“And now?” Angelo asked. “Someone where she works might know details of her family if she’s gone to stay with them.”
They might even track down Polly’s family through the phonebook. How many Mainwarings could there be? But something else occurred to Salvatore. “Come on,” he said.
He drove them to the registrar’s office. Jack Appleby’s red BMW convertible was in the parking lot.
With the waiting room unlocked, they went in. A sign asked visitors to take a seat but they heard voices in the registrar’s office. A glance from Angelo asked if Salvatore recognized Polly’s.
Salvatore nodded. He knocked on the door, then opened it immediately and went in. Polly sat beside the registrar’s desk, eyes puffy and hair every which way. Facing her was a man in his thirties—presumably Jonathan Aloysius Appleby.
From behind the desk a handsome older woman said, “ Please, wait outside until you are called.” Her tone was firm. Beverley Norbury.
“Polly,” Salvatore said, “are you all right?”
Polly blinked a couple of times. Then she rose and rushed into Salvatore’s arms. “No,” she wailed. “I’m not all right.”
“So where is Sally now?” Gina asked as Angelo told his wife and sister about his afternoon.
“Last I saw, he was leading Polly to the registrar’s car park. But who knows where they are now.”
“He fancied that one from the moment he met her,” Rosetta said.
“He just left you there with Jonathan Aloysius and the registrar?” Gina said.
Angelo nodded.
“What did you do? Call the police?”
“As it happened, there was no need.”
Once Polly was in the car Salvatore had suggested that they go to her flat. Her snuffling noises didn’t sound like disagreement so that’s where they went. When they arrived, she had her key out.
“Shall I come in, make you a cuppa?” Salvatore asked.
More snuffling. She left the door open for him.
“Sit yourself down,” he said.
Polly sat on the couch that Salvatore had occupied alone the previous night.
“Tea?”
“Mmm.” The sound was nearly a word.
In her kitchen Salvatore found the kettle and a canister with the word tea. He managed to find the fridge even though it wasn’t labeled. There was an open container of skimmed milk inside.
Remembering her order in the Assembly Rooms, he said, “You take milk, but do you want sugar today?”
“No.”
An actual word. “Won’t be long.”
“I hate him,” Polly said.
“What?”
“I hate him. I hate him.”
Angelo said, “Let’s invite Papa and Mama down to eat tonight.”
“Will Sally be back by dinner time?” Gina asked.
Angelo shrugged.
Rosetta said, “Maybe he’ll get lucky.” When they’re on the rebound, and someone like Salvatore is at hand, it could be days before he gets back. She didn’t aspire to having whatever it was Salvatore had, but ten percent would be nice. She shook her head.
“He won’t be coming back, Rose?” Gina said.
“Dunno. Sorry.” Then, “Do you want me to cook?”
“There are plenty of leftovers.”
“Papa will want to hear how about the certificates,” Angelo said. “He’ll want to know if his murder is still the only one. He’s probably going on to Mama about it right now.”
Gina and Rosetta smiled. They could imagine.
Salvatore put two mugs of tea on coasters on the table in front of Polly’s couch. “You’re very kind,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“No, I mean it. Very kind.”
She was more beautiful than ever. For a moment it took his breath away. He sat on the couch but kept to the other end. That said, the couch wasn’t a big one.
“So,” the Old Man said, “no murders?” He turned to Mama. “More chutney. I feel like chutney.” The improvised meal offered more food than most of the family’s specially prepared dinners.
“No murders, Papa,” Angelo said. “Not even a little one.”
“But all those dead wives,” David said. “What killed them?”
“Cancer.”
“All of them? But isn’t that suspicious? What are the odds?”
Angelo turned to the table and spread his hands in invitation.
“Oncology,” the Old Man said.
“Give the man his chutney.”
“Oncology?” David asked.
“Jack Appleby worked in places where the patients had cancer. Having cancer’s nothing like it used to be, but a lot of people still don’t survive it, though they may not die quickly.”
“So all the women he married had cancer already?” Rosetta said.
“Correct,” Angelo said with a smile.
“He has a thing for dying women?” She scratched her head. “But Polly’s healthy, isn’t she?”
“Cancer was not the only thing his wives had in common.” When nobody offered a speculation Angelo continued, “Each was relatively young—forties and fifties. And single—obviously. Each had one or more children. And each had a career with a good pension plan, one she’d paid a lot of money into.”
He looked around the table, but they were all waiting for him.
“In every case, if the woman was single when she died, her pension would die with her. All the money she’d paid in would be lost. However, in each case the terms stipulated that if the woman was married, her pension would continue to be payable to her husband.”
“He married them for their pensions?” Marie asked. “Cool.”
“So,” Rosetta said, “the six regular payments to Jack’s bank are from the dead wives’ pensions?”
“Exactly,” Angelo said. “Pension payments that would have been lost if the women had died unmarried.”
Gina said, “I see what was in it for Jonathan Aloysius, but why did those poor women marry him?”
“Because Jack agreed with each of them to pay half the pension money to their children.”
“Ah,” Rosetta said, “the payments going out of his account.”
“So there are eleven children currently getting money that would otherwise have been lost to them.”
“So he didn’t love his wives?” Marie said.
“No. It was entirely a pragmatic arrangement.”
“Cool.”
“And where does Beverly Norbury fit in all this?” Gina asked.
“She conducted the ceremony for the first wedding. When Jack went in to register Belinda Rogers’s death and Ms. Norbury sympathized, Jack explained why he wasn’t grieving in the usual way. Then, when it was time for the second wedding, he went back to Ms. Norbury because she already understood the kind of marriage it would be. Ms. Norbury says she’s certain nobody was taking advantage of anybody else. It was win-win.”
“And so she became his personal registrar?” Rosetta said.
“In a way.”
“But where does Polly fit in all this?” Gina asked.
“Jack met her when she came to the RUH to visit an aunt—an aunt who eventually recovered. And she and Jack fell in love. When that happened he transferred out of oncology.”
“He didn’t think to tell Polly about his marital history?”
“How do you tell a new woman that you’ve been married six times, always to women you didn’t love who then died? It’s not a chat-up line that’s going to get you a phone number.”
“But why didn’t he tell her later?”
“He said it just never seemed the right time. And then he thought that if Beverly Norbury performed the ceremony, he might not have to tell Polly at all.”
“But Beverly Norbury didn’t act her part well enough,” Marie said. “Acting is a special talent. So few people have it.” She tossed her hair.
“Or Polly is unusually intuitive about people,” Angelo said
“Or,” Mama said,
“this registrar was really happy for this marrying young man who found love at last. Did you think of that?” She glared at Salvatore.
“But,” Rosetta said, “despite the innocence of it, despite the good that he did, Polly wasn’t happy with the explanation?”
“He lied to her, at least by omission,” Angelo said. “No, she was not happy.”
When the meal was finished, everyone but Marie repaired to the living room to wait for Salvatore. Marie’s mind was on other things.
“Would you like me to help you with your lines?” Gina asked her.
“No need. You carry on with your weddings and funerals.”
But once in her bedroom she called a boy at school named Sam.
“Ullo,” Sam said.
“Hi. It’s Marie.”
“Yeah, hi.”
“I’m in the most awful fix. I hate to bother you, but, oh, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”
After a moment, Sam said, “What fix?”
“It’s my lines. Everyone at my house is, like, totally preoccupied with something else. I can’t get anyone to test me, and to read opposite me. I know it’s the most awful cheek to ask, but are you doing anything now? It’s just, what with your living fairly close and all . . .”
“You want me . . . to come over?”
“Or I could come there. It’s just that with your being in the lighting crew you know how awful the whole thing will be if I don’t know my lines. And Ms. Noodles-for-Brains will go mental if we don’t rehearse without scripts by next Monday.”
Sam chuckled and said, “Ms. Noodles-for-Brains. That’s good.” And Marie knew she had him.
Salvatore’s mood was bittersweet as he returned to the family home and headed up the stairs. Polly was in her flat, tucked in bed with a telephone, water, and a banana on the bedside table. She was calmer, comforted by his attentions. Or the passage of time. Hard to be sure which.
Salvatore entered the kitchen as quietly as he could. His intention was to gather the overnight things he’d brought the day before and then go back to his own flat.
From the living room he heard laughter and speech. He listened, checking the voices. All the grown-ups except Mama. Well, he didn’t really feel like going through it all, making what almost felt like a confession.
He glided silently into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. There wasn’t much to pick up. He got his things together and tiptoed back into the hall.
“Uncle Sal?”
It was David. “Nephew Dave.”
“What happened with Polly?”
“She’s fine.”
“They were talking about it at dinner. Is she your girlfriend now?”
“My what?”
“That’s what Auntie Rose thought. That you like Polly and now that she’s not engaged anymore you’d be making your move.” David smiled. He even winked.
“Polly isn’t my girlfriend and she won’t be.”
“Don’t you want her to be?”
That was a painful question. “I think she’ll get back with Jack.”
“She will?” Wide eyes.
“It’s not like he committed any crime, David.” Except a crime against romance. That was not a small thing, but it was something one could be pardoned for.
“But he tried to hide all those dead wives.”
“What he did helped him, but he also helped those women by making sure their children would be better off.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t tell Polly.”
“And that was very wrong.” Yes, Salvatore thought, a grownup really does need to take responsibility for what he does and what he is. “And it was cowardly. But, as I told Polly, if you care deeply for someone, if you think that person really gets you and understands who you are underneath appearances . . . That’s very very rare, David. It’s something your parents have, and it’s something we all should aspire to. And it’s not something to throw away lightly.”
David didn’t quite understand.
But Polly had. Salvatore had said, “Did you really feel that you connected with Jack before all of this? That he connected with you?”
Her response was instant. “Yes.”
“That is not a trivial thing.”
“But he lied to me.”
“But he didn’t betray you.”
“No.”
“And as soon as he fell in love with you, he switched wards.”
“Yes.”
“He stopped looking for another woman to marry because he’d found the woman he wanted for a wife. Someone he wanted to be a real husband to.”
“Yes.”
“You should at least talk to him, Polly. You should at least try to get past this.”
“Yes,” she’d said. Faintly. But then, with more resolve, “Yes, I will try. But I will never live on those poor women’s money. Their children should have it all.”
Polly would get back together with her Jack.
“So,” David said, “aren’t you going tell everyone what happened? Because they want to know.”
What Salvatore wanted to do was to go to his own place and space. He wanted to find a way to ignore the fact that Polly and Jack, Gina and Angelo, Mama and the Old Man all had something valuable. Something that he wanted. Something that he didn’t have.
But to go home wouldn’t be taking grownup responsibility. “Yes, I’ll tell them.” Salvatore patted David on the head.
And when he caught a moment with Rosetta maybe he’d suggest they go speed dating together. It wasn’t the same as an Internet site but it was still a positive action. And at least with speed dating nobody could use a faked photograph.
Copyright © 2010 Michael Z. Lewin
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Fiction
A PHOTO’S WORTH
DAVID HAGERTY
Art by Ron Chironna
As usual, I get my first coffee at Cuppa Joe on Powell Street. It’s actually not my type of place, all froufrou milkshakes masquerading as coffee. Mostly, it serves moms with baby strollers on their way from the yoga studio. They’re plentiful in San Francisco, especially on (s)Nob Hill. But Joe does make a good espresso, and it’s a convenient spot for me to catch up.
Sitting outside on my Honda 250 Nighthawk, with my camera gear stashed in the saddlebags, I plug in my earpiece and start calling my sources. See who’s seeing who. The Dodgers are in town, and I’ve heard a rumor that their shortstop is dating Lyla, my favorite actress, who lives up here. My goal for the day is a picture of the two of them together. First I check with the maître d’ at Rubicon.
“Hey, it’s Mitch. You got any reservations for Dodger players today?”
“I got Robin Williams coming in for lunch,” he says.
“That’s not news, he owns the frigging place. But, hey, call me back if you hear from De Niro, I need a shot of his new facial hair.”
The doorman at the Clift Hotel tells me the Dodgers are staying there (as usual), but the shortstop went straight to his room after check-in and hasn’t been seen since.
“Find out when they leave for the game and call me back,” I say.
Last, I check in with Lyla’s hairdresser.
“We haven’t got her on the calendar today, but I hear she needs a new dress for the opening next week. You might want to cruise the Marina, see if you can pick her up there.”
The odds of picking her up on the streets are pretty low, so I decide to wait where I am. Being a nondescript guy helps in this line of work. I’m medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, and medium skin tone. People have said I look like everything from Arab to Mexican to Italian (actually, I’m Portuguese, but nobody ever guesses that). Usually I can stand outside a coffee shop or a restaurant without attracting attention, which to me is the worst thing that can happen. Then you got security guys, handlers, and hangers-on getting in the way of your shot.
Five minutes later my patience is rewarded when Lyla walks into
the coffee shop. She’s trying to go incognito today in a black wool overcoat and big bug-eye sunglasses, her dark hair twisted in a spiral on top of her head, but I can spot her walk from a half mile away.
Even though I’m wearing my helmet and a black leather jacket, Lyla sees me as she’s walking out. We make eye contact briefly and she turns away like we’ve never met, but she knows I’m on her. I put in a quick call to Sandra, her publicist.
“Nothing today, you’re wasting your time.”
Sandra always sounds put upon, even though she makes over a hundred grand for taking Lyla’s messages.
“No day with Lyla is a waste.”
“Listen, if you’re going to follow her, do me a favor, will you? There’s some creepy fan who’s stalking her. Keep an eye out for him?”
“I’ll make sure to get a photo.”
“Thanks. So far it’s just been letters, but if we can show that he’s threatening, we can file for a restraining order.”
“You got it, as long as I get the exclusive for next week’s softball tournament.”
“Like anybody else wants it.”
We hang up and Lyla’s green Prius rolls past. Check the license plate, and it’s confirmed. I pull out three cars behind and follow, but not too close. I’ve always believed that being polite gets better results. No starting fights or causing car accidents. Guys who do that stuff ruin it for the rest of us. People call us the paparazzi, which means “buzzing insects,” but I think the term is all wrong. Acting the fool, I’d never be able to focus on a few celebrities the way I do.
I started tracking Lyla’s career about two years ago, but not for the usual reasons. Sure, she’s good looking, but in Hollywood pretty actresses are more common than nail salons. What makes her different is, as far as I can tell, her looks are natural—she’s had no obvious plastic surgery and her brunette hair is highlighted only by the sun. Plus, she’s an up and comer. My first shot of her sold for only fifty dollars, but since then the price has increased tenfold. The TV show she’s on has got a following now, and if she really does have a thing going with the shortstop, it’ll promote her to A-list in the tabloids.
As she turns onto California Street, a cable car slides between us. It’s packed with tourists hanging out the windows trying to get a photo of the Transamerica Pyramid building. People say the paparazzi take risks, but I’d never try to shoot from a moving vehicle.
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10 Page 7
