Investigators Page 6

  Christ, I can’t handle that!

  Penny’s mother pities me, and her father thinks I’m responsible.

  He turned so that they wouldn’t see him.

  And found himself looking at the rear end of a good-looking blonde and then the reflection of her face in the huge sheet of plate glass that offered a view of the Delaware River and the Camden works of Nesfoods International.

  He walked to her.

  She looked at him, and then away.

  “Hi!” he said.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “You may safely talk to me,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m the godfather of the new rug rat,” Matt said.

  That got a smile.

  “Have you got a name, godfather?”

  “Matt Payne.”

  She gave him her hand.

  “Susan Reynolds,” she said. “I was Daffy’s big sister at Bennington.”

  “That must have been a job.”

  That got him another smile.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Matt asked.

  “Why not?” Susan Reynolds said.

  “What?”

  “They have Chablis.”

  “Don’t go away.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He went to the upstairs bar and ordered a Chablis and a scotch and soda, no ice, for himself, and returned to Susan Reynolds.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” Matt said.

  “Now you sound like Chad.”

  “How’s that?”

  “A pillar of Philadelphia society, surprised at meeting a barbarian within the gates.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. But I’ve never seen you around before. I would have noticed.”

  “Harrisburg,” she said. “Outside Camp Hill.”

  “Hello,” a female voice said behind him.

  “Miss Reynolds, may I introduce my mother and father?” Matt said. “Mother, Dad, this is Susan Reynolds.”

  Matt’s mother did not look her forty-five years. She had a smooth, tanned, unwrinkled complexion and a trim body. It was often said that she looked at least fifteen years younger than her husband, a tall, well-built, dignified, silver-haired man in his early fifties.

  “How do you do?” Patricia Moffitt Payne said. “Daffy’s told me about you.”

  “You’re not supposed to call her Daffy,” Matt said.

  “I’ve known her since she was in diapers,” Patricia Payne said. “I’ll call her whatever I please.”

  “And it does fit, doesn’t it?” Susan Reynolds said.

  “I didn’t say that,” Patricia Payne said.

  “I think you’re a friend of Mr. Emmons, aren’t you, Mr. Payne?” Susan Reynolds asked.

  “Charles Emmons?” Brewster Payne asked.

  She nodded. “He’s a good friend of my father.”

  “Does that make you Thomas Reynolds’s daughter, by chance?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Charley and I went to law school together,” Brewster C. Payne said. “I don’t know your father. But Charley often mentions him.”

  “Matt,” Patricia Payne said. “You’re going to have to say hello to the Detweilers. They know you’re here.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Matt!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt said.

  “Now would be a good time,” Patricia Payne said.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” Matt said to Susan Reynolds. “I will return.”

  Making his manners with Penny’s parents was as painful as he thought it would be. And it took five minutes, which seemed like much longer.

  When he returned to Susan Reynolds, his parents were gone, replaced by two young men who had also discovered the good-looking blonde without visible escort.

  “What do you say, Payne?” one of them said. His name was T. Winslow Hayes, and they had been classmates at Episcopal Academy. Matt hadn’t liked him then, and didn’t like him now. The other one was vaguely familiar, but Matt couldn’t put a name to him.

  “What do I say about what?”

  “Can I get you another drink, Susan?” the other one asked.

  “Thank you, but I have appointed Matt booze-bearer for the evening,” Susan said, and, raising her glass, added, “And I already have one.”

  Am I getting lucky?

  T. Winslow Hayes and the other left shortly thereafter.

  Their hostess appeared.

  “I feel duty-bound to warn you about him, Susan,” Daffy said.

  “Daffy has never forgiven me for refusing to marry her,” Matt said. “Don’t pay any attention to her.”

  “You shit!” Daffy said.

  Susan Reynolds chuckled.

  “He doesn’t look very threatening to me,” Susan said.

  “There are some very nice boys here I could introduce you to,” Daffy said.

  “Thank you, but no thank you.”

  I am getting lucky.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Daffy said, and left them.

  “Oddly enough, I think Daffy likes you,” Susan said.

  “In her own perverted way, perhaps,” Matt said.

  “Are you a lawyer, like your father?” Susan asked.

  “No.”

  “You look like a lawyer.”

  “How does a lawyer look?”

  “Like you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Would you believe policeman?”

  “No.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. Boy Scout’s honor.”

  “How interesting. Really?”

  “Detective Matthew Payne at your service, ma’am.”

  He saw that she now believed him—and in her eyes that he was no longer going to be lucky.

  Let’s cut to the chase.

  “Do you like jazz, Susan?”

  “What kind of jazz?”

  “Dixieland.”

  She nodded.

  “There’s a club, in Center City, where there’s a real live, imported-directly-from-Bourbon-Street-in-New-Orleans-Louisiana Dixieland band,” Matt made his pitch. “Could I interest you in leaving these sordid surroundings and all these charming people to go there? They serve gen-u-ine southern barbecue ribs and oysters and beer.”

  Susan Reynolds met his eyes.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Try somebody else.”

  “Daffy scared you off?”

  “Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice fellow, but I’m just not interested. Okay?”

  “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,” Matt said. “May I get you another drink before I leave?”

  She held up her glass.

  “I have one. Thank you just the same.”

  “Have a nice night, Susan.”

  “You, too,” Susan Reynolds said.

  Although she had hoped to be able to get away from the party without being seen, Susan Reynolds ran into her hostess as she was going down the stairway to the first floor.

  “You’re not leaving so soon?” Daffy asked, pro forma.

  “Thank you for having me, Daffy,” Susan said. “I had a lovely time.”

  “Even if you’re leaving alone?” Daffy challenged. “You didn’t find anyone interesting?”

  “I don’t recall saying I didn’t find anybody interesting,” Susan said, “just that I was leaving here alone. A policeman offered to take me someplace where the jazz is supposed to be good.”

  She winked at Daffy, who smiled with pleasure.

  “Have a good time,” Daffy said.

  “I will try,” Susan said, and kissed Daffy on the cheek.

  “He’s really not as bad as I said,” Daffy said.

  “Now you tell me?” Susan said. “After I get my hopes up?”

  Daffy laughed appreciatively.

  Susan walked to the end of Stockton Place and handed the claim check to her car to the man in charge of the v
alet parking. It was delivered much sooner than she expected, but with what she had come to regard as the ritual expression of admiration.

  “Nice wheels,” the valet parking driver said.

  Susan had come into a trust fund established for her by her paternal grandfather when she had turned twenty-five. The Porsche 911 had been her present to herself on that occasion.

  “Nice engine, too,” Susan said, and slipped him two dollar bills.

  He looked like a nice kid, and he smiled warmly at her.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  Susan got behind the wheel, smiled up at the kid, and drove away.

  She drove to City Hall, then turned left onto North Broad Street. There was probably a better way to get out of town—there was a superhighway close to the Delaware River—but she was reluctant to try something new, and wind up in New Jersey.

  Near Temple University, she spotted the first sign identifying the road as Pennsylvania Route 611, and that made her feel more comfortable. Now she was sure she knew where she was.

  She thought of the cop.

  The truth of the matter is, I really would rather be sitting in some smoke-filled dive listening to Dixieland with him than coming up here.

  As a matter of fact, there are probably two hundred things I would rather be doing than coming up here.

  But at least I will get to see Jennifer and the baby.

  Not, of course, the father of the baby. If I never saw that son of a bitch again, it would be too soon.

  The Chinese had it wrong. Boy babies should be drowned at birth, not girl babies. Just keep enough of them for purposes of impregnation, and get rid of the surplus before they grow up and start doing terrible things.

  Girl babies don’t grow up to do the awful things that grown-up boy babies do—is there such a thing? I have seen very little proof that boy babies ever really grow up, even after they have beards—and if grown-up girl babies were running things, the world would be a better place.

  No wars, for one thing.

  They are such bastards, really. That cop was barely out of sight before his pals started telling me what a mixed-up screwball he was. That he had become a cop to prove his manhood in the first place, and that he wasn’t really a cop, just playing at being one.

  Was that a put-down of him, per se? Or were they putting him down to increase their chances—their nonexistent chances; I would really have to be desperate to let either of them close to me—of getting into my pants?

  What about the cop?

  Under other circumstances, would I have . . .

  There are no other circumstances, and I know it, largely because of the male bastard I’m going to see tonight.

  When they cause trouble, they don’t cause trouble just for themselves, but for everybody around them. In this case, Sweet Jennie and now a baby. And, of course, me.

  And they just don’t care!

  Maybe I would be better off if I were a lesbian.

  But I’m not.

  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

  It’s a good thing. The truth is that I would kill . . .

  That’s a lousy choice of words. There’s enough killing.

  The truth is that I would give a good deal to be in Daffy Nesbitt’s position. To have a husband, and a baby, and not to have to worry about anything more important than changing diapers.

  Not to have to worry about—try to deal with—other people’s problems. Most of which, I have learned, they bring on themselves.

  I would really like that.

  What does that make me, a selfish bitch?

  And since I do worry about the problems other people have caused for themselves, what does that make me, St. Susan the Martyr?

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You got yourself in this, and now you’re going to have to pay the price, whatever the hell that price ultimately turns out to be.

  And anyway, the Dixieland band would probably have been terrible, and the worst possible man for me to get involved with would be a cop. And despite how his good buddies tried to put him down, I think whatsisname—Payne, Matt—is probably a pretty good cop. His eyes—I noticed that about him—were intelligent. I don’t think much gets by him.

  She drove through the suburbs of Jenkintown and Ab ington and Willow Grove, and shortly after 10:30 reached the outskirts of Doylestown. She drove through town, past the courthouse with the Civil War cannon on the lawn, and spotted the Crossroads Diner just where Jennie had told her it would be.

  The parking lot was jammed, also as Jennie had told her, when she had called the Bellvue, it would be. The diner, Jennie had said, was more than a diner. It had started out as a diner, but had grown into both a truck stop and a restaurant with a bar and a motel.

  Jennie said that I should drive around to the rear of the diner, to the part of the parking lot between the restaurant and the motel. That there would be the best place to leave the car.

  Susan glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven.

  I’m ten minutes late. Or twenty minutes early. Jennie said between half ten and eleven, and that if she didn’t show up by eleven, that would mean something had come up and that we would have to try it again later.

  By something coming up she meant that Bryan, or whatever he’s calling himself this week, got drunk, again, or wrecked the car. Again. Or is off robbing a bank somewhere.

  I’ll have to watch myself to make sure that Jennie doesn’t see how much I loathe and detest that son of a bitch. She has enough on her back without my adding to her burden.

  As she drove behind the lines of parked cars between the restaurant and the motel, looking for a place to park, the lights came on in one of them—she couldn’t see which one, but there was no question that someone, almost certainly Jennie, was signaling to her.

  Or maybe it’s just another admirer of Porsche 911s.

  She found a spot to park between two large cars, an Oldsmobile and a Buick, and backed in.

  Both were large enough so that the Porsche was hardly visible, which was nice.

  With a little luck, too, the drivers of both are the little old ladies of fame and legend, who will open their doors carefully and not put large dings in mine.

  Susan found her purse where it had slipped off the seat into the passenger-side footwell, then got out of the car, carefully locking it.

  Then she started to walk back between the rows of parked vehicles, the way she had driven in.

  Halfway, she heard the sound of a door opening, and her name being softly called: “Susie!”

  It was Jennie’s voice.

  The vehicle was a four- or five-year-old Ford station wagon, a different car than the last time, but equally nondescript.

  As she walked to the station wagon, the passenger door opened, but there was no light from the inside.

  “Jennie?”

  “Hi, Susie!”

  Susan got in.

  The car stank, a musty smell, as if it had been left out in the rain with the windows down, but there was an aroma, too, of baby powder.

  Jennie was wearing a white blouse and blue jeans. She leaned across the seat to kiss Susan, and then immediately started the engine, turned on the headlights, and started off.

  “You’re not running from anybody, are you?” Susan asked.

  God, why did I let that get away?

  “No. Of course not,” Jennie said.

  “You took off like a shot,” Susan said.

  Jennie didn’t reply, which made Susan uncomfortable.

  “How’s the baby?” Susan asked.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Jennie said, and pressed something into Susan’s hand. After a moment, Susan realized it was a flashlight.

  “There’s something wrong with the switch,” Jennie said. “Switches. The one that turns on the inside light, and the one in the door.”

  And I’ll just bet Bryan’s been fixing them, hasn’t he?

  “Try not to shine it in his eyes,” Jennie said. “That wak
es him.”

  Susan understood from that that the baby was in the back. She turned and leaned over the seat. She could make out blankets, and the smell of baby powder was stronger.

  I’d really like to have a look, but if I shine the light, he’ll wake up for sure.

  She turned around.

  “I’ll wait ’til we get where we’re going,” she said. “And have a good look at him.”

  Jennie grunted.

  “Where are we going?” Susan asked.

  “Not far. Just the other side of New Hope,” Jennie said. “Bryan found a house on a hill. You can see the Delaware.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Working,” Jennie said. “He plays from nine to one.”

  “Plays?”

  “The piano. In a bar outside New Hope.”

  “How long has he been doing that?”

  “Couple of weeks. He used to go there at night and play for the fun of it. So the owner asked him if he would play for money. Off the books.”

  “He doesn’t need money,” Susan said. It was a question.

  “I think he likes to get out of the house,” Jennie said. “The baby makes him nervous.”

  And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there were single women around this place where he plays the piano.

  Matt Payne was lying on his back, sound asleep, his arms and legs spread, his mouth open, and wearing only a T-shirt, when the telephone rang. He was snoring quietly.

  The second ring of the telephone brought him from sound asleep to fully awake, but except to open his eyes and tilt his head so that he could see the telephone half-hidden behind his snub-nosed revolver in its ankle holster on his bedside table, he did not move at all.

  The telephone rang twice more, and then there was a click as the answering machine switched on, and then his prerecorded voice filled the tiny bedroom.

  “If this is an attempt to sell me something, your telephone will explode in your ear in three seconds. Otherwise you may wait for the beep, and leave your name and number, and I will return your call.”

  There was a beep.

  And then a rather pleasant, if somewhat exasperated in tone, male voice came over the small loudspeaker.

  “Cute, very cute! Pick up the damned telephone, Matt.”

  Matt Payne recognized Peter Wohl’s voice. His arm shot out and grabbed the telephone.

  “Good morning,” he said.