Following Polly

by Karen Bergreen

  “Are you okay?” He immediately grabbed my hands and buried them in his.

  “Oh, it’s fine. They’ll thaw in a few minutes.”

  But Charlie wouldn’t let go. He held on to my hands until they no longer felt like icicles—about twenty minutes. Actually, it was about seventeen minutes, but I let my hands linger a little, just to see what it felt like.

  It felt pretty good. In fact, I found myself flustered when Charlie asked about my progress. I gave him one-word answers and refused to look into his eyes. I was too close to giving myself away.

  So, this morning, Charlie let me sleep in a bit and when I woke up, he was at my feet.

  “I got you something,” he said.

  Was I dreaming?

  “Here.” And he threw the gloves at me.

  “What if I hadn’t been here to defrost you? That could have been a disaster,” he said.

  I’m trying not to analyze this statement. Was Charlie trying to tell me that our little hand snuggle was unpleasant? Was he trying to be romantic?

  “He’s a nice guy,” a voice in my head tells me. “You were cold. He bought you gloves.”

  I listen to that voice as I head down to Bloomingdale’s. It’s a beautiful day, unseasonably warm for the last week in January. I’m not even sure I need to wear Charlie’s gloves, but I have no idea how late this’ll go, and this unexpected warm front may disappear. I head down into the subway station and take the N train to Astoria. LaDonna is the only hooker from Charlie’s list who lives in Queens, which is fine by me. I always get lost there. Even after weeks of going to Silvercup, I still try to avoid that borough.

  LaDonna has given the strongest and most detailed evidence against Charlie’s father. I’m reading the file right now. It looks as if LaDonna and Charlie’s father met once a week. She’d go to the bottom of the Clark Street subway station in Brooklyn and wait for Charlie’s father’s train, which usually arrived at five minutes after seven even though their appointment was seven o’clock. She’d wait for him to get out of the train. The two would linger separately by the train tracks until all of the other passengers went up in the station elevator, and then they would wait to go into an elevator together. When the elevator reached the station lobby, the two would go to a livery cab station one block away. They’d go into the back of the cab and he’d ask the cab driver to drive around. At the end of the “ride,” he would furnish her with cash. After it was over the two would get out of the livery cab. LaDonna would get on the train back to Astoria, and he’d hail a yellow taxi and take it, presumably, back to his apartment in Manhattan.

  I get out of the train at Thirty-first Street. I have to follow the little map I drew from the Internet to get to LaDonna’s apartment. It’s easy to find because she lives above Classy Girl Tanning Salon. I can see the bright orange sign from a block away. I wait outside the apartment, pretending to review LaDonna’s file, which I’ve memorized at this point. I’m lucky. She comes down within twenty minutes, and even on this winter day, she looks ready for work. She wears a very short down coat and something shorter (at least I hope there’s something) underneath.

  I follow her back to the N train. I’m lucky once again; a train comes just as we get there. LaDonna sits down and starts to read People magazine. It’s the plastic surgery issue. I wish I could get a little closer and check it out; there are some stars I have questions about.

  We get off at Fifty-ninth Street, where I started. LaDonna goes to the uptown express platform. I notice that she helps herself to a pack of wild cherry Life Savers from a newsstand just before gliding onto the Number 5 train.

  Our first stop is Eighty-sixth Street.

  Please get off here. I’m not in the mood to be so far from headquarters. We head toward the next stop. It’s almost two miles to the 125th Street station, and the ride seems long.

  Please get off. Please get off. Please get off.

  LaDonna doesn’t move. In fact, her eyes are closed. I hear the conductor’s voice over the speaker. It’s inaudible except for the words “125th Street.” A group of passengers gets up and forms a line to exit the train.

  LaDonna’s still there.

  The doors open. All of a sudden, LaDonna is on her feet, rushing to exit. I just make it.

  We head west on 125th Street. First we go to a donut store. LaDonna gets a cherry-filled donut. For the record, she pays for it. I get a cup of coffee, which is so clear, it looks like tea. But I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night.

  LaDonna heads to the stairs to the Metro North platform. I follow her. I wonder where we are going. Westchester? Connecticut?

  And I’m really hoping that this does not involve some sort of overnight stay. I don’t feel like sleeping in someone’s backyard. That part of my life is behind me.

  It crosses my mind to wonder why LaDonna chose to pick up Metro North here in Harlem. Grand Central Station is one station stop on the downtown express from where we got off the N train. Also, when you go to Grand Central, you don’t have to go outside in this cold February air to get on the train. And you can get a better seat on the train if you get on at its point of origin. But then again, maybe LaDonna is running late and felt that going to 125th Street by subway is faster than getting there by train and going downtown.

  Sure enough, as we reach the top of the stairs, a train is pulling into the station. I look at LaDonna’s face to see if there are any signs at all of urgency that she needs to catch this train right away. I hear the conductor announce that the train is going express to White Plains. LaDonna doesn’t budge from the platform. The doors close.

  Good. I’m not in the mood for White Plains anyway.

  Another train pulls into the station. Destination: New Haven.

  LaDonna doesn’t budge.

  Where are we going, LaDonna?

  A bunch of passengers get on the train. One gets off.

  LaDonna remains behind. In fact, LaDonna heads down the stairs of the train station. She is following the one man who has gotten off. They don’t say a word to each other. LaDonna moves toward a cluster of livery cabs parked under the train station. The cars are all dark, beat-up Ford Crown Victorias. While they don’t share the medallions that identify all of the city’s yellow cabs, they all seem to purchase the same car deodorizer that hangs from the front mirror.

  LaDonna opens the door to the first livery cab in the line, and the man follows her inside.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t get into another livery cab and ask the guy to follow this one. This isn’t the right neighborhood for that. The driver may be up to no good.

  Worse yet, the driver may think I am up to no good and call the cops.

  So I stand in the spot where LaDonna has picked up the car. I’m frozen.

  “Hey, pretty girl, you want a ride?” I hear a West Indian accent coming from behind me.

  I turn around, and am relieved to see that it is coming from this cluster of livery cabs. The driver is boldly smoking a joint, and I notice that his car is missing the deodorizer.

  “No, thank you,” I tell him.

  “What, you scared?”

  Yes, of course I am scared. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Immigration.”

  “Bitch,” he says.

  Oh well, at least he thinks I am pretty.

  I’ve been here close to an hour. I don’t want to give up. But it may be fruitless for me to stay here. For all I know, LaDonna and the man have taken a taxi to his house, and I’ll never see her again. But I’m compelled to stay.

  A car pulls into the livery area. LaDonna gets out. She heads over to the 125th Street station steps and I follow her. I guess we’re going home. I turn around for a second, and I see the man get out of the car and pay the driver from the outside window. The man turns around and hails a yellow taxi cab. I see his face.

  I recognize it.

  William Redwin.

  Charlie’s father.

  LaDonna and I ta
ke the same express train down, but we don’t share a car. It’s not necessary. Besides, I need to be alone to reflect on my circumstances. I’m at a loss. Could Charlie be wrong? He was so sure of his father’s innocence.

  How will I tell him?

  Or do I tell him? Charlie is, after all, my link to freedom.

  Maybe that guy wasn’t his father. I didn’t even get a good look at him.

  But in my heart I know it’s Charlie’s father. I have a good memory.

  Why do I know what William Redwin looks like? Last summer before Polly was murdered, before I started following Polly, before I was fired even, Jean tried to fix me up with one of her boyfriend’s friends. Her boyfriend at the time was the oh-so-rich and powerful Hugh Price. Jean wanted me to date someone in Hugh’s circle. That way we could spend more time together, as Hugh had pretty much monopolized all of her free time since he had first taken a shine to her.

  “He’s going to bring a friend to dinner,” Jean told me. “No pressure. I don’t even know him. But Hugh is always talking about him as if he were some kind of folk hero. His name is William. He’s rich. I think he’s a little older than we are.”

  A little older. William was old enough to be my father.

  That said, I wish he were my father. My stepfather, I mean.

  I saw his allure immediately. William was the gentlest person I had ever met. And like me, he noticed things. Things men don’t typically notice. Jean and Hugh were so involved in each other that William and I were forced to spend the entire evening together.

  “Maybe we should get them their own table,” he joked.

  “Or a room.”

  William laughed. “It must be hard to lose your closest friend to Hugh Price.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that with me and Jean.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t think so. But Hugh’s a very charming guy and he likes to have a monopoly in all arenas of his life. You probably don’t get to see your friend much.”

  William was right. I was happy for Jean. The whole thing was exciting, but I couldn’t help thinking our friendship had become a casualty of their relationship.

  “All things considered, I’m happy for her.”

  “That’s magnanimous of you.”

  William was a charming companion. He asked me about my job. I ended up telling him all about Mona: her bizarre eating habits, her power trips, and her fascination with “yummy actors.”

  “I take it she’s not a role model.”

  “Not at all.” I said it in an uncharacteristically wistful way.

  “It will happen for you,” William said, as if he knew me.

  And I felt as if I knew him. I didn’t know what it was, but I had an affinity for him. Nothing romantic, but he made me feel at ease.

  And he seemed so familiar.

  The next day, I received a handwritten note at my office.

  Dear Alice:

  It was lovely to meet you last night. You are a delightful and beautiful young woman. I haven’t laughed like that in months. Hugh was right when he said that I would find you very appealing.

  Having said that, I must be honest with you. When Hugh told me that he wanted me to meet someone, I thought he was referring to your friend Jean. I was unaware of his matchmaking ambitions. And while I’m flattered that Hugh thought we would make a fine pair, it is impossible for me to think of that sort of relationship right now. I recently lost my wife and a romance with another woman is unimaginable.

  I did not mean to meet you under false pretenses. Please excuse me.

  Maybe we’ll meet again under other circumstances.

  William.

  William Redwin! It had to be Charlie’s father. Of course he looked familiar. He was a grown-up version of his son. Not exactly. William and Charlie both had a full, floppy head of hair, a lean physique, and a slouch. Jean hadn’t told me his last name; Hugh probably hadn’t told her.

  Charlie’s dad. I went on a blind date with the father of the man I have loved quietly for over ten years. I’m not one of those “this is a sign” people. But this had to be a sign.

  We’re back in Charlie’s living room. Jean is presenting a very detailed account of her date with Preston Hayes.

  “Normally, I would blow off a guy in a vest. But he looked really sexy in it.”

  I look at Charlie. He’s tuning Jean out.

  “Earth to Walter,” I say to him gently.

  “Oh, huh,” Charlie says. He’s especially quiet. I wonder if he knows I’m lying to him about his father.

  “Everything okay?” I ask him.

  Charlie takes another bite of lasagna. I made it yesterday after I found a bag of dried porcini mushrooms in his overstuffed desk drawer. I almost missed them as they were housed in an old empty wallet, with long-expired credit cards and a $2.60 taxi receipt. I may as well admit to snooping. I’ve never been the jealous type, but I keep replaying that conversation we had in his kitchen over a week ago when he told me about the vermin-phobic girlfriend.

  So I checked out Charlie’s desk drawer to see if I could find a picture of the mysterious ex. I’m not sure what I hoped to find.

  I couldn’t find any pictures of her, but I did spot some porcini mushrooms. How bizarre to find porcini mushrooms in a desk drawer.

  “What are you doing in my desk?” Charlie asked me.

  “I was looking for these.” I held up the porcini mushrooms.

  “You knew I had porcini mushrooms in my desk?”

  “I smelled them.”

  “You smelled porcini mushrooms from my desk?”

  “Yes. I cook with them a lot, so I’m very in tune with their aroma.” I felt so guilty lying to this man who has opened his home to me. But I couldn’t very well ask him about the ex.

  “Well, make something with them. You’re the cook.”

  Wow. He believed me. He didn’t even question me any further about the mushrooms. I made up this thoroughly preposterous story, and he trusts that I’m telling the truth.

  So here he is eating my porcini lasagna. I’ve never cooked a porcini mushroom in my life, but I do have a safe meat lasagna recipe. I replaced the meat with the porcini mushrooms after I soaked them in one of Charlie’s fine cabernets.

  “Everything okay?” I repeat to Charlie.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m just waiting for her to get to the good part.” Charlie points at Jean.

  “The good part is,” Jean says, “he is H-O-T.”

  “Jean, I didn’t risk my freedom, your freedom, and his freedom”—I point at Charlie—“just so you could improve your social life. The big question is whether Preston gave you any scoop.”

  “That’s the best part. He did. He took me for drinks at the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station, which as you know I may normally think is a little turista. But let’s face it, Preston Hayes could make a Bennigan’s seem romantic.”

  “Yes.” I gently guide her back to the point. “What happened at the Campbell Apartment?”

  “Well, in the one-jillionth of a second that we stood in line before they recognized him and whisked us to a table, he had his hand on the small of my back.”

  “I think she wants to know about the murder,” Charlie suggests, picking up on my impatience.

  Don’t get me wrong. In other circumstances, I would pay money to hear about the minutiae of Jean’s date with Preston Hayes. It’s only because I’m a wanted killer that I’ve lost interest in Jean’s colorful romantic life.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “Did he give you anything?”

  “Oh, that.” Jean takes a huge bite of lasagna. “Total scoop.” I love when Jean talks like a valley girl.

  “And?” Charlie’s paying attention now.

  “According to Mr. Hayes, Humphrey Dawson’s not the weepy widower everyone claims.”

  “What do you mean?” Charlie and I ask in unison.

  Jean makes a face to me indicating that she thinks Charlie’s and my synchronicity is meaningful.

  “Humphrey
Dawson was having an affair.”

  “Did Hayes say with whom?” Charlie asks before I do.

  “No. He just said it was common knowledge. Humphrey would disappear for hours at a time, he had lipstick on his shirt, and he always acted strange around his wife.”

  “How?” I need more information than the word “strange.” I’m strange.

  “Whenever she’d come to the set, he would avoid her. She was clearly checking up on him, and when she started showing up more and more, he’d become irritated. He’d complain about it to all the guys. The guys were pissed off about this, and that is why they did not approach him at the Barneys thing.”

  I love Jean. This explains so much.

  “Did he tell the police?”

  “Of course he told the police,” Jean says. She hugs me. “I think this nightmare is going to end soon. Even if Humphrey’s girlfriend has nothing to do with this, the cops have got to think there are other people who had a bigger motive than you.”

  Charlie ignores our glee. He too is digging into the lasagna.

  “Did you ask Hayes whether she was sleeping around?”

  “Yes, and he said that Polly would flirt shamelessly with all of the guys on the set just to get a little attention from her husband. He said that he felt for her, that some might think she was pathetic, but that she was a woman in love who had put all of her trust in this man.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m still elated, but I try to think of all the ways this information can play out. Jean’s still talking.

  “He so gets it,” Jean says. “Here he is, a heartthrob, but he gets it. I can’t believe I go out with these schlumpy lawyers. No offense, Walter,” she says when she realizes that Charlie is a schlumpy lawyer. “And they don’t understand a thing about feelings. He could have anyone he wants, and yet he gets it.”

  “He’s an actor,” Charlie says, “and he wants to get into your pants.”

  “No, he was the perfect gentleman. That’s the thing.”

  “What about his hand on your lower back?”

  “The small of my back,” Jean corrects him.