Fadeaway Girl

by Martha Grimes

  “Ah. So C doesn’t ask A because C doesn’t really want to know, even though she thinks she does?”

  I nodded.

  She smoked. She said, “That’s pretty good. I mean, I think Miss Flyte is probably right.”

  “It’s called denial.”

  Where had he come from? How had the Sheriff managed to just appear that way?

  Maud said, “How did you manage to creep up on us?”

  The Sheriff sat down beside Maud.

  I said, “What do you mean, ‘denial’?”

  “That happens when you hide something from yourself. Alcoholics are masters of denial. They hide from the fact that they’re alcoholics.”

  “You sound,” said Maud, “like you just came from an AA meeting. Was it helpful?”

  “Funny.” He turned back to me, as if I were the adult here and the only one he could talk to. “It’s actually a complex state, denial. But let’s simplify it by saying there’s something a person just doesn’t want to know or admit to or find out about himself.”

  “Like if there’s an obvious person to ask something, I mean a person who’d be most likely to know, but I don’t ask him, but just ask a dozen other people instead.”

  “You mean, you pretend to want to know?”

  I frowned. “I guess.”

  “For instance”—the Sheriff had removed his cap and was loosening up his tie—“if you keep pretending to want to know, you’ll throw people off? Which is often what alcoholics do.”

  “Well, but it’s not so much trying to throw other people off, since they don’t even get what you’re talking about. No, it’s more yourself, just yourself.”

  Maud blew out another thin stream of smoke. “I have a copy of the Big Book under the counter if either of you need to consult it.”

  The Sheriff smiled at me. “You have a perfect understanding of denial. So what are you denying?”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “You.”

  I played with my straw, bending and rebending it. He just sat there, fixing me with his cool blue eyes. The Sheriff definitely didn’t move in roundabout ways.

  He said, “I went to Cold Flat Junction and talked to Gloria Calhoun and her friend Prunella Rice. You were right about that phone call. It was planned in order to give Gloria an excuse for leaving the room. According to her—and it wasn’t easy getting her to admit this, obviously—Imogen’s father gave her a hundred dollars to leave the room for twenty minutes. She could say she’d had a phone call. She arranged to call Prunella Rice at exactly nine-thirty, while the dance was on.

  “They didn’t know the reason for this. They thought it was some game, some joke he was playing on the parents, or some surprise he’d arranged for them. But after the police were called, Woodruff told Gloria not to say a word or she might get in trouble with the police too. It sounded like a threat.”

  I started to say, “Then they were—”

  The Sheriff held off my voice with the palm of his hand out, pressing against my words. “As you can imagine, Gloria was flabbergasted when she got back to the room and found Morris Slade there and little Fay gone. It was right after that when Mr. Woodruff told her to keep her mouth shut. She was scared to death—both of the girls were scared. Lucien Woodruff was a formidable man.”

  I said, “Then the three of them were in on it?”

  He shook his head. “Not the three of them, the two of them.”

  “Morris Slade,” I said, for some reason, disappointed in him, although I didn’t know him. “Everyone thought he was no good.”

  “Not Morris. Imogen.”

  This did make me gasp, although ordinarily I’m not much of a gasper. “Imogen! The baby’s mother!” I should have been enough into the Greeks and Medea not to be surprised by this.

  He nodded. “Imogen and her father planned it.”

  “Gloria Calhoun told you all this?”

  The Sheriff ’s smile was a little sour. “She didn’t have much choice. But no, she didn’t tell me all of it. Carl Mooma told me some. He was the sheriff back then. Donny’s uncle.”

  Carl Mooma. I thought he was dead.

  “Go on,” said Maud.

  “Sheriff Mooma was pretty tight-lipped.”

  I don’t know why I felt oddly relieved.

  “But there is more.” He looked at me.

  The way the Sheriff said that, my insides started jittering away like the milk shake container. I wanted to slap my hands over my ears. He was going to tell us what had happened that night; he was going to tell the end of it, the dazzling truth, the end of the story.

  But he didn’t.

  It was a dazzling something else.

  “Morris Slade’s back in town.”

  26

  Morris Slade.

  The Sheriff said he didn’t know why he’d come back, but that he was staying in the Woodruff house in Spirit Lake.

  I had an hour before I had to be at the salad table, which was so boring I would almost rather sit in Miss Bertha’s lap. I stopped in front of the Marigold Flower Shop and thought about the Woodruff house. Would I have time to investigate it before I had to serve tonight?

  I was still trying to work out reasons for a put-on kidnapping, a staged kidnapping. Will and Mill might have some ideas about kidnappings, considering the way they kept Paul up there in the rafters and how Will had whisked little Bessie off the croquet court.

  I moved on to the Prime Cut, where Bobbi, the owner, was putting rollers in Mayor Sims’s wife’s hair. She was trapped there behind the window; she couldn’t get up and walk away or turn away, as Bobbi had possession of her hair. I frowned deeply to show I thought she really looked bad, shook my head, and made a pained face to be sure she got it.

  But then I grew tired of that and walked on and puzzled over the kidnapping. Why had Imogen and Mr. Woodruff done it? Was it some kind of revenge against Morris Slade? Why? Every question began with Why? and went unanswered.

  I passed Axel’s Taxis and waved to Wilma, the dispatcher, and she waved back. So did Delbert. My wave was not meant to include him, but he was getting in on it anyway. I guessed I’d have to take a cab to the hotel in fifteen minutes, so I went in and told Wilma I’d be back at five. I wasn’t even looking at Delbert, who was reading a comic book, but he put it down and looked at his big turnip of a watch, then from it to the clock on the wall, and back again. He gave the watch a wind, as if General Eisenhower had told Delbert to wake him up at exactly 5:00 A.M. so he wouldn’t miss D-day.

  “Fifteen minutes. That’d make it right at five o’clock is what I figure.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Delbert. Five.”

  “It’s fifteen to right now, you realize that. So if my watch is right—”

  I left him talking to his watch and went down the three wooden steps.

  Revenge against Morris Slade. I thought about this. But for Imogen, from what I’d heard about her, it was just too complicated a plan. If she wanted revenge against her husband, she’d just hit him over the head with the fireplace tongs or something. As for Mr. Woodruff, I had the impression he was smart enough, only he wouldn’t put in all that effort just for revenge against Morris Slade. He’d just get rid of him somehow. Morris Slade could be bought off, he would think. I suppose almost anyone could be bought off. I know I could.

  Now I was in front of Forbish’s Shoes (SHOES FOR BUSY FEET the sign said). Mr. Forbish was fitting shoes on Helene Baum, who had a pie box sitting on the chair beside her. The store was dusk dark inside, as if it belonged in another solar system, but I could still pretend I saw how big Helene Baum’s feet were. When she looked my way, I made my mouth into an O of surprise. But she was sitting too far in for me to tell if she could see my shocked face. Maybe we’d meet on the street one day and she’d pass me a few folded-up bills, saying that was for my not telling her shoe size.

  I found an old stick of Doublemint gum in my pocket and stuffed it in my mouth and walked on. I thought probably I knew a lot about peo
ple they’d pay me not to tell. I walked up the other side of the street and then decided I had better get to the taxi rank and put in my time with Delbert.

  Delbert made a big deal of the time: “Five P.M. on the nose!” as if he were responsible for my punctuality. As we drove out of town with the friendly faces of Braeburn’s Tourist Home and Arturo’s Restaurant sliding by, I wondered, If Delbert were to kidnap me, how much would some people think I was worth, and what would they pay to get me back?

  I always sat behind him where he couldn’t see me in the rearview mirror unless he craned his neck. He hunted my face out in the mirror the way I’d heard a pig goes rooting for truffles. He wouldn’t last five minutes with Emily Dickinson, that’s for sure, not with that screen between them.

  “Do anything interestin’ today?”

  “No.” I hated open-ended questions like that; the questioner didn’t care about the answer, only that the burden of conversation got to the other person, so the one asking could sit back and not do anything (and then call himself a good listener): “You’re a mountain climber? Tell me about it!” “You play the oboe? Tell me about it.” “You murdered your children? Tell me about it!” Here I pictured the questioned one, Medea, plunging a knife into the questioner’s chest and answering, “That’s pretty much it.”

  “That brother o’ yours,” said Delbert, up and running again, “he puttin’ on any more plays? That last one was a corker!”

  “You mean you saw it?”

  “Nah. I just heard. I ain’t got time for stuff like that.”

  I watched the scenery wander away and thought for a moment. “Gee, that’s too bad because you were one of the characters.”

  That got him going. He almost ran off the road. I guessed there wasn’t a lot of drama in Delbert’s life.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You were Creon.”

  “Cre-un who? Who’s he?”

  “A cabdriver.” I was afraid he was so excited by all this he was going to stop the car. But he just flailed around, searching the mirror.

  I said, “This was back in the old days of the Greeks.”

  “The Greeks, they had cabs?”

  “Chariots.”

  “So this guy was drivin’ a chariot? With horses?”

  “No. You were driving a cab. It was right onstage, or part of it was, the front end that Will put together from scrap metal. It was cab number eighty-two. Medea took it to go to the Games.”

  We were passing Britten’s store then, and I waved to Mr. Root, but he was too busy with Ulub’s recital to notice.

  “So how’d people know it was me if I wasn’t there on the stage?”

  I considered this as the cab neared the Hotel Paradise driveway. “Because the character talked like you. And he worked for a Greek named Axel.” I had a sudden inspiration. “Listen: don’t turn into the hotel yet. Turn right up here on Pine and then go along E Street.”

  It was almost too much for Delbert, this shift in the usual route. He nearly tossed me into the trunk, braking like that. “What? What in God’s name you want to go to E Street for?”

  “Just do it, Delbert.”

  He grunted, then sped up a little. “Cost you more; this here’s a detour.”

  We passed the Custis place and Mrs. Louderback’s. The old Woodruff house, looking spick-and-span as always, sat on the next corner. The house hadn’t been lived in for years, not since the Belle Ruin days. But it had been kept up; the grass was mowed and the house aired out by whoever Mr. Woodruff hired to do it. I only knew this because I saw old Mr. Bernhardt trundling slowly behind a mower and his wife, who did cleaning, going in and out. It was a beautiful house, with long windows right down to the floor, and a wraparound porch. The house was painted white, of course, with green shutters.

  There was a light on inside. Several cars were parked along the street and one of them I’d never seen before. It was a red convertible with a black top and looked like one of those snappy foreign models. With all the time I spent in Slaw’s Garage, I should have been able to name it, but I couldn’t.

  “Okay, go to the hotel.”

  I thought I’d never hear the end of this detour. It even overshadowed Creon for five minutes.

  I handed over the fare plus the “detour charge” and a twenty-five-cent tip.

  “Thanks, only I wish you’d’ve told me about that play. I definitely would’ve gone.”

  “That’s too bad. Well, don’t worry, you’ll probably be in the next one, too.”

  With Delbert excitedly hurling questions at my back, I was up on the porch and through the door. I knew I’d set myself up for years of questions by making up that story and taking that “detour,” but some stories are, well, irresistible. And so are some detours.

  Mrs. Davidow was back in our kitchen, martini in one hand, ladle in the other, stirring the salad dressing. The ash of her cigarette was dangerously positioned over the brown crock. When I saw the iceberg lettuce quarters arranged on nine salad plates, I assumed there was a dinner party and asked whose.

  “Was. They just canceled. It’s the Browns. I told Bruce Brown it was too near dinner to cancel, that your mother had spent hours over the dinner and that our cancellation fee was thirty percent.”

  “What cancellation fee? We’ve never had one.”

  She tapped the ladle against the stone crock as if she were calling up spirits. Her face was red, half from martinis and half from anger. “We do now.”

  “What did they order?”

  “Surf ’n’ Turf. The lobster tails were half defrosted when he called.”

  “Then who gets the salads?”

  “There’s a party of four coming at seven. Bringing their own wine. Vera’s waiting on them.”

  Seven. That meant they’d be sticking around until eight-thirty or nine—if they were drinking. The hotel didn’t have a liquor license; we weren’t allowed to sell it, but guests were perfectly free to bring their own. But that way, the hotel didn’t make any money on drinks. So Lola Davidow got around that by charging for setups—ice, soda, ginger ale, and so forth. I could see she was trying to think of a way to charge for wine.

  “Who else?”

  “Only a couple staying the night. They’ll be in around seven-thirty. Vera will be waiting on them too.”

  I wasn’t good enough for the new people, but that was okay with me; it meant all I had to do was take care of Miss Bertha and Mrs. Fulbright and Mr. Muggs, who was staying overnight.

  Mrs. Davidow said she was going to the office, which meant I wouldn’t be able to get at the liquor supply.

  I would have to use my emergency drink. I’d started hiding an extra drink behind the block of ice in the icebox. It was called a Jack Frost, made from Jack Daniel’s and brandy and orange juice, and as it wouldn’t have time to defrost completely, that explained the “Frost” part. I took it out now, making sure no one was looking, and set it behind the Waring blender.

  Of course, there was a chance my mother would find it back there if the ice melted, but Walter and I were ready to say it was Lola Davidow’s. She’d say she hadn’t put it there, but we’d say she just forgot, which wasn’t true, but it sounded that way.

  Dinner was Roast Lamb with Brown Gravy or Mint Sauce. Miss Bertha always wanted her lamb very rare; my mother always refused to serve rare lamb. Tonight the same request was made, the same refusal given. “If she likes, Walter could go out and kill a rabbit for her. I could serve that with a nice tularemia confit.”

  Walter hee-hawed. Miss Bertha refused to eat. That was fine with me.

  While this noise went on, I served Mr. Muggs his dessert. We both looked at it with respect. It was Neapolitan Tart, one of my mother’s masterpieces, half of it a caramel-ribboned ice cream, half flaky pastry, all in a crushed almond shell with hot caramel sauce.

  I went to the kitchen and collected my Jack Frost and hurried it up to Aurora’s room.

  27

  “What if she died that very day?�
� said Aurora, eyes glittering.

  “You mean died, or was killed?”

  “Either. Both.” Her hand waved my question away. “I don’t know what I mean, tryin’ to fly on one wing. Here—” She held out the glass.

  I didn’t have another Jack Frost on ice. “I can’t get at the whiskey if Mrs. Davidow is in the office.”

  This had no effect on the outstretched hand. She said, “More likely she’s out at her still. Go on. You’ll think of something.”

  “I’ll think of something later.” I wasn’t moving. “You’re saying you think maybe the baby died or was killed and Mr. Woodruff and maybe Imogen thought up the kidnapping as an excuse? But staging a kidnapping wouldn’t be easy.”

  “Well, it’d be a lot more trouble to explain a dead baby, wouldn’t it?”

  “She’s not dead.”

  Aurora was now pretending not to hear, since I wasn’t running to get her refill. She started humming tunelessly and fiddling with the pearl button of her crocheted glove.

  “I’ve told you about a girl I keep seeing who’s the very spit of Morris Slade. She has to be related.”

  She stopped then and looked at me. “You mean just because you saw someone who looked like him you’re saying it has to be that baby? Don’t be daft. What makes you think she was the only one?”

  I looked blank. I felt blank.

  Aurora took my silence as an opportunity to hold out her glass again. I was in such a blank state, I took it.

  Lola Davidow was in the back office, and I heard ice cubes clinking against glass, so I guessed she had her ice bucket there. There was no chance of getting to the liquor supply, and I walked on back to the kitchen.

  Walter was by himself, back in the shadows, drying a big platter. I sighed and set down Aurora’s glass. “Mrs. Davidow’s in the office, so I can’t get Aurora another drink.” Not that I cared much; I was too tired to care.

  Walter dried his hands and said, “I’ll be back.” He took the kitchen shears off a nail and went out the side door and the porch and stairs that led down to the gravel road that circled the hotel.