The Syndrome

by John Case

  “Ummmm,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “So, basically, we’ll go down there and beat the bushes.”

  “Unless you have a better idea,” he agreed, pulling open the door to the balcony so that a rush of cold air entered the room—which had suddenly become quite warm.

  She caught his eyes, held them for just a little too long and then executed another languorous stretch, extending her legs and flexing her feet, while raising her interlaced hands overhead. She arched her back, displaying her body, opening it toward him.

  McBride groaned inwardly. Getting to his feet, he stepped out onto the balcony.

  The truth was that all day, he’d been constantly aware of her, in the moony obsessed manner of an adolescent. It was like high school. No—worse—junior high. At various points during the day—even in the austerity of Shapiro’s cabin, even in the darkness cast by his terrifying anecdotes, even in the face of the horrible news about Ray Shaw—he had suffered the painful tumescence that had made seventh grade an agony.

  Standing out on the balcony, he looked down at the lights of the cars and thought about it: how long had it been since he’d taken a woman to bed? He couldn’t be sure—his memory was still coming back in bits and pieces, flashes. But it was before Jeffrey Duran—that much was certain.

  “So whatcha gonna do, boy?”

  It was a line from Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell album, and it reminded him of all the good music he’d missed, as well, Jeff Duran having been, not merely celibate, but entrained by a different drummer. Or not even a drummer: Oprah.

  “Whatcha gonna do!?”

  Adrienne was a fox, and that was a fact. But it was also a fact that Lew McBride was the last thing she needed. She’d already lost her sister, her job, and very nearly her life—and he was responsible for all of it. It wouldn’t be right to take advantage of her simply because they’d been thrown together in what were, after all, desperate circumstances. Still…

  It was unnatural, sleeping in the same room like this and keeping your distance. It’s human nature, he told himself, arguing with his conscience. They’d been through a lot together, and it wasn’t just a question of sex—he really liked her. She was smart and attractive, funny and vulnerable. It was like what happened during wars and natural disasters. People reached out. So why fight it? Why not just… make your move!

  But it was too late—or, if not too late, an interregnum. The cold had had its effect, and he reentered the room, diminished. Adrienne remained where she was, sitting on the bed, reading the hotel’s potted guide to Harpers Ferry and environs. She looked up at him from under thick, dark lashes—a killer look, her eyes full of allure and invitation. She shifted position, a series of fluid adjustments that made it impossible not to think of other adjustments her body might make. Without the clothing.

  “Looking at the stars?”

  His eyes went to the ceiling. “No,” he replied. “I was thinking… “ He laughed. “You don’t want to know what I was thinking.”

  She made a little sound in the back of her throat, and it took all his willpower not to launch himself at the bed. A flying dive into the depths of her.

  Instead, he said, “I guess we’d better get some sleep.”

  She nodded. Pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. All closed off now. The radiator ticked in the hot room. After what seemed like a long time, she heaved a sigh, and flashed a bright little smile. “Great,” she said.

  It was a long way, and they took turns at the wheel, driving all the next day, arriving late at night. They checked into a Super 8, requesting a room with twin beds. She was actually embarrassed by the way she felt. She would not have thought her body capable of this swoony teenage lust.

  In the morning, they went to the sales office at La Resort on Longboat Key, where a tanned blonde told them that the contents of Calvin Crane’s condo had been cleaned out weeks before. The unit itself—three bedrooms, oceanside, with every amenity—was for sale. Were they interested?

  No.

  They drove back by way of Armand’s Circle, stopping for lunch at Tommy Bahama’s, where they ate salads and conch chowder, discussing their next move. Which was the courthouse in Bradenton, where they all but struck out. Crane wasn’t engaged in litigation with anyone, or not, at least, in Manatee County. And his will wasn’t as interesting as they’d hoped. Half of his estate was bequeathed, in equal proportions, to Harvard University and the American Cancer Society. The remainder was earmarked for his “beloved sister, Theadora Wilkins,” and his “lifelong friend, Marijke Winkelman.”

  Their next stop was a trailer park in Bradenton, where Crane’s Jamaican caretaker, Leviticus Benn, lived with a pack of barking dogs. A tall black man with an easy smile, Benn was gracious, but spooked—and a little angry at the way he’d been treated. “First night—Mister Crane’s dead—Five-Oh come through my house with one of them tooth combs. And what they find? A little ganja. Just a taste. I mean, residue. From my personal use, you understand. Next thing, I’m in the middle of heavy manners. Like this trailer park is Gestapo Gardens. And I got to ask—I ask the policeman: how’s this gonna solve your bad crime? Tell me that!”

  It took a while for Benn to get past his ire and, when he did, there wasn’t much that he could tell them.

  “I was his nurse, you know? The human part of the rich man’s wheelchair. So we didn’t talk much. In fact, we really didn’t talk at all. Just, ‘Good mawnin’, Leviticus. Good mawnin’, Mr. Crane.’ Like that?”

  “So he wasn’t that friendly?”

  “He be keepin’ to his own self, you know?”

  Crane’s sister resided at The Parkington, an assisted living facility housed in a lavishly landscaped glass and stone building on one of Sarasota’s wide, pleasant streets. There was a sort of covered terrace out front with a phalanx of white rocking chairs standing along its length. Only one of these was occupied, and that by a ramrod straight lady, her white hair cut into a kind of short pageboy. Her fringe of white bangs fell into a line so straight that Adrienne thought they must have been trimmed with a ruler. The face under the bangs might once have been pretty, but the small features were lost in a marsh of wrinkled flesh. To Adrienne, she gave the impression of an ancient baby. She wore a blue and white striped shirtwaist dress with a wide white belt and matching white shoes and purse.

  The woman levered herself to her feet as they approached. “You must be Adrienne and Lew,” she said in a low and pleasant voice. “I’m Thea—although I don’t insist on that. Mrs. Wilkins will do if you’re uncomfortable addressing someone quite so ancient by what used to be called, in the days before political correctness, one’s ‘Christian’ name.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Thea,” Adrienne said, extending her hand and introducing herself. She’d been fearful when they learned that Theodora Wilkins was closing in on ninety and living in a nursing home. It had seemed likely that Calvin Crane’s only living relative would not be mentally acute enough to help them. Obviously, that was not the case. “This is Mr. McBride.”

  The old lady told them to take a seat, then went inside to see if she could “drum up some iced tea.” After a while she came back, trailed by an Hispanic man with a tray, and lowered herself carefully into her chair. Once the iced tea was distributed, she smiled. “Now,” she declared, “how can I be of help?”

  “As I said on the phone,” McBride explained, “Adrienne thinks her sister, Nico, was in correspondence with your brother before he died. Her sister passed away—”

  “I’m so sorry,” Thea interjected.

  “I was hoping to get the letters back,” Adrienne told her. “As mementos.”

  The old woman pushed her lips together and wrinkled her nose. “Oh dear,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m not going to be a big help. Cal and I were never close, you see.”

  Adrienne tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh.”

  “You’ve got to wonder about that, don’t you? Here we are, brother and si
ster, an old biddy and an old codger, living half an hour away from one another, and we saw each other about—” She extended her lower lip and sent up a jet of air that lifted her bangs, a gesture that must have survived from her teenage years. “—every six months. Thanksgiving and Easter. That was all we could take.”

  “So you didn’t get along.”

  “Not a lick. Cal thought I was a lightweight—and he despised my husband. Called him a dilettante. (Which, I suppose, he was, God rest him.) Still…”

  “And what did you think of him?” Adrienne asked.

  “My little brother?” she said. “I thought he was the most… “ She paused, thought about it, and said: “I thought he was the most arrogant man I ever met.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh yes. He was idealistic, of course, but so was Hitler. They both knew what was right for everyone else.” She raised one elegantly tweezed brow. “It’s terrible to say, but I don’t miss him all that much.”

  “Were you shocked when—”

  “Oh yes—I mean, it made quite a splash after all. Cal would have hated it. After all, it’s so gauche—to be shot like that. He would have hated it.”

  “Do you have any idea who—”

  “Killed him?” she suggested. “No. I’m sorry. A man like that can acquire any number of enemies, though I have to say I wouldn’t have thought any of Cal’s associates would have been such… cowboys.” She hesitated. Leaned forward, and whispered. “Have you talked to Mamie?”

  They looked at each other. Shook their heads. “Who’s Mamie?” McBride asked.

  The old lady laughed, a deep chuckle, then took a sip of iced tea. “Mamie was Cal’s paramour.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh yes. And she’s not a bit like Cal. In fact, I quite like her—though what she saw in Cal, I can’t imagine. But they were lifelong friends. Met in London, during the war. He was OSS—she was some kind of liaison. The married kind, as it turned out.” Thea chuckled. “I used to call her ‘the little Dutch girl’ because… well, that’s what she was! Dutch, I mean. Her name is Marijke Winkelman. ‘Mamie’ is just what Cal called her.”

  “And her husband?” Adrienne asked.

  “Oh, he died—I think it was twenty years ago, now. He was with the Red Cross in Geneva. They both were. Refugee relief.”

  “I see,” McBride said, though he didn’t, really.

  “That’s where it started,” Thea added.

  “What did?” Adrienne asked.

  “Their affair. He was in Zurich. Geneva wasn’t so far away—though why she didn’t marry Cal after her husband passed, I can’t imagine. Too much bother, I guess.”

  “Do you think she’d know about any papers he might have left?” McBride asked.

  Thea Wilkins stirred her iced tea and took a dainty sip, patting her lips afterwards with the cocktail napkin. “Well, if anybody would know,” she told them, “Mamie would, though… I’ll give you her address, and you can see for yourself.”

  “They didn’t live together?” Adrienne asked.

  “Oh, goodness no. They always kept separate residences. Mamie has a splendid place, right on the beach. Villa Alegre.”

  Villa Alegre was splendid, a low-slung pink stucco house with a barrel roof of terra-cotta tiles. It sat amidst lush vegetation in what amounted to a forest of old palms and banyans.

  And she was nothing like her near contemporary, Theodora Wilkins. She wore shorts and a T-Shirt and Birkenstock sandals. While her neck might have been crepey, and her skin netted with wrinkles, she was still quite beautiful. She had wide-set, pale blue eyes, blond hair gone silver, and a wide, generous mouth. She led them around to the back of the house, pausing at a small pond filled with koi. “My fêng shui consultant insisted that I have them. He said the house needs motion. Anyway, they are terrific looking, don’t you think?”

  McBride admired them. Adrienne smiled politely.

  “You don’t like them, do you, dear?” Mamie asked.

  Adrienne shrugged. “Not much, I guess. I don’t know why.”

  “It’s probably the colors,” Mamie guessed. “Do you mind if I ask: are you a big fan of Halloween?”

  “No. I’ve never really liked it.”

  The old woman tossed out a high-voltage smile, pleased to have her theory confirmed by this sampling of one. “Well, there you are!” She took Adrienne’s arm in a companionable way, and led her up the flagstone path toward the house. There was something about the way she talked, Adrienne thought, the cadence or pronunciation… Then she realized what it was: “half in the bag,” as Deck used to say. Not drunk, but getting there.

  She would not talk to them until they were all “settled down” out back. They sat down in white wicker chairs under a vine laden pergola and admired the waves lapping at the nearby beach. A dozen wind chimes trembled all around them as Mamie excused herself, returning a few minutes later with a decanter of martinis and a plate of cheese, fruit, and crackers.

  Once she had poured the drinks into traditional stemmed glasses, added olives, and handed them out to her guests, she declared herself ready.

  “So,” she said, raising her glass. “Salut.” The first sip almost knocked them over. “Now what is it about Cal you’d like to talk about?”

  They stuck to the pretext about Adrienne’s late sister having a correspondence with Crane. Mamie said she didn’t know anything about that.

  “He never mentioned a correspondence like that, but then,” she added, “he probably wouldn’t have.”

  With the wind chimes tinkling all around them, they talked about the kind of man Calvin Crane was—which paved the way for McBride to inquire about “enemies.”

  “Of course the police are asking me this same question,” Mamie told them, “but I have the sense they are just going through the motions, not really interested in my answer. So I don’t think about it. I mean, not seriously.” She took a tiny bite of cheese, and washed it down with a generous sip from her martini. “But I know Gunnar was unhappy with him.”

  “Gunner?” Adrienne asked.

  Mamie shook her head. “Gunnar Opdahl. He was Cal’s protégé at the Institute, but… are you all right, Mr. McBride?”

  No, he wasn’t. He felt blindsided by the mention of Opdahl’s name. His heart leapt, and a bolt of panic shot through his chest. He must have flinched because Adrienne put a hand on his arm.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  A puff of air set the wind chimes clattering.

  He nodded, and lied. “I got some dust in my eye.” Adrienne gave him a funny look.

  To himself, he thought: What the fuck was that? Gunnar Opdahl was… what? Smart and urbane, a pleasant man to have lunch with. And yet, even as he thought this, he knew there was something else, something deeply unpleasant waiting to be remembered. Finally, he cleared his throat, and looked at Mamie. “You were saying… ?”

  “Yes, I was saying they had a falling out. Gunnar and Cal.”

  “Do you know what it was about?” Adrienne asked.

  “Not really” Mamie replied. Despite her birdlike sips, she had downed most of her martini. “I left Switzerland before Cal did. The weather gets to you when you reach a certain age.”

  “When did Cal retire?”

  “In ‘93,” Mamie replied. “But their disagreement was more recent than that. I think it started—oh—maybe a year ago. A little more, perhaps.”

  “Was it about the Institute?” Adrienne asked.

  Mamie seesawed her head, frowned, and replenished her glass from the decanter. “I think it must have been. That was their only common ground, really. And, even retired, Cal was still active in certain things. As one of the founders, he still had a say.”

  “What kind of say?”

  “About the fellows, the research—and the clinic, of course. They do such very good work with troubled young people.” She paused, and then went on. “This contretemps with Gunnar might—” But then she shrugged, did not finish the sentence. “I
shouldn’t say, really. Because I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”

  “Tell us. Please?” Adrienne pressed. “We know so little…”

  “Well, I was going to say I thought it might have to do with the money, with Gunnar feeling impeded in some way. That’s just the sense I got from some of the telephone conversations I overheard.” She fished an olive out of her glass and popped it into her mouth.

  McBride leaned toward her. “Is there someone at the Institute who might be able to tell us more about the falling out between them?”

  Mamie frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so. Cal was the last of the original group. And the new crowd… well, I don’t even know who they are.”

  “Lew was a fellow,” Adrienne volunteered, with a sidelong glance at McBride.

  “Oh, really!” Mamie exclaimed, her face cracking into a wide smile. “How exciting!” She reached out, pressed a girlish hand against his arm, and patted it in a proprietary way. “You must be jush… an outstanding young man!”

  McBride smiled. Mamie was beginning to look a bit cross-eyed, and her words were beginning to slur. Probably the woman had told them all that she knew.

  Adrienne noticed it, too. Mamie was down to the olive in her second martini, which suggested the conversation was about to deteriorate. So it would be best to get to the point. She picked up her glass by the stem, swirled it, and watched the oily bands of liquid curl. Out on the water, a Jet Ski whined, dopplering across the bay, as irritating as a mosquito. McBride was telling Mamie about his fellowship.

  What if this was a legal case? she asked herself. What would she ask?

  “Did Mr. Crane leave any papers?”

  The question took Mamie by surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “I know his belongings were sold,” Adrienne said, “but sometimes—”