Teddy seemed to be having a hard time getting started. "I'm one of the directors of the local museum."
Leonora was growing impatient. "I had no idea," she said with condescension.
"We have your Picasso on loan."
The man's stupidity jarred her. "I've never owned a Picasso. You mean, my Kandinsky?"
"Yes, that's the one," Teddy said. "His name escaped me for a moment."
"I adore Kandinsky," Leonora said, settling back, safe in the security of knowing that Teddy was here only to ask her to continue her loan to the museum. "He maintained that every work obeys only laws of inner necessity."
Teddy took a chair directly in front of her. Before settling down, he said, "In this case it was a necessity I have something to spruce up my living room for this cocktail party. I borrowed your painting."
"Borrowed?" A sudden alarm sounded in Leonora.
"Yes, took it to my place, planning to return it the next morning." Teddy fell back in his chair, letting the summer sun work its power over him.
In moments Leonora was on her feet. "Where's my Kandinsky?" she demanded.
Teddy smiled apologetically. "The painting was, so to speak, purloined. "
"After being illegally taken from the museum in violation of my agreement." Leonora's chalk white face was turning to a muddy gray. Her fingers clutched the arm of her chair.
"I can explain, " he said.
"Please. "
"That I might descend to the serenity of my little gathering, I had consumed an unusual amount of cocktails and wine," Teddy said.
"For you, I'm sure that must have been exceptional," Leonora said with biting sarcasm. She detested thievery on any level, and as far as she was concerned she was looking directly at one.
Teddy seemed oblivious to her insult. "Midnight found me floating alone into Commodore Philip's. There hadn't been so many queens and dykes on the prowl since Halloween. I seated myself at a table right by the door, and that's when I noticed a strange boy."
Cigarette in hand, Leonora was sucking in the smoke furiously, hoping it would pacify her. "I'm not interested in your tawdry sex life."
"In two seconds we were deep in some ridiculous conversation," Teddy said, suddenly relishing telling the story. "I never remember names on this particular sort of encounter, but I remember he volunteered he was an organist in Homestead."
"What does he have to do with my painting?" Leonora asked, her eyes searching desperately for Numie, but he had gone back to the kitchen.
"Considering I am musical, and a player of various instruments, I instinctively liked this boy," Teddy went on.
Where was Anne? Leonora wondered. Maybe she'd better call the sheriff. "I'm sure your musical talent is without peer," she said, hardly disguising the nervous edge to her voice. "My painting!"
"I'm getting to it," Teddy said, obviously disappointed she wasn't enjoying the story. "Fifteen minutes of conversation, and I figured a bird in hand. All I remember is two blaring headlights and my already, droopy eyelids."
The sun, this horrible creature—everything was becoming too much for Leonora. It was as if he were deliberately torturing her. She suspected that Ruthie Elvina was behind it somehow.
"When we entered my living room, " Teddy said, "about one-thirty, he thought my place was beautiful. Said I must be very rich. I didn't want him to think I had your kind of money, so I told him I'd purchased it as a shack—then spent laborious years on restoration."
Numie, Anne, no one was in sight to help Leonora. She went over and pressed a buzzer. She could tell it was broken. The humidity in the air ruined everything. She was afraid to leave this man alone. He might steal something else. Finally, she decided to face him. "You're going to need a restoration if you don't explain and quickly."
Her words were sobering to Teddy. "While I fixed drinks, he wandered around the living room. That's when he discovered your paInting and one I call 'Crazy Helen'."
At last he'd come to the point. Impulsively Leonora almost reached out to him, hoping to shake the rest of the story out of him: "This art lover," she said, "he stole my painting?"
"Not until I was in my bedroom with an accomplished trampoline artist who'd contorted his way through many an amorous night," Teddy said.
"Forget the pornography," Leonora snapped, pressing the buzzer with fury, even though she was convinced it didn't work.
"After this final workout, I was tired," Teddy said. "With no other assumption than he was going to spend the night, we went to sleep."
The smoke finally reached Leonora. She sat back down in her chair. Teddy's talk had mesmerized her into a kind of coma.
"The phone woke me at ten-thirty the following morning," he said. "It was an invitation to dinner that night. Then a sister, Trilla Russell, called to gossip about this sailor number she'd picked up in the men's room of the Greyhound bus station—apparentlyone of Yellow wood's rejects. Before I knew it, it was an hour before I left my bedroom."
Beyond fury at this point, Leonora listened to the sounds of her garden. She was breathing heavily, knowing that in a few moments she'd be launching her counterattack.
"I thought the boy had to get back to that organ in Homestead," Teddy said. "I felt no alarm until I entered my living room."
Leonora sat up. Even though she knew the outcome of the story, she waited to hear her suspicions confirmed.
"My God!" he said. "Two spots on the wall as empty as my bank account. The Picasso, or whatever you call it, and 'Crazy Helen' were gone."
"I don't give a goddamn about 'Crazy Helen',· Leonora said. "The Kandinsky?"
"It was crystal clear I had engaged a very crooked queen," Teddy said. "I was afraid to gaze about for fear of discovering more objects missing."
Memories of an awful hotel suite robbery in Los Angeles flashed through her brain. She'd blamed Joan for that one. "I don't care if he'd stolen everything in your house. "You called the sheriff, didn't you?"
Teddy pulled himself up. He was sweating. "I couldn't—considering the circumstances. I'd be ruined in this town. A scandal like this just when the high-rise is coming in. The money people wouldn't trust me. I'd look terribly undependable. "
"I didn't even have that painting insured, you bastard," Leonora said, plotting her revenge. "I'm getting Yellowwood on the phone myself:
"I need time," Teddy said, "to track him down."
"How dare you ask me another favor," Leonora said. "You've violated a sacred trust. The ultimate rip-off! First, Ruthie Elvina. Now, you." She rose from her chair. "I'm not giving you any time at all. I'm filing charges: This was such a clear case of right and wrong, with her in the right, she wanted the episode publicized. It would show how the town abused her, not as a child, but even today.
Teddy's legs wobbled, and he didn't seem to know what to do next. "I'm not going to cater to you, Miss High and Mighty. I'm not impressed with your fame or your money," Teddy said. "You're just another dyke, as far as I'm concerned. A broken-down bitch!"
If a knife were in her hand at this moment, she would have plunged it into his vile heart. Instead she said softy, but with a frightening intensity, "For saying that to me, I'll destroy you."
She ran toward her parlor. Brokendown bitch, just another dyke—the words echoed inside her. None of it was true. Another attack by a cheap faggot, as untrue as the one by the gay minister. Fags hated her because she saw through them. She was compassionate and beautiful—not a bitch, not broken down. Attacking her in her own home, robbing her of her Kandinsky—the Albury creature was part of a mass conspiracy against her. Soon all the aliens on Ruthie Elvina's tour would be marching against Sacre-Coeur. After years of hiding from them, they were coming to seek her out. Where in the hell was Ralph? He could hire bodyguards. Have anybody shot who entered the grounds. In the glare of the sun, she didn't see the glass doors. She banged right into them, smashing her face. The pain shooting through her head was unbearable; the world going black, she fainted.
Leonor
a opened her eyes. At first her bedroom was hazy. A throbbing pain prevented her from making out the objects in the room clearly. "What happened?"
Anne was standing by, placing a wet cloth on Leonora's head. "You fainted," she said matter-of-factly.
In one quick move, Leonora tossed the wet cloth across the room. "Now, I remember." In her mind, she re-lived the scene. "That dreadful Albury creature. My Kandinsky." A growing panic came into her voice.
"Yellowwood called," Anne said. "He knows all about it. He's investigating. Thinks he knows who the boy is. Said to tell you it's best to keep it out of the paper."
"They must find it," Leonora said, desperately reaching for Anne's hand. She feared the loss of just one of her treasures would set off a mass of robberies. She could see it now: all the aliens on Ruthie Elvina's tour carting off the art objects locked all these years behind the walls of Sacre-Coeur. "I'll never lend anything again as long as I live." A sudden pain. ·Oh, how my head hurts. Quick, a mirror."
In moments, Anne was holding a mirror in front of Leonora's face.
"I'm badly bruised," Leonora said, gazing at her reflection. Without makeup, her face looked tired and old today. In some way, the glass seemed to mock her. "Take that mirror away."
"It's only a minor bruise." Nevertheless, Anne quickly withdrew the mirror. She smiled, as if she had news to cheer Leonora up. "You got a cable today from the Metropolitan in New York. They want to do a retrospective on you. Here, I'll get it." At first, Leonora didn't understand what she meant.
Anne picked up a yellow envelope. "Says here, 'you represented couture at its grandest. '"
A stem frown crossed Leonora's bruised brow. "The Metropolitan? Represented!" Rage exploded within her. "Darling,· she said icily, ·send this reply: Leonora de la Mer is no museum piece. I'm dateless and very much alive."
Anne looked disappointed. ·Very well," she said softly.
"Do it now," Leonora commanded, sensing her orders weren't being carried out. Hand at her head bruise, she lay back on her soft satin cushions. Surely no one except her vilest enemies could suggest she belonged in a museum. Maybe it was part of a plot to lure her back to New York. After all, couture was in jeopardy, desperately fighting to hold on. She was needed to revive it, that was true. The creative designers were gone, but the imagination of Leonora de la Mer went on fruitfully forever. No big trends were sweeping the fashion world—none like those she'd dazzled it with years ago. No one had come along to replace her. Women were spending less and less on clothes, because no one was around to inspire and excite their imaginations. She sat up again, resenting Anne for leaving a slight crack in her black draperies through which the afternoon sun came through. Of one thing she was certain, she wouldn't return to New York no matter what trickery was used. The world of couture had turned its back on her at a crucial moment. She owed it no loyalty now that it needed her more than she needed it. It was the same as Ruthie Elvina's invitation. Too little, too late.
Anne was back. "I sent the cable. The exact words."
"Thanks," Leonora said suspiciously. "What is that other envelope in your hand?"
Ruthie Elvina's invitation for tonight's party aboard the Saskatchewan. I'll call her, of course, and tell her you're unable to make it."
"How bitter life is," Leonora said, reaching for the invitation. She let it dangle in front of her, as if it were something unclean. "My work may still be at a peak, but I must admit my invitations have fallen off." She removed her large glasses and returned the invitation to Anne. "I remember one night when a perfume manufacturer rented Maxim's at a cost of thirteen thousand dollars—just for me. The whole restaurant was closed to the outside world." She settled back once more onto her satin cushions. "Thirty waiters served just the two of us."
Anne turned to go. "I'll throw it away."
"No, don't be too hasty," Leonora said, a wry smile forming. "Give it to Tangerine:
Anne looked puzzled, as if she couldn't fathom Leonora's purpose.
"Tell her the invitation was for her," Leonora ordered.
"Are you sure?" Anne asked.
"You heard me," Leonora said. "No one invites poor Tangerine anywhere. She'll have a good time."
Chapter Twenty-Six
In her powder-specked mirror, Tangerine was practicing her best party-girl smile. Licking her orange-coated lips, she opened a round compact and wiped some more powder on her face. Then she smiled again—this time for Numie. "Thanks, sugartit, for taking me to the party tonight. It means a lot to me."
"I'm glad to." He was aware that Ruthie Elvina had intended the invitation for Leonora. When Leonora invited Tangerine, he didn't know if she were being extravagantly generous or else amusing herself perversely—gambling that Tangerine would make an ass of herself and embarrass Ruthie Elvina.
A tiny shred of beef had lodged between two of Tangerine's yellowed false teeth. With one of her orange-lacquered nails, she squeezed into the tight trap and scraped it out.
"Come on, you're pretty enough," he said. "In that outfit, no one will look at your face. You're not concealing your charms."
"You mean these milk jugs?" she asked, bouncing her breasts. "They drive men wild, that's true, but cows are better. After all, cows give milk."
He smiled. "I think it's a little more complicated than that."
In the Lincoln, Tangerine was opening the glove compartment. "Carlos, he used to be the chauffeur before you, kept some bourbon in here. One of those little half pints." Finding it, she swigged some down straight from the bottle.
"You'll be drunk before you get there," he said, concerned at a desperation he sensed in her. "Something tells me this isn't your first drink of the day." Her lipstick was badly smeared, and he debated whether to tell her or not. But he finally decided it wouldn't do any good, as her entire face was made up like a clown. One repair couldn't rescue it.
"I'm real excited about tonight," she said, taking another swig. "Mike Morgan's gonna be there."
Eyes on the road, he was only half listening. "Name sounds familiar."
"It should," she said petulantly, almost hurt he didn't recall exactly. "He's that young boy I told you about—the one who used to live in Tallahassee." Her wide eyes were almost beseeching him to recall. "I worked for his family. Showed him what to do with that little pecker between his legs."
"How could I forget?" A dog ventured in front of the headlights, but changed his mind about crossing the street. Foot on the brakes, Numie was thinking of killing that calico cat. How could he ever face Castor who blamed him for everything anyway?
"I got myself all dolled up for little Mike tonight. If I know him, he'll want another try."
A note of alarm sounded in Numie. Was Tangerine riding for another big disappointment. "How long has it been since you last saw him?"
Tangerine burped, shoving the bourbon back into the compartment. "I was twenty-two at the time,· she said. "He was only fourteen."
He reached over and hugged her with one arm. "It may not even be the same Mike Morgan."
"One and the same," she said confidently, reaching into her purse for her lipstick. Even though the car was bouncing, and she had no mirror, she applied another red coating. "Been following his career in the paper for years. He's a hot-shot reporter for AP."
The reception aboard the Saskatchewan was in full blast.
Parking the Lincoln at the dock, Numie looked through the rear-view mirror and tightened a borrowed tie around a collar already choking him.
Carefully he led Tangerine up the gangplank, resting her elbow gingerly in the palm of his hand.
Most of the guests were already there, drinking hard liquor between avocado dip from conch shells and smoked oysters from open tinned cans. Young officers stood stiffly about, ready to answer questions or help the guests.
Tangerine's high heel shoes, in clear nylon mesh like a fish net, clanked against the deck. At the gateway, she paused to look into the crowd.
That mass of faces was staring
back at her.
Her expression revealed how much she wanted them to like her outfit. Her shocking pink gown, at least below her waist, was two dresses sewn together. The stitching in one of the seams had burst, so she'd camouflaged it by letting a turquoise handkerchief dangle from her waist. For her top, she'd taken the upper part of a strapless turquoise bathing suit and had sewn sequins all over it to give it the effect of evening wear. The suit revealed a freckled back. For jewelry, she wore a necklace of shells and had tied two turquoise ribbons on gold earrings which dangled from her pierced ears. In her orange hair, a lipstick-red hibiscus rested . Around her shoulders she'd draped a worn white rabbit fur stole.
"Hello, Tangerine," a voice called. Ruthie Elvina floated across the room in her lemon silk chiffon with ruffles on the hem. Brushing back her teased banana curls, she extended her bat-winged sleeves to embrace her. "Someone told me you had run off and got married, and I said I just couldn't believe it. It's not true, is it?"
"Who'd have me?" Tangerine asked, looking downcast.
"I'm so glad," Ruthie Elvina said. "A good maid is hard to find. I should know . After you quit me and went over to Sacre-Coeur, I just haven't been able to find a suitable replacement. " She frowned. "Why did you ever leave me? Why, you were just like one of the family."
"I couldn't live on the wages you were paying," Tangerine said softly.
"Well, course I can't afford to have you chauffeured to parties in limousines, " Ruthie Elvina said. "Which reminds me, where's Leonora? The invitation you've got in your hand was intended for her."
"You didn't invite me?" Tangerine asked, her lip quivering . "She said you did ."
"I invited Leonora, " Ruthie Elvina said, her chin jutting out. "But seeing you're here, why don't you enjoy yourself?" Someone tapped Ruthie Elvina's naked shoulder, and she whirled around.
Butterflies in Heat Page 34
