The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy Read online

  “I’m sorry, darling, I just can’t handle all of these people being here,” Merilee announced, her voice stretched tight, as she swiftly crammed things into her oversized Il Bisonte gym bag, her movements precise and practiced. She was replaying her getaway scene from the Alec Baldwin thriller—all that was missing was the loaded Glock and the briefcase full of cash. She always fell back into some role or another when she got rattled. Take it from me: Don’t ever get mixed up with an actress. Or if you do, make sure she chooses her parts awful damned carefully. “They’ve got Tracy riled. They’ve got me riled. The phone’s been ringing non-stop … I’m filling up the Woody and I’m fleeing back to the city.” She zipped the bag shut and hoisted it over her shoulder. She had changed into a cashmere turtleneck and flannel slacks. “You don’t blame me, do you?”

  Outside the window I could hear the cops and technicians hooting instructions at each other, hear the steady throb of the press corps down at the foot of the drive. It was like living under a state of siege.

  “No, I don’t, Merilee. Do you blame me?”

  “For what, darling?”

  “Bringing all of this down on you.” I wrestled the bag from her and took her in my arms. “After all, this was our refuge from the world. Our safe haven.”

  “No, it wasn’t, darling,” she said softly. “That was all just an illusion. A sweet, sweet illusion.”

  “I didn’t realize I still had any of those left.”

  “A few,” she observed. “We started out with so many, after all.”

  “Tracy’s not going to be like us, is she?”

  “I don’t see how she can be. It’s a completely different world than the one we grew up in.”

  “Bother you much?”

  “Only enough to make me cry if I think about it.” She kissed me tenderly, gazing at me with her brow creased. “Will you be okay without me tonight? I know Thor was someone you cared about. I’ll stay if you need me.”

  “I’ll be fine. No big deal.”

  “Gosh, you’re tough.”

  “Yeah, I’m a hard guy of the old school, all right,” I said, wondering when we’d have our romantic evening together. If we’d have our romantic evening together.

  “How’s Baby Ruth?”

  “Angry.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  “I don’t know, Merilee.” One fine strand of her long golden hair had worked loose from her ponytail and tumbled across her forehead. I smoothed it back over her ear. “Clethra’s going with you?”

  Merilee shook her head. “She wants to stay here.”

  “She belongs with Ruth and Arvin.”

  “You know that and I know that, darling,” Merilee agreed. “But Clethra has to reach that conclusion for herself, and …”

  “And?”

  “We have to let her.”

  “Why, Merilee Gilbert Nash,” I exclaimed. “You’re going to make somebody a good little mother someday.”

  She sighed. “So I keep telling myself.”

  She and Tracy took off for the city at dusk. I figured the investigators would clear out about then themselves for the night. I figured wrong. They merely brought in floodlights so they could keep right on working. The press vans stuck around, too. As long as there was some activity, any kind of activity, they were going nowhere. The phone kept ringing—reporters trying to wheedle an exclusive out of me, tabloid television producers trying to buy one. I took it off the hook and left it that way. There was no one I wanted to talk to.

  The cops found the severed penis of Thor Gibbs a little before 7 P.M. I’m sure it was a great source of triumph for them. I’m sure it was also a great source of sick jokes, but they didn’t share those with me—partly out of respect for my feelings and partly because Munger and Slawski were both on hand, growling at each other. I sat at the kitchen table glumly drinking a Samuel Adams Cream Stout and watching them through the window. I didn’t go out there to talk to them. They didn’t come inside to talk to me. Munger was the one who went down to the foot of the drive to speak to the press under more bright lights. Their ranks did thin somewhat after that. And then the Major Crime Squad investigators and their vans cleared out, too, leaving the crime scene cordoned off and us in semi-peace.

  By then Clethra had moved on to Green Acres and Oreos. She still wasn’t saying much. She tossed her cookies and her Doritos at eight, then curled back up on the sofa and stared at The Partridge Family. When I mentioned dinner she just curled her lip at me.

  Lulu, on the other hand, was a woman of appetite. She inhaled the pickled herring treat I’d promised her, as well as a full ration of her 9-Lives canned mackerel for cats and very strange dogs. The thrill of the chase always enlivens her. So does being away from Tracy. She was so juiced she didn’t even mind contributing a half dozen of her precious anchovies to my own supper—provided I made a little extra for her, of course. I drank another Cream Stout while I put on water for linguine and chopped up enough garlic to ward off every evil spirit in southern New England. I sautéed it in extra-virgin olive oil, threw in some hot pepper flakes, Merilee’s Italian parsley and Lulu’s anchovies. When it was just about done I added a half cup of homemade fish broth to the skillet and let it simmer awhile—a trick I learned from my landlady in Montalcino a while back. Then I dumped the cooked pasta in the pan and tossed it and topped it with fresh grated pecorino romano. I made enough for all three of us but Clethra still wasn’t interested so Lulu and I ate the whole batch ourselves. I washed mine down with most of an ice-cold bottle of Sancerre. For dessert I had one of our ripe pears smeared with soft goat cheese. I ate at the kitchen table, feeling spent and empty and lousy.

  Afterward, I took a walk, Lulu ambling along next to me. The clouds were gone and there was a full moon out and stars and all of that. The air was bracingly cold and smelled of fallen, rotting apples. I walked down the driveway, thinking about how this place would never be the same. A place never is after there’s been a murder. I walked, thinking about Thor. Trying to remember what he looked like before I’d found him face down in the ooze with his head caved in and his dick snipped off. I walked, trying to forget.

  There were still a dozen or so vans parked down at the road. Local crews from the New York and Connecticut stations mostly, hanging around until they could do their live, latest, up-to-the-minute bupkes for the eleven o’clock news. Our sentry, a thick-necked young bull of a trooper, was stationed in his cruiser reading what appeared to be a comic book.

  The phone was ringing when I got back up to the house. Clethra had put it back on the hook while I was outside. She must have used it. But she wasn’t answering it. Just staring at the TV in the parlor. I took it in the kitchen, hoping it would be Merilee checking in from the city.

  It wasn’t. It was Barry Feingold. “How’s that dear, sweet daughter of mine?” he inquired thickly. Man was somewhat in his cups.

  “She’s resting uncomfortably. And you folks?”

  “We’re just getting ready to leave for the city.” He lowered his voice. “I felt I should speak to you about a certain personal matter, Hoagy. By that I mean … I felt you were someone I could speak to.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The unwashed truth, you see, is that I simply can’t account for my whereabouts when old Thor was murdered. By that I mean … I can but I can’t.” I heard muffled voices at his end. “Coming!” he called out. Into the phone he said, “Are you following me?”

  “Not even a little.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “What I’m trying to say, dear boy, is that I was not at the Black Seal seeing a man about my car. It so happens the bartender there knows me quite well and if the police go there and question him he’ll tell them I wasn’t there. And so they’ll have no choice but to think I lied to them.”

  “You did lie to them, Barry.”

  “I had to,” he insisted. “At least in front of Marco I did. You see, I had a personal appointment this morning. One that I didn’t wish fo
r him to know about. One that I don’t wish for him to know about. He just gets so jealous he’d … Believe me, Marco can get very rough when he’s angry. He mustn’t know. He can’t know.”

  “Barry, are you seeing someone else?”

  “God, no! Not anymore, at least.” He hesitated. “There was someone who I was close to, briefly, a few years ago. He’s been working abroad for a while, for a German bank. Just got back. And he didn’t know about … that I’ve come down with the virus, you see. I had to tell him, didn’t I? I owed it to him. So I met him this morning outside the Black Seal and we went for a drive together. That’s where I was.”

  “I don’t see any problem here, Barry. If the police talk to him I’m sure he’ll back you up.”

  “But I don’t want the police to talk to him! He’s married. Always has been. And his wife, she doesn’t know anything about us. When he and I were together, they were having their problems. But now they’ve worked them out, and they’ve got a good thing together. This would destroy it. Her finding out about us from some cop, I mean. She should hear about it from him. And he will tell her. He has to tell her. Only … Oh, God, what messy, messy lives we lead.”

  “The only tidy people are dead people.”

  “Do you understand now why I had to lie?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Can you protect him, Hoagy?” Barry pleaded. “Can you shield him from Slawski and the others?”

  “I can try. But I have to know who he is.”

  Barry drew his breath in. “Must you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can I trust you to—?”

  “You can trust me to do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”

  Reluctantly, Barry Feingold gave me his ex-lover’s name. Also how the man could be reached in New York and in Essex. Again, he begged me not to tell Marco.

  I promised him I wouldn’t. “Provided you do me a favor in return.”

  “Favor?” Barry was instantly on alert. “What favor?”

  “Marco was afraid to let Lulu sniff his shoes this afternoon. He even went inside and changed them. Why is that? Was he afraid she’d recognize the mud on them?”

  Barry laughed, relieved. “Good heavens, no. Nothing so sinister as that. You want me to tell you why?”

  “I’d rather hear it from him.”

  “Marco!” he called out. “It’s Hoagy! He wants to know why you changed your shoes at the table.”

  I heard Marco groan and say, “Why is that any of his fucking business?”

  And Barry say, “Just tell him.”

  And Marco say, “Why the fuck should I?”

  And Barry say, “For me, okay? Will you do it for me?”

  And Marco growl, “Christ, okay.” Before he got on the phone and said, “That was just me being paranoid, Hoagy.”

  “Paranoid how, Marco?”

  “We grow some marijuana down by the river, okay?” he answered testily. “Down behind the blackberry bushes, in a sunny spot where no one can see them. Nothing major. Eight or ten plants, tops. I was down there just before lunch harvesting some leaves to take back with us to the city. When your dog started getting all interested in my shoes I started wondering if maybe she was trained to sniff dope …”

  “She’s not.”

  “And then I looked up and saw Trooper Slawski sitting there and I freaked. He can be a genuine hard-ass—especially if he thinks you’re selling the shit.”

  “Are you?”

  “No! But we grow enough that, technically, they could say we do. And, Christ, they can take your house away for that. Anyway, I freaked. I guess it didn’t help that I was stoned off my nut at the time.”

  “When did you smoke it?”

  “After breakfast.”

  “You and Ruth?”

  “God, no!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can’t stand being alone with her when Barry’s not around. She’s never liked me and I’ve never liked her.” He sniffled, resuming his normal voice. “I smoked it by myself in my room. Just stretched out and listened to some music until Barry and Arvy got back.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “What was Ruth doing?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  “Was she in the house?”

  “She may have been. She may have been out back. I don’t know.”

  “Could she have left?”

  “Left?”

  “Taken the rental car and gone.”

  “You mean gone and bashed his head in?”

  “Could she?”

  I heard muffled voices. He was conferring with Barry. “I guess she could have,” he allowed after a moment. “I do crank up the stereo pretty loud.”

  “Who were you listening to?”

  “Miss Diana Ross, who Barry hates. I don’t know why. She’s such a survivor.”

  I felt thirsty all of a sudden. Lulu’s anchovies. I filled a glass with cold well water from the tap and drank some. “How are you feeling these days, Marco?”

  “Feeling?” An edge crept into his voice. “Why?”

  “No reason. Barry told me you’ve been—”

  “Fuck what Barry told you,” he snarled. “I’m fine, okay? There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine.”

  “Do you smoke a lot of dope?”

  “Why not?” he replied defensively. “It helps keep me even.”

  “Does Barry smoke, too?”

  “He likes his drinks more. What the hell does this have to do with—?”

  “Ever smoke any of that illy?”

  “Not a chance. I’m trying to stay pure and clean. That’s why I grow my own. Illy’s got poison in it. Besides which, it makes you mean. And that’s not where I want to be anymore. That’s the last place in the world I want to be.” He was getting impatient. “Anything else?”

  “Not a thing, Marco. Could you please put Barry back on?” When he did I said, “How’s Arvin doing?”

  “He seems terribly lost,” Barry replied heavily. “Not that he’s cried. He hasn’t shed one tear. Just sits there on the sofa like a resolute little soldier. I wish I could say something to him, but what on earth is there to say?”

  Not a thing, except our goodbyes.

  Once again, I left the phone off the hook.

  Clethra was still staring at the TV when I went up to bed. She’d moved on to F Troop. Everyone grieves in their own way. Hers was to watch Larry Storch. As good a way as any, I suppose.

  “You might be more comfortable in the guest room tonight,” I offered. “You’re welcome to move inside.”

  “I’ll stay out in our room” was all she said, her voice wooden and far away. Her eyes never left the screen.

  “Suit yourself. Goodnight.”

  I built a fire in the bedroom fireplace. Got into the soft white cotton broadcloth nightshirt from Turnbull and Asser. Climbed into bed with Lulu and Ring Lardner, who is someone I re-read every couple of years just to remind myself what good writing is. But I didn’t read and I sure as hell didn’t sleep. I had too much on my mind. Like who had killed Thor. Munger was going with the gang from Slim Jim’s. Me, I agreed with Slawski—I doubted Kirk and those other chowderheads were involved. Unless, that is, they’d gotten high on illy and decided to get even. It certainly wouldn’t have been hard to find out where I lived. Anyone in town could tell them. Only, it still didn’t play. Say they had done it—why Bobbitt Thor? Why leave him—and it—there in the duck pond? Why not bury him—and it—way off in the woods somewhere, never to be found? I wondered. There was so much to wonder about.

  Thor’s murder had been a violent one. It would take someone strong to smash in his head. A good-sized woman could swing that six-pound sledge. Merilee could, for instance. But to load him into the garden cart, chain him to that wagon wheel, shove him into the water … no one small could have done that. Ruth couldn’t have done it. At least, not alone she couldn’t. But what if she had help? What if Marco
helped her? What if the two of them killed Thor together while Barry and Arvin were gone? Marco was certainly strong enough and volatile enough. Then again, maybe it was Barry who’d helped her. Maybe that whole story about meeting his ex-lover in Essex was baloney. Maybe he and Ruth had banded together to save their young, helpless daughter from Thor’s evil clutches. Or maybe Barry had acted alone. Or maybe Marco had. Or maybe Barry and Marco had acted together. Neither of them had much to lose, to be blunt about it … “Don’t let them take me away, Bucky!” … Or maybe the two of them and Ruth had been in on it together. So many possibilities. And so little I knew for certain.

  Except that whoever had murdered Thor Gibbs had hated him something fierce.

  I lay there gazing at the fire and thinking about him. He’d never answered me. Never told me why he’d run off with his own stepdaughter. What had he been trying to do—hang on to his youth? Piss off the world? Cause a stir? Or was he genuinely in love with the girl? If so, why hadn’t he touched her? How could he be so cruel to Ruth and to Arvin? He hadn’t explained. Wouldn’t explain. All he’d said was that I wouldn’t understand—not for another thirty years. But I could think about it. Hell, yes, I could think about it.

  I lay there thinking long past midnight, the fire crackling, Lulu snoring contentedly on my head. Until finally I slept.

  It was past two when Lulu woke me, growling softly. Something had awakened her. Something she didn’t like. The glowing embers and the moon outside the windows threw an eerie half-light over the room. But I saw nothing. And I heard nothing. I shushed her and listened harder. And then I heard it—a creak on the stairs. Footsteps. Someone coming up. Someone inching down the hall toward us … Nearer … Pausing outside the bedroom door … Slooowly, it opened. A figure started across the room toward the bed. A figure clutching something shiny and sinister in one hand, gripping it overhead like a weapon …

  I flicked on the light.

  It was Clethra. And the weapon was a claw hammer. Only the light startled her so much she dropped it. “Oh, shit!” she cried, as it crashed to the floor. “Did I wake you? I’m so fucking sorry.” She stood there, wide-eyed and shivering. She had on a T-shirt and nothing else.