The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) (6 page)

Huh. “What did they change the code to, Kev?”

“Well, my password is ‘HANDYMAN.’”

That was all I needed. Locks are nothing.

After some haggling we settled on Cruella for Muriel and Wheels for Vera, and for no reason at all, Kevin insisted that he now be referred to as the Eagle. I was Bo, as in Peep.

As I watched Kev and the signora pile back into the Caddy and rocket down the street, I wondered what we had all gotten ourselves into.

On a bright note, I found myself with a couple of additional large containers of the signora’s food. Every cloud and all that.

*   *   *

IT WASN’T LIKE
I had anything else to do. I headed back to the rooms behind Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques and checked the usual spots for a spare burner phone. A childhood favorite, an industrial storage unit with fifty drawers, loomed behind one of the glass-topped counters. From the bottom left, I counted five drawers in and five up, but that hiding spot was bare. Things had changed more than a little around here. But I guess a few sprays of bullets into your business and homestead can inspire reorganizing. Had Vera forgotten about that whole incident? I’d put my life on the line for her. As I lamented my shabby treatment by Vera, my eye settled on a copy of
Moby-Dick
on top of the storage unit. Bingo. I chuckled and opened the hollow book and removed the burner phone and left a note for Uncle Mick promising to replace it, although I knew he’d tell me not to worry about it.

Then I headed back to my bedroom to check out my wardrobe. If I was going to be hunting for a trail to Muriel Delgado, I needed to do it as someone other than Jordan Bingham. Okay, I don’t need much urging to don a disguise; wigs are fun, and I thoroughly recommend them. I still had the kicky red shoulder-length wig I’d used during our Sayers adventure. The hair takes all the attention and no one even notices my face. Even if they did, the red picks up my blue eyes and seems to brighten and intensify them. It changes my appearance completely. I look nothing like the real me with my dark hair and blue eyes “put in with a sooty finger,” as they say. Black Irish, they call that coloring. The wig gives me a “Pippi Longstocking gone wild” vibe. I picked a pair of jeggings with my knee-high leather boots, the tunic again and a shrunken jean jacket. I looped my vintage Pucci scarf around my neck and headed out, red hair blowing in the breeze. I left my deep-orange purse at home, as it would be too distinctive. I used a serviceable but boring black bag that might suit the person I would be pretending to be.

By now, the snow had almost melted away and the day was pleasant enough for late November. Of course, my powder-blue Saab would be a dead giveaway, so I borrowed one of the spare cars that Uncle Mick keeps for occasions such as this. This one was a black-cherry Honda Accord, old and unremarkable but reliable. Not as much fun as the Saab, but never mind. I left a note, of course. I also left the Saab sitting conspicuously in front of the shop. I was here at home and as far as anyone needed to know, I was intending to stay there, sulking to the death. I left a light on in my bedroom and the radio playing loudly.

You can never be too careful.

*   *   *

I STARTED WITH
Maple Street, as it was the last street in Harrison Falls showing C Delgado living there. Maple Street was a plain but cheerful street of sixties brick bungalows, some a bit dowdy, others on the upswing with freshly painted shutters and new interlock pathways. Even the dowdy houses seemed to be well groomed, the lawns raked again now that the snow had melted. Everyone seemed to have their Thanksgiving decorations out and their leaves bagged for pickup by the side of the road. Most people had the biodegradable paper bags, but a few used burlap bags.

I love fall, but sometimes it does seem like it’s a lot of work. I imagined the more industrious neighbors hauling their biodegradable leaf bags into the safety of their garages when the snow came and then back out again for curbside pickup once it melted.

Number 153 was one of the lucky updated houses on the street; it had a new red door, wire window boxes with coconut fiber, interlock pathways and shiny white shutters. A large, expensive double stroller was parked out front. Twins? A baby and a toddler? I figured either would explain why it was the only house with the leaves still thick on the lawn.

I rang the doorbell and waited. A young woman with a perky blond ponytail answered with a smile. She was balancing a baby on her hip. Behind her, a curly-haired toddler clung to her yoga pants. Both children had wide, green eyes, the same as their mother’s. A lovely legacy for sure. Everyone’s cheeks were pink, a sign that they’d been out for a walk in the pleasant weather.

I smiled back at the three of them. The toddler hid her face shyly behind her mother’s back.

“What beautiful children,” I said. “Those eyes.”

“We like them.” She grinned. “Although you have to push them for miles before they will go to S-L-E-E-P.”

I got down to business before we went down the life-with-babies conversational path. “I am representing the legal firm of Lawson and Loblaw. We have information that could benefit a C. Delgado of this address.”

She said, “Oh.”

I kept smiling to encourage a bit more than the “oh.”

“There’s no one here by that name. We moved in last year. Our name is Bennacke.”

I tried to avoid saying “oh” again. “We did have this address, so perhaps . . .” I paused to glance at the paper in my hand . . . “C. Delgado was the person you bought it from. We are following up on an inheritance.”

“My! An inheritance,” she said with interest. She seemed like she wanted to help. “We never met the owners, but I don’t think the name was Delgado. It was a bit more ordinary.”

“Is there a way you could find out?”

“My husband takes care of all the legal papers.”

“Do you mind checking with him?”

“He’s at work. He often works weekends. He’ll be back this evening. I could ask him then.”

“I have to do that myself quite often, like today,” I said, keeping my disappointment to myself. I wrote down the number of my new cell phone, gave myself the name Clarissa Montaine, for no good reason except that I liked the sound of it, and made a note to myself to leave a greeting from Lawson and Loblaw on the burner.

No point in people knowing that Jordan Bingham was nosing around, in case someone was in touch with some lurking Delgado.

“Clarissa,” she said, “that’s such a beautiful name. I’m Audra. I’ll let you know.”

“What about the neighbors?” I said, smiling at her. “Have they been here awhile?”

“The ones on both sides bought after we did. We’ve been here two years. Across the street they’re new too. This is a great street for a bargain. Our own home was a fixer-upper,” she said, with pride. “We did most of the work ourselves.”

“Terrific,” I said, gazing around admiringly. “You did really well on this.”

She beamed. “We are planning to move on up, but I do love our little house. It will be really hard when the time comes.”

Speaking of time, I needed to get back on task. “So no one around who might know about this C. Delgado?”

“Oh. Well, there’s an older couple three doors down, in the house on the corner. Their name is Snow. They’re retired and they’re in and out all the time. I see them coming and going when we’re out on our walks. I’m pretty sure they’re the original owners. They might be able to help. And I’ll ask my husband to call you.”

“Thanks.”

I headed to the corner, hoping that I would find the couple at home. But no one answered the door. There was no garage, and the carport stood empty. Timing is everything, as they say. If I hit a wall, I’d have to come back. I wrote down
175 Maple Street/Snow
and
Check with the Bennackes about previous owner
. Then I headed back to the neutral Honda I had used to travel there.

Next stop: 22 Lilac Lane, where C. Delgado had been in residence back in nineteen sixty-five. Lilac Lane was at the far end of Harrison Falls, but no end of Harrison Falls is far from any other end, so I tootled over. Number 22 had been something but was now nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, but a vacant lot with the remains of a crumbling old foundation and a sign that said, “FOR SALE—ZONED FOR MULTIPLE DWELLINGS.”

Not so good for my purposes. Lilac Lane had seen better days and there was no sign of the upgrading I had found on Maple Street. There were other older homes on the street, but no sign of anyone around. Never give up. That’s my motto. I tried the house on one side. A woman peered out the grimy window in the front door and refused to open up. She turned her back and walked away from the door. Maybe it was my red hair? Pretty eerie. Fine. I tried the house on the other side of the vacant lot.

No one answered. I considered that it might have been unoccupied, because the front window was boarded up and graffiti tags covered the worn paint of the clapboard siding. But I thought I detected movement on the side of the house. Stepping quickly, I zipped down the front steps and around the side. An elderly man was dozing on an ancient sofa parked by the side of the house. Over the top was a roof of sorts made from a sheet of yellowed corrugated vinyl. At the end of the enclosure stood the garbage can. The roof was good because it was now starting to drizzle. The rain pattered on the vinyl, but the man kept snoring softly in his little getaway.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He awoke with a start and stared at me—well, at my hair, actually, which was what I was counting on. He kept on scratching and staring.

I said with my fake smile, “Hello, I am trying to find a C. Delgado who used to live at number 22.”

“What? Speak up!”

I raised my voice and repeated it.

He cupped his ear and I tried a near shout.

“No need to yell. They’re gone now,” he said, still staring. “Been gone for years. The house has been torn down.”

“I can see that. But do you know where they went?” He’d said “they.” So more than one of them. That was good.

“Can’t remember. Must be more than fifty years since they left.”

“I’m from Lawson and Loblaw. The law firm,” I said importantly. “I may have good news for that family. Especially”—and here I took a chance—“Muriel.”

“Humph. Muriel? She was just a little kid then. She’d be all grown up now.”

I felt goose bumps on my arms when he said Muriel’s name. I tried not to show my reaction.

He said, “Funny girl. Not like other girls around here if you ask me. Bit strange.”

I hadn’t asked him about Muriel’s personality, but I was glad he’d volunteered that information. She was still strange, but also forceful and, in my opinion, dangerous.

“Strange how?” I said.

“What kind of news?” he said, a bit more awake now. “That sounds like it means money.”

“It might mean money. If it’s the right Delgados and it sounds like it is. It would help if you could give me C. Delgado’s first name.

“C. Delgado. I guess you mean Carmen.”

Carmen is not my favorite name. Maybe because of those issues that Uncle Kev had with Big Carm Spitelli, a guy with way more throwing knives than anyone needs. Or maybe because of the unhappy resolution that Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky had with Carmen “Dead Meat” Lobocoff on the jewelry experiment. Whatever. I guess I made a face.

I hadn’t noticed her arrival, but we’d been joined by a woman. She could have been a twin to the old man, only without the white chin stubble. She was dressed in a faded and drooping (possibly blue at one time) housedress that made Vera look like a fashion model.

“Yes,” I said, “Carmen. That’s exactly right. I have some news that will be of great interest to him. Do you know where he’s moved?”

The woman spoke. “I don’t know what you’re nosing around for, but you don’t know crap about Carmen Delgado. Get your butt off our property before I call the cops.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t think that we’re going to turn on our neighbors. Off with you.”

“Neighbors” was pushing it, as the house the Delgados lived in was nothing more than a field now. “But it’s not a matter of turning on them. I do have information for Carmen Delgado. Important information of benefit.”

She sneered, “If you did, you wouldn’t have said ‘he.’”

Of course. All the Carmens I knew were men, most of them quite dangerous. But Carmen is a woman’s name as well, and, although dramatic, it doesn’t seem quite the same at all. I said, “Oh! I don’t think they had that information at the office. They thought C. Delgado was a man. Well, the information would still be in her interest. Gender has nothing to do with it.”

I tried again after noting his blank face and her hostile glare. “There’s a small but nice legacy. Doesn’t matter if C. Delgado is a man or a woman in terms of inheritance.”

Why had I leapt to that conclusion? Because C. Delgado was listed first, indicating head of household. That was silly of me, with all the women heading households in the world.

He said to the angry woman, “Gotta be Carmie. She’s the only one that could be a C. Delgado. Could be money for her.” He turned to me. “Too bad. I heard that Carmie died. Years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I meant it too. I had nothing against Carmen. Muriel was a different story.

He nodded, accepting my sentiment. “She was all right, Carmie. A real looker.”

“I’m sure she was. But I need to know how to reach her or her family. The legacy may pass to another family member now. Let’s see. Was she sister to Muriel?”

He shook his head. “Muriel? Muriel don’t have no sisters.”

“Well, then what was the relationship?”

“Carmie would be the mother. Muriel would be the daughter. But they’ve been long gone from here. Maybe fifty years. I told you that.”

“That is too bad,” I said.

“Well, nothing to me really. I liked Carmie well enough, but we weren’t what you’d call close.” He flicked a nervous glance toward the woman.

I pressed on. “Are there other relatives that you know of?”

She had been quiet for a while, standing with her thick legs in a wide stance, burly arms on her hips. Now she butted in pugnaciously. “Who did you say you were?”