Daddy's Gone a Hunting (9 page)

“She’s in a coma,” Frank said.

“It’s such a shame about Gus Schmidt. I met him a couple of times, you now.”

At her husband’s surprised expression, she explained: “It was when I was in chemotherapy at Sloan-Kettering. His wife, Lottie, was in treatment, too. I’m so sorry for her. It was obvious they were
really close. She must be devastated. As I remember, they have a daughter, but she lives in Minnesota somewhere.”

She paused, then added, “I think I’ll try and find out what the funeral arrangements are. If there’s a service, I’d like to go to it.”

That’s just like Celia, Frank thought. If there’s a service, she will go to it. Most people think about doing something like that but never follow through. He took another sip of the martini, totally unaware that his wife’s coincidental acquaintance with Lottie Schmidt would unlock one aspect of the investigation surrounding the destruction of the Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions plant.

20

M
ark Sloane’s curiosity about his neighbor was quickly satisfied the next day when he picked up Friday’s morning newspapers and stopped for coffee and a bagel at the counter of a coffee shop on his way to the office. The burning complex was on the first page of the papers and on the inside pages he saw a picture of Hannah Connelly outside the hospital, being rushed to a taxi by her father. Ironic, he thought. The firm he left and the one where he was now dealt with corporate real estate. He had seen his share of buildings conveniently being burned down when they became a financial liability.

He remembered the time Billy Owens, a restaurant owner in Chicago, had collected on a large insurance policy after a second suspicious fire, and an investigator for the insurance company had sarcastically suggested that the next time Billy needed to unload some property he should try flooding it.

As he bit into a bagel, Mark read that the widow of the dead man, Gus Schmidt, was adamant that Kate Connelly, the daughter of the owner, had been the one to make the predawn appointment at the complex. But according to the papers, Schmidt had been a disgruntled former employee of the firm. Mark’s analytical mind toyed with the idea that Schmidt might have been a logical person to involve if someone wanted to burn the complex down. There was a picture of Kate Connelly in the paper. She was a stunning blond.

In any case, it was an interesting coincidence that the sister lived on the floor below him. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her because of her dark glasses and the way she turned away from him, probably embarrassed to be seen crying. But it was clear that she didn’t resemble her sister at all. The friend who was with her with the blazing red hair and fiercely protective attitude was the one who had made the strongest impression on him.

As he accepted a second cup of coffee from the waitress at the counter, he turned his attention to his own situation. He’d been back and forth from Chicago to the new office enough times in the previous weeks to feel comfortable with his coworkers. So as soon as possible, he intended to attempt to reopen Tracey’s missing person’s file. It’s not just Mom, he thought. Tracey has never been out of my mind, either. When that woman who’d been missing since she was fourteen escaped captivity twelve or fourteen years later, I wondered if maybe Tracey was possibly being held somewhere against her will.

She’d be fifty this month. But she hasn’t aged in my mind, he thought. She’ll always be twenty-two.

He paid his bill and walked out onto the street. At 8
A.M.
, Greenwich Village was bustling with people heading for the subway. Even though it was cold, there was no feel of rain in the air and Mark was happy to stretch his legs and walk to work. He did not officially start at the new office until Monday, but going there today would give him a chance to settle early. On the way he thought about the detective who his mother had said had worked so hard on Tracey’s case. Nick Greco. Mom said he was in his late thirties then, so he’d be in his sixties now. He’s sure to be retired, he thought. I can always try to Google him.

21

O
n Friday morning, a clerk at the medical examiner’s office was set to release the body of Gus Schmidt to Charley Walters, the funeral director whom Lottie had chosen to handle the arrangements. “If it’s any comfort for the widow,” the clerk said, “death was instantaneous when the staircase collapsed. He never felt the burns on his hands when he was dragged outside.”

Gus’s body was to be taken to the funeral parlor for one day of visitation that afternoon, and then cremated the next day.

The clerk, a slightly built thirty-something lab technician, was new on the job and loving the excitement that frequently accompanied it. He had voraciously devoured the story of the explosion that had destroyed the Connelly complex and pondered the reason why Gus Schmidt and Kate Connelly had been there in the predawn hour just as the fire started. Knowing he had no business asking the question, his curiosity still got the better of him. “Did you hear why Schmidt and the daughter were there?”

Recognizing a fellow gossip, Walters replied, “Nobody’s said anything. But everyone knows Gus Schmidt never got over being fired.”

“A couple of fire marshals were here yesterday to pick up his clothes. When they have a suspicious fire, the first thing they do is gather the clothes of any victims for evidence.”

“Whenever we have a funeral with a fire involved, there’s always
an investigation,” Walters said. “Some of them are caused by acts of God, like lightning. Some of them are accidents, like kids playing with matches. We had one where a three-year-old did that. He ran outside but his grandmother ended up dying of smoke inhalation looking for him. Or you get someone who can’t sell a house or a business property and the insurance looks good to them. Rumor is that Connelly’s business was on the way downhill.”

Walters realized that he was talking out of turn and that it would be prudent to sign the necessary papers to obtain the release of the body of Gus Schmidt and be on his way.

22

A
fter a sleepless night, Lottie Schmidt dozed briefly in the early hours on Friday morning. The last time she looked at the clock it had been 4:05, just the time that Gus had left only yesterday. Gus had never been a demonstrative man. He had bent over and kissed her good-bye. Did he have a premonition that he would never come back home? she wondered.

That was the last thought she had before she mercifully drifted off. Later she was awakened by the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. For one hopeful moment she thought it was Gus there, but then she realized that of course it was Gretchen, who had arrived from Minneapolis late the afternoon before.

Lottie sighed and with a weary gesture sat up in bed. She fumbled for her ten-year-old robe and then stuffed her feet into her slippers. The robe had been a Christmas present from Gus. He’d bought it at Victoria’s Secret. Lottie remembered thinking that when she saw the package she hoped that Gus hadn’t wasted his money on silly skimpy nightgowns that she’d never wear. Instead she had found inside the wrapping a pretty blue-patterned robe with a satin exterior and cozy warm lining. And it was washable.

They didn’t make those robes anymore, but as soon as the weather turned cold she trotted this one out and loved to slip into it
first thing in the morning. Both she and Gus were early risers, never later than seven thirty. Gus usually was up ahead of her and had the coffee ready when she came down.

He’d have the papers collected, too, and they’d eat in contented silence. Lottie always got to read the
Post
first. Gus liked the
News
. They both had orange juice and cereal with a banana because the doctor had said it was the best way to start the day.

But there wouldn’t be any coffee waiting for her today. And she’d have to go out to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspapers. The guy who delivered them wouldn’t come down and leave them at the side door, because he didn’t like to back out onto the street.

The shower was still running when Lottie passed the bathroom. Gus would have had a fit that Gretchen’s using up so much hot water, she thought. He always hated waste.

As she walked down the stairs, she tried to push back her worry that Gretchen would be tempted to show neighbors and friends pictures of her expensive house in Minnesota during the viewing for Gus. People who know us would wonder how Gretchen could afford such a lavish place. Divorced and childless, after working for the telephone company for years, Gretchen had become a masseuse. And a good one, Lottie thought loyally. Even if she didn’t make a lot of money, she had a nice circle of friends out there. She’s active in the Presbyterian Church. But she doesn’t think. She’s a talker. All she needed to say was . . .

Lottie did not finish the thought. Instead she went into the kitchen, started the coffeepot, and opened the door.

At least it wasn’t raining. She walked down to the edge of the driveway and, bending slowly to keep her balance, picked up the three newspapers, the
Post
, the
News,
and the
Long Island Daily
, and carried them back to the house.

Inside she took off the protective wrappings and then unrolled them. All three had pictures on the front page of the Connelly fire. With trembling fingers she opened the
Post
to page three. There was a picture of Gus under the headline
FIRE VICTIM A DISGRUNTLED EX-EMPLOYEE OF CONNELLY FINE ANTIQUE REPRODUCTIONS.

23

“I
t’s not for nothing you have red hair” was the oft-repeated comment of Jessica’s father, Steve, in her growing years. At twenty-one Steve Carlson had graduated from the police academy in New York and spent the next thirty years rising through the ranks until he retired as a captain. He had married his high school sweetheart, Annie, and when it became obvious that the large family they had planned was not to happen, he made his only offspring, Jessica, his companion at sports events.

As close as he and Annie were, his wife vastly preferred reading a book to sitting out in the hot or cold and watching any kind of game.