I bobbed my head, smiled my best smile, and said, “Mrs. Obermeyer? My name is Harry Neal. I wonder if I may speak to you and your husband for a few moments. It pertains to the 1976 Plymouth station wagon you used to own.”
Her eyes widened behind the thick lenses. She stared at me a few moments, then opened the door and straightened up. “Why, that vehicle was wrecked years ago. What possible interest could it have for you, Mr. Neal?”
“Well, it’s a rather odd story involving Kinch and Kokar Furniture and the chest you bought from them.”
That got me another minute of silent appraisal. Finally she cleared her throat and said softly, “I sec. Well, perhaps you’d better come in.” She turned and with a shuffling waddle led me into the house. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps a glass of sherry?”
“A glass of sherry would be nice,” I said.
I slowly followed her through a music room dominated by a grand piano and three loveseats, past a curving staircase, and through an arched portal into a large, opulent living room. To the right, beyond the living room, was a formal dining room. Elinor motioned toward a pale blue wing chair by the fireplace.
She wore a full length dress of subdued red that swished when she walked. I sat, hoping to hell I didn’t have any bicycle grease on my pants, and accepted the small glass of sherry she held out to me.
She swished over to a white couch with blue flowers embroidered on it, and sat down. “Milton is taking his bath, and as he is just getting over a bad cold, I don’t want to rush him. Now, you say you are here about our old station wagon and a chest we bought?”
I took a minuscule sip of the sherry. “The day you purchased the chest from Kinch and Kokar, Bob Kokar’s car was in the garage, and you lent him your station wagon so he could deliver the chest to this residence. Before he could do so, however, he suffered a stroke and was taken to the hospital. Because of the crisis the station wagon was forgotten.” I took another sip of my sherry and stared unsmiling at Elinor.
Pulling at the fabric of her dress with hands mottled with brown and purple splotches, she stared wide-eyed at me. Finally, in a low voice she said, “The chest was a present for my late brother Cordon. He was moving to Connecticut the next morning. When Mr. Kokar failed to deliver the chest by late afternoon, I called the store and learned of his accident. I walked to the store and retrieved the car and the chest and drove home. Gordon packed the chest and early the next morning drove down to the University of Connecticut.”
“And a week later died in a car accident.”
Her eyes glistened behind the glasses. She nodded slowly, “Yes. We — we couldn’t believe it. Even now, Mr. Neal, after all these years, I still can’t comprehend what happened. It was devastating.”
“And he was driving the station wagon when he had the accident?”
She nodded slowly again. “Yes, even at the time it was an old vehicle, but Gordon said it was still very functional and wouldn’t trade it in. When the Connecticut police called, they said he went off the road during a heavy rain and hit a tree. They said he probably died instantly. May I inquire why you are asking questions after all these years?”
“Bob Kokar’s wife Annie recently discovered the set of car keys you gave him. They were lying in a drawer, forgotten all this time. She remembered that Bob had mentioned leaving his coat in the car. It was one she had given him on their fortieth anniversary, and she asked me to seek you out and inquire after the car on the very slim chance the coat could be located. Apparently it was a strong symbol of their love.” I pasted a smarmy smile on my face, downed the sherry, and wished for more. Lying is thirsty work.
Her pink, flaccid face molded into her version of a sympathetic look. “I don’t remember any coat. I think Gordon would have mentioned finding it, and surely he would have found it while packing the car.”
I stood and placed my glass on the small table beside her. “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Obermeyer. Annie undoubtedly has it tucked away somewhere, like the keys to Gordon’s station wagon. Someday she’ll clean out a closet and there it will be. I’m sorry to have awakened such unpleasant memories.”
She struggled to her feet. “Don’t fret, Mr. Neal. There is not a day goes by that I don’t think of dear Gordon. And I’m sure you’re right, someday Mrs. Kokar will find that coat hidden in the back of a closet and she will have fond memories to dwell on.”
“Thank you for your time and say hello to your husband for me.”
She beamed at me. “It was no trouble at all, Mr. Neal. You may see yourself out, it’s getting to be quite a trek to the front door.”
I nodded, smiled like an idiot, said, “Thank you,” one more time, and headed for the door.
I stopped at the door, took three quick steps backward, and looked toward the living room. Elinor was shuffling through the dining room toward the rear of the house. I opened the front door, closed it hard, and hurried to the stairs. With one hand clamped on the polished oak banister, I watched Elinor disappear through a swinging door, presumably into the kitchen.
Probably looking like a cartoon version of a burglar, I darted through the living room into the dining room and hurried through the dining room to an open doorway into a short hall painted gloss-white. Across from a wall phone was a door. Clenching my teeth, I slowly turned the knob, pulled it open, and stared at shelves of what I assumed to be The Good China. I closed the door, crept to the other end of the hall, and put an ear to a door with at least five coats of high-gloss white paint on it.
Hearing nothing, I eased the door open and entered a pantry crowded with condiments, a toaster, a coffeemaker, two other doors, and silence. I could hear water running and Elinor humming a tuneless ditty on the other side of the left-hand door. With infinite caution I turned the knob of the right-hand door, inch by inch eased it open, and stared down a flight of steep, dirty stairs.
Trembling like a veteran wino, I pulled the key ring out of my pocket and tried to get the skeleton key into the damned keyhole. I finally made it, took a deep breath, and tried the key.
It wouldn’t turn.
Jamming the key ring back in my pocket, I retraced my steps as fast as I dared. Quick-walking into the music room, I grabbed the gleaming banister and, taking them three at a time, lurched up the stairs. At the top I stepped onto lush pale gray carpeting and looked down a long hallway with cream-colored wallpaper and numerous doorways. I took a deep breath, and started down the hall. Looking into the first doorway on my left I saw a large bedroom with a huge canopied bed and about ninety square yards of pink.
Across the hall was a smaller bedroom with a single brass bed, a dark bureau, a gray wing chair, and two end tables cluttered with magazines. I turned, heard a coughing, grunting noise, and jumped into the pink bedroom.
Mumbling and snorting like an old bear shuffling through a cornfield, someone came up the hallway, hesitated, then walked into the bedroom across the hall. Blinking sweat out of my eyes, I peeked around the doorjamb and stared at the wide back of an old man with a fat, bulbous neck and a frizzy band of gray hair over his ears. He wore a red and white striped bathrobe and was methodically placing soap dish, razor, and other pieces of bath paraphernalia on top of the bureau.
My eyes nailed to the man’s neck, I stepped out of the pink bedroom and, taking giant strides on tiptoe, got the hell down the hall.
I scooted past a bathroom with a black and white checkerboard floor, wafting out moist fumes of aftershave, and crept down three stairs to a closed door. I opened the door and looked into a small, square bedroom in which all the furniture was covered with sheets. I closed the door and started down the hall again, stopped, and went back and entered the room.