Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) by Lydia Adamson Page A

It was time to go to Tyre’s workplace.
    Twenty minutes later I took a cab up to the main Department of Parks administration building, which stands just inside the Fifth Avenue entrance of the Zoo. I found Frank Ardmore on the second floor of the building in a small office. He was not happy to see me.
    â€œI don’t understand. Are you a cop?”
    â€œNo. I’m just temporarily attached to a special unit that is investigating Jack Tyre’s murder—and his brother’s.”
    â€œWell, I spoke to the cops for hours. I told them everything I knew. Which wasn’t much. Look, the man worked right next door to me for a long time. We were friendly. We talked together all the time. But not after work. He went his way and I went mine.”
    â€œDid you ever see these?” I asked.
    Frank Ardmore stared down at the small leaf bouquet I held in my hand.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” he asked. He kept on adjusting his stubby tie. He had a whole raft of pencils and pens in his shirt pocket, which seemed about ready to fall out.
    â€œThree leaves tied together with a twistum.” I opened the red twistum and laid the three leaves on my arm.
    He shook his head in confusion.
    â€œDid Jack Tyre collect leaves?”
    â€œAre you kidding? I don’t know what you mean. Collect leaves? Thousands of tons of leaves are collected in this park in the fall. Jack didn’t work in that department. Did he like trees? How the hell should I know? Could he identify trees? Probably. Most people who work in parks with a lot of trees can identify them. Even I can do that.”
    He leaned over and pointed. “That is a ginkgo leaf. That is an oak leaf. And that . . .” He paused. He picked up the third leaf. “And that looks like a leaf from a Chinese maple on the Seventy-Second Street footpath, which by the way, is one of the oldest living trees in the park.”
    I re-bound the leaves. He was not a friendly man. Not at all.
    I stared at him. There was something strange about his discomfort in my questions.
    â€œIs there anything about Jack Tyre that you forgot to tell the police?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    â€œYeah. He didn’t like Chinese food,” Frank Ardmore replied sarcastically.
    â€œThank you for your help,” I replied, equally sarcastically, and started to walk away.
    â€œWait a minute. If you want to find out about leaves, why don’t you see Georgina Kulaks. She’s in charge of tree maintenance around here.”
    â€œWhere do I find her?”
    â€œI think they’re working on that European beech near the bow bridge, on the south end of the lake.”
    I walked out of the administration building and headed uptown and west through the park. At Bethesda Fountain I cut into one of the footpaths and headed toward the lake. It was a beautiful day. People were walking arm in arm. There were dogs and baby carriages and kite fliers.
    As I walked down the grassy knoll to the bow bridge, I saw a small team of workers near a massive low-crowned tree. That must be the European beech. When I got closer, I realized they were all men. Then I caught sight of a woman standing about twenty yards away from the group, closer to the lake. She was holding a clipboard and staring out across the lake.
    I walked up to her. She nodded in a friendly fashion.
    â€œAre you Georgina Kulaks?” I asked.
    She nodded and waited, smiling. She was a short, slight woman with brown hair pulled back. She was wearing regulation parks-department pants and a sweatshirt. Her face was lined.
    â€œMy name is Alice Nestleton. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jack Tyre.”
    Her eyes opened wide in horror. They stared down at my hand. I realized I was holding the bunch of leaves in plain view.
    Her face seemed to crumble . . . to dissolve. She turned away from me quickly and knelt down. The sobs seemed to explode from her