Amy Molloy scarfed down the last of her caramel, apple toasty a la mode, crushed the Jammin’ Crepes bag, and rolled over onto her non-arthritic side.
“There’s nothing worse than a man who thinks he’s funny when he’s not,” she thought, watching the comforter rise and fall.
Amy had known Thaddeus since high school when he was the only boy who could make her laugh. Out loud! That was a big deal in a family of stoics who never seemed to perspire. Yes, Thaddeus was a funny guy. A class clown. Talented, though. He’d gotten a standing ovation as Danny in “Grease,” then again as Conrad in “Bye, Bye, Birdie,” and every year thereafter at Princeton Summer Theatre. How often had Amy snuck out the side door of the public library to meet him minutes after her mother had dropped her off to study?
Funny was enough back then. Not now. After graduating in the top ten of their high school class (how he managed it with all that clowning around, she could never figure out), Thaddeus went to Rider, then off to Rutgers Law School at Camden. In a moment of weakness, he let his dad convince him to join the police academy to “hold up the family tradition.” Thaddeus put in his time — not loving it, not hating it — then retired at 60. Now, he led his own lecture series in Princeton Adult School’s Program in Law and Public Affairs and Princeton University’s Community Auditing program. On weekends, he tried to recapture his youth by doing stand-up at a pop-up comedy club that used space at the McCarter Theater.
“Amy!” Amy could hear Vicky clearly over the dog’s anguished howls.
“Biffle! Be quiet! You’ll wake the whole neighborhood!” Vicky warned.
Amy snapped on the porch light, and opened the door. Reluctantly.
“Vicky, it’s 2:00 in the morning! What are you doing here, and why did you bring that animal with you!?”
“Biffle has been on the couch all day watching ‘Law and Order’ reruns. He’s seen every episode. He needs some exercise,” Vicky said. Biffle tried to explain himself in the only way he knew how: He barked. Incessantly.
“That’s it! That’s it! You asked for it, Mister!” Amy opened the tiny utility closet off the downstairs bathroom, and dragged out her ancient Hoover. The cord was just long enough to reach the front door.
“Mess with me will you, Pizza Dog!”
When the vacuum roared to life, a terrified Biffle scampered away, trembling behind Vicky, too traumatized to make a sound.
“Why do you do that, Amy? Why? Biffle likes you. He looks forward to coming here, and you treat him this way. Why?”
Amy spied a pink scarf over pink sponge curlers from a window next door.
“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Trumble. You can go back to bed. Everything’s all right!” Amy rolled her eyes in the direction of her retreating neighbor. Vicky giggled.
“You see? Do you see, Vicky? I’m surprised she hasn’t called the cops! This block is filled with busy bodies!”
“Oh, come on, Sag.” (They were both dramatic Sagittarians). Vicky petted Biffle, who rolled over on his back for a belly rub.
“All right. I’m sorry. You can be such a pain sometimes, but…come here,” Amy said, opening her arms to the dog who, finally given the green light, suddenly leapt into her lap, licking her face.
“Eeeeew!” Amy shrieked, turning her head to avoid the dog’s dripping tongue, but laughing in spite of herself. “What are you and Biffle doing out this hour?”
“I’d finished up all the paper work, returned everyone’s texts and emails, and even watered your baby cactus. Liz had already left, so…”
“…so, you read her calendar and thought you’d do some detective work on your own.”
Since Vicky McClain was wealthy, most people kept their distance from her except for Liz, Jackie, and Amy. That’s why they had become such good friends. That and her feeling indebted to Amy for tracking down her deadbeat ex-husband. Finally. Even though Vicky had discovered that Wyatt was indeed…dead. She’d hired Amy, a local private investigator, to find him.
Since there wasn’t much money left from Wyatt’s estate, Amy had persuaded Vicky to market a line of canine accessories she’d already been making for friends. In a short time, Vicky’s line of custom-made dog collars, doggie sweaters, leashes, and protective winter socks were selling out to wealthy clients, and were available in Palmer Square at Bella Boutique, Zoe, Nick Hilton, and Hermes. Despite her newfound wealth, Vicky preferred to stay in the same small one-bedroom she’d lived in since before her windfall. A natural multi-tasker, she insisted on becoming Amy’s assistant. For free.
Five years ago, Amy Molloy had put out a shingle on Nassau Street, opening her own private investigation business after retiring from teaching at Princeton Day School. She was ready to begin anew with a new career and, hopefully, new adventures.
Vicky spied the half-full liter of Pepsi on the coffee table, and poured the remains into a nearby glass. She tried to stretch her legs out on the couch, but her dog refused to move. She eased off her Manolo Blahniks and rubbed her toes.
You’d think someone could design a shoe that you could wear all day and look good too, she thought. Like the 18-hour bra. Genius!
“So, what’s this case for Daphne Trent PettiJohn? Not a robbery, I hope. Biffle and I love her shop.”
“No, nothing like that. Maybe worse. Fenton Dubois, the Belgian heiress to the Schadenfreude Artisan Confectionery fortune, wants to set up shop right here in the spot where the bank used to be. And she’s serious!”
“Why there? Sweetie’s Shoppe has been on Nassau Street forever! Daphne dropped everything when her parents died and moved back here to keep the shop going. She gave up her whole life!”
Vicky wrapped her cashmere cardigan around her shivering dog.
“I know,” Amy said. “Everybody loves Sweetie’s. It’s an institution. We all had our birthday parties there when we were kids. I still have to mail a box of salted caramels to my Aunt Manya every Christmas, or she worries. One year I forgot and she thought I’d died!”
“Sweetie’s is the only genuinely dog-friendly candy shop I know of,” said Vicky. “They have the only doggie snacks my Biffle will eat. I tried once to give him a biscuit from the grocery store, but he just turned up his nose and left the room! What are you going to do, Amy?”
A sleepy Thaddeus emerged from the bedroom, leaned into the door jam, and ran his hand through shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper locks, his mustache even grayer. He grinned.
“Hullo, Thaddeus,” Vicky smirked. “I hear you drew a big crowd at The Comedy Corner last Saturday night. Six people, huh? Wow! Is that some sort of record? Soon you’ll need a private security guard to keep your fans away!” When she rubbed Biffle’s belly, he opened one sleepy eye.
Can’t get anything past my dog, she thought.
“Amy, here’s that sweater I borrowed. Call Liz,” she whispered, ignoring Thaddeus.
He was the only ex-cop she knew who looked down on private investigators. He called them “kiddie cops.” Deadbeats without the courage or brains to be a real officer.
“Let’s go, Biff. Off to bed with you.”
Vicky lifted him from the couch where he’d been playfully nipping at Amy’s toe around the hole in her sock. When they got outside, the jewels on his leash winked in the darkness as Vicky guided the dog through the sculptured hedges to her car.
The office was chilly. Amy clicked on the link to the historical archives. The entry read:
“Cesar Trent was the first Black man in antebellum Princeton to own property. In 1795, he owned the property that the Bank of America had recently vacated at 90 Nassau Street. Trent often worked for a prominent landowner, and like his contemporary, Peter Scudder, had often transacted business with prominent citizens affiliated with Princeton University (then known as College of New Jersey). Trent died in 1813, after his properties had been seized, allegedly for nonpayment of property taxes. The Somerset County sheriff sold some of Trent’s land for $70 in 1814.
When Edgar Palmer, heir to the New Jersey Zinc fortune planned to build the original Palmer Square, Baker Street was demolished in 1929; its houses moved to Birch Avenue. Construction of the square was delayed until 1936 due to the Depression.
The tip of Jackie Della Paola’s white cane tapped the threshold of the open office door. Amy looked up, smiling.
“Jackie! Right on time! Thanks so much for coming!”
“The best part about owning your own hardware shop is that you get to close up for lunch whenever you want!” he declared. He took a deep breath.
“Umm…ground rib eye on a potato roll, Vermont white cheddar, griddled onions, and rosemary aioli,” he said, sniffing the air. “And Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups! Crunchy!” he added, triumphantly.
“Amazing!” answered, Amy.
“Abracadabra!” Jackie waved his hand with a flourish.
“Hey, I may be blind, but my sense of smell has always been spot on. And besides, you eat the same lunch every Tuesday, Amy: the 1865 burger from the Dinky Bar and Kitchen. And don’t think I can’t hear you open and close your top desk drawer and crinkle candy wrappers!” Jackie felt the back of Vicky’s empty chair, then sat down.
“Where are Vicky and Liz?” He laid his shoulder bag down neatly, collapsing the white cane, and placing it in the groove of the bag.
“Liz is interviewing Miss Suni Emmanuel at The Waxwood. She’s lived in those condos since they’d been renovated when it used to be the Princeton Nursing Home,” Amy told him.
“I bet Miss Emmanuel knows people who remember The Witherspoon School when it was the first integrated school under the Princeton Plan in 1948,” Jackie remarked.
“35 Quarry Street has sure seen a lot of history, hasn’t it? If those walls could talk,” Amy wondered.
“My grandfather used to tell us about Miss Vann’s ice cream parlor on Witherspoon. Ice cream made from real cream!”
Jackie leaned back in the chair.
“I was just a little boy when my Uncle Mario took me to Jimmy Mack’s Barber Shop on John Street. Mr. Mack was always so nice to me. You know, back then nobody even wanted to be bothered trying to cut a little blind Italian kid’s hair. Most barbers were afraid I squirm and get cut. I couldn’t have been more than five when Mr. Griggs closed his restaurant on Witherspoon. He used to give me a whole quarter for helping him make fried egg sandwiches. He even took me once to the University Campus Club where he used to clean and shine shoes before he retired. We snuck into the library once too. ‘Jackie’, he’d say, ‘if you work hard, you’ll be going to college one day too. You can do anything you want to do. You may not be able to see, but you have a sharp mind.’ Really nice man. I asked him what it was like when he was in college, but he got really quiet and changed the subject. I was just a little kid. I didn’t know how things were, you know?”
“I remember Mr. Griggs”, Amy said. “Nice man. Vicky’s over at the townhomes on Paul Robeson Place. She put together a little fundraiser for the animal shelter. Biffle gets to show off his costumes for a group of community volunteers and patrons.”
“Don’t tell me she’s got that poor dog modeling again!”
“Doggie sweaters with matching leashes and carry-ons!” Amy said.
“Poor Biffle! I’m starting to really feel sorry for him. We can only hope Vicky doesn’t get any ideas about Easter bonnets! You know, that party on the Green is really going to be something. My customers have been talking about it. Sweetie’s Shoppe is having a pinata party for all ages! You get to learn how to make your own taffy and name the new flavor of the month. The winner gets a free Sweetie’s tee shirt and a guest spot on that podcast soap opera, “Every Day’s a Good Day!” The Annie Dae Nau Band is playing all afternoon. They’re pretty good. Let’s do that exercise workshop, ‘Stretch With Gretch(en)’, Amy? You in?”
A cellphone bleeped.
“That’s you, Amy. I’m not expecting any hardware store emergencies at my shop. Michele can handle things until I get back.”
Concerned, Amy looked at her phone. She scrolled for a long time.
“You okay? What’s up?”, Jackie asked.
“Liz texted me. She had coffee with Daphne Trent PettiJohn and her lawyer. Fenton Dubois has been texting and harassing her and really putting pressure on her to close the business. This woman is an heiress, for goodness sake! She’s claiming that Daphne’s family never actually owned the land that Sweetie’s sits on!”
“Well that’s just ridiculous!” Jackie protested.
“Sweetie’s is a family business. It’s been operating for years from that location. Now Fenton Dubois is claiming that the property has been the City’s all along. As far back as Cesar Trent himself. Dubois claims Trent never paid taxes on the property back then so any deeds even to this day have long been null and void.” Amy clicked on the magnifier.
“I’ve got something!” she shouted, startling Jackie who nearly choked on the “emergency” candy he’d stolen from Amy’s secret hiding place — the hollow door stopper he’d nearly tripped over.
Amy read from the screen:
“Jude, a servant of Ralph Sansbury, slave holder and alumnus of Princeton University, then known as College of New Jersey, was also a cook and housekeeper for many college students and professors. Cesar Trent left her $40 in his will. It is believed that with help from her employer, Jude used this inherited sum along with savings, to purchase and run a small ice cream business out of her place of residence at 221B Baker Street. It is also believed that in 1808 Jude was prepared to be a witness in court to prove the innocence of Cesar Trent, accused of theft and sentenced to imprisonment and hard labor. Jude witnessed the actual theft by Sheriff Jacob’s own son, a student at the College. Jude’s employer, Ralph Sansbury, had in his possession, the original receipt of Trent’s property payment kept in a family Bible, which he gave to Jude, who disappeared months later and was never heard from again. (This may have been vindication for a New Jersey Supreme Court case Trent had won in the 1780s against John Sanderson over the sale of a horse). It is noted that Ralph Sansbury also issued manumission certificates for slaves in West Windsor whose owners agreed to set them free.”
“That’s it!” Amy decided, grabbing the sports jacket draped over the chair. “We’ve got to find that Bible! I’ve got your coat. Come on, Jackie!”
“Where are we going?” Jackie asked, hurrying to the door.
“To 221B Baker Street, of course!”
“Now how are you going to do that, Amy? Baker Street doesn’t exist anymore. It was demolished along with Jackson Street when Palmer square was built. Are you chasing ghosts now?”
“Paul Robeson Place, my friend,” Amy said, picking up her car keys. “The Residences at Palmer Square! I’m texting Vicky right now to let her know we’re coming!”
They recognized Vicky’s silver Porsche at the Hulfish Garage and saw her as they approached 20 Paul Robeson Place.
“The resident elevators are out,” Vicky explained. “The repair company is here.”
“Where’s Biffle?” Amy asked.
“Oh, my goodness! Biff? Biff!” a frantic Vicky shouted. She found the dog in the damp, unfinished basement, determinedly digging away at the base of an exposed support beam. His baby blue, bedazzled sweater still spotless after an hour of posing for selfies with his admirers.
Finally, the dog managed to pull from the concrete a ragged, oversized dinner napkin, the size of a laptop, and black with soot. Without a trace of tasty crumbs to tempt him, Biffle lost interest and left the room. Vicky stooped down to unwrap the centuries-old parcel that had been wrapped with care.
Jackie came into the basement, then Amy, cradling a confused Biffle in her arms. Presenting the precious relic to them, Vicky carefully opened the heavy cover, its binding still, remarkably intact.
Amy began to read the elaborate colonial script to Jackie:
“To Ralph Sansbury. Translated out of the original tongues…”
A brown parchment leaf delicately drifted to the floor. Vicky picked it up.
Yes. It was, indeed, a handwritten receipt for payment of taxes for the property at 90 Nassau Street, Princeton, New Jersey.
“Signed by Cesar Trent and Ralph Sansbury, Judge of Common Pleas, and Peter Scudder (executor to Cezar Trent) on this day of our Lord, February 8, 808.”
Amy, Daphne PettiJohn, and her lawyer would later, of course, verify the dates and signatures with the New Jersey State Archives tax ratables, the New Jersey State early land records project database.
“So, Trent really did pay his property taxes after all. I had a feeling he was railroaded. 90 Nassau Street was rightfully his. Looks like Fenton Dubois will have to find another angle if she wants to boot Sweetie’s out,” Jackie said, tentatively petting Biffle.
“She should have known better,” Vicky insinuated, skimming through the ancient Bible. “Everyone in town Is behind Daphne Trent PettiJohn. Doesn’t that snooty heiress know how loyal we are to our local businesses? Sweetie’s will be here forever, if I can help it!”
Amy pulled her coat collar up against the draft. I don’t know, Sag. We’re just Davids against a Goliath!”
“She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with!” said Vicky. “She’s got money? Well, thanks to your billion-dollar idea and to my star, Biffle, so do I! And the whole town is behind us! Biff, here’s your reward for finding the Bible and solving the case!”
Vicky pulled a small House of Cupcakes bag from her oversized leather tote, and carefully removed a red velvet cupcake. But when she tried to feed it to her dog, Biffle turned to looked at Amy instead, laying his head on her shoulder.
“It’s your favorite,” Vicky coaxed. “It’s vegan, too. You try,” she said, giving the cake to Amy.
Amy pinched off a tiny piece of the cake and put it in her palm. Biffle licked her palm clean then licked Amy’s cheek!
“I’m jealous!” Vicky teased. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend!”
Jackie opened his white cane as they headed to the garage.
“Amy, I just thought of something. Jude’s address was 221B Baker Street. You’re a mystery fan. Isn’t that address familiar to you?”
Puzzled, Amy stopped to consider.
“We’re going to have to start calling you Sherlock Holmes!” laughed Jackie.
They were hungry. It was time for lunch.
With a master’s degree from Rider University, writer, playwright, and showrunner Karen Carson is also a regular contributing writer for Trenton Daily. Her work has also appeared in The Kelsey Review. She is a retired station manager/co-producer of New Jersey’s first free broadcast news service for the blind.
