“I would like Mr. Clippard’s address. And his phone number, if you have it.”
“I do.”
She follows Althea Haverty back to her office. Holly doesn’t for a minute believe Cary Dressler told any of the Oldies about his plans to leave, because she doesn’t think he had such plans. His plans were changed, perhaps permanently. But if an old woman cleaned out Ellen’s trailer, it’s possible that one of these old men knew her. Might even be related to her, either by blood or marriage. Because the Red Bank Avenue Predator isn’t picking his victims at random, or not entirely at random. He knew Ellen was on her own. He knew Cary was on his own. He might have known Pete Steinman’s mother had a booze problem. He knew Bonnie had recently broken up with her boyfriend, her father was out of the picture, and Bonnie’s relationship with her mother was strained. In other words, the Predator had information. Was picking his targets.
Holly is better than she used to be—more grounded, more emotionally stable, less prone to self-blame—but she still suffers from low self-esteem and insecurity. These are character flaws, but the irony is this: they make her a better detective. She’s perfectly aware that her suppositions about the case could be entirely wrong, but her gut tells her they’re right. She doesn’t want to know if Cary confided in one of the Golden Oldies about his plans to leave the city; she wants to know if any of them know or may even be married to a woman who suffers from sciatica. Unlikely, but as Muskie used to say to Deputy Dawg on the old cartoon show, “It’s possible, it’s possible.”
“Here you go,” Althea says, and hands Holly a sheet of notepaper. Holly folds it into one of the flap pockets of her cargo pants.
“Anything else you can tell me about Cary, Ms. Haverty?”
Althea has picked up the sheaf of bills again. Now she puts them down and sighs. “Just that I miss him. I bet the Oldies—those like Clippard, who were here when Cary was here—miss him, too. The Witches miss him, even the kids who came on buses for their once-a-month PE outings miss him, I bet. Especially the girls. He was a stoner, and I bet that wherever he is he believes in the fake flu just like you do, Holly—no, I’m not going to argue with you about it, this is America, you can believe whatever you want to believe—I’m just saying he was a good worker, and there are less and less of them around. That Darren, for instance. He’s just putting in time. Do you think he could make out a tourney sheet? Not if you put a gun to his head.”
“Thank you for your time,” Holly says, and offers an elbow.
Althea looks amused. “No offense, but I don’t do that.”
Holly thinks, my mother died of that fake flu, you gullible bitch.
What she says, and with a smile, is “None taken.”
5
Holly slow-walks across the lobby, listening to the roll of balls and the crash of tenpins. She is about to push open the foyer door, bracing herself for the wave of heat and humidity that will strike her, then stops, eyes wide and amazed.
My God, she thinks. Really?
May 19, 2021
Marie and Barbara have coffee. Olivia, with her episodes of heartbeat arrhythmia over the last few years, has caffeine-free Red Zinger iced tea. When they’re all seated in the living room, Olivia tells Barbara what lies ahead as regards the Penley Prize. She speaks more hesitantly than usual. Barbara finds this troubling, but there’s no slurring and what Olivia says is as sharp and on-point as ever.
“They drag it out as if it were one of those television competitions like Dancing with the Stars instead of a poetry award that hardly anyone cares about. Around the middle of June, the shortlist will be winnowed to ten. In mid-July they will announce the five finalists. The winner will be declared—with relief and an appropriate flourish of trumpets, one assumes—a month or so later.”
“Not until August?”
“As I said, they drag it out. At least you won’t be required to submit any more poems, which is good in your case. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your cupboard may be almost bare. The last two you showed me seemed—forgive me for saying it—a little forced.”
“They might have been.” Barbara knows they were. She could feel herself pushing the lines instead of being pulled through them.
“You are allowed to send a few more—a vague term the people in charge should know better than to use—but I suggest you not do so. You’ve sent your best. You agree?”
“Yes.”
“You need to go to bed, Olivia,” Marie says. “You’re tired. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice.”
To Barbara, Olivia always looks tired—except for those raging eyes—but she supposes Marie sees better and knows more. She should; she has a practical nursing license and has been with Olivia for almost eight years.
Olivia holds up a hand without looking at her caregiver. The palm is almost devoid of lines. Like a baby’s, Barbara thinks.
“If you are one of the final five, you’ll be required to write a statement of poetic purpose. An essay. You saw that on the website, did you not?”
Barbara did but only skimmed that part, never having expected to get as far as she has. But the mention of the Penley Prize website raises an idea that she should have thought of before.
“Are the fifteen finalists listed on their website?”
“I don’t know, but I should think so. Marie?”
Marie already has her phone out and must have the Penley Prize website in her favorites, because it only takes her a few seconds to find the answer to Barbara’s question. “Yes. They’re here.”
“Damn,” Barbara says.
“You still intend to keep this a secret?” Marie asks. “Because having made it this far is one hell of an accomplishment, Barb.”
“Well, I was going to. At least until Jerome signs his contract. I guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh?”
Olivia snorts a laugh. “Be serious. The Penley Prize is hardly New York Times material or breaking news on CNN. I imagine the only people who check that website are the finalists themselves. Plus friends and family. Perhaps a favorite teacher or two. The wider world takes no notice. If you think of literature as a town, then those who read and write poetry are the poor relations who live in shanties across the tracks. I think your secret is safe. May I return to the essay I mentioned?” She reaches to put her glass of iced tea on the endtable. She doesn’t get it all the way on and it almost falls, but Marie has been watching and catches it.
“Sure, go ahead,” Barbara says. “Then you better lie down.”
Marie gives her an emphatic nod.
“A statement of poetic purpose, not to exceed five hundred words. You may no longer be in competition when the finalists are announced, hence no need to write about why you do what you’re doing, but it won’t hurt to be thinking about it. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
Although Barbara has no idea what she’ll say, if it comes to that. The two of them have talked about poetry so much and Barbara has soaked it up, so glad to be told that yes, what she’s doing is important, that yes, it is a serious matter. To be told yes. But what would be the most important things to put in a two- or three-page essay when it all seems important? Vital, even?