There was an Old Woman (8 page)

When I parked behind the office and came up the alley breathing heavily, Kogan was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I walked past him and unlocked the office door. He followed me in.

“So, Mr. Cooperman, what have you found out?”

“I don't usually report whenever a client drops in, Kogan. Besides, didn't you tell me that you weren't interested in my services?”

“I only meant I can't afford to pay you. I didn't say I didn't need your help,” he protested. Kogan grinned. Even he could see the funny side, and he was straight enough to let me see that he recognized hypocrisy as well as the next man.

“How far does that argument get you at the liquor store?”

“There's a branch where I get credit.”

“Credit! I don't believe you. Booze is strictly cash and carry.”

“Except when I deal with Norton. Norton's an old school friend. It's a question of the old school tie. That's what private schools are all about. It's a brotherhood, really.” I'd heard that Kogan had attended Cranmer College on the other side of the canal, but from the look of him now, you wouldn't believe it. Even in a blazer and flannels, he didn't have the look of a Cranmer old boy.

“Kogan, you have a way with everybody. How come you haven't figured me out yet?”

“I don't know what you mean, Mr. Cooperman. What you're doing on the Lizzy Oldridge case—”

“You got a name for it already. Good. Keep going.”

“—is for her, not for me. You would have liked her. She had a swell voice.”

“Great! Too bad she didn't think enough of it to play up to some of the people who tried to help her.

“She had an independent streak.”

“You're telling me!” I walked around and sat behind my desk. “Kogan,” I said, “I don't know any more about your friend than you can see in the paper. Thurleigh Ramsden doesn't come off as a hero, but he won't land in jail. He's covered his tracks too well. The question that's bothering me, Kogan, is why did Ramsden do this to Lizzy Oldridge? Why did she trust him with her money and her life and why did he take her on?”

“They both belong to the Bede Bunch.”

“The what?”

“The Guild of the Venerable Bede. It's a place for people to go who want to listen to patriotic speeches and then have an old-fashioned ‘Knees up, Mother Brown.'”

“Sorry, Kogan. I don't follow.”

“It's mostly old dears like Lizzy, you know; getting on and remembering the old country through rose-coloured glasses. They sing the old songs, salute the flag and toast the Queen on her birthday.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Well, if you ask me, the old country never did all that much for them and half of them have forgotten what it
was like over there. They give themselves airs, talk about the UK as though a bottle of milk never went sour on a window-sill. Some of them are harmless, but there are a few like Ramsden, who think this country's going soft because it did away with the noose and lash. They need their heads examined.”

“Apart from that, Kogan, it doesn't sound like they eat their young. This is still a free country. You can join the Flat Earth Society if you want to.” Kogan gave me a look. He wasn't convinced. “Apart from wringing its hands at the creeping disintegration of society, Kogan, what else does the Guild of the Venerable Bede do?”

“Sponsor scholarships for poor bluebloods.”

“Is it a wealthy organization?”

“Lizzy could have told you. You better ask Mr. Ramsden. He's the executive officer.”

“Have you any idea why Ramsden singled Lizzy out, Kogan? There were other old-timers. Was Lizzy richer than the others?”

“None of 'em is rich. Lizzy had her own place, that's all. She had a few dollars put by, like you heard at the inquest. And the house is worth something, being downtown and all.”

“I still don't—”

“The thing about Lizzy is that she did everything her own way She never listened to advice; she never would have taken it. She had her own ways for everything.”

“I had a look at that house of hers.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't see that in
House Beautiful.”

“Who holds the mortgage on it? Do you know?”

“Oh, there's no mortgage. Lizzy didn't hold with mortgages. She paid that off years ago.”

“So Ramsden, as executor, passes on her house to the Bede Bunch.”

“Yeah, that's about the size of it.”

“But he's part of the executive, isn't he? Wouldn't he have some say in what happens to the property?”

“Place like that needs a lot of upkeep. Could become the international headquarters of the Bede Bunch.”

Kogan went on talking, but I tuned him out. Slowly I was becoming aware that there was an unusual situation developing on Brogan Street. For the first time within living memory a big, established business, Foley Bros., closes down. At the other end of the street, a pub that has been doing a fair business over the years prepares to close down in the New Year. In between, the Oldridge property has passed into the hands of a hang-'em, flog-'em outfit that has resisted every innovation since the invention of the wheel. I didn't know borscht about real-estate values in Grantham, but I had a good nose and it told me to find out more about this nearly forgotten strip of land behind St. Andrew Street. Something was going on. I knew that much.

“… so I spent a couple of hours fixing it.”

“What? Fixing what, Kogan?”

“The back fence. At Lizzy's place. She wouldn't have me working underfoot in the house, so I propped up the fence for her. Least I could do.”

“Kogan, I sure would appreciate your spending some time with the plumbing in the little room down the hall. If you listen closely, you can hear it singing to us. Please, Kogan! It's driving away my business. I'm on my knees, Kogan!” Kogan retreated, embarrassed at my unmanly show of emotion. Whether he got anywhere near the toilet, I don't know. But I hoped.

TEN

I made a few phonecalls. In each case, at the last minute I chickened out of saying what was on my mind. There was something wrong. Mind you, I'm not badmouthing my contacts: they've done the firm some service. I won't say a word against them. But, in each case I decided that I would be starting a rumour trail that would lead back to me. So, I dropped around to Scarp Enterprises just before lunch and caught Martha Tracy coming out the big glass door.

“Benny! As I live and breathe! I thought you were away for the winter already. I was expecting a card from Miami Beach. Something to brighten up these gloomy days.”

“Are you busy for lunch?”

“Now I am. Where shall we go? I've only got about forty-five minutes. Benny,” she said smiling, “you're looking well, you little devil! Have you sold your soul for a good complexion? Is that your secret?”

We walked up to the end of James Street and then west on St. Andrew. We found a place for two in the centre area of the Di, where a stained-maple partition separated us from a couple of teenagers and their Cokes. I
ordered my usual, accepting Martha's banter of abuse after she gave her own order to the waitress. While we waited for our sandwiches, I told her about the last six months of my life and heard about her difficulties with a tree that is dying at the corner of her lawn on Monck Street.

“I had Dr. Bett, next door, put cement into the hole, but it didn't do any good.”

“You got a specialist?”

“Dr. Bett is a doctor of music at Cranmer College,” she explained. “He's only an amateur gardener, but I'm impressed by anyone who has a load of manure delivered every autumn. It has a serious look about it. And I've seen him weeding his lawn for hours at a time. He doesn't know the meaning of ‘quittin' time.' The only lawn to beat Dr. Bett's is Mr. Hill's, the vicar at the English church on Lisgar Street.”

“Martha …”

“Here it comes!” She leaned forward and looked pleased.

“What?”

“Benny, I knew you didn't just happen to run into me. You've got another problem. I know it. Don't lie to me.”

“It's not a problem. And I was thinking about you anyway.”

“Oh, sure. You and a million others. Okay, Cooperman, let's have it.”

“Martha,” I began, swallowing the last of the first half of my chopped-egg sandwich, “I have to find out whether
somebody is putting together a series of properties behind St. Andrew Street.”

“Hmmmm. You came to the right place, Cooperman. I'm up on all the information. I should have held you up for a fancy lunch in that seafood restaurant near the market. But I've only got another twenty minutes and I hate to rush a lobster.”

“I'm all ears, Martha.”

“When aren't you? I wonder if people can see the wheels going around inside me as easily as I see them going around inside others?”

“You're fey, Martha. It's the little people's way of thanking you for not disturbing their crock of gold.”

Martha took a long sip of her coffee and then settled back against the much-initialled panel behind her. “When Foley Bros. went out of business, Benny, a lot of people started thinking about the properties on Brogan Street. You had Foley's on one side and the backs of other places across the street. And there's the Nag's Head at the corner and an old cottage belonging to that—”

“Lizzy Oldridge.”

“That's right! Well, when we noticed the pattern here at Scarp Enterprises, we soon discovered that Foley's had sold to Steve Morella and the Nag's Head was in the process of being acquired by … guess who? Steve Morella. Morella was in there before anyone knew the properties were for sale. I heard that about a year ago he found out that Foley's was only ordering stock up to August. That's what tipped him off.”

“Who is this Morella? I thought I knew everybody in town.”

“Remember the ‘Stop Me and Buy' truck that used to sell French fries at the corner of Queen and St. Andrew?”

“Sure. But that's going back a long way.”

“While you've been walking with your head in the clouds, Benny. Steve Morella traded in his truck for a restaurant across from the Lincoln Theatre.”

“I think I remember that. Sure.” It was the same sunny face over the frying vats. I could see it clearly. “So, what are you telling me, Martha?”

“Benny, Steve Morella has expanded and expanded since those days. You've heard of Frenchie's Fries, I presume? Well, Frenchie is Steve. He must bank at least a quarter of a million every week—what with the US and trans-Canada sales.”

“And it all started with nickels and dimes and a ‘Stop Me and Buy' truck?”

“Makes you think, doesn't it?” We both thought about it for about ten seconds. Then Martha added: “Benny, not only has Steve assembled a food chain that ranks with McDonald's and Wendy's, but he's into real estate and even film production. He's got a finger in a lot of pies and they all come up ‘finger-lickin' good.'”

“My memory of Morella is of a big, wide face under a blond military haircut. Is that Steve Morella?”

“That's him. He comes from the north of Italy. Not all Italians are Mediterranean types, Benny, just as all Italian cooking isn't done with tomato sauce.”

“Martha, if that's an invitation to dinner, I accept.” She gave me a dirty look. To change the subject back again, I asked: “Where does he do his business?”

“In the Venezia Block. He owns it. You know, the building that replaced the old post office on Queen?”

“‘Venezia.' He comes from Venice, right?”

“Right neighbourhood, wrong street. Ever hear of Friuli? He knows a lot about fine Italian wines.”

“And he's assembling a group of properties around Brogan Street. Why?”

“He calls it the ‘Backstreet Revival.' That's his way of saying that he's going to revitalize the space between Queen and James. He's going to build new stores along the north side and try to force the St. Andrew Street property owners to fix up the backs of their places, add rear entrances to their stores and so on. The centre of the project is an office tower that will go up as high as the city will let him build. It'll be the highest building on the peninsula, higher than Brock's Monument. We're talking big bucks, Benny.”

“Is Morella in this all by himself?”

“Steve doesn't work any other way His is a private company. That way there's no annual general meeting, no chairman of the board, no public access. That's the way he wants it.”

“What's he like?”

“Steve? He likes to pretend that all this hasn't happened to him. That he's still unspoiled by his money. It's true in a way, but, come on, get real, he's loaded. He can
buy and sell half the town. He's always been a loner, but since Sue Ellen left him, he's become a hermit crab.”

“Sue Ellen?”

“It was a messy divorce, Benny. Few years ago. That's when Claudia, their daughter, moved out. Put herself through law school. Bright kid, but she has a thing about fathers. Who's to blame her, after what Steve tried to do to Sue Ellen and then what Sue Ellen did to Steve.”

“Are you writing a soap opera, Martha, or are you playing games with me?”

“Word of honour, Benny. I wouldn't kid you. Sue Ellen took a very fat half of Steve's assets when she left town. He's still as bitter as a February frost about it. Claudia's coming home helped, but not much. He goes away in the winters when he can. He likes buying vineyards in France and Italy. That's his way of easing the pain. Ha! But I think he's still around. Myrna Yates said she had lunch with him a couple of days ago. What's this all about, Benny?”

“Oh, it's just some work I've been doing to bribe the caretaker at my office to fix the toilet. His old girl-friend owned the property that lies between Foley's and The Nag's Head.”