Scene Stealer (4 page)

Felicity pointed her letter opener in my direction. “You tell Barton he will not find out the secret ingredient used in Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps and if he dares to use the Cakewalk recipe for his brownies, I will expose him.” Felicity's voice grew strident. “I will destroy him. His little cartoon characters will be a lot more animated than his prostrate body. Goodbye, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“I assure you, Miss Silk, I am not a spy for little Bertie Barton.” The photograph in the society column had pictured them as something more than friends and business associates; now avarice, it would appear, had made them enemies.

“Little Bertie? Oh, Miss Weidenmaier.”

Felicity's mocking laughter followed me as I walked back down the corridor. The sound startled the clerks in the nearest workstations. I imagined humor was a foreign concept in that office.

I closed my eyes as the elevator descended. My stomach dropped, reaching ground level long before the rest of my body. When the door finally opened, I decided to rest for a bit in the atrium, regain my equilibrium. The acute anxiety that overwhelms me when faced by high elevations is ridiculous but real.

There was a vacant seat on a wrought-iron bench stationed next to a potted palm. I sat down and tried to concentrate on the palmate leaves.

“Excuse me. Could you move over a little?”

A corpulent woman wedged her body between a neighbor and me. The neighbor glared her disapproval, which was totally ignored, and left. My new bench companion took a newspaper, an enormous sandwich and a thermos out of a tote bag. She spread out the paper and began her lunch.

Thick slices of corned beef overlapped seeded rye bread. My mouth began to water as my seatmate bit into a sour pickle, and I regretted having lunched on Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps.

“Would you look at this.” The woman abruptly set the thermos on the floor and slapped the newspaper. A few drops of coffee spotted my left shoe.

“Sorry,” my companion said and swabbed the stain with an oversized napkin as she continued to talk. “That's why I never eat in one of them fast-food joints. Pure poison. I always make my own lunch. Save a bundle that way too.” She punctuated her speech by taking an overlarge bite out of her sandwich.

Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps Don't Make the Grade, the headline on the tabloid read.

“May I?” I asked, holding out my hand.

“Sure.” The woman handed me the paper. “I'm done with it anyway. Read most of it on my coffee break. Keep it. You know the girls in the office make fun of me for reading it. This paper I mean, but I tell you one thing, you can't read
The New York Times
on a fifteen-minute coffee break. Careful, I got a little mustard on it.”

No wonder Felicity was upset. The article, I thought, must have been what the overheard phone call was all about. The report was—if false—libelous, but a lawsuit would give legitimacy to the tabloid. Still, an accusation of salmonella could not be ignored. Could Bertie Barton be the unnamed source responsible for planting the story? I wouldn't put it past him.

Was there a connection between the kidnapping and the relationship between Silk and Barton? There clearly had been a relationship, one that ended with bitter accusations and recriminations. Sales of Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger had gone up since Kevin Corcoran's commercial but to use a child as a pawn in their fast-food game…it didn't seem plausible. My word, I had a lot of suspects to interview. I brought out a list I had started, and placed a tick next to Felicity's name. Kevin's mother was next.

Nothing in this case followed the usual pattern found in a police procedural. There was the absence of a ransom note; Kevin's mother or, perhaps, Bertram Barton as sponsor of the child's popular television commercial, should have received the missive. But Bertram denied receiving a note. The police, according to the tabloid left on my next-door neighbor's welcome mat, had not been able to communicate with Mrs. Corcoran, who had been hospitalized for stress.

While I had sympathy for the woman, his mother would simply have to pull herself together. Kevin had asked for my help on Tuesday, today was Thursday; an interview was absolutely essential. It would, of course, be easier for the woman to talk with me, a genteel spinster, rather than a burly police officer like Lieutenant Brown.

Fortunately, the tabloid had also named where Mrs. Corcoran was being attended to: New York Hospital, the very hospital where, since retirement, I volunteered my services as a librarian. I pushed the book cart down the hospital corridor, pausing at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Weidenmaier,” the receptionist and a nurse's aide responded in concert. They appeared harried; both a nurse and an aide had called in sick. As we talked, I managed to glance at the chart lying on the desk. Mrs. Corcoran was in room 1003. So far, so good, I often worked the floor.

An attentive security guard was posted outside the door to the room; his eyes constantly checked the corridor for suspicious characters. My watch read 1:45. At 2:00 p.m., patients were offered their choice of fruit juice. I exchanged the books for cans of pineapple, grapefruit and apple juice, moved my identification badge to a more prominent place on my lapel and approached the guard.

Luck was with me. He paused—just once—for a brief but appreciative glance at a petite nurse walking by. The nurse, a stethoscope adorning her neck, granted him a smile as she passed, then continued on her way through the wing with a tray of thermometers. I greeted the distracted man as if he was an old friend, and sailed past him into Mrs. Corcoran's room.

A basket of daisies, one of fruit, two vases of roses and a huge bouquet of balloons crowded the room. The scent of the flowers almost succeeded in covering the usual antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital. A fragile-looking creature, Mrs. Corcoran's complexion was as pale and white as the sheets on the hospital bed. I became aware of a blue vein throbbing in her temple.

A lunch tray sat, untouched, on the bedside table. The chicken broth was tepid and the vanilla ice cream had melted to an unappetizing puddle. She had not eaten a thing, which would never do.

“Mrs. Corcoran.” I addressed Kevin's mother in a gentle but firm manner. “Mrs. Corcoran, I am Miss Weidenmaier. I consider myself Kevin's friend and I hope you will allow me to be yours.”

Mrs. Corcoran turned her head away; her eyes remained closed. She spoke so softly I could barely decipher the words. “Kevin. I want my baby.”

I cranked the bed up a bit, straightened the bedding, placed a second pillow behind her head and, when she looked at me, handed her a glass of apple juice. “Mrs. Corcoran, you need nourishment. Take small sips while we talk.”

Mrs. Corcoran wrapped both hands around the glass. Her large hazel eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from crying.

“How do you know Kevin?” Her voice was a little stronger now.

“Lincoln Center,” I answered.

“Which audition was that? There have been so many.” The poor woman had mistaken me for an actress. A natural mistake; I had trod the boards in my college days, playing an acceptable Jo March in
Little Women.
If my memory serves me correctly, the local paper reviewed my performance in glowing terms.

“Mrs. Corcoran, have you received any type of communication regarding Kevin's disappearance? A phone call or a note making demands? Something you might have thought too insignificant to mention?”

She shook her head. Tears again threatened her eyes.

“Now, none of that. We must talk and tears will only delay us.”

Mrs. Corcoran gulped and swallowed, looking much too young to be the mother of a nine-year-old. “Yes, of course,” she whispered.

“Do you know anyone who would wish to take Kevin away?”

I bent my head to hear her answer.

“Charles,” she said. “I was hoping it was Charles.”

“Who is Charles, Mrs. Corcoran?”

“Kevin's father. At least he'd be safe with Charles.”

“You are divorced?”

“Separated. Captain Corcoran doesn't believe in divorce. No one in the Corcoran family has ever been divorced.”

“Captain Corcoran. He's in the service?”

“An army man like his father, his family is all gone now just like mine. I was so happy when we found each other. But the war has changed Charles…he's become so rigid especially with Kevin.”

Mrs. Corcoran touched her barren ring finger.

“I don't fit his world. He wants Kevin with him., He said he'd hire a lawyer. He feels that marrying me was imprudent. He told me many times how much he regretted it. But I don't really think he would take Kevin. Charles believes in doing things by the book. He wouldn't kidnap Kevin, he loves Kevin. He doesn't love me anymore but he loves Kevin. Kevin is all I have. I guess Kevin is all Charles has too.”

A wisp of baby-fine hair fell across one eye. She pushed it away and rubbed the eye with a hand balled into a fist, determined not to cry. “Everything's gone wrong, Miss Weidenmaier. I loved Charles so much. We should have been so happy together. But since he came back from the war, he doesn't talk. It's not just me, he won't talk about the war to anyone.”

Had Kevin's father become impatient with the law? Snatched the child? I asked for his description.

“Kevin and his father look alike. The same hair. The color's a little darker than mine but his has a natural curl. That was the first thing I noticed about Charles. I always wanted hair like his. They both have blue eyes, but Kevin's are warm. Kevin looks like his dad but he's more like me, he loves art and music and, of course, theatre.” Mrs. Corcoran's face brightened. “We explore museums and go to concerts when Kevin has the time in between his school assignments and commercials. His father disapproves. He wants Kevin to play baseball or soccer. That's one of the reasons we separated. He says Kevin will end up a sissy.” Mrs. Corcoran's hand trembled. A few drops of apple juice stained the bedsheet. She dabbed at the spot with a tissue. “Maybe Charles is right. I don't know anymore. I just want Kevin to be safe and happy.”

“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Corcoran?”

“Charles is in the veteran's hospital on Kingsbridge Road in the Bronx. Do you think Charles took Kevin?”

I didn't know the answer to Mrs. Corcoran's question but I intended to find out.

The man I had seen with Kevin did not fit Mrs. Corcoran's description of the boy's father. Perhaps the captain had persuaded some underling to kidnap the child. Unlikely, but possible, especially if he too were hospitalized. I intended to discuss the matter with Lieutenant Brown.

The absence of a ransom note was frightening, raising the most terrifying scenarios.
Augusta Weidenmaier,
I thought,
you must stop. Do not let your imagination run away with itself. Take one step at a time.

“Do you or Kevin have any enemies? Is there anyone who dislikes you for any reason?”

“Everyone loves Kevin.” The tears she was trying so hard to suppress clouded her eyes.

I examined the cards attached to the floral arrangements. Robert Barton had sent the largest. The basket of fruit came from Abner T. Bean, Kevin's agent, and his granddaughter Patti.

“My phone number, Mrs. Corcoran, call if you think of anything or anyone that might be involved. And you must eat. Regain your strength. I'll come visit you again.”

“You're not at all like most actresses.” Mrs. Corcoran managed a smile as she spoke. “You remind me of my favorite elementary-school teacher.”

I telephoned the lieutenant from a public phone booth located in the hospital's lobby. He was taking a lunch break. Too bad, I would have been happy to share what I had learned.

“I'll contact the lieutenant later today,” I told the desk sergeant.

There was no time to waste and luck was with me; I checked for Abner T. Bean's address in an old Manhattan telephone directory that had survived years of mishandling and called, but Abner T. Bean's answering machine stated he was not interviewing actors today. He might not be interviewing but he would be in his office and he would surely want to help find Kevin.

Lieutenant Brown covered a yawn by vigorously blowing his nose; it was hard to keep awake when Clarence decided to plead guilty. He pulled on his left earlobe and wondered if every nutcase in New York was going to confess to kidnapping Kevin Corcoran. The damn phone was ringing off the hook and two of the early calls were complaints about that schoolteacher who was making like an amateur detective.

“Clarence,” he said. “You didn't do it. Give me a break. Give yourself a break. Go home. Go back to work. Just go away before I lose it.”

“Nobody believes me,” Clarence said. “Nobody takes me seriously.” His nose dripped. A disagreeable sight. Lieutenant Brown handed him a box of tissues and wondered where Sergeant Harris had gone. Handling creeps like Clarence was part of her job.

“You didn't kidnap Kevin, you are not Jack the Ripper. Robbery doesn't want you. Narcotics doesn't want you, you are not wanted for auto theft, muggings or homicide. But if you keep bugging me, I might be jailed for murder. Why do you confess to every damn crime you read about? What are you, a concerned citizen who thinks he's tidying up New York? Maybe, like the commercial says, Clarence, you need to reach out and touch someone.”

Anything for attention, the lieutenant thought. The scrawny, non-descript man was easy to ignore. Sallow skin, pale brown eyes that constantly watered, receding mouse-colored hair; it was impossible to even judge the man's age. A personality so withdrawn it was like communicating with a glass of skim milk.

“All right, Clarence, where were you last Tuesday? Where was Kevin when you abducted him? Where have you hidden him?”

To the lieutenant's surprise, tears washed over and down the would-be kidnapper's cheeks.

Clarence couldn't have kidnapped Kevin. Details? He knew zilch and had no motive.

“Clarence, weren't you working the day Kevin disappeared?” He worked in an office building two blocks away. “Jesus, every time you come here and confess I have to check with the superintendent over there. Why do you have to choose my station house?” Lieutenant Brown glanced at his watch. Sergeant Harris was late. He'd have to talk to her.

“Clarence, it's time to go now.”

He walked Clarence past the front desk, presided over by Sergeant O'Brien, and found O'Brien and Marjorie Harris playing with the street kid who had adopted the lieutenant's unit as a second home. What the hell—the kid didn't have a real home.

“Clarence, go back to work.” Lieutenant Brown opened the door, Clarence walked down the front steps before he turned back and raised one hand in a tentative wave.

The boy was sitting on top of O'Brien's desk, stuffing potato chips into his mouth. Crumbs decorated his torn T-shirt and dirty jeans. A stray chip had landed on top of a stack of O'Brien's paperwork. O'Brien either hadn't noticed or was too charmed to care. The eight-year-old was getting the attention he obviously craved. Half the force, the lieutenant noted, including Marjorie Harris, was neglecting their work entertaining the kid.

“Sergeant Harris,” the lieutenant said. “Walk down the block to Clarence's building and see if he was working last Tuesday.”

The usually composed Marjorie Harris jumped at the sound of his voice. He couldn't help himself; he got a kick out of her reaction. No one else noticed it. Good thing, too. He was much too conscious of Marjorie Harris. She wasn't a bad cop—considering she was a woman. An attractive woman.

“Right away, Lieutenant,” Marjorie said. She tied the boy's shoelaces. The child's sneakers were full of holes and looked a size too small. Marjorie would be making a collection to buy the kid a new pair.

Every couple of weeks, the kid could be found sitting on the steps outside the building, crying crocodile tears, pretending to be lost. The cops were turning into his surrogate family. The boy had no father. His mother had disappeared. The grandmother lived from welfare check to welfare check and he competed with half a dozen brothers and sisters for her attention. The kid was smart enough to come to the police for what he didn't get at home. The Police Athletic League might be a solution.

“O'Brien,” he ordered. “Have someone escort this young man home and see if you can enlist him in the PAL.” He pulled O'Brien's cap over the kid's eyes and handed him the bar of chocolate he'd bought for an afternoon snack. Plenty more in the vending machine. Besides, he should lose a few pounds; the elastic on his jockeys felt tight. Maybe he'd take up jogging or biking, something he could do with his son.

Every time his son said he wanted to be a cop, his ex-wife threw a fit. He had mixed feelings about it. Plenty of time—his son was only eleven. No. Twelve. He'd have to give him a call, didn't see enough of the boy. Boy. He wouldn't be a boy much longer. Next birthday he'd be a teenager. They got along all right when they got together. Seemed like his son was skipping years, growing up too soon He'd call him tonight. Maybe they'd have dinner together.

“Lieutenant.” Marjorie was back. “Clarence checks out. The superintendent says Clarence worked all day. The security guard saw him, so did one of the tenants who slipped and nearly fell on the wax Clarence sloshed on the floor near the elevators.”

“Lunch hour? The loser could do it on his lunch hour.”

“Didn't take one. Had to clean up the wax before the landlord got sued.”

Marjorie handed O'Brien a peppermint and offered him one. In her battle to stop smoking, Sergeant Harris constantly popped Life Savers into her generous mouth. He wouldn't mind a taste of that peppermint. Damn. He banished the thought of Marjorie Harris, her lips, legs, the whole enchilada from his mind. The woman should get married and have a kid of her own. She'd make a good mother. His ex-wife was a good mother; he'd give her that. Just couldn't stand being a cop's wife. Few women could.

He thought about the street kid again. Three strikes against him but the lieutenant had a feeling he'd never be out. Sharp and street-wise, the kid would survive. The lieutenant wished he could feel as sure about Kevin Corcoran. No ransom note yet; there should have been a ransom note by now. Worst case scenario: some crazy had the kid, and they were standing around playing.

“Marjorie, we have work to do.” The lieutenant pulled on his left earlobe again and headed for his office. “We're gonna take the Corcoran kidnapping from the top.”