Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) (10 page)

“Thank you for offering, Sarah.” I was somewhat impressed that she remembered my name, but didn’t show it (
I generally don’t show any emotions, except for those I’m trying to show, and I’m pretty bad at that
). “I’ve already had breakfast. I was hoping to speak with Anthony, or Mr. Crocker, or Mrs. Crocker, if she’s up and receiving visitors.”

“Were they expecting you?” she asked, starting to look/sound a little nervous now, at the potentially unwelcome person in the Topsail Main Lodge.

“No, but it’s related to what we were talking about yesterday. Kitty’s daughter’s disappearance.” I had guessed that an unguarded sharing of Crocker family business would send her fleeing the room, and I was correct. I had a few minutes of uninterrupted quiet in that spectacular room, sharing it with nobody except for a slightly dusty moosehead whose left glass eye was canted a few degrees upwards. I admired the cool and solid and heavy feeling Stickley table briefly, standing up to get a feel for its heft (
a useless exercise, I have no idea how much it weighed, only that it was more than I could move in the slightest
). In a perfect world, I would have a table such as this to spread my research materials out on when working a case; but that would require expanding my offices into the next space, and Maurice, my landlord, would have to reinforce his building to support the furniture (
even assuming a way could be found to get the table up there … maybe remove a wall?).

“Tyler, what do you need?” Anthony strode into the room wearing a similar suit to the previous day’s, but a slightly flashier tie. His tone seemed to suggest annoyance at speaking to a minion who has overstepped in some elementary manner.

“Anthony. What do you do for Mrs. Crocker … for the Crocker family?” I countered.

He was instantly flustered, and checked/adjusted his tie and heavy sterling cufflinks for a moment before getting his tone and stare back into place. “A variety of things, none of which I can discuss with you.”

“Yup, you’re likely helping Kitty get her affairs in order, as she expects to die soon. You look too young to be handling all of the Crocker assets, so I would bet that you’re an entry-to-mid-level cog/wonk/stepinfetchit sent up as a favor to the family and Kitty by the senior partner, who actually does know them, and might have a vacation place over in Placid. Am I close?” His silence was answer enough. I could see/feel that I was being pointlessly/needlessly antagonistic with someone who might end up being a gatekeeper for vital information/resources at some point in my investigation. I was treating Anthony poorly for no reason beyond some excess stress bleeding off from the unpleasantness at Donaldson’s, combined with uncomfortable/ unpleasant feelings and associations from dealing with similar legal minions at earlier times in my life (
most particularly in the days and weeks after the death of my parents, while settling their affairs
).

“I don’t need anything tricky … or bank-y. I need a few pictures of Deirdre Crocker that were taken as close to her abduction as possible, during the summer of 1958 if they have them. I would prefer to get at least one of each of the following: a close up full frontal shot of her face, a picture of her sitting, one standing, and a group shot with her and some friends/family; I assume that in most of those pictures she would be dressed in casual clothes, but if possible, I also need one of her in a bathing suit. Do you need to write this down?” I was being mean, but it wouldn’t kill him, or me (
he was, after all, a wonk
), and my assumption, based on similar interactions in the past was that he would strive to do what I wanted quickly and with precision, to show me up.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Tyler’s fine, Anthony,” I said, aiming for faux-graciousness, but probably coming off as sincere … I stink at tonal inflection and manipulation, but refuse to give up trying. “Insofar as they are able, could you have them identify people that they recognize in the photos, and include that information on a separate sheet of paper?”

“Will you be waiting, or should I have them sent, or bring them around, to your office in Saranac Lake?”

“I’ll wait, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Mr. Crocker is in with Mrs. Crocker just now; we’ve been going over some of her ‘affairs,’ as you say, and they may be ready to take a break and focus on other things. I believe that she has a number of albums in her rooms. Would you like to wait here?”

“All things being equal, I’d love to see the boathouse, although to be fair, I’m not sure that it will help me with what I’m doing for Kitty.” He winced each time I used the familiar name, which oddly evoked a desire to keep doing it (
and I’m not normally one to play with my food … again, I blamed the old men at Donaldson’s and my past associations with other ‘Anthonies’
).

“Certainly … Tyler. I’ll look for you there, then.” He went back out through the kitchen, and I topped up my cranberry juice, and meandered down towards the boathouse, walking up the stairs that we had skipped in my previous tour.

Within five seconds of walking in, the boathouse was my favorite feature of Camp Topsail (
I momentarily wondered how long it would take them to notice my moving in, permanently
). It was a single big room, 40 feet on a side, with windows on all sides, and comfy looking couches and reading chairs arranged so as to divide the space into a couple of ‘rooms’. There were bookshelves lining the walls, between each set of windows on the three sides not facing Upper Saranac Lake. The lakeside was all glass, from waist-height to the ceiling, with a set of French doors in the middle that opened on a porch with clumps of rockers and other chairs and a few low tables, with flower pots filled with flowering red geraniums along the railing. (
I could picture Kitty Crocker sitting at one end in her rocker, watching Dee and her ‘beau’ enjoying some quiet time together on the dock
). The door came in through the back right corner of the boathouse; there was a huge stone fireplace in the center of the back wall, and the back left corner was devoted to games; board games were on bookshelves and tables, and there was a bumper pool table. The room smelled of dust and old books and pipe smoke and caramel popcorn and old woodsmoke and fine bourbon (
which, like pipe smoke, I don’t enjoy myself, but find the scents comforting and home-ifying
). There was no bathroom or running water, but such a minor shortcoming could certainly be overlooked … at least by me.

I scanned the bookshelves on my way around the room, selected a copy of “Canoeing the Adirondacks with Nessmuk,” pushed through the screen doors leading out onto the deck and dropped down into one of the rockers facing Green Island. There was a table waiting for my glass when I reached to put it down. I could hear the drone of motorboats and jet skis off to either side of me, but there was a clear view of water and mountains in front of me (
Boot Bay, Ampersand, Scarface, and MacKenzie … with Whiteface and some others in the distance
). A pair of loons was working the shallow water in close to shore, fishing and enjoying the summer, as I was. I’d read the book before, so opened to a random spot to begin reading, enjoying the feeling of this old camp around me while I read about Nessmuk, a flatlander who fit himself into the Adirondacks, not the other way around.

A short while later, I could feel someone moving through the space behind me, trying to be quiet, but unable to avoid shifting the old building slightly with each step. I let them sneak up on me, and such was my serenity that ghost-Barry didn’t appear with me on the porch, squished into one of the chairs, to lecture me about sitting with my back to an entrance. My money was either on a caretaker I’d seen ea
rlier, or Anthony, with the pictures. A few seconds before he pushed open the door, a breeze wafted the smells of cologne and collar starch and a bit of hospital, not cigarettes and combustion byproducts and deet, so I was able to ruin his surprise just before he delivered.

“Hi, Anthony. Were they able to find what I needed?”

“Yes, they were, and they hope that you’ll get these back to them after you’re done.”

“Let me see what you’ve got,” I said, and dragged the table so that it would be more usefully in front of my chair, moving my now empty juice glass to the side.

He laid down a pile of pictures, which I shuffled into the four basic groups that I had asked for: close-up, sitting, standing, and group. Being a consulting detective, I was able to deduce the common element/girl in each of the pictures, and selected a few from each pile that seemed to best represent her look/pose/poise/manner. As I had suspected, most pictures were mid-to-late 1950s casual, but I made a point of including a picture in fancy dress and one of her in a modest two-piece bathing suit (
which probably seemed racy back then, and Barry’s voice in the back of my head categorized as boring
). Anthony passed me a sheet of paper ripped from a yellow legal pad with description of where and when the pictures were taken (
I had noted that some of the photos had this information neatly penciled on the back, some did not
), and identifying some of the people in the pictures, by their clothing or location in the picture.

“I assume that you have an iPhone5, Anthony, or some analogous high-end phone?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“Can you take the highest quality pictures possible of the pictures I’ve selected with your phone, and send them to my email address?” I asked, laying the pictures out on the table in the order that his notes had been taken, circling the ones I’d used. Anthony saw what I was doing and took the pictures in order, pausing between each one to tell me which .jpg number went with which description; we had finished inside a minute.

“Thank you very much. I know this is not what you are paid to do, and I have no further need or wish to waste your time Anthony,” I said, handing the pictures back to him, and pocketing his notes (
gleaned, I assumed from Mike and Kitty Crocker’s memories
).

“I was surprised at how many names they could come up with, given how long a time has passed since those days,” Anthony observed, with a friendlier tone in his voice than I’d noted before.

“They’ve obsessed about that day, and everything that happened directly before it for decades; I bet they remember things from that night in better detail than what they had for lunch two days ago … it’s the way human brains work.”

“She’s been decent, him too; more than they needed to. They’ve stretched my stay up here to give me some paid vacation time away from Manhattan. If you get stuck on something that I can help with, just ask.” He smiled, and I gave him my attempt at a mirroring shaping of facial muscles; it may have worked partially.

“You’re from the city originally. They were talking about you last night a bit, that you weren’t born here.” It is amazing to me that I still hold membership in the club, just because I was born on the island of Manhattan (
St. Lukes Hospital, so barely
), but I do. “Why … how did you settle up here, doing this?”

“Where were you on 9/11, Anthony?” I asked.

“Stuyvesant. It was a messed up day; I walked home, took me hours.”

“Me too … walked home, I mean. I was on my way to MOMA, when it happened. I walked home, and waited for my parents to call or email. They worked in the WTC, both of them, one in each of the towers.” I said this and tried one of my newer, wry and self-deprecating smiles, to show that I was explaining, not looking for pity.

“Anyway, thank you for all of your help, Anthony. Here’s my card; it’s got my email address and a phone number, in case you or one of the Crockers needs to get in touch with me.” I stood up and got out of the chair, knees cracking, replaced the book in the proper place, brought my glass back up to the main lodge, and headed back out again … without ever having seen Mike or Kitty Crocker (
it occurred to me that although they wanted my services, that actually seeing me might not be desirable/comfortable for either of them, for various reasons
).

I was just pulling out of the Topsail gate when my newest burner-phone rang; it was Frank’s number … that was quick. “Hello, Frank. What can I do for you?” I knew, because he was calling the phone that I’d bought at Kinney’s yesterday afternoon, instead of the one I’d been using for an unusually long three months.

“What the hell are you doing poking into the Crocker thing?” He, or someone, had made a leap, because my flier had specifically not mentioned the Crockers, so that I could gauge the signal strength of any response (
from an informational echolocation standpoint);
this therefore represented a strong return, both in terms of specificity and speed (
since I’d only sent the emails/FB stuff this morning, and posted the fliers 107 minutes ago
).

“I can tell you all about it when we meet for lunch at … Mountain Mist, say 1:15, if you can hold out that long,” I suggested.

“Sounds good, Tyler. I’ll see you then, and don’t stick your nose in, anywhere, or piss anybody off between now and then.”

“No promises, Frank. You never can tell where a favor for a friend is going to lead.” This would likely get him sputtering, as he has been pushing me lately to abandon my consulting detective hobby. He had no idea how rough it had gotten in the past, but he and his wife Meg think of me as a gifted toddler who wandered into a big kids’ pickup game, in which I don’t entirely understand the rules. They’re not entirely wrong, but I have found that I enjoy the game, regardless (
or perhaps because
) of the challenges/risks inherent in playing this sort of game.