Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“Oh, okay. When was this?” When I told her the time period I was interested in, she shook her head. “Sorry. We erase everything after twenty-four hours if nothing happens so the hard drive or whatever doesn’t get all filled up.”

I sighed. “Did you happen to be on night before last? Between nine thirty and ten thirty?”

This time, a nod. “Yeah, I did a double, because Raul had the flu, although I think he was faking it.”

“You remember a Volvo station wagon coming in around that time? Silver or gray, I think.”

“You’re kidding, right? I couldn’t even tell you what kind of car you’re driving, and it’s sitting out there right now.”

I thanked her, paid for the Mars bar, and left. I was doing up my seat belt when I thought I noticed an old silver Hyundai with tinted windows parked on the other side of Danbury. I was staring at it, wondering if it could be the car that had been following me the night before, when it started up, pulled onto the road, and drove off.

The second gas station was just behind me and across the street. I wheeled out, spent ten seconds tops on the road, then pulled up at another set of pumps. I filled the tank another quarter, which pretty much topped up Donna’s car, and scanned the area for cameras at the same time. When I went inside, I didn’t bother buying another candy bar.

“I am very sorry, sir, but our cameras are not even working,” said the East Indian man at the cash register when I asked him about seeing surveillance footage. “They are still up there to scare the customers, but we do not record anything.”

I asked him if he had any memory of a silver or gray Volvo wagon from two nights ago.

“I was not on,” he said.

“Who was here that night?”

“Samuel. He was here. But I can guarantee you he did not see a thing.”

“Why’s that?”

The man pointed to a stack of skin magazines on the counter behind him, next to a display of cigarettes. “Samuel looks at porn all night and only gets his nose out of the books when there is someone standing right in front of him.”

“I thought everyone looked at porn online now,” I said.

“Samuel is seventy years old. He has never got into the computer thing,” the man said. “I am sorry.”

So was I. It had been a long shot, at best. Time to move on to something that might be more productive.

I got out the number for Hooper Gardening and dialed. I asked the woman who answered for the owner/manager, and she said Bill Hooper was out of the office. I gave her my number and she said she would have him return my call.

“How soon will he get back to me?” I asked.

“Beats me,” she said.

I couldn’t sit around doing nothing, so I drove to Patchett’s. It wasn’t even nine thirty, and the place was dead. They opened at eleven thirty for lunch. The front door was locked, but I found a service door open around back, and two men were in the kitchen, getting things ready for the day.

“I was looking for Ms. Pearce,” I said.

“She doesn’t come in until the afternoon,” one said. “Maybe two or three.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I supposed that when you ran an establishment like Patchett’s, it was the evening hours when you most needed to be around. Once I was back in the car, I looked up her home address on my phone. There was only one Pearce listed for Griffon, on Windermere Drive, which was on the road heading north out of town.

It was a house I’d driven past a hundred times, but had never known who lived there. What had always caught my eye about it was that it was an imposing structure. It sat up from the road on a gentle hill, surrounded by trees. The homes were well spaced, a good hundred feet between them. The place had something of a plantation feel to it. Two stories, a broad porch with thick, sturdy columns, white wood furniture with colorful cushions. The grass was overgrown, but other than that, the property was well tended. A tan Ford Crown Victoria sat in the drive.

I parked behind it, got out, and walked up the porch steps. From this vantage point, you could see down into Griffon, rooftops, a church steeple. Sitting out here, I could imagine myself presiding over it. This would have been a better house for Bert Sanders.

I knocked on the heavy wood door, heard footsteps approaching.

The door opened about six inches, and Phyllis Pearce’s face was framed between it and the jamb.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Pearce?” I said. “You remember me? We spoke the other—”

“Oh yes, Mr. Weaver.” She opened the door wider. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. Sorry to bother you so early. Patchett’s must keep you working most nights.”

“It does. I’m often there till ten or eleven, even midnight, but I still wake up at six. Harder to sleep in when you’re older. What do you want, Mr. Weaver?”

“I’m betting you’ve heard about Hanna Rodomski.”

Her face darkened. “I have. Horrible. A horrible, horrible thing.”

“I was the one who discovered her body under the bridge and — would you mind if I stepped in?”

“Why don’t we sit outside?” she said. “It’s a nice day.” Phyllis stepped out onto the porch and we each settled into a white chair. “That must have been awful to come upon. Her body like that.”

“I was looking for Claire Sanders when I was at Patchett’s last night. It was important to me to find her then, but it’s far more urgent now in light of Hanna’s death. Her father’s asked me to find her. Once I have, and made sure she’s okay, I’ll be asking if she has any idea who might have killed Hanna.”

Pearce nodded. “Of course. But what brings you to my door?”

“Last night I got the impression not much happens in this town you don’t know about. And you invited me to come back if I had any questions.”

A weary smile. “I did, didn’t I? I doubt I know anything useful, but if you have something you want to ask me, go ahead.”

“Did you ever notice Claire around Patchett’s with a young man named Dennis Mullavey? He might have stood out some. He’s black, and Griffon’s not exactly Motown.”

Phyllis pursed her lips. “Maybe. But I think you’re being a little unfair about Griffon. There are plenty of people of color living here. There’s Dr. Kessler, for example. She’s the coroner around here.”

“Yes, I know her. So did you ever see Claire and Dennis Mullavey?”

“I might have.”

“I have a call in to who I think he worked for, but do you have any idea where he was from? He’s not a Griffonite.” I smiled. “Is that we call ourselves? Griffonites? Sounds like something that grows in a cave.”

“I’ve always said ‘Griffoner.’ I’m not always crazy about being a Griffoner, but it beats being a New Yorker.”

“The traffic’s better,” I said. “Anyway, he wasn’t from around here, but I’d like to know where home is for him.”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“I was thinking he might have put drinks on his credit card at Patchett’s. You might have receipts. If I got a number, I could check with the credit card company, maybe track him down that way.”

“And why are you looking for him, exactly?”

“He was Claire’s boyfriend. Claire’d been going out with Roman Ravelson, but broke off with him to go out with Dennis. But then Dennis up and left town a few weeks ago, breaking up with Claire at the same time. She was pretty upset about it. I’m wondering if they got back together, if she might have gone looking for him.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I was trying to think of what would make a young girl take off. I can only come up with two things: fear or love.”

Phyllis Pearce gave that some thought. “So if she disappeared to be with Dennis, it was love. But what would she have been fearful of?”