Riding back to East Hampton in Finch’s patrol car, Nita expressed her frustration at the lack of results from her questioning.
“I couldn’t get anything out of her. Not only is she doped up, but she also has amnesia, at least about the crucial time just before the accident. Dr. Abel says we have to be patient, and really there’s nothing more to be done with her until her condition improves, but we’re losing valuable time. Meanwhile we’ll just have to work some other angles.”
“How can you do that without arousing suspicion?” asked Finch. “If you start questioning other people, word will soon be out that Metzger’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“I think I can be more indirect than that,” she said. “For instance, I could simply observe some of the likely suspects, see if I can detect the kinds of injuries Metzger’s fingernails would have inflicted on their faces, arms, or hands.”
Just then they passed The Creeks, and she gave him an example. “Starting with Ossorio. Fitz and I have a theory about him—nothing concrete, but it bears checking out. When we get back to the Sea Spray I think I’ll phone The Creeks and see if I can pay him a visit.”
“I’ll drop you off at the inn, then stop by the cottage, see if the guys are around,” said Finch. He had taken quite a liking to both Fitz and TJ, she noted with pleasure.
“Won’t Harry—the chief, I mean—be expecting you back soon?” she asked, not wanting to get him in Dutch with his boss.
“They’d radio if I was needed,” he replied, “so I’ll take lunch now. I can swing by the dairy and pick up some sandwiches.” He made a left off the highway onto Toilsome Lane, which curved right and became Gingerbread Lane just before it would have hit the railroad tracks. At the intersection with Race Lane, Tillinghast Dairy provided simple lunches for the local workmen. Nita waited in the car while Finch went in and placed his order.
“I hope egg salad is okay for everybody,” he said as he returned to the car with four sandwiches in a paper bag. Nita offered to pay, but he insisted on treating. “Dairy products, eggs, bread, that’s all they got here. Oh, and coffee, but I don’t recommend it this late in the day. Been on the stove since five a.m. Your spoon’d stand up in it by now.”
“We’ve got milk and root beer in the icebox at the cottage,” Nita told him. “Some fruit as well. Unfortunately the donuts are all gone.”
“Not surprised,” said Finch with a chuckle. “Good thing, too.” He patted his ample midsection as he headed out of Tillinghast’s parking lot and back to the highway.
When they reached the Sea Spray, Nita said she’d go with him to the cottage first, in case the guys were still on the beach. But they had returned, and were rinsing off the salt and sand in the outdoor shower, splashing each other playfully and shaking the water out of their hair like wet puppies. They waved as they saw Finch’s car approaching.
“Havin’ a fine, fun-lovin’ boy like that brings out the kid in you,” he observed. “Me and my dad used to be the same way when I was that age, just a couple o’ pals.” Nita sensed some twenty-five years momentarily fall away as he looked back on happy memories.
“Well, let’s make sure this boy of mine doesn’t starve to death,” she said, “or I’ll never be an abuela—that’s Spanish for grandma.” He returned her smile, handed her the sandwiches, and went around the car to open the door for her. They walked to the cottage together as Fitz and TJ finished toweling off and slipped into their robes.
Nita waved the sandwich bag. “Hi, fellas. Look what Officer Finch has brought—lunch!” The news was received with enthusiasm. “It’s cooler outside. We can eat on the porch,” she suggested, and they pulled up chairs while she went to the kitchen and returned with milk, soda, fruit, glasses, and napkins.
“You guys get started,” she said. “I’m going over to the inn to see if I can reach Ossorio. I’ll explain when I get back. Meanwhile Officer Finch will fill you in.”
“I think it’s time we got on a first-name basis, don’t you?” said Finch. “After all, TJ gave me permission, so I’d like to return the favor. How about calling me Earl from now on?” TJ beamed, and Fitz said he reckoned that would be fine.
Nita excused herself and headed for Mr. Bayley’s office, where she got the number for The Creeks from the local phone book, a puny runt of a thing compared to its Manhattan counterpart. The switchboard gave her an outside line, and she dialed EA4-1472. After a few rings, Ossorio answered. Nita was aware that his and hers were not the only ears pressed to a receiver.
“Buenas tardes, Señor Ossorio,” she began, hoping that her use of his native tongue would help dispel any wariness on his part. “This is Juanita Diaz speaking. We met at the funeral parlor, when you and the Brookses went to see Dr. Cooper.”
“Yes, I remember,” he replied, a bit vaguely. “I beg your pardon, but I thought your name was Fitzgerald. Am I mistaken? If so, I apologize.”
His politeness, coupled with his English accent, threatened to disarm Nita, who had forgotten that she’d been introduced as Mrs. Juanita Fitzgerald, with no mention of her being a policewoman, only as a witness to the accident. Momentarily at a loss, she quickly regrouped.
“Oh, no, you’re not mistaken, sir. It’s I who must apologize for the confusion. Diaz is my maiden name. I use it professionally.”
“Are you an artist?” he asked. It was common for female artists to keep their birth names, and Ossorio knew several of them. Lee Krasner had done it after she married Jackson Pollock, and so had Charlotte Park, a.k.a. Mrs. James Brooks. Likewise Cile Downs, who was Mrs. Sheridan Lord in private life, and the much-married Grace Hartigan, who was currently between husbands.
“Nothing so creative, I’m afraid. I can explain, but I’d prefer to do it in person. Would you mind if I came to see you? That is, if you’re not too busy with the arrangements.” Pollock’s funeral was scheduled for the next day.
Ossorio was graciousness itself. “Not at all, Señorita Diaz, yclept Señora Fitzgerald. And please bring your charming husband. Come for tea this afternoon at four, if that is convenient.”
“May I bring my son as well? His name is Timothy Juan, TJ for short. He’s eight. I think he would enjoy meeting you and seeing The Creeks. We’ve heard a lot about the place and how beautiful it is.”
“By all means,” he replied. “It will be my pleasure to give your whole family the grand tour.” Excellent, thought Nita. Now I can observe him informally, and he’ll be off his guard.