researched about the factory on Route 208. Basic bland nondescript cement building. Supports some nine hundred workers. Been around since 1958, and one of the three largest factories of its kind in the country.

There are fifteen or so people sitting outside, taking their lunch break. They are in groups of two or more. He glances around and sure enough, there is one woman eating alone. If his hunch is right--that's his target.

Her head is leaned back, taking in the sun. Her feet are resting across a second chair. A half-eaten sandwich remains on a piece of Saran wrap. He assumes she's a chain smoker. There's a cigarette in her mouth right now, and a full ashtray. He studies her, waiting until she notices him. She looks about late forties, tall, too thin, long dark hair that seems like it doesn't get to a beauty salon much, if at all. She wears jeans and a T-shirt underneath her white lab coat. There's a weariness reflected in her body language. Her shoulders slump. Her hands hang loosely. Looks as if life hasn't been too good for Barbara Sutterfield, cousin of the elusive Patty Dennison, sole witness to the murder of Jack Gold.

What he's found out about her are two divorces and two young children ages four and eight, from different husbands. They're cared for by a next-door neighbor while she works. A dead-end kind of life.

When she sees Jack standing there, she drops her legs off the chair and narrows her eyes. Her shoulders stiffen. Like an animal sensing danger, she readies for attack.

Time to look menacing. Time to say hello.

"Barbara Sutterfield?"

She shoots him a sardonic smile. "As if you didn't know." Her voice is hoarse from years of nicotine abuse. "You're the busy little beaver cop, asking too many questions all over town."

"That's me."

She grazes her eyes up and down his body. "Aren't you a little old to be playing cops and robbers?" She reminds Jack of wire fencing. Tough. Brittle. Unyielding.

People clammed up at the coffee shop, library, post office, grocery stores. What a tough town. What a tough broad.

"The case I'm on is pretty old, too."

"So I've heard. Ever heard the saying--let sleeping dogs lie?"

"It's a cliche and I don't believe in cliches. Especially when I'm trying to right a very old wrong." He moves closer. "May I sit down?"

She hesitates, and then she shrugs. He pulls over another chair and straddles it.

He sniffs the air. "It's really something the way you can smell the factory blocks away. I bet kids must love smelling chocolate cookies all over town."

"It gets old real fast. After a while the sweetness is sickening."

"May I ask what your job is inside?"

"Not that it's any of your business, I'm in quality control."

"Meaning?"

"I look at every single cookie and pick out the defective ones." She recites in a weary tone as if by rote. "Here's the twenty-five-cent tour. Every cookie formula is a secret. The dough is sent into a hopper, which feeds it into a machine that forms it into a strip. These strips are cut into shapes according to what kind of cookie it is. The whole mess is baked in an enormous walk-in oven. Cookies are cooled, and then decorated. Packaging is done automatically by machines that sort the cookies into bags for sale. We're open twenty-four/seven. Tour's over. Anything else you need to know?" She takes a last puff of her cigarette and glares at him disdainfully.

"Where's Patty Dennison?"

"My cousin's gone." She grinds out her cigarette and immediately lights up another. She makes no attempt to blow her smoke away from Jack.

"So I've been told. Over and over again. I'd almost believe it if everyone didn't say it like some old script they rehearsed. If I got an occasional 'I don't know' or 'Who?' instead of a universal 'Never heard of her,' maybe I'd fall for it. Amazing. I'll say one thing, people here are loyal."

"They should be. My family, what's left of it, which is me, goes way back to the beginnings of this town."

"So I've learned. A family who's worked for Nabisco as many generations as the factory's been here. You're the last of the line. You and your two kids."

She bristles. He's pressed the right button. Unnerve her now. Break the self-control. "You stay away from my kids!" She wraps up what's left of her sandwich and rises.

"Please sit down. I have no intention of interrogating your children."

Barbara sits back down, eyes narrowed, but on the edge of her chair, ready for flight.

"She's quite remarkable, Patty Dennison is. She's managed to live below the radar. No phone. No gas and electric bills. No voting record. No car. No known address. Quite remarkable in this high-speed day and age we live in."

"It's because she's not here anymore."

"So you keep saying. Then where does she live?"

"You don't listen too good. I said she's gone. Gone, like in dead!"

That stops him for a moment. His eyes laser deep into her eyes. "Where's her grave?"

"No grave. She was cremated."

"So, there'll be a death certificate on file, won't there?"

Her eyes twitch the way liars' eyes do. She hesitates a few seconds too long. "Yeah. Somewhere."

By now the lunch hour is over. Jack is aware of people standing up, tossing the remains of their lunches into the trash bins. He feels he will lose her soon. His intensity rises.

"Barbara, you are an intelligent woman, no doubt about that. I commend your loyalty, but you're not a good liar. I know Patty is here. I can almost smell it by the way people avoid me. If she had died, people wouldn't be that jumpy when I confront them. You can make things easier for both of us by telling the truth."

He waits, but Barbara turns her face from him. She pretends to busy herself, sweeping crumbs off the table with her fingers.

"So be it. It will take more time, but I will find her. I'll go back to New York and use FBI computers that are so smart they could sniff out a flea on a moose in Alaska. Then I'll return."

Barbara tries to tough him out, but her drooped shoulders betray her. She cries out, anguished, "Leave it alone. It was forty-five bloody years ago. She's suffered and she died."

"Stick to your story, but there is a woman I love who has suffered as much or even more, not knowing what really happened to her husband that terrible New Year's Eve. So you can see I'm highly motivated to keep going until I find out what I want to know. Maybe Patty might find some peace if she faced me. Maybe she wouldn't have to keep hiding."

Jack gets up. He puts his hand gently on Barbara's shoulder. She flinches. "Please tell her that. I'll be at the motel until eleven tomorrow morning. I'm sure you know which one. If not, ask anybody in Fair Lawn."

He drops his card on the table. "This is my cell number. Call me anytime." He feels Barbara's eyes watching him leave, hears the flick of her lighter as she lights another cigarette. Hopefully, she'll pass his message on to Patty.

25

HERE'S THE DEAL

H
ere's the deal," I tell my girls. "There's only room in the limo for two more people. Of course I have to go, so who's joining me?"

"Limo," says Bella, letting the word roll over her tongue. "I like the sound of that."

We are sitting at our usual picnic table on the Lanai Gardens lawn where we sometimes hold our PI business meetings. I have just informed them that Linda Silverstone has decided to take our advice and face her parents after all. Quite a victory, I feel, because I took a big chance confronting her the way I did. Now I wonder if I should call her parents ahead of time and warn them of the shock that is coming their way. It took too much to get Linda's trust; I don't dare go behind her back. I am very conflicted. And nervous, too.

The sprinklers have only just shut off, so the grass is cool and damp under our feet. Nosy neighbors tend to stroll by, hoping to catch a bit of insider information even though they know we always clam up if anyone gets too close. But that doesn't stop them from trying.

The spying goes both ways. From our vantage point we can see Denny in his beloved garden, weeding happily. In a while Yolie will appear with drinks and sandwiches. He's teaching her English and she's trying to get him to learn a few words in Spanish. That little love affair is still moving along nicely.

And there goes Mary, getting in her car to take Irving to the hospital to visit Millie, even though she hardly recognizes him anymore. The gossip squad is watching this new twosome carefully. They are spending much too much time together and the squad is sniffing out impropriety. Mary and Irving better watch out.

"However, we have to leave for Naples around eight in the morning," I continue.

"I'm not too crazy about getting up that early," says Sophie as she polishes her nails. Today's shade is Passion Plum.

"And the trip will take about three and a half hours each way."

"A seven-hour round trip? Sounding less thrilling, the more you tell us," comments Ida, crocheting as she listens.

Evvie is seated backward on the bench, leaning against the table, with her face lifted up to catch the sun's rays, seemingly not listening. Every so often, Ida looks over at her, checking for reactions. What's going on is this: Ida has been my assistant since Evvie has dropped into her depressive mood. Ida's waiting to see when she'll be replaced again, once Evvie snaps out of it.

"Yeah," agrees Sophie, "my tush would hate all that sitting, but the limo idea, I still like. Maybe they serve champagne in the car?"

I shrug. "We're meant to visit with the Silverstones and have a lovely luncheon prepared for us. As thanks for talking Linda into coming to their big celebration weekend, which starts the day after tomorrow. Linda wanted to do this before all the guests arrive Friday evening. Poor thing, she feels very negative about how they'll respond to her--"

Sophie interrupts. "I love the luncheon part."

I keep on. "...Then we head back home--assuming all goes well with the reunion of Linda and her parents. I'm sure they have a very impressive house. Naples is famous for having lots of rich folks living there."

Sophie sniffs. "Seen one mansion, seen 'em all."

"That's what I always say," says Sophie's shadow, Bella, our recording secretary, who is holding her notebook in case I say something worth recording.

Evvie wheels herself around and addresses me. "You haven't told them the good part yet. About the alligators and the Indians."

Now everyone is alert, staring at Evvie. I guess she's has been paying attention all along.

"What alligators?" Bella whispers, suddenly clutching Sophie's arm.

I try to nip this in the bud. "Come on, you've all lived in Florida for more than twenty-five years, and none of you have ever been on the west coast. There's a beautiful beach there."

Sophie snorts. "We have a beautiful beach here and we never go, so why should we ride in a car three hours to not go to a beach there?"

"How can there be a beach?" Bella wants to know. "The ocean is facing the wrong way."

"That's the Gulf of Mexico," Ida informs her.

"Mexico? Now we're going to Mexico?" Bella says, alarmed.

"Tell them that road is the only way we can get to the west coast, if one is driving." Evvie grins maliciously.

Now all eyes watch me suspiciously.

I sigh. Everything with these girls is always such a big deal. And Evvie is being a troublemaker today. "The fastest way to cross this part of Florida," I say in my best travel guide voice, "is to take Interstate Seventy-five."

"Its nickname being Alligator Alley," says Evvie gleefully.

Naturally Bella and Sophie gasp.