“You’re in the right place, dear,” shouted the landlady, who’d leaned over the balcony’s railing to catch the new arrival’s every word. “But A. J.’s dead. You should know. He died in North Shore two months ago.”
Bridgette favored the landlady with a coldly clinical gaze. “If you wish to speak with me, please come downstairs. I’m not accustomed to raising my voice in public.”
“All right, all right, keep your shirt on, Bridge, I’m coming,” said the landlady. She took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed the butt beneath her flip-flop, and disappeared from the balcony. A moment later, she came around the side of the house to join us on the lawn.
“Separate entrance,” she explained. Though she was now standing face-to-face with the rest of us, she still spoke in an ear-bruising bellow. “My lodgers use the front door.” She held out a nicotine-stained hand to Bridgette. “Call me Jessie, Bridge.”
“You may call me Ms. Burkhoffer, Jessie,” Bridgette said crisply, ignoring the hand. “For your information, Jessie, I am fully aware that Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior—also known as A. J.—passed away in our hospital two months ago. Clearly, I do not wish to speak with him. I wish to speak with his granddaughter, Miss Aubrey Aroha Pym.”
“His granddaughter?” I said, my eyes widening.
“Why didn’t you tell us about his granddaughter?” Cameron demanded, rounding on the landlady.
“You wanted to know who lives here,” she said defensively. “Bree stuck around long enough to put her granddad in the ground, then grabbed her backpack and hightailed it out of here. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her for six weeks.”
Bridgette pursed her lips and turned to me. “May I ask what your relationship is to the Pyms?”
“I’m a legal representative of the Pym family,” I replied.
“You told me you were a friend,” said Jessie, scowling. “You didn’t say anything about being a legal representative.” She presented her yellowing palm to me. “Eight hundred dollars or I throw Ed’s stuff into the street.”
Before I could respond, Cameron pulled his wallet out of his pocket and began counting colorful bills into Jessie’s outstretched hand. When he reached three hundred dollars, my jaw dropped. When he added another hundred, I felt I should object.
“Cameron,” I said, “there’s no need to—”
“Leave it to me, Lori,” he interrupted tersely. He shoved the wallet back into his pocket and fixed the landlady with a steely gaze. “I’ll send you a check for the balance. If you have any doubts about my character, my good friend the police commissioner will vouch for me.” He leaned closer to her and went on in a silky purr that was far more intimidating than Jessie’s shouting had been. “And if you remove so much as a scrap of paper from the flat, the commissioner will take time out of his busy schedule to arrest you personally.” He stood up straight and snapped his fingers impatiently. “Now give us the key and go away.”
Jessie was smart enough to know when she was beaten. She eyed Cameron resentfully, but fished a brass key out of her pocket and handed it to him. Grumbling irritably—and audibly—she retreated around the side of the house.
Bridgette released a pent breath and bestowed a shy smile on Cameron.
“I can’t tell you how thoroughly I detest being called Bridge,” she said. “You may call me Bridgette.”
“Thank you, said Cameron. “I’m Cameron Mackenzie and this is my friend Lori Shepherd.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Bridgette.
I smiled vaguely in her direction, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Pyms’ landlady.
“She didn’t even ask us for identification,” I said incredulously. “For all she knows, we could be drug dealers setting up a crack house.”
“I don’t think she’d mind, as long as we paid the rent on time,” said Cameron.
“Do you really know the police commissioner?” Bridgette asked.
“I do,” he replied. “I taught his granddaughter to ride and I trained his grandson’s gelding.”
“Why did you pay any rent at all? ” I asked, ignoring the digression. “We don’t need access to the apartment. We can visit Edmund Pym at the hospital.”
“About Edmund Pym . . .” Bridgette cleared her throat. “I hope you won’t mind, Ms. Shepherd, but I would like to see your identification.”
Since I wanted to hear what she had to say about Edmund Pym, I took the document case from my purse and handed her the papers Mr. Makepeace had drawn up for me. I didn’t know if their contents would apply to a different set of Pyms, but Bridgette seemed to think that everything was in order. She returned the document case to me and regarded me soberly.
“I regret to inform you that Edmund Hillary Pym died at five o’clock this morning,” she said. “I came here to deliver the news to his next of kin, but—”
“She ran away six weeks ago,” I said.
Bridgette nodded. “I’m not sure what to do next. No funeral arrangements have been made, you see, and I don’t know how to contact Ed’s daughter, to find out what her wishes might be.”