Little Governor’s Island. Please — IT’S A
MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.
After a moment, she added:
Felder will give you a monetary reward.
She went to the window. The woman was still reading. She rapped on the glass, but the woman didn’t notice. Finally, feeling a rising desperation, she took up the book and rammed it into the window, edge first. The glass shattered and the woman in the next garden glanced up.
Immediately Constance could hear Esterhazy bounding up the stairs.
She placed the note inside the book to help weigh it down and then tossed it toward the next garden. “Take the note!” she called down. “And go — please!” The woman stared at her as the book landed near her feet, and the last thing Constance saw was her bending down — she walked with a cane — and taking up the book.
Constance turned from the window just as Esterhazy burst in with a curse of surprise and rushed toward her. She raised a hand to claw at his eyes; he tried to bat it away but she managed to scratch two deep stripes down one cheek. He gasped in pain, but quickly recovered and tackled her. He fell atop her and they struggled, Esterhazy finally pinning her arms and pressing another chloroformed cloth over her mouth and nose. She felt consciousness slide away and blackness claim her once again.
CHAPTER 56
Camden, Maine
THE SITE OF THE FORMER NURSING HOME had been razed and condos erected in its place, a forlorn row of empty town houses with flapping banners advertising price reductions and incentives.
Strolling into the little sales office, Pendergast found it empty and rang a bell on the counter. A haggard-looking young woman appeared from a back room, seemingly almost startled to see him. She greeted him with a professional smile.
Pendergast sloughed off the bulky jacket and smoothed down his black suit, restoring it to linear perfection. “Good morning,” he said.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, you may. I’ve been looking at real estate in the area.”
This seemed like a new idea to the saleslady. Her eyebrows rose. “Are you interested in our condominiums?”
“Yes.” Pendergast dumped the loathsome coat on a chair and settled himself down. “I’m from the South but looking for a cooler clime for my early retirement. The heat, you know.”
“I don’t know how they stand it down there,” said the woman.
“Indeed, indeed. Now, tell me what you have available.”
The woman bustled through a folder and brought out some brochures, fanning them out on the table and launching into an earnest sales pitch. “We’ve got one-, two-, and three-bedroom units, all with marble baths and top-of-the-line appliances: Sub-Zero refrigerators, Bosch dishwashers, Wolf stoves…”
As she droned on, Pendergast encouraged her with nods and approving murmurs. When she was done, he allowed her a brilliant smile. “Lovely. Only two hundred thousand for the two-bedroom? With a view of the sea?”
This elicited more talk, and Pendergast again waited for her to reach the end. Then he settled back in the chair and clasped his hands. “It somehow seems right for me to live here,” he said. “After all, my mother was a resident some years ago.”
At this the woman seemed confused. “How nice, but… well, we’ve only just opened—”
“Of course. I mean in the nursing home that was here before. The Bay Manor.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “Yes, the Bay Manor.”
“Do you recall it?”
“Sure. I grew up here. It closed down when… well, that would have been about seven, eight years ago.”
“There was a very nice aide who used to take care of my mother.” Pendergast pursed his lips. “Did you know any of the people who worked there?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Pity. She was such a lovely person. I was hoping to look her up while I was in town.” He gave the woman a rather penetrating stare. “If I could see her name, I’m sure I’d recognize it. Can you help me?”
She practically jumped at the chance. “I can certainly try. Let me make a call or two.”
“How kind of you. Meanwhile, I’ll peruse these brochures.” He flipped one open, reading assiduously and nodding with approval as she began working the phone.
Pendergast noted calls to her mother, an old teacher, and finally to a boyfriend’s mother. “Well,” the saleslady said, hanging up the phone with finality, “I did get some information. The Bay Manor was torn down years ago but I got the name of three people who worked there.” She placed a piece of paper in front of him with a smile of triumph.
“Are any of them still around?”
“The first one, Maybelle Payson. She’s still living in the area. The other two have passed away.”
“Maybelle Payson… Why, I believe that is the very person who was so kind to my mother!” Pendergast beamed at her, taking up the paper.
“And now, if you like, I’d be happy to show you the model units—”
“Delighted! When I return with my wife we shall be glad to get a tour. You’ve been most kind.” He scooped up the brochures, slipped them into his jacket, put on the puffy coat, and exited into the barbaric cold.
CHAPTER 57
MAYBELLE PAYSON LIVED IN A RUN-DOWN fourplex back from the water in a working-class part of town. This working class consisted almost entirely of lobstermen, their boats parked on their lawns, chocked, blocked, and braced, draped in plastic tarps, some even bigger than the trailers the owners lived in.
Trudging up the walk, Pendergast climbed up on the creaky porch, rang the bell, and waited. After a second ring, he could hear someone moving about, and eventually an owlish, wizened face appeared in the door pane, haloed in fine blue hair. The old woman looked at him with wide, almost child-like eyes.
“Mrs. Payson?” Pendergast said.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Payson? May I come in?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“My name is Pendergast. I’d like to speak to you.”
“What about?” The watery eyes stared at him suspiciously.
Pendergast shouted into the door. “About the Bay Manor. A relative of mine used to live there. She spoke highly of you, Mrs. Payson.”
He heard the turnings of various locks, latches, and bolts. The door opened, and he followed the diminutive woman into a tiny parlor. The place was a mess and smelled of cats. She swept a cat off a chair and seated herself on the sofa. “Please sit down.”
Pendergast eased himself into the chair, which was almost completely covered with white cat hair. It seemed to leap up onto his black suit, as if magnetized.
“Would you care for tea?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Pendergast hastily. He removed a notebook. “I’m compiling a little family history and I wanted to speak to you about a relative of mine who was a resident at Bay Manor some years back.”
“What was her name?”
“Emma Grolier.”
A long silence.
“Do you remember her?”
Another long pause. The teakettle began to whistle in the kitchen, but the woman didn’t seem to hear.
“Allow me,” Pendergast said, rising to fetch the kettle. “What kind of tea, Mrs. Payson?”
“What?”
“Tea. What kind would you like?”
“Earl Grey. Black.”
In the kitchen, Pendergast opened a tea box that sat on the counter, took out a bag, placed it in a mug, and poured in the boiling water. He brought it out with a smile and set it on the table next to the old woman.
“How very kind,” she said, looking at him now with a much warmer expression. “You’ll have to come more often.”
Pendergast settled himself again into the cat-hairy chair, throwing one leg over the other.
“Emma Grolier,” the old nurse said. “I recall her well.” The watery eyes looked at him, narrowing with fresh suspicion. “I doubt she spoke highly of me or of anyone. What do you want to know?”