Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Lawrence.”

  Detective Jackson motioned them into a small, cluttered office. He took the seat behind the desk. Claire and Meredith sat opposite him on the only two other chairs in the office. Sergeant Barker settled himself on the corner of the desk, pushing aside piles of papers that teetered precariously on the edge of the desk. Claire noticed uncomfortably that the room had no windows, with only the thick smoked glass on the door to let in the outside world.

  “I’m sorry to bring you out on a Sunday, but I’m afraid murderers don’t restrict themselves to weekdays,” said Detective Jackson.

  Meredith broke in. “Is Claire a suspect?”

  Detective Jackson regarded the girl through heavy-lidded eyes. His grey eyes were large, with deeply creased circles under them. The rest of his features were large, too; he had a wide mouth and long nose. His face was long, with high cheekbones under a headful of shaggy grey hair. His long pale fingers twirled a rubber band. Looking at him, Claire felt a hollow twinge in her stomach.

  “No, we have no real suspects at this point,” he said to Meredith in the same polite, disinterested voice. Claire decided his faint accent was northeastern, perhaps Boston.

  “Are you going to question us?” Meredith asked eagerly.

  Sergeant Barker leaned forward from his perch on the desk.

  “That’s right—just like in the movies.”

  “There’s no need to condescend to me,” Meredith replied sharply. Sergeant Barker recoiled with a wounded expression, like a reprimanded puppy.

  Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair.

  “We are questioning Ms. DuBois’s friends as a matter of course, especially those who may have been the last to see her alive.”

  Claire looked puzzled.

  “You were among the people who attended Amelia Moore’s party on Friday night?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “A few minutes after twelve.”

  “Was Ms. DuBois still there when you left?”

  Claire tried to visualize the party as she had left it: Anthony was playing his accordion to a small band of listeners in the kitchen; Marshall was flirting with some blowsy, overblown blonde, and Amelia was tidying up around the food as people picked over what was left of her delicacies. She could not remember Blanche or Sarah as having been among them.

  “I’m not sure, really. I didn’t see her as I was leaving.”

  “Did you see her the next day—Saturday?”

  “No. I had just arrived from a trip upstate and I had unpacking to do. When did she—”

  Jackson interrupted her, as if saving her from saying it.

  “Sometime Saturday evening, probably after eight P.M. We’re still waiting for the complete PM report.”

  “Postmortem,” Meredith whispered to Claire.

  “The body was discovered by her sister this morning. Initial estimates are that she had been dead about twelve hours.”

  Claire shuddered. She glanced at Sergeant Barker, who was looking sulky after Meredith’s rebuke. He had risen from his perch on the desk and stood with his hands in his pockets, a pouty expression on his face.

  Claire looked around the tiny, windowless room and felt her forehead prickling with sweat. She concentrated on breathing, angry at her irrational claustrophobia, her fear of entrapment.

  Meredith, on the other hand, seemed not only at ease, but in her element. She leaned forward and questioned Detective Jackson as though she were the detective and he a tricky suspect.

  “How did you say Ms. DuBois died?” she said suspiciously.

  Jackson regarded her with the expression of a tolerant uncle. Claire thought he might even be suppressing a smile.

  “I didn’t. She was poisoned.”

  “Cyanide?” said Meredith thoughtfully. There was a pause. Sergeant Barker attempted to catch Jackson’s eye, but he was looking straight at Meredith.

  “Yes,” said Jackson calmly, hiding whatever surprise he may have felt.

  “Just a guess,” said Meredith, “albeit an educated one. I’ve made a small study of the most commonly used poisons in murder cases and cyanide leads the list, along with arsenic, which is somewhat more nineteenth century—Madame Bovary and all that—so I chose cyanide. Also, the odor of bitter almonds which often occurs in a cyanide poisoning would lead you to regard this death as suspicious, which would explain the unusually speedy autopsy.”

  Detective Jackson nodded gravely. His face in repose looked sad, the heavy eyes drooping. Again Claire felt a tingle in her stomach.

  “Cyanide is not difficult to obtain,” said Meredith. “It is used more often than you think—for example, in the making of jewelry, and also in the development of photographic images.”

  Sergeant Barker was looking at his watch and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like a child waiting for permission to go to the bathroom.

  “Uh, sir—” he began.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant Barker. Just try to be back in an hour,” Jackson said wearily.

  Sergeant Barker looked at Claire apologetically.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Rawlings. I have to go to an audition now.” He deliberately avoided looking at Meredith and stumbled out of the room, rattling the thick glass on the door as he closed it behind him.

  “An audition?” said Meredith loudly. “What for? Is he an actor or something?”

  “He’s trying to be,” said Jackson. This time Claire was certain his lips curled briefly upward.

  “Actually, he’s appeared in two films. Strictly extra work; but now he’s been bitten and is studying nights at HB Studio. But to return to the matter of Ms. DuBois’s murder . . .”

  “How did it happen?” said Claire softly.

  “The poison was concealed in a piece of fruit—an apple.”

  “How positively Grimms brothers,” said Meredith cheerfully.

  “The apples were delivered to Ms. DuBois’s building while she was out. It is possible they were poisoned before they arrived; it is also possible they were poisoned while in the building, although that it is somewhat less likely. There is a doorman who swears he was there until Ms. DuBois returned to the building, at which point she took the apples up to her apartment . . . in any event, sometime Saturday night she ate one of the apples and died—”

  “Within fifteen minutes,” Meredith broke in.

  “Yes,” said Jackson after a slight pause.

  Claire had to admire the way he hid any irritation or amusement he might have felt toward Meredith and just continued on calmly after one of her interruptions. Here was a man in control of himself.

  “Did anyone see the apples being delivered?” said Meredith.

  “Unfortunately the doorman was away from his post when they arrived. One of the neighbors might have seen something; we haven’t interviewed any of them yet. The apples were apparently sent as a gift. The card was addressed to Ms. DuBois, and, as I said, she took them upstairs herself.”

  “Did the card say anything else?”

  “‘From an admirer.’”

  Claire felt her stomach tighten. Anthony! Was he capable of . . . she couldn’t allow herself to think any further. She noticed with alarm that Jackson was looking at her.

  “Did Ms. DuBois have any admirers that you know of?”

  Claire felt an urge to protect Anthony.

  “No. I mean, yes, many—”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Detective, I wouldn’t feel good about implicating anyone—”

  Jackson sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.

  “It’s all right, Ms. Rawlings; we already know about Mr. Sciorra. I was just wondering if there was someone—a fan, perhaps—that you might know of, since you were Ms. DuBois’s editor.”

  “No—I didn’t read Ms. DuBois’s fan mail. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Claire suddenly felt irritated at this weary, patient man, with his long fingers and tired sho
ulders.

  Meredith sat up in her chair.

  “Mr. Sciorra—was he the guy you told me about, the one who sings the arias?”

  “Yes.” Claire had forgotten that she discussed Anthony and his accordion-courting techniques with Meredith.

  “Well, you can obviously eliminate him from your list of suspects,” said Meredith briskly.

  “Oh?” Jackson allowed himself a slight smile this time.

  “Certainly—that is, unless he wished to be apprehended. If he did it, he made no effort at all to cover his tracks, and it would have been so easy. He could even have shifted the blame onto someone else.” Meredith paused, frowning. “Of course there is always the Raskolnikov Factor.”

  “The what?” asked Jackson.

  “Surely you are familiar with Crime and Punishment, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, one of the conclusions Dostoyevsky draws in his book is that criminals sooner or later yearn to be caught and punished for their deeds, which, undiscovered, weigh too heavily on their conscience. I call it the Raskolnikov Factor, and it can’t be discounted in the solution of a crime, especially murder.”

  Detective Jackson nodded. “I see.”

  “Have you interro—spoken with Anthony yet?” asked Claire.

  “Mr. Sciorra came in to see us earlier today.”

  “Do you think—is he—?”

  “We have no official suspects as yet.” Jackson leaned back in his chair, a scratched, scarred old wooden captain’s chair.

  “Anthony is a chemist, though,” Meredith said thoughtfully, “which means he has access to drugs.”

  “Did Ms. DuBois have many enemies?” said Detective Jackson. The question implied that she must have had some, that it was a matter of numbers.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Was Mr. Sciorra in love with her?”

  Claire tried to choose her words carefully.

  “He . . . he was pursuing her—” Instantly she regretted her choice of words. She made him sound predatory—poor, lovesick Anthony.

  “I understand Ms. DuBois and her sister had a fight the night before she was killed.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t serious.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Sarah thought Blanche was leading Anthony—Mr. Sciorra—on.”

  “Was she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . yes, I suppose so.”

  “Why would Sarah DuBois want to kill her sister?”

  “I have no idea . . . I—” Claire felt confused and on trial herself, even though rationally she did not think she was a suspect. Meredith spoke up abruptly.

  “Could we continue this questioning later? Ms. Rawlings had to get up early on her day off this morning to meet a train and she’s very tired.”

  Claire looked at Meredith gratefully. She was tired, so tired . . .

  Detective Jackson rose.

  “By all means; I think I have what I need for the present. Thank you both very much for your time.” He extended a hand, which Claire shook. To her relief, his palm was dry. She hated sweaty palms—and then she blushed, embarrassed by her mind’s wandering.

  Half an hour later Claire was sitting in her living room, drinking tea and watching Meredith, who lay on her stomach reading. Her orange hair fell in unkempt curls around her face. Some people burn, Claire thought, as fierce and bright as comets. Even Meredith’s hair was like a flame, a beacon—even reading, she sizzled with energy. Claire sipped her tea. Her own flame burned lower, with more of a blue-green light. She might never ignite the world like Meredith, but she was drawn to these kinds of people, warming herself in their glow. This fire, this energy, was neither necessarily good nor evil, she felt, but was the seed of great deeds, both good and evil. The thought of so much energy turned to the service of evil frightened her. She wondered if she’d ever known anyone who was capable of real evil. Then she shuddered: in all probability, she knew the person who had killed Blanche DuBois.

  Chapter 5

  When Claire and Meredith got home there was a message from Sarah DuBois on Claire’s answering machine. Claire had always thought of Blanche and Sarah as opposites, but as she listened to the message, she was struck by how similar their voices were in timbre and dialect. But while Blanche’s accent had dripped Deep South, Sarah’s was all crispness, even in her grief.

  “Of course you will have heard the news by now . . . the police are coming over sometime this afternoon to ‘ask a few questions,’ as they so delicately put it . . . but I wonder if you would consider dropping by. I called Amelia, too, but I think she’s gone down to identify the—they asked me to do it, but I couldn’t . . . I suppose it’s wrong of me, but I asked Amelia if she would. I know it’s cowardly, but I don’t think I could take it right now . . . please call me when you get in.”

  The machine clicked, and the tape rewound. Claire thought of Amelia down at the morgue, waiting in the cold, hollow white room for Blanche’s body to be wheeled in by a white-jacketed attendant. Poor Amelia; she was always cleaning up the messes left by her friends. Maybe it was her own fault, for letting herself be used, and she never complained, but sometimes she seemed like a servant, and it made Claire angry. Well, this was the last duty she’d be asked to perform for Blanche.

  The phone rang and Claire answered it, but as soon as she did the line went dead. She put the phone down and walked into the kitchen, where Meredith was rummaging through the cupboards. Sitting on the shelf was a jar of peanut butter, honey, and some crackers.

  “Do you have any cookies?” Meredith asked when she saw Claire.

  “We have to go to Greenwich Village; you can have some cookies there,” said Claire. “Did you eat all the ones you brought?”

  “Yup,” Meredith replied, spreading some peanut butter on a cracker and topping it off with a glob of honey. Ralph circled at her feet like a fat shark, hoping for scraps.

  “Come on, get your coat,” said Claire as she dialed Sarah’s number.

  Sarah DuBois lived in Greenwich Village, in a nineteenth-century town house on Bethune Street. Claire had always loved that part of the city, over by the river, where tourist activity was more sluggish than in the heart of the Village. The sidewalks over here held a calm on a Sunday morning, interrupted only by the occasional dog-walking or stroller-pushing resident. Claire and Meredith got off the bus and walked through streets that twisted and turned around each other, past French restaurants tucked snugly into the narrow first floors of the three- and four-story brick buildings which made up this old part of the city. A woman with a New York Times under her arm was being pulled along the street by a large, smiling black Labrador, which stopped to inspect Meredith’s shoes briefly, tail wagging. The woman smiled apologetically and yanked on the leash, and they were off again, the dog towing her as if she were on water skis.

  “Dogs are very sweet,” mused Meredith as they walked on, “but more emotionally needy than cats. I used to think there were cat people and dog people, but of course life is more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Claire murmured. She was getting used to the idea now that she did not have to meet Meredith’s formidable energy head-on, that she could let the girl dance little circles around her while she kept still, conserving her energy.

  As they climbed the steep stone steps in front of Sarah’s building, Claire tried to imagine the street in the 1820s, when this building was new: horses and carriages, men in tight trousers with cutaway coats, women in floor-length gowns, hair piled high on their heads, bustles supporting their drapery. The street—cobblestone? Mud? Claire wasn’t sure. The country entering its fifth decade of nationhood, with another four decades to go before the abolition of slavery.

  Meredith pushed the buzzer, and Sarah’s dry voice answered over the crackle of the intercom. “Yes?”

  “It’s Claire and Meredith,” Meredith yelled into the speaker. Claire flinched; Sarah hated loud noise. Claire had explained to Sarah on the p
hone who Meredith was—not in detail, but enough to prepare Sarah for her—or so Claire hoped.

  They were buzzed into the foyer and stood in its dim coolness. The hallway had no right angles, and smelled of apples and eucalyptus. A narrow oaken staircase lurched up to the second and third floors; Sarah’s apartment occupied the entire first floor. They walked through the hallway, its wide floorboards creaking under the long Persian runner that led to Sarah’s door. The door opened and Sarah’s thin body leaned out briefly.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, holding the door open for them. Claire had a brief impulse to hug her, but was put off by the woman’s stiff, almost military reserve.

  Meredith followed her into the apartment, stepping into the high-ceilinged living room. Sarah’s apartment was as spare as Blanche’s was cluttered. A huge teal-blue Oriental rug was bordered by a few pieces of simple furniture of Quaker design, austere unstained oak. On the coffee table was a paperback copy of Zen and the Art of Archery. Claire and Meredith seated themselves on a stiff-backed couch. Sarah’s furniture made you feel like you had to keep your back straight to avoid getting your knuckles rapped. Sarah sat opposite them on an unpadded oak chair.

  “It’s so good of you to come,” she said as warmly as Sarah could say anything. “I—I just don’t know what to do with myself. Of course all I can think of is who would do such a thing . . . the thing that torments me is that we quarreled right before—before . . .”

  Sarah looked down at her tightly clenched hands and rubbed her eyes wearily.

  “I’m sorry; I’m ranting,” she said dully.

  Claire was about to say something comforting when the phone rang. Sarah glanced at it.

  “The press,” she said. “They’ve been calling me all day for quotes. My number isn’t even listed, but somehow they got hold of it.” She reached over to unplug the phone jack. “It’s terrible, the kind of scavenging that goes on after something like this—”

  Before she could finish, the air was cut by a shrill whistle.

  “Oh, that’s the teakettle,” said Sarah. “I thought you might like something hot to drink on a day like this.” She rose and went into the kitchen.