was a quavery, old woman’s voice. At the far corner of the fence, the bramble had been cut back enough to allow a wooden gate to open ever so slightly “You are the cops, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” Peters answered. The gate opened a little further, wide enough for us to ease into the opening, but not without picking up a couple of thorny jabs in the process.
Inside, we found ourselves in a weedy yard, facing a diminutive old lady with bright red hair and a spry way about her. She wore old-fashioned glasses with white harlequin frames and narrow lenses. She gave the heavy wooden gate a surprisingly swift shove and padlocked it in one easy motion. “Go on, go on,” she said impatiently, motioning us up an overgrown path toward her back door. Peters gave me a slight shrug, then led the way.
“You certainly took long enough over there,” she muttered accusingly as we climbed a flight of steps. “I didn’t enjoy a single one of my TV programs today because I was watching for you. I was afraid I’d miss you when you left.”
We entered through the kitchen. A large gray cat, standing in the sink lapping water from a leaky tap, eyed us speculatively. Our hostess made no effort to chase him out of the sink. “That’s Henry, Henry Aldrich. He doesn’t talk much but he’s good company.”
She directed us into a living room. On a blaring black-and-white television set an announcer was gearing up for another episode of “General Hospital.” So she had been willing to risk missing her soaps in order to catch us. I gave her credit for making a considerable personal sacrifice.
She settled into an ancient rocking chair, while we attempted to sit on an overstaffed and lumpy couch that had been built with no regard for human anatomy. “Since you’re not wearing uniforms, I suppose you young men must be detectives. I’m Sophia Czirski,” she announced, “but you can call me Sophie. What can I do for you?”
Peters looked at me helplessly. It was time for him to earn his keep. I shrugged and said nothing. Peters cleared his throat. “I don’t know, Mrs. Czirski…Sophie…. You invited us.”
“Oh, that’s right. How stupid of me.” She wore ill-fitting dentures that rattled and clicked when she spoke. I was afraid they might fall out altogether. Bright red hair gave the illusion that she was much younger than she was in actual fact. Upon close inspection I would have guessed she was pushing the upper end of her seventies. She was tough as old leather, though, and any lapses in thought were only temporary.
“Did you arrest her?”
“Arrest who?” Peters asked.
“Well, Suzanne Barstogi, of course. Her and that phony preacher friend of hers.”
“No ma’am,” Peters said carefully. “We haven’t arrested anyone. This is Detective Beaumont, and I’m Detective Peters.”
“Well,” she sniffed, “I’m glad you have enough good manners to introduce yourself. What about your friend — Beauchamp, did you say? Can’t he talk?”
Peters looked at me and grinned. “Beaumont,” he corrected. “No, he’s really shy around women. I usually have to do most of the talking.”
“You go ahead and ask me anything you like then, Detective Peters. Your friend there can take notes.” Obligingly I got out a notebook and a stub of a pencil. Somehow I knew I’d get even; I just didn’t know when.
Sophie Czirski didn’t require any prompting. “I saw that child outside in February. February, mind you! Without so much as a jacket or a pair of shoes! I could see her, you know.” She indicated the living room window, which, from her chair before the television set, offered an unobstructed view of Barstogi’s front yard. “I can see everything that goes on there, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. All that stuff about prayer meetings and fellowship. I don’t believe it, not for one minute.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Peters, “but you asked if we had arrested Suzanne Barstogi. Is there some reason you feel she should be under suspicion?”
“Goodness, yes. People who would mistreat a child like they have wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. And all the time they pretend to be so holier-than-thou. But they don’t fool me, not for a minute.”
The gray cat meandered in from the kitchen. He favored us with an insolent look, then leaped to the back of the couch. Once there he stretched out, languidly settling himself directly between Peters and me. I wondered how much gray cat hair would be on my brown jacket and trousers when I stood up. Sophie focused on the cat for a moment, then jumped to her feet.
“Good gracious, talk about manners, now I’m forgetting mine. I haven’t even offered you coffee or tea.”
I thought about the cat in the sink. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll have some tea,” Peters said agreeably, “but I like the water boiling.”
“Absolutely,” Sophie said, hurrying into the kitchen. “Tea doesn’t steep properly if the water’s only lukewarm.”
I didn’t trust myself to say anything to Peters in her absence. What I did do was check the notes I had taken from the previous day’s statements. There was no mention of Sophie Czirski.
She returned a few minutes later with a tray and three chipped but dainty cups and saucers. If she had heard my polite refusal, she ignored it. She passed me a cup and saucer without asking. Peters winked at me behind her back as she placed it in my hand. There was a cat hair floating on the surface of my tea. I discreetly removed it with my spoon once her back was turned.
She settled comfortably into the rocking chair with her own cup. “Now then, what was I saying? Oh yes, I called Child Protective Services right then, that very day. I’m sure they thought I was just a nosy old biddy, although they said they’d look into it. I don’t think they ever did, at least not then.
“About a week later I was just finishing watching ”Good Morning America“ when she came wandering down the street. Henry was outside. She went up to try to pet him, but he doesn’t like children. When he wouldn’t let her touch him I could see it almost broke her heart. She didn’t cry, though. I never did see her cry. She looked so lonesome that I just couldn’t help myself. I went to the door, my back door, the one you came in by, and asked her if she’d like to have some cookies and milk.
“She did. She marched right in as if she owned the place.” Sophie stopped, put down her cup, and wiped her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “She talked a blue streak. She called me Soapy.” Sophie sniffed noisily and wiped her eyes again. “She loved to talk. She talked about that church her mother goes to, meetings every night until the wee hours. She came to see me every morning for almost two weeks, but she was always careful to be back home before her mother woke up. Can you imagine a mother sleeping until eleven or twelve every single day and leaving that poor little tyke on her own?”
“Did she ever say anything about her father?”
Sophie wrinkled her forehead in thought. “No, she never did. She talked about her mother, and an Uncle Charlie, and that minister fellow. I don’t know this Uncle Charlie.”
“She talked about Brodie?” Peters asked.
Sophie nodded. “Yes, a lot. She was afraid of him.”
“I can’t say that I blame her,” Peters said.
“One day he drove up while Angela was still here. I never called her Angel. I think that’s a terrible name to pin on a little girl. Anyway, she tried to run home, but he caught her coming through the gate. He grabbed her and dragged her home by one arm. The next day she had a cast on it.”
“You mean he broke her arm?”
“That’s not what they told Child Protective Services. Some young investigator, a snot-nosed kid still wet behind the ears, came out then to look into it. I talked to him, told him what I had seen, but it didn’t make any difference. He insisted Angela said she had fallen down. He didn’t care that I had seen a handprint on her face or bruises on her arms.”
I had been taking notes the whole time.
“You said she talked about Uncle Charlie. Who’s he?”
Sophie glowered. “How should I know? He’s probably from that group. She never came back again after that, wouldn’t even wave to me from the yard! I know they killed her though; I’m just as sure of it as I can be. And you can write that down, young man!” Sophie Czirski put down her teacup and wept into her handkerchief.
We sat and waited for her to finish crying. “If only Child Protective Services had listened to me, she wouldn’t be dead right now. I have half a mind to call the governor’s office and complain.”
That seemed like a splendid idea to me. “We had officers in the neighborhood last night, asking questions. I didn’t see your name on any of the reports.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Thursday I have my doctor’s appointment; then I go to Bainbridge on the ferry and stay
