by Joan Smith
I adopted a sympathetic pose. “You must be exhausted, Brad. Jet lag’s a killer. I bet it was as hot as hades in California too,” I added nonchalantly, and patted his hand to distract him.
His fingers curled over mine, and he smiled peacefully. “A hundred deg— California?” he asked, in a loud, guilty voice.
I pulled my hand away and stared at him. “You looked great on TV. Did you get all the details of the funeral for your book?”
“Audrey!”
I rose and stood, arms akimbo, to hear what he had to say. He thought for a revealing moment, then counterattacked. ‘You’ve been leading me on. You didn’t believe a word I said.”
“I didn’t happen to be born a cretin.”
“Appearances to the contrary!”
This conciliatory speech really tore it. “I’m going to call the police.”
“What are you going to tell them?” he taunted. “That your nasty neighbor called you names?”
“No, that he broke into my cottage and stole some things.”
“Must be a thief at large in the neighborhood,” he said pleasantly. “I have a little breaking and entering to report myself.”
“I didn’t take anything!"
He hunched his shoulders. “Nobody said you did. But there was a hundred bucks missing from my dresser.”
“I didn’t steal anything!”
“Gee, I hope you didn’t leave your fingerprints all over that window you crawled in, and forgot to close.”
“You knew all along. You put me through that confession, and all the time you knew.”
A triumphant smile flickered. “I wasn’t born a cretin either.”
“Snakes aren’t born; they’re hatched.”
His smile broadened to a hateful grin. “So are turkeys.” As I turned to stomp into the bedroom, my eyes happened to fall on the box of books from Belton, left by the postman. I picked it up and pointed to the Belton label. “Why don’t you open this box and show me what Belton sent you, Brad?” He grabbed the box as if it contained dynamite that might blow up in his face. “Well, what are you waiting for? If you’re not Mason, there’s no reason Belton would be sending you copies of his latest masterpiece, is there? Why don’t you just open it, and prove I’m wrong.”
“You are wrong. I review books for Belton. These are review copies.”
“Eliot—Popper—Hume Mason?”
“They send me lots of prerelease books. There might be one copy of a Mason book in here,” he admitted.
“I’d say at a guess there are the usual twenty PR copies.” He put the box on the table and stuck his thumbnail into the tape. I waited with held breath to see what was in the box. He looked at me, frustration filling his eyes and carving ridges from his nose to his lips. Then he drew his hand back from the tape, picked up the box, and said, “No, I don’t have to prove anything to you. I’m telling you there are no Mason books in here.”
“Maybe just one, to be reviewed by the illustrious Professor O’Malley,” I reminded him.
He looked as if he wanted to strike me. “You just don’t quit, do you?” he growled. And he stalked out the door, with his box of Mason books under his arm.
I noticed he didn’t take them into his cottage, but locked them in the trunk of his car, to be certain I never got a look at them. Then he got into his car himself, revved up the motor, and took off. He looked mad enough to be going to the police. That was all I needed, to end up in jail for having tried, most ineffectually, to defend myself against a viper. Why hadn’t I opened that box before he came?
I was too honorable—that was my trouble. I should have burned his manuscript when I first found it. I must be a cretin to have listened to his song and dance about a son with a broken leg. He’d been in California. He was guilty of everything I suspected him of, and to top it off, I was the one who might end up in court.
CHAPTER 8
The last thing I expected was that I’d ever get my stolen items back. At four-thirty, Brad’s car returned, and soon he came stalking over to my cottage. I thought seriously about not letting him in, but was curious to hear whether the police were following him to arrest me. They’d break down the door and I’d owe Simcoe for damages. I opened the door, and had my typewriter thrust into my arms by a scowling Brad O’Malley.
“The cops found it at the incinerator,” he said tersely.
I staggered under the weight of the machine. “The incinerator? What was it doing there?”
“It didn’t say.” When he noticed I could hardly hold the weight, he took the machine from me again. “I’d guess whoever took it decided to dump it. He didn’t want to risk getting caught by selling it. An old wino was rooting in the rubble and found it. He brought it into the station, hoping for a reward.”
“Oh, I’ll pay him! This is great luck.” I steered Brad to the table to deposit the machine.
“I gave him ten bucks. That’ll let him celebrate in style. He was at the station when I got there.”
I stole a peek at his profile. “I suppose you went to report me?”
He looked up and shook his head ruefully. “Who do you think I am, the Marquis de Sade?” I held back my own theory; Hume Mason. “You’ve got enough troubles for both of us. Come on,” he said, and took my hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To the dump, to look for the rest of your stuff. The police sent a rookie down, but I noticed his hands and shoes were clean when he came back. I don’t think he did a very thorough job.”
“I’ll jot down the serial number before I go.”
“They already have it at the station. Come on, before it gets dark.” I grabbed my purse, he grabbed my hand, and together we headed for the door.
“Why are you helping me?”
“It’s pretty clear you’re never going to get that damned book finished if I don’t help you. Mason’s probably more than half-done by now.”
I gave him a sharp look. “Probably?”
“Let’s not go into that again.”
“Okay, we’ll put it on the back burner. This is my maiden trip in your car,” I mentioned as we slid onto the leather seat.
“So far I’ve just run your errands, without the pleasure of your company. How do you like it?”
“It’s nice. I always buy American myself, to help out the unemployment.” He ignored this pious put-down and rocketed along the lane to the highway.
The local dump was down a side road. Curls of blue smoke that smelled like burning rubber gave advance warning before we reached the gate. We got out and stared in dismay at a small mountain range of smoking garbage, whose disintegration was hastened along by a dilatory, smoldering fire. The EPA couldn’t be aware of this.
“You should have changed out of your good trousers,” I said. The Guccis should have been replaced by rubber boots too, but there was no way Brad would own anything so plebeian.
“We could do with a pair of gas masks, too,” he added, lips curling in distaste.
He bent down and rolled up his trousers. “Come on. Hold your breath and let’s get started. They said the typewriter was at the foot of the biggest pile. That’d be Mount St. Helens there in the center.”
To actually scale that mountain of smoking rubble was a daunting task. Broken bottles and tin cans oozed from split garbage bags. There were papers and old clothes, shoes and skates, along with the more usual remains of food.
As the acrid fumes and stench seeped into my throat, I said, “This is a high price to pay, even for my research.”
“Are you suggesting we quit?” he asked hopefully.
“Certainly not!”
“How about your picture, the nude? It’d be the easiest thing to spot if it’s here.”
‘Let’s have a look.”
He took my hand and we advanced to the foot of the mountain. Brad took a deep breath, held it, and leapt up the garbage pile, as agile as a goat. He got up three or four steps, pulling me behind him, before his loafer slipped on a grapefrui
t skin, and he sank ankle-deep in garbage. I crawled more carefully behind him, coughing and batting at the smoke with my free hand. The mountain wasn’t hot, but it was warm.
“Wrap this around your nose and mouth,” he said, and handed me a folded handkerchief. It didn’t cut down on the vile inhalations. The smoke seeped up under the mask.
From midpoint up the mountain, we could see to the top, and there was no sign of my belongings. We plodded slowly to the other side, slipping, sliding, many times having to steady ourselves by putting a hand on the garbage below. “You know, we are both cretins,” Brad said, when we stopped to rest.
“Speak for yourself. For me, this is a matter of life or debt.”
“No, I mean your stuff wouldn’t be this high up on the hill. The dump trucks reach these heights. Some guy throwing a box wouldn’t get it higher than a few feet off the ground. I’ll slide down first and catch you.”
He slipped and slithered down, balancing himself by stretching his arms out. He had nearly reached the bottom when he stepped on a slippery plastic bag and went sprawling in the garbage. The force of his fall sent puffs of smoke billowing from among the plastic bags and loose refuse. When he picked himself up, the seat of his trousers was decorated with a banana peel and coffee grounds. I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. He turned to help me down, our arms reaching out to each other in a grotesque parody of some TV perfume commercial. I got to the bottom without incident.
“Let’s use sticks to poke around,” I suggested. I found a long black umbrella, and Brad armed himself with a hollow aluminum tube. We poked and prodded our way around the first mountain, overturning any cardboard cartons of approximately the proper size.
“A lot of people throw their garbage out in cardboard boxes,” I mentioned, after poking open the ninth or tenth carton that looked like mine.
“I’ll take the hill on the left, you do the right,” Brad said. It was obvious by then that the larger hill held nothing of interest to us.
After a few minutes, he called, “Hey, Audrey! Look at this!”
My heart raced with hope as I cantered to his hill, to see him holding an alarm clock. “It works. Is it yours?” he asked eagerly.
“I never saw it before in my life. You might as well come down.” I pulled down the bothersome handkerchief and gave a disheartened sigh. “We’re going to catch hydrophobia here.”
“Want to split?”
“I can’t leave till I’m positive my things aren’t here, but if you want to. . ."
He cocked his head to one side and looked discouraged, but his words were cheerful. “I’ll tell you what, let’s keep our eyes peeled for the gilt frame of your picture, and if we find it, we’ll look around that area for your box and manuscript.”
“I bet Mason has my research, and this is a waste of time.”
“You’re the only one who thinks Mason has it. I happen to feel Mason has nothing to do with it. Don’t ask. Just keep looking. If you can’t stand the stench, get out of the garbage dump. You wait in the car.”
“I had no intention of quitting! I just thought maybe you wanted to.”
I took a long, hard look at him. He was Mason, and if he didn’t have my research, then this was the likeliest place for it. “I’ll go back to the other hill.” For another fifteen minutes we worked, finishing our respective mounds, and poking about in the debris. There was a large area of litter surrounding the piles of garbage.
“There’s a box that didn’t quite make it to Mount St. Helens,” Brad said, and rolled a brown carton over with his metal rod. It flew open, and one of Rosalie’s diaries tumbled out on the ground.
We looked at each other in delighted disbelief; then, laughing, we scrabbled in the box to make sure we weren’t hallucinating.
“It’s here! Everything’s here!” I squealed, incredulous. “Look, he even stuffed my manuscript into the box. All covered with oil or something where it fell out. Isn’t it wonderful!”
I held the mangled pages out for his examination, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was smiling fatuously at my dirty face, and the egg yolk rapidly congealing in my hair.
I was overcome with gratitude and remorse. “How can I ever thank you, Brad?”
His eyes steamed softly into mine. “I’ll think of something,” he warned.
We stuffed the papers back into the box and Brad carried it to the trunk of his car, where he deposited it right beside his carton from Belton, which we both chose to ignore, at least verbally, though we exchanged a meaningful look.
“Why would anybody have stolen it, only to throw it all away again?” I wondered.
Brad shook his head in confusion. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of. Worst thing I ever smelled too. I don’t envy you, having to work with this.”
“I’ll have to retype the whole thing.”
“Put a sheet of glass over it, or you’ll be asphyxiated.”
“Maybe I could photocopy it.”
“I’m going home to soak for about ten days, and burn every stitch I have on.” We rolled down the car windows and were off.
“I may never eat again. This gives me a whole new perspective on food,” I declared.
“We got everything back but the picture,” Brad said as we sped down the bumpy road. “I was sure that was the first thing we’d find. It should have stuck out a mile.”
“He may have ripped off the frame, but even the picture would be highly visible. It wasn’t there, or we’d have seen it. I wonder if that wino . . ."
“No, I asked him. He was sober enough to understand. If he’d seen it, he’d have been willing to sell it back for another ten bucks. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he meant to come back and have a look for it himself. It begins to look as though somebody staged the whole robbery just to get the picture,” he added pensively. “I didn’t think it was that hot myself.”
“You prefer your nudes with staples in their belly buttons?”
“You’re out of date—they overcame that months ago. It was an interesting picture, but hardly a masterpiece. An original Pissarro would be worth a fortune, but a Rosalie Hart copy of a Pissarro—I wonder what that’s worth, now that she’s dead.”
“A thousand or so I guess, for sentimental value.”
“Some demented fan may have stolen it. You read about lunatics pestering the stars.”
“Not usually such faded stars as Rosalie, and besides, hardly anybody knew I was here. Why wouldn’t he keep the diaries too, if he was that infatuated with her?”
“So we’re back to your original question. Who’d steal your stuff, just to take it to the city dump? And why did he keep the picture?”
“I don’t know, unless he’s so ignorant he thought it was a valuable masterpiece."
“In which case he was no art thief. An ordinary, garden-variety thief would have stolen your wallet while he was at it.”
“What we have here is a mystery wrapped in an enigma,” I decided. But I was too relieved to be despondent.
When we reached the cottage, Brad left the box on my porch to allow the stench to dissipate before taking it inside. I examined it thoroughly; everything was there. Across the yard, Mrs. Simcoe’s curtain twitched busily.
She was getting an eyeful this time. “I wonder what she thinks of this,” I said, and laughed. Brad’s once-beautiful shirt looked like an artist’s rag. There was a smear of some red goo down one sleeve, ketchup or spaghetti sauce. Various brown, black, and green stains were splattered at random across it, and down the trouser legs. The Guccis no longer shone like new pennies, but were sodden and caked in grime. His hair was disheveled, and his face was streaked where he’d wiped the sweat away with dirty hands.
I knew I looked as bad, but then I’d never aspired to his heights of fashion. Some few images in life are indelibly etched in memory: our mothers, the bedrooms we grew up in, our first lovers. I knew I’d added one of these precious pictures to my mental album. I would never forget the sight of the impeccable Br
ad O’Malley falling on his keister in the garbage dump, surrounded by the smoke of putrefying refuse.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, watching me watch him. A little smile lifted his lips, and creased the corners of his eyes.
“This one’s not for sale.”
“She probably thinks we were mud wrestling.”
“What?”
“You wondered what the missus thought of our condition,” he reminded me.
“Oh—yes, if she can’t think of some worse construction to put on it.”
“I want you to know, Audrey Dane, I wouldn’t have done this for just anyone.” His eyes were steaming again as he gazed at me.
“I know,” I said, over the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Brad.”
“It was a pleasure. No, I’ll rephrase that: I was happy to do it for you.”
The words were trite, but the moment seemed tinged with a fairy-tale quality reminiscent of heroes slaying dragons for the princess. And at that instant, Brad, filthy clothes and all, looked like a perfect Prince Charming. This wasn’t the arrogant professor who read me lectures on poetry or word meanings. It wasn’t the macho male seducer who occasionally lunged at me. It was a thoroughly nice man. The lump in my throat grew, and before I could stop it, I felt a rush of hot tears.
He lifted a gentle finger and brushed one away. “I must be dowsed in onions,” he said. There was a hoarse edge to his voice. He was feeling it also, then, this wave of tenderness.
“Ketchup too,” I said, wiping at the smear on his shirt. His arm felt strong and warm beneath the cloth. I felt it tense at my touch. “All the fixings for a hamburger.”
I expected some clever, bantering answer. Brad looked suddenly serious—more than serious. He looked sober. “Audrey, I’m sorry!”
I was not only surprised but confused. “For what?”
“Ah, I’ve been acting like a jerk,” he said. “Lying to you about the diaries I borrowed, and that crack about reporting you for breaking into my cottage. Pretending I cooked those dinners.”
“I haven’t exactly been Pollyanna myself. I’m not usually so—”
“Hostile?” he suggested helpfully.
