No Time for Goodbye - Linwood Barclay [91]
But I didn’t want to talk to Wedmore.
I went up to the computer and started doing some searches on Vince Fleming and Milford. There were a couple of news stories from the New Haven paper over the last few years, one that detailed how he had been charged with assault. He’d used someone’s face to open a beer bottle. That one got dismissed when the victim decided to drop charges. I was willing to bet there was more to that story, but the online edition of this newspaper certainly didn’t have it.
There was another story where Vince Fleming got a passing reference, as someone rumored to be behind a rash of auto thefts in southern Connecticut. He owned a body shop in an industrial district somewhere in town, and there was a photo of him, one of those slightly grainy ones taken by a photographer who doesn’t want his subject to know he’s there, going into a bar called Mike’s.
I’d never been in, but I’d driven past Mike’s.
I got out the Yellow Pages, found several pages listing businesses that would fix your dented automobile. From the listings, it wasn’t immediately obvious which one might belong to Vince Fleming—there was no Vince’s Auto Body, no Fleming’s Fender Repair.
I could start phoning every body shop in the Milford area, or I could try asking around for Vince Fleming at Mike’s. Maybe there, I might find someone who could point me in the right direction, at least give me the name of the body shop he owned, and where, if the papers were to be believed, he chopped up the occasional stolen car for parts.
Although not particularly hungry, I felt I needed some food in my stomach and put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, slathered peanut butter over them, and ate them standing over the sink so I wouldn’t have to clean up the crumbs. I threw on a jacket, made sure I had my cell phone with me, and went to the front door.
When I opened it, Rona Wedmore was standing there.
“Whoa,” she said, her fist suspended in midair, ready to knock.
I jumped back. “Jesus,” I said. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Mr. Archer,” she said, maintaining her composure. Evidently my sudden opening of the door scared me more than it did her.
“Hello,” I said. “I was just on my way out.”
“Is Mrs. Archer here? I don’t see her car.”
“She’s out. Is there something I can help you with? Have you any new information?”
“No,” she said. “When will she be back?”
“I can’t say, exactly. What did you want her for?”
Wedmore ignored my question. “Is she at work?”
“Perhaps.”
“You know what? I’ll just give her a call. I think I made a note here,” she had her notebook out, “of her cell phone number.”
“She’s not answer—” I stopped myself.
“She’s not answering her phone?” Wedmore said. “Let’s see if you’re right about that.” She punched in the number, put the phone to her ear, waited, closed the phone. “You’re right. Does she not like to answer her phone?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“When did Mrs. Archer leave?” she asked.
“This morning,” I said.
“Because I drove by here around one in the morning, getting off shift late and all, and her car wasn’t here then, either.”
Shit. Cynthia had hit the road with Grace even earlier than I’d imagined.
“Really,” I said. “You should have dropped in and said hello.”
“Where is she, Mr. Archer?”
“I don’t know. Check back in the afternoon. Maybe she’ll be here then.” Part of me wanted to ask Wedmore’s help, but I was afraid of making Cynthia seem guiltier than I feared Wedmore already viewed her.
That tongue was poking around inside her mouth again. It took a break so she could ask, “Has she taken Grace, too?”
I found myself unable to say anything for a moment, then, “I really have things to do.”
“You look worried, Mr. Archer. And you