Following Polly

by Karen Bergreen

  Charlie seems a little flustered. “So, she was having an affair. That’s it?”

  “It was very intense. All that time in his apartment—only one meal?”

  “I need more.”

  “My gut told me that the affair was not going to last. She was a hot businesswoman. He had that young-nothing quality to him,” I say. I realize I sound kind of snobbish, so I decide to leave out the part about his ghastly soul patch. What if Charlie went through a soul patch phase himself?

  “So you think she may have broken things off, and then he killed her?” he asks.

  “Sure. It happens all the time on Law and Order.”

  “But it doesn’t happen all the time in real life. Alice, if every spurned lover committed homicide, there would be ten times as many prisons and graveyards, and New York City would be empty.”

  “This guy was young. He was impressionable, and Polly was probably the most fascinating person he would ever meet. And she was probably two-timing even him.”

  “What makes you say that?” Charlie asks me.

  “Well, there was this guy in the public library,” I say.

  “A librarian?” Charlie asks me.

  “No—a guy. Suspect Number Four, in fact. Someone at the library. But he looked out of place there. He was wearing a very expensive suit. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who ever goes to the library except to attend five-thousand-dollar-a-plate library benefits. He wasn’t there to read. He wasn’t there to research. He just seemed to be doing some weird library mating dance with Polly.”

  “Did they interact?”

  I pause. I reach into my pocket. I graze my hands over the crumpled piece of paper, and in my head I see her message: 12/20 Tender Dutch. She had left it for him in the card catalog. I decide in a split second that I can’t tell Charlie about the note. I’d have to tell him that in addition to following Polly I was reading her private written exchanges. This definitely falls outside the category of trying to learn about my life through learning about hers. I will have to keep this a secret for now.

  “They didn’t interact. But they were together.”

  Luckily, Charlie believes me. He types into his computer: Suspect Number Four: Library guy. Motive: Alice will make one up.

  “Any others?” Charlie asks.

  “Nothing comes to mind. I mean, she was incredibly flirtatious with every male cast member from her husband’s film. Did one of the stars kill her out of passion? It just seems unlikely. They all worshiped her husband, and while her behavior was highly annoying and even reprehensible, I didn’t see her spend days on end with any of them the way she did with the young lover,” I tell him. “Then again, my reconnaissance lasted only a few weeks. It’s likely that Polly made a trillion enemies before I entered the picture.”

  “Well. This is a good start,” Charlie says.

  “It is,” I agree. “But we better take a page from von Schlieffen.”

  “Schlieffen, as in the Plan?” Charlie asks, energized.

  “Yes,” I say, “we have to fight this war on every front.”

  “I thought I was the only World War One buff in this house.”

  “Oh, you are. I have limited enthusiasm for World War One.” I pause. “No offense or anything.”

  “How do you know about the Schlieffen Plan?”

  “Once I hear it or see it, it stays there,” I say, pointing to my head. “We have to plan our strategy. This is where you come in.”

  “Look, I was the one typing the suspects in the computer and asking the probing questions about their motives.”

  “And you did that well.” I note that I have never until this moment been condescending. “But now you have to take it up a notch.”

  I tell him he has to call Kovitz and see what he can get from him. Any clue would be helpful.

  “Do you suggest I just call Kovitz and say ‘Hey—so interesting about that Polly Dawson murder. Could you hand me your files?’”

  “You could do something a little more subtle.”

  “Subtle?”

  “Yes. How about something like, ‘Hey, I saw you on the news. You’re very telegenic. I dated that murder victim Polly Dawson when we were in college, and I think I may also know your suspect. She and I worked in the same office for a while. I could ask around for you.’”

  If Charlie were drinking right now, he’d be doing a spit take.

  “How do you know that Polly and I dated?”

  “I remember Polly crowing that she dumped you.”

  “I remember that, too,” Charlie laughs.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You dated Polly. Did you have a relationship with her? Are you sad that she’s dead?” I sound a little more fishwife than houseguest.

  “As long as you’re asking, I went on exactly two dates with her. I had no relationship with her, or interest in her, for that matter. And I’m not sad that she’s dead, but I feel for people who might be.”

  “You had no interest in her? You must have at one point.”

  “Sure. When I first met her, I thought she was pretty, smart, and ballsy. Then about five minutes into our first date, I realized she was not for me.”

  “How so?” I can’t help myself.

  “She was entitled and agenda-laden.”

  Ooh, agenda-laden. I like that. I can’t wait to tell Jean.

  “Not my type,” he continues.

  Is this the part where I tell him that I have a negative sense of entitlement and had to go to therapy to develop an agenda?

  “But you went on a second date with her?”

  “We made two dates when I asked her out initially. It would have been ungentlemanly of me to back out of the second date, which by the way, involved prepurchased tickets to something.”

  An a cappella concert offered by the Krokodiloes at Memorial Hall, I’m on the brink of saying. I keep my mouth shut, however. Sometimes it’s better not to advertise the Olympian memory.

  “Did you ever see her here in New York?”

  “On the side of a bus from time to time. But that was it. No. Frankly, I never even thought about her.”

  I wish I could say the same.

  “So will you talk to Kovitz?”

  “I will. Do you really think I have to tell him that he looks telegenic?”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, quoting Mother.

  “And…?”

  “And then you ask him for the file.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You’re the lawyer. I can tell you that on NYPD Blue they say things like ‘Whaddya got?’”

  “‘Whaddya got’ is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  We return home—Charlie’s home. He puts on his headphones and resumes his work. He spends at least five hours a day listening to recordings he made of the conversations with his father’s escorts. I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll hear today that he didn’t hear yesterday, but I don’t ask him. It’s his way. I do, however, need him to make a move on my situation. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for the shelter, and I’d be happy to live forever on the couch that belongs to the man I love. But at some point, he’s going to resolve his situation and ask me, as he did once before, “Who the fuck are you? And why are you following me?”

  Once I’m certain that Charlie will not be disturbed, I turn on his television. I’m gauging the progress on the Polly Dawson murder investigation. I’m still the number-one suspect according to the press and law enforcement, but the story and my sketch don’t seem to fascinate journalists. CNN keeps showing the same shot of Humphrey Dawson thanking the public for its support during this trying time. The story then glides into a still photo of the fifth precinct station house accompanied by a reporter’s remarks that the police “failed to maintain the suspect.”

  “Failed to maintain the suspect.” I escaped. And they don’t even name me or show my sketch. I’d be insulted if I weren’t so grateful. Last week, they a
ired a quick interview with Mother. Only Mother didn’t get a word in. Barnes did all the talking.

  “I can assure you, we have done nothing illegal.”

  “Wow. He doesn’t exactly have your back,” Charlie noted.

  “That should be our family slogan,” I said.

  “I’m sorry about that, Alice.” A short phrase, but with his intense delivery, I believed him.

  As for my coverage today, the local news is only slightly more detailed.

  “We are pursuing all of our leads,” Kovitz tells the camera.

  The newspapers have dropped the story. The New York Times carried the item on the front page of the Metro section the day after this occurred; the New York Post and the Daily News had a sketch of my face on New Year’s Day, and for the next week focused more on Humphrey. Six days after his wife’s murder, the Post had a picture of Humphrey with the headline single again.

  I am exhausted. I am currently knee-deep in Charlie’s case. Oxanna, Trini, and Justine seem to have fled New York City—or at least their official residences. Last week, I waited in a cramped stairwell across the street from Oxanna’s apartment for twenty-seven hours with no results. It was brutal. I was also tired and would have fallen asleep except for two things that kept me conscious. First, it was freezing and I had to keep my body parts moving. And second, I didn’t want to let Charlie down.

  I waited so patiently, but no one went into or came out of her small Inwood tenement. I didn’t see lights of any kind turn on or off. I gave up when it was clear that a pub owner down the street had spotted me and begun making inquiries among the locals.

  I went back to Charlie’s to warm up a little before I went to Gravesend, Brooklyn, where Trini supposedly lived. That was a short visit, as I saw a pile of mail addressed to her on the steps of her deserted building. Once assured she was nowhere to be found, I went back uptown again, to East Harlem. Justine lives there. Or should I say lived there. Someone else was looking for her, too. A nondescript man seemed miffed that he couldn’t find her.

  “She’ll be outta town for a few weeks,” a clerk from the bodega next door told him. “I look after her bird.”

  “How convenient that all of these girls skip town within three weeks of a tenuous accusation,” Charlie says. “This is very suspicious.”

  I agree. It is suspicious.

  Remy is still in town, though. He faithfully rides his bike to work every morning. And Charlie has been combing industry periodicals and blogs to see if he has made any changes at Kelt.

  “So far the only change he’s made is to ruin my father,” Charlie says.

  I have taken a few trips to see Henrietta Murch, and she is still staying close to home. I haven’t seen her make contact with anyone other than clerks in her local Duane Reade and Shop Best, and an attendant in a Laundromat.

  “Maybe they are speaking in code.”

  If Charlie knew a thing about TV, I would swear that he has watched too many episodes of Alias. I can pretty much bet my freedom on the fact that they aren’t speaking in code, but I know how badly Charlie needs answers so I promise him that I’ll keep following.

  Today, Charlie brings home a copy of a tabloid that describes Polly as a sex addict. It goes on to say that friends of hers who refuse to be identified have detailed a series of Polly’s extramarital relations.

  “What do you make of that?” he asks me. He’s drinking his third cup of coffee from Eat Here Now.

  “As someone who’s not above gossip, I make nothing of it,” I tell him. “Have you ever thought of investing in a coffeemaker? It could save you a lot of money.”

  “Nothing?” He’s ignoring my appliance input.

  “Nothing. All famous married people cheat on each other according to those rags. The people who write that junk know that readers will believe anything as long as it is typed. I know for a fact they make stuff up.”

  “How do you know that?” Charlie asks me in that cross-examination tone.

  “I read it somewhere,” I tell him.

  “How do you know that the somewhere that you read it didn’t make it up?” Charlie asks, half lawyer, half kidding.

  I crumple the tabloid and throw it at him.

  Our first fight.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he says seriously.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll get a coffeemaker, but you have to make the coffee.”

  I turn on the city’s twenty-four-hour news channel, New York 1. I learn that there will be a memorial service for Polly Dawson next Thursday.

  I call Charlie’s name: “Walter?”

  Nothing.

  “Walter.”

  Nothing.

  I go up to him. He’s wearing his headphones and writing furiously in a notebook. I know the only way to get his attention is to make physical contact. And even though I’m sleeping in his living room, wearing his clothes, and trusting him with my life, I’m nervous about touching him. First, it seems like an intrusion, and second, I fear that in touching him, I’ll give myself away. Charlie can’t know that I love him. He might question my motives for staying here, which I promise are genuinely separate from any romantic feeling. This is information I don’t wish to share with him.

  I tap him awkwardly on the top of his shoulder. He gasps slightly and looks at me in horror. Not quite the reaction I wanted. I was looking for something a little more neutral.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No—it’s just that I was deep in thought. I had missed something Doreen said, and I was able to catch it this time.”

  Doreen was the first woman I saw Charlie with at Eat Here Now. We had no address for her.

  “Anything good?”

  “I’m not sure. When I questioned her about my father, I asked her what she knew about him, and she kept referring to my mother as if she were still alive.”

  “Oh,” I say, knowing this is a sensitive subject for him.

  “It lowers her credibility,” he says to me. “If she was connected with my father at all, she would know within minutes that he is a widower. She obviously has the wrong guy.”

  “Maybe your father wouldn’t tell her about your mom.” I know this is a mistake once the words escape my lips.

  “You don’t know my father. And you didn’t know my mother”—Charlie raises his voice with me—“and you didn’t see how they were together. My father wouldn’t disrespect her by paying for sex and pretending that she was alive.”

  I’ve let Charlie down somehow, implying that Doreen is more credible than his father.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “but it sounds like she will ultimately be helpful.”

  “She’ll be helpful. After I ruin her. They’re all lying, I assure you.”

  I believe Charlie. I believe him because he believes me, and this agreement we have is what keeps us committed to seeing this thing through. Besides, it’s Charlie.

  I change the subject.

  “Guess what I saw on New York One?”

  “They caught the killer and you’re exonerated.”

  “No, close. But there will be a memorial service for Polly next Thursday.”

  “Where?”

  “Undisclosed location.”

  “That’s helpful.” Charlie puts his headphones back on and starts taking notes. I tap him again without any hesitation.

  “What?” he asks as he takes one speaker off his ear.

  “We’re going.” I’m surprised by my command.

  “What?” He takes the headset off. He looks cute when he’s scruffy.

  “We’re going to go to the memorial service. It will be a way to get information.”

  “We don’t know where it is, and you’re running from the law. The place is going to be packed with police.”

  Charlie does have a point.

  “You’re right. You should go.”

  “I should go?”

  “Yes, go. It couldn’t be more perfect. Talk to Kovitz. Get a sense of the crowd. Look
for suspicious people.”

  It sounds dumb as it comes out of my mouth. The only person who successfully assesses suspicious people is Lieutenant Columbo. The runner-up is a tie between Adrian Monk, the hero of the USA Network, and Robert Goren, Vincent D’Onofrio’s character on Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Charlie, for the record, is nothing like either of these characters. But it’s a start.

  “How am I going to figure out where they are holding the service?”

  “Easy.”

  Charlie looks unhappy. I can’t have an uncommitted player on the team.

  “Look,” I continue. “Trust me, please. I’ve gotten this far. This apartment is one block from a police station. And yet, undisguised, I remain undiscovered. With an extra brain—yours—we can not only run away from the law, but we can make them scratch their heads as to why they ever considered me a suspect in the first place.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just follow my lead,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” Charlie says. I think he might be smiling. He puts his headphones back on and returns to his notes.

  I’m getting a little bored. We are in the midst of an ice storm. No one is going anywhere today. There will be no following. Charlie takes a break from his “research” and is reading The Complete History of World War I. He says it relaxes him. I look in the kitchen to see if there is anything to eat. The refrigerator is empty except for a small square of cheddar cheese. I look in the freezer, hoping there might be an entire Carvel cake. There’s nothing but frozen peas and spinach, both of which are severe victims of freezer burn. The cabinets have to have something. Oh, good, Rice-A-Roni. . .“the San Francisco treat.” I’m now humming the old ad. Jean used to live on that stuff in law school. I grab the box. Damn. It expired last April. There’s a can of chicken broth in the back of the cabinet. It still has two more good months. And that’s it. I can’t believe this guy has no food in his house.

  I notice there is another cabinet on top of the cabinet. I climb onto the counter to open it. And voilà: salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Nutmeg? There has got to be a story behind that one. I take them down, along with the can of soup. And I realize that after more than a week of burgers and omelets from Eat Here Now, I’ve probably had no vegetables in close to a month. I’m not a health nut or anything, but that can’t be good for you. I grab the peas, the spinach, and the cheese.