Havoc-on-Hudson by Bernice Gottlieb

But, sorting through the junk mail, on the way back to the house, I suddenly caught my breath. Almost lost among the pieces of junk mail was a small, pink envelope with scalloped edges on the flap, hand-addressed in purple ink but with no return address. Very deliberate. Very organized. Very feminine.
    Could this be a response to the magazine ad?
    I carried the mail into my kitchen where a warm cup of cocoa, half empty, awaited me. Tossing out every catalog, I stacked the bill envelopes neatly, all the while staring at the pink envelope. Was it? Or was it not?
    Hand shaking, I finally reached for it, studied the scalloped flap, fearing disappointment but hopeful, nevertheless. I picked up a butter knife from the table, inserted it under the flap, opened the envelope.
    Dear Sir/Madam. Many years ago in Buffalo, New York, I was a close friend of Daniel Joseph Farrell’s mother. In fact we were neighbors. If you will meet with me personally, I have information about Danny Joe that I may share with you if I find that your query is for legitimate purposes. Please call me at the number below. Very truly yours, L. Gol dman.
    Bingo! I was over the moon. I’d found a source! I was dying to reach out to the Chief, to involve her in a meeting with this woman. (The envelope, the handwriting, and the message made me certain it was a woman.) I also wanted to let Andrew know. Then, with my hand already on my cell phone, I thought twice; each of them, for different reasons, would order me to back off, and I wasn’t about to do that. And, after all, how dangerous could it be? It wasn’t as if I was going to meet this unknown woman in the haunted attic of a decaying mansion after midnight. In my nightgown. We’d meet in a public place, in full daylight. With lots of people around.
    But then, maybe nothing useful would come of my meeting with Ms. Goldman, anyhow, and I was worrying for nothing. And in that case no need to let anyone know. Ever.
    I sat back in my cozy kitchen chair and decided to go it alone. I’d arrange a solo meeting with this woman, and see what I could find out. I picked up my phone, and dialed L. Goldman’s number.
    “Hello. This is Leah. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” The recorded voice sounded pleasant, and I left my name, number, and the purpose of my call.
    Leah Goldman called right back. She did not want to talk about Daniel Joseph Farrell on the telephone. “I have no idea who you are and what you’re up to. I want to meet you before I tell you anything about that family. Ms. Mitty, just tell me one thing,” Leah asked, “you’re not a detective or anything, are you? Because, if you’re involved in law enforcement, in any way, shape, or form, I will not talk to you.”

23
    The tall man wearing a hoodie and dark glasses parked his car in the Stop and Shop supermarket lot, across the street from the business district. Ignoring the red light and the oncoming traffic, he zig-zagged between fast-moving vehicles and crossed Main Street’s busy thoroughfare. As he continued down the street, he stopped briefly and peered into the window of a real-estate office, easily picking out the sales woman he was scheduled to meet in half an hour. The description she’d emailed him was perfect. He move d on.
    Suddenly, right there on Main Street, a whirlpool roiled his gut. His eyes welled up. What the fuck is wrong with me? This nauseating vortex of exhilaration and depression was not unfamiliar. He mopped his eyes with a hand-hemmed linen handkerchief, and then tossed it in a wastebasket on the curb. He detoured into a small park with two benches and a statue of Washington Irving, and sat there breathing slow, deep breaths until the spell had pa ssed.
    From there, it was only a short distance down the hill to the train station, where the woman was planning to pick him up in her car. Once he got himself together, he removed the loose grey hoodie that covered his Prada suit coat, tossed it into