Winnie said drearily, “Mr. Etting was talking about some murder.… Didn’t you go away?”
“No. Mrs. Rogan and I were locked in upstairs,” Nona said, as if this were nothing worth much comment.
“He said you were Mrs. Quinn.”
“Hush. Take that pill. Lie still. Whatever is happening …”is happening, Nona’s mind finished.
They could hear very little sound. Soon, the doctor came back. He said, “I’m afraid she has taken something. Strychnine, I’m guessing, and I’m sorry …” He let a beat of silence tell them. Then, he told them. “There’s nothing to be done.”
Nona’s hand held Winnie’s tightly. “Poor thing,” said Nona, “ah, poor thing. But now …” She braced up. “Doctor, her husband is upstairs in Mrs. Rogan’s room. His heart is not supposed to be strong. He’s had one bad shock already. Could you …?”
The doctor said, “Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him. I’ll take care.” He was strong, and he was kind. “This is her daughter?”
“Yes. Winnie will be all right. I’ll stay.” Nona was strong, too.
“That sudden hemorrhaging,” said the doctor kindly, “isn’t surprising—tension and shock. Just keep her very quiet. She’s young. She’ll do.”
He went off.
There hadn’t been any baby.
Winnie said, “My mother … why?”
And Nona called out suddenly, “Kelly! Kelly Shane!” Kelly put his dark head in at the door. “You go out there and tell Mr. Etting to shut his mouth, and to shut it tight. You tell him he doesn’t know anything.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Kelly with relish.
“There isn’t any need,” said Nona half to herself. “Sans Souci doesn’t ever have to know who Mrs. Quinn was. Let them wonder.”
Winnie said, eyes closed, “My mother is dead.”
“Yes. And you … there wasn’t any baby …”
“I know,” said Winnie and sighed. “You were upstairs all this time, Mrs. Henry? I thought … I told Dad you had gone to Seattle.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nona said softly. (Ah, she thought, the if-ish-ness of everything! If I hadn’t mentioned going to Seattle. How many ifs did it take, I wonder, for Rose Lake to die?)
The girl had opened her eyes and now Nona realized, with a bit of surprise and then with at least the promise of rejoicing, that those eyes no longer adored. They were thoughtful eyes, friendly to Nona Henry, eager to communicate, ready to trust and to respect, but they were the eyes of a person.
“About my mother …” said Winnie. “Do you know I feel, in a way … glad? I guess I’m sorry that it’s so. But it is so.”
“I can understand if it is so,” said Nona gently.
“Why did she?” Winnie wondered.
“You will have to remember that we can’t possibly know that,” said Nona slowly. “But it wasn’t because she ever murdered anybody, I’m quite sure. Your dad will be able to tell you about the trial, the whole thing. Do you know what I imagine?” She wasn’t preaching. There were two minds here, exchanging.
“I imagine,” Nona went on, “that it was something that happened to her, a very bad time she’d had, when she was young. A secret. There are lots of those.”
Winnie smiled wanly. “I was going to tell her.”
“Not now,” said Nona gently. “No need. I don’t believe that your mother, in herself, was very happy.”
“Never,” Winnie said. “She never was.”
“I think you must forgive her,” Nona said. “I think that’s all for you to do.” (Be healed, thought Nona.)
Winnie nodded. “Maybe,” she said in a moment, “all that bad time … that was why she was so, you know, abnormal about me. I think so.”
“It could very well be,” said Nona, fondly. “Try to be quiet, dear.”
“I’ll be O.K.,” said Winnie Lake. “I … kind of seem to understand. It’s a lot to get used to. Now she’s gone. And no baby. And Len … everything will be new, now.”
Twenty minutes. Tess Rogan and Nona Henry, discovered and released. Winnie’s question answered. Rose Lake dead. There was a widower, in Sans Souci.
Winnie Lake was crying. Silent tears slipped out of her eyes. Nona Henry understood. Weeping for what was gone. Pleasant or unpleasant, easy or difficult, loved (and for that reason?) hated—no matter. It was gone and it would be no more. Tears for the old needed to be shed, if only to wash the young heart ready for whatever new was to come.
Chapter 35
So much was happening, there was so much to talk about in Sans Souci, that Agnes Vaughn not only did not need to invent a thing, but found herself panting on the heels of the latest advices, actually running with the pack (although, of course, she was among the first to know).
There was so much to know, indeed, that some tidbits were simply run over in the stampede and never did get the widow’s full attention.
News came, for instance, on the Tuesday morning, that Elna Ames had died in that nursing home. Since, to all intents and purposes, as far as Sans Souci was concerned, she had already died, there was little lamentation and less discussion. A question or two about who might go to her funeral.…
(In fact, nobody from Sans Souci went to her funeral. She had been a quiet woman.)
That same Tuesday morning Leila Hull finally returned. She did not look like the same person. Her hair was white, now, and dressed neatly, close to her head. She had new eyeglasses. She was much thinner. Her manner was subdued. She came braced against the curiosity she expected to find besieging her. Nobody besieged her. Too much else was happening.
Then, also, Agnes Vaughn automatically noted that Joan Braverman was leaving the building later than usual and guessed that she must have lost her position. But Agnes found this deduction quite dull. So Joan and Kitty worried together in an astonishing privacy. In fact, it was rather deflating. Joan Braverman went in and out with large eyes, feeling invisible. She had begun to feel strange twinges in her body and to wonder about her health.
One more incident went down to oblivion.
Tuesday morning, Sarah Lee Cunneen knocked and at once opened, as was her old habit, Bettina Goodenough’s door. “Hi!
Feeling better?” Sarah Lee came in, just as she usually did, toes turned out, face a little red and shining.
Bettina Goodenough felt a boom of hope in her bosom and her entire attitude turned over. “I have been worried about sick,” she confessed, tilting her head and looking strained. “But I’m O.K., now. I just called my daughter, long-distance, and borrowed some money.” Bettina’s chin went up. As I had the right to do, it added.
“Well, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?” cried Sarah Lee. “Listen! Why didn’t you say something?”
Sarah Lee didn’t seem to realize that pride could have been involved. Of course, she was sometimes a little crude, a little vulgar, not very proud. Bettina felt herself flushing.
“I said something.” Bettina let out an hysterical little toot, and in another second they were both laughing.
After a while, Sarah Lee hit Bettina on her forearm. “You didn’t miss much. Oh, the food was good. But she’s too stiff for me. Yatida, yatida—you know! No sense of humor. Didn’t ask me in to her place, either.”
“She’ll never ask me. Hah! Hah!”
“You should care!”
“Care?” shouted Bettina. “Life’s too short!” (She’ll never quote me, thought Bettina. Phooey on Caroline Buff!)
“Say,” said Sarah Lee, sobering and getting down to the business of the day, “have you heard …?”
How Tess Rogan and Nona Henry had been locked up in that bathroom since last Thursday! Imagine! Terrible! Dangerous! Frightening! Why, Mrs. Fitz was back in bed, this morning, and no wonder. Why, it was enough to scare a person out of her wits! Who in Sans Souci would ever again be reckless enough or stupid enough (or brave enough) to lock her bathroom door? There were those who had always said …
Felice Paull was going around proclaim
ing that a lawsuit against the owner of Sans Souci was not only sure to be won, but a civic duty. She was right, too!
But guess-who was the owner! Avery Patrick! The man in 102! He was actually the owner of Sans Souci. Now it came out! Well!
(Chops were being licked. Felice Paull was going to have her kitchen painted or else. Agnes Vaughn was thinking about getting the heat to keep coming up much later into the night. Why not? Why should she go to bed early? Sometimes she didn’t feel like it.)
All this—shocking, exciting or promising as it might be—all this paled before the fact and the manner of Rose Lake’s death.
Rose Lake! Such a young woman! (Furthermore, a woman who still had a man!) It was terrifying; it was thrilling. To think that she had done it herself! Took something. Wished to die. And nobody knew why!
Not a word had gone around linking Rose Lake with Mrs. Quinn. Oppie Etting had his mouth shut so tight (in his terror) that he had thoroughly antagonized Harriet Gregory. She, in a state of frustration, fear and frenzy, ran in and out of her own place, taking pills, and then not able to bear the silence, haunting the patio, the lobby, the corridors, and ringing doorbells, hunting for someone to listen to her.
Poor Harriet was so hysterically repetitious nobody wanted to listen. Mrs. Fitz was not well, and Georgia had no time. The Gadabouts did not need her. Agnes Vaughn let her in but even Agnes said to her, “We heard, Harriet. Look, either sit down and keep quiet once in a while or …”
Harriet took offense.
Very quietly, that evening, she slipped downstairs. Her heart pounded. Elna Ames was dead. Rose Lake was dead. People died. She was afraid. People were punished. No one let off. But she, Harriet, had done no wrong. Nobody understood.
Caroline Buff opened her door.
“Mrs. Buff?” Harriet wished to be sweet as a dove’s coo, but her voice was more like the scrape of a knife upon a china plate. “May I come in? I want to apologize.”
“Oh, but I’m sure …”
“I think I was very rude to you the other day.”
“Why not at all, Mrs. Gregory. Will you come in?” Caroline Buff had been writing some letters, peacefully and quite happily.
Harriet came in and sat on the edge of a chair. She twisted her face into a most peculiar grimace. “Did you know,” said Harriet, “that my maiden name was Goldfarb?”
“Was it, indeed?” Caroline Buff’s fine gray eyes did not really care what Harriet Gregory’s maiden name had been.
But now Harriet, as if she had put in a claim upon the older woman’s attention and proposed to collect, began to talk feverishly. Out came the story about her genius-husband, his manuscripts, her devoted far-off children. But she lost her grip on this old fantasy and plunged zigzag into denunciations and comparisons within Sans Souci. “So foolish to have locked themselves in. Really …” Her hands flew. She smoked violently. “With any breeding … Haven’t you wondered how it was that they both …? In a bathroom?” Her eyes glittered maliciously.
Mrs. Buff said, concealing her distaste, “Isn’t it sad about the manager’s wife?”
Harriet Gregory disapproved of suicide on moral grounds. She would not, she said, go to Rose Lake’s funeral. She seemed to think that to do so might condone a sin.
Caroline Buff let her run on for almost half an hour. Then, if a little sadly, still very skillfully she rose and put poor Harriet out.
Poor Harriet Gregory. The loneliest widow of them all. Even Marie Gardner, in her hermit’s cell, was less lonely than Harriet. In Marie’s misty world she, at least, was meeting some of her selves. But Harriet Gregory had no self. There was nothing there—a blob, a throb of animal fear, nothing much more—behind the twitching ever-changing mask.
Rose Lake was dead! Suicide! The widows clucked and gasped. Poor Winifred! Poor girl, what would become of her? Poor Morgan Lake, his heart …! Had they heard? Such a shock for him! (How thoughtless of Rose!) Of course he was all right … as far as anyone knew.
Young Dr. O’Gara had taken over. With no patience for half measures, he had dispatched Morgan Lake to a hospital for a three-week period of complete rest and some complicated tests. Morgan Lake was, in fact, forbidden any physical connection with his own tragedy. He had not been allowed to see his wife’s body. And he was not to be permitted to attend her funeral on the Wednesday.
Who would go?
Mrs. Fitz was not strong enough; Georgia couldn’t leave her.
Caroline Buff never even thought of such a thing.
The Gadabouts did not want to go. They said they hadn’t known the woman. They might have gone for Mr. Lake’s sake but if he wasn’t going to be there …
It was Daisy Robinson who said she saw no use in making an empty gesture. This went like wildfire around the building and became very popular as an excuse.
Tess Rogan, who was not going, gave no excuse at all.
It was Nona Henry who went to Rose Lake’s funeral and stood by Winnie Lake. With them was another girl, about Winnie’s age. She was the daughter of Avery Patrick.
The only other person from Sans Souci who attended (for the colored staff had to stay on duty) was Avery Patrick himself. He managed to get through it, although sweat burst on his brow, for he was hung over. He was, also, betrayed and exposed and no one knew, better than he, that his life would not be the same again.
Winnie Lake was still asleep in Nona Henry’s apartment when Avery Patrick rang the doorbell on Tuesday morning.
Nona knew who and what he was. Last night the police, called by Dr. O’Gara as was the law, had soon found out who owned the building. And where he was. And how to get hold of him.
“How is the little girl?” he asked.
“Asleep. Come in, Mr. Patrick.” Nona took him into the living room, as far away as could be from the bedroom door.
“I … er … the thing is, Mrs. Henry, Lake’s my cousin. Now, he’s worried about the kid, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said Nona. “I’m worried, too. You do know that he’s her stepfather?”
“Yes, yes.” It made Avery nervous to know she knew.
“Where is her real father, do you know that?”
“No, I don’t.” His nervous eyes fled.
“Does Mr. Lake know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then, what is to become of her?”
“That’s what I thought we might have a talk about.” He stretched all the creases around his eyes. “I understand, in fact I know, that there is a sum of money put aside for her college education.”
“Ah, that’s fine,” said Nona. “But she has to finish out this year in high school and there’s the summer.”
Avery Patrick rubbed the dark spot under one eye. “Mrs. Henry, I … er … am divorced. Now, it happens I have a daughter, Elizabeth is her name, who is now in her first year of college. Well, she’s met Winnie Lake on occasion. Through the years, you know? She lives with her mother but she visits me. The fact is, Liz is in town right now.”
“In town? Here?”
“No, no, she’s at the Miramar in Santa Monica. No, I’ve never had her here. I talked to Liz on the phone this morning. She suggests … and it may be possible … that Winnie go east with her.”
“Oh?”
“For a visit. With Morgan in that hospital … Liz says she doesn’t see why not. Might be a good thing. She could transfer to a high school back there. My ex-wife … well … Liz says it’s quite all right. What do you think, Mrs. Henry? You have been very good to Winnie. Frankly, I. think that you were wonderful last night.” Avery Patrick pushed out admiration. “I know you are fond of her,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you want to take the girl in permanently.”
In statement form, Avery Patrick was asking a question: “Are you going to take the girl in permanently? Or do I have to do something about her?”
Nona said, “You ask me what I think? All right. I think I’d like to meet your daughter, Mr. Patrick.”
“Well … er …
I was going to suggest that I drive Winnie out to Santa Monica.”
“Couldn’t your daughter come here?”
“Here?” Avery Patrick looked frightened.
“Frankly,” said Nona Henry, “I would like to see what kind of girl your daughter is.”
Avery rolled his eyes. He despaired. What was the use? He was naked to the truth. The widows would now be at him, like a swarm of wasps. He might as well give up. Let Liz see how and where he really lived, the whole shabby makeshift texture of his life.
Besides, he wished to please this woman, this Mrs. Henry. He had a reason. He couldn’t afford to take offense.
So he beamed, or thought he did. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll call Liz. Yes. You can expect her, I’m sure, this afternoon. In fact, I have so much, so many problems, right here …” Avery Patrick looked helpless in a masculine sort of way. “I don’t quite know what I am going to do, frankly. Morgan in the hospital. Well, of course, Etting is all right here at night. What am I going to do by day?”
“I don’t know,” said Nona pleasantly.
“What occurs to me, Mrs. Henry”—Avery bugged out his eyes with admiration—”would you consider taking the desk? Temporarily?”
“I?”
He was producing the male equivalent of stars in the eyes. “I couldn’t help noticing how you took over last night. You are so capable. Of course, I know you don’t need a job. But I would appreciate the lift. It would be doing me, and Morgan Lake of course, the greatest favor. There would be a salary …”
“Not I,” said Nona.
“What am I going to do?” he said. His eyelashes had not given up yet.
“Frankly, I suppose you are going to hire someone.”
“How can I get hold of someone, this minute?” Avery Patrick’s voice showed a tinge of temper.
“Who is downstairs on the desk, this minute?”
“Kelly Shane.”
“Why don’t you let Kelly Shane take the desk, by day?”
Patrick rolled his eyes.
“He knows this place. He is an intelligent young man. I can’t think who would be better. Is his mother back today?”
Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci Page 33
