Crime & Punctuation Read online

  I gave a little wave of acknowledgment.

  Sarah was well launched into a familiar litany of excuses for being late by the time she settled into the chair opposite me. I waited until after we’d ordered our soup and sandwiches to ask, sotto voce, about the two women at the other table.

  The identifications came with full details—age, occupation, family background, spouses past and present. Only one fact stood out in my mind. Sonya, currently Sonya Adler, had once been Sonya Doran. She was my old friend Mike’s first ex-wife.

  “So, did he really assault his second ex?” I thought it unlikely, but people did change in the course of five decades.

  “The assault charge was bogus. Totally.”

  “Is Mike an honest lawyer?”

  Sarah laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far!”

  “Would he have forged a will if Ronnie asked him to?”

  “Well, now, there’s an interesting question.” To my dismay, Sarah turned around in her chair and repeated it for the benefit of Sonya and her friend. “What do you think, girls?”

  “Sure, he would,” Sonya said, “if he thought he could get away with it.”

  “You might be a tad biased,” I said.

  “And you are?”

  Sarah spoke before I could. “This is Mikki Lincoln. She used to date Mike in high school.”

  “Only a few times. Nothing serious.”

  Sonya’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re that Mikki?” She chuckled. “The one he had such a crush on?”

  “I guess.” For a moment it was as if I was back in junior high. Then I shook off the feeling of embarrassment, squared my shoulders, and managed a wry twist of the lips that I hoped would pass for a smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  Sarah gave me a playful slap on the forearm. “Speak for yourself. Just yesterday as far as I’m concerned.”

  Sonya and her friend, who were both considerably younger than Sarah, hooted at that statement.

  “I hope you dumped him and not the other way around,” said the brunette. “I’m Betsy Pringle, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you. And no, he broke it off with me to take up with Ronnie.”

  That revelation prompted a renewed round of mirth.

  “Nice to know my life is so amusing,” I said to Sarah. “Maybe I should consider a new career as a standup comic.”

  “Is that Mike Doran you’re talking about?” asked the old gentleman seated by himself at a window table. He was eighty if he was a day.

  “Yes,” Betsy answered. “Do you have any good dirt on him?”

  “He can’t be all bad,” the man said. “Not if he’s against that stupid theme park.”

  Sonya stiffened. “What have you got against revitalizing the economy?”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” the old man said with a sneer. “I’ve heard it all. Return Lenape Hollow to its former glory as a tourist mecca. It’s not going to happen. You can’t bring back the past.”

  “Not the big hotels, no,” chimed in the middle-aged man at the other table, “but we’ve still got fresh air and nice scenery. I bet a bungalow colony could still thrive. And summer camps—remember those?”

  “You want to bring back boardinghouses, too? Gone the way of the dodo bird.”

  “They call them B and Bs these days.”

  The debate between the two men escalated rapidly. I exchanged a worried look with Sarah when it looked as if they were about to come to blows over the viability of Wonderful World. It was at that point that Ada stepped in.

  “Take it outside, boys.” She snapped out the command in a no-nonsense voice while at the same time slapping down their checks. She waited, hands on hips, while they reached for their wallets.

  After they’d paid their bills and left, everyone in the café turned toward the plate glass window at the front to follow their progress. Crossing the street, the combatants exchanged a few more words, this time accompanied by gestures that left no doubt as to the strength of their feelings. This activity quickly drew a small crowd. I blinked in surprise when I recognized a familiar face. There, standing next to a woman who’d been out walking a pair of poodles, was the security guard from Wonderful World. Again.

  Fisticuffs were averted when a uniformed officer came out of the police station. Ada’s two customers—I never did catch either of their names—strode rapidly away in opposite directions.

  “Whew,” I said.

  Sarah gave a nervous laugh.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mikki,” Sonya said as she and Betsy settled their bill and prepared to leave. “We’ll have to get together sometime and compare notes.”

  I smiled but didn’t commit myself. I wasn’t certain I wanted to make new friends that badly.

  By the time I turned back to Sarah, she was looking at her watch with an expression of mock horror on her face. “Oh, dear. I’m running late. I’ve got to get back to work. My Benjie, he kicks up such a fuss when I’m not there to greet his patients.” Her trill of laughter sounded forced. “He keeps threatening to fire me. Can you imagine? Still, better safe than sorry, y’know?”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving me to pay for lunch. Well, I had invited her. There was no reason to think we’d split the check, except that women having a meal together usually did. I found myself wondering if she really did have to worry about losing her job. She was my age. If she had nothing but Social Security to live on, she might need to keep working to make ends meet.

  Since I had my own work to get back to, I left the café soon after Sarah and hurried up Main Street toward the shortcut—the wide driveway we’d always called the Alley—that would take me straight to my front door. For most of that climb I had an excellent view of my porch roof, an ever-present reminder that as soon as the project was complete, I’d have another bill to pay. With that dire prospect foremost in my thoughts, I ruthlessly pushed every other concern out of my mind.

  Chapter 19

  “I don’t understand why people have so much trouble with farther and further,” I complained to Calpurnia later that afternoon. “Farther has to do with distance. It has the word ‘far’ right in it.”

  Showing supreme disinterest in one of my pet peeves, Cal continued grooming herself.

  I jumped a foot when a deep voice addressed me from the open pocket doors. “Is it really that important?”

  “Detective Hazlett. You just scared me out of six years’ growth.”

  “Sorry. The front door was open, and one of the workmen said it would be okay for me to come on in. That farther /further thing? Does it really matter so much?”

  Former teachers rarely resist the chance to educate someone. I waved him into an empty dining room chair. “Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. Farther and further are just one of many pairs of words that writers and news anchors misuse with alarming frequency. I can understand their confusion, especially when two words sound similar and have similar meanings, but it isn’t all that hard to use a dictionary.”

  “These days, most people would Google it.”

  “If only they would!” I picked up a small red book I always kept near at hand when editing. “See this? It’s my ancient copy of the seventh edition of the Harbrace College Handbook. It has a convenient ‘Glossary of Usage’ that I still refer to when I’m uncertain. Then there’s this.” I hefted another, much heavier book, The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th edition. “Publishers rely on this one to settle grammar disputes.”

  Sadly, right after I bought it, I discovered that it was about to be superseded by the seventeenth edition, available online in a three-year subscription. Since the price would have broken the bank of my fledgling business, that subscription was on the list of “investments” to make once I’d acquired a few more customers.

  Hazlett tried to hide his smile. “So you’re a stickler when it comes to following rules for writing?”

  I shook my head. “To tell you the truth, I’m not. In fact, I believe there are three distinct languages we use all the time, de
pending upon the situation. Each one has its own guidelines. By my personal definition, what I call ‘formal’ English is pretty darn picky about usage. It’s a must for business letters, scholarly articles, and most nonfiction. The second category is informal English. There, for the most part, rules are strictly adhered to but they can sometimes be broken. For me, fiction falls into this category. And, yes, I have to admit that in informal English, farther and further are interchangeable.”

  “And the third language?” Hazlett looked even more amused.

  I gave him my best the-teacher-is-speaking-now look before answering. “I make a further distinction for spoken English. With the exception of people making speeches or broadcasting the news, speakers have much more leeway. Slang is permitted. So is deliberate misuse of the rules of grammar, usage, and pronunciation, if it is for effect—for example, if the intent is to be funny.”

  I stopped short of offering examples for fear he’d go glassy-eyed on me. He didn’t need to hear me ramble on about how English is a living language in constant flux as new words come into fashion and old ones become archaic.

  “We still need rules for formal English,” I said to wrap up my mini-lecture. “Otherwise we’d soon reach a point where we couldn’t understand each other, but in day-today conversation? All bets, as they say, are off. Why are you here, Detective?”

  “I had a report that you were stirring up trouble earlier today at Harriet’s.”

  “Me? I wasn’t the one arguing the pros and cons of Wonderful World.”

  “According to what I was told, you sparked the debate by asking intrusive questions.”

  “Good grief! I was minding my own business, having lunch with an old friend and catching up on local news. I can’t help it if she encouraged other people in the restaurant to join in our conversation.” I narrowed my eyes. “Who complained?”

  He stood without answering. “It’s no crime to express opinions in a public place, Ms. Lincoln, but you might want to keep in mind that this is a small town. Word gets around fast when someone starts poking their nose into their neighbor’s business.”

  With that, he departed, leaving the pocket doors open. I stared after him, slack-jawed, remembering only when it was too late to call him back that I’d intended to give him Tiffany’s thumb drive the next time we met. I turned to Calpurnia, who had slept through the whole encounter.

  “Some guard cat you are!”

  She didn’t so much as twitch a whisker.

  I closed the pocket doors with a little more force than I’d intended, making the glass panels rattle in an alarming manner. I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t said or done one darned thing at Harriet’s to deserve a reprimand. That I was “poking my nose” into things that were none of my affair was beside the point.

  Feeling defiant, I sat back down, exited the manuscript I’d been editing, and opened the folder that contained all the material I’d copied from Tiffany’s thumb drive. I resumed reading where I’d left off in her novel.

  In spite of a few awkward bits of dialogue, the first few pages held my attention. Tiffany had already introduced a subplot about gangsters buying up property to open a resort in the Catskills, but she hadn’t done much with it. Now she revealed that the fictional owner of this resort, a man she’d named Oscar Gregory, was trying desperately to go straight after years of living a life of crime. This ambition was being thwarted by his second-in-command, Matt Brisbane.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how much Tiffany had based Oscar Gregory on Greg Onslow. And was Matt Brisbane supposed to be Alan Van Heusen? If they were accurate representations of those two men, I might have done Onslow a disservice by suspecting him of dirty dealings. Maybe it was really his henchman who was the crook. Then again, in reading earlier chapters, I’d been certain Onslow was the model for Jack Tucker, a mobster who appeared to be the villain of Tiffany’s novel. Was Tucker Onslow? Was he even truly the villain of the piece?

  Those questions led me to others. If present-day fact was disguised as fiction, could that have led to Tiffany’s murder? Did Onslow have mob connections? It wasn’t impossible, and if that was the case, then he might well have ordered his wife’s death in order to keep her from exposing him.

  I drummed lightly on the table with my fingertips and tried with little success to rein in my wildest flights of fancy. It was far too easy to believe in the scenarios I came up with, even the storyline that had Van Heusen acting on his own to protect the interests of Mongaup Valley Ventures.

  I buckled down and read on. As I did, in light of my impressions of Alan Van Heusen on the day he’d visited me and the things George had told me about him later, the possibility that Onslow’s second-in-command was a mobster’s henchman grew stronger.

  In Tiffany’s book, the character of Matt Brisbane was both a hit man and a womanizer. Sadly, from a literary point of view, he came across as little more than a stereotype of a villain, but that fact did nothing to dispel my suspicions. Most of Tiffany’s creations were one-dimensional. The two female characters Brisbane victimized were so close to being cardboard that they could have passed for paper dolls.

  Hours later, when I exited the manuscript file, I was no closer to knowing the truth about her husband and his flunky, but I did have an idea where to look next. Onslow had other employees, and some of them were likely to be women. To find out, I went online and called up the website for Mongaup Valley Ventures.

  Chapter 20

  By the following day, I’d collected a fair amount of information about Greg Onslow’s business. Tiffany had been a vice president. No one had thought to take down her bio, so I learned that she’d attended Sullivan County Community College before transferring to SUNY Oneonta, where she’d earned a degree in business economics.

  Two other women held important positions with the company, one as director of personnel and the other as head of the accounting department. The rest of the pictured executives were all Caucasian males—no surprise there. What did startle me was finding a photo of the security guard I kept seeing around town. He was actually the chief of security, and his name was Paul Klein. He’d graduated from SCCC with an associate degree in criminal justice. I hadn’t thought private security paid better than working for the local or state police or the county sheriff’s department, but maybe it did, especially if you were the head honcho.

  While interesting, none of this information seemed particularly relevant. On the surface, Mongaup Valley Ventures was a transparent operation dedicated to advancing the interests of Onslow’s adopted community. I couldn’t hold it against him that he was originally from California.

  Studying those employee bios had made me think about the claims Joe Ramirez had made, especially his insistence that Tiffany had found proof of her husband’s wrongdoing. I came to the conclusion I needed to talk to Ronnie North, although I didn’t look forward to the meeting.

  After I completed a reasonable day’s work, I drove to her place. I wasn’t sure she’d allow me into her home, let alone speak to me, but it seemed important that I try. At the least, I might be able to discover why Tiffany had put the thumb drive in the mailer with her manuscript.

  Ronnie’s house looked as imposing as ever. There should have been a uniformed butler to answer the door, or at least a maid in a frilly apron. Instead, it was Ronnie’s housekeeper who let me in. Since she was dressed in worn blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the logo of what we in Maine called the “evil empire”—the New York Yankees—the giveaway was the dust rag she still held in one hand. She wore no makeup—a woman after my own heart in that respect—and had a clear, pale complexion that made her look younger than she was. Only the skin on her neck and hands put her true age in the vicinity of sixty. That, and the streaks of gray in her hair.

  “I’ve come to speak with Mrs. North,” I announced. “Is she at home?”

  “Depends. You got a name?”

  I hesitated.

  The housekeeper cracked a smile. “Can’t remember it?” />
  I sent her a rueful look. “It’s more a case of how Ronnie will react to hearing it. Could you please tell her that Mikki Lincoln has information to share with her about her granddaughter?”

  “Poor kid,” the housekeeper murmured. Then she gave me a sharp look. “Mikki? Would that have been Mikki Greenleigh back in the day?”

  The blank look that went with my nod amused her all over again.

  “You don’t remember me, do you? Well, why should you? I was a lot younger. Used to tag along after you and Darlene Misner until you pulled that old snipe hunt gag on me. I’m Ann Ellerby. Overweight? Blond braids and braces?”

  I stared at her in wordless astonishment, but after a moment I managed to speak. “Small world,” I said. “How have you been?”

  “Not so bad. Yourself?”

  “I’m sorry we were so mean to you,” I blurted. “Teenagers can be incredibly self-centered and thoughtless.”

  Darlene and I had done worse than lead Ann to believe she could join us on other adventures if only she could capture the elusive snipe. When telling her she was too young to hang out with us made no impression on her, we’d resorted to hurtful insults, accusing her of being too fat, too ugly, and too stupid to be our friend.

  “Forget it. They say adversity builds character.”

  Ann’s pale blue eyes danced with mischief, making it impossible for me to doubt her sincerity. Our early taunts had apparently toughened her enough that she could endure working for Ronnie North. That was no excuse for bullying, but it did make me feel a little better.

  Before I could say more, Ronnie appeared from the back of the house, already looking cross. She did a double take at seeing me. Finding me standing in her front hall did not improve her mood. Her upper lip curled into an expression of distaste.

  “Mikki Greenleigh,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  “Mikki Lincoln.” The correction was automatic but didn’t make so much as a dent in her attitude.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Invite me in and I’ll tell you.”