by Bruce Wagner
As much as he wished to attend the Dane’s tribute, Tull couldn’t stay.
Epitacio drove the distrait young Trotter to cousin Edward’s, who wasn’t well enough to make the trip to Saint-Cloud.
Among the children only Lucy paid homage, lending her writer’s ear (augmented by Cartier pen and blue-paged BIRD NOTES for a Blue Maze Mystery); certain that a canine birthday gala would make its way into her book, she joined her grandparents and the others at a mossy set of nineteenth-century faux-bois tables and benches just outside the maze. Servants bustled about, pouring Armagnac, spooning into faience pots of silken goose liver—from Toulouse, of all places—garnishing extracts with a gelée of black cherries and leaves of chervil. (Ralph had already gotten into the star-anise-and-honey ice cream.) Soon, modest fireworks would grace Bel-Air skies for the dedication of the “Danish friend’s” latest architecturally correct (the latter phrase, courtesy of Trinnie) doghouse: none other than the Pine-Lute tea pavilion, the second, after the Meier, of Trotter funerary models to be brought to full-scale life. Working-class Winter stood behind Bluey, tetchy in her tailored RN whites—uncomfortable the elaborate to-do was for a dog; a large, sweet one, but a dog nonetheless. Trinnie told her to “get over it.” She thought the extravaganza “brilliant” and took special care to observe her father delightedly mooning over the drowsy Dane, who lay upon a Moroccan ottoman incognizant of his good fortune, sated like a pasha.
On the way to Stradella, Tull compulsively felt his pocket as he had ever since the document was given him, to make certain it was still there.
He found his cousin relaxed and in good spirits, stitching taffeta in the workshop of the Boar’s Head Inn. He wore nothing but a saffron sari and velvet Philippe Model hat, courtesy of his doting aunt; though his chin rested on the crook of the brace, he eschewed mask and gloves, so that for the first time Tull saw how the middle and ring fingers of each hand were fused. When he’d had his fill, he discreetly drew his eyes to Edward’s tall, broken face.
“You know, I’m supposed to have surgery soon.”
“Really? What kind?”
“ ‘LeFort III’—that’s the procedure. LeFort III. What a weird thing! With Apert’s, as you’ve probably noticed, the middle face grows slower than the rest. They call it retrusion. LeFort is when they go in and do grafting and bone-spacing.” He shook his head resolutely. “There is just no way. There’s no payoff.”
“What do your parents think?”
“Same as they do about everything—Dad’s laissez-faire and Mother’s indifferent. You know: they want what I want. If I’m up for the surgery—fine. If I’m not—well that’s fine too. But why would I put myself through that, Tull? It’s just so fucked. And all from one little change in the FGFR2—that’s fibroblast growth factor receptor 2, in case you were wondering. Something’s wrong with the gene on chromosome 10, or some such bullshit. Well, fuck FGFR2 and the stem cell it rode in on. Do you know how many pages there are on the Internet about this crap? I mean, I could get very intimate with some punk in Denmark who shares my tragic deformity. Get jiggy with the whole codependent World Wide Webbed-finger family.” The buggy sat on the carpet beside the metal roll-up; Edward stepped in. “I am telling you, there are links up the yin-yang, every fucking orphan disease on the planet. Antley-Bixler! Langer-Geidon! Pfeiffer! Saethre-Chotzen! Arhinia! Baller-Gerold! Stickler! Carpenter! Parry-Rombergs! Craniosynostosis! Goodman! Jackson-Weiss! Sagittal synostosis! Treacher-Collins! And there’s an amazingly pathetic homepage with a gallery of kids’ fucked-up faces—a permanent, floating pediatric wax museum horror-show—with ‘virtual’ candles burning. Whenever one of the deformed little guys croaks, his flame gets snuffed.”
“Edward, I think you should chill. You’re gonna stroke out.”
“Yeah well, if I ever do, you better put a pillow over my head, cuz. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Exceptional!” he said, giving Tull his best scary Tom Cruise smile. “Now, get in.” Edward pushed a button on the console and the door of the workshop zipped into a galvanized drum. They pulled out. “Sorry you’re missing the birthday.”
“It’s OK. I did kind of want to see the fireworks, though.”
“Long in the tooth, that Pullie, isn’t he?”
“He’s only five.”
“Gettin’ up there for a Dane.”
“Can we please just leave him out of it?”
“For Danes, anything past birthday number six is gravy—as any true aficionado knows.”
They drove along the winding path that surrounded the vast, fragrant property. There were stretches of woodsy darkness; against resistance from his wife, Dodd gave one of the farther fields over to Trinnie, who had planted tall plumed pampas grass, which shivered as they motored past, trying to tell them secrets. Tull felt his cousin’s aloneness and guiltily saw himself hovering over the comatose boy with a Pratesi pillowslip. Again, he felt for the letter in his pocket.
The buggy rolled by the guest-house pool before Edward pointed it back to Olde CityWalk. He began a tired rant about his mother’s “Dead Baby Society” that segued neatly into Dodd’s recent mania-fueled purchase of an empty prison in Palm Desert.
All the while, in anticipation of introducing his topic, Tull’s heart beat faster than he would have liked. Finally, he said: “Edward … the letter you gave me—”
“I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”
“Where—did you get it?”
“I—well, Lucy and I—I have to give her credit—we made a rather thorough inventory of our parents’ effects. Father tends to keep certain items—including eighteenth-century pornographic etchings—in a special drawer in his walk-in closet. I’m telling you, cousin, my parents are not well!”
“Just tell me about the letter.”
“Sadly, it was the only thing we were able to come up with—you know, I’m a little surprised you haven’t done any footwork of your own. I mean, shit, Tull, the Withdrawing Room’s most probably a Tut’s tomb of nostalgic puzzle-pieces! You never know what you’d find: stuffed in one of the maquettes, say—or the mattress of Grandpa’s Murphy bed. Or hidden behind a panel of the Piranesi …”
“Edward—do you think … do you think they actually found him?”
“All I could pry from Joyce was that they hired a man—or, should I say, Grandpa hired a man to look for Marcus Weiner.”
“I already knew that,” said Tull, thrilled to know something about anything.
“But did you know it was a guy Dad went to school with?”
“What school—”
“BV—Beverly Vista. I heard him talking—Mom and him—at midnight, in the kitchen. I’ve got the place wired. There’s still a few bugs, but …”
“What did they say?”
“He was telling Joyce about Marcie Millard.”
“Marcie Millard?”
“The lady hammering Dad for money to rebuild their alma mater.”
In the weeks after the initial revelation of his father’s undeceased state—that terrible hour with Trinnie and Grandpa Lou in the Withdrawing Room—he had been loath to think of Marcus Weiner at all, let alone make inquiries of anyone who might possess the facts. A firewall had descended; even kids at school whose parents had been privy to the resurrected scandal seemed to have lost interest in provoking him. Now, something had shifted and Tull was beginning to wake up.
“But do you think they found him?”
The cousin grew pensive, letting the question take air. “Do I think they found your father? Is that what you’re asking?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“To that, I would have to answer … no. No, Tull, I do not think they found your father, I am sorry or not sorry to say.”
A long, sad silence ensued as they navigated the stony streets of Olde CityWalk on the approach to the Majestyk, an authentic movie house that seated seventy-five. Like all structures in Edward’s world, it was built to accommodate his
motorized magic carpet; the boys got popcorn and soda without having to disembark.
The cousin grew serious while steering down the wide aisle of the plush auditorium. “You know, I think Lucy’s theory is sound. Why would Grandpa Lou want to find such a man? He wouldn’t want Trinnie to be tortured again.”
“But he hired someone,” said Tull, fairly pleading.
“Unless,” said the cousin, with a mildly crazed look in his eye, “unless he wanted to find him so he could kill him for what he did to her.” Tull saw that he wasn’t joking. “It is a possibility. I’ve given it some thought.”
“Shit, Edward! Are you saying Grandpa wanted to murder my father? Jesus!”
“Maybe Grandpa did kill him—maybe he found him and killed him and now maybe he wants to be caught—maybe he wants us to catch him. Expose him, so he can repent. Let’s say for argument’s sake that it’s true—that he did ‘the job’—”
“Jesus, Edward!”
“It would have to have haunted the guy through the years, especially since it seems your mom’s forgiven him—forgiven Marcus Weiner, I mean. Or at least would like to have had the chance. She’s still in love with him. I mean, you know she goes and stays in the tower sometimes …” He thwacked Tull’s arm in excitation. “Beginning to sound like a real Lucy Trotter Mystery, ain’t it?”
They left the buggy and sank into the Majestyk’s ergonomic row of Herman Millers.
“Did you bring the letter?” asked the cousin.
Tull nodded.
“Then read it.”
“I already have. About a thousand times.”
“Then read it again—out loud.”
“What’s the point?”
Edward glared. Tull took the document from his pocket, unfolding it like a cynical tourist would a useless map.
“ ‘If I was shocked at the reckless insinuation—’ ”
“From the beginning, Tull.”
“ ‘Mr. Tabori,’ ” he began, annoyed. “ ‘If I was shocked … at the reckless insinuation of your employee … I was absolutely dumbfounded by the letter from your attorney which my office received today.’ New paragraph. ‘I have referred the matter to my own counsel, who would probably object to my sending this note. I suggest that you retract your slanderous allegations or you will find this former customer to be a litigious one. Sincerely, Marcus Weiner.’ ”
Tull paused; his cousin sighed deeply.
“A bit stilted, no? His guilt is apparent.”
“What difference does it make?”
“What difference? I’ll tell you: we found him. Lucy did, anyway.”
The air left Tull’s lungs. “You found him?”
“It seems so.”
“What are you saying? You found him where? How—”
“Good old gumshoe work. And the Internet, I am pleased to say, had nothing to do with it. Lucy spoke with him on the phone, plain as day—not a single e-mail exchanged! Hard man to reach, as you may well imagine.”
Tull broke into a sweat and was unable to swallow. “Where is he?”
“Los Angeles area,” said the cousin, coolly. “We made an appointment to see him. Tomorrow, after school.”
Edward pressed a touch-panel and the lights dimmed. The heavy curtains lifted, layer by crushed gold layer.
“But, does anyone—does anyone know? Did you tell your—”
“God, no! And no one’s going to. Everyone’s going to keep their mouths shut. This is strictly between us.”
The projector was dropping from its hidden perch all along and within moments the MGM lion roared. From the blackness came a noisy choir of ticking clocks. A sundial appeared from stage left, cross-fading with an hourglass from stage right (just like in the old Twilight Zones Tull watched on Thanksgiving Day marathons), followed by myriad antiquey minute-repeater mechanisms, which culminated in a floating Big Ben, its watchtower face erupting in a thunderclap of light. A title bubbled up:
H. G. Wells’s
The Time Machine
“I thought it apropos,” said the cousin. “Except Rod Taylor’s going forward—we need to go backward.”
“This isn’t funny,” said Tull, reaching over to lower the sound. “And I’m not sure I want anyone to be there.”
“You mean, you want to go alone?”
“That’s right.”
“But why?” asked Edward.
Tull began to tremble. “He’s my—father, Edward … and I—well, I just think it would be better if—”
“Your father? Oh no, Tull, no! But we’ll find him, too—of that I am convinced. This is merely the first step.”
“But you said we had an appointment—”
“We do—with Mr. Tabori! Tomorrow at four. Now, can we please watch the movie?”
Tabori & Company, purveyor of antiquarian books, was housed in a former mortuary built in the late twenties, now sitting on the high-end stretch of Melrose Avenue. The anachronistic open-vaulted Gothic-style edifice was a jewel box of vellum and leather, its fine stained-glass panels wittily incorporating caricatures of Tabori père et fils, gentle brotherhood of bibliophiles.
When Emerson Tabori received a call from a girl identifying herself as Lucy Trotter, he immediately confirmed the familial connection—a call from any member of that illustrious clan, no matter how youthful, need be taken with utmost seriousness. To be safe, Lucy said she wished to procure a gift for her grandfather, cannily begging Mr. Tabori’s discretion if he by chance spoke to Mr. Trotter in the interim. (The redhead knew he was a longtime customer.) She was in full detective mode.
Bearded Emerson, youngest of the brethren, stood no taller than Tull; though his satyric countenance put one in mind of that other Toulouse—he of Montmartre cabarets—it was impossible to think of him in the diminutive. His unflagging energy, passionate apprehension and sheer-rock-face intellect (he was a well-known monographist and prolific contributor to The Dickens Newsletter, The Dickens Project, The Doughty Street Dickens and The Dickens Universe) made him appear like a great turbine from the dawn of the industrial age, a turbine overseen, if you will, by a pair of cool blue-gray eyes from which no textual footnote might escape. His memory was prodigious and phantasmagoric: he could still quote by heart the little van Gogh–penned poem he’d sold Louis Trotter (for $700,000) along with a letter to Theo wherein the hapless artist bitched about having no money to purchase oils.
The bell at the side door rang and there was a stir among employees, as the musketeers standing at the entrance—four, including Pullman—were fairly unforgettable. Edward, outfitted in a rather demure diaphanous Gigli cape, embroidered linen hood and the sort of delicate white cotton gloves with which one handles rare photographs, leaned like a holy invalid on both Lucy and his cousin. (Sling Blade, who had no interest at all in entering the sanctum sanctorum, stood under the gull wing of the Mauck and smoked, while Epitacio remained at Saint-Cloud, otherwise engaged.) The Great Dane made the usual unheralded, regal entrance and lay down, stretching his muscular spotted self on the terrazzo floor at the foot of a suite of chairs renowned for having once been featured in Gone with the Wind. A nervous employee sashayed over to suggest the dog remain outside; before she had the chance, Mr. Tabori brought her up short with an acrid little smile. She backed off.
“How marvelous to meet you all!” he exclaimed, with retailer’s outstretched arms. But that is unfair, for he cared nothing of money.
Introductions were made and genealogy silently noted: These two belong to Dodd, son of Louis—this one to Katrina, beloved, famously jilted, drug-addicted daughter of same.
He took them on tour and showed them folios and autographs, and rows of buttery bindings decorated in gilt, with watered-silk endleaves. He had no idea what they had in mind, yet planted seeds in the several-thousand-dollar range according to his sense of what the old man might enjoy, such as a 1900 edition of Days of the Dandies, an anthology of British court life.
The curious titanium-braced fashionista pointed to th
is and that while his braided sister explored the shop as if it were a fabulous tree house. The one called Tull seemed saturnine, and looked as if about to flee.
They passed a vitrine of handwritten folios.
“Bret Harte,” said Mr. Tabori, gnomishly enthused. “Tiny handwriting, no? That’s just a fragment; what’s actually called a blad—short for ‘blotting pad.’ You should see Poe’s! He had two styles of handwriting, one for manuscripts, the other for correspondence. When he wrote his stories, he usually tried to approximate the typeface of a book. And Brontë! Charlotte Brontë is worse—almost pathological. You need a magnifying glass!”
“Mr. Tabori,” began Lucy, circling back. The boys turned in anticipation. “Do you—do you have any Nancy Drew?”
All faces registered disappointment.
“I’m afraid not! Though we do have Edgar Rice Burroughs—in fact, we have the entire work. May I ask what you have in mind, if you do have anything in mind, for your grandfather?”
She smiled devilishly at her compadres; it was the moment of truth. They would now take up the challenge like men—or forever keep their mousy peace.
“Well,” said Edward, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He theatrically cleared his throat while swiveling toward his cousin. “Do you have … the list?” He meant the letter, which Tull simply wasn’t ready to extend. Seeing he’d get nowhere with the flummoxed boy, Edward stalled for time, and turned back to Mr. Tabori. “How about Dickens?”
The girl detective frowned at their timidity.
“For me, Dickens is the most marvelous—and one of the easiest to collect.” He walked them to a section of which Lucy had thought, before setting off again on her investigations, contained the most beautiful volumes imaginable. “The interesting thing about Dickens is, printers had certain requirements. You see, most of his books were 624 pages long for a reason—they came in sixteen-page gatherings, or ‘quires.’ Look: this one’s an ‘octavo,’ that’s eight leaves to a quire—a total of sixteen pages with inner and outer forms. When people read Dickens and say this or that passage is hurried or belabored, it’s because, you see, he was customizing. It’s the same for certain Mozart pieces, no? Were you interested in Dickens? I mean, for your grandfather? Because if I’m not mistaken, he already has the Nonesuch—”
