Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “We were instructed to arrest Mr. Schwartz after receiving an anonymous tip regarding his involvement in Ms. DuBois’s death,” Jackson said wearily in what sounded like a rehearsed statement. Claire realized that he would probably say something very similar to the press when they got wind of the arrest.

  “Subsequent to receiving the information, we obtained a search warrant and found incriminating evidence in Mr. Schwartz’s office, at which point we arrested him,” he said as though he were reciting a memorized text. Claire thought the formal speech was an attempt to keep his distance from her.

  “What kind of evidence?” Meredith said. “What did you find?”

  “A syringe with traces of cyanide in it,” said Sergeant Barker before Jackson could stop him.

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous!” Meredith snorted. “He’s obviously being framed.”

  “Whether or not he is guilty, we’ve been ordered by the DA’s office to arrest him, and we have done so. I really shouldn’t be discussing this case with you at all,” he added with a sigh.

  There was a pause, and then Claire said, “Do you think Peter is guilty?”

  “What I think doesn’t enter into it at this point,” Jackson said, picking up a paper clip from his desk and bending it back and forth. “When the DA’s office says to collar someone, we do it.”

  “It’s political, you know,” Barker added, an air of confidentiality in his tone.

  “Wow, so you had no choice?” Meredith chirped.

  “Not if I want to keep my job,” Jackson replied.

  “So what do you think?” said Meredith.

  “Well, I can’t really discuss the case in detail, but if you want my opinion—”

  “Yes, I do,” Meredith answered.

  “No, I don’t think Peter Schwartz is guilty. Even if he is, I can’t believe he’d leave that syringe in his office. It’s so clumsy a device that I can’t believe someone would actually think we’d fall for it—but they would use it to keep us occupied for a while, and they’ve succeeded in doing that.”

  “So is he going to go on trial?”

  “That will be up to a grand jury,” said Jackson, “unless of course the DA decides to let him go before it gets to that.”

  “Why would the DA let him go?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons—an alibi would be one reason, although this is a tricky case for an alibi, since the apples were delivered and could have presumably been treated at any time prior to the delivery, then delivered by someone who was totally innocent.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Meredith.

  “Why not?”

  “Because this murderer is obsessive and controlling, and wouldn’t leave something like that in someone else’s hands. Someone who came up with such a bizarre form of death would want to see it through to the end, even if it meant there was more risk involved.”

  “How do you know the murderer is obsessive and controlling?” said Sergeant Barker.

  “Well, for one thing Blanche’s murder was no spontaneous crime of passion. Poisoning is a premeditated act. This one was meticulously planned, and had a twisted sort of humor to it. I mean, really, a poison apple of all things, which indicates an obsessive personality—a bit of a perfectionist, you might say.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right,” said Jackson, “but I don’t see how that helps Mr. Schwartz.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Meredith. “It just might help you.”

  “Oh, well, thank you,” Jackson said, a little sardonically.

  Peter didn’t spend even one night in jail; the judge at his arraignment determined that there was not much probability of flight, and he was released on a minuscule bail. The judge evidently disagreed with the DA’s office concerning the likelihood of Peter’s guilt.

  “Maybe there is such a thing as bad publicity,” Peter commented grimly the next day, tossing the Metro Section of the Times onto Claire’s desk. Claire looked at the headline: BOOK EDITOR ARRESTED IN MYSTERIOUS AUTHOR’S DEATH. Underneath, a headline in smaller print read, MOTIVE STILL UNCLEAR.

  “Are you all right?” Claire said.

  “Oh, sure; I’m fine, I’ve been led in handcuffs in front of all my colleagues, spent a charming afternoon at Rikers— and now I’ll have to get an unlisted phone number. The press are already hounding me. I’m fine—I’m just great.”

  Meredith walked into Claire’s office carrying two paper cups of tea and a blueberry muffin. She was taking an afternoon train to Connecticut and had come into work with Claire with her bag packed. She loved to buy tea from the office vendor.

  “It’s all just so stupid,” she said, handing one cup to Claire.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Peter grumbled.

  “Well, anyone can see that.” Meredith carefully peeled the paper from her muffin. “They’re just grasping at straws. I’ll tell you one thing, though: it means the murderer is still among us, and close enough by to break into your office.” She discarded the paper and broke the muffin in two, setting one half on a napkin on Claire’s desk.

  Peter laughed bitterly. “That’s a comforting thought.”

  Meredith took a bite of muffin. “But I don’t think for a minute that he—or she—thought the police would take the syringe seriously. They were just having a little fun at your expense.”

  “What did I ever do . . .”

  “That’s not the point. The point is that it tells us something about the psychology of the murderer: that he or she is playful—in a bizarre way, of course—and that to some extent sees this as a game.”

  “Well, if you think that is helpful information, I’m glad,” said Peter, “but I don’t see how—”

  “Oh, anything is potentially helpful information,” said Meredith. “It’s a question of how well you use it.”

  “Well, that’s enough sleuthing for this morning,” said Claire. “We have to get you on a train.”

  Meredith rolled her eyes and sank back into the couch. “Oh, God, back to the Land of the Living Dead.”

  “Oh, come on, Connecticut’s not that bad,” said Peter. “After all, I’ve just spent some time in Rikers.”

  “Then you were lucky,” said Meredith.

  “Hardy-har-har,” said Peter. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to phone my lawyer.” He wandered off in the direction of his office.

  “Come on,” said Claire, picking up Meredith’s suitcase. “It’s time to go.”

  Meredith popped the last bite of muffin into her mouth and followed Claire silently, communicating her reluctance to leave through her dragging feet and slumped shoulders.

  Since Amelia’s death Claire had been spending more and more time with Sarah. Claire had a sense—which she thought Sarah shared—that the two of them shared a bond as “survivors” of Blanche and Amelia’s tragic deaths. Before the events of the preceding weeks, Claire would never have thought of Sarah as a close friend, but that had changed, and she now felt herself increasingly drawn to her, and to the large, airy living room on Bethune Street, where the two of them would sit having tea or sherry in the evening as the cars slid slowly by on the street outside. Claire found Sarah’s presence comforting, and was pretty sure that Sarah felt the same about her.

  That evening Claire went to Sarah’s after work. With Meredith back in Connecticut, Claire didn’t want to go straight home to an empty apartment. Claire was sitting on the couch and Sarah was in the kitchen opening a bottle of Merlot when the doorbell rang.

  Claire poked her head into the kitchen. “Do you want me to get it?”

  “Hmm . . . I’m not expecting anyone,” Sarah replied. “I’ll get it.”

  Sarah went out into the hallway, and Claire heard Anthony’s voice in the corridor—except that it wasn’t any voice she had ever heard Anthony use. She couldn’t make out all of the words, but she did hear him say, “Oh, Sarah,” and then the rest dissolved into a kind of muffled weeping, as though he were crying into her shoulder. Claire could only imagine how uncomfortabl
e Sarah would be with that, and she was about to rescue her when Sarah entered the room, followed by Anthony.

  Anthony was so much thinner that it was shocking. He looked like the victim of a wasting disease like cancer or AIDS or something, and Claire couldn’t help staring at him. His handsome face was gaunt, and his dark eyes looked sunken and feverish. Seeing her reaction to him, he shook his head sadly.

  “I know, I do not look well. Don’t worry, it is only my heart which is wounded.” There was still a trace of Palermo in his voice, a rise on certain consonants that suggested the sloping hillsides and baking sun of Italy. He sat heavily on Sarah’s settee.

  “I am sorry to bother you like this,” he said. “I have been wandering around the city and I saw your building . . . well, maybe my feet led me here on purpose; who knows? I don’t know anything any more . . .” He sighed deeply and stared at the carpet, as though all of his energy had been expended in those few words. Claire thought she had never seen anyone look so . . . empty. She looked at Sarah to see how she was reacting to this.

  Sarah stood in the center of her living room, eyes averted, her face serious. Claire couldn’t read her expression, and didn’t know if she was feeling sympathy or irritation with Anthony. Sarah always hated the way Blanche led him on, reeling him in and then letting him back out, but Claire didn’t think she blamed Anthony for this. She didn’t think Sarah blamed Anthony for Amelia’s unrequited attachment to him either—but you could never tell with Sarah. Sometimes Claire thought that Sarah viewed other people as figures on a chessboard, to be manipulated as she saw fit. She wasn’t exactly insensitive; she just had a strong idea of the way things should be and was impatient with those who couldn’t see the logic of her way. Amelia and Anthony together would have been perfectly logical, whereas the idea of Blanche and Anthony was laughable; hence Sarah’s utter impatience at everyone’s refusal to get it right.

  “Well, you’re here now, so how about a drink?” Sarah said finally.

  Anthony looked up at her with the eyes of a grateful dog who has just escaped a beating.

  “Oh, bless you, mia serra,” he said. He smiled at Claire. “In Palermo they say that wine, not fire, was the gift Prometheus brought to mankind before they chained him to the rock.” He looked away and his face went slack again. “Well, we are all chained to a rock of some kind or other, I think . . . what is your rock, do you think?” he said to Claire.

  Caught off guard, Claire felt herself blush. “I don’t know . . . I haven’t really thought about it.”

  Anthony sighed. “Well, for me it is clear now, all too clear, and I have only myself to blame.”

  “What are you to blame for?” said Claire.

  “Why, for Amelia’s death, of course,” Anthony said as though it were self-evident.

  “How could you possibly be to blame for—” said Claire, but just then Sarah came in with the bottle of Merlot and three glasses.

  “I thought maybe we could all use a drink,” she said.

  “Gracie, cara,” said Anthony.

  Sarah poured three glasses of wine. Claire watched it swirl into the glasses, a deep dark red. Sarah lifted her glass.

  “To Amelia,” she said.

  “Che Dio ti accompagni,” Anthony said softly.

  The three glasses touched each other—a thin, hollow sound which was quickly absorbed by the silent, waiting air.

  “Why do you think you’re responsible for Amelia’s death?” Claire asked.

  Anthony looked at her tragically. “Is it not clear to everyone that she killed herself out of love for me?”

  “Well, it isn’t clear to me,” Sarah answered rather brusquely.

  “No, no; affanni del pensier,” he replied sadly. “It is a private thing, such suffering.”

  “Look, Anthony, I know Amelia loved you,” said Sarah, “but I don’t think she killed herself because of that.”

  “Really?” Anthony said blankly. “Then why?”

  “Because . . .” Sarah began, and looked at Claire.

  “Because she may have been pushed,” Claire replied.

  “Pushed? Pushed?” Anthony asked, as if the meaning of the word escaped him. “But who would want to kill Amelia—poor, soft, innocent Amelia?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Sarah, and for a moment Claire thought she sounded exactly like Meredith.

  Chapter 24

  On Wednesday Claire walked around the office in a kind of haze. Her mind was foggy and she felt as if she were just pretending to be present; it was as though she was doing an imitation of herself.

  Around lunchtime Peter wandered into her office and sat down on the couch.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right,” she replied, “just a little tired.”

  “Do you want to take the rest of the day off?”

  “No, I’ll be fine, really.” Claire suddenly wondered whether Peter knew about the orange seeds.

  “Well, let me know if you need anything,” he said, and left.

  After he had gone Claire realized how self-centered she had become. Peter had troubles of his own; he was facing a possible indictment by a grand jury, and yet he had time to express concern for her—but all she could think of was her own danger. She realized, too, how paranoid her thinking had become. She had a sense that no one around her could really be trusted, and that somewhere in her world there was someone who was willing to kill . . . first Blanche, then Amelia, and now . . . her. The phone rang, startling her. Even the familiar sound of the telephone seemed sinister now, Claire thought as she answered it.

  “Claire Rawlings.”

  “Hello, Claire.” It was Ted Lawrence. He seemed uncomfortable using her first name. He was a man more at ease with formality, with prescribed behavior.

  “Oh, hi. I just put Meredith on the train this morning.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m going to pick her up in a few minutes. That’s not why I’m calling. I . . . I’m not sure how to ask you this, but . . .” He paused, and Claire could hear the slow intake of breath as he gathered his courage.

  “What?”

  “Well, have you—have either you or Meredith heard from my wife?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s . . . she’s sort of missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes, she never came home yesterday. She was in the city doing some shopping—”

  “You mean Hartford?”

  “No, New York. She didn’t come home, and nobody seems to have heard from her since yesterday morning when she left here.”

  “Does she have any friends in the city?”

  “She has a sister on the Upper East Side, but she’s in Florida for the winter. I tried calling her sister’s apartment, but no one is picking up, and the answering machine has been turned off. I don’t know what to do.”

  He sounded so forlorn that Claire felt sorry for him. Emotion sat on him awkwardly, like a badly tailored suit of clothes.

  “Well, if you hear from her let me know. Otherwise, I guess I’ll call the police.”

  Claire could hear the reluctance in his voice. For a man like Ted Lawrence, involving the police in his private life would be a humiliation. He was the exact opposite of the people who crowd the talk shows day after day, eager to share the sordid details of their lives, like patients showing off ugly scars after an operation. To these people, sordid events and pain are a badge of honor, whereas to Ted Lawrence they were indignities to be borne patiently and quietly. Claire promised that she would let him know if she heard anything.

  After they hung up, she remembered Meredith’s withering portrayal of her stepmother as a cocaine junkie. Perhaps Jean Lawrence had passed out somewhere—or worse. Claire wondered if she should call Ted Lawrence back and suggest this, but she was afraid to. She didn’t think it was her place, and she did not want to be the one to suggest to him that his wife had a drug problem. Even if he knew in his heart of hearts that this was true, Claire didn’t think he’
d take kindly to having his face rubbed in it. She tried to imagine Meredith’s response when her father told her the news. Would she tell him what she had told Claire, and would there be a terrible fight? Or would she be kind and sympathetic and try to help her father through this difficult time?

  Claire looked out the window onto Sixth Avenue. People scurried about the sidewalks, bent over against the November wind, intent on—what? What was so important that you would sacrifice everything for it, even your life? Claire suddenly had a desire to leave everything, to step out of her life. Beyond the frenetic energy of the city, up the shining Hudson River, peace awaited her . . . a quiet weekend with Robert. She considered telling Peter about the threat she had received, to ask him if she could drop finishing Blanche’s book, but then she remembered Wallace Jackson’s words: it was better not to mention the seeds to anyone. The subtext of this, of course, was quite clear: you never could tell who was just waiting for the right opportunity to kill you.

  That afternoon she had an appointment with Marshall Bassett to have an impacted wisdom tooth removed. She didn’t mind going out to New Jersey; Marshall was an excellent oral surgeon, and he sometimes gave her a special rate. She also usually enjoyed the bus ride, although this time she just sat and stared out the window, gazing at the blond grasses of the Meadowlands, thinking how beautiful the landscape must have been before it was turned into an industrial wasteland. The smell of sulphur rose from tall white smoke stacks, bluish clouds of chemicals billowing into the air. Claire leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

  Dem Vater grauset’s; er reitet gesch wind,

  er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind

  Sitting in Marshall Bassett’s tidy waiting room, Claire inhaled the familiar sour smell common to all dental offices. What was it, she wondered. Formaldehyde? Novocaine? Laughing gas? She looked at the inevitable Highlights magazine on the coffee table: Gallant holds doors open for ladies.

  Goofus sends them death threats in the mail.

  Marshall was, as usual, cheerful and impeccably professional. Once again Claire felt a comfort in his presence that she never fully understood. It was partly his self-assurance and partly his lightly ironic take on life, his utter lack of cloying earnestness. After showing her the X-ray of her tooth, he suggested intravenous Valium as an anesthetic.