Who Killed Blanche DuBois?
Page 4
Warmest Regards,
Meredith Lawrence
P.S. I don’t know how long I shall stay—that will depend in part upon you, of course. I am buying a one-way ticket.
P.P.S. Don’t try to call me and change my mind—you can’t anyway, as my father’s phone number is unlisted. (My stepmother is afraid of obscene calls from lunatics, although to my mind anyone who would make an obscene call to her is barking up the wrong tree.)
P.P.P.S. I will be wearing a red carnation.
Claire put down the letter and looked out the window. A strong wind whipped the branches of the tree in front of her apartment, causing them to strike the window. Rat-a-tat-tat. The window rattled with each gust, and Claire could hear the faint, high-pitched howl of the approaching gale.
Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir geh’n?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön . . .
An egotistical thirteen-year-old prodigy who quoted Goethe was arriving by train tomorrow morning and there was nothing Claire could do about it.
Claire looked at her watch, then picked up the phone and dialed the number of her police precinct. It rang twice, then she hung up suddenly. Maybe it would be best to meet the girl first and see how persuadable she was before involving the police. Maybe she wouldn’t even show up; maybe the whole thing was an elaborate hoax.
Claire leaned back in the leather chair. Ralph entered the room, jumped up onto her lap, and began licking his whiskers. Claire frowned. Who did this girl think she was, Snow White? Outside the storm gathered in fury. The tapping of the tree branches was accompanied now by a pelting rain which drove at the window in sheets. Ralph looked up with a panicky expression and then jumped off Claire’s lap and bounded out of the room, headed for the bedroom closet, his favorite hiding place.
“Coward!” Claire called after him, but he was gone already, to curl up between the mohair sweaters and wool jackets, white cat hairs thickening the dark closet air.
Claire folded Meredith’s letter and laid it on the coffee table. She picked up the remote control and switched on the television. The Honeymooners was on, the episode in which Ralph appears on The $99,000 Answer, having learned everything about his category—popular songs—except for “Swanee River,” which Norton keeps playing over and over again on the piano. When Claire tuned in, Ralph had just missed his big chance and was being pulled offstage by a young woman dressed like Barbie at a debutante ball. Ralph was sputtering and sweating, refusing to believe he had just blown his big chance. Comedy was so cruel, Claire thought. Poor Ralph—what was the moral of this episode, leave no stone unturned? Don’t ignore what’s staring you in the face? Claire switched off the television and went into the bedroom. When she turned on the closet light, Ralph looked up at her with a stricken expression. White cat hairs floated all around, gently airborne. Claire laughed, remembering something Marshall Bassett once said: “Who in their right mind gets a white cat?” Ralph looked at her reproachfully.
Claire slept restlessly that night, and dreamed she was being chased through deserted city streets by Meredith’s stepmother, who resembled Margaret Hamilton and kept shouting “I’ll get you, my pretty—and your mangy little cat, too!”
Claire awoke shivering at eight-thirty, the alarm clock bleating in her ear. The rain had stopped during the night, but the temperature had dropped drastically and the parquet floor was like ice under her bare feet. She pulled on a turtleneck sweater and wool socks, gulped down half a cup of tea, and dashed out to meet Meredith’s train. When Ralph heard the bolt on the front door, he sauntered into the living room, but he arrived just in time to see the door shut in his face.
At Penn Station, Claire peered up at the arrivals board. The 9:45 train from Hartford was on the board but the track number was blank. Finally the sign clicked over to read TRACK 17, and Claire’s heart jumped a little. She maneuvered herself into the line of people headed down the stairs, most of them passengers. Afraid of missing Meredith on the platform, she pulled away from the pressing throng as it began to descend the stairway to Track 17. After a few minutes several arriving passengers began straggling up the same staircase. Claire searched them anxiously. Maybe Meredith had been discovered by her parents, or better yet, given up her mad plan.
Behind a fat man in a tan raincoat, struggling with an impossibly big, battered suitcase, was a tall, thin, red-haired girl. In the lapel of her winter coat drooped a sad-looking red carnation. Claire stepped forward.
“Meredith?”
The girl smiled broadly and let the suitcase drop with a thud. She extended her hand, and when Claire offered hers in return she shook it energetically.
“Thank you for coming to meet me! I was prepared to make my own way to your apartment, but this makes things so much simpler. I’ve been to New York before, you know,” she said breezily. “Several times, actually. I find the intellectual climate so stimulating.”
She paused, then picked up her heavy suitcase again. “Well, shall we go?” She looked up at Claire cheerfully.
There was no denying she was an odd-looking child. Her hair was—well, orange, and so kinky that it stood up thickly in all directions. Deep-set blue eyes peered out from her pale face. She was almost as tall as Claire; all arms and legs, she reminded Claire of a headstrong roan colt. Claire took a deep breath.
“Uh, Meredith—we really need to talk, you know.”
Meredith put down her suitcase.
“All right, I was hoping to avoid this. No, I’m not going to get back on a train to Connecticut, though if you insist, I will call my father when we get to your apartment. However, under no circumstances are you to give him your number. Agreed?”
She spoke as if Claire were the troublesome child instead of herself. Claire suddenly felt exhausted, oppressed by the squalor of Penn Station. She thought of the long wait they would have if they went to the police station.
“All right. Let’s get a cab and go to my apartment.”
In the cab Meredith said, “I’m a big fan of Blanche DuBois. What’s she like?”
“Oh, she’s sort of odd . . .” Claire laughed. “She has an admirer who goes around singing opera arias to her.”
Thirty minutes later Meredith was seated on the red leather chair with a cup of tea in her hand and Ralph on her lap.
“Animals take to me,” she said in a confiding tone. ‘They know I understand them.” She took a bite of a Mint Milano. The large suitcase, it turned out, had been stuffed with bags of Pepperidge Farm cookies, crammed in between her clothes.
“All right,” said Meredith, putting her teacup down on the coffee table, “I’m ready to call my father. Where is your phone?”
“In the hall.”
Meredith brushed cookie crumbs from her lap.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call collect.”
Ralph, irritated at losing his lap perch, followed Meredith into the hall, stiff-legged, shaking his feet as though he had just stepped in a puddle. Claire listened from the living room.
“Hello, Father. Yes, I’m fine, drinking tea and eating cookies—no, Father, it was all my idea. Ms. Rawlings has never met me and she’s not a pervert. She happens to be a highly respected editor. I told you, she knew Mother at Duke! Father, listen to me. I’d like to stay here for a few days . . . yes, I know it’s almost the holiday season, Father. I promise I’ll be there for Thanksgiving Day, all right?. . . Well, no, she hasn’t said for sure—very well, I’ll let you talk to her.”
Meredith’s head poked around the corner.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Claire rose and took the phone.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Rawlings, this is Ted Lawrence. I must apologize for my daughter’s outrageous behavior.”
The voice was smooth and cultivated, a real New England WASP. Claire imagined the man’s house: understated, tasteful, potted philodendrons and unstained wood floors.
“There’s no need to apologize; I know she acted behind your back.”
“Do you—oh, this is awful, but—” The man was struggling with his Yankee pride.
“Yes?”
“Well, of course we would pay for everything, including a governess, if you like—” The man’s voice broke.
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s her stepmother . . . she’s having a rough time of it right now. The doctors have diagnosed a nervous condition of some sort, and they’re advising total peace and quiet for a while. We could send Meredith to my sister’s in North Carolina, but she already has two children, and . . . I mean, I just thought, since you knew Katherine . . .” There was a pause. Claire could hear the man’s anxious breathing over the phone. “I’m afraid things are rather busy for me right now with my practice and everything . . .” He sighed, a great heaving of air, and when he spoke again his voice sounded weary and defeated. “Of course, it’s quite impossible. Forgive me, please; I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”
Claire looked over at Meredith, who was threading Ralph’s tail through the handle of her teacup. Her thin white fingers touched the flickering tail delicately, experimentally. Claire experienced a sudden, animal craving to have a child in her life.
“Mr. Lawrence?”
“Yes?”
“Uh, I would like to have Meredith stay with me for a few days—that is, if you trust me. I realize you don’t know much about me—”
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated.
“I would be forever grateful. Actually, Katherine spoke of you—”
“She did?”
“Oh, yes. She—she admired you . . .”
He paused, and then Claire heard a woman’s voice in the background but couldn’t make out the words. She heard Mr. Lawrence say something like “Of course not, don’t be paranoid,” to the woman, and then he spoke again into the receiver.
“I’m sorry, my wife was saying something to me. I’ll send you a check by express mail, if that will be suitable.”
“That’s fine. We’ll call you every day to let you know how Meredith is. Don’t worry, Mr. Lawrence; I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’ll speak to you again tomorrow evening.”
“Will you tell Meredith—tell her I love her.”
“Of course. Good-bye.”
Claire hung up and turned to Meredith.
“Your father wants me to tell you he loves you.”
Meredith rolled her eyes and released Ralph from a half nelson.
“Oh, that’s so nineties, isn’t it? Have you noticed how lately everyone goes around saying that constantly? ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ It loses its meaning after a while, don’t you think?”
Claire sat down on the couch next to Meredith.
“I’m sure he does love you.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does, too. It just gets on my nerves to hear about it all the time. Too much sentiment dulls the intellect, you know.”
“Your father is a doctor.”
“A gastroenterologist” Meredith replied, her voice dripping with disdain. She popped the last cookie into her mouth. “He looks at people’s colons all day long,” she muttered through the crumbs. Then she hopped off the couch and took her cup and saucer out to the kitchen.
Claire looked out the window. The sun glinted on the windows of the apartments across the street, turning the glass into opaque mirrors. She tried to imagine herself inspiring admiration in someone like Katherine Bowers, who gave off such sparks, who was always the star of any group. Well, the grass is always greener . . .
The phone rang sharply, making Claire’s nerves quiver. Some author in the throes of creative torment, no doubt, needing a security call. She should have turned off the phone after Mr. Lawrence’s call. She picked up the receiver reluctantly.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Rawlings?”
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Jackson, Homicide, Ninth Precinct. Do you know a Ms. Blanche DuBois?”
Claire felt her stomach contract on the word “homicide.”
“Yes, I do. I’m her—her editor.” Her editor. Claire almost said “friend,” but the word stuck in her throat.
“Could you possibly come down to the station for questioning?” The voice sounded weary, almost bored.
“Why?”
“Ms. DuBois was found dead in her apartment this morning. We suspect it may have been a homicide.”
Claire felt as though a metal band were contracting around her head. She sat on the edge of the couch; the room had shrunk to the size of the portable receiver in her hand. The only sound in the world was the voice on the other end of the phone line.
“Homicide? What happened? How—” Her own voice sounded faint, distant.
“I really can’t say anything at this time. If you’d come down to the station—”
“Uh, when?”
“Now, if you don’t mind.” The voice was patient, gently insistent.
“Well, I—”
“We can send a car up for you if you like.”
Claire turned to look at Meredith. She was sitting on the floor looking up at Claire intently, her bony white arms clasped around her knees.
“Just a moment,” Claire said to the weary voice, then turned to speak to Meredith. Before she could open her mouth, Meredith jumped up from the floor.
“Someone’s been killed, haven’t they?” she said quietly.
Claire nodded dully. She felt as though everyone in the world was one step ahead of her.
“Who’s on the phone, the police? They want to question you?” Meredith didn’t even wait for Claire to nod this time.
“Let me come with you, please, please! I’ll be quiet, I won’t get in the way! Oh, please!” Her voice was tight with excitement.
Claire didn’t see that she had a choice. She could leave Meredith in the apartment, but that didn’t seem safe under the circumstances. Besides, she certainly couldn’t trust the girl to stay there. Claire returned to the weary voice on the phone.
“I’ll be there, but I have to bring my”—what was she?—“niece,” she lied.
“Fine. I’m at the Ninth Precinct, on Fifth Street between First and Second Avenue. Ask for Detective Jackson.”
“Right.”
Claire hung up and leaned back on the couch. Meredith sat in the red leather chair.
“They think it was murder, don’t they?”
Claire nodded. Meredith’s eyes widened.
“Are you a suspect?”
The word was like a splash of cold water in Claire’s face. She stiffened.
“No, I don’t think—I mean, he didn’t say anything about—why would they suspect me?”
Meredith nodded seriously. Then her face relaxed.
“No, you’re right—if you were a suspect they would have come up here to get you.”
Meredith jumped up from her chair. She seemed to be given to abrupt movements.
“Come on, let’s get down to the station. I’ll get your coat.”
Minutes later Claire was seated in a cab next to this odd child, this sprite who had appeared like an undine, uninvited, into her life.
Chapter 4
The Ninth Precinct station house was an imposing grey stone building with heavy wooden doors. The grubbiness of the interior, however, seemed to mock the solemn majesty of the exterior. Cigarette butts littered the cracked tile floor, and the dingy blue paint on the walls was dirty and chipped. Old wooden filing cabinets sat in corners; plastic chairs were scattered randomly around the floor, and Claire smelled the close odor of stale cigarette smoke. Plaques lined the walls behind the sergeant’s desk, and a large glass case titled COMMUNITY APPRECIATION AWARDS contained pictures of smiling officers. Behind the docket stood two young policemen. One had cropped blond hair, the other brown; both sported little mustaches on their pale, bland faces. A thick, middle-aged blond woman sat at a small desk near the door, smoking a cigarette and eating a h
am sandwich.
“Can I help you?” she said in an accent distinctly of the boroughs. Meredith stepped forward and began to answer her, but Claire interrupted.
“We’re here to see Detective Jackson.”
“Oh, just have a seat—he’ll be back in a minute.” The woman indicated one of the stained plastic chairs. Claire thanked her and motioned Meredith over to a couple of chairs against the far wall. Above them hung a bulletin board with letters of commendation; sections of the letters were highlighted in yellow. The phone on the blond woman’s desk rang. She picked it up, tucking the receiver onto her shoulder, smoking and chewing as she talked.
“Where was the car when it was stolen? Can I have the license-plate number?”
A stubby, red-faced officer stubbed out a cigarette in front of Claire and walked over to a thin, dark man with a scraggly goatee and tattered clothing.
“Elijah Cobb?” the policeman said.
“That’s right,” answered the man.
“You filed a complaint for burglary?”
“That’s right.”
Claire had mistaken the thin man for a felon, and noted sadly that in this neighborhood the victims often looked a lot like the criminals.
Just then the heavy wooden door swung open and two men in trench coats entered. The younger one was tall and rosy and fresh-cheeked; the other was of medium height, with shaggy grey hair. He walked with a weary air, shoulders slightly stooped. The woman at the desk caught Claire’s eye.
“You were waiting for Detective Jackson?”
“Yes, thank you.” Claire rose and stepped hesitantly toward the two men. The older one addressed her.
“Ms. Rawlings?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Jackson. This is Sergeant Barker.” His voice was remote, courteous.
“How do you do?” The younger man smiled widely, showing broad, even teeth. Caps, Claire thought. He reminded her of an eager golden retriever.
“I’m Meredith Lawrence, Ms. Rawlings’s—ward,” said Meredith, extending her hand. Sergeant Barker took it with a captivating smile.