“Oh,” he said, “do you mean, ‘The child looked up from its play’? Or, ‘The lover looked up with a smile’? Or perhaps, Miss Honey, you were referring to ‘The mother looked up with a tear’. Was that the one?”
“You missed one,” I said.
“Oh, no, I didn’t.” Steven rose up again from one of the overstuffed beanbag chairs my father had bought us and knelt before me, head bowed and dramatically recited, “ ‘It is only a life, dear friend.’ ”
“Yes, that’s it. You’ve got it, Steven.”
After that, all our phone calls began with the first line of a poem, the Unknowns being our particular favorites because we could use our imaginations to fashion a life for them.
To other teenagers, it would have seemed a strange relationship, but given the way I was reared and how starved Steven was for company, it seemed ours was the normal way. No popular television shows, no loud music, no secret drinking and pot smoking ever seeped into our lives. We just weren’t cool. Except to each other.
I thought Steven knew everything, and our conversations might be about politics or the environment or a nuance in a poem. No subject was too sacred. I knew no matter what I said, Steven would never laugh at me, never make fun of my views or my not knowing something.
“Steven, are you a virgin?”
“Yes, Honey, I am.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. But why do you have to ask?”
“This book says Elizabeth was called the Virgin Queen, but it was alleged that she had several lovers. I was wondering if maybe I misunderstood what a virgin was after all, and maybe I really wasn’t one.”
So he told me in very clinical terms what a virgin was.
“I thought so. I thought that’s what it was all about. Steven, do you think we’ll ever do that?”
“You mean together?”
“Yes. No. I mean just do it with somebody?”
“I hope so, Honey.” Steven grinned. “ ’Cause that will mean we’re normal, healthy people, and sometimes I wonder about us, so that would be reassuring. But with each other? Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Why not, Steven?”
“Because I think we love each other too much, Honey.”
I’ve always done my best thinking in bed, so before I went to sleep that night, I thought about what Steven had said, and somewhere in my mind, I thought I understood what he meant. We were too close to ever be lovers, but we would always be the best of friends. But what really made me blush was when I remembered that my father had sat in his recliner, not ten feet away from us, ostensibly reading the newspaper he held in front of his face.
Had my father heard us talking about sex? Did it matter? Did he ever pay attention to anything we said?
TWENTY–ONE
Sometimes I wonder if relationships like mine with Steven Hyatt still exist—an extended period of innocence incongruent with the rest of the world; our pretended realities were our truth, and the real truths were tolerated by us only until we could return to the ones of our own making.
Sometimes I’m not sure Steven and I ever made it all the way back. He writes and directs his plays and movies with an inward eye that is hailed as creative by the critics, but I recognize its warped origin, and I balance carefully between productive and dysfunctional lifestyles.
Had our three years on the third floor marked us? Or would we have been the same without them?
That the past week had strained me beyond my capabilities was a surprise to me, but I knew it when I saw Steven. My first thoughts were to curl up in his arms and cry, like a child does when its mother shows up after a crisis.
But Steven was being a good host to Joaquin. He acted as if the dusty, hodgepodge rooms were his, and Joaquin was an invited guest popping in for brandy. No, it was beer Steven was offering.
Joaquin accepted.
I tried to tune in to their conversation when I caught Steven staring at me in a concerned way.
“Murdered! No!” he said.
Oh, Joaquin was telling him about Steven Miller. I couldn’t remember if Steven Hyatt knew Steven Miller or not.
“Honey,” Steven turned as if to comfort me for Steven Miller’s murder as if it just had occurred this minute, not five days ago.
I waved him away. “You’re not getting away with it, Steven Hyatt.”
“What?” he exclaimed innocently.
“Australia. You were in Australia. I may not remember what day it is without my Day-Timer, but I do distinctly remember you telling me that you were going on location in Australia for that new script of yours … the … the … something or other about you-know-what.”
He laughed, “You mean The Playful Platypus Ponders Paradise in Perth? That one?”
I ignored him. “You were there,” I said, remembering. “I called your hotel. They said you were on safari somewhere out in the outback, a reserve or reservoir, or something like that. What are you doing here, Steven?”
Steven leaned forward and said, “Not now, Honey. Not in front of the g-u-e-s-t.” Still leaning toward me, he cut his eyes around at Joaquin and said, “Who is he, anyway?”
If I had been Joaquin, I would have left after introductions were made, but the gardener lingered as if he still didn’t trust me with Steven, who offered him another beer from the Styrofoam cooler at the end of the couch.
Steven loved to talk and show off, and since this was the first time we’d ever had a stranger on the third floor, he gave Joaquin a guided tour like it was the House of Wax. “You notice there are no doors up here? The original plan called for doors, but since Mr. Huckleberry never finished it out, he never installed them.”
He paused at the opening to the largest of the side rooms. “This was Mr. Huckleberry’s workroom.”
“What great models,” Joaquin exclaimed as he gazed at the collection of meticulously constructed pieces of wood and metal.
“Yeah.” I caught a note of familial pride in Steven’s voice. “Honey always thought these were toys Mr. H. made just for her to play with, but I’ve always thought they were the best in the business.”
What business? I thought. “They are toys,” I declared and then added with purpose, “my toys.”
“Look at this,” Joaquin had switched on one of the gadgets, one with fine wires and pulleys, and despite its disuse for over a decade, we watched it smoothly hoist and then lower a small platform with only a small whine to indicate its activity.
“That’s my doll elevator,” I said.
The men looked silently at me, then at each other.
“What about this one,” Steven said, pointing out a round, dust-covered object.
Joaquin whistled. “It ought to be in a museum.”
“That’s my spinning wheel,” I said, realizing that my voice sounded like a petulant three-year-old.
“No, Honey, this is a prototype of a mechanized system that revolutionized its industry.” Steven grinned at Joaquin. “No telling how far back these things go. Look in this cabinet. And down here.”
I had heard Steven explain to me before that my father was a patent engineer and researcher, that the models weren’t actually toys as my father had told me. He had continued to build them way past the time that I was interested in such play. But as I looked at the cobweb-encrusted geegaws and thingamabobs, I remembered the hours Father had spent, bent over the miniature pieces of wood or metal, carving, bending, and fitting the intricate parts together. He’d built them for me, he’d told me.
“All his blueprints are in here,” Steven told Joaquin as he opened one large cabinet pigeonholed with dozens of tightly rolled pieces of brittle paper.
Joaquin shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the array and then suddenly, he said, “My God.” And he stooped to inspect one of the models on a lower shelf. He was talking to Steven about it when I noticed something strange about the shape of the back pocket of his blue jeans. I knew he smoked, but I didn’t think I had ever seen Joaquin chewing tobacco. B
ecause of his half-crouched position, the shape of what appeared to be a tin showed through the pocket stretched tight against his hip.
My thoughts echoed Joaquin’s. My God. That was no can of nasty chewing tobacco in his pocket. It was only its location that had caused me to think of a tobacco tin. The slight bulge in his back pocket was smaller. Rectangular. It looked like a tape cassette, a miniature tape cassette, like the one that had disappeared only a half hour ago from my answering machine downstairs. It was so clearly impressed against the fabric of Joaquin’s worn jeans that I could even see the indention of the tiny reels.
I knew I wasn’t mistaken. Joaquin had taken my tape. But why?
“Do you mind if I look for the blueprint that matches this one?” Joaquin asked Steven. “It reminds me of something.”
“No, I don’t mind.” He turned to me. “Honey, is it okay with you? Honey?” Then more concerned. “Lydia?”
I had walked back into the main room, trying to figure out why Joaquin would have taken the tape while I was in the bathroom and then lied about it. My heart hurt. Instinctively, I had trusted the gardener Ralph had found for our combined lawns, had felt safe inside with him working outside and, for goodness sakes, had even invited him to share a meal with me—something I had never done before in my life. I had never even let Steven Hyatt eat a tuna sandwich on my back porch, much less in my kitchen, and here I had gone and fixed linguini with clam sauce for a stranger who stole from me five minutes after he’d come up my stairs.
Why would he steal that tape?
Then my heart froze and I caught a ragged breath. My conversation with Stephen X was on that tape.
“Honey?”
Steven had followed me. As I sank down on one of the couches, he knelt beside me, taking my hands in his. “What’s the matter?”
We could hear Joaquin rustling papers in the other room.
I wasn’t ready, not with Joaquin so close, to tell Steven about what was really bothering me, so instead I replied, “Were you downstairs earlier?”
“Yeah, I came in to get some ice from the fridge. Why? Were you at home? I thought you were gone, so I didn’t bother to ring the doorbell. I just used the key you gave me. Were you home? Did I scare you? I’m sorry, Honey. Why didn’t you call out?”
“Tell me about Australia,” I said.
He reached over to smooth down the red curls that still spiraled from my head after the vigorous brushing I had given them to remove real or imagined bugs and other assorted pantry gunk. I could tell he was thinking about what he was going to tell me, then his eyes rolled resignedly and he answered, “I didn’t want to bother you, but—”
“You’re in trouble.”
Steven laughed and sank down beside me on the couch. “How did you know?”
“How could I not?” I patted his hand. “Money?” I questioned.
Steven Hyatt was a genius. He could write, direct, and produce some of the most avant-garde films of the century, but he spent money as fast as he generated it on the next project that caught his fancy. To his credit, they were all lucrative, but the lucre just didn’t stay with him long.
“I borrowed money from the wrong people,” he confessed to me as he burrowed deeper into the safe confines of the worn, comfortable couch. “Then, when I made it back, I put it into this Australian venture before I gave them a chance to look at it.”
“The script?”
“No, their money.”
I didn’t have to ask who “they” were or if they were mad at Steven, or how mad they were. Heck, I read a lot and watch some television. I know you don’t cross the “thems” of the world, but I relaxed some. Steven had been in this kind of mess before, so I only half-listened as he finished up.
“And so, they think I’m still in Australia with my crew.” He suddenly sat up straight. “Hey, you don’t think they’ll do anything to my crew, do you?” Then he noticed my inattention to his problems.
“I’m sorry, Honey. I’ve been going on and on about the usual, and here you’re involved in a murder and running up and down stairs like an aging Nancy Drew with a dark, foreign-looking man who knows an awful lot about engineering to only be the gardener. Tell me, Lydia, dear,” he whispered it in a joking manner, not realizing how close his words were to my own thoughts. “Did the gardener do it?”
But, “An aging Nancy Drew?” was all I shouted at him. I playfully smothered him with a sofa pillow, which, judging from the amount of dust motes it released, was guaranteed to give him a fatal asthma attack if I couldn’t manage to snuff out his breath with it first.
“Pardon me.”
We quit our wrestling to look around for the source of the voice. Ah, how could we have forgotten about Joaquin, he of the dubious garden-plot plot and recent tape burglary?
He was leaning against the door frame, his big body curved in a relaxed pose, like a ballerina’s at the bar. “I’ve been rude,” he said. “You guys haven’t seen each other for a long time. You don’t need to be entertaining me. Don’t bother, Miss Huckleberry, I’ll let myself out.” He reached his hand out to Steven. “I’m glad our burglar turned out to be friendly.” He walked out the door, nodding his dark head in an affable fashion. If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it.
“Mexican?” asked Steven. “ ‘You guys!’ Gimme a break.”
“From California,” I said.
“Oh, well then,” he said.
TWENTY–TWO
The doorbell rang at 7:30 Tuesday morning, too early for man, beast, or me, since Steven Hyatt and I had stayed up until nearly three talking and catching up on things. But not too early for Janie Bridges. Her straw-colored pageboy swung loosely in the morning breeze as she vigorously attacked the key-shaped knob of the old-fashioned doorbell.
“Janie!” I tried not to sound as surprised as I felt at seeing her on my front porch. “What are you doing here?” I asked, hoping it didn’t sound too rude to ask.
“Why, I’ve come for the funeral,” she answered as instant frown lines appeared between her blue eyes. “Aren’t you going? Of course, you’re going. You are going to Steven Miller’s funeral, aren’t you?”
My hand went to my throat. “Is it today? But Silas said he would call me … Never mind,” I said, suddenly remembering the status of my answering machine. “Come in. Come in. What time is the funeral, and how did you know about it?”
Janie came inside, and as I followed her into the living room, I said, “I didn’t know you were going to Steven Miller’s funeral.”
“Oh, yes, I wouldn’t miss it,” Janie replied as if going to strange men’s funeral services were the most natural thing in the world. “I want to see the murderer.”
“Pardon?”
“The murderer. They always show up at the funeral. Can’t keep them away. Trust me, they’re always there.” She sat her plump self down on the pink couch, holding her black patent purse in front of her.
They, they, they. I knew too many “theys” and “thems.” There was Peggy at the cleaner’s “they,” which translated into cops (“they” were the ones who had sent the handsome Silas). And Steven Hyatt’s mention of “them” was decidedly the underworld or loan-sharking mobsters who controlled everything the legal “theys” didn’t. Now here was Janie’s “they,” this time a murderer.
“Do you really think they’ll be there?” I asked as I offered to take Janie’s purse. She shook her head, indicating she’d hold on to the suitcase-sized article, and as she chattered knowledgeably about the nefarious habits of malefactors, I looked around for a place to sit. The effort reminded me once again of how unaccustomed I had been such a short while ago to having guests in the house. Finally, clutching my terry robe close with my hands—I don’t know what happened to the sash—I chose one of the green velvet Queen Anne chairs.
“You can take these, though,” said Janie, and she handed me a large sack of what I recognized as West’s pride and joy: a bag full of kolaches.
“Great,” I said.
“I’ll make some coffee, and I’ll ask Steven if he wants some. I’ve told him about Czech cooking, but—”
“Steven!” screamed Janie.
“What?” I shouted, startled by her scream.
“You said Steven. Have you met him? Is he here?” She turned and twisted on the couch, trying to peer through the murky light of the living room for a body she might have missed.
“Oh, you mean Stephen.”
“Yes. Your Italian Steven. The one I’ve been researching.”
“No, Janie. This is my Texas Steven I’m talking about.” And I carefully spelled the difference to her, which, I was gratified to note, she understood perfectly.
“Then let’s call him—the one upstairs—Steven Hyatt, so we won’t get confused. Honey, do you mind if I make it lighter in here?” she asked, and in answer I twisted the switch on the red lamp; she jumped up and raised the shades, the resulting sunlight making both of us blink and squint for a minute.
“There, that’s better,” Janie said even though it wasn’t. When we could finally see again, she looked around the room in earnest and exclaimed, “Honey, my God, this room.”
I sighed and decided to ignore her outburst. I wasn’t up to explaining my living room.
“So, how did you find out about Steven Miller’s funeral?” I asked.
Still rubbernecking, this time around the wide doorway into the dining room, Janie answered, “The Star-Telegram obits. You know I read them every day. There was a small notice about Miller’s services today at ten. I just decided I’d come on up to Fort Worth and go with you. It’s not often I get real hands-on with a case, you know.”
“What about your bookstore? Did you close Pages?”
“I put a Gone Sleuthing sign on the door.” Her eyes finally came back to mine. “Besides, I wanted to tell you all what I’ve found out about S-t-e-p-h-e-n X in person.”
“Okay, but first I want some coffee.” I told her I’d be right back, and still in my short cotton gown and wide-open robe, I went outside and up the stairs to beat on the third-floor door. Steven Hyatt didn’t open it immediately, but ultimately my persistence penetrated his sleep, and he stood in the doorway in a white T-shirt and colorful, plaid boxer shorts.
The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set Page 11
