Alan Cook - Catch a Falling Knife

I had to go only a few blocks. I memorized the turns and was proud of the fact that several minutes later I pulled up in front of the house of Frank Scott, June Hoffman’s friend and surrogate father. I had asked June for his address. His house must have been elegant 80 years ago, but now it needed a paint job and some repairs, as did most of the neighboring homes.

I went up several creaky wooden front steps, carefully, holding the handrail. I noted that a wheelchair ramp had been built beside the steps as an alternate path. I rang the doorbell and heard a chime of the first four notes that I associate with Big Ben, in London.

After a wait a male voice asked, “Who is it?”

“I’m a friend of June Hoffman,” I called in my most innocuous voice.

The door opened. I was surprised when I didn’t see anybody on my level. I looked down and saw a man of my vintage, sitting in a wheelchair, still holding the door handle. What hair he had was white and his glasses had thick lenses. He had some ugly black spots on his face that looked like the melanomas I had had removed from mine.

“Mr. Scott?” I said. “I’m Lillian Morgan.”

“It isn’t often I get a visitor from my generation,” he said in a husky voice. “Come on in. In fact, it isn’t often I get a visitor from any generation, anymore.”

He swung the door farther open and moved his wheelchair to give me room to enter. I had a speech prepared, but he told me to follow him. He propelled his wheelchair through a wide doorway into a large room. It had a genuine hardwood floor, but not much furniture, and most of that was along one wall. He gestured to a sofa, underneath four windows.

I sat down and he said, “Do you drink tea, Mrs…? I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lillian,” I said. “Sure.” When in Rome…

“I’m Frank. Good, because I was just having some. Wait here while I get another cup.”

I protested that I could get it, but by that time he had wheeled himself with surprising efficiency into the next room and disappeared around the corner. The elegance of the hardwood floor was accented by the high ceiling. A graceful archway opened in the wall between this room and the next, which appeared to be the dining room. This must have been a classy house in its time.

Example of male humor: A colleague of Albert’s liked to point out the old and the infirm people to Albert and then state, “That’s you in three years.” I hoped that Frank Scott wasn’t me in three years.

Mr. Scott returned, carrying a cup, spoon and a sugar container on a small tray on his lap. He transferred the tray to a low table and said, “I didn’t know whether you take sugar in your tea.”

“I drink it straight,” I said.

“Me too. I hope you’ll excuse the lack of furniture and the bare floor, but it makes it easier for me to get around.”

“Do you live alone?” I asked. I was used to the multi-level support services of Silver Acres, designed to care for residents in various stages of need, and wondered how somebody considerably more physically challenged than I was could live without them.

“A woman comes in each morning and helps me with breakfast, a shower and makes my bed. Then I get Meals on Wheels delivered to me. That takes care of lunch and dinner. I manage. Where do you live?” “In Chapel Hill-Silver Acres.”

“I’ve heard of it. From what I’ve heard, it’s a great place to live.”

“I like it.”

“I wish I could afford to live there.”

Although he grinned when he said it I suspected that wasn’t far from the truth. “Let me tell you why I came,” I said, not wanting to talk old folks’ talk. “I…I’m doing some checking into the murder of Elise Hoffman.”

Tears welled up in Mr. Scott’s eyes. He said, “I’m sorry; I can’t help it. This happens to me, sometimes, usually for no reason. But I loved Elise like a daughter…or I guess a granddaughter would be more appropriate.”

He found a handkerchief in the pocket of his flannel shirt, took off his glasses and dabbed at his eyes.

I said, “I didn’t mean to bring back sad memories. It’s just that from something June told me I thought you might have seen Elise fairly often.”

Mr. Scott regained control of his emotions and looked at me. He said, “Yes, Elise came to see me sometimes.”

“Like maybe, in the evenings?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, she had a job near here…”

“Do you know what she did?”

Taken by surprise, I said, “Yes.”

“Well, I do too, so we might as well quit tiptoeing. Elise danced at Club Cavalier. She went by the name of the Shooting Star.”

“So she told you?”

“She practiced her routines here. With the wood floor and the high ceiling, this place was perfect. All I’m missing is a pole. I videotaped her so she could see how she looked. Would you like to see a tape?”

“Uh…no, that’s okay.”

“She was dressed, if that’s what you’re worried about. She usually practiced in a leotard.”

“Well, hold on to the tapes. The police might want to see them.”

“The police? I have nothing to say to the police.”

“Is that why you haven’t contacted them?”

“Look, Mrs… Lillian. I don’t know any of the people Elise knew. I have no idea who killed her. There is nothing I can tell the police that they don’t already know.”

I didn’t want to make an enemy out of him. I said, “Uh, Frank, have you been following the story in the newspapers?”

“Avidly. Although I have to use a magnifying glass to read it. As I said, Elise was like a granddaughter to me and I desperately want the killer brought to justice.”

“Then you must know that until yesterday the newspapers were saying that Elise’s roommate, Donna, was the Shooting Star.”

“But then again, you can’t believe everything you read in the paper. I figured the police knew more than they were giving out.”

There was no point in trying to make him admit he’d made a mistake by not going to the police. I said, “You don’t live very far from Club Cavalier. Elise usually went somewhere between her shows there. I was wondering if there was any chance that she came here.”

Frank smiled and asked, “Are you a detective?”

“By accident, not by profession.”

“Well, vocation or avocation, you seem to know what you’re doing. Elise did come here. She said she preferred my company to that of the people at the Club. And I must say I preferred her company to that of just about anybody. Except, perhaps, her mother. When she came we talked some, of course, but she usually did homework. She was a good student.”

So she came here wearing her costume?”

“Underneath her jacket. If she got too warm she would unbutton her jacket. But her costume covered her at least as much as the bikinis girls wear on the beaches these days.”

Before she started taking it off. “How did you feel about her dancing at Club Cavalier?”

“My next guess is that you’re a psychologist because you’re asking me how I feel. Am I right?”

“Well, actually, I’m a mathematician. I was a professor at Duke.”

“I was a plumber.”

“In many ways, a much more practical type of job. We could use a plumber in our family.”

Frank gave a husky laugh and said, “But getting back to how I felt about Elise dancing. You say you know June. Do you also know Elise’s father, Eric?”

“Yes,” I said, stopping myself from elaborating since I felt he was about to tell me something important.

“Then maybe you know about the relationship between Elise and Eric.”

“I understand they had their differences.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Elise had a mind of her own, something Eric couldn’t tolerate. June did too, but she gave up her independence for Eric. When June has to let off steam she comes to see me. But Elise hadn’t learned how to get along with the people she disagreed with, yet. That comes with age, I guess, if it ever does. Anyway, to get back to your question, dancing at Club Cavalier was a way for Elise to let off steam.