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9.9.2000 16:28
Chapter 3
in our
interactive
mystery:
Gazpacho
This is Chapter Three of
The Baby Hope Theft,
a four-part interactive mystery on projo.com and in the pages of The Sunday Journal. The previous parts can still be read online at www.projo.com/specials/babyhope
The story so far: Newport socialite Claire Benson Spencer has hired a father-and-daughter detective team, Nick and Nancy Nolan of Foster, to find the Baby Hope Diamond, apparently stolen during a small dinner party at Mrs. Spencer's home, Bon Soir.
The potential suspects include Mrs. Spencer's son, drug-troubled filmmaker Charles D. Baxter III, whom Nancy previously had a fling with (a fact her father doesn't know); Charlie's girlfriend, Trinity Rep actress -- and glass collector -- Gloria Rodriguez; Helen Washington, Mrs. Spencer's personal secretary; Congressman Richard Lombardo, R-R.I.; Chips Morton, second of Mrs. Spencer's three husbands; Lucy Hamilton, Mrs. Spencer's dear friend; and Ted O'Hara, her butler.
Nick and Nancy have interviewed Gloria and Charlie at Gloria's Pascoag home, but came up with little. Meanwhile, Helen made a mysterious, frightened phone call asking to speak to the detectives -- and Nancy has discovered that someone trashed their garden, leaving vegetables in a pattern that spelled out, "GIVE UP HOPE."
This chapter is written by Julia Crowley Parmentier, of Foster, in the
voice of Nick Nolan.
By JULIA CROWLEY PARMENTIER
I let my daughter go on ahead. What on earth was going on with her?
First, she's 40 minutes late for our meeting with Gloria. Second, she arrives looking, quite frankly, like something the cat dragged in -- I swear I have never seen that T-shirt before in my life, and I hope I never see it again. Finally, she rushes us away like there's a flood coming or something.
Maybe if I took my time getting home she would pull herself together so we could do some concentrated work on this case. I felt like it was getting away from me. There were no solid leads, no significant motives. Everyone and no one looked to be equally suspect.
I stopped at the gas station at Routes 6 and 102, ducking in for a carton of eggs. They stock local eggs there, really fresh ones. As I was filling the tank and simultaneously grousing about the price of gas and thinking about what would go best in the omelets I was planning for lunch, I noticed a gray Mercedes, coming north on 102 and turning east on Route 6. The license plate read REP 1.
Now what was our friend Lombardo doing out here? As far as I knew, he limited his territory to Newport and Providence's East Side. The farthest west he ever ventured was Mario's Club in Johnston.
I pulled into my driveway 10 minutes later, only to find my daughter standing in the side yard lobbing handfuls of smashed tomatoes at the compost bin. I really thought either I was losing my mind or she had already lost hers.
"Nancy," I shouted, getting out of the car, "what the hell are you doing?"
"Look, look at what they did to your garden!" Her temper, like her hair, she gets from her mother.
I have the most peaceable of natures, but even I was driven to lobbing a few tomatoes when, walking around to the back of the house, I saw the damage. Simmering pots of savory spaghetti sauce dumped into the compost. Winter looked bleak.
"Who would have done this?" I asked. "And what did they mean by that moronic message, 'Give up hope'?"
"I have no clue," retorted my daughter. "I came home, took a phone message from a semi-hysterical old biddy, went outside and saw this mess and this message, I heard you and was coming out front to tell you about it, and just lost it. I haven't had breakfast, let alone lunch. I'm going to take a shower."
She went into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.
* * *
I noticed that, while the vegetable garden was in shambles, this vandal didn't know an herb from a hosta, so omelet aux fines herbes was still on the menu for lunch. I picked a few handfuls of basil, thyme and parsley and retreated to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted English muffins lured my daughter downstairs, scrubbed and looking her usual immaculate self.
"Hey, Dad" she said. "I'm sorry."
"Food," I replied, sliding a golden omelet onto a plate, "is what you need."
She looked so young with her hair wet and slicked back, I couldn't help remembering the tantrums she'd thrown as a child as a result of hunger, and how quickly she'd revert to sunshine with a square meal inside her. Picking up the coffeepot and two mugs, she followed me out to the picnic table on the back porch.
We didn't talk much as we ate, but afterward she told me of Helen Washington's phone call and of the interview she had tentatively scheduled for tomorrow.
"She hasn't called back, has she?" Nancy asked. "We didn't settle on a meeting place."
"She will." I was banking on it. Mrs. Washington was high on my list of people we needed to talk to.
I refilled my coffee cup and sat back.
"Let's review the facts," I said. "We're looking for motive and opportunity. Who knows the combination to the safe?"
"Claire," said Nancy. "Chips Morton, maybe. Charlie for sure. And if Charlie could find it out so easily, how hard would it be for Helen Washington to find out the same way?"
"Or Lucy," I replied, "or even Tom the butler or . . . no." At the same time we both had an image of Richard Lombardo, skulking among the evening dresses and fur coats, and convulsed with laughter.
"Not Lombardo," gasped my daughter. "It's just not his style."
"Speaking of Lombardo, I saw his car going north on 102. Did you pass him?"
"Not that I noticed. Do you think he might be responsible for this?" Nancy waved her arm at the devastated garden.
"Do you?" I countered.
"He's certainly vindictive enough, the way he talked about Chips Morton, and according to Gloria, what he said about the uninvited guest. But no, I can't see him ripping up vegetables, getting his hands dirty and mud on those polished Gucci loafers."
"Well, if he wasn't destroying our garden what was he doing out this way?" Neither of us had an answer for that, so we shelved it for the time being.
* * *
"Why would anyone steal the diamond?" That was the question that kept haunting me. Maybe there was some private collector of infinite resources who desperately needed this one stone to complete his or her collection. But among Mrs. Spencer's dinner guests, who would know such a person?
"Gloria collects blue glass," said Nancy, "but I don't see that as being in the same league as precious gems. Besides, I didn't notice that she wore any jewelry. Most collectors like to display some portion of their collection."
"What if it was stolen for spite -- just to upset Claire Spencer or to get even with her for something?" I suggested.
"What if it was being held for ransom? Would Claire be willing to pay to get the ring back without publicity? Especially if she suspected her son." I told you my daughter was smart. This suggestion made the most sense of any of them.
"We should check on Charlie's background, see if he's in any financial trouble, and whether he's really off the drugs," I said.
"We should also check up on the others. There might be a good reason to have it look like Charlie's to blame. I don't think Charlie would like Richard Lombardo as a step-papa."
At that moment the telephone rang.
"That must be Helen Washington," said Nancy, getting up to answer the phone, and returning with it a moment later.
"Yes. Yes my father's here," I heard her saying into the receiver. "Yes, we'll see you tomorrow at 4. Yes, I know where that is. You're sure you can't tell us anything now . . . no, I see. All right. Until tomorrow. Bye."
"She knows something," said Nancy. "But she's not telling. We're to meet her tomorrow at a cafe in Waterplace Park."
"Probably wants to admit that she too knows how to get into the safe," I said gloomily. "As far as we know, that rock could have been in and out of there 50 times in the last decade. I'm going to take a break from this."
"I'm going to go see what the Internet can tell me about our list of suspects," said Nancy, heading back inside with the empty plates.
"Don't forget to include Ted," I called after her.
"Ted who?"
"You know, Ted, the butler," I said.
Nancy looked at me incredulously. "Dad, you don't seriously believe the butler did it?"
One never knows.
* * *
I retreated to the garden and started to shovel the debris into a wheelbarrow. At least it would make good compost.
Later that afternoon, I headed into Providence for a few beers and an early dinner with some old newspaper cronies. Yes, I felt a little guilty leaving Nancy slaving at the computer, and the Great American Novel languishing in the Underwood, but I hoped the diversion would provide a little distance and some new insight into the case, not to mention a few more anecdotes for my book.
Nancy was up before me the next morning and greeted me with several neatly typed sheets of paper together with a cup of coffee.
"I think we've got some leads here," she said.
I don't talk before my first cup of coffee, but I can read, so I stuck my glasses on my nose and reviewed her finds.
First, Lombardo's campaign finance report. Looked like he might be heavily in debt for this campaign, for which he had some strong Democratic opposition in the upcoming election. As a lawyer, he was comfortable but not wealthy. Mrs. Spencer's millions would look very attractive. Now this was an interesting piece of information: Apparently, he held a second mortgage on Gloria's house in Pascoag. This was the first I'd heard of any connection between the two of them.
There was little on Gloria apart from the Trinity P.R. material. Her credit report showed her to be virtually blameless, up to date on all her payments. Her parents had been divorced. Her mother was dead; her father, still living, was a machinist in North Providence.
Charlie had a more checkered vitae. A couple of run-ins with the Newport and Middletown police for loud partying and suspicion of drug use, but nothing more serious than warnings. Heavy credit-card use and a pattern of late payments showed him to be careless with money -- to be expected of a spoiled rich kid, I thought cynically. I backtracked to the Lombardo campaign finance report. There was a significant contribution from Charlie to Richard. Hmmm.
Lucy apparently kept her affairs well shielded from prying Internet eyes. Apart from a few references to her positions on several boards there was no information that couldn't have been gleaned from reading the Society section of the newspaper. A clever woman.
Chips Morton's file could have made a book on its own. Several arrests for DWI, no convictions. Occasional large cash influxes to a pretty shaky bank account. Letters demanding payment from more than one collection agency. My guess was that Claire was keeping him afloat as best she could.
And there was nothing on Helen Washington or Ted O'Hara, apart from the fact that Helen had a driver's license and drove a 1993 Ford Escort. Ted didn't even appear to have a driver's license, which made one wonder whether O'Hara was his real name. Helen had a telephone listing in her own name for the Bon Soir address on Bellvue Avenue. Ted did not.
"I called Mrs. Spencer for some more information on Helen Washington," said Nancy as I looked up from the sheaf of printouts. "She's been her secretary for the last 15 years. There's no husband -- Claire thinks she's a widow. She has one brother who lives in Indiana. Helen goes to spend Christmas with him every year. There was one interesting piece of information: Her brother owns a jewelry store in Gary, Indiana, a franchise like Zales or something."
"I like Ted more and more," I said. "We don't know anything about him. What if he is really Helen's husband, grew up in New York City as the nephew of a diamond merchant, knows where to dispose of diamonds. I bet he knows any number of Arabian sheiks who would pay handsomely to add the Baby Hope to their collection. Helen finds out the combination, steals the diamond, during her brief absence from the dinner table, turns it over to Ted, who takes off for New York. Where is he now, by the way?"
"Dad," interupted Nancy, "this isn't the Great American Novel. Ted answered the phone when I called Mrs. Spencer."
"Oh, right." Creating fiction is a lot more fun than real detecting.
"Dad?" Nancy was looking antsy, clearing breakfast plates and cups, wiping off the countertop, tidying up. "Dad, I have to go. I've got stuff to do. I'll figure on meeting you at Lucy Hamilton's at 3."
"Yeah, okay. See you later. Don't be late." I waved her off. I was going back to work on my novel.
* * *
At 2:15, I was on my way into Providence, taking the scenic route over the reservoir. There were thunderclouds piling up behind me, casting shadows onto the still water of the reservoir. Late summer, the trees looked dusty and dry, the vivid greens of July muted to olive drabs.
Ignoring the newly painted double lines, I pulled out to pass an overloaded trash truck lumbering up the hill like a snapper up the bank of a pond. I roared past the entrance to the landfill, catching a sulfurous whiff as I passed by, then joined the suburban stream of traffic on 295.
I love the approach to the city from the west. You come over the hill and see the downtown buildings rising elegantly to form a miniature skyline. Gotham City's landmark is still easily identifiable among all the new construction. I do miss the view of the State House, now blocked by the massive new mall. Oh well, you never used to be able to see it before all the railroad tracks were moved.
I was early. Stopped by the light at Waterman Street, just before working-class Gano Street changes its name to the more tony Taber Avenue, I started to shift my mind to the upcoming meeting.
Lucy Hamilton. Widow, long-term Providence social activist. On the boards of Keep Providence Beautiful, City Year, League of Women Voters. I heard an irritated honk from behind me.
Lucy lived east of Blackstone Boulevard in one of the big brick houses that stop just short of being mansions. Unlike the opulence of Newport, these houses just look solidly wealthy. I parked on the street in front of a neatly manicured lawn. Ten seconds later, Nancy pulled up behind me.
* * *
The first surprise was the garden. Unlike the neighboring houses, looming with overgrown evergreens, this front yard bloomed with life. Of course, there were the ubiquitous hostas. Nothing much else will grow in the shade of the giant elms. But a sunny corner by the east wall glowed with yellow and rose giant dahlias, pink spider plants and lavender liatris.
Lucy Hamilton answered the doorbell herself. No servants were in evidence. Dressed in khaki slacks and a denim shirt, she looked as if she might actually have been gardening. As she led us across a wide hallway and through a wall of French windows opening onto a bricked terrace and small but sunlit garden, a basket with clippers, a trowel and a pile of weeds indicated that she had indeed been gardening. A plastic bucket full of water held recently cut blossoms. I mourned my lost garden.
Lucy excused herself to get tea, while Nancy and I roamed the miniature garden. Nancy seemed restless and uneasy. She picked a browning leaf from a rose bush and shredded it between her fingers. Lucy returned bearing a lacquer tray, tall glasses of ice tea and a plate of lemony cookies.
"Sit," she said, indicating a wrought-iron table and some rather uncomfortable looking chairs. I sat. Nancy continued to wander for a few moments, then returned to join us.
"Does it take a large staff to keep this place up?" I asked nosily. I was curious that she was doing all the work herself.
"I mostly take care of things myself," said Lucy. "I prefer it that way. I have a housekeeper for the heavy cleaning, some help with the cooking and for company. We used to have a large staff when my husband was alive, and did a lot of entertaining. He was a lawyer."
I remembered her husband was also into politics. While never running for office himself, he influenced who was chosen to run and reportedly was close friends with former Senator Pell.
I jumped right in. "Mrs. Hamilton -- Lucy, you must know that we are looking into the disappearance of Claire Spencer's diamond." She nodded. "Can you tell us anything about the dinner party that might be useful?"
* * *
"Well," she answered. "It wasn't the dinner party that was originally planned. Claire had originally invited Alex Frost. She hadn't invited Lombardo." From her tone of voice I could tell that Lombardo wasn't high on her list of popular people.
"Who is Alex Frost?" asked Nancy, looking suddenly more attentive.
"He owns a chain of excellent restaurants here and in southeast Massachusetts. They're especially well known for their desserts. Alex met Claire at some charity function or another, I forget which one, and they became friendly. He was coming to dinner until Charlie called and said he was bringing Richard. Richard and Alex are not on good terms. Claire told me she didn't want Richard sniping at Alex all night, so she called and asked him not to come."
One question answered -- the mysterious eighth guest -- and another lead.
"I didn't know Charlie and Richard were particularly close," I said.
"Charlie met him while researching a movie he'd like to make about a small-time politician who goes to Washington. Charlie was interviewing him for background material and Richard somehow cadged an introduction to Charlie's mother. Now he acts as if the two of them are a hot item, which may be a good way to dredge up money for his campaign, but . . ." Lucy stopped.
"How are Richard and Gloria connected?" interjected Nancy, following her own line of reasoning.
"Richard used to squire Gloria around. Just window dressing for political parties and fundraisers. She's so beautiful. Charlie met her at one of these parties and the switch was inevitable."
"How does Claire feel about Gloria," I asked.
"Resigned." Lucy answered. "But she believes Charlie is too young to settle down."
"Why?" I asked, surprised. "How old is he?"
"Twenty-five or so."
Oh, those apron strings. I looked at my daughter, a competent full-fledged partner in my business. Must be the rarefied air of high society that slows down the maturing process.
Lucy seemed to follow my thoughts. "Charlie's pretty much his own person, but he humors his mother. Still, I don't see him opting for marriage for a while."
I glanced over at my daughter, who was looking a little too disinterested to be believable. Catching my look, she straightened and started her own line of questions.
"Lucy, has Claire ever shown you the Baby Hope, or maybe let you in on the combination to the safe?"
"Yes, of course I've seen it on those rare public occasions when she's worn it. Then once I asked out of curiosity if I could see it close up. She went into that closet room she has and brought it out. She let me try it on. We both fell over laughing, as I was dressed pretty much as I am now. But she's never said any thing about the combination to the safe.
"How long ago was this?" I asked.
"Oh, maybe three or four years ago."
"Do you have any idea who could have taken it?" Nancy continued.
"None," answered Lucy. "I mean, what would you do with it? It isn't like you could auction it on eBay or something. That diamond belongs in a museum. It's absolutely worthless as it is."
I had finished my tea and I couldn't think of any more questions. Which didn't mean that I wouldn't like to spend another hour or two in that garden. But we had a four o'clock appointment downtown. I looked at my watch and Nancy stood up quickly.
"We have to go. Thank you for your time."
"I hope I've been helpful. I know Claire's upset. If you can get it back for her, I swear I'll see that it either goes to a museum or into a safe deposit box."
I didn't much care for that if.
* * *
With Lucy's permission, we left my car to retrieve later and drove Nancy's car downtown. With her usual parking karma in full force, she pulled into a tiny space at the end of Angell Street. We walked across North Main Street and down the steps to the walkway along the river. We were to meet Helen Washington at a cafe next to the Tidal Basin.
As we approached the cafe, we noticed a crowd forming. An older man, obviously inebriated, was hanging over the railing of one of the bridges, shouting. Below him a woman was thrashing in the murky water, grabbing wildly for the float of one of the wire baskets that hold the logs for the
WaterFire
displays.
As the float bobbed away from her, she disappeared underwater. A man in a canoe was paddling toward her from the canoe-rental dock. Pulling along side her, he threw her a lifejacket.
"Dad." Nancy was pointing to the woman in the water.
"Isn't that Helen Washington?"
The last part of this story will be published on Sunday, Oct. 8. For details on how you can write the last chapter, see the accompanying box.
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