Meredith leaned toward Claire and whispered, “She seems very upset. I wonder if it’s an act.”
Claire was about to rebuke her when Sarah entered the room with a tray of tea things.
“This is a habit I got into during a brief liaison with an Englishman,” she said almost apologetically.
“Quite civilized, if you ask me,” Meredith remarked cheerfully.
Sarah poured them all tea out of a surprisingly delicate pink-flowered pot and passed around a plate of petits fours.
“Amelia sent me these cakes—she doesn’t think I eat enough.” She gave a little laugh, then her face wilted and she began to cry. Claire sat uncomfortably balancing her steaming cup, feeling that it would be rude to drink her tea at this moment. After a minute Sarah spoke, her voice thick with grief.
“Oh, she wasn’t the best sister in the world, but then, neither was I.” She wiped her eyes with a tea napkin. “Still, for all our differences, you know we’ve never really been separated. I guess there’s a kind of comfort in knowing someone’s near, like when you go to bed at night and you think of the other people in the nearby apartment buildings sleeping in their bedrooms . . . the next day you might hate the crowds but at that moment their presence is a comfort. I don’t know; maybe I liked the thought of Blanche’s presence more than I actually liked her, but now I don’t have either . . .” She began to cry again. “I’m sorry; I’m really sorry about this.”
Claire looked around Sarah’s pristine apartment and thought of her own mother, apologizing for crying after her grandmother’s death. She wanted to say something comforting, but even in grief the woman seemed essentially remote, formidable. Sarah guarded her personal life closely, and though Claire had known her for years, she realized that she knew very little about her.
Sarah cleared her throat and picked up her teacup.
“You know, Amelia used to say Blanche was the smart one, because she always got what she wanted.” She sighed. “That little backhanded compliment was probably the closest Amelia has ever come to criticizing someone else.”
Just then a large, tortoiseshell cat sauntered languidly into the room and rubbed itself against Sarah’s shins.
“I knew you were a cat person the minute I saw you,” said Meredith, reaching to stroke the long, luxuriant fur.
“This was my sister’s cat, actually, and I seem to have inherited her. Amelia brought her over on her way to . . .”
“Did you know that if a cat has more than two colors in its coat it’s always a female?” said Meredith eagerly, her mouth full of cake.
“No, I never heard that,” Sarah answered. “Cat hairs make my eyes itch, so I never had any, but I’ll keep Camille for a while, anyway.” She smiled. “Just like Blanche to name her cat Camille, isn’t it?”
“So you’ve seen Amelia?” said Claire. “How is she?”
“Oh, in shock, I suppose; we both are, I think . . .”
“What was your sister like?” asked Meredith. “I mean, apart from naming her cats after doomed heroines?”
Sarah looked at the child with what Claire thought was alarm, and then laughed—a dry, painful sound.
“Pardon me for asking, but do you spend all your time collecting facts?”
“Yes,” answered Meredith, so seriously that Claire almost choked on her tea.
“Well, how—studious,” said Sarah. “I fancied myself a scholar when I was in school, but I don’t know that I ever had quite your determination.”
“Oh, I’m very determined,” said Meredith, still not smiling. “Ask Claire. You said you were in school—where was that?”
“Duke University.”
“Ah, yes, the house that tobacco built.”
Claire felt the conversation was taking a dangerous turn.
“Sarah and Amelia were roommates,” she said hastily, with a manufactured cheeriness in her voice which she recognized as her mother’s.
To Claire’s relief, though, Sarah just looked amused.
“You’re right about the tobacco money, which of course I knew about, growing up in the South, but which scandalized poor Amelia once she got down there. Amelia has always been easily shocked, I suppose . . . in fact, I’m worried about the effect of Blanche’s death on her more than anyone . . .”
Meredith leaned forward and put down her teacup. She reached for Camille, who glided nimbly away.
“What was Blanche like?”
“Oh, she could be childish, petulant, willful—determined, like you. Nobody could tell her what to do if she didn’t feel like doing it herself. People said she wasn’t a great student at school because she was vain and lazy—which she was—but they were wrong. She could have been Phi Beta but she only studied what really interested her: history and literature.”
“I heard what interested her was men,” Meredith said coolly. Sarah laughed again, a sound that threatened to turn into a sob.
“You do collect facts, don’t you? To tell you the truth, I don’t think my sister was so much interested in men as she was in their admiration . . . except maybe once.”
Just then the phone rang and Sarah rose to answer it.
“Hello? Oh, hello, Marshall.” Sarah’s voice expressed unmistakable disdain. “I’ve already decided where to hold the service . . . Marshall, she was my sister and I am having the service in the neighborhood where she lived. Yes, at Grace Church.” Sarah sounded irritated. “I’m sure when there’s a reading of her will you’ll be notified. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some guests here.” She hung up and turned to Claire. “One of the more annoying aspects of this horrible affair is that I’ll have to see my cousin Marshall on at least two occasions in the near future.” A hint of her Southern roots showed in her voice as she said this. Try as she might to suppress it, every once in a while a whiff of the Piedmont crept into Sarah’s accent, a cadence that was unmistakably Dixie.
“Why don’t you like him?” Meredith mumbled through the sugar cookie she had stuffed into her mouth.
Sarah sat down wearily.
“I don’t really care to talk about it right now, if you don’t mind. Don’t you have any relatives you just don’t like?”
Meredith did her best to swallow, but a fine dust of crumbs sprayed from her mouth as she spoke.
“Oh, sure—I hate my stepmother and she hates me.”
Claire felt she should object. “Meredith,” she said without enthusiasm.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
Sarah leaned back on her couch and looked at Meredith.
“Child, I think you are the oddest creature I have ever seen.”
Just then Sarah’s buzzer sounded loudly, making Claire jump. Sarah rose and spoke into the intercom.
“Yes?”
The speaker crackled and sputtered.
“It’s Detective Jackson.”
Sarah buzzed him in and came back into the living room.
“I’m sorry about this, but I’m afraid I’ll have to see the detective now. He wanted me to come down to the station, but I insisted on his coming here, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Not at all,” said Claire, standing up quickly. She noticed that whenever she was around Sarah she tended to adopt her formal manner of speech. The thought of seeing Detective Jackson made her feel confused and flustered, and she picked up her teacup with unsteady hands and headed for the kitchen.
“Oh, just leave those—I’ll get them later,” Sarah said, fetching their coats from the hall closet. As she pulled Claire’s coat from its hanger a shawl fell from the upper rack. It was wool with peach-colored flowers, and Claire recognized it immediately as Blanche’s. Sarah must have seen her looking at it, because she scooped it up off the floor. “Oh, Blanche lent me this the night of Amelia’s party. I was cold, and then I just wore it home . . .” Her voice trailed off sadly.
As Claire and Meredith were putting on their coats, Detective Jackson entered the foyer, and Claire could feel his eyes on her back. The low, weary v
oice spoke.
“Hello, Ms. Rawlings.”
Claire turned to answer. Detective Jackson wore a long, somewhat tattered grey overcoat; the top button was missing and the cuffs were frayed. Claire realized suddenly that there was no woman in his life, and the thought made her flush. To her relief, however, Meredith had taken all social duties upon herself.
“Good evening, Detective Jackson. I think you’ll be interested in some of the things Ms. DuBois has to say.”
The detective cocked his head to one side like a spaniel and raised his eyebrows politely.
“Oh? Thank you for the tip, Ms. Lawrence.”
“Not at all.”
The buzzer sounded again.
“That will be Sergeant Barker,” Jackson said to Sarah. “He was a couple of steps behind me.”
Sergeant Barker came bouncing in the door.
“Oh, boy—I just saw the greatest character out there, this old man—I just had to stop and watch him for a while! You never know when that kind of thing will come in handy.” He looked around, as if expecting applause.
As Claire and Meredith turned to go Detective Jackson spoke.
“Oh—Ms. Rawlings?”
Claire turned around.
“Yes?”
“Could you stay for just a few minutes? I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Of course we can stay,” said Meredith. “We don’t have anywhere we have to be, right?”
Claire looked at Sarah, who shrugged.
“All right, if you want,” Claire said, removing her coat.
“Just a couple of things—it’ll only take a few minutes,” said Jackson, sitting in the chair Sarah offered him as though he’d been on his feet all day. Meredith sat across from him and leaned toward him eagerly.
“What do you want to know?” she said, eyes shining.
Jackson turned to Claire, who stood awkwardly in the doorway, coat in hand.
“Was there anything Ms. DuBois said to you the night before her—the night of the party—that you remember as being unusual in any way?”
“Let me see . . .” said Claire, and then suddenly she remembered the strange mood that had come over Blanche at the party. “There was something odd—not unusual for Blanche, really—but in retrospect, it was strange. We were all standing around, and suddenly she seemed . . .”
“What?”
“Well, distracted or something, and she excused herself and left the room.”
“Where did she go?”
“I believe she went into one of the bedrooms. Amelia could confirm that.”
“Was it something someone said, do you think?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t remember anything in particular. Blanche could be touchy, but she usually hid it.”
“Who was there—around her—at the time?”
“Well, besides me, there was Anthony, Amelia, and Marshall—Marshall Bassett, Blanche’s cousin.”
“Her cousin?”
“Yes. He lives in New Jersey—in Montclair. He’s an oral surgeon.”
“I see.” He turned to Sarah. “He’s your cousin, too, then.”
Distaste flickered over Sarah’s lean face.
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea what might have upset her?”
Sarah leaned against the fireplace mantel, resting her thin arm on its pink marble surface.
“Not really . . . but Blanche was like that—”
“Like what?”
“She was always what you might call . . . moody.”
Detective Jackson looked directly at Sarah, his grey eyes still and piercing.
“And what would you call it, Ms. DuBois?”
Sarah shrugged, as cool as the marble under her arm.
“I would call her spoiled, but then what older sister wouldn’t feel that way about a pampered younger one?”
Jackson turned to Claire, and she felt the blood rising to her cheeks.
“What do you think, Ms. Rawlings?”
“Well, I’m not sure . . . Blanche was—temperamental, that’s for sure.”
Sarah’s sharp voice cut in.
“Blanche was more concerned with the effect she was creating than with the impact she was really having on people.”
“Did you like your sister, Ms. DuBois?”
“Like her? I suppose I didn’t much like her at times, but I did love her.” Although Jackson made no gesture in response, she added, “You can have one without the other, you know, Detective.”
“Yes, yes; I’m sure you can,” Jackson replied thoughtfully.
“And I certainly don’t think my sister deserved what happened to her,” Sarah continued in a chilly voice. “And now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll go make us some tea.” The statement was not an invitation—it was a decree. Sarah could be very brusque with people she did not know; it was one of her protective mechanisms. There was an uncomfortable silence, and Claire could hear the ticking of Sarah’s mantel clock, a genuine Seth Thomas, a present from Amelia.
“Do you have any sisters, Meredith?” Sergeant Barker suddenly piped up from where he sat on the sofa.
“No, I have no siblings at all,” said Meredith, barely looking at him; it was clear she had dismissed Sergeant Barker as beneath contempt.
“Well, if you have further questions for me . . .” said Claire, feeling trapped in Detective Jackson’s spell.
“No, thank you very much, Ms. Rawlings—though if you think of anything helpful, please feel free to call me. Here,” he said, scribbling on a business card and handing it to Claire. “On the front is my number at the precinct, and on the back is my home number. You can call me there anytime.”
Claire took the card and put it in the breast pocket of her jacket. She wondered if he gave everyone his home number.
“Do you have any suspects yet?” Meredith said eagerly.
“No, not officially—”
“But you’re keeping your eye on a few people?”
Detective Jackson laughed. The effect was startling: a full-throated musical chuckle, it was odd coming from this solemn, weary man. Claire found herself smiling in response.
“Let me put it this way,” said Jackson. “We haven’t arrested anyone yet. If we do—”
“I’ll be the first to know?” Meredith said. She sat on the edge of an upholstered footstool, leaning toward Jackson.
Claire stood up.
“Come on, Meredith, let’s let the detective do his job,” she said, putting on her coat.
“I’m not bothering him—am I, Detective?”
“No, you’re not,” said Jackson, with a glance at Sergeant Barker, who was sulking again.
Claire and Meredith said their good-byes to Sarah and the policemen, then went out into the grey November afternoon.
“I don’t see how Sergeant Barker could be pursuing an acting career and be a cop at the same time,” Claire said as they walked along.
“Oh, sure—I saw an article in the Times magazine a couple of months ago about this cop who had been in a lot of movies,” said Meredith. “He even had a small speaking role in Goodfellas. There was a picture of him and Joe Pesci. They like to use guys who have their own uniforms; it saves them money.”
“Oh.”
“Sarah’s hiding something, you know,” said Meredith.
“Why do you think that?”
Meredith shrugged. “I’ve see the same behavior in my stepmother. There’s something furtive about her . . . she acts like she’s undercover or something. My stepmother acts like that because she’s on drugs, but Sarah’s not on drugs—or at least, I don’t think she is.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know. It may have nothing to do with Blanche’s death, or it may . . . I just don’t know yet.”
They walked along in silence for a while. A garbage truck sloshed along the narrow street, brakes whining, and disappeared around a corner.
“Do you like Detective Jackson
?” Meredith asked suddenly.
“He seems like a nice man.”
“Yeah,” Meredith said slyly, “real nice.”
That night Claire called Robert and told him the news. There was a stunned silence, and then he said, “Oh my God. What—how?”
Claire told him the whole thing, and there was another pause. Then he said, “Are you all right?” Claire answered that she was, all the while wanting to wrap herself in the gentle warmth of his concern.
“Do you want to come up here for a few days and get away from it all?” he said.
Claire said she had better stay around for the funeral, and then she told him about Meredith. He was puzzled about the connection, but when she explained she had known Meredith’s mother at school, he seemed to understand.
“Are you sure you can handle it—her—right now?” he said, his voice full of concern.
“Well, the thing is, she sort of takes my mind off—you know, gives me something else to think about.”
“Well, all right, but mind you don’t get too run down during all of this.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow, then, to see how you’re doing.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“Good night.”
After she hung up, Claire felt like crying. The past few hours—her fatigue, Meredith’s arrival, the visit to the police station—everything had seemed a little unreal, as though it were someone else’s life. But Robert’s kindness released something within her which she had been carefully holding on to, and she felt herself crumple inside.
Just then Meredith called to her from the kitchen, and she decided that at least for the time being she would have to postpone falling apart.
Chapter 6
Claire put the newspaper down on her office desk and took a sip of coffee. The caption read, Mystery Writer’s Mysterious Death, and she had to admit that Blanche’s death made good copy. The press were literally having a field day, speculating wildly a about the nature of the killer, all the while managing to imply that the story’s built-in irony was more than just coincidence, that the clue to the identity of the killer lay somewhere in the pages of one of Blanche’s books. All of the bookstores were completely sold out of her mysteries, and several titles were already on back order. Claire refused to comment to the press. She had other things to think about—meeting the Lawrences, for example.
Who Killed Blanche DuBois? Page 6
