Following Polly

by Karen Bergreen

“Okay, the small of your back.” Charlie titters. His leg touches mine for a second.

  “That,” Jean pronounces, “was a gesture.”

  “Let’s get back to my plight,” I say, annoyed. “Did Hayes give you any idea who Humphrey was sleeping with?”

  “No. But I sensed that he knew.”

  “Did Hayes say that he thought that Humphrey killed her?”

  “No. I couldn’t bring it up. I don’t want to seem obvious. This lasagna is so good. You should be a chef.”

  “You mean instead of a murderer.”

  “That is what I love about you, Alice Teakle, your perspective.”

  “That is what you love about her?” Charlie asks, annoyed.

  “Yeah,” Jean is equally annoyed, “is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Charlie says.

  And he’s quiet.

  I want to have a little conversation with Jean to see if she caught Charlie’s mood change. If I had more self-esteem I’d think that maybe he conjured up a million other things about me to love more than my perspective. And I want to know if Jean caught this as well.

  I break the silence. I report my discovery of the day.

  “I’ve figured out Polly’s computer password.”

  “How’d you figure it out?” Charlie asks.

  “You’re in the presence of greatness, don’t you know?” Jean tells him. And then she looks at me to make sure I understand that she’s just done me a favor.

  “Of course I do,” says Charlie.

  I try to make eye contact with him to see if there is any more to this than empty conversation. “But I like to know some of the secrets.” He continues to direct these conversations to Jean.

  “Well, as you know, she has—or I should say had—an e-mail address at Principessa, where people could contact her. So she may have a mailbox full of evidence in some other section of cyberspace, but—”

  I pause. I’m really enjoying the attention.

  “But… ?” Charlie seems impatient.

  “Yes,” says Jean. I think she’s surprised to see me revel in the spotlight.

  “After several tries I got her password.”

  “Let me guess,” Jean says, “‘Jack Birnbaum’?” Jean’s never gotten over Polly “stealing” Professor Jack Birnbaum from her.

  “No.”

  “Let me try,” Charlie says. “‘Humphrey.’”

  “No.”

  “Okay. This game has gotten boring,” Jean says. “Spill it.”

  “You guys have to think like Polly. Polly’s password wouldn’t be other people’s names—she’s far too narcissistic. Her password is simple—her birthday.”

  “How do you know her birthday?”

  “Easy,” I say, “it’s my birthday. April second.”

  “Her password is zero-four-zero-two-one-nine-seven—?”

  “No, silly. Polly would never remind herself of the year she was born. She wants to have the option of lying to herself about her age. Her password is just April second.”

  “Score one for Nancy Drew,” Jean says. “Now tell us what was in the e-mail?”

  “Lots of fan letters. I’d probably be vain too if I had that many people writing to tell me how much they loved me.”

  “Are you sure they were fans and not love interests?” Jean sounds nervous. I wonder if she’s concerned that Preston had a thing for Polly.

  “No, there was nothing from Preston Hayes, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Jean doesn’t say anything.

  “There was one from a Yahoo! account that said ‘I am way ahead of you, princess, we’re off.’”

  “‘We’re off’?” Charlie says. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know—it sounds too curt to be a break-up note,” I say.

  “I agree. Why not say ‘we’re over’?” Jean offers. “Unless he’s foreign.”

  “Whatever it is, it does sound suspicious,” Charlie says. “We may have a Suspect Number Five here.”

  “This could’ve been written by one of the existing suspects. It could be from D.M. She was tired of being pushed around,” I say.

  “No,” Jean says. “From what you have told me, I don’t think D.M. would ever confront Polly verbally.”

  “But she would stab her?” Charlie says.

  “Yes. I think she’s been too weak to ever say anything to Polly, but maybe she had this rage that took her over physically.”

  “Now who watches too much TV?” I joke with her.

  Although, the scenario is remarkably similar to last year’s sensational news item about the murder of the rich and glamorous hotel tycoon Sherry Butters. Apparently, Sherry’s personal assistant had tired of her boss’s contemptuousness and killed her with a free weight after being scolded.

  “This just doesn’t seem like a D.M.-ish note,” Jean insists.

  “But you’ve never even seen her.”

  “I know,” Jean tells me. “But I know her type. The jealous underdog friend who does everything while the vapid beauty takes all the credit.”

  “Kind of like you and me,” I joke.

  “I don’t think Jean’s jealous of you,” Charlie says seriously.

  Jean and I were thinking that I was the jealous underdog. I don’t know if I should be flattered that Charlie thinks of me as a beauty or disappointed that he thinks of me as vapid.

  “In any event,” I say, putting aside that thread completely, “this note could’ve been written by anyone.”

  “Do you remember the exact address?” Charlie asks me.

  “I do,” I say, “it’s four dollar signs, then ‘at yahoo dot com.’ And no, I can’t think of anybody that would tie this in with the suspects we have or anything else about Polly that I previously noticed.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure,” Jean says, “that message seems to indicate much more of a motive than your being fired.”

  “The only thing now,” I say, “is to figure out how to get the cops to read this message. Hint, hint, hint: Talk to Kovitz,” I say directly to Charlie.

  “So, are you seeing Hayes again?” Charlie changes the subject.

  “He said he would call me,” Jean says. “And as a certified interpreter of manspeak, I can tell you that could mean one of two things. Either he will call me or he will not call me.”

  “I hope he calls you,” I tell her.

  “Me too. It would be a nice pick-me-up after being dumped by a twenty-three-year-old who staples for a living.”

  Jean looks at me and remembers that I was once a twenty-three-year-old who stapled for a living.

  “And does it badly,” she adds.

  I don’t say anything.

  “Speaking of calling, your shrink has been calling me.”

  “Dr. Moses?” I panic, wondering if Charlie will judge me for going to a shrink. But then again, he seems relatively okay with my lurking outside his apartment just days after my Polly gig ended.

  “She’s worried, and she wants to know if I know anything.”

  “How did she get your number?”

  “She said you talked about me in therapy and she looked me up in Martindale Hubbell. Frankly, I was flattered she remembered me. Do I have a big part?”

  “Of course, Jean, you are the lead. I am the supporting player. We talked about your problems for forty-eight minutes and sprinkled in stories about me, the wacky friend.”

  “Very funny. She just sounded kind of great on the phone. As if she was genuinely distraught over your disappearance and well-being. I don’t know if my shrink would do that, and we’ve been together for years. It made me a little jealous.”

  “Maybe when we figure all of this out, you guys can go to Moses for couples’ therapy?” Charlie suggests.

  Charlie and I have been making some progress on our list of suspects. I think we’ve almost ruled out Jenna McNair. I’ve been doing some simple research about her on the Internet and she’s been popping up on all sorts of plastic-surgery-gone-awry Web sites. Acc
ording to plasticdisasters.com and leave.my.face.alone.org Jenna was in Zihuatenejo, Mexico, enjoying a teeny bit of liposuction and a faulty nose job at the time of Polly’s death. Leave.my.face.alone.org actually videotapes movie stars as they exit and enter plastic surgery vacations and then posts the video on the Internet. According to the date that was flashing on the tape, Jenna checked herself into Dr. Pedro Trujillo’s office on December 24. She’s seen leaving his office with a small Band-Aid on her nose on December 30. She’s limping.

  “Is it possible that she came back to New York during that time, killed Polly, and then hopped on the plane?” Charlie asks me, hopefully.

  Normally I’d say yes. But her nose does look different. It would mean her coming back to New York very soon after surgery.

  “Let’s assume she had the surgery. Let’s assume that she left the office a little earlier than scheduled to come back and kill Polly. I don’t know that she’d have been able to muster the force necessary after having surgery done on her head and midsection.”

  “People can muster a lot of strength when they’re angry.”

  Charlie and I continue to do our research on the Internet. I’m pretty certain we have identified D.M. She is Doris Meisel. According to a couple of articles in obscure business magazines, Doris has been Polly’s business partner for more than ten years. And wouldn’t you know it, but the Principessa stores were her brainchild. This information, however, isn’t repeated often. I can only guess that Polly silenced Doris in the presence of reporters. There are few pictures of Doris in Principessa articles. After all, who would photograph an average-looking middle-aged woman when a hot charismatic number was available? This piece of research has only confirmed for me what I had previously interpreted as Doris’s resentment of Polly.

  “Enough to kill her?” Charlie asks as he pushes me off his computer chair so that he can take his proper place.

  “We’ll only know that when I can continue with my research,” I say, lobbying for more than an hour a day.

  It’s been a week since I saw LaDonna and what looked to be Charlie’s father at the 125th Street Metro North stop. I haven’t gone back there. I’ve parked myself outside Rosalie’s house, in large part because I think it will provide me with no more damaging information about Charlie’s father.

  “I thought you said you were through with Rosalie?” Charlie asks.

  “I was, but I reviewed her files and I get a lying vibe,” I say, even though I’m the one who is lying.

  “I trust you,” Charlie tells me.

  Doris has agreed to meet me at a diner for lunch. I knew from her eating habits with Polly that she wasn’t happy going to fancy power spots for her midday meal. I also figured that she would be relieved to avoid sucking on a lettuce leaf, surrounded by skinny women.

  So we’re at the Delish (by the way, they have the greatest chicken wings), sitting across from each other. I can tell she doesn’t recognize me in the slightest. I’m not Alice Teakle of murdering fame, but rather Theresa Olson of Rockport, Illinois. I’m blond today. Thanks to Charlie. He bought me a wig as a gift. I was concerned about my outfit, but he surprised me with a wrap dress.

  “I thought this would look good,” he said. But I couldn’t tell if he meant good as a disguise or good good.

  “Men really do prefer blondes?” I said.

  Charlie doesn’t say anything.

  “Thank you,” I told him, deciding not to pursue it.

  “What exactly do you need to know?” Doris asks me. She looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. She’s let her straight orange bob grow into a multihued, scattered head of hair. And she’s wearing colors: mostly navy, a little white, and a spot of yellow. No beige in sight. She’s two inches shorter. Gone are the pumps. Doris is wearing clogs. The twenty-five pounds she had to lose before is easily up to thirty-five, and she’s sans makeup.

  In spite of this, she’s glowing.

  “I don’t know if I told you in our previous phone conversation, but I’m new to this city. I just started at Columbia Business School. We’re doing a project for one of our classes where we set up a model business.” I’m able to fudge my way through this conversation because this was exactly the course my father taught at Northwestern before he left. “I’ve been researching successful and powerful women in New York City, and your name keeps popping up.”

  “It does?” Doris is clearly used to being the unknown talent at Principessa.

  “Well, yes. In business school we look at all sorts of business models and you seem to be the brains behind the Principessa success story.”

  “That’s arguable,” Doris says candidly. She’s not used to a flood of compliments.

  “I picked you and your company because I’m thinking of going into business with my closest friend. Her name is Jean.” I use Jean’s real name to give a feeling of authenticity. “But I wanted to know if that was a mistake. I mean, is it better to go into business with someone I only know professionally—Is it even a mistake to go into business with a woman?”

  Doris thinks about what I’m saying.

  “You should be more concerned with the kind of personality you do business with rather than the manner in which you know each other.”

  At this point I take a huge bite of my chicken pot pie. “Mmm,” I say. “Nothing better than comfort food.”

  “You really want to avoid a difficult personality,” she adds.

  “Now, have you worked with another woman?” I say as naively as I can.

  Doris looks shocked and doesn’t say anything.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I have my information wrong? The files at Columbia are so untrustworthy.” I fuss with my purse.

  Doris gives me a well-deserved look of disbelief.

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  “Know?”

  “Oh—I worked with Polly Dawson.” Doris underscores Polly’s name with her tone. “Principessa was her company.”

  “Oh.” I try to drum up only a flicker of recognition in my eyes.

  “You don’t know who that is, do you?” she says.

  “No. I’m so embarrassed. I guess I spend too much time studying and not enough time living in the world,” I say. “That’s why I want to go into business with Jean. She’s all ‘world.’” I mime quotation marks. “And I’m all ‘books.’” I giggle self-deprecatingly.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” Doris says gently. “Polly Dawson died a couple of months ago.”

  “Died? Oh my. That’s horrible.” I gulp. “Was she ill?”

  Doris thinks about this for a moment, and then says, “No, she wasn’t ill. She was killed.”

  “Oh my. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Was it business related? Are you scared?”

  Here, I sound inauthentic.

  “No. As a matter of fact I’m not scared at all. It was some deranged classmate of hers from college.”

  “Wow,” I say, doing my best not to seem deranged.

  Doris interprets my silence to mean that I’m suddenly awkward over the unexpected news of her friend’s death.

  “We’ve all been coping with the loss.” She says this with an air of someone who has gotten over it.

  “I do hope you’re okay,” I say sympathetically.

  “I am okay. Between you and me, Polly Dawson was one of the most fascinating people with whom I have ever worked, but she was also one of the most difficult.”

  “That can be complicated,” I agree.

  “Yes. Very.” Doris is licking her hand after downing a particularly sauce-laden chicken wing.

  “If it’s not inappropriate, I’d still like to get some advice.”

  “No. It’s not inappropriate at all.” Doris is now grabbing my french fries as if they were hers from the start.

  We’re friends.

  “Thank you. You’re saying it’s okay to work with my friend as long as she’s not difficult?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying. And you should make c
lear to each other what your roles are. Sometimes if there is an imbalance of power, one of the partners ends up treating the other one like a doormat.”

  “I hear you. Between you and me, Jean is the charismatic one. I have a feeling I will be up late crunching numbers while she’s at cocktail parties.” I’m only slightly misrepresenting our relationship here.

  “If I were you, I would have a talk with her now. Otherwise you may want to end up wringing her neck.”

  “That’s really good advice. Thanks.” Can Doris see me shudder?

  “You are very welcome. I don’t know. Something about you. You have a very promising future.”

  The something about me is that I’m wanted for killing her business partner.

  One thing is for sure, Doris Meisel isn’t remotely distressed by Polly’s death. Does that make her a killer?

  It doesn’t rule her out.

  Today is Charlie’s meeting with Kovitz. I can’t focus on anything else. I brief him on all of the key questions he must ask:

  Am I still the number-one suspect?

  Are they still looking for me? And to what extent?

  Who else do they suspect?

  What do they have on anyone else?

  Have they followed up on the tip that Preston gave about Humphrey’s gal pal?

  “I’ll do what I can,” Charlie tells me. “I also want to talk to him about my father.”

  “How did you and Kovitz get so tight, anyway?” I ask him.

  “When I was in law school, I worked in a legal clinic that represented a bunch of cops who were accused of stealing drugs from suspects and then selling them on the black market. Kovitz was lumped in with those guys, but insisted that he knew nothing. But he was with them all the time. He had complete faith in all police officers and was blind to their wrongdoing. All of the accused were being investigated and tried at the same time. Some flipped early and everyone was implicated except Kovitz. The DA, for whatever reason—I think economy—refused to believe in Kovitz’s innocence and pushed for trying him along with all of the others. Sometimes the jury has a hard time parsing one defendant from another. It was my first real legal work. I got the judge to grant a motion severing his trial from the other guys. It eventually came out that Kovitz really was innocent. He says it may never have come out if not for me. I don’t know.”