Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  The doorbell rang hollowly through Amelia’s long front hall. At first there was no answer, then Claire heard Amelia’s quick, delicate footsteps coming down the hall. There was the click of many locks, and then the door opened.

  “I’m sorry—I was down the hall drying some mushrooms,” Amelia said as she let them in. It was so like Amelia to apologize for not being immediately at other people’s beck and call. She led them into the south living room; Amelia’s apartment was so big that it had a north and south living room. The south was the smaller of the two, and Claire liked it better. The walls were painted a soothing terra-cotta, and a baby grand piano stood in one corner, draped in a green flowered shawl. The room, warm and homey, was quintessentially Amelia.

  While Amelia fussed about, taking hats and coats, Meredith wandered casually around the room, inspecting everything. She picked up a book lying open on the coffee table and read the title aloud.

  “The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mushrooms.” Meredith opened the book and studied it. “Wow,” she said, “here’s a mushroom called the Destroying Angel—and here’s one called the Death Cap. How Gothic.”

  Amelia stopped on her way to the coat closet.

  “Oh, yes—they’re both members of the amanita family.”

  “Some family. Are they really deadly?”

  “Oh, yes, very. They’re poisonous in extremely small doses.”

  “Wow.” Meredith indicated a small bowl of dried mushrooms on the coffee table. “Are these poisonous?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Amelia laughed. “Those are some morels a friend of mine sent me. No, I would never pick an amanita, let alone bring it home.”

  “Because you never know who might eat it?” said Meredith.

  “Well, yes . . .”

  “Have you ever seen them; these—ama—” “Amanitas? Oh, yes, I see them in the woods—but I leave them there.”

  “But aren’t there some safe mushrooms that look like poison ones?”

  “Oh, yes; that’s why people eat them and die. I don’t believe in taking that kind of chance, though. I guess I’m too much of a coward.”

  “Oh, you’re not a coward,” said Claire, “you’re just cautious.”

  “Well, cautious or cowardly, I for one don’t want to die that way. It’s . . .” Amelia’s face sagged and her shoulders dropped. “Poor Blanche,” she said softly. “Poor, poor Blanche. No one should have to die like that.”

  There was a sad silence, and even Meredith seemed chastened. Claire was aware of the sound of traffic outside on Riverside Drive.

  “It was a nice funeral, wasn’t it?” Amelia said forlornly. “Blanche would have liked it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes,” Claire said quickly, as if the funeral were another of Amelia’s parties. “She would have approved. It was really very nice.” Amelia was so in need of comfort, much more so than Sarah.

  Amelia sighed. “It’s funny, but I couldn’t help thinking that the one person missing, the one who would really like it . . . well, it’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  “I never thought of it that way,” said Claire. “I guess it is sort of ironic.”

  “Well, I . . . I just hope she didn’t suffer too much, that’s all,” said Amelia.

  “It’s all over now, at any rate,” said Claire, with a glance at Meredith, who had seated herself on the couch and was studying the mushroom guidebook.

  “It’s funny,” said Meredith, putting the book down, “but it’s a cliché of crime investigation that poisoning is a traditionally ‘feminine’ method of killing someone. It’s because of the lack of overt violence, plus the whole ‘ingestion’ thing, you know. It’s a kind of perversion of the ‘nurturing mother’”

  “Did you know that Blanche left me all her papers?” Amelia said suddenly. “She gave her clothes to Sarah, but she left me all her letters and scrapbooks and things.”

  “Does that include her research notes?” said Claire.

  “Oh, you mean from her books? Yes, I suppose it does.”

  Claire didn’t mention Peter’s request that she finish Blanche’s Klan book; there was time enough to talk about that, when Amelia was feeling less vulnerable.

  “Don’t worry,” said Meredith, looking up from the mushroom book. “We’ll find her killer.”

  Amelia smiled wanly.

  “I certainly hope somebody does, dear,” she said.

  Just then Amelia’s doorbell ran.

  “I wonder who that is,” said Amelia. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “I’ll get it!” cried Meredith, jumping up from the sofa and heading toward the front hall. When Meredith had disappeared down the hall Amelia turned to Claire.

  “You’re very brave to take her,” she said, with an expression of wonder.

  Claire laughed.

  “Oh, she’s not so bad once you get used to her.”

  Meredith appeared in the doorway.

  “It’s Marshall. Shall I let him in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  When Meredith had gone, Amelia turned to Claire.

  “I wonder what Marshall could want.”

  Meredith reappeared in the doorway, followed by Marshall Bassett. He was dressed in tight black jeans and a shiny black shirt, which emphasized his thinness.

  “Hello, Amelia; hello, Claire. What a pleasant surprise, finding you here.”

  “Hello, Marshall.” Claire knew Marshall’s flattery was just that, but she enjoyed it anyway.

  “What can I do for you, Marshall?” Amelia said with unaccustomed directness. Claire had the impression she was a little peeved at being disturbed without warning.

  “Forgive the lack of ceremony in my dropping in like this,” said Marshall, settling his long body down on the most comfortable armchair in the room, “but I was in the neighborhood.”

  He took out a pack of cigarettes and extracted a thin, dark cigarette from it. “Oh, do you mind if I smoke?” he added nonchalantly when he saw Amelia staring at the cigarette.

  “Uh . . . I guess not,” she answered. “I’ll just open a window.”

  Claire was annoyed; annoyed at Marshall because it was clear that Amelia did mind, and annoyed at Amelia for being such a pushover. Sometimes she wished Amelia would just take a stand and say no to somebody—anybody—instead of letting everyone walk all over her.

  “I’m sorry,” Meredith said suddenly. “I’m an asthmatic, and I’m violently allergic to cigarette smoke.”

  Marshall looked at her as if he didn’t believe her, but Meredith stared right back at him. He sighed and put out his cigarette.

  “Ah, well . . . one can’t even kill oneself in peace these days. Such is modern life.”

  There was a pause, and then Marshall said, “Look, I’m sorry to break up your party. I just wanted to borrow the key to Blanche’s apartment.”

  Amelia looked startled.

  “The key?”

  “Yes—you have it, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, Blanche did give me a copy.”

  “So could I borrow it, please?” His tone was impatient.

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “What do you mean? I’m her cousin, for God’s sake!”

  “Sarah has a key; why didn’t you ask her?”

  Marshall snorted.

  “Don’t tell me you are the only person in New York who doesn’t know that Sarah and I don’t get along.”

  “Look, Marshall,” Amelia said with uncustomary firmness, “I’m not even sure the police will let you into Blanche’s apartment. After all, it is a crime scene.”

  “My God.” Marshall leaned back on the sofa. “If the police aren’t finished gathering clues by now, they’re slower than I thought.”

  Claire was surprised to see herself reacting with indignation at Marshall’s insult.

  “They’re doing a perfectly good job,” she said quickly.

  Meredith turned to Marshall.

  “You might not want to ins
ult the police in front of Claire,” she said with a sly smile.

  “Why?” said Amelia innocently. “Does Claire have some friends on the force?”

  “Not exactly,” said Meredith with the same Mona Lisa smile.

  “Hmm . . .” said Marshall, sitting forward. “You intrigue me. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Let’s just say that there’s a certain frisson in her relationship with the police these days,” Meredith replied.

  “Frisson, eh?” said Marshall. “Good word. You don’t hear it much these days, now that there is a national movement against literacy.” He turned to Claire. “Well, Claire? Dish, dish—what is your young ward here referring to?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Meredith,” Claire said weakly. “It’s all in her head.” She couldn’t help feeling that she was utterly unconvincing.

  “What’s in her head?” said Amelia, always a beat behind everyone else.

  “The romance, for God’s sake,” Marshall said impatiently. He turned to Claire. “So, no hanky-panky at the precinct, no swooning in the patrol cars, no bodice ripping at the station house?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  Amelia patted Claire’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she said in a soothing voice, “you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get us something to drink.” She rose. “Claire, would you like a Bloody Mary?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” said Marshall.

  Amelia ignored him. “Meredith, what about you? Soda or juice? I have orange and cranberry.”

  “Oh, juice, I think—either one is fine.”

  “I like my Bloody Mary on the spicy side,” Marshall called after Amelia as she trundled toward the kitchen.

  Meredith turned to Marshall. “So, why do you need to get into Blanche’s apartment?”

  “She has—had—a letter of mine and I’d like to get it back.”

  “It must be an important letter.” Meredith’s tone was bland, nonconfrontational.

  “Not really, it’s just that I’d like to get it before Sarah goes through the apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she might throw it out.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s Sarah.” Marshall paused and looked longingly at the unlit cigarette he still held in his right hand. “Surely you noticed there was a certain amount of—tension—between us.”

  “Oh, I noticed it all right.” Meredith nodded. “I just haven’t figured out why yet.”

  “Well, then there’s something to keep you occupied on these long winter nights,” Marshall replied wearily, again eyeing the cigarette. He stood up abruptly. “Look, I must have a cigarette, so I’m going outside to smoke this.” He looked at his watch. “Come to think of it, maybe I should just go now. I’ve interrupted your little party long enough.”

  Just then Amelia entered the room with a tray of drinks.

  “What about the Bloody Mary?” she said, sounding disappointed.

  “Oh, so you made me one after all,” Marshall observed, looking at the tray. “All right—thank you.”

  He took the drink and sat down again, but looked so nervous that Claire almost suggested that he go ahead and smoke the cigarette.

  “How’s that handsome boyfriend of yours?” he said to Claire.

  “Oh, fine. He’s very busy now, with the holiday season and everything.”

  “Does he ever come to town and visit you?”

  “Mostly I go up there. He says the city makes him nervous.”

  “That’s the whole point,” Marshall said. “It’s kind of like drinking too much coffee; it’s exciting and unpleasant at the same time.”

  Claire looked at Meredith, who sat on the sofa, legs dangling, sipping her juice. Amelia had put an orange slice and a maraschino cherry in the glass.

  Marshall rose from his armchair.

  “Well, I really must be going. It’s been delightful seeing all of you. We must do this more often.” He turned to Amelia. “What about the key?”

  Amelia put down her glass. “How about if I go over there with you?”

  Marshall shrugged. “If you want to do it that way, it’s all right with me.”

  “How’s tomorrow?”

  “Fine. I’ll be in the city in the evening and I’ll come over here around seven, all right?”

  Amelia agreed and Marshall made his exit.

  “It’s a good thing he smokes, or he might have stayed for brunch.” Amelia sighed as she sat down again.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t really have done that, would he?” said Claire.

  Amelia stirred her drink. “The longer I know Marshall, the more I have no idea what he’s capable of. That whole family,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, you just never know what they’re going to do.”

  Meredith plucked her cherry out of her glass and popped it into her mouth. She chewed it slowly and then sucked on the stem thoughtfully. “I wonder what’s in that letter.”

  The next day Meredith and Claire were sitting at the counter at Rumplemeyer’s sharing a pot of hot chocolate. Rumplemeyer’s cocoa was Meredith’s absolute favorite treat, and she would beg Claire to go there, promising anything in return. Claire had never seen anyone with a sweet tooth like Meredith’s. Unless the weather was really bad, they would walk the length of Central Park, following the horse trail on the West Side, and then over to Central Park South, where Rumplemeyer’s pink-and-purple awning beckoned to them like the beacon of a lighthouse. By the time they got there, the cold and the exercise had created an even more intense craving for Rumplemeyer’s renowned pot of hot cocoa, handmade from huge lumps of semisweet chocolate.

  “Why does Marshall torment Sarah like that?” Meredith said, stirring her chocolate.

  “I don’t know why the two of them are so hard on each other,” Claire answered thoughtfully, watching the whipped cream in her cup slide slowly into the deep swirl of chocolate below, white and brown merging into a dark caramel color.

  “It’s almost as though he were a spoiled younger brother or something.”

  “I know,” said Claire. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “I have the feeling that there’s something between them, something only they know about,” said Meredith.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure exactly; it’s only a feeling. I don’t know; it’s like Marshall has something on her . . . that he’s holding something over her.”

  “You mean a secret?”

  “Yeah, like a secret or something.” Meredith paused for a moment. “Was Sarah ever married?”

  “No, not that I know of—why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” Meredith spooned some whipped cream directly into her mouth, leaving a small white mustache on her upper lip. “I’d sure like to see that letter Marshall wrote to Blanche,” she said, licking chocolate from her fingers.

  At the other end of the counter two little old ladies in extravagant hats—archetypal Rumplemeyer’s customers—were eavesdropping on Claire and Meredith. They stirred their chocolate and pretended to talk in low voices between themselves, but Claire could see that they were listening to every word of her conversation. She thought it unlikely that either of them knew Sarah or Marshall, but decided it might be better to change the subject.

  “Uh, Meredith, do you want to buy some catnip for Ralph on the way home?” she suggested.

  “What?” answered Meredith, and then, seeing the ladies, winked at Claire. “Sure, why not? Even a cat needs to get high once in a while.”

  Claire didn’t even look at the ladies to see their response. She paid the check and hustled Meredith out the door without looking back.

  Chapter 13

  That week, in the middle of November, the temperature suddenly shot up to seventy degrees and stayed there for several days. People wandered around in shirt sleeves, dazed looks on their faces, as if the world were about to come to an end but they were
determined to enjoy what time they had left.

  Claire didn’t go into the office on Monday. She read manuscripts at home all morning, and then went down to Chinatown to do some shopping. Meredith was back in Connecticut for the last week of school before the holiday break, and Claire wanted to buy her a Christmas present before she returned. Afterward she walked up through Little Italy and SoHo to the East Village. As she walked past Italian cafés and SoHo art galleries, she thought about Blanche, and wondered if Blanche had ever walked this same route up Mulberry Street, on one of her “think walks”—while working on her books, Blanche would take long strolls to think.

  By the time she reached the East Village, Claire was tired and hungry. She paused on the corner of Fifth Street and First Avenue. Peering down the street, she could just see the stone building that housed the Ninth Precinct. She wondered what Detective Jackson was doing right now, but she resisted an impulse to drop by and find out. Instead, she walked north on First Avenue, toward the nexus of Indian restaurants on Sixth Street. As she walked, enticing smells filled her head—a mixture of exotic spices, cardamom, curry, anise, nutmeg—all blended into a beckoning breeze that made her light-headed with hunger.

  She stopped in front of a restaurant on First Avenue called the Royal House of India. “GARDEN OPEN!” the hand-painted sign said, and next to it was a review from The Village Voice. She went down the steps and through a beaded curtain into the restaurant. A handsome dark-skinned man in a turban met her at the door, and asked her if she would like to sit in the garden. She said she would, and he led her through the restaurant, past a tank of water containing a huge silver fish swimming languidly back and forth. Claire noticed half a dozen small goldfish swimming nervously in a cluster at the bottom of the tank. She didn’t need to be told what the goldfish were for.

  She was conducted out into the back garden, festively decorated with brightly colored banners, potted plants, and paper lanterns hung on poles. In the corner of the garden, alone at a corner table, sat Detective Jackson. Claire saw him before he saw her, and walked toward him.