Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  “Not a word about Terrance,” I whispered to Whitney.

  “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

  Elsa’s cheeks were glowing and her eyes wide with excitement as she pushed me over in the booth. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “You’ll never believe what’s happened.”

  Whitney and I waited for her to release her nugget.

  “It’s Connie Chan. She’s at Northwestern Hospital in a coma. She was mugged on her way home from work last night.”

  My thoughts were on Connie as I sorted through travel wear at Barney’s. Though I had always found her disagreeable, it was a shame that she, or anyone for that matter, had fallen victim to such a violent act. The doctors couldn’t say how severe her head injury was or even if she would come out of it the same person—if she came out of it at all. This caused me to take stock of my own life and realize how lucky I was. I was healthy, financially secure, and leaving for Paris on the morrow. How absurd it was to torment myself with thoughts of Terrance Sullivan. From that moment hence, I resolved him banished from my mind forever.

  After finding the perfect travel suit as well as a few other items, and watching my credit card breeze through the system unchallenged, I took my bags and headed home. It was rush hour and the streets and sidewalks were jammed as the work force made their way home by car or on foot. I was waiting amid the throng for the light to change at Michigan and Oak when I heard someone behind me calling my name. I turned around to see a somewhat familiar young man with a briefcase work his way through the crowd toward me.

  “Pauline,” he called. “It’s Todd Matthews. Remember me?” He came up beside me and extended his hand. The image of an icy glass of vodka in a garish hotel bar popped into my mind. It was the roadwarrior with patent leather hair who I shared a drink with in Rochester—the one who had slipped a sheet of paper underneath my door suggesting I check Ethan’s former neighbors in my search for his identity.

  “Of course I remember you, Mr. Matthews,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing great,” he gushed, exuding the same enthusiasm he had shown on our previous encounter. “Now what are the odds of this? Running into you, I mean. I got a promotion and Chicago is my territory now.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  His hand was still held out, but he looked down and saw my bags made it impossible to take it. “Shopping again, huh? Here, let me get those for you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

  “It’s no problem. I’m staying across the street at the Drake.”

  My purchases had become a bit cumbersome, and thinking it couldn’t do any harm, I relinquished them to his sturdy young hands. The light changed and we flowed across the street with the crowd. As we walked past the Drake, he nodded at the skyscraper that towered behind it.

  “I just found out that used to be the Playboy building. That’s pretty cool, huh?” He sounded awestruck. “I mean Hef used to live here and all? I can’t imagine what those days were like.”

  I could imagine. Henry and I once attended a party at the Playboy Mansion on State Street before Mr. Hefner had moved his empire west. From the very moment we entered the former turn of the century mansion, I knew we had entered a world of decadence. The outrageously modern decorating took second place only to strategically placed fireman’s poles that served as an alternative to the stairs for the scads of young, scantily clad women in attendance. From the way the men’s tongues practically lolled from their mouths, it was a small wonder they managed to keep the other parts of their anatomy contained. Needless to say, even though I was wearing a Peter Max print dress, I felt sorely out of place.

  I made the mistake of adjourning to the ladies’ room for one brief moment and returned to find a smiling young creature in a bikini top rubbing against my husband like a cat at a scratching post. When he saw me approaching, Henry raised his hands as if to say, I have nothing to do with this. The young woman turned and, upon realizing who I was, laid her hand squarely on my husband’s crotch. Her smile faded to a pout. “You must really love your wife,” she said, and she walked away.

  The party was still in full swing when we left at three in the morning. The next day I told Henry I found the whole experience quite vulgar and he agreed. Although not as heartily as I would have liked. When an invitation arrived for Mr. Hefner’s next party, I politely declined it.

  “The building is being remodeled as condominiums,” I said to Mr. Matthews, bursting his bubble.

  Tony was on duty again, and he held the door for me while Mr. Matthews followed on my heels like a loyal Chihuahua. He was still holding my bags and gave no indication of putting them down. I tried to politely excuse myself. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Matthews, but I’ll have to say goodbye here. I‘m going out of town tomorrow and I still have to pack.”

  A look of extreme disappointment registered on his face. “I was kind of hoping to buy you some dinner or something. I don’t know anyone here and it gets kind of lonely. I’ve got a great expense account.”

  I had no intention of going to dinner with Mr. Matthews. But I felt guilty not giving him some sort of attention. After all, he had done me a big favor in Rochester, one that had ultimately led to me making the connection for the inheritance. For some reason far beyond my own comprehension, my charitable side chose to make a rare appearance. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come up for a few minutes and we can have a drink. But I really have a lot left to do, so we’ll have to keep our visit brief.”

  He smiled widely, and I patted myself on the back for being such a giving human being.

  “Just one minute,” I said, and I turned back to the doorman. “Tony?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Callahan?”

  “It’s Mrs. Cook. The Penthouse.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Cook,” he apologized, looking sheepish at his mistake.

  “I’m leaving on an extended trip tomorrow evening, and I want to make you aware I’ve canceled all services, so there should be no service people going up to my apartment.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And also, this is very important, will you be sure and tell Jeffrey that I don’t need him to feed Fleur. Tell him that I’ve made other arrangements for her.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Tony.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Callahan, uh, Cook.”

  I gave Mr. Matthews a look that said good help is hard to find, and he followed me into the elevator, still toting my bags.

  Mr. Matthews set the bags down in my interior foyer. Upon seeing him, Fleur, who had been lounging on one of the living room sofas, quickly retreated to my bedroom. Mr. Matthews walked across the room to the windows and let out a low whistle.

  “Wow, what a view,” he said.

  “Yes, it is quite spectacular,” I agreed. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Vodka on ice.”

  “Certainly.” I went into the bar and fixed his drink. When I returned, he was standing in front of the wall where my Pissarro hung. It was one of the Impressionist’s lesser works, a rural piece dominated by peasant rooftops, but it had belonged to Grandmother, and I was quite fond of it. I handed him the drink. He took a sip and then put it down on a table without so much as asking for a coaster.

  “Is that a Pissarro?” he asked.

  “Why, yes,” I replied, astonished that he was able to identify the artist just like that. “Do you like his work?”

  “I know it’s worth a lot.”

  It was at that moment my intuition chose to make a tardy appearance. It was telling me inviting this virtual stranger into my apartment had been a horrid mistake. Suddenly, I wanted him out of my house immediately if not sooner.

  “By the way, did you ever find out anything more about your writer friend?” he asked, his eyes fixed pruriently on my Pissarro.

  “I found out I had never really known him at all. Now, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Matthews,
but I have just realized I have more packing to do than I had thought. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

  “Packing for Paris?”

  My blood pressure spiked. I remembered saying I was going out of town, but I was certain I hadn’t said anything about Paris. An eerie sensation crept over me, and I felt as though I was an audience watching myself from the back of the theater. Without another word I walked back into my exterior foyer and pushed the call button for the elevator. If I could get down to the lobby, I would be safe.

  “I’m sorry, Pauline, but I can’t let you go anywhere. I need you to stay right here.”

  He put his arms around me from behind, pinning my own arms to my side. It was not the grasp of a lover, but rather of a jailer. My response was to struggle against him, and I tried striking out with my fists. This was nothing like the long-ago scene in the foyer with Sean, where in my concupiscence my fight was half-hearted. This time my struggle was sincere. I twisted and turned and railed against him with every bit of strength I could summon, all the while wondering what he wanted. To rob me? Rape me? Take my life?

  In a frenzy of adrenaline driven fear, I stomped on his foot and ground the heel of my pump over his instep. The tactic worked and his grip on me loosened as he choked back a howl. I broke free just as the elevator doors opened and flung myself inside, pushing the buttons for “lobby” and “close door” in rapid unison. But he was only momentarily disabled, recovering in time to join me in the elevator just as the doors shut.

  We faced off from opposite ends of the car as the elevator started to descend. Though terror still held me in its grip, there was a certain victory in having escaped my apartment. While I hovered against the wall as far away from Mr. Matthews as I could get, he turned his attention to the control panel, no doubt seeking a way to turn us around. Pushing the “stop” button would sound an alarm, pushing any of the intermediary buttons would cause the doors to open into someone else’s foyer, running the risk of encountering one of my neighbors. I prayed that one of them might be summoning the elevator at this very moment and join us on the ride down. If not, there was Tony the giant on duty in the lobby. He was twice the size of Mr. Matthews. To assure he would take notice of my dilemma, I formulated a plan to scream the moment the doors started opening.

  Unfortunately, my adversary had anticipated this next move. As we neared the ground floor, he abandoned the control panel and came at me, grabbing me brusquely around the waist with one arm and slapping his free hand over my mouth. The force with which he held my mouth shut was so great I feared the porcelain caps of my front teeth might break off. I struggled against him with all my might, trying to put an elbow into his ribs or kick his knee with my dangling foot, but it was all to no avail. His youth and strength were simply too overwhelming.

  The elevator reached the ground floor and as the doors slid open and the paneled lobby came into view, my terror-filled eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The hulking back of Tony bent over a newspaper. Unlike Jeffrey, or even Edgar, whose eyes were always glued on the elevator doors in order to greet whoever was coming down, the oblivious Neanderthal didn’t even look up. My attempt at a scream was nothing more than a muffled whimper in my captor’s hand.

  Mr. Matthews pushed the penthouse button and the elevator doors closed on my hope. I was isolated with this stranger and on the way back up to my apartment. When the doors reopened in my entry, he dragged me forcibly from the car. As I listened downheartedly, the elevator doors shut behind me. My attacker’s grip loosened for a moment, and I twisted my body in an effort to squirm free. Instead I ended up facing him, staring up into the eyes of a beast of prey. He tightened his grip, his left arm clenched so tightly about me I could barely breathe. Then, he pulled something out of his pocket with his free hand, and a moment later a horrid-smelling piece of cloth was pressed to my nose.

  “Take the painting,” I gasped, trying not to inhale. Whether my offer was heard or not, I was retreating, my legs turning to putty beneath me, my body going limp like a Belon oyster sliding off its shell. I tried to rise above the danger, to some safe place far away.

  The last I remember is trying to bite his hand. Then everything faded to gray.

  31

  Unwelcome Guests

  I awoke seated at my dining room table, my hands and feet bound to one of my Queen Anne chairs. A piece of thick tape over my mouth kept me mute. My head pounded as though I had consumed several bottles of cheap domestic champagne, and my mouth felt as though it had been filled with dirt before the tape was applied. I could hear Mr. Matthews in my library on the house line, speaking to the doorman.

  “Yes, this is Todd Matthews calling from Mrs. Cook’s apartment,” he said most affably. “She asked me to let you know she’s expecting a couple of visitors this evening, a Mr. Prince and Mr. Fantome. She said no need to announce them, just send them up.” There was a pause and then, “Right. Prince and Fantome. F-A-N-T-O-M-E. Yes, that’s right. Thank you.”

  Of course I had no idea who these two people might be, though my French studies had brought me far enough to recognize that Fantome is French for ghost. I howled in fury from behind the tape at the stupidity of the new doorman. Jeffrey would never have accepted such instructions without speaking to me directly, nor would Edgar, no matter how old and senile he had gotten. Guests were simply not “just sent up.” I was outraged that the co-op board had hired such an imbecile, and I made a mental note to let the board president know my opinion at the first opportunity. But while I was formulating exactly what I was going to say to Parker Donnelly, I heard the unmistakable beeping of a cell phone being dialed. I calmed myself and listened intently. “Hi, it’s me,” I heard him say after making his connection. “The package is wrapped and the door is open.”

  He clicked the phone shut as he entered the room.

  “Oh, you’re awake.” I noticed his ring finger was wrapped with a strip of material that looked suspiciously like it had come from one of the tea towels in my kitchen. A wave of satisfaction coursed through me to know my bite had found its mark, hoping he didn’t have AIDS. He knelt down in front of me and patted me on the leg. His skin was flushed and his eyes dilated and gleaming, but his ebullience did not appear to be sexual. It was more that of a man who has just won the lottery. “Sorry about this, Pauline, knocking you out and all, but don’t worry. No one is going to hurt you.”

  Unable to respond, I communicated my disdain by jerking my head away from him. The resulting pain resounded in my eyeballs. He slapped me on the leg with undue familiarity and stood up, going into the kitchen where I could hear him opening the refrigerator and cabinets. If he was searching for something to eat, he had best look elsewhere. My refrigerator had already been cleaned out in anticipation of my trip. The only food in the house was a jar of capers, some nicoise olives, and several boxes of Carr’s Table Water crackers for cheese. And the Albacore tuna I bought by the case for Fleur.

  After a while he came back into the dining room eating from an open can of the tuna with a fork. I glared at him.

  “You sure don’t keep much food around here, do you?” he said. He walked past me and went into the living room, settling noisily onto one of my couches. I shuddered to think of him violating my Scala-mandre upholstery, most probably still wearing his street shoes.

  Half an hour ticked by. Fleur ventured into the dining room and stared at me questioningly. She leapt into my lap and tried to nuzzle, but since my hands were tied behind my back I was unable to respond to her overtures. Giving up, she jumped down and meandered into the living room where, upon seeing our uninvited guest was still in residence, she turned tail and scurried past me, back down the hall and into my bedroom.

  Though I was situated facing the wall, if I turned my head far enough, I could see out the window. The long shadows the high rises cast onto the water told me the sun had fallen low in the western sky. Twenty stories below, the taillights of evening commuters blinked on and off as they jockeyed for
position in the four gray lanes of Lake Shore Drive. How I envied those people their freedom at that moment, crawling along in traffic on their way home to their pedestrian lives.

  I didn’t speculate about my own situation and what Mr. Matthews and his soon-to-arrive accomplices wanted from me. There were simply too many options to consider, the majority of them unpleasant. I chose to take myself overseas, to Paris and a morning visit to view the Fragonards at the Musée Jacquemart-André followed by lunch at Brasserie Lipp in Saint Germaine. This is all a dream I told myself. Soon I would awaken, nestled between my velvety soft Egyptian cotton sheets with their four hundred thread count. My eyelids grew heavy and my head slumped forward and I once again succumbed to unconsciousness.

  The sky was dusty gray and the buildings’ shadows no longer visible on the water when my eyes fluttered open again. It took me a minute to realize that the pounding in my temples was in synchronization to the sound of someone rapping at my front door. I looked up and caught a glimpse of Mr. Matthews crossing the living room. Then I heard the low rumble of voices. Finally, Mr. Matthews reappeared followed by two pairs of feet.

  My eyes traveled from the first pair of feet the entire length of the body to the head. I blinked hard and told myself this couldn’t possibly be happening. Now I was certain this had to be a dream. Or rather a nightmare. There could be no other possible explanation.

  “Hello, Pauline,” said Terrance Sullivan, gracing me with the same smile that had caused me to melt in previous times. He carried a large box which he dropped thoughtlessly onto my newly purchased Chippendale table as if it was a picnic table. Oddly enough, I felt embarrassed that he see me in this subordinate position, even though I fully realized he had something to do with it. I tried speaking but as my mouth was still sealed shut, the best I could do was indignant squeaks.