Heart and Soul

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “Innovative?”

  “I sometimes indulge in a bit of bondage, Cassie dear, something I rather doubt you’ve ever considered. All fairly innocent, I assure you. Silk ties, bedposts, that sort of thing.”

  “But not so innocent here, I take it. Something went wrong.”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I was clumsy, I suppose, or overeager. I had the tie around her neck for some reason—oh, yes, of course, it was a modern bed, no head posts. I suppose I’d become overexcited, though I don’t remember the actual act. All I remember is trying to wake her.”

  “And she wouldn’t wake.”

  “No, she’d … slipped away. If I’d been more coherent, I probably could have saved her. Mouth-to-mouth … something … but I couldn’t. I guess I simply panicked, what did I do? I called someone I thought would help me. And he did. He sure did.”

  “Haas?”

  “He was next door, in an adjoining suite, not in such great shape himself. But he pulled himself together fast when he saw what was up. He called Jason up to the suite; kept everyone else out. Just the three of us.”

  “And Felice?”

  “Haas had already rolled her body up in a bed sheet. It was as though he did this sort of thing every day. He told Jason that the girl had OD’d, and that we were going to have to move fast to control the damage. He said he’d arrange to have the body picked up by an unmarked van and get her to the morgue where he said he had a high-level ‘friend,’ if Jason could get her carried downstairs in a laundry trolley. At first Jason wanted no part of this. But then Haas made some comment about Jason’s business—something about some zoning clearance he needed, and…”

  “He caved in,” Cassie said quietly.

  “Actually, no,” Magnus replied. “He said that Haas could go to hell, and that he was going to call the police. Haas calmly told him to do just that: call the Commissioner, why not? He and Haas were best friends. Jason just left then—looking sick at heart—and who could blame him? He was a different man after that: tougher, more careful. Never got involved in politics again. Sold that hotel the next month—at a loss, too, I understand. Probably the only real estate Jason Darin ever lost money on.”

  “And the body?”

  “I wheeled her down myself. Haas was as good as his word. The van was waiting at the service entrance. Next morning the papers all carried the story that the girl had overdosed on coke. But Haas showed me the real death certificate—the one he had his friend at the city morgue fix up. The true cause of death: asphyxiation. He told me that I was dropping out of the race, out of politics altogether, except when he needed my backing for his own campaigns. He also informed me that from then on he would look to me as a major financial contributor to the Anthony Haas political war chest. He made his announcement about running for the Senate less than six weeks later.”

  “Not exactly the enlightened liberal leader my parents so admired,” Cassie murmured.

  “I gave him his big break,” Magnus replied. “Though he’d made something of a splash in the sixties with the Kennedys, after Camelot faded away he has never been able to find the financial backing he needed to take his show to the big stage. He’d been just another anonymous representative for nearly a decade by the time all this happened—and in the Nixon administration the liberal tag was like a millstone around his neck. With my support and advice he got what he wanted: the Senate, prestige, power. I helped shape his new platform—the liberal causes offset with a more practical pro-business attitude. I put him on the map.”

  “You sound almost proud—but he was blackmailing you the whole time.”

  “Oh, the money part was certainly distasteful,” Magnus said, refilling his glass once again. Cassie noticed that the bottle was nearly empty. “But it was the first time I realized how much power I had to make somebody—transform the look, reshape the public persona. I created Senator Anthony Haas. And though he may be into me for several hundred thousand dollars—in a more important respect I control him.”

  “He’s your monster,” Cassie suggested.

  “Exactly.” Magnus turned to her, smiling. “As Miranda was. As you were going to be…”

  “And what you create,” Cassie said, rising uncomfortably from her cramped position on the floor, “I suppose you think you have the right to destroy.”

  “Now, you stay right there,” Magnus warned her, raising the gun. For the first time that night he looked uncertain. He swayed slightly. “I wouldn’t want to have to hurt you, darling.”

  “I don’t see that you have a choice,” Cassie said matter-of-factly. “You killed Miranda because she knew too much … why should I be spared?”

  “I didn’t kill her! I did not. It was an accident. A terrible misunderstanding.”

  “Like the girl in the hotel room?”

  “That was an accident. I was drunk. We were all a little out of control. With Miranda … it was totally different.”

  “How was it different, Vance?” Cassie demanded, finally finding the courage to ask, “How did Miranda really die?”

  “Step to the side.” Magnus gestured angrily with the gun. Cassie edged away from the fireplace. “That’s right. Now don’t move.” With his right hand he trained the gun on Cassie, with his left he crumpled the remaining papers from Miranda’s folder and tossed them into the fire. They caught, flared quickly, curled into ash.

  “You know, she really wasn’t all that bright,” he said, staring into the fire as the last piece of paper flamed. “Or else, over the years she let her ambitions and ego get the better of her intelligence. Lord, the vanity! She lived in this warped world—where everything revolved around Miranda Darin. In the end, it was more than simply being selfish. She was dangerous. Obsessive.”

  “About Jason, you mean?”

  “She refused to let it go. I warned her. I begged her, but she didn’t listen. She thought she’d pieced it all together—the Jason and Haas thing. She couldn’t wait to tell me all about it—told me to meet her out here, at a little motel we used to go to in Montauk when we were lovers. We called it the shack.”

  Thirty-four

  “I’ll meet you at the shack. Around eight tonight.”

  “But, Miranda darling, we have that black tie for the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. We can’t possibly—”

  “It’s important. I’m leaving Jason. I’ve finally figured it out. I’ve a story, Vance, that’s going to blow this city sky-high.”

  “Miranda—I … I’ll be there. At eight…”

  It was a brutally cold night, cloudy, with a knife-sharp wind that sang beneath his tires on the highway. Just outside of Medford, it began to snow. He had to brake to a crawl to avoid skidding, the windshield wipers sloughing off the heavy, unexpected downfall. He knew he should be mentally preparing for what was ahead what he had to tell her, but his thoughts kept getting caught up in what she had told him: “I’m leaving Jason.” It kept going around and around in his brain, like a jingle. It picked up the rhythms of the windshield wipers. By the time he got to the motel, he was in an absurd state of hope and anticipation. It had been months since they’d been there together, weeks since she’d allowed him to touch her, and the thought of seeing her again in one of the many anonymous shabby rooms where they’d spent so many hours making love filled him with desire. He spotted her red Mercedes parked in front of a door at the far end of the complex, turned off on a side road, avoiding the bright lights at the front cottage, and parked beside her car. A light was on in the room.

  “The door’s open,” she called.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but this damned snow.” He found it hard to breathe. She was curled up on the double bed, legs tucked beneath her, her thick glossy hair loose around her shoulders. She was wearing the deceptively simple-looking sports clothes of the very rich: a beige cashmere sweater, amber-colored tights tailored to her long fine legs, a belt of woven leather with a gold buckle. She’d kicked her shoes off, and t
hey lay like obedient pets at the foot of the bed. Even from the door he could smell her perfume—not that it was strong, just that it was so fine and penetrating that it instantly took control of the room. Just as she did. She smiled and put the dog-eared copy of Reader’s Digest that she’d been flipping through back on the chipped bedside table.

  “Thanks for coming all the way out. I just needed to get away. From him, that house!”

  “What’s happened?” He pulled his coat off, draped it over a chair, sat next to her on the bed. He was careful not to make the first move though he longed—with an ache that dug into his very marrow—to take her in his arms.

  Then she said it again, “I’m leaving Jason.”

  “Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!” He couldn’t help it. He fumbled for her hands.

  “We had a dreadful fight.” She pulled away, swung her legs over the far side of the bed, and got up. She moved around the room, picking things up—an ashtray, a conch shell—and putting them down as she talked. “I found out about the girl, Vance. The one at the Savoy—when you were running for mayor—who supposedly OD’d? Well, she didn’t. She was murdered.” She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with excitement. When he didn’t say anything, she went on in a rush.

  “Don’t you see? That’s the real reason Jason’s paying off Haas! Jason did it, and Haas was there. He fixed the death certificate. He kept the newspapers at bay. Managed a whole cover-up number.”

  “I was there, too, Miranda, you know. Perhaps I was the one who killed the girl.”

  “You?” She started to laugh. “I don’t think so, darling. You’re far too civilized and well behaved. No, it was Jason. You don’t know him the way I do. He has these dark, intense periods—when he’ll hardly talk to me. His looks alone can kill.”

  “Perhaps you drive him to it,” he said, rising slowly from the bed. It was absurd for him to be angry that she had it wrong. Ridiculous to be hurt that she doubted his nerve, the animal side of his nature. Jason! Of course she would think of him first—assume it was he. The main protagonist in the ongoing drama that was Miranda Darin’s life. While Magnus played a two-bit role. Best supporting actor. Too civilized and well behaved. His head ached at the temples, throbbing with rage.

  “No it was him.” Miranda turned to the window, pushed the curtain aside. The blizzard continued—the huge wet flakes twirling every which way, like fake snow inside a paperweight. “He’s been hiding something about Haas from the moment we met. He’ll never talk about the man, refuses to even have his name mentioned in front of him. Practically foams at the mouth when I put Haas on invitation lists. Actually that’s one of the reasons I continue to socialize with the old sot—because Jason despises him so.”

  “I sometimes wonder, Miranda, if that’s why you continue to socialize with me.”

  “Lord you should have been there tonight when I confronted him with the Savoy business. I’ve never seen him like that. Totally out of control. I really thought he was going to hit me.”

  “Did he deny it? When you accused him of killing the girl?”

  “Of course! What was he going to do—stand there and thank me for finally uncovering what he’s been hiding from for twenty years?”

  “He didn’t accuse anyone else?”

  “No, he was too interested in trying to convince me to drop the whole story. Drop it! This piece is going to make history, Vance. Just think about it, darling—me exposing my husband and Senator Anthony Haas on national prime-time television.”

  “You may accuse,” Magnus said, coming up to stand behind her at the window, “but you won’t be able to convict.”

  “Don’t be absurd, I know that,” Miranda said, turning to face him. “The jury will do that—after I’m through with them.”

  “No, Miranda,” Magnus said. His hands curled around her shoulders. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to do the story as planned.”

  “Of course I will,” she snapped, irritably trying to shrug off his grip. But he held her tightly. “Do let go, Vance. I’m afraid I’m not in the mood tonight.”

  “I killed that girl,” he said. “Felice Ruhl. It was me, Miranda. I killed her.”

  “Honestly, darling, you’re being ridiculous,” she replied, though she had stopped laughing. “And you’re hurting me.”

  “You thought I was too civilized to hurt anyone, Miranda. But I’m not, am I? I’m just as much a man as Jason, you know. But you’ve never really given me a chance to prove it. It’s always Jason, Jason, Jason. You fool. You stupid, silly woman. I loved you. I’ve made you. I would have done anything for you. Anything. And what have you done in return? You’ve humiliated me, walked all over me. But I can’t … I’m sorry … I can’t.” He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t let you ruin me.”

  “Don’t … please … please…” How long had his hands been at her neck? He didn’t know. It had seemed like seconds, and yet she’d gone limp in his grasp, her eyes rolling up beneath her lids. One second she was alive, and the next—

  “Miranda!” He knelt beside her body, fumbling for her now lifeless hand. Where was the pulse? He leaned over and laid his head against her chest. Her breasts were still warm, but she was dead. He knew as soon as he looked again at her face—she was gone. Her neck was bruised and swollen. Her eyelids were half open. He sat back on his knees. He stared at her for a long time, trying to face what had happened. What he had done. He had loved her more than any other woman he had ever known, almost as much as life itself. He would never have willingly killed her—she had forced him to do so. Because one way or another, what she had discovered about the Savoy would have destroyed him. And that was the only sacrifice he was not willing to make for her.

  Magnus had always been a meticulous and highly organized man. Once he’d come to terms with the situation, it did not take him long to figure out what had to be done. He scoured the room, wiping off anything he might have touched. When he was sure that he’d left no trace of himself behind, he turned out the lights. He waited in the dark until his eyes had thoroughly adjusted to the gloom, then he carried her out and put her in the backseat of her Mercedes and climbed in the front seat behind the wheel. He drove to East Hampton, stopped at a twenty-four-hour self-service station, and filled up the gas canister that she carried in the back trunk.

  It was still snowing, though more faintly, as he drove back east. In all, he passed only two other cars on the highway, both proceeding slowly on the slippery stretch of road. He stopped and turned around about five miles outside of town at a deserted curve in the highway where the shoulder fell off into a sandy gulch. He got out, dragged her into the front seat, and wiped his fingerprints as best he could from the wheel and dashboard. He let go of the hand brake and pushed the car over the incline. The sandy bank helped break the fall, and the car with her body slumped over the wheel came to a harmless stop at the bottom of the small ravine. The gasoline filled the chill air with a rank, clinical smell; he poured it over the hood and splashed it across the driver’s side of the front seat. He knew that to be sure he should probably wet her down with it as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  It was hard enough lighting the match from the book he had taken from the shack. As the little flame flared in the darkness, he saw that the front of the matchbook advertised a restaurant/bar in Montauk where Miranda and he had frequently gone after their afternoon sessions at the motel. The front seat caught with the first match. He was only fifty feet away when the car exploded. The sky burned a bright orange behind him as he hurried back to the motel by way of a road that ran parallel to the highway.

  His car was where he’d left it in the motel parking lot. The snow had stopped, and the night was dark and silent. A fire truck and police car, sirens wailing, passed him as he pulled up to a stop sign on his way back out of town. He could hear other sirens ahead and saw the flashing red-and-blue lights strobing the night s
ky before he passed the actual site of the accident.

  “How dare you call it an accident?”

  “That’s how I think of it, darling,” Magnus replied. “In so many ways, it really wasn’t my fault. I loved her. I didn’t want to lose her. She … it just happened.”

  “How did you feel when you drove past that car?”

  “Don’t be maudlin, Cassie. She was already long gone by then. I didn’t feel anything except relief, I suppose. I’d managed to salvage the situation, save myself.”

  “And now—how do you plan to salvage the situation?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that as we’ve talked,” Magnus replied, kicking the dying fire with the toe of his shoe. “And I’m afraid you’re right. I don’t trust you to keep quiet. I admire you a great deal, my dear. I could have grown quite fond of you but I’ve my own welfare to consider. This sounds rather melodramatic, but frankly you know too much.”

  “I’m not the only one who knows.”

  “And by that you mean … what exactly?”

  “Sheila Thomas. She knows everything. We’ve been working together.”

  “Oh, yes,” Magnus said, laughing and nodding. “I know. Dear Sheila. She was apprehended this evening breaking and entering my apartment. Such a pity.”

  “What do you mean?” For the first time Cassie felt true panic surge through her.

  “I was at the opera. I have a beeper alarm. I left immediately and walked back to the apartment—as you know, it’s only a few blocks from Lincoln Center. I keep a gun in the closet near the entryway. Senator Haas helped me get the license as a matter of fact and—”

  “Please,” Cassie interrupted, “just tell me what happened.”

  “She was such a live wire, that one. So bright. So fun-loving. Well, I found her in my bedroom, going through my personal filing cabinets. I made her tell me what was going on. Where you were. She tried to explain that she was doing all this for my own good. That she loved me. She turned at one point, and I was rather afraid she was reaching for a gun. I beat her to it. I shot her in the back.”