Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

Lucy Gray was waiting for her. After the librarian got into the car, Liz drove over Heartbreak Hill and onto a residential side street, where she parked the car.

“I only have fifteen minutes,” Lucy said. “And I’m still debating whether I should tell you what I have on my mind.”

“I know. And I’m a complete stranger.”

“Well, not completely, fortunately. You see, Ellen and Veronica both spoke so highly of you. Veronica’s my goddaughter, you know. I promised her I’d do everything I could to find her mom. She told me someone else made the same promise: you.”

“If we work together, maybe we can both keep our promises. Look, I’m willing to take the heat for anything that might be against library policy. But you’ll have to tell me the nature of the information so we can find a way for me to be the culprit here.”

“It’s not just a problem with my boss. I see eye-to-eye with Monica Phillips on just about nothing else, but I share her views on this issue. All I can say is it has to do with the right of privacy, and our duty as librarians to protect that right for our patrons.”

“Am I correct in assuming you have access to information about Ellen’s reading, about the books she has taken out recently?”

Lucy turned her head and gazed out the window at the suburban scene. The view fogged over as she sighed and her breath reached the window glass.

In matching movements, each woman opened her car door and stepped into the cold air. Liz walked around the car and joined Lucy on the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry. I can’t answer that right now. You can’t imagine how sorry I am.”

“Maybe you can supply some other information instead. Do you know anything about your friend’s trip to New York? And do you have any idea who someone called Nadia is?”

“I thought I knew about the nature of the trip, but now I’m not so sure. Ellen could hardly talk about anything else. She was going to the city to meet Nadia for the first time. Ellen and Nadia have been writing to each other for twenty-one years, since they were thirteen years old. They were going to treat themselves to lunch in the Windows on the World restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. Ellen kept saying the view would be so great, they could almost see both of their homes from there.”

“Where is Nadia from? Do you know her last name?”

“She is from Jerusalem. No, I don’t know her last name, but I know her first language is Arabic. Although I gather Nadia’s English was good and the two wrote to each other in English, Ellen said she was learning some Arabic so that she could greet her friend in Nadia’s own language.”

“How conversant do you think she was in Arabic?”

Lucy stopped in her tracks.

“Shouldn’t we be saying ‘she is ’ instead of ‘she was ’? It’s not as if we know she’s dead.”

Liz flinched. “How fluent do you think she is?”

“I wish I knew,” she said. “I thought I knew. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Because of her library records?”

Lucy pulled her hood up, obscuring part of her face. “I shouldn’t have let on as much as I did. It’s not only that I’m such a staunch believer in this right to privacy,” Lucy explained, “but I don’t like what Ellen’s reading list suggests about her—and about her possible plans. It’s heartbreaking. And it makes me wonder if I knew my friend at all.”

Lucy’s chest and shoulders shook as she took in two quick breaths, like a child on the verge of sobbing. But she steadied herself.

Sometimes time and silence can serve as handmaidens to revelation. But neither moves at a lively pace. With her unvoiced question hanging in the air as tangibly as the breath she exhaled into the cold winter morning, Liz took Lucy’s arm and led her back to the car.

“Your coffee break is almost over,” Liz said. “When you’re ready to tell me more, let me know.”

More snow was falling as Liz dropped Lucy off at the library. She trudged through it to use the phone booth on the premises.

“So, did you nab an interview with the grandmother?” Dermott asked her over the phone.

“No, Dermott, I didn’t, but I’ve been pursuing some other leads that came up.”

“Have they led to a story you can file tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“Then take this one and run with it,” Dermott said. “Seems some jogger called in from Newton and said he saw a couple of Arab guys at the Johansson door about an hour before the kid came home. Take this down. Guy’s a hairdresser. Calls himself P.D. Cue but his real name’s Paddy McCuddy. He’s probably a fuckin’ fairy.”

“Hey!”

“Ah jeez, don’t get all PC on me. Be glad you’re back on the missing mom story with a real lead after chasing shadows all day. Or was it playing elf? I hear you were wrapping presents with some gal all morning, on company time, no less! And you wanted to step out of features territory!”

“You have a number for the hairdresser?”

“Yeah, but I got better than that. He’s at his shop now. On Cue Hair Design, in Newton Upper Falls.”

“Say no more. That’s part of features territory. I know where it is.”

The hairdresser was no fairy, although he could charm the socks off every one of his mixed bag of customers. When Liz walked into his shop, he had two clients’ coiffures well under control.

“Just sit here for a few minutes, Miss Monroe,” he said to an elderly woman whose head was covered with old-fashioned rollers. Leading her to a seat under a hair dryer, he inquired, “Or may I call you Marilyn?”

“You can call me Norma Jean,” the woman replied, smiling broadly. “I reserve that name for my intimates.”

“I’m honored, Norma Jean,” the hairdresser said, bowing slightly. “OK, buddy,” he said, changing tone as he spoke to a mailman who had apparently shown up for a haircut during a lunch break. “Do you think the Celtics have a chance in hell of winning tonight?” he asked, as he fitted a plastic sheet around the mailman’s neck. “Do you have an appointment?” he said, turning to Liz. “I’m not sure if I have time to take a walk-in at the moment.”

“Actually, I’m here in response to your call to the Beantown Banner .” Liz held out her hand. “Liz Higgins” she said.

“Paddy McCuddy. I had to change the name for the shop. McCuddy’s Hair Design might make it in Dublin but it doesn’t cut it in this suburb.”

“Shame about that mother running out on her kid,” the mailman offered.

“What makes you think she ran out on her family?” Liz asked.

“They’re on my route. A mailman sees more than most people think.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s the deliveries we make, for one thing. There’s one household on my route keeps receiving pink envelopes. I’m not surprised to see the house went up for sale recently. They’re up to their ears in debt.”

“What about the Johanssons? Anything unusual there?”

“You bet. Lots of letters from the Middle East. All for the missus. She’s been receiving them for years. And he receives all kinds of insects. I don’t deliver them. UPS does. But I see them sitting on the stoop. Trusting household. Has a little card on the mailbox that says, ‘If we’re not home, please leave deliveries.’”

“What are the bugs for?” Paddy asked.

“Guy’s an eco-nut. I guess he releases them into the garden to eat other bugs. Seems like a waste to me. You open a box of ladybugs and who’s gonna tell ’em you paid for them so they better stay in your yard?”

“You got a point there,” Paddy agreed.

“I think it’s wonderful,” said “Miss Monroe.” “We need people like that to keep down the use of pesticides. Let some of the ladybugs fly into my garden anytime. They bring good luck, you know.”