Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (26 page)

"Matte?" said the second guy. "He
played for the old Colts, not the Orioles."

"Right, right. Remember the season both Unitas
and Morrall went down, and Matte had to switch from halfback to
quarterback, and they still won?"

"Like it was yesterday. But Matte played
football, not baseball. What's his food doing at Camden Yards?"

"Baltimore's a good city," said the first
guy, taking a bite of the scotch. "They don't discriminate?"

Just then, a younger man shifted toward a woman
holding a beer bottle with a lime section in it, and I could see
Edie, wearing that same frilly white blouse, her lower lip curled
under as she concentrated on drawing somebody a Harpoon from the tap.
I moved in past the new couple and said hello to her.

She glanced up once from the frosted mug in her hand,
but without smiling. "You want a drink, it'll be a while. I'm
kind of backed up."

"I'll pass for now. Thanks again for your
directions to Plymouth Willows."

"Don't mention it."

No expression on the face or inflection in the voice.
“I talked with Andrew Dees, by the way."

Edie topped off the draft. Without looking at me,
"Was he any help to you?"

"Some. You seen him around today?"

"No. Try the photocopy shop."

I said, "You know, if I did something last time
to—"

Edie paused with the draft long enough to fix me with
hard-set eyes. "Wasn't you. Just a bad memory that got stirred
up." Two different patrons called out to her by name. "Look,
it's busy, and I have to go."

I watched her carry the
mug down the bar, sloshing a little onto her shaking hand.

* * *

Filomena was behind the counter, her back to me when
I came in the door. As she turned, the "May I help you?"
smile seemed to die on her face.

I said, "I'm still looking for Mr. Dees. John
Cuddy?"

The Asian features stayed somber. "I remember
you."

"And you're Fi, right?" I grinned at her.
"Short for Filomena."

"You upset Andrew very much."

"Not intentionally. I think you'll remember that
too."

Filomena didn't reply.

I said, "I'd really like to speak with him."

"He's not here."

I looked down to the telephone she'd used on my first
visit. No buttons were lit. "Any idea how I can reach him?"

Filomena chewed on the inside of her cheek. "What's
going on?"

"Like I told Mr. Dees the last—"

"I mean, what's really going on?" in a
rising voice. "You upset Andrew more than I've ever seen, and he
stayed that way until . . ."

"Until when, Fi?"

More chewing on the cheek. "I wish I knew
whether to trust you."

"I don't know what I can say to persuade you.
Trust is something you feel. Or don't feel."

Finally the gracious smile. "You remind me of my
husband, a little."

"The one from the service, that you met in the
Philippines."

Filomena nodded. "He says I'm crazy, but
Andrew's been so nice to me for so long, I can't just leave the place
closed up."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I haven't seen Andrew since noontirne
yesterday. I had to ferry the kids around early this morning, but
when I got here, instead of relieving him, it didn't look as though
the place had been opened up yet." She gestured in different
directions. "The cash register, the answering machine, even the
lights."

"Any messages on the rnachine?"

“
Just a couple of the regulars, asking if we could
do rush orders or special jobs—the usual, you know? But then the
same thing today—follow-up calls, like Andrew hadn't been here
yesterday afternoon? And a couple other customers stopped in during
the last few hours, asking if he was sick or something because they
came by earlier and we looked closed up."

"You tried calling him?"

"At home, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I tried, but no answer." Filomena gestured
again, this time hopelessly.

"Tell you what," I said. "How about if
I take a run over to Plymouth Willows, see if I can get anything from
his neighbors?"

The gracious smile. "Thanks."

"And by the way, I don't think you're crazy."

"Huh?"

"For trying to help Mr. Dees here."

The smile got a little braver. "I'll tell my
husband."

Heading south on Main Street, I crossed over the
bridge, making the first right after the scenic overlook on the left.
The sign Paulie Fogerty had been replacing now hung from its post at
the front driveway for Plymouth Willows, and I turned into it.

Cruising the access road, I checked the clusters of
townhouses in each leaf of the shamrock circuit. No brown Corolla
hatchback, no orange Porsche 911. I did pass Fogerty near the tennis
courts, still wearing the faded green maintenance outfit. He was on
his hands and knees, carefully weeding around a lightpole. The rest
of the grounds looked as good as they had two days earlier.

Parking in front of the
yellow-trimmed cluster, I went up the path to the townhouse second
from the end and pushed the buzzer over DEES. I heard the "bong"
inside, but nobody came to the door. I tried again. Still nothing. I
considered the possibility of slipping around back and forcing the
sliding glass door, but I didn't want to surprise a neighbor lounging
on his or her rear deck in the late afternoon sunshine. I also
thought I might get a little more mileage from my cover story, maybe
enough to find out when the last time was that anybody had seen
Andrew Dees.

* * *

"Yes?"

The man standing behind the opened door of the last
unit on the left was Steven Stepanian, who looked even more like his
wife in real life than he had in the photo she'd shown me. Tall and
lanky, he wore gray slacks and a conservative tie with a
short-sleeved dress shirt that revealed long, hairy forearms.

"Mr. Stepanian, my name's John Cuddy. I spoke
with your wife on Wednesday?"

A brooding expression, and I remembered thinking from
the portrait that he might not smile much. "Well, she's upstairs
getting dressed. We're due at a school committee meeting shortly."

"This won't take long, and maybe you can help
me."

Stepanian seemed to weigh something, then said, "All
right, but just a few minutes."
 
He
let me in, then closed the front door and moved to the living room.
"Dear?"

A muted voice from the second level. "Almost
ready, Steven."

"There's a Mr. Cuddy here to see you?"

"Oh, I'll be right down."

Stepanian turned, motioning toward one of the plushy
chairs. I sank deeply into it, the thing nearly swallowing me again.

He perched on the matching sofa, much as his wife had
done on my first visit. "What's this all about?"

"I'm talking to people in the complex about the
Hendrix Management Company?

"Oh, yes. Lana mentioned that somebody had been
doing a survey. You're representing another condo association,
right?"

"That's right." `

"Well, I'm sure Lana told you everything
Wednesday that I could now. She's really the expert on Plymouth
Willows."

Stepanian nearly smiled. A small beginning.

"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to
tell me if you'd seen Andrew Dees lately."

"Andrew?"

"Yes. He's the only neighbor in this cluster
that I haven't been able to interview, and I like to be thorough."

The brooding expression returned. "Well, I'm—"

"Hello, Mr. Cuddy." Lana Stepanian came
down the steps in a light wool dress, wearing one-inch heels instead
of flats tonight. "I didn't expect to see you again."

I stood as her husband said, "Dear, Mr. Cuddy
wants to see Andrew Dees about his survey."

Reaching the living room level, she looked from him
to me. "You didn't catch him the last time?"

"Afraid not."

"Oh, that's too bad. I'm not sure when he'll be
back."

"Back?"

"Yes." She looked to her husband again.
"Didn't Steven tell you?"

"Lana, do you really think it's appropriate?"

I said, "Is what appropriate?"

"Oh." She seemed to concentrate. "I
think it'd be all right. We saw Andrew—actually, Steven you're the
one who really noticed him doing it."

I turned toward the sofa. "Noticed him doing
what?"

Stepanian shrugged. "I was here in the living
room last night, just turning out the lights on my way to bed, when I
saw Andrew down by the curb, loading some suitcases into a car."

"Suitcases? Plural?"

“
Well, some sort of luggage, but, yes, more than
one piece."

"And you said a car, not his car?"

"Yes. Andrew drives a Toyota. This was a
Porsche. Yellow or orange, quite flashy."

Olga's. "About what time was this?"

"Time? Oh, I don't know. Maybe eight,
eight-fifteen?"

"And you go to bed that early?"

Lana Stepanian said, "We read to each other
sometimes. It's very soothing and helps us fall asleep."

She said it in the neutral way I'd picked up before,
no double meaning or sarcasm in her voice.

I looked to Steven. "Was Dees alone?"

He cocked his head, just like Lana had done when I'd
asked her odd questions from my "survey" form. "I
didn't see anyone else, but we did—"

"Steven?"

Stepanian stopped. His wife said, "Don't you
think that might be . . . gossiping?"

"You're right, dear." He turned to me.
"Let's just say we heard some loud voices through the wall last
night."

"Before you saw Dees at his car."

"Yes."

"Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?"

"Andrew and a woman, I think."

"Mr. Cuddy," said Lana Stepanian in her
neutral voice, "what possible difference could this make to your
client?"

She had a point. "Probably none. It just seems a
little strange, don't you think?"

"Wel1, perhaps. But it is Andrew's business,
after all."

Steven Stepanian checked his watch. "Mr. Cuddy,
we really have to go."

"Sure. Sorry to have kept you."

"That's all right. Good luck with the survey."

Still never smiling, he
ushered me to the door.

* * *

From the old print couch, the gravelly voice said,
"You're surprised I'm downstairs, right?"

"A little. Last time I was here—"

"You had to climb up to my bedroom. Well, I may
feel like dogshit afterwards, but," Norman Elmendorf ticked the
nail of an index linger off the aluminum braces leaning against his
couch, "these things let me move around a little. Not great, but
enough to get by while Kira's out."

I'd had to shunt some magazines off the chair across
from him. The bottle—or more likely, another bottle—of Jim Beam
rested on the floor, next to the rubber feet of the braces. "Wil1
she be gone long?"

"Didn't say."

"How are things going with the VA?"

"You kidding? You were only here two, three days
ago? The VA, it's like a glacier. Hasn't moved an inch in that kind
of time." Elmendorf squinted at me. "What's the matter, you
didn't find out what your people needed from what we told you
before?"

"Some, but not enough. I never got the chance to
talk with Andrew Dees."

"Dees? Huh." The expression came out as a
laugh. "I think he's got lady trouble."

I stopped. "I thought you told me on Wednesday
that you barely knew him?"

"That's right. But he had his back door—the
sliding-glass thing?—or something open last night, because I could
hear him and her going at it through my bedroom window, even with the
Robinettes' unit in between us."

"An argument?"

"Yeah. Dees yelling and her half-apologizing and
half-yelling back. It was a doozy, whatever the hell they were
getting into."

"What time was this?"

"I don't know. Around eight, maybe?" Pretty
much what the Stepanians had said. "Could you tell what they
were fighting about?"

"Not really. Just caught a couple of things,
like Dees saying, 'I can't believe you hired him,' and her saying,

'
What was I supposed to do?' "

"Anything else?"

"Not that comes to mind. I was kind of trying to
figure them out, when all of a sudden it stopped, like they quit, or
at least closed the door."