Chapter 24
The morning after Susan and I came back from LA, I drove up to Haverhill, on a bright and charming spring Tuesday, to look for Angela Richard's parents.
I bought some decaf and two Dunkin' Donuts. I thought you got more if you bought the Dunkin's because of the little handles. The donuts made the decaf taste more like coffee and the weather made me feel good. Thinking about the trip to LA with Susan made me feel good, too. I'd found out some things and we'd had a good time. The things I'd found out didn't seem to be getting me any closer to finding Lisa St. Claire/Angela Richard. But I had learned when I was still a cop that if you kept finding things out, eventually you'd find out something useful, which was why I was heading for Haverhill. In my lifetime I'd had little occasion to go to Haverhill. I knew that it was a small city north of Boston on the Merrimack River, east of Proctor. I knew that John Greenleaf Whittier had been born there.
I parked out front of the public library and went in and got hold of the local phone book. There were five Richards listed. Four of them were men. One was simply listed as M. Richard, which usually meant a female. I left the library and got in my car and got out my street map book and did what I do. Three were nobody home. One was a young couple with a ten-month-old baby. M. Richard was it.
I said, 'Do you have a daughter named Angela?'
She paused and then said, 'Why do you want to know?'
She was a tall, stylish woman in a belted cotton dress. She had short salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of gold- rimmed glasses around her neck on a blue cord.
'I'm a detective,' I said. 'She's been reported missing.
'I'm not surprised,' M. Richard said. 'She has been missing much of her life.'
'May I come in?' I said.
'Do you have some identification?'
I showed her. A short pale woman in a blue denim shirtwaist appeared behind her. She looked at me with no hint of affection.
'Everything all right, Mimmi?'
M. Richard nodded without speaking while she looked at my license carefully.
Then she said, 'He's here asking about Angela.'
'That's ancient history, Bub,' the pale woman said. She wore her short blonde hair in a tight permanent.
'That may be,' I said. 'But she's still missing. May I come in?'
I gave them my killer smile.
'We can't help you,' the pale woman said. So much for the killer smile.
'It's all right, Marty,' M. Richard said. She stepped aside.
'Come in, Mr. Spenser.'
It was a big old house with dark woodwork and high ceilings. The oak floors gleamed. The shades throughout were half drawn. To my left was a living room with sheets over the furniture. To the right was some sort of sitting room with heavy furniture and a cold fireplace faced with dark tile. There was a long sloping lawn in front, which set the house back a ways from the street. The walls were thick and there was very little sound inside the house when she closed the door.
We went to the sitting room. Marty kept her eyes fixed on my every movement in case I decided to make a grab for the silverware.
M. Richard said, 'Will you have coffee, Mr. Spenser? Or tea? Or a glass of water?'
'No thank you, Mrs. Richard. When is the last time you saw your daughter?'
'Nineteen eighty,' she said. 'The night before she ran off with the Pontevecchio boy.'
Beside her Marty snorted.
'Little Miss Round Heels,' Marty said.
'Have you been in touch with her at all during that time?'
M. Richard's mouth was very firm. 'No,' she said, 'I have not.'
'How about her father?'
'Mimmi, you don't have to go through this,' Marty said.
M. Richard smiled at her gently.
'I'm all right, Marty,' she said. 'Her father lives or lived in Brunswick, Maine.'
'Address?' I said.
