‘Not all that far, actually: we’re off for a drive in the country. I’m told that it’s very pretty, although I’ve never been there.’
‘Try me with a clue.’
‘Have patience, my boy.’
‘Since it’s in the country, might there be lots of wild geese around?’ Prim put in.
‘No, but I’m betting that we’ll find a pretty bedraggled bird, who’s flown a hell of a long way to get there.’
I kept them guessing as we set off, crossing Sixth, Seventh and Eighth, before taking a left turn and heading for the Lincoln Tunnel ramp that headed to New Jersey. I cruised on, letting the navigation system take charge and obeying its commands as it guided me on to I-95, heading for Newark.
I drove slowly, below the speed limit, enjoying the comfort of the Caddy on the frenetic highway. We’d been on the road for around forty-five minutes when I took one exit then another and joined US-1 heading for New Brunswick and Princeton.
‘I spoke to Maddy’s mother,’ I told my companions, finally letting them in on our destination. ‘She has an older sister who’s a professor at the university down here.’
‘And you think that’s where she’s headed?’ Dylan said sceptically.
‘This is her last bolt-hole, the way I see it.’
‘What about back home to dear old Mum?’
‘She’s forgotten how to get there, going by what Mrs Raymond said. There’s no fatted calf grazing in the garden in Uxbridge, waiting for the chop. Besides, she wasn’t in London yesterday, she was in New York.’
We had run out of the urban sprawl of northern New Jersey, and into leafy countryside, the way I had been told it would be. A few months before I’d been invited to take part in a debate organised by one of the university drama clubs. I’d almost accepted, but it fell into a period where a movie schedule might have overrun, and I didn’t want to have to withdraw: bad for the image.
After a few miles the car told me to turn off the highway, then take a right on to Washington Road. We drove past the university football stadium on the right and on until I was directed left on to Nassau Street, and immediately left again. We stopped on command, right outside Nassau Hall, the university’s main office. Bloody marvellous, these systems, aren’t they? Sure, but there’s always a downside. We were International Rescue, on the trail of a damsel in distress, but if we’d been the forces of darkness, well, our sinister mission had just been made a lot easier. Nowadays even the Keystone Cops can get where they’re going without mishap.
‘So this is Ivy League?’ said Prim, as she slid out of the front passenger seat into the sunny morning.
‘I believe so.’ I looked around. It was the leafiest town I’d ever seen in America, all neat brick and clapboard buildings, much more rural than Oxford or Cambridge. . or Cambridge, Massachusetts, where Harvard, Princeton’s greatest rival, is located.
It was also very quiet.
That’s when it dawned on my companions that the mastermind who was running the operation had failed to account for the fact that universities tend to be on vacation in July and even more so on any given Saturday. The bloody office was closed, wasn’t it?
‘So what do we do now, Clouseau?’ Dylan growled.
‘You’re the fucking author, Benny,’ I shot back. ‘Make something up.’
‘Let’s go for lunch,’ he proposed. ‘When we find a place, we’ll ask for a telephone directory. That may provide what we mystery writers sometimes call a clue.’
We climbed back into the Cadillac. I didn’t bother with the clever system this time. Instead I headed along Nassau Street, until Prim spotted a seafood place called the Blue Point Grill. They were still serving and we were very lucky, the waiter told us, because they had two tables left. They also had a telephone directory, which contained no listings for either ‘Raymond, T.’ or ‘Raymond, Professor’; there was only one and his forename was Norman.
‘She may commute,’ Prim suggested. ‘She may not live anywhere near the campus.’
‘No. Her mother definitely said that she comes here for Thanksgiving every year.’
‘Why don’t you call her and ask for her address?’
‘That’s a last resort. I don’t want to have to explain what’s going on to the old lady. She’s got enough trouble with her son facing a stretch inside.’
‘You could ask him,’ Dylan volunteered. ‘You know where he is.’
‘The last thing Trevor said to me had the word “fuck” in it. I don’t imagine he’d react any differently. We’ll ask around here before we get to Plan C.’
The food was good, but the information was lousy. They didn’t know Theresa Raymond, and if she was anyone important in Princeton, they were sure they would have. ‘Unless she’s allergic to seafood,’ I said to the waiter.
‘I’ve never met anyone who’s allergic to seafood,’ he replied.
‘Maybe that’s because you work in a fish restaurant.’
We left no wiser than we had come in, but Prim had a bright idea. We should split up and go into as many shops as we could until we found someone who knew the Prof, and could point us at her. She volunteered to do the dress shops. Surprise?
We agreed to meet in front of the Blue Point Grill in an hour for an update on progress. I crossed the street and started walking, feeling more than a little daft. I tried a pharmacist first: she was a woman, so she must need. . things; makeup and stuff. . and the campus was nearby. They had no clue; I could have asked the people in there for the time and they’d have had trouble. I tried a hardware store: as far as I knew Theresa Raymond lived alone, so she probably handled her own DIY. If she did, she didn’t shop there.
I almost walked past the Cloak and Dagger bookstore. In fact, I would have, if I hadn’t spotted in the window Lethal Intent, the brand new Skinner novel I’d begun at Ellie’s. Alongside it a sign, ‘signed by the author’. I’d met the guy, when we did the movies of the first two books.
I went inside; the place was neat, and full of well-displayed stock. ‘Have I just missed him?’ I asked the lady behind the counter, as I handed her the book. She wore a name-tag which identified her as ‘Aline Lenaz, proprietor’.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘These were signed in London. He has been here, though; last year, in fact.’ She took a closer look at me. ‘Aren’t you. .?’
Instead of replying, I handed her a credit card. ‘What brings you to Princeton?’ she asked.
I’d taken a punt once before in a bookstore and it had paid off. In my experience, such as it is, the independents stand or fall on the strength of their mailing list. The ones that make it keep in touch with their regulars at every opportunity. There’s a place I use in Westwood Village, Los Angeles, and I’m often invited to in-store events there.
‘I’m trying to find somebody,’ I told her. ‘She’s the sister of a lady I know, and I promised I’d look her up, but being basically disorganised I’ve lost the damn address.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Raymond, Professor Raymond. She teaches philosophy at the university.’
The woman’s friendly face lit up. ‘Ah, Trey. Theresa Raymond, she lives at seventeen Mimosa Avenue. She’s one of my best customers, reads a lot of Sarah Paretsky, Val McDermid, Patricia Cornwell.’ She tapped Lethal Intent as she bagged it. ‘And this guy, too.’
‘How do I find her?’
‘Easy. You go along Nassau past the main campus, until it becomes Stockton. Then you turn right into Elm Road. Mimosa Avenue is second left.’ She handed me a credit-card slip and a pen. ‘That’s how you find her house,’ she said as I signed, ‘but you won’t find Trey. She’s on vacation or, rather, a lecture tour, in India.’
‘Damn,’ I muttered. ‘I should have phoned her. Of course, I don’t have the number either, do I?’
‘I can give you that.’ She took a bookmark, wrote on the back and handed it to me. I thanked her, and took my purchase. I was about to leave when she asked if she could have a photo taken with me to go on a board at the back of the store. Naturally, I agreed. ‘Jerry!’ she called. A tall slim guy came out of a back office. ‘My husband,’ Aline said. ‘And photographer.’