Malarkey

by Sheila Simonson

  My brother-in-law, Freddy, Jay's much younger half-brother, had been immersed in virtual experience since childhood. His obsession left him a little backward socially, but Freddy had come over to the human race in recent years, and he did not lose his touch with computers, nor his enthusiasm for them, in the process.

  Without humanizing social interaction, though, Freddy might have followed a pattern similar to Slade Wheeler's—technical brilliance allied with arrogant ignorance. Freddy had learned how to love. Had Slade? He didn't love his sister. Had he loved Grace Flynn— or just made love to her?

  Make love. What a misleading euphemism that is. Any rapist can fuck. Loving is more difficult.

  I thought of Jay, about whom there was nothing virtual, except his report writing class. He loved me. I loved him. So why was I miserable? I parked in front of the cottage and set the brake.

  "The windows are steamed up," Dad observed, unhitching his seatbelt.

  In fact, the ham was boiling away cheerily, but Jay had vanished. His computer was on. I touched the space bar and got a screenful of text. He was not downstairs, Dad reported on his way to a proper nap. I went outside and walked as far as the rhododendrons that hid Stanyon from our view. A patrol car sat in front of the house, but I saw no sign of life and no sign of my husband. He wasn't walking by the pond, either. When I returned to the kitchen, I was steamed.

  As I searched out a paring knife, I told myself to relax, that Jay wouldn't leave the computer on if he expected to be gone long. I found the purple potatoes and started peeling. I was doing a lot of potato peeling these days. Rice, I thought. Pasta. I would lay in a supply.

  I tested the ham, and it seemed done. The water level was high enough to convince me Jay had followed instructions. I set the kettle on the cool end of the Rayburn, ladled juice from it into a pot, plunked the potatoes into the liquid, and set the pan, covered, on the hot side. I dissected the oddly green cabbage into three equal chunks, a time-consuming exercise in solid geometry. Still no Jay.

  The potatoes boiled. I moved them over by the ham, sliced fruit, and concocted a yogurt dressing. I put out plates and flatware. I found a jar of mustard. I was brooding over the garbage pail and wondering what one did with no compost pile, no disposal unit, and no apparent garbage service, when the telephone rang. I raced to answer it and cracked my crazy bone on the door arch.

  "Hi," Jay said. "Been home long?"

  I rubbed my elbow. "Almost long enough to finish the cooking of dinner."

  He ignored my sarcasm. "Good. I'm bringing Kennedy home for a meal."

  I gritted my teeth. "How fortunate I peeled enough potatoes for an army. Where are you?"

  "Stanyon."

  "How long will you be?"

  "Half an hour."

  "You left your computer on."

  "Oh. Well, I was working."

  "I'll shut it down."

  "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  I saved his file, turned the computer off, went back to the kitchen, laid another place setting, and hacked the cabbage into six pieces. The potatoes were almost cooked. I found red wine and twisted the corkscrew so fiercely a bit of cork crumbled into the bottle.

  I got out four wine glasses and the tea strainer and poured with exaggerated care. I drained the potatoes and mashed the bejasus out of them. I whipped them with butter and beat in a dollop of yogurt, at which point my sense of humor kicked in. There was nothing left to pummel.

  I was furious with Jay, I decided, partly because I was relieved. At some level I had been imagining him in the hands of a deranged killer. He wasn't. He might be inconsiderate and complacent, but he was alive. He could bloody cook dinner tomorrow.

  Restored to the semblance of good-humor, I went in and beat the computer twelve times at Klondike. When I heard the patrol car crunch to a stop outside, I washed my hands at the kitchen sink and poked the cabbage in with the still-simmering ham.

  Jay stuck his head in the door. "Hi. Steamy in here."

  "Just like my mood," I said delicately.

  He blinked and entered, followed by Joe Kennedy, who looked as if he needed a square meal. And twelve hours of sleep. I greeted Joe with a dazzling smile and directed the gentlemen to wash up and wake my father. They complied.

  The meal was a triumph, measured by our appetites. Dad carved. There was enough ham left for sandwiches. We finished off the wine. Joe, who was beginning to look sleepy, begged for tea, so I shooed everyone into the living room and brewed a pot. I brought the tea and a plate of ginger biscuits to the men and told Jay to build a fire. Our first turf fire. It burned brightly enough but induced no visions. It smelled vaguely oily.

  We munched and sipped, locked in our own thoughts. At last Joe set his cup down and wiped his mouth.

  "More tea?"

  "Thank you, no. Time for me to be off." He rose. "A grand meal."

  "How did she die?" Dad burst out. When all three of us stared at him, he blushed. "I beg your pardon, but I must know. Speculation is worse than ignorance."

  Joe examined the polished oak boards under his feet.

  Jay said, "She was garroted, George."

  Dad shuddered. So did I.

  Joe cleared his throat. "There was a struggle."

  "Mahon wanted me to look at the scene," Jay added. "I'm afraid I had nothing to contribute."

  Joe frowned at him. "He wanted you to confirm my impression."

  "Glad to oblige," Jay murmured. "Without the body, though, I was guessing."

  "Sure, the inspector knows it." The frown eased, and Joe gave me a small bow. "My thanks for the dinner and the tea, ma'am."

  I considered. "I think 'ma'am' is obligatory only during an interrogation. As in 'Just the facts, ma'am.'"

  He grinned, shook hands all around, and took his leave. Jay went out to the car with him.

  Dad brought the tea tray to the kitchen. He looked gray around the mouth.

  I thought about sending him off to bed, though it was only eight. Noon at home. Three in Childers, New York. I took the tray from him. "Why don't you call Mother?"

  He gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose I ought to. She'll fuss, though."

  Ma might fuss but she would distract him from the image of Kayla, purple-faced with her tongue protruding. It was just possible my father had no idea what a strangling victim looked like. I hoped not. I wished I didn't.

  I said, "It's Sunday. Isn't she expecting you to call?"

  He nodded and trailed into the other room. When I heard him greeting Mother, I started scraping plates into the crammed garbage pail. I had stacked the dishes and run a panful of hot soapy water before Jay came in. Dad was still on the phone.

  Jay stretched and yawned. "Great dinner, Lark."

  I handed him a wet sponge. "What impression?"

  He blinked at the sponge. "Eh?"

  "Joe said Mahon wanted you to confirm his impression. What impression?"

  He tossed the sponge into the dishpan and rolled up his sleeves. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

  "Did Mahon hire you?"

  "No."

  "Then you are a bystander, my friend. Like Dad. Like me. When you're part of an official investigation, I keep my questions to myself."

  "You do?" He scrubbed a plate. "I hadn't noticed."

  "Stop patronizing me. You have no standing in this case, and you know I won't spill my guts to the Daily Blatt. So give." I picked up the dishtowel.

  He dunked the clean plate in the steaming rinse water and handed it to me. "Come on, Lark—"

  "No, you come on. I will not be treated like the domestic help."

  "Look, I'm sorry about dinner. I was getting set to peel potatoes when Mahon called me." He handed me another plate.

  I dried it.

  "I made the beds."

  "Big deal." Making the beds involved straightening two duvets and plumping three pillows.

  He handed me the remaining plates.

  I wiped them with the soft towel.

&nb
sp; "All right, you win. Mahon wanted me to confirm Kennedy's interpretation of certain physical evidence."

  I carried the four dried plates to the cupboard. "I'm waiting."

  "Joe thought the assailant was probably smaller than the victim. Kayla put up quite a struggle. Things were knocked around. Of course I didn't see the body in situ, but Joe described what he saw pretty vividly. There was bruising, too, and it wasn't post mortem."

  I closed my eyes, visualizing Kayla. I kept seeing her walking down the Stanyon stairway dressed in black. "Where was she killed?"

  He hesitated again then shrugged. "Her room. It was off by itself in the east wing. They use that room and the connecting bath for guests." He tossed a handful of clean flatware into the rinse water. "Mahon thinks the killer entered through the bath. It has two doors, one to the hall and one to the bedroom."

  I fished out a fork and two spoons. "And there were no other guests?"

  "No overnight guests. Novak lives in Arklow. He went home."

  I laid the dried silverware on a clean cloth. "When?"

  "Soon after the Steins left for Killaveen. Or so he says." Jay thrust another fistful of flatware into the water. "He claims he locked the front door but didn't enable the alarm system."

  "Alex and Barbara probably told him not to."

  "So they say." He didn't sound as if he doubted them. The skepticism was an ingrained reaction.

  I dried knives and forks. "Kayla was a big woman."

  "Five ten. About a hundred and ninety pounds. Of flab." He dipped the carving knife in the rinse water and handed it to me.

  "Flab or no flab, she would have resisted." I dried the knife and restored it to the big wooden knife holder.

  "If she was conscious. The Steins and Novak seemed to think she was drunk when she went up after dinner."

  "Is that going to confuse things?"

  He began scrubbing the potato pan. "The autopsy will clear up some of the questions."

  "Mahon should look for bruises on his suspects."

  "I believe the thought has occurred to him."

  I stared at him. "No need to be snotty. I was thinking aloud."

  He swished the pan. "Alex claims he stumbled yesterday and fell down half a flight of stairs." His tone was dispassionate.

  I finished the residual flatware slowly, polishing each piece and laying it on the soft cloth. "All the Stonehall people are smaller than Kayla was, shorter and lighter. I don't think Barbara could have tackled her at all. Barbara is barely five feet tall and a hundred pounds maximum."

  "On the other hand, she has studied tae kwan do."

  "Wonderful."

  "With her bruised husband." He stuck the clean pan in the tepid water and began sloshing out the big kettle.

  "You'll need fresh hot water for the wine glasses."

  "Right." He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Don't patronize me."

  "Not," I said, "a perfect parallel."

  "Few things are perfect." He rinsed the kettle.

  I took it, dried it, and slammed it onto the cool end of the Rayburn.

  "Lighten up, Lark."

  "Why should I when you're doing your best to make me feel incompetent?"

  "Lower your voice." He nodded toward the other room.

  Both of us listened. Dad was still talking.

  I drew a long breath. "Okay, I'm a loudmouthed interfering broad."

  "Not very broad."

  "Cut it out."

  He poured the water from the dishpan down the drain and began running a fresh panful. He squirted liquid soap into it and swore when it sudsed up. So he wasn't as cool as he sounded. "Supposing you explain what you mean by incompetent. Believe me, the thought has never crossed my mind."

  "Not at the conscious level, perhaps."

  "Not at any level. You have your quirks, but idiocy isn't one of them and neither is helplessness." He stuck his right hand in the rinse water, decided it was too cold, and tipped it out, too.

  He turned on the hot water tap with a gush of steam. "It makes me uncomfortable to talk about a case that's under investigation. The response is automatic. I'm sorry if it annoys you."

  "I don't like being shut out." I squinted at him through the steam.

  He turned the tap off and added a judicious squirt of cold water to the rinsing pan. "Neither do I."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He washed a wine glass and rolled it in rinse water. "This wordplay between you and Joe Kennedy, what's the deal?"

  "The sergeant and I enjoy verbal oddities." I dried the first wine glass as he set two others in the rinse water.

  "And that's it?"

  "That's it."

  He rinsed the last wine glass, dampened the sponge, and began wiping down the exposed surfaces. "All right. He's a nice enough guy, I guess."

  "It's not his fault that he looks like a god," I said with great earnestness.

  Jay paused, sponge raised, gave me suspicious stare, then started to laugh. "Okay, okay. No more scenes from Othello."

  We tidied the kitchen in fair accord and went into the living room as Dad was hanging up. Ma's workshop was going well. Dad had revived. He challenged us to a round of Scrabble and the rest of the evening passed peacefully.

  I got up at six Monday morning, the day of the inquest. Jay was sound asleep, face half-buried in the pillow. I got out an exercise suit and my running shoes, dressed, and tiptoed upstairs. I started a pot of coffee, unlatched the front door, and slipped outside. Sunlight filtered through thinning mist.

  I did my stretches and set out at a gentle jog. A hard run would have been unwise on the graveled surface. I jogged to the Y and headed toward Stanyon Hall. The drive curved down and looped back with a turnoff to the front door of the house.

  I could see a uniformed Garda peering at me from the stone porch. I flipped my hand in a wave and followed the loop back to the Y and on up to the paved road. I didn't have the courage to run on Suicide Lane even at that hour, so I wheeled around and jogged back to the cottage. Not much of a workout. However, when I had showered and drunk a couple of mugs of coffee I did feel better. It was possible that my ill-temper the day before had been the result of a week of sitting. At home I ran on the beach almost every morning.

  Jay wandered up at eight and Dad half an hour later. They went for a walk together and returned as I finished toasting the remains of the cottage loaf. I also sliced soda bread.

  "There's juice and dry cereal," I announced. "I don't feel like cooking breakfast."

  Neither of them complained. They didn't cook anything, though. I don't think my father can. Ma's housekeeper had made splendid breakfasts for us of all the forbidden foods. My brother, Tod, blames his hypertension squarely on Mrs. Schultz's cooking. Me, I think his problem is lack of exercise, a messy divorce, and making too much money as a stockbroker. Not to mention the Republican Party. I'm fond of Tod, but he's a fuss-budget.

  I fussed that morning over what to wear. There was an ironing board, thank God. I dragged out my travel iron, hoping the lever was turned to the right voltage. It must have been. By nine- thirty I was dressed in a heather gray suit with a boring silk blouse and a pair of conservative earrings. I even wore pumps. Jay said I looked like a lawyer.

  "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy," I muttered, too dispirited for originality. In fact, Jay looked like an unemployed college professor, which was what he was going to be if he didn't fly home soon. Dad looked like a retired college professor.

  "Come and show me the security alarm," Jay said.

  "On the wall beside the front door. It's not very far from here to the meeting hall," I added. "Shall we walk?"

  Jay shook his head. "Press."

  I groaned. "I hate this."

  The worry lines deepened around Dad's mouth. "Sergeant Kennedy assured us the coroner won't keep you on the stand very long, my dear. I'm sure you'll do splendidly."·

  I forced a smile. "That part will be fine. I was moaning about the reporters.
"

  "We shall give them the slip," Dad said magnificently.

  "They'll photograph me with my mouth open and my eyes crossed."

  "Then we won't buy newspapers." Jay took my arm. "The alarm system?"

  I showed him where it was and wrote out the code for him that would disable it when we returned. I don't know why I did that. Perhaps, at some level, I was expecting to be arrested.

  Jay packed his computer into its case and put it in the hatchback of the car with his anorak draped over it for camouflage. He was taking no chances. "Ready to go?"

  "When you are." I took the car keys from Jay and stuck my head back in the kitchen. "Dad?"

  My father had gone downstairs for a precautionary pit stop. By the time he finally came outside and Jay had set the alarm, it was ten minutes of ten. I made a jack-rabbit start, and the engine died.

  "Take it easy," Jay murmured from the back seat.

  I clutched the wheel and tried again, pulling out with careful smoothness.

  We ought to have started earlier. Cars filled the tiny parking lot and spilled out along both sides of the narrow road. I finally nosed as far onto the verge as I could go without trapping my father on the passenger side and got out. Jay extricated himself from the back seat, took the keys, and locked up for me.

  We almost made it into the hall undetected because a clump of reporters and photographers had backed Alex and Barbara Stein against a tombstone—the "yard" of the hall bled directly into the Protestant burial ground. Then Maeve spotted me from the entrance.

  "Hullo, Lark!" she called in a lecture hall voice, and the game was up. Two reporters and a camcorder leapt for us.

  "Mrs. Dodge," one of them shouted, shoving a microphone at me, "what was your sensation when—"

  My father drew himself up to his full height. "Good morning. We shall have no comment until after the coroner has adjourned the inquest." He, too, can produce a lecture hall boom.