“Where did she die and what happened?” I asked.
“Freeport, Maine. I’m really not clear on the circumstances.”
“A natural death?” I asked.
“No,” Dr. Masterson said, refusing to meet our eyes. “I’m fairly certain it wasn’t.”
It didn’t take Marino long to track it down. He called the Freeport, Maine, police. According to their records, on the late afternoon of January 15, 1983, Mrs. Wilma Aims was beaten to death by a
“burglar” who was apparently inside her house when she returned from grocery shopping. She was forty-two when she died, a petite woman with blue eyes and bleached blond hair. The case remained unsolved.
I had no doubts about who the so-called burglar was. Marino didn’t either.
He said, “So maybe Hunt really was clairvoyant, huh? He knew about Frankie’s taking out his mother. That sure as hell happened a long time after the two fruitcakes was in the bin together.”
We were idly watching Sammy Squirrel’s antics around the bird feeder. After Marino had driven me back from the hospital and let me out at my house, I invited him in for coffee.
“You’re certain Frankie wasn’t employed at Hunt’s car wash at any point during the past few years?” I asked.
“I don’t remember any Frank or Frankie Aims on their books,” he said.
“He very well may have changed his name,” I said.
“Probably did if he whacked his old lady. Figured the cops might look for him.”
He reached for his coffee.
“Problem is we don’t have a recent description, and joints like Masterwash are a damn revolving door. Guys in and out all the time. Work a couple of days, a week, a month. You got any idea how many white guys are tall, thin, and dark? I’m running down names and running out of road.”
We were so close but so far away. It was maddening. “The fibers are consistent with a car wash,” I said in frustration. “Hunt worked in the car wash Beryl patronized, and he possibly knew her killer.
Do you understand what I’m saying, Marino? Hunt knew about Frankie’s killing his mother because Hunt and Frankie may have had contact after Valhalla. Frankie may have worked at Hunt’s car wash, perhaps even recently. It’s possible Frankie may have first fixed on Beryl when she brought her car in to be cleaned.”
“They’ve got thirty-six employees. All but eleven of them are black, Doc, and out of that eleven honkies, six of them are women. That leaves, what? Five? Three of them is under twenty, meaning they were eight, nine, back when Frankie was at Valhalla. So we know that ain’t right. The other three don’t fit, either, for various other reasons.”
“What various other reasons?” I asked.
“Like they was just hired during the last couple of months, weren’t even working there when Beryl would have been bringing in her ride. Not to mention their physical descriptions aren’t even close.
One guy’s got red hair, another one’s a munchkin, almost as short as you are.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’ll keep checking,” he said, turning away from the bird feeder as Sammy Squirrel watched us with pink-rimmed eyes. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
‘Tour office downtown know you still work there?”
Marino asked.
He was looking strangely at me.
“Everything’s under control,” I added.
“I’m not so sure about that, Doc.”
“I’m quite sure of it.”
“Me”–Marino wouldn’t give it a rest–“I think you ain’t doing so hot.”
“I’m going to stay out of the office for a couple more days,” I explained firmly. “I’ve got to track down Beryl’s manuscript. Ethridge is on my case about it. And we need to see what’s there. Maybe the link you were talking about.”
“Just so long as you remember my rules.” He pushed back from the table.
“I’m being quite careful,” I assured him.
“And nothing more from him, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “No calls. Not a sign of him. Nothing.”
“Well, let me just remind you his style wasn’t to call Beryl every day, either.”
I didn’t need the reminder. I didn’t want him starting in again. “If he calls, I’ll simply say, ‘Hello, Frankie. What’s going on?'”