Mortal Sins

by Anna Porter

  She was reading, leaning back in her chair, her boots on the desk, when Judith arrived behind Margaret Stanley’s solid form. “The Pomerol will have to wait till next time,” Marsha greeted her cheerfully. “You and Arthur must have established a lasting friendship... I expected you over two hours ago.”

  Did she imagine the note of wariness in Marsha’s tone? There hadn’t been any tension between them since they were young, and then that was the price you paid for getting to know each other. Each had carried her own baggage of mistrust and childhood wounds into the friendship; each had had to test the other’s dependability and loyalty till they were sure.

  “I think it was a useful interview,” Judith said. “I’ve got at least three more suspects, should it turn out Eva Zimmerman is right, and I’ve learned a mass of improbable bits and pieces about Zimmerman himself.” She watched Marsha reshuffle her papers, place them gingerly on the desk, brush the flyaway hair from her face. There was a seriousness about her, an air of concentration, as though she was listening, but not to what Judith said—more to the resonance in her voice. When she came around from behind her desk, she wasn’t looking directly at Judith.

  “I could mix you a nice martini,” Marsha said. “Stirred, not shaken, as the great secret agent used to say. I still have a supply of olives from your last visit.” She shut the door, drew the curtain on the corridor side, and set about making the martinis. “How did you like him?” she asked.

  “Not much,” Judith said. “He’s spiteful and lazy—envious, I think. Not a bad actor, though; on first acquaintance it’s difficult to tell when he is acting. He’s learned to cover his tracks admirably.” Ordinarily she would have waited to see what Marsha might say. But today she had a plane to catch. “Unlike you, for example,” she added.

  “Oh,” Marsha said nervously, her back still turned as she busied herself with the gin and ice.

  “What is it?” Judith asked patiently. “What haven’t you told me about you and Arthur?”

  “What did the little snake say?” Marsha demanded angrily.

  “Not a helluva lot. He implied you’d want to tell me yourself. After all, he said, we’re supposed to be friends. Aren’t we?” Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice.

  “Shit,” Marsha stated emphatically. “Shit. Judith, I had really hoped I wouldn’t have to... Damn it all, there are some things I do I’m not proud of and I don’t see why...” She abandoned the gin and ice and sat next to Judith on the couch where she could see her favorite skyscrapers. “It doesn’t have anything to do with your story. Otherwise I would have told you in the beginning. Even now I don’t want to talk about it...but I guess you’re entitled to know.”

  She took a deep breath. “The truth is, I fucked Paul Zimmerman,” she announced. “Not one of the highlights of either of our lives, I might add.” She glanced over at Judith to see what her reaction was. When she saw nothing but surprise, she continued. “It was last summer. Mother organized one of her Sunday brunches for the rich and famous and, having successfully begged off all of her social occasions for over a year, I went. For my sins. Which, as I just said, multiplied that day. To make the event endurable I had some Bloody Marys on arrival and a lot of Mother’s cider and junk punch. Then wine, I think. The afternoon became somewhat hazy, though I do recall I was trying to keep silent through the meal in case I stumbled over my words.

  “Then, while they served coffee and brandy, I wandered down to the summerhouse on my own. I had taken my shoes off so as to navigate with some certainty of staying on the path. I was worried about falling into Mother’s famous rosebushes, in full bloom still, and, as you might expect, excessively thorny. Paul was already in the summerhouse, I think. We didn’t talk much. It was a hot, drowsy day, with lots of buzzing and chirping outside, you know, real birds and bees...” She chuckled.

  “I didn’t even take my dress off. He had his pants around his ankles. We were lying on the stone floor, and that was the best part of it, or at least the only memorable part. The cold stone floor felt very pleasant against my back. At some point while we were thus entangled, Arthur paid us a visit. I didn’t hear him come in; there’s one of those swing mesh doors on the summerhouse, it’s very quiet. What I remember is what he said. ‘Never tire of it, do you, Dad,’ he said. In that falsetto voice of his. Then he wished me good day and left. I saw his face over Paul’s shoulder. It registered total disgust.”

  Judith had gone to get the martinis. She handed one to Marsha. “What happened next?”

  “Not a whole lot,” Marsha said, taking a drink. “We didn’t go on with it, if that’s what you mean. I think Arthur’s appearance sort of put us off our stride. Paul told me he hated the son-of-a-bitch. Not the mild dislike some of our parents feel for us, but real hate. And it wasn’t said in anger—he didn’t mind being found by Arthur; not half as much as I did. It was undiluted loathing.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “Yes. He told me Arthur was too much like himself as a child.”

  “That’s all?”

  “All I remember,” Marsha said. “Next day Paul sent me flowers.”

  “No wonder he was prepared to let me interview him on your recommendation,” Judith said, half joking, half angry that Marsha hadn’t told her sooner what her credentials were.

  Twenty-Two

  THERE WAS NO EXCUSE for what he was doing. Deidre Thomas was much too eager, much too expectant for David to pass off this invitation as a casual come-on in the line of duty. Saturday night was her special time, and he had no business building up her hopes. He wasn’t going to deliver. He had more than his hands full trying to cope with Judith.

  Deidre had designed herself for the evening. She wore a black mink coat, a form-fitting baby blue velvet dress and jacket, long natural beads, and chunky gold earrings with large diamond studs. His first thought on seeing her in the lobby of her $2,000-a-month, minimum, apartment building was that Paul Zimmerman had been even more generous than she had admitted. His second thought was: he had no excuse for letting her believe he was interested in her. She was overdressed for the movies, hence his third thought: she’d be expecting him to take her to dinner, as well.

  He had had an exhausting day, flying to New York and back, followed by a nasty confrontation with the Chief over having no one to charge in either the Singer murder or the fortune-teller’s. Then there had been a messy exchange with Giannini over the young policeman’s suggestion that they should forget about the paint-can-thrower at Judith’s house—there had been no serious harm done, and they were busy on the Cielo case. He had planned to rest at the movies, but Deidre had picked Crocodile Dundee. It’s hard to sleep with a theaterful of people guffawing in your ears. He bought her a family-size bucket of popcorn and a large Coke, hoping she’d have enough to eat to forget about dinner, but when the movie was over, she announced she’d been lucky to get reservations for two at Dunkelman’s. Amazing, on a Saturday night. It had been Paul’s favorite restaurant, and she had used his name to get in.

  Gnawed by guilt for building up her expectations in the first place, David didn’t argue. In the restaurant she removed her astonishingly high-heeled black boots and put on some equally high-heeled silver shoes she’d brought with her in an elegant black bag. “A woman has to be prepared for all eventualities,” she explained with a wink. The bag also harbored a chiffon nightgown, toothbrush, face cream, and a brush.

  “Why the nightgown?” he asked, for something to say.

  “Because it’s the most beautiful thing I have,” she told him, leaning closer over the table. Fortunately, the tables were lit by candles. David was sure most women’s faces benefited from candlelight, but over 50 it was a godsend. The warm glow toned down the rouge on her cheeks and cast the loose pouches under her eyes into shadow.

  He ordered some Italian wine she agreed would be adequate (but no more...) and grilled fish. She had a dozen oysters; she said they were good for the libido. She talked about her
ex-husband and dancing lessons she’d taken last fall to get her ready for the samba and the Brazilian Carnival she had planned to attend with Paul. He had business interests in Brazil. She was conversationally curious about who had killed whom in Toronto this past year, and what were the most unpredictable murdering types.

  She had with her Zimmerman’s “bring forward” file and the “confidential” file he had kept under Z for Zimmerman, but she didn’t think this was the right time and place to look them over. Perhaps they could go back to his place after dinner so he could read them at his leisure.

  He lied that his apartment was being repainted.

  She held his arm in the car and invited him to her place for coffee, brandy, and a read through the files. “Not much there, but I can’t leave them with you,” she told him. “Philip Masters has asked me to deliver all the documents to him by the end of the day tomorrow, and there’d be hell to pay if he found out I’ve given you some.”

  Back at the apartment she seated him in a reclining armchair by the gas fireplace and poured him some sweet liqueur that made his teeth sweat. It was the kind of armchair one sees advertised on television, complete with movable parts, footstool, headrest, even a games-table attachment, where she put Zimmerman’s files. She turned on the blue gaslight under the artificial log in the fireplace and sat in front of it on a goatskin rug.

  “Where did he keep these?” David asked.

  “In his office. Philip Masters has already collected all the Ps for ‘personal.’ But we didn’t have any secrets there. Or here.”

  She was right, there wasn’t much in the files anyone would have considered confidential. In the Z file were his own newspaper clippings, marked in thick yellow felt pen where he thought the comments were especially flattering. It seemed he had liked the bit about bestriding the universe like a Colossus. The earliest clipping was from the Montreal Gazette, dated May 1950, a small photograph of a storefront. Underneath, he had written in block letters: THE FIRST.

  In “bring forward” there really were lists of presents for Brenda and Meredith. Each gift was marked with the appropriate date, and birthday, Hanukkah, or anniversary. Brenda’s gifts were mostly jewelry but included such trifles as a Morgan, a Palomino, and a Lazer. There were many letters thanking him for donations and contributions.

  There were two letters from Arthur Zimmerman. The first was dated January 2. It thanked Paul for his gracious recent offer to amend the disposition of the “spoils,” but suggested something more “immediately equitable” might be worked out in light of the financial needs of Arthur’s distinctive “lifestyle.”

  David hated the word “lifestyle” for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that he didn’t think policemen could afford one.

  The second letter, dated January 29, was as brief as the first: “I acknowledge receipt of your little package,” it read. “It went a long way to relieve our hardship through the month of January. But February is nigh upon us, and Jeremy and I think this may be the ideal month for a vacation in Jamaica. Costs, alas, are running amok on that island, as everywhere else. I am concerned I might even have to approach Brenda for assistance to see us through.”

  It was signed “Respectfully submitted, Arthur.”

  “Do you know what was in the files Philip Masters took?” David asked.

  “Financial records, mostly. Banking. Checks. Statements. Do you want to see some of them?”

  “Yes,” David said. “The canceled checks. Personal bank records. Can you borrow them?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Deidre said, running her fingers up David’s legs inside his gray pants, all the way up to his thighs.

  “Oh no,” David sighed with silent resignation.

  Twenty-Three

  SHE HAD NEVER been inside the Meurice. She had walked by it a number of touristy times, on the way to the Tuileries from the Place Vendôme, past the most famous jewelry shops in the world, along the Rue de Rivoli where only rich dogs dare piss on the sidewalk. She had even stopped once to sneak a look at the yellow marble floors, the soft gold lights behind the glass doors. She had wondered if she could afford one drink in one of the oldest and most opulent hotels in Europe, but had never dared venture into the Copper Bar. Today she was ready for the grand entrance.

  It had been an exhausting flight, surrounded by late-night revelers on the way to an IBM sales executives’ meeting in Paris and a family with three small children returning home to Turkey after a vacation with distant cousins in Newark. Judging by the uninterrupted wailing of the children, Judith thought the cousins might be offering eloquent prayers to their God, thankful to be rid of them.

  It was still dark when they landed, but by the time the semi-striking airport staff had slowly removed the luggage, it was daylight. Paris was shrouded in cold mist. There was a blue-white crispness to the slate-colored roofs, an echoing winter coldness to the wide avenues. The cab driver was stiffly polite and made no protestations about hefting Judith’s overnight bag from the seat. It was distinctly not the tourist season. He was not in the mood for insulting foreigners.

  The man at the reception desk, all black uniform and white gloves, had her reservation card ready. “Madame Zimmerman,” he said, “has been expecting you, Mademoiselle. So difficult at Orly this morning with the strikes.” His eyes turned heaven-ward. The French don’t like disorder, even when it’s their own.

  “I’ll inform Monsieur Ligeti you’re here. Pierre will take your bag to your room. Third floor. I think you’ll like the view, it’s toward the Louvre. We do hope you will have a pleasant visit.” He was filling out her arrival form, smiling uninterrupted. “Only one night? That is right?” Incredulous.

  “I’m afraid so.” She too found the idea of being here for one night utterly preposterous. It had been two years since she’d been in Paris last. A stiflingly hot mid-July, with Anne and Jimmy in the Hôtel Lindbergh in the heart of the Halles district, a short walk from Île de la Cité, Notre-Dame, and, on the other bank of the river, St-Germain-des-Prés. They had shared a small airless room too close to the noise on Rue Bonaparte, but it was the best holiday she had ever had. She had loved showing them Paris.

  Pierre—was his name really Pierre?—wore a brilliant red tunic with three rows of brass buttons and a round fezlike cap that sat jauntily tilted forward on his head. He had the same smile as the man behind the front desk.

  “Monsieur Ligeti will meet you in the Quatre Saisons Salon when you are ready. He will show you to Madame Zimmerman’s suite.”

  Judith’s room was long and narrow, with a queen-size bed and tempting thick towels. She showered and changed into her low-key blue woolen skirt, the least crumpled of all her best clothes in the suitcase, layered her face with makeup base, brushed her hair over her shoulder, and left in search of the Quatre Saisons.

  It was a chilling blue and orange surprise on the ground floor, off the sumptuous passage toward the lobby. The Four Seasons themselves appeared as baroque stone figures with heavy half-draped bodies, Romanesque furled hair, and symbolic carry-on knickknacks, like a sheaf of wheat and a basket of flowers. They stood in ten-foot-tall wall niches backlit in orange, with massive stone pillars on either side of them. In the middle of the salon there was a four-sided couch formation, blue with orange outlines, its center occupied by a wild outcrop of green ferns that reached for the gold ceiling, the blue columns at its corners sporting a purple-based table lamp each. Seemingly random sets of delicate round tables and backless orange chairs stood around the circumference. The overall effect was so uninviting that she didn’t consider sitting down anywhere.

  The room was empty. She wandered about energetically to restore circulation to her still-sleeping body. Still no one came. She took to hopping from one orange square of the carpet to the next, avoiding the black lines.

  “I do so hope you are Judith,” said a robust little man who had materialized in the doorway. He wore a chocolate brown zip-up jogging suit, white Adidas shoes, and a towel
around his neck. His face was tanned and shiny, thin gray eyebrows, jutting jawline, deep laugh-wrinkles radiating outward from his lips. His hair was receding, combed over in wet strands to cover the bald patch. She guessed he was around 50, possibly more. “It’s been much too quiet around here these past few days. Not enough gaiety, I told Eva, not enough variety. What is the use of living in Paris if we can’t catch the lightness of spirit? You are Judith Hayes, aren’t you?” He ran across the expanse of orange and blue to grab her by the hand when she agreed she was herself. “You were doing very well there with your jumping, though you did touch the black line with the heel a teeny bit when you last landed, and I’m sure that’s against the rules.” He squeezed her hand in a warm, damp handshake. “ ‘Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.’ Do please excuse my watching, I do love games.” He had a deep resonant voice, a faint foreign accent with British overtones. There was an infectious enthusiasm about him she found immediately attractive.

  “You must be Mr. Ligeti.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” impatiently. “You’ve heard about me, have you? Do come, no sense wasting time down here when Herself is waiting. Ah, but it is good of you to come,” he prattled on, leading her toward the elevators. “I had my doubts, I must confess, always have had about journalists. They don’t go out of their way nowadays like they used to for a good story. It’s all that electronic stuff, makes them lazy. All they want to do is entertain, no effort to dig below the surface, short attention spans. Like their audience.” He chortled happily as he ushered her off the elevator at the top floor. “We were just thrilled when your telegram arrived. Thrilled.” He knocked on the double doors in the alcove they had reached, waited a moment, then opened the door with his key.

  Immediately they were assaulted by the aggressively loud sounds of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony as it wound toward the entry of the chorus.

  The room was bathed in soft gold light. “Eva!” he shouted. “Eva. She’s here.” He turned apologetically to Judith. “She does like her Beethoven loud,” he said. “Maybe in deference to a man who kept composing after he’d gone deaf, she’s trying to make us both deaf. As well as blind.”