by Janice Weber
Sudden puff of air and a scream. Not Chickering, Rhoby. “Don’t do that!”
I rolled right just as Vicky’s hammy fist slammed to the table. Her pen impaled wood instead of neck: sorry, old girl. You can’t have two of us. The table buckled under the combined weight of Rhoby and Chickering. Cups and bottles sprayed all over the kitchen. They toppled right on top of the splintered glass, wrestling with the superhuman savagery of two people who had once been in love. Chickering was big but slow, Rhoby strong but drunk: even match. Blood was everywhere but the combatants didn’t slow down. They used fingernails, chairs, pots, plants, and curses that would make a witch tremble. I just dialed 911 and let the good times roll.
Then an awful crack. Rhoby shrieked and went quiet. I was bending over her when I felt a little sting in the shoulder: good move, Chick. Almost at once, a tingling in my throat. My shoulders began to go cold, then my legs. With my last coordinated signals from brain to muscle, I staggered to the living room. As Chickie tackled me from the rear, I saw Rhoby’s cello perched innocently against a chair. The corner did look empty without a piano. “You’re going to die, bitch,” she snarled, whacking my head from side to side, as if it were a punching bag. “Think you can just fuck Bobby and get away with it whack well you made a big mistake whack Paula’s had it up to here whack if Aurilla thinks she can walk into the White House whack she’s got another thing coming whack you people are all going to eat shit before Paula and I are done with you whack.”
After a few dozen shots, Chickering tried to stuff a kitchen towel down my throat. Sorry Chickie: should have done that first, before lockjaw set in. Snarling with fury, she started to pry open my mouth. Bite hard, Smith. I tried but she had a pianist’s hands. I could feel my jaws giving way when, in surreal slow motion, I saw Rhoby stumble out of the kitchen. Her face was ribboned with blood. She walked calmly to her cello, tightened the eight-inch pin on the bottom. Then she charged.
With a tremendous, hellish twang, the cello rammed Chickering’s back. Chickering blinked as the metal pin entered her heart. Not quite as elegant as a stiletto, but effective nonetheless. “That hurts, Rho,” she whispered, thudding to the floor.
Transfixed with horror, Rhoby stared at the mound at her feet. Every second or so blood would drip from the cello pin onto my elbow. “You aright, Les?” she asked finally, trembling. Sure, just a little paralyzed. I managed to gurgle assent. Rhoby dropped the cello and dragged her roommate off me. “I think she’s dead. Oh my God! I’m sorry, Chick!” She threw up then passed out.
My body gradually thawed but I didn’t move. Chickering might be off my back but I had neglected to ask where she had sent her piano. I was also trying to work out whether, philosophically speaking, I had murdered her. Ah, if only Fausto were here to present arguments for both sides of the question. While I was thinking, two D.C. cops and the Watergate security guard burst in. For a moment they stood in the doorway, taking in the carnage. Then one of the cops rolled Chickering over. First he realized she was dead. Then he realized who she was. A weary look crossed his face as he realized he had stepped into megapoop. Using the code for Special Trouble, he called for reinforcements. His partner slowly hauled me to a sitting position. “You call 911?”
I nodded weakly. “How’s Rhoby?”
She groaned as the officer brought her around. Her eyebrow, minus two studs, was in bloody tatters. “Chickie started it,” was all she said.
I was helped to the couch. Couldn’t take my eyes off Chickering’s massive body: Fausto all over again, but in a skirt. I almost threw up. “Is she all right?”
“She’s dead,” the officer said.
Rhoby screamed and I did throw up: a spontaneous, convincing performance.
The police asked a few opening questions: who lived where, relationship, nature of problem. Soon the place was swarming with federal agents. Rhoby was taken to the hospital for a solo interrogation and a few hundred stitches. I opted for an ice bag and no ambulance. Gave the statement of a very upset acquaintance who had called for help when a domestic quarrel had gotten out of hand. My story would match Rhoby’s in all essential details.
“You didn’t try to fight back?” the officer asked.
“She had my arms pinned down.” No need to drag Tougaw’s potion into the fray. They’d deport him. I rubbed my swollen jaw. “Am I going to get in trouble?”
“You do realize who Vicky Chickering is,” the detective said.
“She started it,” I cried. “Just went berserk. She’s the one who should go to jail, not me.” What the hell, Bobby could write me a pardon.
The officer closed his laptop with a thud. Give him old-fashioned black-on-black homicide any day of the week. Last thing his career needed was a lesbian love triangle connected straight to the White House. He let me return to the hotel with police guard while he checked my tale against Rhoby’s. If I valued my ass, I was not to talk to any reporters. If I went anywhere, I was to notify him first. He’d call this afternoon, using the name Phil.
Returned to my hotel and unfolded a bloody scrap of paper. “Dr. Tougaw? This is Leslie Frost. I wonder if you have any medicine for a sore mouth.”
Of course he did. He could come to the hotel and deliver. Half an hour later he was at my door with a huge canvas bag and a broad smile: ah Tougaw, lend me a few of those happy genes. “Leslie Frost! I did not know you were still here!” His smile faded when he saw my jaw.
“I fell.” I let him poke around my mouth. “Paula Marvel tells me you’re the greatest doctor in Washington.”
Tougaw liked that. He said that after the conference she had imported him from Belize to be her personal healer. He had medicines for everything and was treating the First Lady for a number of ailments. In fact, he had just been up with Vicky Chickering last night, replenishing the supply.
I looked impressed. “You make medicine in Vicky’s apartment?”
“Oh yes. Vera strong stuff. We boil roots and leaves of special plants in her big pots. We mix it with special oils to make a balm for Mrs. President’s arthritis. My secret recipe.” Tougaw told me of his illustrious practice in Belize City. He had a large office downtown and people came from all over the country to see him. He now had a list of very famous clients in Washington. So many people were sick here.
I asked him to show me a few of the bottles in his bag. The doctor proudly displayed cures for insect bites. Ladies’ cramps. Loose bowels. Sour breath. I kept sniffing until I hit the cork that smelled like burnt pineapple. “What’s this?”
Tougaw’s gold chains jangled as he grabbed it away. “Leave dat alone! Vera strong medicine! One drop too much and you will be paralyzed!”
“Wow! What’s it for?”
“Mrs. Marvel’s nervous problems. When she is bad suffrin’ I explain that Vicky must give her only two drops in hot water. Neva more.”
Never. Not in hot water, anyway. Vicky just went full strength for the injection: poor Barnard. I asked Tougaw if he had anything for insomnia.
He rummaged around the bottles. “Here is some fine sleepin’ medicine. Take one teaspoon. You will go right to sleep and have pleasant dreams. When you wake, you will be full of desire. So be careful of the person you will lie down beside.”
The stuff smelled like apricot brandy. “What happens if I drink the whole bottle?”
“You will die a happy lady.”
What a quack. I paid him and wished him great success with the local sickos. After Tougaw left, I instructed the switchboard to put no calls through except those from Phil. Slept for hours. Midafternoon, I got the call. Phil wanted to see me in my room. I received him in purple silk pajamas that matched my jaw. He was not in uniform and not alone. I was introduced to a robot named Dawson with White House counsel crayoned all over him. “Drink?” I asked, raiding the minibar.
Of course not. First the detective checked the room for bugs. Then he left me alone with Dawson, who smiled with the warmth of a Komodo dragon as he inquired how I was feeling.<
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“I should be able to get a violin under my chin in another week.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” He looked at me for a long moment. I think his pheromones were telling him I was hetero but his head was telling him I must be gay. “Miss Frost,” he said finally, “you have become involved in a rather delicate situation that could cause serious political embarrassment. You could suffer personal consequences as well. Manslaughter is a grave offense.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. All I did was drive a drunk girl home and call 911. Don’t look at me if her lover went on a rampage.”
Dawson dropped the threats and tried the personal touch. “I’m sure you’re aware of Vicky Chickering’s relation to Mrs. Marvel. The First Lady is incoherent with grief.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I’m willing to drop criminal charges in exchange for your absolute silence in this matter. In short, you were never at the Watergate this morning. You never went dancing with Rhoby Hall last night. You will never speak to the press about this incident. Vicky Chickering stumbled and fell as she was leaving for work.” Dawson tried to look menacing: tough to pull off wearing a powder blue bow tie. “Understood?”
“No problem.”
“Also, you will return to Berlin immediately.”
“I’ll do my best. How’s Rhoby?”
“Resting. She’s been instructed not to contact you in any way.”
“Thank you. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
Uncertain what that meant, Dawson smiled woodenly. “So we’re agreed?”
“Absolutely.” I walked him to the door.
Dawson shook my hand and left. Things were going to get ugly for a while: Rhoby and I had cavorted in front of a lot of people who could use twenty grand from the National Enquirer. I was packing my things when the phone rang.
“This is Paula Marvel. Be downstairs in five minutes.”
I hope she didn’t plan on strangling me with her own hands now that Chickering was permanently indisposed. The First Lady sat alone in the back of the limousine that her husband usually reserved for his joyrides. She looked blotchy, bloated, and ruthless as an executioner. Today the bows, all seven of them, were red. Brought out the veins in her eyes. I had never seen her smoking before. A long gray cloud swirled over the ice cold cabin with every other exhalation. Skip the hi how are ya. “Tell me how Vicky died,” Paula said. “I know it wasn’t an accident.”
I wanted this conversation as brief and clinical as she did. “Rhoby stabbed her through the back with a cello pin. That’s about the size of a major knitting needle. They had been fighting.”
“Over what?”
“Me. Chickering thought I was going to run away with her little girl. Ludicrous, of course. I have no interest in women.”
“Then what were you doing all over town with Rhoby Hall?”
“Keeping the poor kid company. I had no idea Chickering would be waiting at home with a rolling pin. I’ve never seen such a cat fight.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because I had been drugged. Paralyzed.” Paula flinched. “After she swatted Rhoby around, Chickering injected me with something from her friend Tougaw.”
“You didn’t say anything to the police about that.”
“I can always revise my statement,” I retorted. “Now that you’re refreshing my memory.”
Paula dragged so viciously on her cigarette that it nearly burst into flame. I stared out the window, trying not to inhale, as the limo circled the block. Paula’s eyes were moist when she finally whispered, “Did Vicky suffer long?”
“It was over in thirty seconds.” A snap of the fingers compared to the slow asphyxiation she had inflicted on Barnard. No justice anywhere. My sympathy for Paula evaporated. “Chickering mentioned you in her dying breath.”
“My God! Tell me! What did she say?”
A blast of dirty, humid air hit my face as I cracked open the window. “‘I tried, Paula.’” I turned to the waxen First Lady. “Now what do you think she meant by that? Tried to kill me? You wouldn’t want her to do that, would you?”
Paula’s eyes went cold as she searched for subtext: had I just told her everything or nothing? Unable to fathom my insouciant stare, she said, “What a preposterous suggestion. Why would I want to kill you?” She pressed a fresh cigarette to its smoldering predecessor. I was gratified to see that her hands shook. “Because you’re sleeping with my husband?”
“Wrong,” I sighed. “I’ve been fighting off your husband. He’s been on my tail since the night I played in the White House.”
“Fighting him off?” Paula echoed sarcastically, blowing fresh carcinogens up my nose. “You’ve been in a bathtub with him.”
Had Paula seen the video or just heard about it? I gambled that Wallace had been as efficient as she was treacherous and had erased it immediately. “Wrong again. I was in the tub when your husband walked in naked. All he did was look at me. Big deal. Tits and ass. I told him to beat it and he did.”
“Goddamn animal,” Paula seethed, hitting the control on her armrest. My window rolled shut again. “It’s on tape.”
“Jesus!” I tried to look horrified. “If this gets out, I’ll be the laughingstock of Europe!”
“Here’s the deal. You never see my husband again, never breathe a word of this affair, and I’ll destroy the tape.”
“There was no affair, but I’m not going to split hairs. You’ve got a deal. Better tell hubby yourself, though. He won’t take my word for it.”
Paula exhaled blithely. I guess after Bobby’s first dozen affairs, adultery had lost its sting. “Do you think you’re playing some kind of game, Miss Frost? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be fooling around with the president?”
Yeah, some. I wanted out of this refrigerator. It had already gone around the block three times. “Don’t preach to me, Mrs. Marvel. I didn’t screw your husband. But I’ll warn my friend Polly Mason. Last I heard, she and Bobby were still a unit. Go lay your guilt trip on her.”
Paula coughed on her fumes. “You know Mason?”
“We bump into each other from time to time. I’ve been calling but can’t get an answer at her apartment here. She’s probably taking a breather on the Riviera with her Italian count. Bobby can get pretty suffocating, you know.”
Seconds dragged into half a minute. Paula knew Barnard would never be coming back. Now that Chickering, who had done the wet work, was gone, could the trail ever be traced back to the First Lady? That depended on how thoroughly Chickering had disposed of the body. Come on, Paula, crack! I could feel her brain inching over the craggy moonscape of murder, searching for the loose rocks that could destroy her. Finally, after crushing her last cigarette, she took a card from her purse. Her kewpie mouth curled upward daintily. “Tell Polly to call this number when she returns, would you? I’d like to chat with her.”
So Chickering had been thorough: oh God, I’d never find Barnard’s body now. For a second I was tempted to blurt who I was, how much I knew.… Alas, the Queen would never speak to me again. “I’ll do that, Mrs. Marvel,” I said.
Paula looked deeply and sincerely into my eyes, as if I were a television camera. “Vicky’s death has shocked me tremendously. Please forgive me for being upset.”
I wouldn’t be forgiving you anything, honey. “I’ll be leaving Washington tomorrow. I won’t be telling your husband goodbye.” Extended my hand. “Thanks for inviting me to the White House.”
Where it all started: Paula’s glance could have precipitated another ice age. Her cool hand barely touched mine. “Not one word, remember.”
I opened the door and reeled back into the light and heat. Bobby had been out of his mind to marry that thing from another planet. I couldn’t imagine getting into bed with her. Would she drive straight home and lay down the law? I doubted it: meeting me was enough trauma for one day. If Paula had any of Tougaw’s sleeping potions handy, tonight she’d swallow
the whole bottle. Tomorrow, after I had left the country, she’d stick it to Bobby.
I drove to Silver Spring and told Cecil he was taking one last field trip. As the sun slipped out of sight, I brought him to Fausto’s and explained what I expected of him tonight. Strange being in this gigantic, empty house again. Something not right here now. Get out of town, Smith. Don’t push your luck. I laughed out loud. Luck? Mine had disappeared over a waterfall. I went to a button behind Fausto’s dresser and pressed it twice. The wood paneling shifted, exposing a small closet. My Strad lay inside on top of a safe. Handy little room: I’d use it later. I fed Cecil and let him make a little noise at the piano as we waited for the phone to ring. At eleven Bobby called: Paula wasn’t the only Marvel who wanted to hear my version of Chickering’s demise. “Where’s Fausto?” he demanded, finally sounding more like president than prom date.
“Out of town.”
“I’ll be right over. Make sure we’re alone.” His voice softened. “You all right?”
“Not really.”
I dialed a number and handed the phone to Cecil. Wallace answered. “This is President Marvel,” Cecil said. “Where’s Aurilla?” In the kitchen. Maybe she was making iguana fritters. In any event, she came right to the phone. “Meet me at Fausto’s in exactly forty minutes. Come alone.” Hung up. “Think she’ll bite?”
“I would.”
We reviewed our routine then Cecil went upstairs. I turned out the lights in the music room as a three-car parade pulled into the driveway. As always, Secret Service agents circled the house and took positions along the perimeter of the property. Four more came inside and swept the place. No one discovered Cecil, but he was hidden upstairs with the safe and I was Bobby’s girlfriend, not a terrorist. Finally satisfied that the coast was clear, another quartet of agents hustled the president to the front door. “Good evening, Mrs. Kiss,” he barked, then noticed my face. “Lord! That old mule had some left hook, didn’t she.”
