The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  Ray had a change of heart and grabbed his gabardine coat instead. On second thoughts, his wife hadn’t made it to their golden years, and globetrotting alone as a widower would be absolutely unbearable. And why travel at all if you’re a homebody?

  Tonight would mark the first time Maggie had invited them over to her place. Why was that? Could it be she planned to announce her engagement? Ray immediately wondered if he could still fit into his dinner jacket. Worst-case scenario, he would go on a diet, which meant they’d have to leave him enough time to lose five or six pounds. Ten at most. He was in pretty good shape, apart from a few soft edges here and there. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. Problem was, Ray wouldn’t put it past Maggie to tie the knot the very next weekend, what with her lack of patience. What in the world would he offer them as a wedding gift? Noticing the grayish bags under his eyes, Ray pulled the skin under his right eye a bit tighter with his finger. The puffiness did disappear, but he looked ridiculous. Maybe he should just stick a couple of pieces of tape under his eyes. That would crack everybody up. Ray tested out the look and made funny faces in the mirror, laughing to himself. Feeling chirpy, he snatched up his baseball cap, jingled his car keys in the palm of his hand, and popped out of the door with a sprightly gait that belied his age.

  Ray’s trusty old Austin, with its dusty aroma, was timeworn and elegant, just like a collector’s car. His neighbor claimed an A60 estate wasn’t an estate at all, but Ray knew the man was only jealous. Good luck finding such a handsome rosewood-effect dashboard these days. Even the clock on the dash was a vaunted relic. The Austin was already used when he acquired it all the way back in . . . Good lord. What year was it? Before the twins were born; had to be, of course. After all, Ray had used the Austin to pick up his future wife at the railway station when they were finally reunited. Incredible to think that this vehicle had been part of their lives all that time! How many miles had they racked up in this one car? 224,653, to be exact—make that 224,654 by the time he got to Michel’s place. Not a collector’s car? Ray chuckled. His neighbor was an idiot.

  It was impossible for Ray to even glance at the passenger seat without being haunted by his wife’s ghost. He could picture her perfectly, sitting there, twisting herself into knots trying to put on her seat belt. She always had a hard time adjusting the damn thing, and would regularly accuse Ray of having shortened it as a prank, gaslighting her with the idea she had put on weight. In truth, he had pulled the prank two, maybe three times. No more than that. Okay, maybe a little more, come to think of it.

  Ray had even often thought it would be nice to be buried in the Austin. But then he thought about how much room it would take up—that wouldn’t be very eco-friendly . . .

  After pulling up in front of Michel’s place and honking the horn a couple of times, Ray cut the engine and gazed through the window at the faces of the passersby on the shimmering pavement outside. Complain all you want about the English rain, Ray knew of no other country as green as his homeland.

  A passing older couple caught Ray’s attention, the husband clearly not big on smiling, much less laughing. If there was a god, this guy would have lost his wife, not Ray. The world certainly was one messed-up place. Good lord. Why did it take Michel so long to get out of the door? Of course, Ray knew why. Michel first had to check that everything was in its right place, verify that the gas wasn’t on (even if he hadn’t used the cooker in ages), double-check that all lights were off (except the one in his bedroom, which was kept on at all times), and make sure the fridge was closed. Speaking of the kitchen, the sink was in rough shape. Ray thought he would come over and replace it one day soon while Michel was at work; he’d be sure not to tell his son a thing until the repair had been completed.

  When Michel at last emerged, Ray opened the door for him, and his son slid into the passenger seat. After a quick hug, Michel put on his seat belt and folded his hands snugly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the road as Ray started the car. A full two traffic lights later, the young man finally spoke.

  “I’m very happy that we’re going to have dinner together, but it’s quite strange that the setting is Maggie’s flat.”

  “And what’s so strange about that, my boy?” Ray asked.

  “Maggie doesn’t cook. Therefore, it’s strange.”

  “As I understand it, she’s going to order pizza. It’ll be a proper party.”

  “Ah. Well, that factor does make it less odd . . . but still odd, nonetheless,” Michel declared, his gaze drawn to a lovely young woman crossing the street.

  “Not bad!” Ray whistled.

  “Granted. She is a bit out of proportion, strictly speaking,” Michel muttered.

  “You kidding me? She’s gorgeous!”

  “The average height for a female as of 2016 is five foot six. That woman is at least six foot one, well above average, with particularly elongated lower extremities.”

  “Whatever you say, old man. But if I were your age, I’d probably appreciate those type of proportions.”

  “As a matter of fact, I tend to prefer women who are . . . well . . .”

  “Shorter?”

  “Yes, well put. Shorter.”

  “Well, whatever floats your boat, son.”

  “I don’t quite see what flotation has to do with it.”

  “It’s an expression, Michel. It means ‘to each his own.’ When it comes to women, everyone has different preferences.”

  “Ah, yes. That seems like a logical conclusion to me. The initial expression didn’t make any sense at all, but the second is something of which I have seen proof.”

  As the Austin moved into heavier traffic, typically fine English rain began to fall. The asphalt was shimmery and slick within minutes.

  “My personal theory is that I think your sister is going to announce she’s getting married.”

  “Which sister? I have two.”

  “Maggie, I think.”

  “Ah. And what makes you think that?”

  “Call it fatherly instinct. Like a sixth sense. And, Michel? I tell you this now for a specific reason. I need you to understand this is good news, so when she makes the announcement, you know that the right response would be to show her that you are happy to hear it.”

  “Ah. Why is that?”

  “Because if you don’t, it’ll make your sister sad. When people tell you something they’re happy about, they expect you to share and demonstrate that happiness in return.”

  “Ah. But why is that?”

  “Because it’s one way for you to show them you love them.”

  “I understand. And getting married is good news?”

  “Well, my boy, that is a complicated question. But generally speaking, yes.”

  “And will her future husband be in attendance?”

  “Maybe. You really never can tell, with your sister.”

  “Which sister? I have two.”

  “I’m well aware, Michel. After all, I am the one who brought your two sisters into being—and your mother helped, I suppose.”

  “And Mum will not be in attendance.”

  “No, my boy. Your mother will not be there. And you know why.”

  “Yes, I do know why. It’s because she is dead.”

  “There you have it. It’s because she is dead.”

  Michel gazed out the window before turning to face his father.

  “And what about the two of you? Was it good news when you got married?”

  “Wonderful news! If I could do it all over again, I’d marry her even sooner. So, it stands to reason it’ll be good news for Maggie as well. After all, happy marriages run in our family.”

  “Ah. I’m not sure that trait can be considered genetic. I’ll have to confirm tomorrow at the university.”

  “What about you, Michel? Are you happy about Maggie?” Ray asked softly.

  “Yes, I think so . . . I am happy knowing that Maggie is going to get married, and more so now that I know it’ll be a happy marriage because that runs in
our family, as you say . . . but I admit I am a bit scared of meeting her future husband.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Well, I simply hope that the two of us will get on.”

  “You already know each other, Michel. You know, good old Fred? Tall chap, nice guy. We’ve had dinner a few times at his pub. At least, I’m assuming he’s the one your sister is going to marry. But who knows—it’s Maggie.”

  “It’s a shame that Mum can’t be there with you to celebrate the good news that her daughter is going to get married.”

  “And which daughter might that be?” Ray replied with a wink and a grin. “We’ve got two.”

  Michel chewed on this for a moment, then returned his father’s smile.

  5

  MAY

  October 1980, Baltimore

  The motorcycle roared its way up the hill. Whenever Sally-Anne twisted the throttle, dust streamed out from behind the back wheel. She had just a few more bends to go before the manor came into view. May was able to make out the limits of the Stanfield estate even from a distance, with the finials of elegant black wrought-iron railings forming an imperfect circle around the sprawling grounds. Her grip on Sally-Anne’s waist got tighter as they caught sight of the manor, tight enough to make Sally-Anne turn around and shout over the wind with a devil-may-care smile.

  “Hey, you’re not the only one who’s scared shitless, but that’s what makes it such an exciting adventure, isn’t it?”

  The rumble and purr of the Triumph drowned out most of what she said. May could only make out “scared shitless” and “exciting,” which did properly describe the mixed emotions she was feeling at that moment. She and Sally-Anne were fully in sync with each other.

  Sally-Anne downshifted and tilted toward the pavement as she whipped around the last hairpin bend, hugging the tight curve before picking up speed again as it straightened out. Her masterful control of the Triumph would have turned any biker green with envy.

  As they entered the home stretch, the manor stood out starkly at the top of the hill, its pretentious columns reigning over the entire valley. Such ostentatious and gaudy luxury was typically reserved for upstarts and the nouveau riche, yet the Stanfields were one of the oldest and most venerable families in the city, playing a major role in Baltimore life from its very founding. It was whispered that the family had amassed their fortune on the backs of slaves farming their lands. The rumor was contested by others, however, who claimed the esteemed Stanfield clan was among the first to have set slaves free, and that certain family members would have been ready to pay any price for their liberty—even in blood. The truth varied depending on whom you asked, and in what neighborhood.

  Sally-Anne slowed the Triumph to a stop in the employee parking area, cut the engine, and lifted her helmet to just above her ears. As May stepped off the bike, Sally-Anne gestured across the way.

  “The service entrance is straight ahead. Introduce yourself using the accent we practiced, and tell them you have an appointment with Miss Verdier.”

  “Couldn’t she somehow still be inside?”

  “Not unless she has the ability to be in two places at once. See the lady walking toward the black Ford right now, right over there? Miss Verdier, in the flesh. Like I told you, she takes her break at eleven in the morning every day like clockwork, jumping into her pretty little car and zipping into town for a nice lunch-break massage . . . and other things, if you know what I mean.”

  “You know, you never fully explained how you know all this.”

  “Well, when I said I’ve been following her closely for the past few weeks, I meant closely. Believe me, I know Miss Verdier a little too well at this point.”

  “No. Even you wouldn’t have gone that far . . .”

  “My dear, it is neither the time nor the place for such sordid details. Just take my word for it: Miss Verdier has a tough time getting off, which gives us a full forty-five minutes before she enjoys her little daily orgasm, knocks back a BLT and a Coke, and comes waltzing back in here. So, get moving. You know the plan by heart; we’ve run through it a hundred times. You’ve got this.”

  But May wouldn’t budge. Sensing her hesitation, Sally-Anne drew her close and whispered into her ear how stunning she looked and promised that everything would be fine. Sally-Anne looked on from the parking lot as May crossed the road and made her way to the service entrance, where hired help brought in newspapers, fancy food, beverages, and flowers, as well as the spoils from Mrs. Stanfield’s or her son’s shopping runs to the city.

  When the butler came to greet her, May gave the cover story, perfectly playing the part of a well-educated young jobseeker. The phony British accent that Sally-Anne had advised May to adopt worked brilliantly—its natural authority was so intimidating that she was granted entry, no questions asked. The butler could see she had arrived early, and there was no way he was going to ask someone like her to wait in the foyer. He led May straight up to a small study on the second floor . . . all just as Sally-Anne had predicted.

  The man contritely offered May a seat, assuring her that Mr. Stanfield’s secretary had only stepped out for a moment and would be back shortly. He asked if May would like a glass of water, but she politely declined. The butler gracefully took his leave, and May found herself alone in the little study, just next door to Miss Verdier’s office.

  The study was furnished with a pedestal table and two velvet armchairs that perfectly matched the plush curtains. An Aubusson rug covered the dark oak floors, and a small crystal chandelier hung above the wood-paneled walls.

  May checked the timing. Meeting the butler, climbing the stairs, and walking the long corridor to the study . . . ten minutes in all. Another thirty-five minutes before the sex-obsessed secretary came back. Normally, the thought of her at that massage parlor downtown would have cracked May up, like it had when Sally-Anne first described Miss Verdier’s lunch-break escapades. But now that May was about to enter the woman’s office and commit an actual crime, the whole thing felt a lot less amusing. Getting caught in the act by Miss Verdier was not an option. May had to be long gone by the time she returned. If the police were called, it wouldn’t take long for them to connect the dots, and the charge would be far more serious than simple trespassing . . .

  Don’t think like that, not now. May’s throat was dry. She was really wishing she had taken that glass of water, but it was too late now. She went through the steps in her head: Rise. Walk to the connecting door. Turn the handle and slip inside undetected.

  She did exactly that, and was amazed by her own nerve. She felt like she was a robot programmed for this one specific task.

  Once inside, she closed the door softly behind her. May knew that even the slightest noise would give her away. There was a good chance that the master of the house was sitting in the adjoining room at that very moment, fully aware that his assistant would not be at her desk at this time of day.

  May did a full scan of her surroundings, stunned by the modern aesthetic of the room, in sharp contrast to everything else she’d seen inside the manor. A reproduction of a Miró painting graced the wall across from an elegant pale wooden desk. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t a reproduction at all. No time to dwell on it. She softly eased the chair back from the desk and crouched in front of the desk drawers, then slipped the lockpick out of her pocket and carefully unwrapped it.

  May had practiced picking the lock on an identical set of drawers over a hundred times, honing the skill so that there would be no trace of her intrusion. Sally-Anne’s locksmith friend had explained to them that it was a Yale tumbler lock and helped them find the right tool for the job straightaway: a steep-angled pick with a half-diamond tip.

  With a wide angle at the end and a narrow base, the pick was as easy to insert as it was to remove. May remembered her lessons: avoid scratching the inside, or else risk leaving behind telltale iron scrapings that could block the mechanism and serve as proof of the forced entry. Hold the handle horizontal
ly with a firm grip opposite the barrel and slowly insert the hook. Feel for the pins and apply measured pressure to each, lifting them without causing the least bit of damage. When she felt the first pin reach the precise point, May slowly advanced the tip of the hook to lift the second, then moved on to the third. She held her breath and slowly turned the lock rotor until she at last felt a sweet release. Her newly acquired skills paid off: the lock on the drawer yielded.

  May would still have to complete the final step, closing the lock and removing the pick, both of which required great precision and a delicate touch. Careful to avoid nudging the tool, she slid the drawer open and explored its contents.

  Eyeglasses, face powder, a hairbrush, lipstick, a bottle of hand cream . . . The list, where was the goddamn list? Jackpot: a stack of papers. May slid out the stack and began leafing through it, studying each sheet in turn. At last, she found it. Her pulse quickened as she thought about all she was risking just to add two names to a guest list.

  “Stay cool, May,” she whispered to herself. “Stay cool. You’re almost there.”

  May took a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Another fifteen minutes in the safety zone. Unless . . . Miss Verdier somehow happened to get off quicker today.

  Don’t think like that. She wouldn’t go all that way just to be stingy with herself and stop at foreplay. After all, if she were pressed for time, she would have skipped the masseur and done the job herself, wouldn’t she?

  May looked at the typewriter on the desk, a classic Underwood. She slipped the guest list between the roller and the paper rest and turned the platen knob. The paper disappeared beneath the roller and reemerged on the other side.

  All that was left was to type out two additions to the list, one false name for Sally-Anne and one for May herself, as well as the PO box they had opened the week before at the main post office as contact information. The guest list would undoubtedly come under heavy scrutiny after the crime took place as the police sought out the guilty parties. And when they did, the search would yield nothing but a pair of fake names and an untraceable PO box. May typed in the first name with the utmost care, using a gentle touch on the keys to stifle the rattling of the type hammers against the ribbon. She barely breathed as she pulled the carriage return lever with the same delicate care, trying as hard as she could to avoid even the slightest jingle of the bell as the paper slid up to the next line. It jingled anyway. May’s heart nearly stopped.