Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [103]
“Sorry, no.”
“Pity. She was such a lovely person. I was hoping to look her up while I was in town.” He gave the woman a rather penetrating stare. “If I could see her name, I’m sure I’d recognize it. Can you help me?”
She practically jumped at the chance. “I can certainly try. Let me make a call or two.”
“How kind of you. Meanwhile, I’ll peruse these brochures.” He flipped one open, reading assiduously and nodding with approval as she began working the phone.
Pendergast noted calls to her mother, an old teacher, and finally to a boyfriend’s mother. “Well,” the saleslady said, hanging up the phone with finality, “I did get some information. The Bay Manor was torn down years ago but I got the name of three people who worked there.” She placed a piece of paper in front of him with a smile of triumph.
“Are any of them still around?”
“The first one, Maybelle Payson. She’s still living in the area. The other two have passed away.”
“Maybelle Payson… Why, I believe that is the very person who was so kind to my mother!” Pendergast beamed at her, taking up the paper.
“And now, if you like, I’d be happy to show you the model units—”
“Delighted! When I return with my wife we shall be glad to get a tour. You’ve been most kind.” He scooped up the brochures, slipped them into his jacket, put on the puffy coat, and exited into the barbaric cold.
CHAPTER 57
MAYBELLE PAYSON LIVED IN A RUN-DOWN fourplex back from the water in a working-class part of town. This working class consisted almost entirely of lobstermen, their boats parked on their lawns, chocked, blocked, and braced, draped in plastic tarps, some even bigger than the trailers the owners lived in.
Trudging up the walk, Pendergast climbed up on the creaky porch, rang the bell, and waited. After a second ring, he could hear someone moving about, and eventually an owlish, wizened face appeared in the door pane, haloed in fine blue hair. The old woman looked at him with wide, almost child-like eyes.
“Mrs. Payson?” Pendergast said.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Payson? May I come in?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“My name is Pendergast. I’d like to speak to you.”
“What about?” The watery eyes stared at him suspiciously.
Pendergast shouted into the door. “About the Bay Manor. A relative of mine used to live there. She spoke highly of you, Mrs. Payson.”
He heard the turnings of various locks, latches, and bolts. The door opened, and he followed the diminutive woman into a tiny parlor. The place was a mess and smelled of cats. She swept a cat off a chair and seated herself on the sofa. “Please sit down.”
Pendergast eased himself into the chair, which was almost completely covered with white cat hair. It seemed to leap up onto his black suit, as if magnetized.
“Would you care for tea?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Pendergast hastily. He removed a notebook. “I’m compiling a little family history and I wanted to speak to you about a relative of mine who was a resident at Bay Manor some years back.”
“What was her name?”
“Emma Grolier.”
A long silence.
“Do you remember her?”
Another long pause. The teakettle began to whistle in the kitchen, but the woman didn’t seem to hear.
“Allow me,” Pendergast said, rising to fetch the kettle. “What kind of tea, Mrs. Payson?”
“What?”
“Tea. What kind would you like?”
“Earl Grey. Black.”
In the kitchen, Pendergast opened a tea box that sat on the counter, took out a bag, placed it in a mug, and poured in the boiling water. He brought it out with a smile and set it on the table next to the old woman.
“How very kind,” she said, looking at him now with a much warmer expression. “You’ll have to come more often.”
Pendergast settled himself again into the cat-hairy chair, throwing one leg over the other.
“Emma Grolier,” the old nurse said. “I recall her well.” The watery eyes looked at him, narrowing with fresh suspicion. “I doubt she spoke highly of me or of anyone. What do you want to know?”
Pendergast paused. “I’m assembling information for personal family reasons and I’d like to