I think of Hurley and empathize with Antoinette. Hoover looks up at me with an expression of sad yearning while Antoinette squirms in Helen’s arms, desperate to get down. Helen tightens her grip and says to me, “I’m a nurse. I used to work at Mercy.”
“Really? I don’t recall ever seeing you there.”
“You wouldn’t. I’ve been retired for nearly twenty years, and I’d imagine that was before your time.”
“What department did you work in?”
“I used to be the Director of Nurses, before that odd job took over.”
The odd job she is referring to is Nancy Molinaro, a short, stout, hirsute woman who was recruited from outside the hospital to head the nursing department. It’s rumored she used to be a former mob hit woman—though some think she used to be a man—who entered the witness protection program. It’s easy to see how the rumors got started. The woman talks with a whispered lisp, has spies peppered throughout the facility, and eliminates employees she doesn’t like with frightening efficiency. Plus there is the acronym derived from the Director of Nursing title: DON.
“Anyway,” Helen goes on, “ever since my husband, George, died, it’s just me and Antoinette here. I kind of keep an eye on things in the neighborhood, especially during the day when most of the other folks are gone.”
“Did you know Mr. Minniver?”
“We chatted every week or so. As the two old folks on the street, we had a pact of sorts to watch out for one another, you know? When you get to be our age, things can happen.”
“Did you see Mr. Minniver on the day he died?”
She nods. “I didn’t speak to him, but I saw him fetch his mail that morning when Antoinette and I were out on our walk. I take her out twice a day every day and walk a circuit of several blocks. Keeps me young, you know. That’s how I spotted that strange man.”
“What strange man?”
“The one who kept parking a black sedan around the neighborhood, different time and place every day. Sometimes he was on this street, sometimes on our street, sometimes he was on a side street, but he was here every day for the better part of a week.”
I frown.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Helen says with a sneer. “Crazy old woman gets paranoid about some guy parking on the street.”
I don’t respond because she’s right; that’s exactly what I’m thinking. “What did this guy look like?”
She shrugs. “I never got a good look at his face. He was always wearing one of those hooded things the kids like so much these days. I was going to call the police about him but then he disappeared. Do you think I still should?”
“I don’t think it will do much good since he isn’t here anymore,” I tell her, wishing she had called them sooner. “Black sedans are a dime a dozen. They won’t have any way of finding him.”
“Even if I give them a license plate number?”
It takes me a couple of beats to register what she just said. “Do you have a license plate number?”
“I do. I wrote it down in the pad I carry with me whenever I walk, in case I need to leave a note for someone. Like the time I left a note for Mr. Abbott saying I needed a plumber and wondering if he’d give me the name and number of the one I’d seen coming to his house twice a week for the past two months.” She gives me a wink. “The Abbotts don’t live here anymore,” she says drily. She bends over and sets Antoinette down, then fishes in her slacks pocket, pulling out a small spiral notebook. “Let’s see,” she says, flipping pages. “Here you go.” She rips the page out of the notebook and hands it to me.
“It was an Illinois plate?” I say, reading what she wrote.
“Yep, one of them damned flatlanders. That alone was reason enough to find him suspicious if you ask me.”
“Thanks, Helen. I’ll have the police run this and see what we come up with.” I tuck the slip of paper in my pocket and turn to look for Hoover. Antoinette has dashed back to the bushes and Hoover is there tentatively sniffing her nether regions. Antoinette drops herself down so that she is flat on her belly on the ground, her legs extended straight out behind her, her tail standing at attention. “I think your poodle has a crush on my dog,” I tell Helen.
“Antoinette is not a poodle,” Helen says, all indignant. “She’s a purebred bichon frise.”
“A bitch on what?”
Helen gives me a look that rivals my mother’s. It must be one of those things that improves with age. “I think you and your mutt had better leave now,” she says, making a face like she just tasted dog shit. “If he gets my Antoinette pregnant, there will be hell to pay.”
“Well, if your furry slut would quit enticing him, it would help,” I say. “Besides I don’t think my dog is old enough to do anything yet.”
“Judging from the fact that his red rocket is out and looks ready to launch, I’d say you’re mistaken.”
I walk over and hook Hoover up to his leash, pulling him off Antoinette. Just as Helen said, Hoover’s winky-dink is primed and ready. As soon as I rein him in, Helen walks over and scoops the slut back into her arms.
“Thanks for the license number,” I tell her, dragging a humiliated Hoover toward my car.
“You’ll let me know if it leads to anything, won’t you?” Helen asks.
“Sure.” When your bichon freezes over.
Chapter 25
A few minutes later, I’m pulling into the police station parking lot. There’s no sign of Hurley’s car anywhere so I tell Hoover to stay and head inside with the slip of paper Helen gave me. The day dispatcher, Stephanie, greets me with a smile.
“Hi, Mattie. How are things?”
“They’re good. How are you doing?”
“Fine. I was sorry to hear about the fire. Is David okay?”
“He seems to be, yes. Thanks for asking.” Before she can pursue the topic of David, the fire, my old house, and my marriage, I add, “Listen, I wonder if you could do me a favor. I have a license plate number I’d like you to run for me.” I hand her the slip of paper and she studies it for a second.
“Illinois, eh?”
“Yep. You can still run it, can’t you?”
“I can. Just give me a sec.”
Steph starts typing info into the computer and as I’m waiting, the door behind her opens and Bob Richmond comes out. “Mattie! I was going to call you this morning to see if you wanted to go to the gym with me but when I heard about the fire, I figured I should wait.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you did call because I’ve temporarily misplaced my cell phone. Besides, considering that I feel like I smoked an entire carton of cigarettes last night, I’m thinking it might not be the best time to start an exercise program. And I have a couple of broken toes to deal with.” I stick my foot out and show him my Frankenstein shoe.
“Here you go,” Steph says, handing me a sheet of paper. I take it, fold it up, and stick it in my pocket, hoping Richmond won’t start asking questions. But there’s too much detective left in him.
“What’s that?” he asks, gesturing toward my pocket. “Who are you running?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but I can tell from the way he narrows his eyes at me that I’ve only heightened his interest. “It’s just some asshole who tried to run me off the road yesterday when I was in Chicago. I want to call him up and give him a piece of my mind.”