Catch a Falling Knife

Chapter 8

“Don’t go too fast, Lillian. Give me a chance to read the numbers.” Tess had a road map in her lap and held a piece of paper containing directions she and I had written down before leaving Silver Acres.

“It shouldn’t be far from town,” I said. We had turned off the main street of Bethany onto one of those side roads that permeate North Carolina, barely two lanes wide, with no shoulder. My eyesight was fine for driving during the day, except that I had trouble reading road signs. Tess had come along to act as my navigator.

“We’re getting close.” Tess eyed the curbside mailboxes as we drove by, many of which had addresses on them.

I slowed some more and tried to read the numbers, myself, but by the time my eyes focused on one we had passed it. At least the weather cooperated. It was cloudy and cool but the predicted rain had held off. It seemed that weather forecasts were particularly inaccurate in this part of the country.

“Stop; this is it,” Tess said.

I pulled my old Mercedes into the gravel driveway because there wasn’t any room to park it on the street. I glanced at Tess, who looked neat and put-together in a casual dress that said she wasn’t a casual person. I had told her not to dress up, but this was about as dowdy as she got. I wore slacks, which I preferred because of my varicose veins. We both had lightweight coats to protect us from the breeze and possible rain.

“Let’s review,” I said. “We’re with the Institute for Family Values. We’re interested in Mr. Hoffman’s website, on which he publishes license-plate numbers of the strip-club patrons. Let me do the talking.” Tess didn’t keep silent if she had something to say, which was most of the time.

“Don’t worry about me,” Tess said. “I’m not terribly anxious to interact with this Mr. Hoffman. The only reason I’m going in is to protect you.”

That comforted me. We exited the car and crunched along the 100-foot driveway toward the house, which was small but tidy; it had known the feel of a paintbrush. A thick oak tree stood tall in the center of the front lawn, with smaller trees surrounding it. All were still winter bare. A couple of old cars sat on the other side of the driveway. We walked around a pickup truck, not unlike Albert’s. I felt right at home.

A loud bark stopped us in our tracks. We hadn’t seen the huge dog because it had been hidden by the truck. It growled at us from the end of a chain attached to something like a clothesline. If the dog decided to come after us I wasn’t sure the line would hold it.

“It’s okay; we’re friends,” I said to the dog but I stayed carefully out of its reach.

“I don’t think it agrees,” Tess said, looking as if she wanted to retreat to the car.

The front door of the house opened and a man came out, using a cane. “Monster, sit,” he yelled at the dog.

Monster didn’t sit, but continued to growl at us. The man limped over to him and took hold of his collar. “He won’t hurt you,” the man said.

Famous last words. “Hello, I’m Lillian Morgan,” I said. “This is Tess Upchurch. We’re with the Institute for Family Values and we’d like to talk to you about your website.”

“Well, come on in.” The man beamed. “I’m Eric Hoffman.”

Mentioning the website had done the trick. He held Monster by the collar while we gingerly walked past them to the front door. Then he followed us, his limp giving an irregular cadence to his steps. Once we were all inside, he said, “May I take your coats?”

We took off our coats and handed them to him. At least he wasn’t going to kick us out right away. He hung them in a closet and ushered us into his comfortable living room, filled with furniture that had been around for a while. My nose told me that mildew lurked in the corners.

Mr. Hoffman had also been around for a while, but not nearly as long as we had. He wore unfashionable khakis and a flannel shirt. His once-dark hair was streaked with gray and his face was lined with living. The most pronounced thing about him was his limp.

He offered us coffee, which we refused, although I don’t ordinarily refuse coffee, but I wasn’t used to the role of impostor and didn’t believe I’d earned the right to have it.

“I’m sorry my wife isn’t here,” Mr. Hoffman said. “She’s at work. I’m on disability. Mr. leg flared up about a year ago. I got hit in Viet Nam and it hasn’t been right since.”

We expressed our sympathy for his leg. Then I said, “On your website it stated that you worked out of your house, so we took a chance that you’d be here.”

“Well, I’m here a lot of the time,” Mr. Hoffman said, “except at night, of course, when I’m out on patrol.” He smiled a grim smile. “I do that from my truck so I don’t have to walk much.”

“You’re performing a valuable service for the community,” I said, trying to keep from biting my tongue.

Mr. Hoffman beamed again. He did have a nice smile. “We believe so. By the end of the 20th century, families had been rent asunder by the temptations of modern life. Our group is trying to promote family values before the human race spirals downward to catastrophe. If we don’t save the family unit at the beginning of the 21 ^ st century, we won’t be around for the end of the century.”

“So you think that keeping men out of the strip clubs and home in the bosom of their families is part of the solution.” I was beginning to talk like he did.

“That is where I am concentrating my efforts. The first step is to gather the license plate numbers. Then we can find the owners of the cars and contact their families and friends. We also urge the men who frequent these bastions of sin to seek professional counseling.”

A family portrait stood on the table beside the sofa where I sat. The three people in the picture were Mr. Hoffman, a woman who must be his wife and a girl, perhaps teenage. “I take it you have a daughter,” I said.

“Yes, a wonderful girl. She is the pride of my life.”

“What would you do if a boy came to date your daughter and he had been to a strip club?”

Tess, sitting beside me on the sofa, made a sudden movement. I glanced at her and saw that she was desperately trying to keep from what-laughing?

Mr. Hoffman’s expression darkened as he scowled. He said, “If a young man came here to see my daughter and told me he had been to a strip club he had better run fast in a zigzag manner.”

“I have a question for you about your patrol Monday night,” I said, quickly. “When you were at Club Cavalier did you happen to see a young lady dressed in a jacket with a hood and wearing a mask come out the back door and get in a car?”

Mr. Hoffman looked at me in a funny way so I continued, “You’re trying to save the patrons. Our organization is trying to save the dancers. This particular dancer always wears a mask and we’re not sure who she is.”

“Oh. No, I can’t say I did. What time would that have been?”

“Around 8:15. And again at about 10:15.”

“We didn’t arrive there until almost 8:30. And later we were covering other clubs. They are usually the most crowded between 8:30 and 10:30 on weekdays.”

“Well, you might have recorded the license plate of the car, anyway. You said you find out who owns the cars. She could be a student. Did any of the cars belong to students at Crescent Heights, do you know, possibly a female student?”

“None belonged to female students. I believe a couple of the owners had dormitory addresses. Of course, it’s possible that other cars might belong to students living in apartments or to their parents. But I’d be glad to give you the information on the ones I’m sure of.”

“We would appreciate that.” Maybe she was being chauffeured by a male student. Take what you can get. “Would you like some coffee now?”

I accepted, eagerly, Tess with less enthusiasm. I felt I had earned some coffee, although I almost regretted accepting when I saw what a struggle Mr. Hoffman had getting up from his chair.

While he was in the kitchen I picked up the framed picture from the end table and looked at it more closely. I sucked in my breath sharply and Tess said, “Lillian, what’s the matter?”

“This girl-Mr. Hoffman’s daughter,” I said, trying to keep my voice down but in danger of hyperventilating at the same time. “She’s the one who accused Mark of sexual harassment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost positive. She has the same dark hair. Same eyes. But she’s smiling in the picture and I haven’t seen her smile.”

Mr. Hoffman limped back into the room and said, “Coffee will be ready in a few minutes. And I’ll get you the addresses from my computer.”

“Your daughter is lovely,” I said, still trying to control my voice and my breathing. “How old is she?”

“Isn’t she a beauty? She’s twenty. She attends Crescent Heights College.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elise.”

“Elise Hoffman. Pretty name. Does she live at home?”

“No, she lives in an apartment near the campus. She won a scholarship. Smart as well as beautiful. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to afford to send her to Crescent Heights. She would have had to go away to a state school and she’s too young to do that.”

I tried to think of the right question. “Is she having any trouble adjusting to college life?”

“In her first year she was always coming home on weekends. Now we rarely see her, except on vacations, even though she’s so close.” He sighed. “They grow up so fast.” He went back into the kitchen.

“I need to get her address,” I stage-whispered to Tess.

“Well, don’t go tearing up the place,” Tess whispered back. She knows me too well. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Brilliant. Mr. Hoffman soon returned with the coffee and offered us cream and sugar, which I refused and Tess accepted. I took a couple of grateful sips from a mug with “Durham Bulls” printed on the side, being careful not to burn my tongue, and said, “One of the things we’re doing is talking to young women on college campuses because some of them have been known to work as strippers to earn extra income. Although I know your daughter would never do that, perhaps we could get her to introduce us to some of her friends.” I had trouble getting that speech out and when I had finished I held my breath.

“I think it’s excellent that you’re approaching this problem from the other side of the coin, so to speak.” Mr. Hoffman was smiling again. “Of course Elise would never consider such a thing. She is very supportive of my work, however, and I’m sure she would be glad to help you. Would you like to contact her?”

Yes, yes, I cried, silently, but outwardly I merely said yes. I pulled a small notebook and a pen out of my purse. Mr. Hoffman gave me Elise’s phone number. “What’s her address?” I asked, in an offhand manner. He gave it to me and I started breathing again. Well, why shouldn’t he give us information? We were just two harmless old women.