Monday, December 30, 2013

THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK. Chapter One: What a way to meet!

THE SHRIEK OF BRAKES. A crunch of metal. An ugly thud followed by screams and shouts. The sounds stopped me cold. It was as if two tons of Detroit steel had smashed head-on into my own body.

Yet how could this be?—I’m nineteen stories above the crash scene and still rubbing my eyes at waking up in this awesome glass complex revered by architects and planners the world over as Walden Park.

I moved quickly to the terrace railing of my sister’s penthouse suite. Staring down and across the plaza to the intersection, I spotted the body sprawled in the crosswalk and wondered if it could be that of the kindly older lady who had introduced herself minutes earlier. She wanted to help pick up the bag of groceries that spilled when I tripped on the doorstep.

A long shot, for sure. But the odds were shortened by the aroma of her perfume still caressing my nostrils and the memory of those eyes twinkling at mine through the bangs of snowy white hair that had drooped down and across her forehead.

I couldn’t tell from this distance. But when I spotted something yellow at the victim’s feet, I winced. Holy Jesus—the color was the same as the umbrella my next door neighbor, Mrs. Traymore, had placed aside as she kneeled down to help.

Seconds later I was out the door and in the elevator, and when it arrived at the ground floor I bolted through the lobby and raced across the plaza, hoping every inch of the way I wouldn’t be seeing the last of my new friend. The haze of sudden tragedy hung over the area with people milling about, shock turning to anger, fingers stabbing at the roadway heading north.

I pushed my way through the crowd to a man in a suit kneeling beside the body. He was holding a limp hand but at the same time shaking his head. A voice behind me said he was a doctor.

A jogging jacket had been thrown over the victim’s chest but one look at the face with the blood spattered across the wrinkles, the mouth hanging open and the eyes closed tight, was all I needed to realize my new friend from PH-3 hadn’t made it.

Emergency vehicles arrived and soon the whole area swarmed with firemen, cops, and ambulance guys. The yellow umbrella was lying at my feet. I picked it up, wondering what I should do with it when I felt this weight pressing against my shoulder.

“Excuse me but would you please hold me in your arms for a moment before I collapse and make a complete fool of myself,” the voice pleaded as a woman leaned solidly into me.

Hey, back off, Lady, I wanted to say, along with That’s my neighbor sprawled dead at our feet and this is hardly the time to be socializing. But I hesitated, wanting to get a closer look at her.

The woman was tall and thin with full, wide lips and soft brown eyes and in her knockout of a business suit looked ready for a magazine cover. Then I noticed the tears. They were gushing down cheeks drained of color. Her mouth fell open, as if wanting to reply to my look of suspicion, but too late—her eyes closed and she swayed slightly to one side.

I caught her and pulled her into my surprised but willing arms. This classy woman had fainted dead away. I held her tight for a long moment until I felt her coming around.

“Easy does it,” I whispered in her ear. “Take it easy.”

Something about her was beginning to seem familiar and that was when I remembered the photo in my sister’s apartment. “Wait a minute—could you be my sister Cindy’s friend?” I asked, loosening my grip ever so slightly. “You’re Lacey Ferguson, aren’t you?”

Her head moved back as she studied my face. “Good Heavens—you have to be Tom Ramsey—and I am so embarrassed. Abigail and I were on our way to a meeting with these important people who—”

But the sentence stammered to a close as Lacey choked on her sobs. The tears were lady-like but they were tears nonetheless.

We were getting wet from the rain. I opened the umbrella and led her to a bench where we could sit down. I put an arm around her shoulder and again huddled her tight against me. It must have helped because her words steadied, overcoming the sobs.

“Miss Traymore was our neighbor,” she began. “We were crossing the street together and Abigail was lagging behind, trying to find something in that chic alligator portfolio she can’t be without.” Lacey paused, glancing over at the body and then up at me.

“I heard the roar of the van,” she went on—“like it was speeding up. It was white and unmarked and sideswiped this other car that tried to brake. It hit poor Abigail, dear God, it plowed into her with this God-awful thud. We all yelled for the driver to stop. But the cowardly little prick just kept going.”

The rain was coming down steadily now. I held the umbrella over both of us with one hand while the other comforted the head pressed against my sweatshirt. My sister had told me how outspokenly sharp her neighbor Lacey was, managing the division of a company engaged in marketing a new breed of personal computer small enough to fit on an office desk. Cindy said she was thinking of buying one for her apartment.

“I still can’t believe what happened,” Lacey said, as I handed her a fresh Kleenex. “Tootsie was an absolute angel.”

Tootsie?”

“Abigail Traymore. She insisted your sister and I call her Tootsie.”

“Tootsie and I met this morning,” I said, explaining how the grocery bag split when I got off the elevator and misjudged the short series of steps to the entrance. “Such a sweetheart—I was going to knock on her door with a bouquet of roses. Now it looks like I’ll be placing them on her grave.”

This drew a smile from Lacey. “We’ve all been expecting you, Tom,” she said. “Cindy had shown me your photo a dozen times—she and I simply adored Tootsie. This sure is a terrible way of greeting our newest visitor, especially after all you’ve been through.”

Before running off to London for six weeks, Cindy had insisted I take over her place and unwind with some much-needed R and R after my long and bloody assignment in Cambodia.

I’d seen plenty of blood as a platoon leader in Korea and on the police beat for my newspaper but the horror of seeing children with their arms and legs hacked off by machetes, their mothers gang raped with breasts slashed, the men disemboweled and left for the tigers and snakes—it got to me!

It made me realize I had to make changes in my own life—growing up and coming to grips with things that I used to laugh at or ignore.

Lacey sat up. Someone had pointed in our direction and a burly motorcycle guy in a blue uniform and black boots came over with his pad out and began writing down Lacey’s name and address.

“Did you see the driver’s face?” he asked, without looking up.

“I tried—his head was turned the other way,” Lacey said.

“Did you see the license plate?”

“It happened so fast, officer. Surely someone did.”

The officer shook his head. “Looks like he got clean away,” he said. “But we’ll keep trying. Sometimes people wait a while before coming forward.” He asked Lacey to be available for further questioning if necessary.

We all heard the shout—“Hey, Burnett, get a load of this.” It came from a guy in an orange vest on his hands and knees staring at something in the gutter. The officer snapped his pad shut and we followed him.

“You won’t believe this,” the guy in the vest said.

The three of us bent over and stared. Staring back at us were two pairs of tiny eyes belonging to a bride and groom sitting atop the remains of a wedding cake. Both looked surprised and helpless as they sank into the mash of white icing and yellow doughy texture. The whole thing was in a white box with a tire print on the edge.

The officer scratched his head and squinted. “What’s this supposed to be? Someone getting married?”
He turned to Lacey. “Was your friend getting married by any chance?”

“Good Heavens, no,” Lacey said. “That was ages ago—she was divorced.”

“It was just lying there,” the man in the vest said. “What the Hell should we do—eat it?” Officer Burnett shrugged. “Bag it and take it in.”

I walked Lacey back to the bench and sat next to her. Someone was giving the officer what must have been the first real clue: the van was a brand new Ford—a 1983 Econoline.

We watched as two men in white jackets came up and gently slid the body onto the gurney along with Tootsie’s purse and alligator portfolio and wheeled it to the ambulance.

Burnett explained they would take her to the coroner’s and await word from family members about the funeral arrangements. As the door slammed shut and the vehicle merged into traffic, Lacey rose from the bench and the tears started gushing again.

“Goodbye, Tootsie dear,” she bawled, throwing a kiss before turning back to me and wiping her eyes.

“If she were going to the hospital, Tom, she’d expect me to bring a pitcher of martinis. But now it’s too late. Can you believe it? Our beloved Tootsie—dead?

I steadied Lacey and walked her back to the building, holding the umbrella over her as the rain started pelting down. On the ride up in the elevator she told me how she and her husband wanted to have me over for dinner, but that this obviously wasn’t a good time.

I certainly agreed, telling her I had all the time in the world before easing into my assignment—and the City that had chosen to welcome me in such a morbid way.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked as we parted at her doorway.

She nodded. “And thanks. Tom, for keeping me afloat back there,” she said. “Your sister will be impressed. When I call about Tootsie I’m going to mention how you took such good care of your new neighbor.”

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK. Cross my heart



Cross my heart and swear on my father’s Ellery Queen collection.  THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK has just been published and is now available through Amazon Books. And I most humbly and sincerely believe I’ve unleashed a thriller with a plot that’s going to turn some heads. 

It’s 30 years ago and a newspaper reporter visiting Philadelphia accidentally discovers the secret love affair between the City’s leading architect and a movie star who left years earlier to marry into royalty.  When the Princess returns the affair is rekindled, blazing with a beauty and resolve that threatens the international establishment. 

But the City has a weird and fearful side and lurking in its shadows is the Wedding Cake Killer, who doesn’t appreciate anyone messing with the marriage oath. 

In crafting THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK  I envisioned a thriller that combined  agonizing suspense with a heavy dose of romance.  Then I added a thin veil of fantasy to leave a lover of mysteries guessing right up to the end—and hopefully eager for more. 

Amazon Books. THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK  by William Thompson Ong. Look me up.