Drowned Under Page 18

  “She helped you, did she? How lovely. She’s on vacation for the holidays. That’s why I’m doing double shifts.”

  When it came to other people, you never knew when you were going to hit a landmine.

  “Oh, how awful, you poor thing. Has it been insane?”

  She nodded toward the bar, where two large brothers were shoving each other in an increasingly hostile way. “Those are the nice people. They’re not staying here. People are so picky during the holidays.”

  “People are picky all the time in America,” I said. “It’s exhausting.”

  That finally got a grin. “I’m actually here on the Tasmanian Dream, I just wanted to wish Dorcas happy holidays. But I was going to ask her about shopping. I wanted something hardier than this for trekking around.” I held up my Balenciaga. “Do you have any backpacks in the gift store?”

  “A couple. There’s a sporting goods store on Elizabeth Street, but the Market’s going today, down in Salamanca. That would be the best place.”

  The Market. I couldn’t let myself think about it yet.

  I found a Hello Kitty school backpack, which seemed just ironic enough to throw people off, plus seeing a grown man with one should serve as a repellant. I headed into the women’s bathroom. By the time Brazil showed up and it was empty, I’d already given Howard a drink and transferred his leash, his towels, his bacon, and extra “diapers” to the backpack.

  “It’s too sad to keep saying goodbye to him,” I said, as Brazil allowed me one last look. “Let’s just say au revoir, Howard. Live long and prosper. That’s the first time I’ve ever said that, much less meant it.”

  Brazil shook his head. I let him go first, then used the five “cover” minutes to fix my makeup. Then I headed for the Hobart Police Station. Probably my only stroke of luck in the last few hours had been to find out that my go-to Tasmanian limo driver, Gary, was the one the Manzonis had booked. Although it did disturb me that Peggy Newsome and I recommended the same one, I decided to ignore that particular worry. Gary was supposed to meet me outside the station in fifteen minutes.

  The sun was higher and the cool morning air was starting to turn full-on Tasmanian summer. The complete change in season and time wasn’t helping my headache or my looks. Between the hotel and the street I could already feel the humidity collapsing my hair and melting my eyeliner. I went over, for the fiftieth time, what I was going to tell the police so that they would take me seriously. I wanted a proper autopsy on Harriet before someone moved her to a funeral home, and I needed to find the Manzonis so I could find her killer. It was tough to figure out which thing to bring up first. As I agonized, I noticed tan-colored Uggs in a thrift shop window and passed The Hope and Anchor Tavern pub, “The Oldest in Australia,” promising Captain Bligh ale, which seemed an unfortunate name if you knew your Mutiny on the Bounty.

  The sky was clear, then cloudy, then crazy bright. The light here changed every three seconds. It felt like an optician’s visit where they kept flipping the lenses back and forth. Clouds darting by completely changed the lights and shadows and transformed the air in a way that just flat out didn’t happen under the industrial canopy of the Bay Ridge sky. It was a revelation to see what purer air might mean to the way you looked at things. I decided to appreciate it while I could.

  I tried to refocus on my talk with the authorities. Should I point out the coincidences? The fact that Harriet had been asking about the missing Manzonis right before she was killed, and that as far as anyone knew, she didn’t have any enemies? The fact that several other couples had gone missing, or at least missing temporarily, on cruises to Tasmania, specifically Darling Cruises? That Harriet was the ex-wife of Pierce Butler, who ran a spa and resort for seniors where the Manzonis might have visited, and was getting a huge shipment of pharmacy grade methadone? Maybe “resort” was a euphemism for rehab, but how many senior heroin addicts were there? And how many of those went on Christmas cruises?

  Argyl Street was a mixture of Georgian and Victorian buildings, so the Hobart Police Station stood out, with its seven stories of rectangular white concrete and its glass ground-floor window. The building was early utilitarian, but the Tasmanian government seal was ornate and beautiful and featured two Tasmanian tigers on either side. It gave me hope that it wasn’t totally soulless inside. That lasted about thirty seconds when I saw the look on the woman’s face who sat behind the desk. Her hair was brighter than might be completely natural, and she had gauged how much hairspray the climate required, then added more for good measure.

  She checked out my outfit and sighed. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I hope so. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel,” I held out my hand. She didn’t take it. “I’m looking for two of my clients who have gone missing from the Tasmanian Dream. I believe their son, Barry, filed a missing person’s report from the U.S.?”

  “Randy!” she yelled at cheerleader volume into an intercom microphone, then gestured me to the plastic chairs against the wall, where she continued to stare at me. After smiling for an unnaturally long amount of time, I reached for the local papers to avoid her curiosity.

  And there he was on the front page—Pierce Butler. The lead article featured a smiling man with light hair and a summer suit at a podium, holding a plaque. The headline read “The Fountain’s Pierce Butler receives Tasmanian Humanitarian Award.” The article went on to explain how Butler had revolutionized senior care and had just received a huge government grant for research on aging. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention Pierce Butler as a possible murderer right away.

  Before I could read more, I heard “Randy! Front!” There was mumbling, then footsteps, and a short, red-headed bruiser, about two inches taller than me, smashed through the door with a cheeky grin.

  “A little courtesy, missie, if you please. That’s Inspector Randy to you.”

  “That’s dead Randy if the Chief finds out you and ‘Inspector’ Ed were wrestling again.”

  The officer straightened his clothes, brushed his hair off his face and gave her the finger. I guessed that particular gesture was international. The receptionist pointed at me and he turned. “Missing person,” she said, then sat back down and opened her magazine.

  He tried the grin on me, less effectively, and moved forward. “Who’s missing? Not your husband, is it?” He winked. Really, winking at a bereaved person?

  “My former in-laws. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. And you are?”

  “Randy.”

  “I know that, I heard her. You’re an inspector? What does that mean?”

  “Why don’t you come back with me and fill out the paperwork?”

  “There should already be paperwork.”

  “No need for hysterics is there, love? Calm down and just come with me.” I gave a “rescue me” look to the woman at the desk. She rolled her eyes. I followed Inspector Randy down the hall. He grabbed a clipboard and gestured me into a tiny, unlovely room which smelled of Diet Coke and feet. He started to close the door.

  “Could you leave that open, please, just to get some air in here?”

  He shrugged and left it cracked. He pulled out a chair, and turned it around, so he could sit across from me with his legs akimbo. This was a fifth grade move and a favorite of Jimmy’s. This guy had no idea the kind of trouble he was in if he started anything, since he left himself wide open for attack. I took him through the Manzoni part of the story. He shook his head.

  “There’s no file. If there was a file, I’d know.”

  I looked through my notes from Barry. “Well, the son said he spoke to a Chief Hanson.”

  “The Chief tells me everything.” To his credit, he got up. He came back with his head down and a file in his hand.

  “Maybe you were wrestling,” I said. He shrugged then held the file out of my reach.

  “Well, any news? Who’s been investigating? Where have you looked?”

 
“The usual places.”

  “What does that mean? Are there regular places people disappear in Hobart?”

  He looked at the file. “We’ve checked all the hospitals, all the accident reports, all the homeless shelters.”

  “Homeless shelters?”

  “Well, if one of the geezers has an episode, sometimes they wind up there. Or in a church.”

  “Have you checked to see if they were on any flights out?”

  He stared me. “What do you think we are, Interpol?”

  “No. Is there anywhere I can check on private charters or anything?”

  He dug through his papers and went off to copy a list of private boat charter companies. I wasn’t sure whether I believed anyone had really checked or not. Was I going to have to recheck all these places myself? I looked at my watch. The driver, Gary, should be outside. I hoped he would wait for me. Inspector Randy returned.

  “Here’s our list of boats—I can’t guarantee it’s complete. Look, they’re probably fine.”

  “They’re in their eighties, they’re in a foreign country, they don’t have their cell phones, they’re probably not fine. They might be dead.”

  “Don’t overreact.” If one more man told me not to overreact, I was going to. Big time.

  “Well, has anyone else gone missing around here? Is there a kidnapping ring operating here?”

  “This isn’t America.”

  “Fine. Where’s the Embassy?”

  “Sydney.”

  “Well, can I at least have your card so I can call you if I find any leads? I am the representative for the family and a travel agent. I’m sure you don’t want it getting around that people come to Tasmania and disappear.”

  “Well, that’s hardly news, is it? That’s what the English settled it for. To make people disappear. It’s our specialty. Let me know if you want a beer?”

  “Right, Randy.”

  I thanked the receptionist, who ignored me, and stepped onto bright street, and looked for a town car. A polite toot turned me in the right direction. I approached the car from the back and, given how the trip had been going, took a quick photo of the license plate number.

  Just as I finished my photo, a tall man in an impeccable suit, dark hair gelled off his forehead, and the world’s best poker face emerged with a sign in his hand which read “Ms. Redondo.” I smiled in relief.

  “Gary? Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”

  “Lovely to meet you, ma’am. I appreciate the work you’ve sent me over the years.”

  “Cyd, please. My pleasure. I’ve only heard fabulous things about you from my clients.” We were practically colleagues and I remembered about the front seat vs. backseat thing in Australia. “Where would you like me to sit?”

  “I would be honored to have you in front, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. It does always feel weird to be in the back. Who started that anyway?”

  “The British. It reinforces the class system and the oppression of the masses.”

  “Gotcha. We have that in America too. We just don’t admit it.”

  As I settled in, my Balenciaga at my feet, Gary offered me a bottled water. “You’ve booked a private day tour. Do you have anywhere special in mind?”

  “I did ask for you for a specific reason Gary. My former in-laws are missing. And I believe they used you for a private tour about a week ago, the last time the ship was in port. Fredo and Sandra Manzoni? Terrible dressers and probably wretched tippers too? Any chance you remember them? I’m hoping they’re just still in Hobart and just decided not to go back to the ship, so I thought maybe you could take me where you took them, if you don’t mind?”

  He looked like he did mind. “You don’t want to go to Port Arthur?

  “Did they go to Port Arthur?”

  “No. It’s really worth a visit, if you have time, though.”

  “I would love to see it, but I need to follow their itinerary first, then we’ll see how much time we have left, okay?”

  He logged into his phone, then into his GPS. “I took them to New Norfolk.”

  Just as he started the town car, I jumped at a knock on the window. It was Doc.

  I buzzed the window down. “Hi?”

  Doc leaned in. “Day trip?”

  “Yep.”

  “Solo?”

  “That was the plan. Why?”

  “Just wondered if you wanted company.”

  “It’s kind of a work thing.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “It will be boring for you.” His showing up vaguely creeped me out. Did he want to date me or keep me under surveillance?

  He put his hand on the open window. “Look, you’re looking for the same people Harriet was looking for. And you think she was murdered, right? I’m not sure you should be out on your own. No offense, Gary.” They knew each other? Was this even more disturbing or not?

  “None taken. It will be an additional hundred dollars, though, for another passenger. And for the threat of violence.”

  “Thanks a lot, Doc.”

  “I’ll pay for myself. And any weaponry.” Doc got in the back. Even though we were separated by a leather seat, his proximity was distracting. I could feel my cheeks heat up.

  As we headed out of town, I turned to Gary. “Do you remember where you left them in New Norfolk?”

  “Of course, ma’am. At the insane asylum.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Doc laughed. “It’s not an insane asylum now. Well, not officially, anyway.” He and Gary shared a look in the rearview mirror. “It used to be. Actually, it was women’s prison for the criminally insane.”

  Gary chuckled. “It’s been what they call gentrified. You’ll see. That’s where we’re headed. It’s up the Derwent River, about half an hour out of town.”

  “Great. And, Gary? I know you’re not paid to be a tour guide, but this is my first and possibly only trip to Tasmania, so if you’d like to catch me up on local history, I’m all ears.” Doc and Gary rolled their eyes. “I saw that.”

  Still, they offered a few things as we headed down Elizabeth Street and back toward the harbor. Doc said the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery—a unique combo, in my experience—and the Maritime Museum were not to be missed. We passed the Botanical Gardens and headed out of town.

  The rolling hills offered glimpses of beautiful colonial and Victorian buildings and some uninspired cookie-cutter structures. This pretty much seemed like the way the world was going. Something gorgeous and magical next to something soulless and hideous. It made me feel that Brooklyn wasn’t as far removed from the rest of the world as I’d thought. This was comforting in a perverted way.

  Gary explained that most of the historic buildings and sites around Hobart were originally prisons, asylums, or breweries, which made sense, given the island’s history. The English had used Tasmania to deal with prison overcrowding, and to establish residency so the French wouldn’t snatch it from under them. They used the convicts to construct the buildings and wharves. “Of course,” Gary said, “they needed beer and confinement to make that work.”

  I spotted a triangular yellow sign with something black and plump on it. “What the hell was that?” I jerked around to keep it in sight.

  “Wombat crossing,” Doc shrugged. “They’re low to the ground, so you have to be careful.”

  “I want to see a wombat before I die.” If they needed a sign, it upped my odds.

  As we traveled farther up the river, Doc and I share a few significant looks. I still questioned his presence. At least I had Gary as a chaperone. Then we passed a building that looked like a thatched English cottage, with a shiny, pointed cap on the top, like an upended ice cream cone, dipped in white chocolate. We passed another. I stared at Gary.

  “Oast houses
. For beer. Most of the hops on the island’s grown out here. You know we make a mean craft beer.”

  “I’ve heard. So how do they work, anyway?”

  “I’m a driver, not an engineer, love.”

  “As the hop dries, the moisture rises and it needs a way to escape. So it rises through those upside down funnel tops,” Doc said.

  “Why are they white? If they’re for drying the hops and there’s a hole in the top, what happens when it rains? Are there Oast umbrellas?”

  Doc gestured to Gary, who threw out his hand. “Let’s move on to New Norfolk, which we’re approaching. Third oldest settlement in Tasmania. Settled when the Norfolk Island prison was abandoned. It had one of Australia’s oldest pubs and its oldest Anglican Church. And our destination,” he said as we rolled in a gorgeous valley, ringed by gentle mountains and cut in half by the river, “Willow Court, one of its most notorious asylums. Now a resort and spa.”

  He pulled up in front of an impressive complex. It had a central stone building in the Australian/Victorian style, then additions to each side and behind, with cast iron balconies and tin roofs and courtyards. I think even without the heads up, I might have felt its chilling history.

  By the entrance, a subtle sign in white cursive lettering read “The Fountain Foundation.” Underneath that were the words, “The Fountain of Youth is Respect.”

  Wow. Respect. Or maybe, methadone. This was the last place the Manzonis had been seen, the place that was run by Harriet’s mysterious ex-husband, the waffle robe repository. I really hoped the Manzonis were in there, in waffle robes, right now.

  We got out of the car. I turned to Gary. “Did the Manzonis mention why they wanted to come here?”

  “Probably, but I wasn’t listening. Certain customers, I tune out.” I couldn’t blame him. I’d made a job out of tuning the Manzonis out myself. “I didn’t anticipate their fugitive status. I dropped them off right here, where you’re standing.”

  “But they didn’t want a drive back? They didn’t arrange for you to pick them up?”

  “No. They paid four hours and said they’d call if they needed me. They didn’t call. The Fountain receptionist did. She said my clients were returning with friends.”