Tomorrow's Vengeance Page 19

  Mindy had been right. The pencil drawings were perfection. I recognized Nancy’s dog, Rosco, the Buddah in the garden and a magnificent tulip poplar. For the poplar, she’d used the sides of the paper to draw closeups of its four-lobed, heart-shaped leaves and its distinctive tulip-shaped blossoms. There were seven drawings of the tree in all, but one in particular captured my attention. Standing under the umbrella of its branches, pressed up against its slightly furrowed bark, a couple stood, locked in an embrace. The woman’s back was to the artist, while the man’s head was bowed. His hair had been meticulously rendered – Nancy’d drawn every strand – and it certainly could be Masud, but in spite of the detail, the couple was too far away to identify.

  Holding the drawing I wandered over to the window and pulled the drapes aside. In a corner formed by the hedge of the Tranquility Garden where it met the wall of the secret garden the dementia patients used stood a lush tulip poplar, a twin to the one in the drawing in my hand. A perfect spot for a rendezvous, I thought, tucked out of sight of anyone except the patients here in the memory unit. If they noticed any hanky-panky, who were they going to tell? And who would believe them?

  I leaned forward, propped my elbows up on the sill, laced my fingers and rested my chin on top of them. ‘The garden’s really beautiful at this time of year, don’t you think so?’

  ‘I love gardens,’ Nancy said. ‘But Frank does the weeding because my knees are so bad.’

  ‘I don’t see Frank in the garden today. I wonder where he is?’

  Nancy tapped the glass. ‘He likes it there.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked her. ‘By the cherry tree?’

  ‘No, the liriodendron tulipifera.’

  ‘Ah, the tulip poplar. Does he stand there often, Frank, I mean?’

  ‘It is what it is,’ she said cryptically. Suddenly she turned to me, her eyes wide and wild. ‘Where’s Frank?’

  I reached out and patted her hand. Poor Nancy. If Jerry wasn’t where she could actually see him it was as if ‘Frank’ had vanished. Although sometimes yesterday made an appearance, tomorrow, tonight, this afternoon, soon … those concepts seemed foreign to her. ‘You ate breakfast with Frank,’ I fibbed, and hated myself for doing it. ‘He’s probably in the bathroom.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘What’s not fair?’

  ‘If she can have a boyfriend, I can have a boyfriend!’

  ‘She?’

  ‘That cheerleader. Think’s she’s so smart!’ Nancy drew out the ‘O’ in so, turning it into four syllables – O-O-O-O – wagging her head from side to side as she spoke.

  I decided to wait her out. After a bit, she said, ‘It’s not allowed, you know. Teachers aren’t supposed to mess around with students.’

  ‘So, you saw a teacher messing around with a cheerleader?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I certainly did.’

  ‘What does the cheerleader look like?’ I asked, not really hoping for an answer that would make any sense.

  ‘I see her all the time, that blonde,’ Nancy said. ‘“Only her hairdresser knows for sure!”’ she sing-songed. ‘Bitch.’

  Somewhere in Nancy’s past a cheerleader had done her wrong, and she wasn’t about to forget it.

  ‘Where do you see the cheerleader?’ I asked, hoping to get her back on track.

  ‘She has a board job. In the dining hall. At least I don’t have to wait tables.’ She gave me a slow wink. ‘My father is very rich.’

  So, Nancy was back in college. I’d waited tables at Oberlin College – Dascomb Hall, if you’d like to know – and I’d often felt looked down upon by the more privileged few. Oh, the tricks I played when they got my goat! Maybe Nancy’s cheerleader had done the same to her.

  ‘She was supposed to be working, but no, she was having sex. And I know sex when I see it,’ Nancy said dreamily.

  It wasn’t Jerry having sex with a pretty blonde in the garden, I knew, but someone Nancy thought looked like Jerry. Masud Abaza? ‘The man from the garden,’ she had said when Masud’s picture had popped up on the television screen. And unless I was mistaken, the only person working the dining room who would qualify as a cheerleader waiting tables was our own young blonde, Filomena.

  Were Masud and Filomena having an affair, improbable though it may seem? Or was it some other transaction altogether? Whatever, Detective Powers needed to know.

  When Detective Powers finally returned my call, I shared my suspicions with him and got the detective’s equivalent of ‘thank you for sharing.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Detective Powers.’

  ‘I am. The question is, where’s your proof?’

  ‘Nancy Harper saw Masud and Filomena together in the garden.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you referring to the Nancy Harper who is a patient in the dementia unit?’

  ‘Well, yes, but just because you have dementia doesn’t mean you’re blind. She’s forgetful, not blind.’

  Powers snorted. ‘Even a public defender fresh out of law school would make mincemeat out of her testimony, even assuming she was judged competent to take the stand in the first place, which I doubt.’

  ‘She drew a picture of what she saw, Detective. She’s an accomplished artist.’

  ‘Mrs Ives.’ He paused. ‘I could draw a picture of Hilary Clinton having sex with the Jolly Green Giant, but that doesn’t mean it actually happened.’

  ‘Right.’ I hung up, thinking I’d have to go to Plan B.

  Whatever Plan B was.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘In compliance with the order of the Fuehrer for protection of Jewish cultural possesions, a great number of Jewish dwellings remained unguarded. Consequently, many furnishings have disappeared … In the whole East, the administration has found terrible conditions of living quarters, and the chances of procurement are so limited that it is not practical to procure any more. Therefore, I beg the Fuehrer to permit the seizure of all Jewish home furnishings of Jews in Paris, who have fled, or will leave shortly, and that of Jews living in all parts of the occupied West, to relieve the shortage of furnishings in the administration in the East.’

  Albert Rosenberg, Secret Documentary Memorandum for the Fürhrer, Berlin, 18 December, 1941.

  It took a couple of days to arrange everything to my satisfaction.

  In the meantime, I continued to eat lunch in the dining room with Naddie, fury bubbling up in me, white and hot, as Filomena flitted from table to table, smiling and greeting residents as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Naddie whispered. ‘It’s showtime.’

  When the hostess was within earshot, I leaned over the portfolio I’d spread out on the table between us and said, ‘Look, Naddie, aren’t they amazing?’

  Naddie leafed through the drawings with deliberate care, pausing to examine each in turn, sometimes holding one up to the light that cascaded from the chandelier.

  ‘Nancy doesn’t recognize her family,’ I nattered on, ‘but when it comes to drawing her mind’s as sharp as ever.’

  ‘Stunning!’ Naddie agreed. ‘I wonder where she trained?’ She tapped the drawing on the table in front of her. ‘I like this one very much.’

  ‘It’s the tulip poplar in the Tranquility Garden,’ I told her. ‘And here’s a nice one of the garden gate.’ I chuckled. ‘What else to do when you look out your window all day?’

  ‘Makes me want to hang up my paint brush,’ Naddie complained.

  ‘Fat chance,’ I said. I scrabbled among the drawings until I found the one of Nancy’s dog. ‘She draws from memory with incredible accuracy. Look at this! It’s her dog, Rosco. According to the nurse in the memory unit, Nancy had Rosco as a child over sixty years ago.’

  Naddie studied me over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Are there more? We should definitely include some of Nancy’s work in the art show this coming fall.’

  ‘She’s got a whole portfolio in her room.’

 
As we talked I kept one eye on Filomena, who was fussing with the napkins on an adjoining table, folding and refolding. ‘Filomena!’ I called, waving her over. ‘Take a look at Nancy’s drawings. Aren’t they wonderful?’ I pawed through the pile, selected one of the tulip poplar and handed it to her.

  ‘Lovely,’ Filomena said, handing the drawing back. ‘It’s too bad she’s …’ Filomena tapped her temple. ‘You know.’

  ‘A shame,’ I agreed. ‘But music and art can unlock the most amazing memories, even in patients with advanced Alzheimer’s disease.’ I grinned up at her. ‘You’ve heard Nancy play the piano. It’s as if she’s young again.’

  Filomena smiled then bowed slightly. ‘You must excuse me now, ladies, but I have work to do. Susanna will come by in a moment to take your order.’

  Naddie and I inhaled our Caesar salads while tag-teaming Filomena to make sure she didn’t slip away. I skipped dessert and hurried back to the memory unit while Naddie went off in the opposite direction to play her part.

  In Nancy’s darkened room, lying in her bed with a blanket pulled up to my chin, I sensed, rather than saw someone open the door and slip in. While I held my breath and counted to twelve the figure stood quietly at the foot of the bed, then turned toward the coffee table where I’d carefully arranged Nancy’s portfolio so that it was clearly illuminated by the single bulb of her Tiffany-style floor lamp.

  Filomena.

  Through half-slitted eyes I watched her paw through the drawings, pausing to examine one or the other more closely. She gasped quietly then drew back. She’d come to the drawing of the couple having sex under the tree. After a moment she closed the portfolio and patted the cover as if to say you’re mine now.

  I expected that she’d take the drawings with her, but Filomena had other plans. She picked up a pillow from the sofa and crept slowly, but deliberately toward the bed.

  As she drew nearer I tensed, muscles screaming to bolt. I wrapped my fingers even more tightly around the weapon clutched in my right hand, hidden under the covers.

  Filomena held the pillow in both hands. I could hear her ragged breathing, feel her breath hot on my cheek as the pillow began to descend.

  When it was six inches from my face, survival mode kicked in. I thrust my weapon into her abdomen, found the trigger and pressed.

  Filomena shot back and crumpled to the floor. The pillow flew into the dark. As she lay on the carpet, spasming, her eyes wide and staring, I slipped out of Nancy’s bed, holding the stun gun in front of me in case I needed to zap her again, but the first two-and-half million volts the manufacturer had promised in the guarantee printed on the box seemed to have done the trick.

  I turned on the bedside lamp and leaned down. Filomena was still breathing, thank goodness, but she’d lost control of her bladder. I circumnavigated the spreading puddle that was soaking into the carpet, borrowed the sash from Nancy’s terrycloth bathrobe and tied Filomena’s legs together at the ankles. I used a clove hitch with an extra wrap. Paul would have been proud of my knotsmanship.

  Then I punched speed dial on my cell phone. ‘Detective Powers,’ I said when he picked up. ‘I need to report an attempted murder.’

  I reached Naddie at Spa Paradiso, where she’d taken Nancy for a massage. ‘Mission accomplished,’ I told my friend, who’d been standing by, waiting for my call. While I debriefed Naddie I stared daggers at Filomena, waiting for her to stop twitching and come around.

  ‘You murdered Masud, didn’t you?’ I said finally, when Filomena’s tongue had begun working again. ‘Why?’

  She stared at me for a moment, and I thought she’d decided to stay silent. But then she slurred: ‘I was tired of having sex. The first time wasn’t so bad, in his home when his wife was teaching her computer class, but then he wanted it anytime and just about anywhere.’ She snorted. ‘He didn’t get much variety at home. I think it excited him to be a bad, bad boy.’ She flexed her fingers and winced. ‘Masud suspected his wife was sleeping with my brother … that is, how do you say, a big laugh. But Masud, he believed it, and wanted to teach Safa a lesson.’

  ‘Was she? Sleeping with Raniero, I mean?’

  Filomena laughed out loud. ‘Not unless my brother had decided to, how do you say, bat for both teams.’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Raniero has a boyfriend in New York City. Can I sit up?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but don’t expect me to help you.’

  I watched as she pulled her knees up and scooted backwards along the carpet, away from the wet spot in which she had been lying.

  Filomena leaned her head back against the dust ruffle of the sofa. ‘So, I told Masud “no.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t like it. But he knew about the meat – that’s how it started in the first place.’ She smiled. ‘He could have gotten me fired.’

  ‘So you blamed the kickbacks on your brother?’

  Filomena shrugged. ‘Raniero or me, it does not matter. For either one it is final de la carrera.’

  ‘Your confession will clear Raniero’s name, Filomena. He will be fine.’

  Filomena laughed. ‘Who is confessing?’

  I pointed to Nancy’s bookshelf. In the space I’d made between Madame Bovary and Jane Eyre sat a plush bear. ‘See that teddy bear?’ I said. ‘It’s a wireless nanny cam. Nadine Gray has been at the spa, recording everything that happened tonight.’

  Filomena used her arms to push herself up into a sitting position. ‘Bitch!’

  I waved my Lady Lifeguard. ‘Stay where you are, Filomena, or I’ll zap you again, I swear.’

  ‘Pink?’ said a gravelly voice behind me. ‘Your stun gun is pink?’

  ‘A portion of the proceeds go to breast cancer research, Detective Powers. Just doing my part.’

  After reading Filomena her rights, Detective Powers and a female police officer led her away. Filomena’s face was streaked with tears and her hands were shackled behind her with a pair of plastic tie handcuffs. When she saw me she ducked her head, refusing to meet my eyes.

  I opened my mouth but Powers silenced me with a death ray. I stepped aside to let them pass and followed a respectful distance behind as they trundled their prisoner through the lobby, down the front steps and tucked her into the back of the police car.

  Power’s partner climbed into the front passenger seat. Powers opened the driver’s side door, paused, looked up at me looking down at him from the porch, and came to a decision.

  Seconds later he stood next to me on the porch. Officer Powers seemed to be weighing how much to tell me. Suddenly he squared his shoulders and said, ‘It took us a long time to process those goddam glass balls, but we found a handprint out there, on a ball from the rowboat. It belongs to Filomena.’

  I frowned. ‘But Filomena could have touched those balls at any time. I’m sure I touched one when I first went out there with Nancy.’

  ‘Yes, but two of the partials we found were made with Masud Abaza’s blood.’

  I stared at Powers for a long moment. ‘I see. So you didn’t really need me to …’

  He cocked a forefinger. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And another thing,’ he said. Powers rapped on the window until his partner rolled it down. He leaned in, reached across her lap and lifted a large Ziploc bag off the dashboard. ‘Do you know a Ysabelle Milanesi?’

  ‘It’s Izzy’s scrapbook! Wherever did you find it?’

  Powers nodded toward the back seat of the patrol car where Filomena sat, head bowed, still refusing to meet my eyes. ‘We executed a search warrant on her apartment. Found it there.’

  ‘Izzy will be over the moon,’ I said. ‘Do you know how important it is?’

  ‘Old photos. I figured it had sentimental value.’

  ‘Much more than that, Detective. When can she have it back?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. If it’s needed as evidence in the Abaza murder, it’ll be a while. If not …’ He shrugged. ‘Sooner rather than later, I should think.’

  ‘Take good c
are of that, Detective Powers. It’s all Izzy has left of her family.’

  ‘I promise.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘The Inner Harbor is a historic seaport, tourist attraction, and landmark of the city of Baltimore, Maryland, USA. It was described by the Urban Land Institute in 2009 as “the model for post-industrial waterfront redevelopment around the world.”’

  Announcement of 2009 ULI Awards for Excellence,

  Urban Land Institute, Atlanta, April 24, 2009.

  Angie and I sat on the porch like two old friends, quietly rocking. I’d brought my knitting with me: a sweater for my granddaughter, Chloe, that I’d started back during the summer Olympic Games, the ones in Beijing. The sun had slipped behind a cloud and there was a slight chill to the air, a harbinger of fall, which was just around the corner.

  ‘How’s your mother-in-law, Ange?’

  ‘Surprisingly fine. I think she knew all along, deep down, that her relationship with Richard was a fantasy. Know what she said to me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“The tragedy of growing old is that I’m a young person in an old body.”’

  ‘Oscar Wilde?’ I wondered.

  ‘No. Christie McSpadden.’

  I thought about Nancy Harper, living in her eighteen-year-old mind with no more worries than whether Frank was going to ask her to the prom. ‘Well, on that cheerful note …’ I began.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s almost time for lunch. I wonder when they’ll have Raniero back? That mac and cheese yesterday. Bleah. Mother wanted me to join her today, but nuh-uh.’

  ‘He might never be back, Angie. Last I heard he was working with a deal lawyer from Skadden Arps, trying to keep his restaurant plans from falling through.’

  ‘What happened?’ Angie asked.

  ‘When Lawrence Levine found out it was being partially financed by the sale of artwork stolen by the Nazis, he decided to pull the plug.’

  ‘Levine? Larry Levine the Quik Loan King? That Levine?’

  ‘That’s the guy.’

  ‘No kidding. Figured it’d be bad for business?’