Too Quiet in Brooklyn by Susan Russo Anderson Page B

in it all day.”
    When I asked him about Mary Ward Simon, he said, “You know I can’t say nothing.”
    Which meant he knew something. “Templeton was happy though, I think one of the CSU guys found stuff on the clothes, prints maybe.”
    “Do you know who did the autopsy?”
    “Like I say, don’t know nothing, but I did see the coroner on duty talking to Templeton.”
    “You didn’t hear what she said?”
    “Sorry.”
    My call to Jane asking for cause of death and any other info she had went to her voicemail.
    I felt my phone vibrate with Barbara’s text, sending me all the info on her husband I’d requested. I tried calling his mobile, but the phone was no longer in service. With his social, I hoped I could get the latest information, so I started my car.
    In case you’re wondering, and probably you’re not but I’m going to tell you anyway, my main car’s a ’92 Chevy Beretta. Mom’s car. Once in a while, I still get a whiff of her perfume, so I keep it, although the body’s rusted in spots and it smokes a ton of oil and the engine has close to 197,000 miles. Denny nagged me about it, so last year I gave in and got a BMW Z5 to use on the highway, but I rarely touch it. Not the same feel as Mom’s Beretta.
    Driving down Henry this time of night was a breeze, since all sane people were at home eating dinner. I slowed near Lucy’s and peered in the window. One light was on at one of the rear desks. I looked at my watch, one minute to eight, and waited to see if the lantern over the door came on. Sure enough, it did. But Mr. Baggins does it to me every time. I couldn’t pass by Lucy’s and not stop. He purred and pawed the treat drawer and had his way with me. Two minutes later, I was gone.
    I got a green on Atlantic, drove to Amity and swung over to Clinton. From Vinegar Hill to Cobble Hill in less than seven minutes take away the Baggins buzz: lady luck was rolling the dice. I did a slow whistle when I saw Barbara’s building, a red-bricked townhouse, Georgian without authentic details, but not bad, and the upkeep fit right into the neighborhood which is Uber Upper. Someone had recently swept around the stoop, and the windows shone. I parked, ran up the steps and saw a single bell. Looked like Barbara owned the building.
    As I ran back down, I saw someone on the other side of the block with a garbage lid in one hand stuffing something into the can, a few pedestrians farther down the block, a guy opening his car door—going to give up his parking spot to whoever was hovering with the turn signal flashing behind him—and somebody sweeping the stoop two doors down. I chose the sweeper.
    A man in his fifties tipped his cap when I introduced myself and told him what I wanted.
    “Yeah, I knew Frank. Frank and what’s her name, Barbara. Didn’t know them well, just to talk to. They have a baby, don’t they? Or did. Little boy now, I guess. Seen him walking down the street with Barbara this morning, early.” He paused, lowered his head, and stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning the broom handle against his shoulder and rubbing it with his chin. “She was a screamer, I’ll say that.”
    “As in good looking?” I asked?
    He shook his head. “As in yelling at her husband.”
    “You heard them fighting?”
    “Saw him beat up lots.”
    “Him?”
    He nodded. “Couple of times I saw him walking to the subway with his head down. Swollen lips, black eyes.”
    “More than once?”
    He nodded.
    “If it came down to it, would you swear to that in court?”
    He didn’t say anything for a while, rubbing his chin back and forth on the broom handle. “If it came down to it, and you called me to the stand, I’d have to tell the truth, wouldn’t I? But I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. We’re still neighbors, you know how that is.”
    My turn to nod. “Would you mind giving me your name and number?”
    “Eppers. Stan Eppers. Hold on, got a card here somewhere.” He patted his shirt pocket,