Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (29 page)

“This is a murder investigation,” I said, “but no way are you a suspect.”

“All the same, I want my friend here. I’ve no idea what this is about—why you say there’s a van owned by me, why an extinct phone number of mine would be in a dead woman’s possession, or why she was murdered. Sounds like the work of an evil genie, if you ask me.”

To me, it sounded like Henry Gruber somehow bought the van with his wife’s credentials, at least titled it to her. And he didn’t want Phillipa to phone him, so he gave her a nonworking number when she’d asked for one.

The doorbell rang, and footsteps approached.

“Susan?” a voice called.

“In here, Molly.”

Molly? Both the name and the voice were familiar. On my last case, I met a Molly at a farmer’s stand in New Jersey. I gave her a song and dance, and she saw right through it, but what did I expect—she’d just passed the bar. I wondered if Susan Gruber’s Molly could be my roadside Molly, but I dismissed the thought and sipped my water, because long ago Mom taught me that coincidence was really contrivance in drag. I rooted through my contacts until I found it, Molly Blanchot, Esq. When I looked up, she was standing before me.

“You again?” Molly laughed and extended her hand. “How do you know Susan?”

“She’s trying to sell us a lawn mower,” I said.

“Right, and I’m Molly Pitcher.”

Molly and I filled them in on our brief history while Susan tried to compose herself. She wasn’t doing a good job of it.

Jane told Molly the real reason we were there.

“This is an informal chat, I take it?” Molly asked, sharpening her gaze.

Jane and I nodded.

“Good, because if I think it’s becoming an interrogation, things are going to get very formal. I’m here because I’m Susan’s friend, but she could become my client real fast.”

“We just need to understand why a dead woman whom Susan doesn’t know would have Susan’s old cell phone number in her address book.”

Susan Gruber thumped her chest. “Next to my husband’s name. Some husband he turned out to be.”

There was silence for a couple of seconds.

“Henry wasn’t a bad man. Looking back, I don’t know what we saw in each other, why we were attracted.”

Molly reached for Susan’s hand. “You know what they say about opposites.”

Susan Gruber sipped her water. “Where are my manners? Molly, would you like—”

“I’m fine. Tell them as much or as little as you like.”

“Henry’s an engineer. I’m an artist. He was good looking. I was young. We had a son, Stuart, a wonderful boy. He was our world. He was our glue.”

Susan drifted away for a while, and we were silent. “You don’t know how hard I’ve tried to forget. It was years ago, not even a blip on the earth’s historical line. But on August 4, 1998, my world crashed. Stuart was being treated for what the doctor called a suspicious heart murmur and was in the hospital while they ran some tests. He was going to come home the very next day. We shouldn’t have left him. I don’t know why we did—why I did. I’ll never forgive myself. I’d stayed with Stuart every night and hadn’t slept—who sleeps in a hospital—so I was exhausted. Henry said he was going to stay.” She paused. Her face took on a withered look, like it had aged ten years in ten minutes. “Something made him change his mind. A nurse came in, I guess, and said they’d take good care of him, and not to worry, he’d be up and dressed when we got there in the morning. And then Henry said he had a deadline, so we left. We left Stuart alone.”

Molly reached for a box of tissues and handed it to her friend.

Susan dried her eyes and continued. “We kissed him good night. The next thing I knew, the hospital was calling.” She paused. “He was dead when we arrived.”

No one spoke for ten or twelve heartbeats. At least that’s what I thought they were. The silence crept around, covering everything.

“I can’t stop seeing my boy. I keep wondering why, how. For many years, I couldn’t sleep or eat. I …”

She stopped again, and I heard her gasping for breath. “I used to wander from room to room. Some days I never got dressed, never turned on the lights. I don’t know what Henry did. I didn’t care what he did. Then one day I took a shower and put on some clothes and drove myself to the studio. I had to buy new brushes. I’d neglected to clean the old ones. I forgot myself in my art.”

Molly put her arms around Susan, who shook her head and blew her nose. She was on another planet, and there was nothing we could do or say to bring her back.

“Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Well, as you can imagine … our marriage unraveled, what there was left of it. It fell apart one thread at a time, minute by minute. But Henry, how to explain what happened to Henry? At first, he didn’t sleep or eat. The man lost thirty pounds.”

She stared out the window into her own hell. I heard a horse neigh again and looked at Jane, who looked at the table. Molly passed around the plate of chocolate chips, but no one felt like eating.

Susan Gruber continued. “He ranged around the house. I thought he was going mad. We went through counseling, but our marriage had been a moth-eaten mess long before Stuart’s death. After he died, we were in tatters. Henry seldom spoke about Stuart or his stay in the hospital, but when he did, he blamed himself, the hospital, the world. Like me, he had his work.”

“What was the name of his company?” I asked.

“Gruber & Associates. He’s a bridge consultant, at least he was. Out of town a lot.”

Again there was a long pause. I watched Jane texting, probably to her team to have them look up the company. If we were lucky, it was a corporation and the principals would be listed or there’d be a website with a name and address. I squirmed in my chair.

“I should have gotten a second opinion,” Susan said. She was sitting at the table with us, but her voice seemed like it was in an echo chamber. “Why did I choose that heart specialist? I should have stayed with him. What kind of a mother was I? And Henry was like a madman, but all at once, he’d apologize, then rage into the phone because of something at work. I think he lost most of his clients.”

“Do you know who they were?”

She held her head. “I never had anything to do with Henry’s business. I never understood it or wanted to understand it. I had my studio.”

“She does beautiful work,” Molly said. “Oils, works large. I went to an exhibit and was bowled over by one of them. Such purity of line and breadth of color. That’s how we met.”

Susan Gruber smiled. “My compulsion. It’s what keeps me sane, I guess. Well, sometimes, at least.” She drank the rest of her water. “Can I get anyone a refill? Molly, some water?”

Jane shook her head, and one by one we declined. It was as if we had taken a trip into this woman’s hell.

“One day he threw a typewriter at me. It missed me, but broke into a thousand pieces. I packed my things and lived in my studio for a while. When I started to sell my paintings, I rented an apartment close to my studio. But something always happens. I become restless and move. Since my child’s death, days have become months. They’ve turned into years. The earth is pulling me down, literally. But the thing that’s the worst? I can’t remember my boy’s face, the shape of his face, his eyebrows.”

“When was the divorce?” I asked.

“No divorce. I couldn’t afford the agony. I don’t want anything from Henry.”

“And you haven’t seen your husband since the day you left?” Jane asked.

She shook her head. “We haven’t seen each other or communicated since that day.” She thought a moment. “Let me take that back. Except for a glimpse of him during the trial, but we didn’t speak.”

“I thought you were divorced,” Molly said. “You know I’d be happy to—”

Susan Gruber shook her head forcefully. “No. I left, and there’s been no divorce. I don’t want to drudge it up. No.”

“But you mentioned a trial.”

Another long silence.

“Henry sued the hospital. His lawyer or someone working for his lawyer called me and asked me to testify. When I appeared in court, that was the last time I saw Henry.”

“What year was this?”

She shrugged. “I’d have to look it up.” She looked at Molly, who nodded.

Obviously the woman wasn’t addicted to phones the way the rest of us were. She left the room, and I heard a computer bong and chug into life. Five minutes later she was back.

“The trial was in June 2001, I remember because I wore the same dress I wore to my opening the fall before, although why I bother with dresses is beyond me. I guess when you’re in a certain generation, you’re wedged in solid. I didn’t want to testify. I didn’t want to see that part of my life again, but I owed it to Stuart. He was a speck in that hospital bed. Why I allowed him to stay alone, I don’t know.”

“The name of the hospital?” Jane asked.

“Hamilton Hospital.” Susan Gruber put a hand to her throat, and her eyes took on a defeated look.

Thanks to me, all the memories she was trying to bury rose up and were crushing the life out of her once again. “I suppose you wouldn’t have your husband’s address or anything like that? Even the last four digits of his social would help.”

She shook her head.

“Or a card or photo? Or if you remembered the name of the lawyer who asked you to testify, that would help,” Jane said.

“No. And if I did, believe me, I’d hand it over. There may be some old stuff of his in storage, but I really doubt it. I’ve made a systematic effort to get rid of Henry. This will be the fifth move for me since … and I think I’ve gotten rid of most everything. I don’t know why I move. I can’t explain it, other than to say it makes me feel like I can get away from everything. It’s a cleansing, like I can shed my skin and be brand new, even though I know it doesn’t work. In the end, the ghosts return, the sleepless nights, but at least I have a brief time of peace.”

“Tell me more about Gruber & Associates.”

Susan Gruber shrugged. “His own company, like I said. I don’t know if it was a corporation or what it was. He kept the books. I didn’t get involved. When I knew him, Henry was an engineer, the kind that builds bridges. He consulted around the world. Did a lot of traveling.”

I really felt for this woman. I’m no shrink, but I think maybe talking to a professional might be a good idea. I’m surprised the hospital didn’t suggest it or provide some counseling after her son died, but that was a long time ago, and the world has changed. Anyhow, what do I know, maybe they did. I looked over at Molly, whose face was a blank.

Jane and I thanked Susan Gruber and told her we doubted we’d need to speak with her again, but if we had questions … You know, the usual. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Molly gave us both a card, and we exchanged pleasantries. I had a feeling I’d be working with her one of these years.

“Just one more question,” I said, reaching for Cookie’s sketch of the Brite messenger.”

“You aren’t serious,” Jane said.

I held the charcoal in front of Susan. “Have you ever seen this man?”

“Is this a test?”

“No, an honest question.”

She looked at the drawing for a long time. “This is really good. Your work?”

I shook my head. “A friend’s. Do you recognize the man?”

She examined it more closely. “He looks like a thousand men I’ve seen. People on the edge. Something about his eyes. But, no, I’ve never seen him before. Whoever drew it, though, has talent.”

“Susan Gruber is smart, all right,” Jane said as I pulled away from the curb.

“It’s what saves her. That and her art.”

Chapter 54

Fina. Late Afternoon Three, Vacant Lot

We found a small tea shop on the main drag in Allentown. When Jane opened the door, it smelled like we’d time traveled to a spice factory in nineteenth-century China. Normal people were at home preparing dinner, so we had the place to ourselves. The aroma of soaking crushed leaves made me want some, and the waitress suggested an organic ancient green for soothing the stomach and clearing the head. Jane ordered an herbal something or other and an assortment of butter cookies, and I was glad she did. For some reason, trying to imagine Susan Gruber’s life had made me hungry.

“What kind of a wife doesn’t know her husband’s social?” Jane asked.

“A woman trying to forget the death of her son and everything surrounding it. It must be like having a hole in your head.”

We sipped our tea and munched on cookies.

Jane called the precinct and spoke with someone on her team, asking them to find out as much as they could about Henry Gruber and Gruber & Associates. “We need last known address and whatever other information you can throw at us. If Henry’s not listed as primary contact, give us whoever else is. And search for a website … What? Sorry, I was just giving you a suggestion … of course you know how to do your job … so do it!”

While Jane was winding up the call to her team, she looked at her phone and made a face. “Call waiting—FBI,” she mouthed. As she listened, she shook her head and gave the phone the finger. “My contact tells me what yours told you hours ago about the prints lifted from the van? Please!”

“Anything new?”

She shook her head. “They told me Ben Small’s last known address is across from a cemetery. Swell, like I don’t do GPS.” She looked at her watch.

“They didn’t canvass the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Who knows how they checked it out? Probably used Google Maps.”

Or more likely, DHS’s satellite surveillance system. On my last case, Tig told me Homeland Security shared information with local law enforcement and presumably with the FBI. This surveillance from the sky has been a bone between Denny and me. We’ve argued a lot about privacy issues and what infringes on fourth amendment rights. Basically I’m against it, and Denny’s totally for it. Well, I’m against it until I need it.

Jane scraped her chair against the floor and began walking toward the door, head down, feet splayed. “While they’re digging for Henry Gruber’s address, let’s check out Ben Small’s vacant lot before the light fades. And while we’re at it, we can talk to Hamilton Hospital, see if anyone remembers this guy.”

I stuffed a pocket with the rest of the cookies and worked my cell’s map for directions to Ben Small’s address on Woolsey Street.