“I would have liked to meet and talk to your grandmother,” Ava said wistfully.
For some reason I was caught up in a flood of canning memories. I could see her working. I could see her in that massive, always cold farm kitchen, the house cats watching her. I wanted suddenly to tell my visitors everything I remembered.
“Peaches were her specialty. She was very careful with them. She would skin them and lay them on top of each other right up to the top to make the jar look elegant. She always lined the lids up. The Ball on the lid with the Ball on the jar. Or the Kerr with the Kerr. In those days she couldn’t just go out and buy new ones. She used the same jars for years.”
“Still a country girl, aren’t you, Alice?” Ava asked approvingly.
No. I was no longer a country girl. I no longer froze every night of the long Minnesota winter. I no longer cut my fingers in freezing slush taking care of the dairy cows. But I couldn’t stop talking for the moment.
“And she made a relish. A wonderful relish. Every year. It was called piccalilli. She made it with green tomatoes and red and green peppers and onions and cabbage.”
I could smell it again: sweet and sour, pungent and beautiful.
“And she was a wizard with jelly. Wild plum and wild strawberry jelly. She hated any strawberries but the wild kind. She wouldn’t eat domestic strawberries. She wouldn’t even taste one.”
It suddenly dawned on me that I was beginning to talk to my three visitors in the same nonstop, revelatory manner I used to use when talking to Barbara alone. That realization made me feel uncomfortable. It was inappropriate. They were not in my apartment to hear my revelations. They were here because I had set a trap, because I was hoping they would reveal themselves.
I decided to keep my mouth closed and take the group on the ten-cent tour of my apartment. I walked them out of the living room and down the long hallway, past the closets and the kitchen, and through my bedroom at the end of the hall and the large, old-fashioned bathroom next to it.
That finished, we made our way back to the living room and started in on the cheese and crackers. In a few minutes Bushy wandered in, and they all focused their attention on him, resplendent as only coon cats can be. They petted him and aahed and aahed, and he ate it up.
When he tired of the adoration and walked majestically away, I set my plan in motion. We were having a genuinely good time, but I had to do it.
I waited for a momentary lull in the conversation, then began solemnly, confidentially: “I want to talk for a few minutes about something having to do with Barbara.”
At the sound of her name, the whole atmosphere changed. All eyes turned to me. Renee paused in slicing a piece of Stilton; Sylvia regarded me grimly through half-closed eyes; and Ava seemed to throw her head back in a defiant gesture, as if challenging me to continue.
Which I did. “Tim Roman,” I said, “has given me some things to remember her by. I’m sure you’ve all received some mementos as well.”
There were nods all around.
“He gave me her carnelian bracelet,” Ava volunteered.
“I was given a lovely old cedar chest,” I lied, “which was very thoughtful of Tim. But the strange thing was what I found inside of it.”
“What?” Sylvia asked, and both the others leaned forward to hear my answer.
“A package of letters.”
“What letters?” That was Renee.
“Letters written to me. Written to me by Barbara.” I paused for maximum effect. “Sealed and addressed, but never sent. I don’t even know, in fact, whether Tim knew they were there. I found them under a flap at the bottom of the trunk.”
“But why would she do that?” Sylvia asked. “Why write them and not mail them? What did they say?”
“Well, that’s the thing, you see. I don’t really know what they say.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?!” She was incredulous. “Didn’t you read them?”
“No, I haven’t opened them. Oh, I’ve started to—a hundred times. But somehow I can’t. It’s as though they’re her private thoughts, even though they’re addressed to me. The thing is that she never actually sent them to me. So it’s almost as though they aren’t really meant for me to read. Do you understand?”
“I most certainly do not understand, Alice,” Ava answered. “It’s preposterous.”
“It’s macabre,” Sylvia said.
“It’s ridiculous,” Renee said. “And I’d like to know why you’re making this more melodramatic than it has to be. Why shouldn’t you look at them? Why shouldn’t we all know what’s in them?”
“You will,” I said. “I promise you will—but not right away. I thought I’d keep them, sealed, just the way they are, for a year. And then, on the anniversary of her death, next year, I’ll open them and read them all . . . and so will all of you. We’ll get together expressly for that purpose. Right here.”
“Well, they are your letters. But I think it’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard,” Renee said huffily.
“Dear God,” Ava exhaled. “You certainly do know how to manipulate an audience, Miss Actress Nestleton. I could use a drink.”
I went to fetch a gin and tonic for her. As I was leaving to do so, I heard Renee excuse herself to the others.
As I served the drink, Sylvia asked to see my clippings from the old days. Barbara had told her, she said, that I’d been the brightest of stars at the Guthrie. I located the scrapbook and handed it to her to share with Ava.
Down the hall, I could hear Renee making a big deal of running the water in the sink, then making much too much noise closing the bathroom door. I waited for her to join us again, and after a minute slipped out of the room myself and headed for my bedroom.
The trunk—which actually had belonged to my mother—was on the far wall of the bedroom. My scheme for rigging it came right out of pulp detective fiction. A small piece of fabric attached from the inside would be dislodged if anyone opened the trunk. The cloth was so small, in fact, that no one would notice it falling to the floor—especially if the lights weren’t on.
As I checked out the trunk, I saw quite clearly that Renee had taken the bait. Both little piles of clothing I’d put in the chest were slightly rumpled from her search for the nonexistent letters. I hastily replaced the fabric inside.
This seemed to offer fairly solid proof of the Tim–Renee connection, but I had a long way to go before I could prove murder.
From the hallway, I listened to everyone’s comments as they pored over the scrapbook. I called to them that I’d rejoin them as soon as I made fresh coffee. In a few minutes, Ava joined me in the kitchen.
“We’re all dying to meet Pancho,” she said. “Where is the dear old loon?”
“I’ll try and run him to ground,” I replied. “You keep an eye on the coffee.”
I went back into the bedroom and called out to Pancho, sure he was in his favorite hiding place: a shoebox under the bed. I told him some fans were waiting to see his flying act, but he didn’t appear. He could have been any one of a dozen places, though—in back of the stereo or behind one of the high kitchen cabinets or up on a shelf in the broom closet. At any rate I was tired of calling him, down on all fours and talking into the darkness under the mattress. As I started to rise, I caught sight of the little piece of fabric on the floor—where it had drifted, obviously, when someone else opened the trunk.
More than likely, Ava had been the second intruder. Just before she’d come into the kitchen to ask about Pancho.
“No sign anywhere of Pancho the Weird,” I said as I rejoined the group. “You’ll have to forgive his bad manners.”
I looked from Renee to Ava, and back again. They both smiled innocently.
“Maybe you have a photograph of him?” Renee suggested.
“So
rry.”
“Is he as crazy as Swampy?” Ava asked.
“Oh,” I said, “Pancho is a full-blown psychotic. Swampy just seems to be an eccentric alley cat.”
“And a very lonely one,” Renee added. Suddenly the cup in Sylvia’s hand began to rattle.
“Darling, what’s the matter!” Ava rushed to her side. Sylvia had grown pale.
“Nothing to worry about,” Sylvia replied wearily. “No, please don’t fuss. It’s only my blood pressure.” She leaned back and tried to breathe evenly. “All I need is one of my pills and a little lie-down. Just ten minutes.”
Renee and I helped her into my room. I wet a cloth and placed it on Sylvia’s forehead.
Renee said, “She’ll be okay, really. I’ve seen this happen to her before. Just give her a couple of minutes.”
Renee and Ava wanted to help with the dishes. Their presence, the two so close to me in the small kitchen, made me terribly uncomfortable. It was as if we were all in Tim Roman’s bed together.
I left them putting away the plates and went down the hall to check on Sylvia. She didn’t hear me open the door. Somehow, it was not an overwhelming surprise to find the bed empty and to see her bent over the chest, frantically going through the things in it. I stepped back out into the hall, and after waiting a minute or so, I knocked.
After she’d rejoined the rest of the group in the living room, she told us that she felt “tons” better and could make it down the stairs just fine under her own steam.
And so ended my brilliantly conceived luncheon! If I thought Renee’s search for the letters proved an affair between her and Tim, then I had also just proved that Tim was sleeping with every single one of us.
Perhaps my guests had all been foolish to swallow that bizarre story about unsent letters. But none was a bigger fool than I.
Seconds after the door had closed behind my luncheon guests, Pancho made a kamikaze leap from somewhere, landing on my old scrapbook.
While I vacuumed, I ate Barbara’s kiwi tart.
Chapter 16
I woke suddenly, not knowing where I was—one of those strange black panics that seem to come with greater frequency as one grows older.
I remembered cleaning up after my garden coworkers had left. And then lying down for a nap. I’d slept for almost five hours—in my clothes.
Okay. I was completely awake now. My name was Alice, and I’d made an ass of myself earlier in the day. The “trap” I’d laid earlier in the day had been a disaster. I had to try to clear my head and formulate another plan.
I threw a couple of things into a bag. No, I wasn’t running away from home, from all my problems. I needed a swim. A friend of mine—an actor who’d made it big in daytime television—lived in one of the fancy high-rises on the East River. She’d arranged it that I could use the rooftop pool and sauna any time of the day or night.
As I piled up the laps I won a gold medal, at least in my own imagination.
I left the pool invigorated and hungry—but void of ideas, except about dinner. A few stars were out. I meandered toward the apartment until it occurred to me that the supermarket would be closing momentarily. I quickened my pace, at the same time making a mental shopping list. The cats’ larder was pretty well stocked, but I had very little in the kitchen. I needed coffee, sugar, dish soap, paper towels, spinach, potatoes, juice, ground beef—the list grew as I trotted along. Oh yes, and candles.
Now, why did I need candles? Was I expecting a blackout? Did I mean to light one for Barbara? There must be an apt Chinese proverb for this stupid state of affairs. Something about faithless husbands. Light a candle for every woman your husband has slept with . . . and then call the fire department. We couldn’t all be Tim’s lovers, could we? That was absurd—not impossible, just absurd.
The narrow aisles of the market are dangerous at that time of evening. Everyone’s in a frantic rush to finish their shopping before closing time, blindly spearing items from the shelves. I’m one of the worst offenders. I behave like an Amazon warrior when I reach the paper goods section. My final catch totaled sixteen items, so I could not use the express line. Needless to say, it took longer to get checked out than to do the actual gathering of the items.
It was a beautiful night—breezy and black and velvety—and the streets had taken on that eight o’clock kind of glamour. I didn’t notice him until I was right at my doorstep.
“Tony!”
Basillio greeted me then reached out to help me with my package.
“What happened, Basillio? They fire you because of that smart mouth of yours?”
“Swede,” he said, a little sadly, “ever since I was a kid, I’ve really deep-down hated Julius Caesar. I mean, when I was nine, I memorized Mark Antony’s funeral oration. And I was as impressed by Brando as the next guy. But now I find myself in some godforsaken part of Connecticut, listening to some awesome hunk from Purdue spieling the same lines. . . . I needed a day off, Swede. Know what I mean?”
“Well, I’m happy to see you, no matter why you’re here.” I threw my arms around him and hugged his skinny shoulders with all my strength. “I just spent all my cash on groceries. How are your finances?”
“I’m loaded, babe.”
“Wonderful. Let me go and drop these things off, and then you can take me to a cocktail lounge. I feel expensive.”
“You’re showing your age, Swede. They don’t have ‘cocktail lounges’ anymore.”
“Then how about a greasy hamburger in a dive?”
“I think not, Swede.”
“Oh really? Why not, Basillio? Do you have another date?” I was flirting with him, happily.
He didn’t reply for a minute. Then he said, “Sweetheart, sit down here for a minute.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. There was no humor or wit or self-mockery in his voice—in other words, he didn’t sound like Basillio.
“Tony, what’s wrong? Are you in trouble?”
He sat down on the step, placing the bag between his legs. I sat next to him. A neighbor walked past us with her two ancient dogs. The block fell suddenly silent, and a few beams of light from the streetlamps crisscrossed the gutter ten feet in front of us.
“Tony, what is it? What kind of trouble did you get into up there?”
“It’s not my trouble, Swede. It’s yours.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I called my machine in the City to pick up my messages. There was a call from Detective Rothwax. That’s why I’m here. He told me to come and see you.”
“Why?”
“He said you might need a friend.”
“Why don’t you just say it, Tony. Just tell me.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m not handling this very well, am I? I ought to just spit it out.”
“Any vulgar metaphor will do, Tony. Just tell me.”
He reached over and grasped my hand. I shook it off immediately, my anxiety level at the danger point.
“At about ten thirty this morning,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “your friend Barbara’s husband left home to take in some dry cleaning. He came back about an hour later, put his key in the lock, and was blown to bits. He’s dead.”
Foolishly, I asked, “Tim? You mean Tim?”
“Yes.” He seemed almost embarrassed to repeat it. “He’s dead.”
I stared down into the bag of groceries. I could see the top of the small glass jar of Medaglia d’Oro—the brand of instant espresso that I’m so fond of. I remembered being in the market, holding it in my hand, and thinking that every time I buy it the price seems to have gone up.
Chapter 17
They sat there watching me, waiting for me to tear out my hair, or weep hysterically—to exhibit some kind of hard-core grief. But I’d done about as muc
h weeping as I was going to do. The tears were all gone, and whatever was left inside me now was not liquid but hard and cold as ice.
Detective Rothwax and Basillio sat side by side on the sofa, casting uneasy glances at me.
“I am quite all right,” I said finally.
“You don’t look all right,” Tony said. “You look pretty devastated, Swede.”
“Believe me,” I said firmly, “I’ll be okay.”
“I called Mr. Basillio because . . .” Rothwax muttered, “because . . . well, after our talk, I figured you’d be upset. Seeing as how you were a . . . uh . . . close friend of the . . . deceased.”
“We were lovers for a brief time,” I said.
Both men tensed, and then each for his own reason looked away from me—Rothwax at the notebook in his hand, Tony down at the preening Bushy, who was sure the visitors were here to admire him.
Finally Rothwax broke the tense silence. “I’ve got to go soon. I’ll just tell you what I know. All of it I got from a guy named Riggins in Manhattan South Homicide. It’s his case.”
Basillio sat rigidly, not speaking, but meeting my eyes again. It was a mistake, I realized too late, to have mentioned that Tim and I had been lovers. Even if Basillio might eventually have figured that out for himself. It was just the words that hurt him. He still considered me, in some odd way, his. Not oppressively so, but it was there.
Detective Rothwax went on, jabbing the air with his finger for emphasis. “I want to make it clear that I’ve got nothing to do with this case. And I’m not about to get involved. I shouldn’t even really be giving you this, but . . .”
“Can I offer you some coffee, Detective?” I asked.
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