Mood Indigo

by Ed Ifkovic

  I started to upbraid him—Lord, echoes of some anonymous voice on the Zenith singing that redundant “Brother, can you spare a dime?”— but thought better of it. When he sank back into the chair, drawing his knees up to his chest like a little boy, I asked him, “Do you know what happened?”

  He spoke to Noel. “I called you the first thing. From the police station. They let me. I couldn’t call my mother. So early…She’d—you know Lady Maud.”

  “So you called me.” Noel seemed pleased.

  “And me?” I asked. Not pleased.

  “I carry your numbers in my wallet. Of course. But I hung up the phone, Edna. Too early. I regretted it—to wake you. I didn’t want to scare you.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I feared it was the end of the world.”

  “You got that right,” his voice thundered.

  Darkness had fallen now, so I switched on lamps, my room suffused in lemon-yellow and flame red. His face in shadows, he scratched his head. “I didn’t know who to call.”

  Impatient with his scattered answers, I probed, “What did the police say to you?”

  Bluntly, lips quivering, “They asked me if I killed her. They—they pushed me into a chair. No one has ever pushed me.”

  That surprised me. “They came for you in the middle of the night?”

  He nodded. “Yes, they woke me up at the Stanhope. How did they know I stayed there? I wondered about that. Maybe a servant at Lady Maud’s told them. I don’t know. I told them that I’d been at the automat at midnight, with Corey and—that girl Kitty. A little tipsy, all of us. You saw us. We were having a good time. We walked into the automat and sat there laughing like fools. Kitty bought a piece of pie for ten cents. Lemon meringue. I saw that. I had coffee. Corey…”

  I interrupted. “But something happened.”

  He nodded meekly. “Yeah, my fault. Again.” He rubbed his chin absently. “I’m such an ass.”

  “That may be true, Dougie, but what does that have to do with anything?” Noel wasn’t happy.

  “We were laughing like little kids. I loved it. I really was. You know, I never had friends to—to go to the automat with. To places no one thinks of—even like miniature golf. That kind of thing. There were lots of theatergoers there, whooping it up, some real drunk. I even spotted Buzzy Collins at a table with some friends. He caught my eye but turned away. Corey said, ‘Look who’s here. The ubiquitous Aleck Woollcott of the society crowd.’ We laughed because Buzzy is everywhere—a leech, that man. But when I looked back a few minutes later, he was gone. Vanished.”

  “He never said anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not important, really. But him being there seemed to make Belinda nervous, fidgeting. Somehow, I don’t know how I always do it, we got into a little verbal spat, the way we always do—did.” He hesitated on the word, a sob escaping his throat. For a moment he sat still, his head dipped into his lap.

  “And then what happened?”

  He stared into my face, hang dog. “I accused her of being unfaithful.” He spat out his words. “I know, I know, I can’t control myself. Around her. Around Belinda. I am always afraid…”

  “Lord, you nail your own coffin,” Noel said abruptly.

  Dougie squirmed. “Horrible words, Noel.”

  “I imagine Belinda wasn’t happy,” I went on.

  “She’d been happy. Laughing. Free and easy. Then, like a switch turned off, she changed. I mean, she suddenly looked—tired. Like I’d drained every ounce of life from her. Pale. She had nothing left to give me. I mean—she withered in there in front of me. When I saw that, I apologized over and over, but she went away from the table to the powder room.”

  “What about Corey and Kitty?” I asked.

  For a moment he stared off into space. “When Belinda was gone, Corey whispered to me that I was a fool. I guess Belinda had told Kitty—who told Corey who then told me—that she was thinking of leaving me. That news shocked me, stunned me, frankly. When Belinda returned to the table, I cursed at her. My God, she looked so—tired of me. Then she said to leave her alone. All of us. Go on. Get out. She started to cry. In the goddamn automat, sitting at a table and burying her face in her arms. I didn’t know what to do. Kitty said—okay, leave her alone. That’s what she wants.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So we left.” Another sob. “Left her alone so someone could kill her.”

  Restless, moving around my rooms, I switched on the lights that flooded the terrace. A wasteland out there—frozen snow, icicles off the balustrade. Too many shadows in the rooms as the sun set and the sky darkened. I had trouble looking in Dougie’s face—such weakness there, emptiness. I fought a horrible image: a rag doll stuffed with straw. Pretty buttons and silk raiment, but—vacuity.

  Noel sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, and he followed my languid movements. I could read his mind—You’re thinking Dougie is hiding something. True, Edna dear? The way your body stiffens when you walk by him, looking down on his folded-in body, a callow soul slinking from accusation.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” I said aloud.

  Noel’s voice rose. “Surely, you believe Dougie, Edna.”

  I offered a sickly smile, then decided to stop smiling. “Dougie, fill in the pieces. Please.”

  “I told you—we left her.” He hesitated. “But I went back.”

  I sucked in my breath. “And?”

  Again, the empty eyes, unfocused. “We walked down the block, crossed the street. On the sidewalk, Corey and Kitty bickered. I said we shouldn’t leave Belinda alone in there. It’s late, it’s—well, late. Kitty wanted to call a taxi, anxious to get home. She was cold, she said. She was angry that we’d made fools of ourselves in the automat, of all places. She wanted to go to bed. Corey wanted to walk. Then I noticed I’d left my silk scarf inside, and I said I was going back for it.” He smiled thinly. “An excuse, really. I decided I’d talk to Belinda. Take her home.”

  A puzzled look on Noel’s face. “So you went back alone?”

  Dougie stammered, “I know, I know. The police said the same thing—alone? You?” he stressed, his voice tinny. “But I did. I left Corey and Kitty and went back.”

  “For the scarf?”

  Dougie read the doubt in my question. His eyes glazed over. “What else could I do? It wasn’t there. Neither was Belinda. Gone.”

  Noel’s voice was scarcely audible. “What did you do?”

  He gave a helpless shrug. “Well, you know, I figured she left—got a taxi. I dunno. What else? She wasn’t there. So I left.”

  “No scarf?”

  “It wasn’t there. But I swear I left it there.”

  “And then?” prompted Noel, who’d stood up, his back to the piano. Inadvertently, his hand struck some keys. A tremendous crescendo exploded, and he jumped. He approached Dougie and touched his shoulder. “This does not look good, Dougie.”

  Dougie sighed. “God, don’t I know it. I rushed back outside, ran down the block. Kitty was gone. I thought I saw Corey down a block or two, but I was too tired to catch up. So I hailed a cab.” He threw his hands into the air. “And home to bed. A few hours later the doorman buzzes my room. ‘The cops are here.’ A line no one wants to hear. I’m not a common criminal, some homeless beggar stealing from the…grocery.” His voice trailed off.

  “And what did the cops tell you?”

  He seemed not to be listening to me. “You know, I was driving Belinda away, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’d step outside myself and say—this isn’t good. Be a man. Shut the hell up. You’re acting like a baby. No girl wants a jackass who’s so…”

  “Untrusting,” I added when he lapsed into silence.

  “Christ, love made me do foolish things.”

  Noel was impatient. “I still don’t know what happened to Belinda, Dougie. The papers had so little information. Too earl
y, the presses. But you must know something, right? She was strangled, but in there? In the automat? How is that possible? All those people there. You didn’t see her?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “I told you. When I went back in, she wasn’t there. I guess she was there, though, in the back hallway. I guess one of the kitchen staff felt the cold air, a draft, figured someone left the door to the outside open—the one at the end of the hallway. Wind through the kitchen doors. When she looked, yes, the back door to the alleyway was wide open. Unlocked. Open. And there on the floor was Belinda, strangled.” He buried his face in his chest. “Dead. Christ Almighty. Dead. Belinda.”

  “No one saw?” I asked.

  He banged his fist into his palm. “I don’t know. That’s all the cops said. At that point I finally called my mother, I had to, waking her up, and then there was a lawyer slinking into the precinct, briefcase and bowler hat, getting them to leave me alone, pushing me into a cab and telling me to shut my mouth.”

  “But if you have nothing to hide,” I began.

  “Exactly.” Dougie’s voice rang out. “That’s what I told the lawyer. I didn’t do it. I have nothing to hide. I—I loved her.”

  Noel was irritated. “Stop saying that, Dougie. You’re not convincing anyone.” Exasperated, he wagged a finger at Dougie. “People in love kill all the time. Read some Shakespeare, for God’s sake.” He paused. “I don’t know—some verbose and pessimistic American writer. Dreiser, maybe. People drown their lovers in his books.”

  Dougie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” Noel looked out the window at the black nighttime sky, a faint hint of an unseen moon.

  Dougie pleaded, “I’m being honest.”

  Noel said, “It’s discouraging how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit.”

  Dougie’s face showed he didn’t like the remark. “You have to believe me, Noel.”

  I walked to a bookcase, idly ran my fingers across the bindings—the touch of old leather, smooth, comforting. I was thinking of something. “I sense there’s another piece to the puzzle you’re not sharing, Dougie. Am I right?”

  He gave a phony laugh. “Smart lady, dear Edna. There is.”

  Noel actually laughed out loud and pointed at me. “They’d have burned you as a witch in another century.”

  “This lady’s not for burning. Frankly. Some men say smart women are God’s Saturday night mistake. Or an accident of fuzzy genetics.”

  Dougie breathed in loudly. “Yes, Edna, yes.” A long pause. “Belinda was strangled with a white scarf. The police found it around her neck.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said, my temples pounding.

  “Yours?” asked Noel.

  “My scarves are all monogrammed. DM.” He barely got the words out. “It was my scarf. But I insist…”

  I held up my hand. “None of this is good, Dougie.”

  He flared up. “You think I don’t know this? That’s why I need your help, both of you.”

  “How?” Noel asked.

  “Someone has to believe in me. To talk to people. My friends—who believe me. You’re both famous. Famous counts for something in this town. People aren’t gonna believe me. The Daily News. The Mirror. Everyone hates the rich. I can’t help being rich.”

  My fingers brushed the leather-bound books. I turned away, unhappy. “Dougie…” I stopped.

  “Help me.”

  He didn’t care for the look in my face. He jumped up, sputtered some nonsense, and headed to the foyer where he grabbed his overcoat, threw it over his shoulders. “I need air. I can’t breathe in here. We’re too far up in the sky, Edna. How can you live like this? There’s no air.”

  He closed the door quietly.

  Noel and I stared at each other.

  Finally Noel leaned toward me. “Are we gonna help him, Edna?”

  “I don’t know what to believe, Noel. I just don’t.”

  “None of this looks good.” He inserted a cigarette into his holder, struck a match, but then decided against it. He sat back and stared at me, his face pale.

  I waited a long time, my eyes staring out into the dark sky. Down in the street blasted a run of blaring horns. Taxis screeched their brakes. High up in the sky, I rarely heard the clatter and hum of the frantic streets below. Down there—murder.

  I tried to catch Noel’s eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. “They also burn murderers in this century,” I said.

  Noel buried his head in his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Corey Boynton was already sitting at a table at Schrafft’s when I arrived. As I sat down, he watched me over the rim of his coffee cup, his eyes wary. “I don’t know why I’m here.” He waved a free hand at me. “What I should say is—What are you doing here?”

  I laughed. “A better question, really.”

  “How so?”

  “Yes, I’d rather be back at my warm apartment pecking out a short story on my Remington.”

  “If I had the money, I’d be at our winter home in Boca Raton.”

  “No money?” I arched my eyebrows. “Stranded in the city during a brutal winter? I’m baffled. I thought the Boyntons were rich folk.”

  He twisted his mouth. “Doubtless you’ve heard of the Crash, Miss Ferber. My parents are counting pennies these days.” He laughed cynically. “Luckily, there are piles of pennies left, so I’m told, but my father prefers bootleg gin mills to his only son working on a creamy tan on a beach, an illegal mint julep at the ready.”

  I drew in my cheeks. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah, right.” He glared at me. “This place is for ladies who lunch. Look around, Miss Ferber. Women in mink hats. Women getting ready for a matinee—or a game of bridge.” His hand swept across the room, took in the tables of chatting women.

  “Yes,” I said quietly, “we get our strength from numbers.”

  “And where do men get their strength?”

  “They’re still puzzled over that conundrum.”

  “I’ve never been in a Schrafft’s.”

  “A treat for you then. I like their ice cream sundaes.”

  “I’m very careful where I show up.”

  That line confused me, but I said nothing. We were hardly settled into a den of iniquity. Not with a robust cheesecake staring me in the face.

  A young woman walked by and smiled at him. He sat back, ran his palm over his slicked-back hair and smoothed a collar that needed no such attention. “People are looking at me.”

  “You’re a good-looking young man.”

  He beamed. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the table, tired of the banter. “This murder, Miss Ferber. Awful. I’ve talked to the police already. I have nothing to say.”

  He snapped his fingers and a waitress rushed over. He pointed to his empty cup.

  I sat back, signaled the waitress for a coffee. “With whipped cream, not milk.”

  Corey’s eyes flashed, a look that said, You eccentric meddler.

  I stared into his face, something that bothered him. A sidelong glance at me, then a quick look toward the doorway. He was nervous.

  “Dougie implored Noel and me to help him,” I told him. “What that means I’m not certain, other than to ask questions. He insists the police will crucify him, given his running in and out of the automat, his decorative scarf found wound around sad Belinda’s neck, his…” I stopped. Corey was frowning at me. “What?”

  “You’re doing the police department’s job?”

  “Reluctantly, I agreed last night to talk to folks. You, in particular, and Kitty.”

  He fidgeted in his seat. “She’s late.” He glanced toward the door. “She’s always late. Hey, she saw what I saw, you know. What’s more t
o be said?” He interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table.

  “She may have a different perspective. After all…”

  He spoke over my words. “I doubt that. She’s not overly clever.” He dipped his head. “Don’t tell her I said that. So…you’re attempting to talk to folks.”

  “Yes, folks.”

  “And I’m folks?”

  “You’re at the top of the list.”

  He started, rattling his coffee cup. “You’re joking.”

  I was making him uncomfortable. “You were there, Corey. At the automat. You’re a witness to what came before. If we’re to help Dougie, every little detail might matter. Tell me what you remember.”

  He considered what to say, running his tongue over his lower lip, but always keeping his eyes on me. “I missed the actual murder.”

  “That’s a glib remark,” I said sharply.

  He didn’t seem penitent. “But factual, I’m afraid.” He took a sip of coffee and glanced around the restaurant. He nodded at someone sitting at the soda counter but immediately looked perplexed. “God, I thought I recognized—no matter. To answer your question—nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I mean, Dougie and Belinda squabbled, but then they did that a lot. I thought it part of the charm of their love affair. Really. They seemed to enjoy it so much.” He hesitated. “No, that’s not true. Maybe Dougie did. Belinda seemed resigned—no, that’s the wrong word. She seemed—weary.”

  The waiter placed coffee in front of me, and Corey watched me sample the whipped cream with my fingertip.

  “Yet you all left Belinda alone at the automat. I still can’t understand that, especially if she was troubled.”

  A clipped voice. “What choice did we have? She insisted. ‘Out—get out. All of you.’ Very melodramatic. Very Garboesque, I thought. A temperamental star now. The first-rate songstress and third-rate actress playing a part.”

  “Did Dougie protest?”

  “Strangely, no. To tell you the truth, she had a fury I’d not seen before. Almost genuine.”