by Liz Bradbury
“So the person in the hooded sweatshirt had red hair and was fairly thin. Was he white?” I asked.
She nodded. “Aye.”
“Good, let’s call him Red. I don’t like that the police are calling him Hoodie. When you heard the second shot, you could see Red, right?”
“Aye.”
“Could you see both his hands then?”
Nora paused to recall the scene. “Aye, both of them. He turned with his arms out a bit. He didn’t have anything in his hands. Certainly not a gun. Besides, the sound of the shot came from farther away.”
I read back what I’d written on my laptop. “You heard a shot, Red ran into view, you heard another shot, Red looked around, you could see he was empty handed. He ran up to the blue jacket, looked briefly and then ran behind the big yew bushes. And you could see the other man on his hands and knees throwing up directly beyond him?”
“Aye.”
“You’re sure you saw Red go behind the bushes?”
“Aye.”
“So did I.” I thought for a minute. “Ever seen this person before?”
“No, I would have remembered the ginger hair.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Hear anything? Well, em, I heard the shot, the scream, the sirens... em... might have heard a wee grinding sound at some point, like someone running on gravel, but with the wind in the trees.” She shook her head.
I typed this into my laptop. “The sound was before or after the shot?”
“Both, I think. But it could have been a lorry.”
“And did you see anyone on Fen Street?”
“Not until the police came.”
I looked over the notes, then sat back and changed the subject to something more conversational.
“Do you act in plays, too?”
“The Bard shows, doesn’t he? The lines keep slipping into my vocabulary. I can’t help it. It happens to every actor. I’ve been in a few productions and now all the world’s a stage.” She laughed out loud, then sighed. “I bet Charlotte Cushman wouldn’t have stood me up. Tell me what you know about her.”
“Um, well, very famous in her day, certainly more famous than Laura Keene and her troupe, but both were nearly household names. You’re the one who’s studying her. Do you agree with scholars that Cushman lost her place in history because loving women was more severely frowned on in the early twentieth century than in her day?”
“Well aye, that would explain it for Cushman, but not Laura Keene. She was straight, but she’s not remembered for her acting ability either.”
“No, she isn’t,” I agreed. “Keene is only remembered these days for holding Lincoln’s head in her lap as he died. It must have stung when she realized there was no way to avoid that being her claim to fame.”
“Did you know that Laura Keene played the Majestic in 1866? Of course I suppose she played just about every theatre in this part of the country.” Nora considered. “I think Cushman was forgotten because all stage actors are, unless their work is preserved.”
“Explain.”
“Well, 100 years ago everyone knew of Sarah Bernhardt,” mused Nora as she stirred her tea. “She played every town, but when the people who saw her died off, so did her reputation. Live performers only began to enjoy immortality with sound recordings. The women who played those 19th century ‘breeches parts’ were too early even for silent pictures.”
“Breeches parts.” I smiled. “Women in male roles? Daring for the day.”
“And a wee bit dodgy for polite society. Sexy, too. Tight pants showing off hips, thighs, and calves, instead of floor length dresses with hoop skirts and bum rolls. Those unfettered nether curves didn’t go unnoticed by the blokes in the audiences. Or some of the women, either.” Nora winked.
I nodded. “Women certainly did find Cushman attractive. Sort of a female 19th century Hugh Hefner. She must have had a thrilling personality. All those artists and writers so devoted to her.”
Nora laughed lightly. “Personality? Really? Well, I suppose that’s one word for it.”
I adored this topic but was distracted by the possibility of Kathryn’s return to the loft. I stole a glance at my watch, then said, “Did you know that a number of pieces by a woman artist of that day stand in the cemetery?”
“Aye, Victoria Snow. I’ve only just arrived this semester. I may not get to study the collections of women’s art until later in the year. It’s rubbish that women’s works fall into obscurity.”
“Like Edmonia Lewis’s Cleopatra? Lost for 120 years and then finally found, restored, and placed in the Smithsonian? I see what you mean about immortality. Her work is still around to appreciate, even if it was lost for a time.” I glanced at my watch again, then said, “It’s been very nice talking with you but I have to go.”
“I appreciate you letting me whinge and whine. Maggie, em... you’re not interested in taking me for a nosh, then?” She smiled again in that dazzling way. She really was charming, but I had somewhere else to be.
I said, “Maybe another time you could come to my place for dinner. It’s just half a block down the street. I’d like you to meet my partner. She’s done research on these... Oh, you probably know her, Dr. Kathryn Anthony, at the college?”
Nora visibly shrank. She whispered, “Crikey, Dr. Anthony is your partner?”
I nodded.
“Yes, I know her,” said Nora reverently. “I came here in hopes to study with her; she’s brilliant. You’re very lucky then, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t made it a question but I answered it anyway. “Yes, I am.” I smiled. “Here’s my card. If you remember anything else or see the man with the ginger hair, please call me.”
I paused, then said, “I think I know someone else who might like to take you out for a late supper. Shall I call her?”
Nora had managed to recover from the mention of Kathryn. She said, “Fancy, that. Friend of yours? Nearby?”
“My sister. Her office is just down the street. Shall I text her?”
“If she looks like you,” smiled Nora.
“She doesn’t.” I reached in my bag for my phone and scrolled through some photos, then held up a fairly hot one of Sara for Nora to see.
Nora smiled and nodded after a two-second glance. She poured herself the last of the tea and then got up to take the pot to the sink.
I texted Sara, < Have u eaten yet? >
And got back, < Have hot date for me? >
< 4 a late supper? on u btw >
< Smart? funny? interesting? >
I answered, < Yes 2 all >
< Send photo. >
I subtly snapped a picture of Nora and sent it to Sara’s cell.
Sara texted back, < If I take her somewhere nice will I get lucky?>
Nora called across the room, “If she’s asking if taking me for more than a bap and a banger might increase her odds, tell her we’ll have to see, but it certainly couldn’t hurt!”
I told Sara to drop by Nora’s in about an hour. That would give them each time to get ready but not too much time to obsess about it.
“Maggie,” said Nora, “you’ve been a delightful guest. And we’ll see if I’ll be thanking you tomorrow.” Nora gave me another dazzling smile and I wished her good night.
In the foyer I zipped up my jacket and pulled on my gloves to meet the frigid February night.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I walked down the stone steps outside. There was someone standing on the sidewalk watching me. It was Kathryn.
Chapter 6
“Dr. Anthony,” I said when I got to the bottom step. I reached to sweep her into my arms, but then I got a good look at her expression. She wasn’t pleased, she looked... well, I wasn’t sure. Annoyed? Frustrated? Sad? Jealous? Kind of all of the above. Sweeping was not an option.
“What’s wrong?” I asked simply.
Kathryn smiled a little but didn’t speak, then she shook her head.
I turned and looked at the clear v
iew into Nora’s apartment from the spot where Kathryn was standing. There was Nora, rinsing the tea cups. Kathryn turned toward the loft and began walking. I managed to keep up, but we were out of step.
Kathryn said in a low voice, only half teasing, “Was she worth it?”
“Whoa,” I said reaching for her arm. I turned her to face me. She wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.
“Kathryn, you can’t be serious.”
She shook her head at me in a tsk tsk kind of way.
“Kathryn,” I said frankly, “I have no idea how long you were standing there, but if it was for any length of time, you’d know I didn’t touch that woman. I didn’t even shake hands with her. She was a witness to the murder this afternoon. The police interviewed her and I did too.”
Kathryn looked slowly up into my eyes and for just a moment she focused on me with that searching stare that bores right into my soul. Her expression shifted again. “Oh, Maggie,” she said, then she sighed. “I’m cold.”
“Then let’s go home,” I said simply. When we got there, she waited while I punched in the lock code and disarmed the alarm.
The foyer was much warmer than outside. The freight elevator doors were open. Kathryn turned to take the stairs, which is faster than the lift, but I took her hand and led her into the elevator. I pulled the strap and the massive doors came down from the ceiling and up from the floor, clanking together in the middle like a giant eyelid, shutting out the view of the foyer and enclosing us in the small space. I reached for the chain link safety gate and pulled it down into place, then turned to face Kathryn squarely.
“Talk to me,” I said gently.
She sighed and leaned against the wall with her eyes closed. “Maggie, I’m going to express this as intellectually as possible, but it’s really a lot more visceral than I could have imagined.” She seemed surprised by this confession. She sighed again and put her elbow on the wall shelf. “At the risk of sounding like a insecure bitch, I’m tempted to point out that I did fairly well at ignoring that overly made-up woman with the dramatic hairdo when she was flirting with you.”
“Don’t waste your energy being jealous of her. I barely remember her name.”
“You never forget anything. Her name was Staplehurst, Pepper Staplehurst.”
“Piper,” I said drily, folding my arms.
Kathryn raised both hands over her head, then dropped them to her sides.
“Oh Kathryn, is this going to be one of those formulaic Lesbian romance plots? They meet. They’re attracted to each other. They have flaws. They have a big fight and nearly let the whole thing spiral down the porcelain. Finally they get back together and have wild sex. If so, could we just skip to the sex part?”
She snorted, fighting down a laugh, but she was still agitated. Finally she leaned back against the wall and relented.
“The retreat went badly. Half the English Department wouldn’t stop arguing off subject; the rest sat in silence waiting for it to end. Suddenly, someone I’d thought was far more stable began to rant loudly about some past issue I didn’t understand. Nobody did, as a matter of fact. And then, just like the steel drummer, Dr. Bolton Winpenny, who teaches expository writing and actually works with this hysterical woman, walked into the middle of the room with his hands raised, saying that the meeting was getting repetitive and stressful and suggested we call it a night.”
She paused recalling the scene and shook her head. “I could have kissed him. The department chair wasn’t pleased about ending it, but he was so uncomfortable with Professor Panic Attack he agreed with Bolton and we all fled.”
“This guy’s name is Bolton Winpenny? What a great name!” When Kathryn nodded, I said, “Well, then how do I thank Bolton the Steel Drummer,” I asked, “for getting to be with you tonight?”
Kathryn paused, regarding me for a few moments and said wistfully, “I was so pleased to be coming home to you early.”
Then she crossed her arms and her voice unmistakably changed from narration to indignation. “There I was, innocently walking through the dark streets, and then in that brightly lighted window I saw you with that woman. Sitting on the couch, chatting, laughing, good grief, she was pouring tea into your cup. It was like a Freudian dream!” Kathryn paced across the small space, kneading her shoulder unconsciously. “It was like a scene in one of those reality shows. Where they film the philandering partner, flagrantly meeting the other woman in some sordid...” She stopped and turned, apparently realizing her description was becoming comical, but there was still something in her eyes. Something visceral, just as she’d said.
“Kathryn, I can see why it may have been a shock to see me in that window with another woman, but it also gave you a chance to see exactly what I’d do if I were with another woman. She was chaste; I was innocent. And you could see that.” I thought a moment. “You know her, don’t you?”
Kathryn closed her eyes. She’d gotten up before dawn to run around the antique markets with Farrel. Lack of sleep had shortened her fuse.
She said, “Nora Hasan. She’s one of my graduate students but so far we’ve only spoken briefly. She’s very smart and she’s a Lesbian and...”
“You’re attracted to her, aren’t you?”
“No! Well... Oh,” Kathryn paused. Then she laughed. “I hadn’t thought about it. She’s attractive, yes, but I’m... uh... I’m,” Kathryn blushed lightly.
“Hopelessly devoted to me?”
“That isn’t exactly the way I’d put it, but that gets to the gist of my feelings, yes.”
“When I was with Nora all I did was hope you’d come home soon. I’m not interested in anyone but you. I want... well, I find I want you all the time.” Kathryn took a step toward me, shaving a few miles from the distance between us.
“That young woman reveres you,” I said.
Kathryn smiled a little and took another short step.
“I should be the one worrying about your fidelity,” I suggested.
“Do you?” she asked.
“Should I?”
She shook her head no, emphatically, then put her arms around me. I held her tightly with one arm and ran the elevator up to our floor.
At 3 she let go and opened the elevator doors to the loft.
Kathryn shrugged off her coat and wandered through the middle of the large open space, absently touching the keys of the grand piano that a grateful, wealthy friend had given her for Christmas in exchange for putting her in serious danger. She went to the window facing the Mews.
“You’re unsure of me? Is that what it is?” I asked.
Kathryn put her hand on her forehead and leaned it against the glass. “No, no, I’m sorry Maggie, this isn’t about you. It’s about me, um.... oh dear... I just need a little time... to... uh...”
Kathryn was usually so controlled, so confident. Now she was faltering and it was making her very uncomfortable.
“How about if I go work out for about an hour? Would that give you enough time to feel comfortable about talking?”
She was nodding. So I crossed the loft to the spiral staircase that leads to the top floor without saying another word.
The fourth floor of the building is nearly 3000 square feet. It’s unfinished but has lots going on. My art studio space was idle, but in the other large corner, the construction of Kathryn’s office showed rapid progress. Wiring snaked through the open two-by-four walls and the pipes for the office bathroom were all in place. Farrel’s crew had already attached some of the drywall. The framing of the open second story that would be Kathryn’s library area bisected the distance to the high ceiling. A neat little spiral staircase to it was already in place.
I went to the west side of the building that was reserved for some very serious gym equipment, including a high bar and a large area with mats for martial arts practice. I needed to get past that look that Kathryn had flashed me on the street. Apparently Kathryn did too. She was hammering out something Wagnerian on the Steinway. I began with a Tai Chi routine, then sp
ent a half hour on the elliptical, and did some heavy weight sets.
She’ll come to me when she’s ready, my inner voice chanted. Kind of simplistic, but at least it wasn’t telling me to save Paris. Kathryn’s fury seemed to have lessened; she was playing something lighter but still in a minor key. The Teddy Bear’s Picnic?
I started a set of 100 push-ups, doing them to the rhythm of Kathryn’s music. I was warmed up and fluid, my muscles pumping me up off the mat smoothly as I counted to myself and focused solely on my physical actions. Soon I realized it was quiet downstairs.
I felt someone else in the space. I could smell her perfume even before I sensed her footsteps. The scent stirred me.
I could just barely see her in my peripheral vision. Kathryn was standing in the shadows near the top of the spiral stairs.
“Ms. Hyde turned back into Dr. Jekyll? Shall we talk?” I called to her softly, continuing my silent count down... eighty-one, eighty, seventy-nine.
“No... I’m watching you.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“Yes,” she said in a deep voice, taking a step closer.
“Any special reason?”
“I was hoping that you’d let your defenses down, then I’d pounce.”
“I’m all sweaty. Seventy-two, seventy-one...”
“I’m undaunted.”
“Well, your plan sounds like fun, but you’ve lost the element of surprise. Tell me about the first time you stalked me,” I asked hoping for an interesting story to distract me from the strain of sixty more reps. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven....
She had her arms folded and was staring at me. She moved again into the darkness. She said steadily, “I was driving home to the Hampshire. I saw you shoveling snow in front of Farrel and Jessie’s, and since I’d been introduced to you I decided I might just happen to walk by and maybe we could speak.”
“Speak? Is that all you wanted, just to speak to me?” I loved the sound of her voice. It was smooth and dark, like hot fudge on rich vanilla ice cream.
