Two Little Girls in Blue (18 page)

Was Lucas the Pied Piper? Angus didn't think so. If he had been, he would already have known that Kathy was dead. According to the suicide note, Lucas had flown her body over the ocean and tossed it from the plane. If he had intended to commit suicide, why would he have bothered
to pick up the ransom money? It didn't make sense.

Was it possible that the Pied Piper, whoever he was, was unaware that Kathy was dead when he phoned Monsignor Romney and told him where the children could be found? According to the Monsignor, the Pied Piper had told him that he could deliver the joyful news to the parents that the girls were unharmed. Was that a macabre joke on the part of a sadistic mind, or was it possible that he had not been told of Kathy's death?

And had the Pied Piper really been giving directions to Franklin Bailey as Bailey claimed? These were the issues Sommers debated with Tony Realto as they drove to Bailey's home late Thursday afternoon.

Realto was having none of it. “Bailey is from an old Connecticut family. He's one of the people involved in this whole thing who I'd say is above reproach.”

“Maybe,” Sommers said as he rang Bailey's doorbell. Bailey's housekeeper, Sophie, a stocky woman of about sixty, examined their badges and admitted them with a worried frown. “Was Mr. Bailey expecting you?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” Realto said. “But we need to see him.”

“I don't know if he's up to meeting you, sir. After he learned that Lucas Wohl had been connected with the kidnapping and had killed himself, he had terrible chest pains again. I begged him to go to the doctor, but he took a sedative and went to bed. I only heard him moving around a few minutes ago.”

“We'll wait,” Realto said firmly. “Tell Mr. Bailey that we absolutely must speak to him.”

When Bailey came down to the library nearly twenty minutes later, Angus Sommers was shocked to see the marked change in his appearance. Last night he had seemed to be on the brink of exhaustion. Now, his face was paper white, his eyes glazed.

Sophie was following him with a cup of tea. He sat down and took the cup from her, his hands visibly trembling. Only then did he address Sommers and Realto. “I simply cannot believe that Lucas was involved in this terrible affair,” he began.

“Believe it, Mr. Bailey,” Realto said crisply. “Naturally, that makes us re-examine the facts of the case. You told us that you injected yourself into the Frawley kidnapping, offering to act as a go-between with the Frawleys and the kidnappers, because you had formed a slight friendship with Margaret Frawley.”

Franklin Bailey sat straighter in the chair and put aside the cup of tea. “Agent Realto, to use the word ‘inject' in this case would suggest that I forced myself in, or was acting inappropriately. Neither is the case.”

Realto looked at him without answering.

“As I told Mr. Carlson, the first time I met Margaret she was on line at the post office. I noticed one of the twins, Kelly, making a beeline for the door while Margaret was speaking to the clerk. I stopped the little girl before she darted into traffic and brought her to Margaret, who was very grateful. She and Steve attend the ten o'clock Mass at St. Mary's, where I am a parishioner. That following Sunday she introduced me to Steve. Since then we have chatted several times after Mass. I
knew that they did not have any family nearby. I was mayor of this town for twenty years, and am well known in the community. Oddly, I recently reread a history of the Lindbergh kidnapping, and it was fresh in my mind that a professor from Fordham University offered his services as a go-between in that case, and he was the one finally contacted by the kidnapper.”

Realto's cell phone rang. He opened it, glanced at the number calling him, and stepped into the foyer. When he returned, there was a noticeable difference in his attitude toward Franklin Bailey.

“Mr. Bailey,” he said, brusquely. “Isn't it a fact that you lost a considerable amount of money in a scam about ten years ago?”

“Yes, that's true.”

“How much did you lose in that scam?”

“Seven million dollars.”

“What was the name of the man who cheated you?”

“Richard Mason, as slippery a con artist as I have ever had the bad luck to meet.”

“Did you know that Mason is Steve Frawley's half brother?”

Bailey stared at him. “No, I did not. How could I have known?”

“Mr. Bailey, Richard Mason left his mother's home on Tuesday morning. He was supposed to have been at work as a baggage handler on Wednesday but he never showed up, nor has he been at home. Are you
sure
you have not been in touch with him?”

“Y
ou'd never know it was the same kid. She looks like a little boy,” Angie said cheerfully, as she surveyed the effects of her makeover on Kathy. The little girl's dark blond hair was now charcoal brown, the same shade as Angie's. And it was no longer shoulder-length; it barely covered her ears.

She does look different, Clint admitted to himself. At least if someone were to see her, they'd think Angie was babysitting a boy. “I've got a great name for her, too,” Angie added. “We're gonna call her ‘Stephen.' After her father, get it? Do you like your new name, Stevie? Huh?”

“Angie, this is crazy. We've got to pack up and get out of here.”

“No we don't. That would be the worst thing we could do. You have to write a letter to the manager of the club, whoever the new guy is, and say you've been offered a year-round job in Florida, and that you're giving notice. If you just disappear, they'll wonder what happened.”

“Angie, I
know
how the feds work. Right now they're trying to find anyone who ever had contact with Lucas. Maybe this number is in his address book.”

“Don't give me that. He never called you or let you
phone him when you were talking about doing one of your ‘business' ventures unless you were both on prepaid cell phones.”

“Angie, if either one of us left just one fingerprint in that car, it could come up in the feds' database.”

“You wore gloves when you stole that car, gloves when you drove Lucas's car back to his place. Anyhow, even if they find some, we've both disappeared. You've been known as Clint Downes for a good fifteen years. So stop, stop, stop!”

Kathy had been almost asleep. As Angie's voice rose, she slid down from Angie's lap and stood looking up at both of them.

In an abrupt change of mood, Angie said, “I swear Stevie is getting to look just like me, Clint. You must have done a pretty good job with the steam. She doesn't seem so choked up. But I'll keep the vaporizer going all night. And she did eat some cereal, so I guess that'll keep her going.”

“Angie, she needs real medicine.”

“I can take care of that if I have to.” Angie did not tell Clint that she had rummaged in the bathroom cabinet and found a couple of penicillin tablets and cough medicine from when Clint had that lousy bronchitis attack last year. She'd started Kathy on the cough medicine. If that doesn't do the trick, I'll open the pills and dilute them, she thought. Penicillin cures just about everything.

“Why did you have to go and say that I'd meet Gus tonight? I'm half-dead. I don't want to go out.”

“You have to go because that pain-in-the-neck needs somebody to bore to death. This way you get rid of him. You can even tell him that you're going to take another job. Just don't have a couple of beers and start crying for your pal Lucas.”

Kathy turned and was walking toward the bedroom. Angie got up to follow her and watched as Kathy pulled the blanket from the crib, wrapped herself in it, and lay down on the floor.

“Listen, baby, if you're tired, you have a crib to crash in,” Angie snapped. She picked up the unresisting child and cradled her. “Does Stevie love Mommy, hmmmm?”

Kathy closed her eyes and turned her head away. Angie shook her. “Being I'm so nice to you, I'm getting sick and tired of the way you treat me, and don't you dare start that double-talk again.”

The sudden piercing sound of the doorbell made Angie go rigid. Maybe Clint was right. Maybe the feds
did
trace him through Lucas, she thought, paralyzed with fear.

Through the partially open door, she heard Clint moving with slow, heavy steps across the living room, followed by the sound of the door opening. “Hello, Clint, old buddy. Thought I'd pick you up and save you the trouble of driving. You can tell Angie, I promise, it'll be a two-beer night for me.” It was the booming voice of Gus the plumber.

He suspects something is fishy, Angie thought angrily. He
did
hear the two kids crying, and now he's
checking us out. Making a quick decision, she tucked the blanket around Kathy, allowing only the back of her head with its short brown hair to show, and stepped into the living room.

“Hi, Gus,” she said.

“Angie, hi. Is this the kid you're minding?”

“Yeah. This is Stevie. He's the one you heard crying last night. His folks are at a family funeral in Wisconsin. They'll be back tomorrow. I love the little guy, but I'm ready to get some sleep.” With a firm hand under the blanket, she kept Kathy from turning her head and letting Gus see her face.

“See you later, Angie,” Clint said, edging Gus toward the door.

Angie could see that Gus's pickup was in front of the cottage. Which means that he came through the back gate, using the code. Which means that anytime he gets the idea to drop in, he'll do it. “Bye, have a good time,” she said as the door closed behind them.

She watched from the window until the truck disappeared down the lane. Then she smoothed Kathy's hair. “Baby doll, you and me and our money are making tracks right now,” she said. “For once, Daddy Clint was right. It isn't safe to hang around here any longer.”

A
t seven o'clock, Monsignor Romney rang the bell of the Frawley home. Steve and Margaret answered it together. “Thank you for coming, Monsignor,” Margaret said.

“I'm glad you wanted me to come, Margaret.” He followed them into the study. They sat on the couch, close to each other. He took the chair nearest to them. “How is Kelly?” he asked.

“Doctor Harris gave her a sedative, so she's been sleeping most of the day,” Steve said. “She is with her now.”

“When Kelly's awake, she tries to talk to Kathy,” Margaret told him. “She can't accept that Kathy's not coming home anymore. Neither can I.”

“There is no greater sorrow than losing a child,” Monsignor Romney said quietly. “At a wedding ceremony we pray that you will live to see your children's children. No matter whether it is a new-born infant who barely draws a single breath, or a toddler or a young adult or, for elderly parents, an offspring who is a senior citizen herself or himself, there is no pain to compare with it.”

“My problem,” Margaret said slowly, “is that I cannot believe that Kathy is gone. I can't accept that she
won't come in here any minute, a step behind Kelly. Of the two, Kelly's the leader, the boss. Kathy's a little more timid, a little shy.”

She looked at Steve, then at Monsignor Romney. “I broke my ankle ice skating when I was fifteen. It was a really nasty break and needed major surgery. I remember when I woke up, I only felt a dull ache, and I thought that recovering from the operation was going to be a slam dunk. Then, hours later, the nerve block began to wear off, and I was in agony. I think that's the way it's going to be for me. For now the nerve block is still working.”

Monsignor Romney waited, sensing that Margaret was about to make a request of him. She looks so young, so vulnerable, he thought. The confident, smiling mother who had told him that she had put her law career on hold to be able to enjoy her twins, was a pale shadow of herself now, her dark blue eyes haunted and pain-filled. Next to her, Steve, his hair tousled, his eyes red rimmed from exhaustion, was shaking his head, as though in denial of what had happened.