The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  Jocelyn’s murder was reported in all the New York papers the next morning. It was the same Associated Press account. The Times headline read, “Advertising Art Director Killed in Belgium;” The Post, “Police Say N.Y. Femme Exec Euro Sex Crime Murder Victim;” The News, “Manhattan Ad Beauty Slain in Belgium Mystery.” Jocelyn’s death was front-page in The Times and World News of Roanoke, Virginia, for the Ridenhours had long been a prominent family in Bedford County. Jocelyn’s body was being shipped there to lie in the family plot.

  In Chicago, however, without a local angle, an unknown American’s murder abroad did not merit inclusion in either The Tribune or The Sun-Times, so Constance read nothing of the killing. Anyway, it had already been shifted in her mind, back with all those other unfortunate murders of long ago, to Bess and Caterina and Elsa.

  Besides, Constance had things to do, helping Elise prepare to go off to Oberlin. She did tell her—and Carl—what a bore Las Vegas had been. By now, in fact, Constance had long since disposed of the Double Ones manuscript and Jocelyn’s notes, as well as all the other papers and receipts that might associate her with Antwerp. But, oh, how she thought about returning there with Bucky, to relive together what they had lived in the past, to—above all!—see their beautiful love child in the painting above Mr. Rubens’s tomb.

  Constance yearned again to be in Bucky’s arms. She couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as she and Carl had taken Elise to Oberlin, she would go to Bucky. And this time, Constance would not ever leave him again.

  Thursday the twenty-third was the day she would arrive in New York.

  After Jocelyn was buried in Virginia, Randolph Ridenhour called Hugh. Evidently, he said, the Reverend Venable was the only clergyman Jocelyn had been acquainted with in New York, so would he conduct a memorial service for her there? Hugh said he would be honored, and arranged for a nondenominational service at his old church, Holy Trinity, on Central Park West, for the next Wednesday, August 22nd.

  That day arrived rather cool, containing as much a hint of the autumn ahead as the heart of the summer behind. New York could be like that for a few odd days every August; it was, Nina thought, sort of like the January thaw in reverse.

  She dressed in a dark suit which was, of course, very much like what Bucky was wearing when he came by her office to pick her up. He’d asked Nina if she’d go to the service with him, and she was pleased to accompany him. They took seats on the aisle about halfway down, and soon after, saw Hugh enter from the side to stand before the crowd. He wore a business suit with his clerical collar, and in his lapel: a small pink rose. He spoke briefly:

  “Hello, my name is Hugh Venable. I was pastor here for several years, but today I join you only as a friend of our friend, Jocelyn. We are all still in shock at her brutal death, but I ask you to put that horror from your minds, and to think only of her when she was with us. Now is the time for us to celebrate this person we loved so…who so loved us, so loved life…Jocelyn Louise Ridenhour.” Hugh paused. “We’ll sing together now. The words are in your pamphlet.”

  As they all rose, Bucky whispered to Nina, “Who is this guy? He’s good.”

  “Uh huh,” she said.

  They sang “Morning Has Broken.” Then, in turn, three friends came forward and spoke of Jocelyn. There were fond reminiscences, humorous recollections, sweet stories, and the poem:

  Go, Lovely Rose

  How small a part of time they share,

  That are so wondrous, sweet and fair.

  Hugh himself then read Psalm 17, verses three through eight. He said that he’d recited it once to Jocelyn “over coffee”—that brought a big laugh—and she’d liked it a great deal. There were a lot of sniffles when he spoke the last verse: “Guard me as the apple of your eye, hide me in the shadow of your wings.” Bucky teared up and Nina grasped his hand.

  Next, Jocelyn’s brother paid tribute. Randolph said that as a child, Jocelyn’s favorite hymn had been “Rock of Ages.” So, they all sang—and quite lustily, too.

  Hugh stepped forward again. He said, “It would irritate Jocelyn mightily if I hid behind this collar and did not speak to the full extent of our acquaintance. We were not, you see, merely friends. We were very good friends. For a time, in fact, we had what people nowadays who are afraid of love call ‘a relationship.’ Well, Jocelyn and I did not have a relationship. We had a romance. And it was wonderful.” Nobody in these pews shocked easily, but that revelation from the preacher did produce something of a murmur. Smiling, Hugh played to the crowd. “As you know, Jocelyn was nothing if not eclectic.” Some laughter. “And she was terribly sweet. It’s funny. Although we argued about everything, I never met a person whom I could trust so well as Jocelyn Ridenhour.”

  Nina shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Was it just her imagination, or had Hugh looked directly at her when he emphasized how much he could trust Jocelyn?

  He continued. “And surely, you know that Jocelyn was a whale of an advocate for whatever she believed in. Specifically, of course, Jocelyn believed in reincarnation. Make no mistake, she was a deeply spiritual being. And if Jocelyn believed that she will return to walk these streets again but I believe that she already watches over us from somewhere else, it really does not matter who may be right, for all that is important is that she is with us…in all our hearts…and will remain so, forever.”

  Hugh held out his hands, open, to either side and glanced up. Many more people began to sob. That included Nina. She was angry, too, because she really didn’t know if she was truly weeping for Jocelyn—whom she had hardly known—or because Hugh had moved—manipulated?—her so. It infuriated her to think that she was susceptible to almost every damn thing the man did. And she grew even angrier to think that she had allowed herself to think about Hugh at Jocelyn’s memorial service.

  “We will rise and sing together one more time,” Hugh went on, “and then I would ask each of us to think…pray…remember in whatever silent way we choose to, before we go out again into this world that has now been so diminished for us.”

  The mourners sang “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and then there was silence and more tears and those tentative moments of disassociation when nobody quite knows what to do next. Nina did. “Come on,” she said, yanking Bucky’s hand, “let’s get outta here.”

  The two of them walked around, aimlessly, up Central Park West, over by The Tavern On The Green. It was amazing how little they said the whole time. Once, more to the breezes than to Bucky, Nina sighed, “I wish I’d known Jocelyn better.”

  Bucky said, “Yeah, and I feel guilty. You know, that I didn’t return her calls there at the end.”

  Nina touched his shoulder. “No, Bucky. Jocelyn wasn’t being fair with you. And she knew that. She just…cared so damn much about what she believed.”

  Then they walked on some more in silence, cutting back away from the park. When they stopped for a light at Columbus, Bucky felt almost obligated to say something. “I really was impressed with that minister.”

  “That’s his job,” Nina replied, but when she realized, right away, how sharp she’d been, quickly she added, “Anyway, I’m hungry. I didn’t have any lunch.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Bucky said, and since there was a little Italian restaurant right there, Il Violino, they went in and took a table. “Wanna start with a martini?”

  Nina shook her head. “No, we’ll save martinis for some happier time.”

  “Well then, just coffee for me,” Bucky told the waiter. “In honor of Jocelyn, Our Lady of the Coffee Bean.”

  Nina smiled and said, “The same.” In time, they had a little pasta, too, but it was amazing, really, how little Nina and Bucky talked—they who normally couldn’t stop talking to each other. Of course, it really didn’t matter, inasmuch as they were both thinking of the same thing. Finally, in fact, when the espresso and the bill came, Bucky cleared his throat and said,
“Okay, I’m ready, Nina. Anytime.”

  “I know.”

  “So, let’s do it now.”

  “You mean now? Right now?”

  “Why not?” Bucky asked, handing his credit card over to the waiter, who pretended not to hear this rather blunt exchange from the stylish lady and the younger gentleman in their somber black suits.

  She shrugged. “I suppose.” Nina almost whispered that with resignation. Then she leaned forward and added this, “I just want you to understand—”

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I know that after I’ve done one more session with you, and then Constance does hers, then that’s it.”

  “Right. I gotta get out of this then, Bucky. You and Constance’ll be on your own.”

  “I know,” he said. Purposely, though, he didn’t volunteer to Nina about his doubts, about how even though he dwelt on Constance all the time—dreamed, fantasized about her—he just somehow wasn’t sure anymore. He’d decided he wouldn’t tell Nina that. How can you be Double Ones, destined for each other forever, and yet somehow be unsure?

  Of course, what’s good for the goose.… Nina had never told Bucky that she was positive that she and Hugh were also Double Ones. She’d never told him about the silver. In their own way, then, Bucky and Nina were sort of cheating on each other. On the other hand, Jocelyn’s murder and their shared grief had only brought them closer than ever before. Nina put down her cup. “This whole thing with Jocelyn…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it.”

  Nina sat up straight so that the physical parts of her came aligned and gave her the strength to speak. “No, I have to tell you something.” Bucky tilted his head in anticipation. Nina spoke directly, trying to leave out any emotion. “Look, I don’t believe Jocelyn was killed by some guy she met in some chance encounter.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Bucky.” He nodded. “The first time the Antwerp cops called me—an Inspector Stoclet—I was so shocked I wasn’t thinking straight. I forgot all about this sort of teasing part of Jocelyn’s message.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It was something to the effect that I’d be fascinated—that was the word: fascinated—at someone who was also there in Antwerp. Jocelyn wasn’t being mysterious. Remember, we figured to talk again, so she was just being mischievous.” Nina leaned forward. “But if she’d met some man, she wouldn’t have put it that way. It’d been something like: ‘I’ve met an old beau, Nina’ or ‘I might’ve gotten lucky’—that sorta thing.”

  “So, whatdya think?”

  “Well, when I remembered this part, I called Inspector Stoclet back. And then he told me something that kinda bugged him. The telephone message light in Jocelyn’s room—it wasn’t blinking. It was just on.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, you see the light blinking, you play the message. Then, if you don’t get rid of the message—punch star-something or pound-something—the light just stays on. If Jocelyn had gotten the message, she would’ve erased it and called me back.”

  “Maybe she was in a hurry.”

  “Maybe. But listen now. When the inspector told me that, it suddenly hit me. I said, ‘When you searched her room, was a manuscript there?’

  “He said, ‘What manuscript?’ I told him that the whole reason for her going to Europe related to this research project, that she had hundreds of pages, probably a lot of it in Cyrillic, plus all sorts of her own notebooks—he couldn’t miss it. There had to be a whole briefcase full. But no, Inspector Stoclet said nothing like that had been found. No papers. No briefcase. Nothing. Just clothes, personal stuff.”

  “So, what’s this mean?”

  “It means—I think it means—that somebody lured Jocelyn out of her room, killed her, returned to her room, found the notes and the manuscript on reincarnation and Double Ones, made it look like there’d been some sex, then took the stuff and left—incidentally listening to my message.”

  “But who would do that?”

  “I’ve thought about that. Maybe somebody she’d met in Russia. How fascinating! But maybe that was some religious fanatic who really didn’t like what Jocelyn and Sergei and Ludmilla were coming up with—somebody like that who she trusted, but who turned on her. Or maybe somebody from the United States who she’d told all this stuff to. Some screwball who figured the material could be valuable—spiritually or commercially. Remember, Jocelyn had a wide circle of strange acquaintances.”

  Nina kept on, filling out the hypothesis, but Bucky wasn’t listening anymore. The most awful thought had popped into his head. Of course: Constance. He was horrified that the thought could have emerged, if only dimly. But he couldn’t help it. There was the vision. There was the possibility. There she was, alone with him at The Sherry-Netherland, when Constance was angry, when Constance was calling Jocelyn “wicked”—so furious in her wrath that the memory had never left him. No, no. Bucky physically shook his head, as if somehow he could throw off that awful thought from his mind, as he could shake water out of his head after a shower.

  Nina said, “You think I’m crazy.” He looked up, distracted. “You’re shaking your head at me.”

  “No, not really, Nina. I’m just so confused.” The waiter left the bill, and Bucky signed his name. “What’s the inspector think?”

  “Well, it certainly interested him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Stoclet. Gijs. G-I-J-S. I guess that’s a good old Flemish name.”

  Bucky scribbled on the receipt. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I’m so screwed up, I can’t even figure the tip.” He scratched out something, then threw the pen down. All he wanted was to clear his mind—and what better way than for Nina to hypnotize him? “Come on, can we do it—right now?”

  She only paused to consider it for a moment more. “Yeah, what the hell, let’s get it on.” The waiter, who’d come back to pick up the receipt, briefly looked at them askance again. Neither even noticed. “The only thing is,” Nina said, “the new questions I have to ask you—the ones in Flemish that I got the lady in the Belgian tourist office to make up for me—”

  “Yeah?’

  “They’re back in my apartment. We’ll have to swing by there to pick ’em up.”

  Bucky had gotten to his feet. The waiter helped Nina with her chair. “Well, let’s do it there.”

  “My apartment?”

  Oops. Another raised eyebrow from the waiter.

  “Why not?” Bucky asked. “It’s so much more…real. It might even help me relax more, make it even easier for me to go back in time.”

  Nina pondered that thought, but only very briefly. Why not? “All right,” she said, smiling. “My place. Your century.”

  38

  Jaime eyed Nina suspiciously as she entered the lobby with Bucky. He’d already noticed that her new engagement ring had disappeared. And now, here she was bringing home a younger, flashier fellow. Why, Dr. Winston was turning into a regular tramp.

  Nina could feel the doorman’s censure, but what the hell? She just continued on, escorting Bucky up to her apartment. She showed him where the guest bathroom was, then went into her own bedroom, closed the door, and turned on the phone machine.

  Nina always did that now. Reflexively. Hugh would call again. He would. This evening, after the terrible emotions of Jocelyn’s service, he surely would call. And there were four messages. Four! So one must be from Hugh. But the first was a girlfriend: “Let’s have lunch after Labor Day when I get back from the Hamptons.” Zap—Nina pressed the Forward button. Next, Roseann: “A report since you left the office early for the service.” Forward. Third, “Please call for a free esti—” Delete. And finally: “Hello, Dr. Winston. I hope you don’t mind that I took you at your word and am
calling you at home.” Stop. Nina knew that voice, instantly. She listened to hear if Bucky might have overheard. Nothing. Still, Nina turned down the volume before she pushed Repeat.

  “…but this is Constance Rawlings, and I have decided that I will come to New York tomorrow. I’ll call you when I arrive so that we might arrange our final session, but I would ask you to keep this on the Q-T from Bucky, as I’d like to surprise him. So, until tomorrow.”

  Nina sat still, composing herself. Well, good, she thought. I’ll hypnotize Bucky tonight, Constance in a couple of days, and then I’ll be done with them. Good…and good riddance.

  Nina went into the living room then, nodded to Bucky, and proceeded to her desk where she picked up Paulette’s folder. Nina had gone over it with her very carefully, having her draw up new questions in Flemish. But it was tricky. If, as Nina was so sure, Ollie had killed Margareta, then there was obviously no way that Margareta could talk about that event after the fact. No, somehow Nina must lead Margareta right up to the very moment before her death.

  Nina picked up a votive candle. “Let’s do it in the guest bedroom,” she said, and when Bucky’s eyebrows raised a little, quickly she added, “It’ll be the most natural place.” Of course, Nina didn’t reveal to him that it was a particularly natural place because it was to another bedroom, the one in the house on Hopland Street, where Ollie and Margareta were headed that evening of Assumption Day, on August 15th, 1635. “Sit on the side of the bed,” Nina ordered him, as she drew up a chair before him. Then lighting the candle, turning on the tape recorder, speaking softly, and putting him into a trance, she took him back to Antwerp, back into Margareta.