Slugfest

Cindy Gustafson. I looked around for the one person I knew who might have the answer. She was near the valet parking, having a smoke.

Lucy, Rolanda, and I headed for the entrance as casually as we could for people who really wanted to be sprinting. My new friend, Allegra Douglas, was just stubbing out her cigarette in a portable ashtray when we got there.

“Nice party,” I said. Chitchat over. “What happens if the Wagner Center is no longer deemed fit for the Big Apple Flower Show?” I asked.

“It would be unfortunate. Lots of people at Wagner will be put out of work. Maybe the building will finally come down and new construction go up. Someone makes a lot of money on that. On the director’s recommendation, the board probably moves the show to Javits; Kristi Reynolds quadruples her budget and doubles her salary. Shall I go on?”

“Can one lost show do that? Surely there must be other events at the Wagner Center?”

“None that are subsidized by a billionaire’s widow who’s passionate about gardening. If Kristi can convince Mrs. Moffit that BAFS needs to relocate, that building will lose its staunchest supporter.”

“Then why not sabotage her plants instead of other people’s?”

Allegra was shocked by what we were suggesting. “I suppose there’s a limit to even Kristi’s hubris.”

“Thank you, Allegra.”

Since we were back at the entrance, I asked the attendant again if Stancik had checked in. Still not there. Where the hell was he?

We moved out of earshot and I tried to think how we could find the Wrenthams. Then I remembered he had called me from the airport. His number was the last one on my call log. I hit reply. It rang close to ten times. Finally someone answered. The sound I heard was something between a gasp and a moan.

“Professor? Is that you? Where are you?”

He didn’t speak but I held on, waiting for something, background noises, anything. Then I heard it— ribbit, ribbit. “Are you near one of the ponds? Can you tell me which one?” I thought I heard rushing water but couldn’t be sure if the sound came from the phone or a nearby fountain. His voice sounded a little like Nikki’s after she’d been sedated, but Wrentham’s had the trace of desperation in it, and a little gurgle that might have been blood.

“Hang on, we’re going to find you.”

I pulled out the map they’d given me when we’d arrived. “Lucy, can you get us a couple more of these?” She ran off and was back in less than a minute. There were three ponds on the property and three of us.

“We really shouldn’t go off on our own. Rolanda, how about if you get Lauryn Peete and get her to search with you?”

“How about if I get my gun and go by myself? All right, I don’t have a gun with me, but that little thing? I’d sooner get Connie Anzalone. At least she’s got some meat on her bones. And I know she’s not afraid of anything.”

“Just don’t go by yourself,” I said.

“I won’t.”

I told her to head for Mary’s Pond on the right-hand side of the property. “Don’t do anything crazy—we’re just looking for the Wrenthams. If you see Reiger or Shepard, stay away. One of them is dangerous. Do you have Stancik’s number?”

“Yeah, it’s on my phone.”

“Good. Don’t be afraid to use it. Be careful. I want to come to your graduation.” Rolanda took off in search of a partner. She would make a good cop one day, if she got through the night.

I looked at Lucy in her flowered dress and tight white jacket, rumpled and stained with sap from the tree she’d climbed, and she reminded me of a little girl who’d gotten her Sunday dress dirty. “You stay here and wait for Stancik.” I fished around in my bag for one of Stancik’s cards and gave it to Lucy. “Call him every five minutes until you get him. In fact, plug the number in now. Tell him what’s going on and tell him Wrentham may need an ambulance.”

“Where are you going?” she said.

“To find J. C. so we can look for Wrentham and his daughter.”

“You’d rather go into battle with an old lady than me?”

“Who’s going into battle?” Climbing out of his black tanklike Escalade was Guy Anzalone. The happy teddy bear threw a few pretend punches in my direction.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said.

“I been waiting all weekend for you to say that.”

I took him by the arm and led him to the left side of the parking area away from the bright lights. I toyed with the idea of telling him I needed his help, that two lives might depend on it. Then I took a different tack. I whipped out the map and pointed to Horse Pond, on the left-hand side of the estate.

“Meet me there in ten minutes, you big hunk of burning love. I’ll be listening to the frogs near the pond.” I appropriated a long-handled flashlight one of the attendants had set down. “Take this. Wait for me. And watch your footing. There may be landscaping I don’t know about. Watch where you step.”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants when she wants it. Ten minutes. And one of your frogs will soon turn into a prince,” he said. He took off to the left, waving the flashlight from side to side as he walked.

Lucy sized him up in less than a minute. “I get it. He’s got a certain Flintstonian charm.”

“It’s not that. He doesn’t know it, but he’s helping us look for the Wrenthams.”

Sixty

The sky was turning blue-black. We were going to need another torch; Wrentham would be harder to find as the night wore on. What I didn’t want to think about was where Emma was. And where “Mr. Rose” was.

I had the lantern that we’d used on the highway in my car, but I could tell from Spade and Archer strapped to the top that the Jeep was buried in back of the lot. Guy’s Escalade was still front and center. I ran to the attendant just as he was getting in to park it.

“My husband forgot something in the trunk—I’ll just be a minute.” The attendant helpfully popped the trunk lid. A plastic orange crate held Guy’s emergency kit—jumper cables, a flashlight, a piece of carpet, and some flares. Next to the cables was Guy’s sample case, with tumbled blocks and, for comparison, a few pieces of the real thing. I dumped all but two of the stones and put the flashlight and flares in the case. You never knew. Nothing else useful was in the trunk, just a lot of old magazines, a map of upstate New York, and a pair of foam stadium seats from the Mets’ new home, Citi Field.

“Mr. Rose—I can’t believe I just got it. It’s not the flower, it’s Pete Rose. Bambi- no’s founder is a baseball freak.”

I slammed the trunk shut. Lucy and I took off with the map and the stuff from Guy’s car. I carried the sample case like a handbag, albeit an ugly, heavy one, and slipped past the crowds that were shrinking closer to the house as it grew dark and the gardens were less visible.

The Great Pond was the biggest, and it would take the longest to get around. As much as I’d snickered about Terry Ward’s sensible shoes I was glad to be wearing mine. So far Lucy’s canvas wedges were holding their own in the soft, moist soil near the pond, but they started to make sucking noises as we got closer to the water.

“I will sacrifice the red scarf and these shoes, but, please lord, do not let anything happen to the jacket Paula is wearing.”

“Sshhh. I think the lord has more pressing business right now.” We crept around slowly until we were close to one of the spotlights. Lucy’s white jacket shone like the moon. That was good if one of the Wrenthams saw us, bad if it was Shepard. I told her to take it off. In deference to her prayer, I took mine off and gave it to her to wear. If it fell in the mud now it would be her doing.

A third of the way around the pond we heard another sound from my phone. Wrentham was trying to say something. Either we were getting closer to him or the killer was. Then we heard footsteps, someone slogging through mud. We’d moved into a muddy area. Was I hearing my own steps echoed on the phone? Were we that close to Wrentham? Or were they someone else’s footsteps? We stopped moving, but the