“Yes, sir, that’s the case here in Connecticut,” Palumbo said.
“I wonder if a corporation named Arch Realty in Stamford has filed such an annual report,” Bloom said.
“Let me check for you, sir,” Palumbo said. “Be back in a minute.”
He was not back in a minute. Nor was he back in five minutes. In fact, Bloom thought he might have hung up. But he came on the line again seven minutes later, and said, “Arch Realty in Stamford, I have the folder here, sir.”
“And was an annual report filed?” Bloom asked.
“Yes, sir, on the anniversary of incorporation, in this case the twelfth of August last year. The new report isn’t due until this August.”
“Does it list the officers and directors?”
“It does.”
“Can I trouble you for their names and addresses?”
“No trouble at all, sir,” Palumbo said. “Have you got a pencil?”
“Go ahead,” Bloom said.
“I’ll start with the president,” Palumbo said. “His name is... oh, just a moment, sir.”
There was another long silence on the line.
“Yes,” Palumbo said.
“Yes, what?” Bloom asked.
“In this state, it’s mandatory for a corporation to inform us should any officer or director cease to hold office. I see here that—”
“Yes?” Bloom said.
“Such a form was filed last October.”
“Who was it that ceased to hold office?” Bloom asked.
“The president of the corporation. He died on September third last year.”
“And his name?” Bloom asked.
“Horace Whittaker.”
12
At a little before five that afternoon, I drove a brand-new Cadillac Sedan DeVille up the road to Knott’s Retreat, presented myself at Administration and Reception, and informed the young lady behind the desk that I was here to pick up Sarah Whittaker for transfer to the Arlberg Receiving Facility at Southern Medical Hospital.
Sarah was brought up some ten minutes later.
She was wearing the yellow dress Pearson had described to me earlier, a summery cotton frock scooped low at the neck and billowing out from the waist into a wide skirt. She wore a string of pearls at her throat, no other jewelry, no makeup. She was barelegged, and the sandals she wore — ankle-strapped and with slender stiletto heels — added a good three inches to her height. She was grinning from ear to ear, even though she was in the presence of Christine Seifert, the attendant she called Brunhilde.
Brunhilde came as something of a surprise.
I had never met her, and my preconceived notion of her was premised on Sarah’s description: “Christine Seifert, five feet eight inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds, tattoo on her left forearm, ‘Mom’ in a heart. I made up the tattoo, but the rest is real.”
There was no possible way that the person who stood alongside Sarah, shyly introducing herself to me, could fit this description. Christine Seifert was wearing a pale blue tailored summer suit and navy blue French-heeled shoes. She was carrying a leather shoulder bag that matched the shoes. She was perhaps five feet seven inches tall, a slender young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and an engaging smile.
Sarah must have noticed the startled look on my face.
“Never trust a lunatic,” she whispered, smiling, as I led her and Christine — I could never again think of her as Brunhilde — to where I’d parked the Cadillac. “Oh my, aren’t we elegant today,” she said. “How do you want to do this, Miss Seifert? Shall I sit up front with Mr. Hope, where you can keep an eye on me?”
“Perhaps we should both sit together in the back,” Christine said softly.
I opened the back door for them. Christine allowed Sarah to enter the car first, and then she got in and made herself comfortable beside her. I closed the door and came around to the driver’s side. I started the car.
I drove up the paved road to the wall with its wrought-iron gate. I drove through the gate and onto the dirt road and stopped at the split-rail fence defining the property. I checked for traffic east and west on Xavier Road, and then made a left turn toward US 41 and Calusa.
“Ahhh, fresh air again,” Sarah said.
Her face was framed in the rearview mirror. She was smiling.
“What time are they expecting us, Mr. Hope?” Christine asked.
“Six,” I said.
“We should make that easily,” she said.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Miss Seifert thinks this is all a waste of time,” Sarah said. “Isn’t that true, Chris?”
“Not at all,” Christine said.
“Aw, come on, you can be honest with us. You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”
Christine said nothing.
“Her silence indicates assent,” Sarah said.
“Not necessarily,” Christine said.
“What does Joanna think?” Sarah asked suddenly.
“Joanna?” Christine said.
“I’m talking to Mr. Hope, dear,” Sarah said. Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Have you discussed this with Joanna?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then she’s had no opportunity to form an opinion, has she? As to my sanity.”
“None whatever,” I said, and smiled.
“Biggest day in my life,” Sarah said, smiling at Christine, “and he doesn’t even tell his daughter about it. Joanna lives with her mother. The way I used to live with my mother. Isn’t that right, Matthew?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where do they live, anyway, Matthew?” she asked.
“Out on Stone Crab Key,” I said.
“Will we be passing the house?”
“No, no.”
“Pity, I wanted to see it. I feel I know her already. Your daughter. You did promise I’d meet her one day, Matthew. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said, and smiled.
“Joanna has blonde hair,” Sarah said. “Like mine.”
I looked into the mirror.
Christine was suddenly alert.
“Daddy’s bimbo was blonde, too, you know,” Sarah said, and a sudden chill went up my spine.
“Or so they tell me,” Sarah said, and smiled. “She was supposed to be blonde, isn’t that right, Chris? My daddy’s bimbo? Isn’t she supposed to be blonde in my alleged delusion?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Christine said.
“Oh, sure you do,” Sarah said. “My delusion? They didn’t tell you about my delusion?”
“Well...” Christine said, and shrugged.
“Well, sure,” Sarah said.
The car seemed suddenly too cold. I fiddled with the unfamiliar air-conditioning controls.
“I’m so excited, I can hardly sit still,” Sarah said. “Do you realize what today means to me? To be out of the Tomb of the Innocent? Oh, forgive me, Chris,” she said at once. “I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your place of employment. Have I offended you?”
“Not at all,” Christine said.
“You know, don’t you, that I won’t be coming back to Knott’s? I said all my good-byes this morning. Anna the Porn Queen was terribly upset. She told me I’m throwing away a brilliant career.”
“She means Anna Lewis,” Christine said to me.
“The Porn Queen,” Sarah said, nodding.
Quite calmly, Christine said, “She’s no such thing, Sarah. You know she isn’t.”
“Oh, I know it,” Sarah said, “but does Anna know it?”
“Anna knows it,” Christine said in that same calm voice.
“Right, right, I invented her delusion, too,” Sarah said.
Christine said nothing.