Chapter 3

I loved a full house. Saturday evening’s group of ten called for an insert to the dining room table, extending it into the living room, almost to my seldom-used hearth. Maddie and her parents; my nephew Skip and June Chinn, his girlfriend and my neighbor; my triple buddy, Beverly Gowen (who was my late husband’s sister, Skip’s mother, and my best friend) and her new husband, Nick Marcus; Henry; and Taylor sat around the rectangular table. Five of us had a view of my patio, with its pansies, golden mums, and dark pink cyclamen; the other five could admire the three-foot potted ficus tree in my atrium.

Although I’d expressed the need to empty my fridge and freezer, my guests brought salads and desserts, perfect additions to my chicken pot pie. The noise level was high at this dinner, a bon voyage party of sorts, with several conversations flying around the room.

“I still wish Grandpa and me were going with you,” Taylor said, with a sweet pout and kids-these-days grammar that I’d seen and heard often.

“Don’t worry about your mail and newspapers and stuff, Gerry. I’ll take care of them,” June offered. “And if there’s trash or anything, just let me know and I’ll make sure it gets taken away.”

“We’ll come by, too, in case there’s late package delivery or something,” Bev said.

“Or to see if there’s been a break-in,” retired cop Nick added.

“I can’t wait to see the Rockettes dressed like toy soldiers and do that falling-like-dominos thing,” Maddie said. “I saw it on YouTube.”

“I read that a woman had an eight-thousand-dollar necklace ripped off her throat in the subway,” my son, Richard, the glass-half-empty guy, warned us. “Do not take the subway.”

“And do not miss the Met,” Mary Lou advised. “There’s a great exhibit of Mary Cassatt paintings on exhibit now. And even if that’s too crowded, just browsing their permanent collection is heavenly.”

“If she could afford an eight-thousand-dollar necklace, why was she riding the subway?” June asked. “I’d have taken a limo.”

“Do not take the subway,” Richard repeated, this time holding his fork straight up for emphasis.

“Did you know there are thirty-six dancers in the line, and sometimes they have live animals in the show,” Maddie added, to anyone who was listening to her Rockette pitch.

“Make sure you guys don’t stray into fringe neighborhoods,” Richard predictably advised.

“They get the animals from the zoo in Central Park,” Maddie explained, to those who cared.

“I just wish I could be there when the NYPD finds out Gerry Porter thinks they’re all her nephews,” Skip said.

“What’s a fringe neighborhood?” Taylor asked.

“I have to throw in one New York cop joke,” Nick said. “Do you know how a New York City race is different from all the others?” He paused for effect. “It’s the only one where the starting gun gets return fire.” Nick and I were the only ones who laughed, possibly because none of the others present had listened long enough to hear the punch line.

“I hope you have a great time and come back safe,” Henry said, summing it all up.

As if it were our birthdays, everyone had come up with little gifts for Maddie and me. Travel-size cosmetic products, bed socks, extra scarves, and fleece-lined gloves. Even with so little notice, Mary Lou, ever the artist, made three-dimensional bon voyage cards with good wishes expressed in her lovely handwriting. An artist’s handwriting, when she wanted her messages to be read. Anyone watching would have thought we were off on a month-long excursion. If the idea was to make sure we wouldn’t forget them, it was all unnecessary.

* * *

June, the tech editor next door who claimed to suffer from “too much chair time,” left before dessert for a session with her personal trainer. Not that anyone could tell from her tiny, seemingly fat-free body that she needed help. The rest of us moved to the other end of the living room where my resourceful daughter-in-law served coffee and what her Palo Alto bakery called “genuine New York cheesecake.” I told her I’d bring back samples from around Manhattan for comparison. I had a certain Seventh Avenue deli in mind, as well as one in Times Square.

“I love New York cheesecake,” Maddie said, in keeping with her love affair with the city, less than one day old and sight unseen. No one was surprised when she asked for seconds.

Threads of conversation from the table were left behind, others were picked up. I absorbed lots of travel advice and offers for help with the inevitable pre-trip errands. At about nine o’clock, Maddie and Taylor said tearful good-byes, as if they were parting forever. Henry promised to swing by tomorrow and take care of whatever I needed.

More good-byes, then only Skip was left. “Let’s have it,” he said. “I get the sense that there’s something you’re not looking forward to about this trip.”

I tried to act surprised at the idea. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m a detective.”

“What else?”

“I’ve seen how excited you get when you’re just going to San Jose for a miniatures show, or to shop at Shellie’s in San Carlos where you buy all that ridiculously tiny furniture. Now you’re going to work at a humongous show in the Big Apple, with probably miles of crafts, and I don’t see any real enthusiasm. When you think no one’s looking, your face is…I don’t know, sober.”

“I have a lot to do for the trip. Pay bills, get cash, dig out winter clothes—”

Skip ignored my pitiful attempt at defense. “I know you’re not afraid to fly, and you have friends in New York, and you’ll have the Little Squirt with you—”

“She doesn’t like to be called that anymore,” I said. Anything to change the subject, but Skip forged ahead.

“So something else is making this a good news/bad news thing. Are you going to miss Henry? Is that it?”

“Right,” I said, but too quickly.

“Uh-uh. That’s not it.” Skip sat back on the couch, took a sip of coffee, and waited. I imagined just such a pose in an LPPD interview room with a suspected felon. He was good at his job: I was as intimidated as if I were a hardened criminal with a bare light bulb over my head.

I drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, and told him about Aunt Elsie’s death.

“Were you close to Elsie as well as her niece?”

“Not so much lately, but when we were young, she was a big part of my life. She was essentially Cynthia’s mother.”

Skip screwed up his nose, the way he did when he was twelve and trying to figure out a math problem. “Something else?”

“You are a good detective,” I said. After another long breath, I told him about Cynthia’s concerns. “And she thinks I can help,” I added, in a softer voice.

Skip laughed and sat up straight. “I wonder where she got that idea.”

“I don’t know. Seriously, Skip. I would never tell her about your cases here. She remembers that I was always reading Sherlock Holmes, and she tells these little stories about me from when we were kids.”

“Tell me one.”

I waved away his request.

He took another cookie, crossed one leg over the other, and resumed his patient, waiting posture. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Okay,” I said, and reached back to a minor success in Manhattan. “Once, we were shopping together in midtown and I suspected a woman of shoplifting. I told Cynthia I thought the woman had taken clothes into the dressing room, then put her own clothes over the new ones, and walked out onto the retail floor, headed for the door with all the clothes still on.”

“Why did you suspect her?”

“Her jacket was tighter across the shoulders than when she went in, and I noticed that it couldn’t be buttoned. And, also, from the way she bit her lip and looked around, I knew something was off. I didn’t report her or anything, but a few minutes later the alarm went off and store security took her aside.”

“And Cynthia thought you were a detective genius. I get it. I think you are, too. Are you planning to look into her aunt’s death?”

“I wish I knew.”

“I know you. You’ll let yourself be dragged into it, whether you want to or not.”

I shook my head. “Okay, that’s enough.” I took the opportunity to retreat to the kitchen for refills on coffee and my homemade ginger cookies that Skip loved.

“Can I give you a little background?” he asked, grabbing another cookie.

“Absolutely.”

“There are a lot of people who prey on the elderly, mostly for financial reasons. You’ve got fraud, gimmicks like giveaways, fake cruises, and sweepstakes or some fantastic investments that will triple their money. All you have to do is—”

“Hand over your life savings.”

“Uh-huh. The stereotype is that old people are poorly informed as well as mentally failing. Easy marks.”

I nodded. “I know all that. But I’m not about to go into Aunt Elsie’s financial records. I barely understand my own.”

“But I’ll bet you’ll be great at helping Cynthia think through the situation. She’s very close to it and maybe needs someone more objective to look at things.”

“Maybe.”

“Elders are the fastest growing age group in the country. Every week we’re getting briefed on resources available in town or through the state or federal agencies, like this new ombudsman program the LPPD is pushing. Of course, New York City is a mega-center for this issue. I read an article that said they have something like a hundred thousand older adults victimized each year in their own homes, and most of the cases—like, ninety-five percent—aren’t reported until it’s too late.”

Too late for Aunt Elsie. But I remembered that she’d had Cynthia to protect her. “Wouldn’t that apply mostly to those who live alone?” I asked Skip.

“Not necessarily. Sometimes it’s relatives who are the guilty parties. Exploiting their older kin. They’re too poor or they can’t wait to get what they think is coming to them.”

“Not in this case. I’m sure of that.”

“Then find out if there’s been a new so-called friend in Elsie’s life recently. Someone she met casually, maybe at a market or a church function, or just while she’s out on her daily walk. Older people tend to adopt routines like that, and someone could have been watching. Then that person worms his or her way into Elsie’s life. It’s easy to get an older person who maybe doesn’t have a lot of friends left to trust a stranger.”

“But she had Cynthia, who’s not only her niece, but worked as a nurse for many years.”

“That may not have been enough, no matter how much Cynthia loved her. Elsie may have thought it was important to find friends of her own. A small expression of freedom and independence from her niece. It doesn’t mean she didn’t love and trust Cynthia, but she was probably a responsible adult at one point, with a job or a household to run—”

“She was in the army,” I said.

“Really?” I nodded. “Well, there you go. I guess she could have felt she could do at least some little thing on her own.”

“Like finding a friend without ties to Cynthia.”

“Exactly.”

“She might even have thought she was helping Cynthia, giving her a break,” I offered.

Skip nodded. “You got it.”

“I should find out who comes in when Cynthia’s not there. Like a visiting nurse, or even a person delivering meds.”

“You should do that. I mean, if you decided to investigate.”

“Right, if.” On my way back to the kitchen for more coffee, I stopped at the couch and gave my nephew a big hug.

Before he left, Skip reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a blue-and-gold patch. He handed it to me. “Take this in case you need it.”

I took the item and read the embroidered printing. “An LPPD patch? You just happened to have one in your pocket?”

“I had a feeling that you might need it.”

“Why? You think I can’t go on a trip without needing police help?”

“Can you blame me? But, I’m giving you this to carry on a long custom. If you find yourself in the office of an NYPD detective for any reason, or happen to run into any one of the thirty-five thousand or so NYPD officers, give this to him.”

“Or her?”

“Or her. And ask for one back for me. It’s a custom.”

“So you said.” I took the patch and raised my right hand. “On the off-chance that I meet one of New York’s finest, I’ll carry out this mission.”

Skip laughed, turned to leave, then swiveled back in the next second. “Maybe I should go with you?”

I pushed him out the door. It was ten o’clock and I still had a lot to do. What I tried not to do was rethink my decision to go to New York in the first place.

* * *

Left to myself, I did two loads of wash and made three batches of ginger cookies, some to leave around town lest my friends ­forget me, and some to take with us on the plane. Between my tasks, I fielded a few more calls and emails from friends and ­relatives.

From Bebe: The limo company would pick her up first, me second, and then Maddie in Palo Alto. Could I be ready at four-thirty a.m.? (Of course.)

From Maddie, way past her bedtime: Did it ever rain in New York and, if so, should she take an umbrella? (No, if we needed one, we could buy an umbrella from a street vendor for a couple of dollars. The same was true for a host of other necessities—books, scarves, pretzels, and designer purses. Don’t worry, New York has more of everything.)

From Maddie, fifteen minutes later: Was it okay to wear jeans to the Radio City show? (Yes, if you were under forty. I was taking my best pants.)

From various crafters in my miniatures group by email: New York must have ten times the number of miniatures stores as Santa Clara County. Could I pick up a half-scale bathtub (for Karen), a one-inch-scale floor lamp (for Susan), tiny figurines like the Statue of Liberty or the Chrysler Building (for Mabel), and a wood inlay coffee table (for Linda, money no object.) (Of course.)

From Henry: He loved me and would miss me. (Ditto.)

From Maddie, the last call before she climbed into bed, she promised: Could she come over on Monday to finish up some of the scenes she’d been making for Christmas presents? (No, she needed to spend time with her parents and finish packing.)

Another task accomplished was to drag out my large suitcase and my travel checklist. I packed some of the basics for hotel living, then organized the scenes Maddie and I had selected for display and raffles at the show. They’d go in our carry-on luggage with a separate, TSA-approved bag that held indispensable tools for a crafts booth staffer—small scissors, two kinds of tape, four kinds of glue, punches, markers, a ruler, and card stock. I hoped I’d have room for my clothes.

I made a third, or fourth, to-do list for Sunday and Monday and crawled into bed a little before midnight.

I couldn’t get Cynthia and Aunt Elsie out of my mind. Was it as short a time ago as this morning that I’d decided to go to New York, called my friend, and learned of Elsie’s death? In my semi-awake state, I tried to go back to the time before Maddie and I met Bebe at SuperKrafts. My image was distorted by the presence of thirty-six long-legged dancers falling backwards onto each other, to the tune of “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers.”

* * *

Sunday passed quickly with cancellations and rescheduling of lunch dates and appointments, and checking off other items on my lists. I put together a folder with slips of paper as reminders of promises I’d made to my Lincoln Point peeps. A kind of New York shopping list, consisting of cryptic notes such as “T-shirts & key chains for all.” I considered myself fortunate when calls from everyone in my friends-and-family plan stopped coming in by midnight.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the call from Mary Lou, around nine the next morning.

“Richard is going nuts,” she said.

“Anything in particular, or just general angst about his daughter running loose in the evil city—the city he was born in, I might add.”

“I’ll spare you the whole list, but number one right now is how is his baby going to get to the airport? He’s afraid a limo is going to pull up and Maddie will be expected to get in and ride with a strange man with a black hat. I’m surprised that he hasn’t booked us on the flight.”

I spelled out the logistics for Mary Lou and assured her that both Bebe and I would be in the car when it arrived for Maddie. “Problem solved,” I said, wishing my deeper problems could be handled with such expediency. I’d have been happy even figuring out what they were.

“Say, while we’re talking, Mom, have you and Henry set a date?”

I admired my daughter-in-law, the insightful artist that she was, but was she also tele-psychic? “Why would you ask that right now?”

“We’re afraid Henry is going to follow you to New York and you’ll come back married.”

“Not a chance,” I said, not a little distressed at how vehement I was.

“You’re not going to deny us the pleasure of a wedding?”

“Of course not.” I tried to sound thrilled at the thought of being the center of attention at the gala everyone seemed to want.

* * *

Henry and I spent most of Monday together, shuffling between our (life-size) houses. My favorite retired shop teacher was now using his skills for his own projects. And mine. He had one last piece of white scalloped trim to add to our (one-inch scale) blue cottage before the dollhouse would be ready for a local school raffle. I watched as he smeared glue on both surfaces, pressed the trim against the roof, and clamped it in place.

I pulled him off his stool and declared a lunch break. I’d made reservations at a new restaurant outside town, one with a European flavor that used cloth table linens. “You have fifteen minutes to change,” I said.

* * *

Even at one in the afternoon, the restaurant was dark, the only light coming from the candles at each table. Henry tilted his menu this way and that, straining to read it against the light reflections.

“I think this place is meant for office trysts,” he said, indicating the romantic, flowery décor.

“It’s a little more formal than I anticipated.”

“I should have worn my tux.” Not that he owned one. “Speaking of formal wear”— Henry put down his menu and leaned across to me—“didn’t we say we’d set a date this weekend?”

I gulped at the segue. “Now?” I said.

“You wouldn’t be stalling, would you?”

I shook my head, but I knew I was. Stalling. I blamed New York. I had been ready to set a date, until Saturday morning. The upcoming trip was taking me back to my past in so many ways. Back to my youth, to college, to Ken, to Richard’s birth. I thought I’d settled all that in my mind. Henry and I were both moving on from long, satisfying marriages that had ended sadly, in illnesses and the deaths of our spouses. Henry was my future. Why wasn’t I ready for that trip?

“It’s just, with the holidays coming up, and now this travel…”

“How about the first weekend of the new year?”

“For what?”

Henry sat back and blew out a breath, the way he did when he was disappointed. Or exasperated. As if he’d hammered a nail at a bad angle and split the wood.

In a second I was aware of my mistake. I mentally slapped my head, the way Maddie did in a similar circumstance. “Henry, I’m sorry. This trip has me so preoccupied. Packing in a hurry has been dreadful. I’m afraid I’m going to get off the plane and realize I forgot something.” I congratulated myself on the dodge.

“Well, whatever you forget, you can probably pick it up in Manhattan, with about a hundred choices of size and color. And if it’s something back here that you forgot to do, you have a posse at your disposal. We can do it for you, whatever it is. We can lock it up, if that’s the problem, or unlock it, or haul it to the dump before it smells. You’ll have your phone; Maddie will have her laptop—”

“I get it.”

“What else?”

I reiterated my conflict about helping Cynthia. “I’m happy to provide comfort and support any way I can, but I’m afraid she expects more.”

“I sure wish I were going with you.”

This time we both leaned across the table. Closing the space between us was easy since we were both at the top of the height charts. Now that his face was so near, I kissed him, and let that be my response.