The diner was small and cozy, one of those places with red checkered curtains and plates with pictures of hens and their chicks lining the wall behind the counter. Two men in their seventies were just getting up to leave. The waitress, a tiny bundle of energy, was whisking away their empty cups.
She looked up when the door opened. “Take your pick of the tables,” she said, smiling. “East, west, north, or south.” The name tag on her uniform read, “Call me Milly.” I judged her to be about my mother’s age, but unlike my mother, Milly had fiercely red hair.
I chose the rounded corner booth where I could spread out the papers. Before I’d settled, Milly was beside me, order pad in hand. Moments later the coffee and bagel were in front of me.
Spencer’s plane had gone down on April 4. The oldest paper I’d bought was dated April 9. The front page had a picture of him. The headline read “Nicholas Spencer Feared Dead.”
The story was an ode to the memory of a small-town boy who had made good. The picture was a recent one. It had been taken on February 15 when Spencer was awarded the first “Distinguished Citizen Award” ever presented by the town. I did some arithmetic. February 15 to April 4. At the time of the award, he had forty-seven days left on this planet. I’ve often wondered if people get a sense that their time is running out. I think my father did. He went out for a walk that morning eight years ago, but my mother told me that at the door he hesitated, then came back and kissed the top of her head. Three blocks away he had a heart attack. The doctor said he was dead before he hit the ground.
Nicholas Spencer was smiling in this picture, but his eyes looked pensive, even worried.
The first four pages of the paper were all about him. There were pictures of him as an eight-year-old Little Leaguer. He’d been the pitcher on the Caspien Tigers. Another picture showed him at about age ten with his father in the laboratory of the family home. He’d been on the swim team in high school—that picture had him posing with a trophy. Another had him in a Shakespearean costume holding something that looked like an Oscar—he’d been voted best actor in the senior play.
The picture of him with his first wife on their wedding day twelve years ago made me gasp. Janet Barlowe Spencer of Greenwich had been a slender, delicately featured blonde. It’s too much to say that she was a double for Lynn, but there’s no question that there was a very strong resemblance. I wondered if their similarity had anything to do with his getting together with Lynn.
There were tributes to him from a half-dozen local people, including a lawyer who said they’d been best friends in high school, a teacher who raved about his thirst for knowledge, and a neighbor who said he always volunteered to run errands for her. I took out my notebook and jotted down their names. I guessed I’d be able to find their addresses in the phone book, if I decided to contact them.
The following week’s issue of the newspaper covered the fact that the Gen-stone vaccine that Spencer’s company had claimed would be the definitive cure for cancer was a failure. The article noted that the co-chief executive of Gen-stone had conceded they might have been too hasty in publicizing its early successes. The picture of Nick Spencer that accompanied the story appeared to be company issued.
The newspaper that came out five days ago had the same picture of Spencer but carried a different caption: “Spencer Accused of Looting Millions.” They used the word “alleged” throughout the article, but an editorial suggested that the appropriate award for the town to have offered him should have been another Oscar for best actor and not its first “Distinguished Citizen Award.”
“Call me Milly” was offering me more coffee. I accepted and could see that her eyes were snapping with curiosity at the sight of the pictures of Spencer side by side on the table. I decided to give her an opening.
“Did you know Nicholas Spencer?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. He was gone by the time I came to town twenty years ago. But let me tell you, when those stories came out about him swindling his company and his vaccine being no good, a lot of people around here got mighty unhappy. Plenty of them bought stock in his company after he got the medal. In his speech he said it might be the most important discovery since the polio vaccine.”
His claims had been getting loftier, I thought. Had it been a case of rope in one more bunch of suckers before you disappear?
“The dinner was a sellout,” Milly said. “I mean, Spencer’s been on the cover of a couple of national magazines. People wanted to see him up close. He’s the only thing resembling a celebrity this town ever produced. It was a fund-raiser, of course. I hear that after they heard his speech, the board of directors bought a lot of stock in Gen-stone for the hospital’s portfolio. Now everybody’s mad at everybody else for thinking up the award and getting him here for it. They won’t be able to go ahead with the new children’s wing of the hospital.”
The coffeepot was in her right hand, and she put her left hand on her hip. “Let me tell you, in this town Spencer’s name is mud.
“But God rest him,” she added reluctantly. Then she looked at me. “Why are you so interested in Spencer? You a reporter or something?”
“Yes, I am,” I admitted.
“You’re not the first nosing around about him. Someone from the FBI was in here asking questions about who his friends might be. I said he didn’t have any left.”
On that note I paid my bill, gave Milly my card, saying, “In case you ever want to get in touch with me,” and got back in the car. This time I drove to 71 Winslow Terrace.
ELEVEN
Sometimes I get lucky. Dr. Philip Broderick did not have office hours on Thursday afternoon. When I arrived, it was a quarter of twelve and his last patient was leaving. I gave one of my brand-new Wall Street Weekly cards to his receptionist. Looking doubtful, she asked me to wait while she spoke to the doctor. Keeping my fingers crossed, I did just that.
When she returned, she said, “The doctor will see you.” She sounded surprised, and frankly I was, too. While doing the freelance profiles I learned that when the subject is controversial, you have just as good a chance of getting an interview by ringing a doorbell as you have by phoning and trying to make an appointment. My theory is that some people still have an innate sense of courtesy and feel that if you take the trouble to come to them, you deserve to be tolerated if not welcomed. The rest of that theory is that some people worry that if they refuse you on their own doorstep, you might write something negative about them.
Anyhow, whatever this doctor’s reasons, we were about to meet. He must have heard my footsteps because he got up from behind his desk as I entered his office. He was a lean, tall man in his mid-fifties, with an abundance of gray hair. His greeting was courteous but businesslike. “Ms. DeCarlo, I’ll start off by being very frank. I’ve only agreed to speak with you because I read and respect the magazine you represent. However, you must understand that you are not the first or the fifth or the tenth reporter to call or to drop in here.”
I wondered how many cover stories there were going to be on Nicholas Spencer. I only hoped that what I contributed to ours would at least give it something fresh or newsworthy. I did have one approach that I hoped might work. I quickly thanked the doctor for seeing me without notice, took the seat he’d indicated, and cut to the chase. “Dr. Broderick, if you read our magazine regularly, you know that the editorial policy is to tell the absolute truth without sensationalism as the facts are revealed. I intend to do that for the magazine, but also on a personal level, three years ago my widowed mother remarried. My stepsister, whom I know only casually, is Nicholas Spencer’s wife. She is in the hospital recovering from injuries she suffered when her home was deliberately set on fire the other night. She doesn’t know what to believe about her husband, but she wants and needs to know the truth. Any help you can give will be greatly appreciated.”
“I read about the fire.”
I detected the note of sympathy I wanted from him, even while I hated myself for playing that card.
“Did you know Nicholas Spencer?” I asked.
“I knew his father, Dr. Edward Spencer, as a friend. I shared his interest in microbiology and often came over to observe his experiments. For me it was a fascinating hobby. Nicholas Spencer had already graduated from college and moved to New York by the time I settled here.”
“When was the last time you saw Nicholas Spencer?”
“February 16, the day after the fund-raiser.”
“He stayed in town overnight?”
“No, he came back the morning after the fundraiser. I did not expect to see him. Let me explain. This is the home where he grew up, but I assume you’re aware of that.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nick’s father died suddenly of a heart attack twelve years ago, right around the time Nick was married. I immediately offered to buy the house. My wife always loved it, and I had outgrown my first office. At that time I planned to keep the laboratory and play around with some of the early experiments that Dr. Spencer had decided were going nowhere. I asked Nick if he would let me copy only those records. Instead he left them with me. He took all his father’s later files, which he felt held promising research. As I’m sure you also know, his mother died of cancer as a young woman, and his father’s lifelong goal was to find a cure for the disease.”
I remembered the intensity in Nick Spencer’s face when he told me that story. “Did you use Dr. Spencer’s notes?” I asked.
“Not really.” Dr. Broderick shrugged. “It was a case of the best laid plans of mice and men. I was always too busy, and then I needed the area the laboratory took up to create two new examination rooms. I stored the records in the attic just in case Spencer ever came for them. He never did, until the day after the fund-raiser.”
“That was only a month and a half before he died! Why do you think he came back for them then?” I asked.
Broderick hesitated. “He didn’t give any explanation, so of course I can’t be sure. He was obviously unsettled. Tense would be a better word, I guess. But then I said that he’d made the trip for nothing, and he asked me what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Last fall someone from his company came for the records, and, of course, I gave them to him.”
“How did Nick react when you told him that?” I asked, intrigued now.
“He asked me if I could give him the name or describe the person who was here. I could not remember the man’s name, but I did describe him. He was well-dressed, had reddish brown hair, was of average height, and was about forty years old.”
“Did Nick recognize who it was?”
“I can’t be sure, but he was visibly upset. Then he said, ‘I don’t have as much time as I thought,’ and he left.”
“Do you know if he was visiting anyone else in town?”
“He must have been. An hour later, when I was on my way to the hospital, he passed me in his car.”
* * *
I had planned for my next stop to be the high school Nick had attended. I just wanted the usual background of what kind of kid he’d been. But after talking to Dr. Broderick, I changed my mind. I intended to drive straight to Gen-stone, find the guy with the reddish brown hair, and ask him a few questions.
If indeed he worked for Gen-stone, which somehow I seriously doubted.
TWELVE
After he left the hospital, Ned drove home and lay down on the couch. He had done his best, but he had failed Annie. He had the gasoline in a jar and had a long string in one pocket, the lighter in another. One single minute more, and he could have done to that room what he had done to the mansion.
Then he had heard the click of the elevator door, and he saw the Bedford cops. They knew who he was. He was sure they didn’t get close enough to see his face, but he didn’t want them to start wondering why he was in the hospital now that Annie was dead.
Of course he could have told them that he was there because he had an appointment with Dr. Greene. It would have been the truth—Dr. Greene had been busy, but he’d squeezed him in during his lunch hour. He was a nice man, even if he had agreed with Annie that he should have discussed the sale of the Greenwood Lake house with her.
He hadn’t told Dr. Greene that he was angry. He had just said how sad he was. He’d said, “I miss Annie. I love her.”
Dr. Greene didn’t know the real reason Annie had died, that she had rushed out of the house, into the car, and been hit by the garbage truck, all because she was so mad at him about the Gen-stone stock. He didn’t know that Ned had worked for the landscaper who took care of the Bedford mansion that burned down, and that’s why he knew his way around the grounds there.
Dr. Greene gave him pills to relax him, and some sleeping pills as well. Ned took two sleeping pills as soon as he got home from the hospital and fell asleep on the couch. He didn’t wake up for fourteen hours, until eleven o’clock on Thursday morning.
That was when his landlady, Mrs. Morgan, rang the doorbell. Her mother had owned the house twenty years ago when he and Annie moved in, but Mrs. Morgan had taken it over last year.
Ned didn’t like her. She was a big woman with the face of someone who wants a fight. He stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance, but he could tell that she was trying to peer past him, looking for trouble.
When she spoke, her voice didn’t have its usual rough, loud sound: “Ned, I thought you’d be up and out to work by now.”
He hadn’t answered. It was none of her business that he’d been fired again.
“You know how sorry I am about Annie.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He was still so tired from the effects of the pills that it was hard to even mumble.
“Ned, there’s a problem.” Now the sympathy tone changed, and she became Mrs. Big Business. “Your lease is up the first of June. My son is getting married and needs your apartment. I’m sorry, but you know how it is. But as a concession to the memory of Annie, you can stay here for the month of May for free.”
* * *
An hour later he went for a drive to Greenwood Lake. Some of their old neighbors were outside, working on their lawns. He stopped in front of the property where their house had been. Now it was all lawn. Even the flowers Annie had planted with so much love were gone. Old Mrs. Schafley, who had lived on the other side of their house, was pruning the mimosa trees in her yard. She looked up, spotted him, and asked him to come in for a cup of tea.
She served homemade coffee cake and even remembered that he liked a lot of sugar in his tea. She sat down opposite him. “You look terrible, Ned,” she said, her eyes filling up. “Annie wouldn’t be happy to see you looking so disheveled. She always made sure that you looked very nice.”
“I have to move,” he said. “The landlady wants the apartment for her son.”
“Ned, where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” Still struggling with the residual fatigue from the sleeping pills, Ned had a thought. “Mrs. Schafley, could I rent your spare bedroom for a while until I can figure something out?”
He saw the instant refusal in her eyes. “For Annie’s sake,” he added. He knew Mrs. Schafley had loved Annie. But then she began to shake her head.
“Ned, it wouldn’t work. You’re not the neatest person. Annie was always picking up after you. This house is small, and we wouldn’t end up good friends.”
“I thought you liked me.” Ned felt the anger rising in his throat.
“I do like you,” she said soothingly, “but it’s not the same when you live with someone.” She looked out the window. “Oh, look, there’s Harry Harnik.” She ran to the door and called to him to come over. “Ned’s paying a visit,” she yelled.
Harry Harnik was the neighbor who had offered to buy their house because he wanted to have a bigger yard. If Harry hadn’t made that offer, he wouldn’t have sold the house and put the money in that company. Now Annie was gone, her house was gone, and the landlady wanted to throw him out. Mrs. Schafley, who always acted so nice when Annie was around, wouldn’t
even rent him a room. And Harry Harnik was walking into the house, a sympathetic smile on his face.
“Ned, I didn’t hear about Annie until it was over. I’m so sorry. She was a lovely person.”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Schafley agreed.
Harnik’s offer to buy the property was the first step toward Annie’s death. Mrs. Schafley had called him over just now because she didn’t want to be alone with Ned. She’s afraid of me, Ned thought. Even Harnik was looking at him funny. He’s afraid of me, too, he decided.
The landlady, for all her bluster, had offered to let him stay in the apartment free for the month of May because she was afraid of him, too. Her son would never move in with her; they didn’t get along. She just wants to get rid of me, Ned told himself.
Lynn Spencer had been afraid of him when he stood at the door of her room in the hospital. Her sister, the DeCarlo woman, had looked past him when she did the interview and hardly bothered to turn her head to see him yesterday. But he would change that. She’d learn to be afraid of him, too.
All the rage and pain that had been building up in him was shifting. He could feel it. It was turning into a feeling of power, the kind he had when, as a kid, he used to shoot BB pellets at squirrels in the woods. Harnik, Schafley, Lynn Spencer, her sister—they were all squirrels. That was the way to treat them, he thought, just like those squirrels.
Then he could drive away while they lay crumbled and bleeding, just the way he’d left the squirrels when he was a kid.
What was the song he used to sing in the car? “A-hunting We Will Go.” That was it.
He began to laugh.
Harry Harnik and Mrs. Schafley were staring at him. “Ned,” Mrs. Schafley said, “have you been remembering to take your medicine since Annie died?”
Don’t make them suspicious, he warned himself. He managed to stop laughing. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Annie would want me to take it. I was just laughing because I was remembering the day you got so mad, Harry, because I drove that old car home that I was going to fix.”