People came and went in the café, and Claire thought about how many lives existed in the city which she had no part of. The city was like not one hive, but like hundreds of thousands of hives or colonies all intermingled. Claire looked at her watch. She had been there for half an hour already. She wondered if she had gotten the place right. She pulled the crumpled receipt from her bag on which she had written the name: the Life Café. She had definitely come to the right restaurant.
A girl in black tights and leather jacket, her hair the color of a purple crayon, came into the café. She spoke to the waitress in an excited voice.
“There’s been an accident on the subway.”
“What happened?”
“A lady was killed. She fell on the tracks. I heard the police think she might have been pushed.”
Claire felt a cool dread creeping over her like a narcotic, paralyzing her. It was as if the report of the subway death triggered a terror that she had been holding on to without even knowing it. Suddenly she felt extremely claustrophobic: the restaurant was too crowded, the tables too small, the cigarette smoke stifling; she must get out. Claire turned toward the waitress to ask for her check. She had to make a phone call, had to talk to—who? She scratched around frantically in her purse for her wallet, found it and paid the bill, not even glancing at the change the waitress placed in front of her. She staggered up from her seat and pushed her way out into the street, almost tripping a jogger, whose glare was lost on her. She forced her mind to concentrate as her eyes searched the corner for a phone booth. Seeing one across from Tompkins Square Park, she ran across the street, ignoring the light, and lifted the receiver with trembling hands. She had to concentrate to remember the precinct number: the ninth. She dialed the number the operator gave her, her heart leaping at every ring.
Finally, after seven rings, a thick voice said, “Ninth Precinct.”
“Detective Jackson, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Claire Rawlings.”
“He’s not here right now.”
“When will he be back?”
“I dunno.”
Claire felt panicky. Then she remembered the precinct station house was a few blocks away from where she stood. She could go there and wait for him to return.
“Did you wanna leave a message?”
“Uh, no, that’s okay.” She hung up. It suddenly occurred to her to call Amelia’s apartment, just in case . . . but after the tenth ring her dread deepened, a cold, rising tide of fear in her stomach.
She walked through the park, past the homeless people living out of shopping carts, past the dogs romping together on the hill, past old men playing checkers on the stone tables. She turned and walked on Fifth Street, until she stood in front of the heavy grey stones of the station house. She pushed open the thick door and stood inside, panting. The room was no more bustling than it had been on her last visit: blue-clad policemen stood around smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The phone rang steadily. The blond woman’s desk sat in its corner by the door, but there was no sign of her. Claire felt a draft behind her, and turned to see the door open just as Detective Jackson entered. She had an impulse to rush to him but stood where she was, mouth open, until he saw her. He stopped in front of her, his face grim.
“There’s been a death on the subway, and I have to go investigate.”
“I heard,” Claire said. “Do they know the victim’s name yet?”
“Amelia Moore.”
Claire stood still, staring at him.
“What?” Claire heard her own voice, small and distant.
“Amelia Moore—she was an acquaintance of Blanche DuBois’s. You knew her, too?” he added, seeing her face.
“She was my friend.”
Claire felt a sudden, strong need to hug someone. Detective Jackson stood before her, a rumpled trench coat slung over his sloping shoulders. She flung herself into his arms, knocking him off balance. He staggered, recovered, and hesitated a moment. Then his arms folded around her like a comforting cloak.
Chapter 17
Amelia had a mother on Long Island and a brother in North Carolina, but since her life had centered in New York, her funeral was held in Riverside Chapel, on Riverside Drive and 122nd Street. This time Meredith was allowed to attend, and she was very well behaved, even subdued. She had liked Amelia, and was as shocked as everyone else to hear of her death.
“It’s my fault,” she said bitterly when Claire told her the sad news. “If only I had worked faster, this wouldn’t have happened.” Meredith was convinced that the same person who killed Blanche had pushed Amelia onto the subway tracks—an opinion shared by Wallace Jackson. He, too, attended the funeral—looking for suspects, Meredith said—in the same shabby grey trench coat he always wore.
“I am considering this a homicide,” he said in response to Meredith’s inquiry as she and Claire slid into the pew next to him. Claire hadn’t wanted to sit by the detective, but as soon as Meredith saw him, she begged to sit with him, and Claire acquiesced. She thought she saw Marshall Bassett smile at them when they sat down next to Jackson.
Nobody felt much like smiling during the service, though; there was audible weeping as the minister gave the eulogy. Claire saw a lot of unfamiliar young faces in the crowd, and supposed they were Amelia’s voice students. Anthony Sciorra sat alone near the back, his face rigid. He had already lost the woman he loved, and now he had lost the woman who loved him. Amelia’s death made the front page of the Metro Section of theTimes, and a few reporters loitered about the church, though the taking of photographs was strictly prohibited during the service.
WOMAN’S DEATH RULED “SUSPICIOUS,” the Times headline read, and then the article went on to quote the captain of the Twenty-fourth Precinct, who said noncommittally that Amelia’s death was “under investigation.” As a detective in the Ninth Precinct, Wallace Jackson was not officially involved in any way—and his superiors on the force evidently did not share his opinion that the two deaths were necessarily linked, because they did not assign him to the investigation.
“Of all the stupid, pigheaded things!” Meredith ranted when she heard this. “Of course they’re related; you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that!”
As they were leaving the church Claire saw Sergeant Barker. He and Jackson were having a conversation, heads bent together, voices low. Claire thought the sergeant looked a little thicker than the last time she saw him. When he saw her and Meredith, he bounded over toward them.
“Hello,” he said, doing his best to look solemn but not succeeding; it was simply inherently impossible for Sergeant Barker to look sad.
“Have you gained weight?” Meredith asked sourly in response to his greeting.
Sergeant Barker looked pleased by this question.
“Ah, you noticed! Yes, I have to gain twenty pounds for a role I have to play next month.” He produced a flyer from the depths of his coat. “You should come see it; we’re doing H.M.S. Pinafore at the South Street Seaport. Neat, huh?”
Meredith didn’t respond. Claire took the flyer and looked at it; there was a drawing of several sailors saluting a plump woman who she supposed was Little Buttercup.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” said Sergeant Barker, and he scurried off through the crowd.
Claire went to the reception just long enough to pay her respects to Amelia’s mother, a small, sad woman with Amelia’s delicate features and curly hair, except that hers was grey. At the sight of Amelia’s mother Claire couldn’t help thinking that this would have been Amelia herself someday if she had lived a normal life span.
After a few words with Amelia’s mother and brother, both of whom were distraught with grief—both shared Amelia’s emotional intensity as well as some of her mannerisms—Claire took Meredith and went home.
As they walked along Riverside Drive Meredith said, “What’s going to happen to Amelia’s mail now?”
Claire watched a squirrel running along the stone w
all bordering Riverside Park. The squirrel had been keeping up with them for some time now, stopping every once in a while to sniff the air, evidently hoping for handouts.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I suppose it will go to her mother.”
“I have a better idea,” Meredith suggested. “It should be forwarded to the police. There may be a clue in the mail.”
Claire stepped carefully over a rough section of the path. Meredith had already made an arrangement with Sarah to look at Blanche’s mail as soon as it was forwarded to her; Claire was surprised, actually, that Sarah had been so amenable to the idea.
“Well . . .” she said.
“I think we should call Mrs. Moore and ask her.”
Sometimes Meredith’s presumptuousness amazed Claire. She imagined the poor, bereaved woman having to make such a decision so soon after her daughter’s death.
“All right, we’ll ask Detective Jackson what he thinks. But wait a few days, all right?”
Meredith scuffed her shoe on some gravel along the side of the path.
“All right.”
In the aftermath of Amelia’s death, everyone was frightened and depressed. Sarah was particularly upset. She called and asked Claire and Meredith to come over the next day.
“What did she ever do to anyone—that good, kind woman?” she said, blowing her nose into a pink lace handkerchief she had inherited from Blanche. Sitting across from her in Sarah’s living room, Claire looked out onto Bethune Street, where a light rain was falling. She felt a sense of unreality. It did seem impossible that anyone could consider Amelia a threat—sweet, trusting Amelia who just wanted to hunt her mushrooms and give parties. Claire turned back to Sarah.
“I don’t know,” she said lamely. “I can’t figure it out.”
“She knew something,” Meredith said from the couch. She sat hunched in the corner of Sarah’s stiff-backed antique sofa, her hands clasped over her thin knees. Claire knew the girl felt personally responsible for Amelia’s death, because she sat staring at the wall, refusing Sarah’s offer of cookies.
“She knew something,” Meredith repeated, “and I’m going to find out what it was. That will lead me to her killer.”
Sarah rubbed her eyes wearily.
“That’s very good of you, but what makes you think you can accomplish something the police haven’t been able to do?”
Meredith looked at Sarah, her eyes almost yellow in the lamplight.
“Because if I set out to do something, it will get done,” she said with such conviction that Claire was impressed. Sarah just smiled sadly.
“Well, I for one wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Oh, that’s the easy part,” said Meredith. “Amelia knew something that no one else knew, something she tried to communicate to Claire. The murderer must have known this, and that’s why they killed her.”
“Yes, but what did she know, and why was she trying to tell Claire and not the police?”
“That’s just it, don’t you see?” cried Meredith. “That’s exactly the right question: why did she want to tell Claire and not the police?”
“I can’t imagine,” Sarah replied dully. Claire thought she was more moved by Amelia’s death than by her sister’s; certainly it was no secret Sarah had liked Amelia better. But Claire couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t like Amelia. She was different from Blanche, who could irritate people just by the way she walked into a room.
Claire remembered Peter’s suggestion that she ask Sarah about finishing Blanche’s book. Since Amelia’s death, everything seemed fragile and transitory, and the book had taken on an importance for her that she could not quite explain.
“Sarah,” she said, “my editor wanted to know if you would have any objections to my finishing Blanche’s last book.”
“Oh, that Klan thing she was working on? You want to finish writing it?”
“Yes; she completed a first draft before she died. It mostly just needs editing.”
Sarah got up and walked over to the French window and looked out into the street.
“I can’t imagine why she made me her literary executor.” She laughed, a dry, mirthless chuckle. “Blanche’s last revenge, getting me involved with her writing after she’s gone—and I haven’t even been able to bring myself to go through her apartment.”
“What did she leave Marshall in her will?” said Meredith.
“Oh, books, furniture—she and Marshall both went in for antiques, you know.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, and a certain percentage of the Klan book, if it’s published.”
“Did you know Claire and I were in Amelia’s will?” Meredith said.
“You?” Sarah looked puzzled. “But Amelia barely knew you,” she said to Meredith.
“Oh, she just left me her books on mushrooms, because she thought I was interested in them,” Meredith replied.
“Are you?”
“Not really—except the poisonous ones. She left Claire some nice china, I guess because they used to have tea together.”
Sarah sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs. “But that would mean that Amelia’s will was done—or at least added to—quite recently.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you think—”
“That she knew she was going to die?” Meredith wrapped her thin arms around her body. “I’ve thought about it, and I’m not sure what to think. She was frightened about something. Marshall told me he noticed something strange about her the day they went to—the day she was killed.”
Sarah shook her head. “Good Lord,” she said, and turned to Claire. “Go ahead, finish the book. Maybe you’ll discover the key to her murder.”
Claire had been going over the manuscript, and as she did she wondered what had caused Blanche to turn from her lucrative mysteries and do the enormous amount of research necessary for a book like this. She had never asked her, but she wondered what in Blanche’s own life made her want to tackle such a project, what personal event or events had led her to an interest—an obsession, maybe—deep enough to devote so much time to the subject of racism. She mentioned this to Sarah.
“Well, we haven’t spoken about it much since school, but . . .”
“What?” said Meredith, unable to contain herself.
“Oh, there was a boy at school, a lovely man, really—a scholar and an athlete, and I think Blanche actually loved him.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“How?”
“Well, I remember she had just thrown over this one fellow, James White, a handsome art major, a Southerner— from Virginia, I think. He was very angry at her, thought that she had led him on, and he turned out to be a very vengeful, ugly person, and—though we didn’t know it at the time—a racist. Anyway, the young man Blanche fell for—his name was Cliff—happened to be black, and when James found out about it, he confronted them in public and said some really horrible things. Blanche and Cliff were classmates at UNC, and one day they were strolling together in Chapel Hill when James approached them and . . . well, I wasn’t there, but Blanche said he physically threatened them. A few days after that Cliff disappeared.”
“Was a body ever found?” asked Meredith. Sarah paused and looked away, and Claire noticed that her hands gripped her wine glass tensely.
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
Sarah put down her glass and stared at the carpet.
“It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself to think about it, so please excuse me. It was so—horrible . . .”
“What?” Meredith leaned forward expectantly. Sarah looked at the child as if she were not quite human, then addressed herself to Claire.
“Shortly after Cliff’s disappearance Blanche received a package in the mail.” She paused again and shuddered. “It was a heart.”
“A heart?” Meredith’s voice was tight with excitement.
“A hu
man heart.”
“Was it his?”
“There was no way to tell for sure without the rest of the body, but Blanche was sure it was Cliff’s.”
“And the police?”
“There was an inquest, of course, but without a body—”
“That was in the days before DNA testing,” Meredith said thoughtfully. “Were there any other clues as to who might have . . .?”
Sarah leaned back against the couch and rubbed her forehead.
“I’ve tried so hard not to think about this . . . wait a minute; yes, there was something else. About a week before Cliff disappeared Blanche received an envelope with nothing in it except five little seeds.”
“The Five Orange Pips!” Meredith cried, leaping from her chair, sending Sarah’s cat fleeing to the safety of the kitchen.
“What?” said Sarah.
“It’s a Sherlock Holmes story: ‘The Five Orange Pips.’ A ‘pip’ is a seed. In the story the seeds are sent to the murder victims to warn them of their impending demise. Holmes figures this out and finds the murderer.”
“Who is it?”
“A former member of the Ku Klux Klan! See, the Klan used to—”
“Yes, yes, I grew up in the South, you know,” Sarah said a little impatiently. “We knew that one of the methods the Klan used to intimidate their victims was sending them seeds in the mail. Blanche showed the seeds to the police when she received them, but they laughed at her. They said a few seeds in the mail didn’t constitute a legal threat.”
Meredith waved her hands dismissively.
“Where real finesse is required, the police are next to useless.” She looked at Claire and then quickly added, “Except for some of them, of course.”
Sarah rose and went to the window, pulling back the white lace curtain to look out onto the street, where a light rain was falling more steadily now. Under other circumstances, Claire would have found the whoosh of car tires upon the rain-soaked street comforting.
“I don’t know if I should say this . . .” Sarah began.
“Oh, go ahead,” Meredith said, but Claire glared at her.
Who Killed Blanche DuBois? Page 16
