Following Polly

by Karen Bergreen

  “Only to the extent that Kovitz was telling me the truth.”

  Kovitz. Mr. Reliable. The one who suspected me, and the one who couldn’t effectively keep me off the streets. Let’s hope he has gotten this one right, otherwise poor Charlie is going to have to go to the precinct.

  As Charlie leads the officers away from the town house, I creep up slowly. They’ve left their post completely, and there’s a field of supposedly vacant space surrounding the entrance. I rush to the door. I don’t have the key anymore; Mona made me hand it to her the day she fired me. As if I’d come back to the place.

  As if.

  Mona was short-sighted, though. She forgot that intimate knowledge of her nighttime alarm system trumped the key. Basically, she just didn’t want me to come in while she was there. I know that she would never have changed the security code. I press it: 276119. That is, 276 standing for her former weight and 119 standing for her current one. Or should I say, current as of about nine and a half hours ago? The alarm is now off, and the door is unlocked. I go in. There’s police tape all over the place. The reception area is filled with it. Is this where Mona was killed? I walk by the reception area—my old desk. I look at it. There is a note in Mona’s awful handwriting.

  Jane,

  Make sure you remove the menus off the ring binders that are closed.

  Did I mention that Mona has—had—the worst grammar on the planet? The note is written on a pad of paper that says A DOG’S LOVE IS PAWSOME.

  Obviously Jane’s.

  I snoop around Jane’s desk. There’s a picture of her—I recognize her from the news—with her boyfriend, I presume. He has his arm around her. They look as if they are attending a theme banquet at a beach resort: many tan people in hats, and Jane and the boyfriend are holding up drinks with umbrellas in them.

  Mona’s office door is closed and there is police tape tied in a bow around the doorknob. But the door’s not locked. I open it. I’m wearing Charlie’s gloves. The office looks as it always does. There are pictures of Mona covering the walls. Mona with Tom Cruise. Mona with Michael Douglas. Mona with a variety of soap opera stars. I see that Mona has added a picture of Preston Hayes to her wall. Too bad she didn’t live long enough to know that he’s hot and heavy with my best friend. That’s not bad revenge.

  Although killing her makes more of a statement.

  But I didn’t kill her. And I don’t even know if her killer wanted revenge. A restaurant strike would be more effective.

  The ring binder with the menus sits on her desk. There is an e-mail from Will Smith. It looks as if he was checking out her availability to cast his next movie. “I’ll make the availability,” I can hear Mona saying. “For Will-icious Smith, I’m always available.”

  From the looks of things, it seems that she was stabbed in the hallway. But why the tape on the door? I check it a little more carefully. Maybe she and the killer spent some time in there before they went into the reception area. Maybe she was stabbed here and dragged there. Maybe the killer wanted something from the office. I give it another look just to make sure. Everything seems normal to me.

  Mona’s file cabinet is opened slightly. This raises a red flag for me because Mona wasn’t one to use the file cabinet with any regularity. Everything is on the desk; the file cabinet is more of an archive. I doubt that Mona herself was dealing with any of her stuff. She considered that to be a summer project. She’d get an intern from NYU film school to file all of her papers for free. The intern’s job was pretty easy. The films were alphabetically filed and all Mona kept were copies of pictures of attractive male actors who had auditioned and any clippings praising the casting of a given film.

  The interns were instructed to stay away from a large accordion file tucked away behind the XYZ files. This instruction was easy to follow, as the file was overstuffed and messy. I was always tempted to check out the file. We all used to speculate on what was in it. Jed Rausch, mourner extraordinaire, swore that it was related to Mona’s work in gay porn. But he never had any substantial evidence. It’s more likely filled with old restaurant menus. The whole gay porn rumor seemed a little far-fetched to me. Why would a gay porn producer go into legit films and why would she go into casting? Why not production or direction? Something with more power. On the other hand, Mona does enjoy looking at men. And she really preferred looking at the straight ones. Maybe she actually thought she had a chance with them. I recall her looking at Thom Reuter when he came into our office.

  “Delicious,” she whispered to herself, and licked her lips. Did Mona think that Thom could possibly have been interested in her?

  I look across the room at Mona’s couch. A casting couch? No way. I don’t see it. These guys flirted. They all did. I remember Preston, for example, bringing Mona roses right before his screen test. They all did things like that. Roses and teddy bears. The really smart ones brought food. But the women did it, too. No, Mona did not sleep with these guys.

  And I refuse to believe Ian-sex-addict-Leighton was any different.

  I go through the files to see if anything is out of order. The most recent intern did a great job. Liam was his name. He was incredibly organized. I think he ironed the wrinkled papers. Everything from A to E looks good. I keep going. It’s taking me longer because I’m wearing gloves. The last thing I need is a paper cut with my DNA-filled blood seeping onto the dead woman’s files. F–L looks good. I wonder what’ll be done with these files now that Mona is gone. What will be done with her office? She had no family. No loved ones. No friends even. She just had these people whom she simultaneously air kissed and back stabbed. M–R looks untouched. Just the way it was last summer before I was dismissed. Will there even be a funeral for Mona?

  I think of Polly’s funeral. All the people who went, even though she was so flawed. But Polly had a husband. She had lovers. I think of Charlie’s dad and his dead wife. She has a waterfall. There’s definitely not going to be a waterfall for Mona. Everything looks good until Z. I stick my arm in behind the Z file.

  The accordion file is missing.

  I’m back at Charlie’s house. He hasn’t returned yet. I cross my fingers, hoping that our little plan hasn’t backfired. I need to talk to him about the accordion file. It’s missing. Or at least I think it is. I mean, I have not been back at that office for four months now. Mona may’ve taken it home with her or she may have thrown it away. But it’s suspicious. I pause to think about our assessment of Polly’s murderer. Charlie, Jean, and I have been assuming that it was one of Polly’s lovers. But why would one of Polly’s lovers kill Mona Hawkins? Could the answer lie in the missing accordion file? Could Mona and Polly have known a sinister secret about one of the actors—either in Only at Sunrise or some other Humphrey Dawson movie?

  Even though it’s after four in the morning, I’m hungry. I go into the kitchen to prepare myself a little snack, and I see the mostly uneaten cupcakes on the counter. I think I had eaten just one bite when I learned that Mona was dead.

  She would’ve been proud. I only had a taste.

  I clean up the mess in the kitchen. Maybe I should make Charlie some scrambled eggs when he gets home. If he gets home. What if Kovitz was staking out Mona’s office and then he sees Charlie? Suddenly, the casual inquiries about Polly’s death might not look so casual when he shows up right next to a related murder scene.

  Charlie is risking a lot for this. Not for me, I have to keep reminding myself. But for his father. We made a deal. Charlie’s the guy who lives up to his end of the bargain.

  Not me.

  I wish there was some other explanation for William riding in a livery cab with a hooker. But I know there isn’t.

  I have to tell Charlie.

  Charlie is home. I can hear the door downstairs. I’m afraid for a second that it’s the cops, that Charlie is locked up downtown and he told them that they could find their fugitive here. But no. I can tell by the footsteps on the stairs. Charlie walks up four steps really fast and then pauses before get
ting to the fifth stair. Then he goes four steps fast again. He opens the door.

  “Mission accomplished?” he asks.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  I look at Charlie. The left side of his face is covered in blood and dirt. His shirt is ripped. He smells like smoke and BO. Someone else’s. The pockets of his pants are inside out and hanging. Despite this, I want to hug him, to thank him for doing this and to protect him from the news I’m about to tell him about his father.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he says.

  Sorry he took so long. The guy just risked his life. Okay, maybe not his life, but his freedom, his dignity, and comfort for me.

  “But…”

  I realize he is still talking.

  “I realize that I wasn’t able to come through on the Valentine’s Day gift: watching TV with you. So I got you these.”

  Charlie steps inside his front door and hands me five roses.

  “The cop couldn’t leave his detail, and I didn’t want to file an official report. So he loaned me ten dollars for a cab home. I walked. And then I was able to buy you these. Not exactly a dozen, but I figure you’ve been here five weeks and there’s one rose for each week.”

  He walked home. He walked from Nineteenth and Sixth to Sixty-fifth and Lexington. That’s almost three miles in the middle of the night.

  “Wow.” I’m not much for extemporaneous speaking.

  “Maybe I’ll take a shower,” he tells me. Then he kisses me. It lasts about a minute and a half. Then he walks toward his room.

  “Okay.” I’m still stunned. I think my eyes are tearing, but I don’t want to check.

  “Is it all right with you if I go straight to bed?” he asks. “I mean, sleep. I’m dead on my feet.” He sounds sincerely sorry about this. “Tomorrow,” he adds.

  I nod. I’ve been waiting for this for years. I can go a few more hours.

  Charlie goes into his bedroom. I take a glass out of the kitchen to put the flowers in, as there is no vase in sight. When do I tell him about his father? If I do it now, it’ll kill him. Not right now. Tomorrow.

  For tonight—despite the murder, the break-in, and Charlie’s injuries—has been perfect.

  I can hear Charlie in the bathroom. He’s singing something. From the living room, I whisper, “I love you and I’m sorry.”

  Jean calls first thing in the morning. Charlie is still asleep.

  “He told me he loves me,” she screams after I answer the phone.

  “Isn’t it a little soon?” I ask, trying not to sound judgmental.

  “He said that, too,” she tells me. “I was where you are, Alice. I was thinking that there’s no way that this guy loves me. I told him that. He said he was dealing with a lot of loss. That all he used to think about was being famous and being a star. That he didn’t have time for love and all of that. But now that he has a taste of his dream, he realizes that it’s empty. That you ‘don’t die with your Oscar.’ He loves that I’m not in show business and that I’m a boring corporate lawyer…”

  I want to ask Jean if she slept with him, but I can’t because Charlie might have woken up. For that matter I want to tell her about the flowers.

  “You’ll never guess what happened last night.” It’s my turn to give her some news.

  She beats me to it.

  “Mona Hawkins was murdered.”

  “How—?”

  “Preston told me. I think that was why he told me he loved me. He was so overcome with emotion. I mean, it’s just so creepy. The casting person for his movie and the wife of the director of his movie are murdered. No wonder he wants to be with an outsider.”

  “I know how he feels.” I sense that Jean is so caught up with Preston that she has lost sight of my perilous position.

  “Yeah,” she sighs.

  “They think I did it.”

  “They do? How do you know?”

  “The TV, the Internet, I imagine the newspaper.”

  “Oh. Alice, I’m so sorry. We were at this party all night. No TVs or anything. It was like we were cut off from reality. Preston didn’t even have his cell phone. And I just got into work, I haven’t even logged on to my computer. Tell me everything.”

  So I tell Jean about the break-in.

  “And how was Valentine’s Day?” Jean asks.

  Of course I want to report to Jean my developments of last night: the fallen cupcakes, the Law & Order, and the kiss. But Charlie could hear us.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Oh, is Charlie there?” she asks me.

  “Uh-huh,” I repeat. “Wait, how did Preston know that Mona was killed when you guys were so cut off from reality?”

  “That’s the difference between people like us and people like Preston. They always have ways of finding this stuff out. Is the Charlie thing good?” she asks me.

  “Yes. Except for the fact that they now think I’ve committed two murders instead of one.”

  “I know, honey, but as Preston says, the truth will come out.”

  Preston said what?

  “In what context?” I ask Jean.

  “I’m hoping you don’t mind, but I kind of told him about your situation. I didn’t go into detail. I just said that I had a friend that the police were talking to.”

  Mind? Of course I mind.

  “Jean? Are you insane?”

  “Alice, we can trust Preston. Remember, he’s been giving us information about Polly. And now he can give us information about Mona. He’s so on our side. He told me she was dead, basically, before he said hello.”

  I don’t trust anybody.

  “Jean. The information he gave us about Polly was wrong.”

  “It was a little wrong, but then when I told him about you and how it was important to me that we set the record straight he told me that his number-one priority was helping me, that means you, Alice, out.”

  “Jean. I can’t believe you didn’t consult with me on this.”

  “And I can’t believe you’re angry with me. I am trying to help you. Charlie’s about one hooker allegation away from landing in a mental institution, and you’re just sitting there wide-eyed, watching him, while I’m out investigating. You should thank me for gaining Preston’s respect. He’s our ticket out of this thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter if Preston is helping us. I pulled you into this under strict confidence, and now you’re confiding in some actor you don’t even know.”

  “What? You’ve confided way more in Charlie. And you told me yourself he’s best friends with that Kovitz. He may be setting you up.”

  Best friends with Kovitz. Jean is prone to exaggeration. Not to mention I can’t believe she betrayed me.

  “No wonder you don’t practice criminal law,” I tell my best friend, “you don’t know how to keep your trap shut.”

  “At least I don’t sit and judge anyone who tries to help me without moving forward with my life. Maybe you can sit and play house with Charlie instead of having a real relationship with him.”

  “Oh, and you have a real relationship with Preston? Why, because he takes you to a glamorous party at the last minute? Oh, and that part about how he loves you. He’s an actor, Jean. Actors tell everyone they love them—read Lee Strasberg.”

  “You asked for my help, Alice, and now you don’t want it. Why? For the same reason you can’t stick with anything: therapy, jobs. Limbo is your heaven, Alice.”

  Jean hangs up the phone. I can’t tell if she has slammed it or not. I want to call her back and slam the phone. How dare she? She violates my confidence and then basically condemns me for a situation in which I’m the complete victim. She knows she was wrong to have told Preston. Instead of admitting her error, she took the immature path of attacking me. She wants to protect this new “relationship.” A relationship that is three weeks and six dates old, with an “I love you” and maybe some fooling around. She’s willing to trade in her best friend for that.

  Well, she’s either really lonely or she really doe
sn’t care about me.

  “Everything okay?” Charlie is indeed awake.

  I don’t tell him that Jean has told Preston. I’m afraid that he’s going to ask if he can confide in someone, too.

  “Yeah. It’s just a little tense.”

  “You’re telling me,” Charlie says, and he heads back into his bedroom. I think about what Jean has said, that Charlie was a foolish choice for a confidant. She thinks I picked Charlie because of an old crush. She’s got to be kidding. Charlie was the only person I knew who had any connection to Kovitz, the man who arrested me. And, even though I didn’t really know Charlie, I’ve overseen the general trajectory of his character for years. Jean has known Preston Hayes for a minute.

  And now she has blabbed to him. Who knows what Preston Hayes will do with this information? He may dump Jean and fall in love with a lady cop and tell her. Or he may spill to a reporter or a friend. The point is, my secret is out. Jean has put me in jeopardy. And now Charlie is potentially in trouble, too. After all, he has been harboring me. Jean should be looking after herself, too. She has withheld vital information from the cops. Even I know that, and I didn’t go to law school.

  Charlie comes back into the living room. He’s showered and looks more relaxed than he has since I moved in, despite the bruises and scrapes on his head. He’s wearing a bathrobe. I look at my own outfit: It’s an old Charlie shirt. I’ve been sleeping in it since I got here.

  “What’s our plan?” Charlie asks me, pulling me into a hug.

  I don’t know. I don’t tell him about Jean. Even though I’m angry with her, I feel the need to protect her.

  “Well?” he says.

  “I’m thinking,” I tell him.

  And I am. About what Jean said. That my trust in Charlie is based on an unrequited, immature, and stale crush.

  I back out of the hug and head toward the bathroom.

  “I’m going to do some stuff,” I tell Charlie. “You can call Kovitz or something.”

  I don’t look back at him, but I sense that he’s hurt and maybe a bit confused.

  “You’re the boss,” he tells me.