"That's very sweet," I said. And while being in love with me, Lou had saved my life. "I'm sure Erma will like this gift very much."
In spite of my gratitude, my feelings for Lou had not been reciprocal, and we were fortunate to have worked things out to be friends instead. We had a good understanding.
"Well," Lou said anxiously, rocking forward on the thick toes of her black duty boots, "did she—did she say anything else? About me?"
"Uh, I don't think so."
She heaved a dopey sigh. "She's quite a woman, isn't she?"
I knew it. "Yes, Lou, Erma's terrific."
"Well, when d'you think she'll be back?"
"I really don't know. You want me to tell her to call you?"
"Oh, no, no, no." Lou stood gnawing her lip in frustration.
I picked up my wrecking bar and said, "Well, I ought to get back to it here, so—"
"Oh, right, right. Hey, Lillian! I brought something for you, too." She pulled a small object from her pocket and handed it to me.
"What's this?"
"It's a laser pointer."
"Oh! Well! How nice. Thank you."
"It's for Todd."
"Uh, that's very thoughtful of you, Lou, but he hasn't been doing presentations lately, and I'm not sure his future schedule is going to permit—"
"It's to play with."
"Lou, explain it to me. I don't get it."
"You turn it on and make a dot with it on the floor, and you move it around and Todd chases it."
"Oh!"
"He'll love it. I do it with my cats all the time. You should see them, they're so funny. That's a very good laser pointer. I got it at the Gibraltar Trade Center—a guy was giving them away for five bucks."
Knowing Todd, I doubted he'd give more than a contemptuous glance toward such a high-tech, insubstantial toy, especially one liked by cats. But I politely thanked Lou again. Pleased, she turned to go.
"Wait a second, Lou."
She swung back to face me.
"Uh," I said, "you know, I'm not at all sure that Porrocks is—"
"My type?"
I paused. "That's one way to put it, yes."
Lou didn't want to hear it. She pressed her lips together.
I said, "Lou, I don't want you getting hurt, is all."
"How do you know I'll get hurt?"
"I don't. I don't. I'm just saying I don't even know if there's a first base to get to here, you know?"
"Yeah. Well!" Lou squared her shoulders and tossed her iron-gray ponytail. "I'm not a little piece of china, Lillian. I'm not a little baby bird. You don't have to worry about me."
It wasn't only Lou I was worried about.
Chapter 12
That night Audrey Knox came over with a bag of food from Good Fortune 2, the Chinese place up Woodward. I'd offered to cook, but she said she was in the mood for their Szechuan chicken. Something spicy sounded good to me too. Tonight Audrey was wearing a pair of black slacks and these extraordinary little black shoes with white vamps with green four-leaf clovers embroidered into them. They were cute and amazing shoes.
I introduced her to Todd. He wasn't feeling well; he sniffed her pretty shoes and turned away, bumping over to have a sip of water. I noticed he'd hardly touched his timothy nuggets. I got out a carrot top, which appealed to him somewhat.
Audrey looked like a happy sparrow, her eyes alert, head high, as she gave herself a tour of my apartment while I unpacked the food and set the table. She looked at all my stuff, my books and my mandolin, my stovetop percolator, with the right amount of interest and appreciation.
"This is the coolest coffeepot in the world," she said. "Where'd you get it?"
"Goodwill," I said. "Let's eat."
I don't consider myself to be sluttier than most people, but I do tend to get involved quickly when it's someone I really like. This has made for good times and bad times, but at least they've been times, you know?
Audrey and I ate the savory food at my kitchen table, drank Stroh's, and talked. I wanted to know more about her, but she joked away my questions about her family and livelihood. She'd flick her eyes down with each joke; some pain going on in there, I sensed, old trouble, most likely old wounds she wanted to keep covered up. It would be a matter of time, I judged, until she revealed everything to me. I could be patient until then. She did open up, however, about her unusual footwear. I was really curious about those shoes.
She stretched out her leg and carefully placed her foot on the edge of the table. I admired the expertly worked shoe.
"Well," Audrey said, "a guy I used to know back home was a cobbler."
"Really? They're custom-made?"
"Yeah, he took my measurements and asked what I was in the mood for, and I said something lucky and old-fashioned."
The shoes were retro for sure, with the two-tone thing and the embroidery.
"What are they made of?"
"Kidskin."
"Must've been expensive."
"Yes" was all she said.
I couldn't make out any exact regional accent in her voice, so I decided to use a ploy that always works. "You know," I said, "I've been listening carefully to how you talk. I'm pretty good at guessing where people are from based on their speech habits."
She smiled and leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand.
"Well?" she said.
"Southern Indiana," I suggested.
"Nope. Guess again."
"Hmm. Am I warmer if I say the greater Philadelphia area?"
She laughed her funny little laugh. "No!"
"Mountain states?"
"Now you're warmer."
"Denver?"
"No."
"Cheyenne?"
"No."
"Billings?"
"You're getting closer."
"Boise."
She smacked her head. "Bingo! Lillian, you're amazing!"
"What's Boise like?"
She sipped her Stroh's, and a soft light crept into her eyes. "It's beautiful. The town itself, well, Boise's Boise—know what I mean? But all you have to do is walk a mile in any direction, and, oh."
"Mountains like on TV, huh?"
"And the Snake River—rocks and water forever. It's so wild. You can relax there more than you can anywhere else."
She brought up the Porrocks thing. We were alike in that way, both of us with a taste for the morbid. She wanted to know if I still thought Porrocks killed Drooly Rick.
"I didn't say I think she killed him, I said I think she might know something."
"What's the difference?"
"Maybe not much. I don't know. I'm looking into the background of things."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, God, Audrey." I sat and thought. Finally, I said, "Can you keep a secret?"
She got very solemn and very excited. "I can keep a secret in a place it'll never escape from."
"Well, will you put this one there?"
"Yes. It's a good one, isn't it?" Her eyes sparkled. "Lillian, tell me before I explode!"
This is what was going through my mind: Maybe I could crack this dead-Rick-with-hidden-treasure thing by myself, but maybe I couldn't. I realized that Audrey Knox's proximity to Porrocks's house could be valuable. She could watch comings and goings if we wound up doing long-term surveillance on the place. We could join forces and solve a bizarre crime nobody else thought mattered.
So I described how I found the money and gold bracelet in the broken boathouse wall. When I finished, she was quiet, her index finger on her lips. Then she looked up and said simply, "You know Porrocks killed him."
"Audrey, I can't think that. I can't let myself think that."
"But you're thinking it."
"Unh!"
"Because you know it."
I peered into the neck of my Stroh's bottle.
"And she knows you know it."
I looked at her. "I don't think—"
"She knows it, and therefore you're in danger, Lillian."
"You didn't see a thing, didn't hear anything?"
"No, I wasn't there."
"Can you prove it?"
"What?"
"Do you have an alibi for where you were when it happened?"
"What in God's name are you talking about?"
"If she thinks you're onto her, she could try to frame you for it."
"Oh, my God."
I don't know if you'll understand this, but there was something tremendously sexy about this conversation. We were both excited—talking, speculating, being scared and thrilled together. Audrey Knox's eyes bit into me like power drills and it felt great. I had this suspenseful smile on my face.
"Do you suppose there's more treasure?" Audrey said.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Would you—would you show me what you found?"
I left the room, retrieved the loot from the bottom drawer of my bureau, shoved the Chinese food cartons aside, and spread the money and bracelet on the table.
"It isn't much compared to what must've been there," I said, "but—"
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
I picked up the bracelet, which caught the kitchen light like a key in a hallway. "It's ugly compared to you," I said.
That really got her. She reached for the bracelet, hefted it just as I did the first time I picked it up, and draped it over her wrist. I remarked, "The gold looks good against your skin."
She tried to fasten the catch, and I had a sudden worry that she wished I would give it to her. But after fumbling for a second, she said, "Oh, it's so clunky," and put it down.
I would have given it to her except that it really wasn't mine to give, no matter whether it was crime booty or something else. If I was going to investigate this thing, I might need to show the stuff to some critically important individual.
We decided to move to the living room, where I lit a couple of candles and we lounged on some cushions I arranged on the rug. I played my mandolin for her. The mandolin is the perfect instrument for an audience of one: Its natural voice is sweet and reserved, yet it responds to sudden energy. You can be as agile on it as you want.
Audrey slipped her shoes off and lay back on the cushions, eyes closed, chest rising and falling to the simple rhythm of "Come Rain or Come Shine." It was very pleasant.
"That's a lovely sound," she remarked, "from such a plain little thing."
I paused. "It is plain." I looked at the flattop instrument in my lap: yes, a simple design, nothing fancy. "Over years of playing," I said, "a mandolin becomes richer and mellower, if they used good wood in it. That's happening to this one. I don't know why—something about the vibration that makes the wood molecules line up better or something."
I played until she sat up with a big smile.
"That boathouse would be a fun place to make love," she suggested.
"Well, maybe, my little cupcake," I agreed, "if it gets fixed up. You saw what a wreck it is now."
"Ever made love on an actual boat?"
"No, have you?"
"It's nice. When the waves are right, you get a womb-like experience."
"Huh."
She noticed my copy of Encounter in Borneo on the floor next to the couch. "Didn't you mention something about this book to me? Calico Jones. What's the significance?"
Enthusiastically, I told her all about Calico Jones. When you go mad for someone new, don't you always want to share the things you like? "You'd love her. She's just tops." And I told her the story, as far as I'd gotten, of Encounter in Borneo.
You'll remember that Calico has met up with her go-between, this tremendously beautiful Swedish brainiac scientist who makes every other woman she stands next to look like a dog, except for Calico, of course. She and Calico have to meet in this out-of-the-way hotel in Singapore so as not to arouse suspicion. But I tell you, other things get aroused.
See, Calico has got to stop the rogue scientist who's doing the experiments with the mutant insect larvae in order to take over the world via climate control, and Ingrid fills her in on the relevant facts, and as she does so she falls in love with Calico—who wouldn't? And suddenly, she desperately wants to go with Calico on this dangerous journey to Borneo.
But Calico knows things are going to get really dangerous and violent, and she just won't put this amazing creature in harm's way. She says no. So Ingrid tries to persuade Calico to take her along. During the days in this hotel, she briefs Calico on all the science and geography she needs to know for her mission, and during the nights she works on Calico to try to get her to take her along. I mean, consider it: five nights in a row of this gorgeous scientist who happens to be an expert in human anatomy, especially the sensory systems, throwing everything she's got into making Calico not be able to leave without her. Oh, my God. Calico is very aware that Ingrid is absolutely essential to the project to stop global warming, once new emeralds have been synthesized (which takes at least a week and a half), so Calico simply will not agree to let her come along. The safety of the world is more important to Calico Jones than a dozen incredible orgasms with a future Nobel laureate.
I read a couple of pages aloud to Audrey Knox, who lounged against my knee listening intently, her face turned up to mine, her lips parted in a small perfect smile.
When I paused, she said, "So, Calico, won't you take me with you?"
I put the book down. "My dear, I can't."
"Please."
"No, you beautiful Swedish brainiac."
She began stroking my legs. "Oh, please. Please, Calico Jones, I must go with you."
Instantly I was aflame with passion. "No, my intellectual lass, I cannot expose you to the kind of dangers I must face."
Audrey got into it. "But don't you see? That is exactly why I must go. I cannot let you face such dangers alone."
"No, it cannot be."
"I'll help," breathed Audrey Knox softly into my ear. "I'll be so helpful, you wouldn't believe how helpful I'll be."
"No," I said firmly, my diaphragm quivering.
"We'll see about that."
"I must repeat, no."
Audrey Knox twined her fingers into my hair and let them loose down my neck. "I'm not going to let you sleep until you promise you'll let me come with you."
I squirmed in ecstasy. "But, my dear, you must realize how much I care for your safety and that of the world."
For half the night we played Calico Jones and beautiful Swedish brainiac, and I thought I could never be so happy and wrought up.
----
Over coffee in the morning, all Audrey wanted to discuss was Porrocks. "Do you think she'll be happy in her new home?"
I was still glowing from last night and had to work to focus on what she wanted to talk about.
"Uh, yes, I think she's a pretty resilient person. She told me she's started taking long walks in the early mornings all the way to St. Edward's Park and back. Good for her health. She says she intends to make a habit of it. You know, I could stand to get more exercise myself—I ought to do something similar. Want to go for a walk with me now?"
"Oh, I don't think I have the energy." She smiled, remembering last night.
I smiled too. "Want some eggs or something, then?"
"Sure." She watched me open the refrigerator. "Imagine," she murmured, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table, "if you could get her arrested!"
"Oh, wow."
"Wouldn't that be something! You'd be a real-life Calico Jones!"
I fixed us toast and eggs, and we chatted about other things. I wondered about Porrocks. Everything about her seemed suspicious to me now—the way she engineered my working in the secluded boathouse, the way she wanted to eat hamburgers with me when Rick was floating there in the pilings, the way she acted when she saw his body.
Even if the police decided to suspect her, how could they tie her
to the death of Rick? First of all, there was no evidence Rick was hit or pushed into the water. If somebody went looking for clues, what could there be? Porrocks's fingerprints would be irrelevant. Fibers from Porrocks's clothing would be irrelevant. The boathouse hadn't been secured as a crime scene; I'd been coming and going and busting the place up. No, there was no way I was going to get hard evidence against her or anybody. All of this was distressing.
Audrey and I finished breakfast.
"I better get over there," I said. "But first, may I ask a favor?"
"Sure, Calico, what is it?"
My heart pounded with pleasure at that.
I asked, "Would you take a picture of me and Todd?" I'd been thinking about it, and realized we'd never been photographed together. It was something I wanted, and Mrs. McVittie was too unsteady to do it. I got out my Canon SLR, set it up, and showed Audrey how to frame the picture and click the shutter. I called for Todd, and in a minute he came bumping in from the bedroom.
I took him on my lap and sat on the living room floor, my back comfortably against the couch. He snuggled down, but I made sure his face was turned toward the camera.
The strobe popped.
"There," Audrey said.
----
After she left, I got on the phone and confirmed that the Erie Shores Care Center, evidently Mrs. Helen B. Donovan's residence, was a nursing home. I asked to speak to Mrs. Donovan.
"She doesn't have a phone in her room," said the brainlessly cooperative administrative person, who sounded like a young version of my Aunt Rosalie with a cold, a little whiny but polite. "She's in the Reminiscence Wing."
"Ah, yes."
"Are you calling from a doctor's office, or—?"
"Uh, no."
"Well, may I ask what this is regarding?"
"Of course, I'm sorry! I'm Mrs. Lee with Merrill Lynch, and I need to secure Mrs. Donovan's signature to disburse some dividends. Simple matter of getting a form to her to sign."
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