by Cynthia Lott
“No. He didn’t have one at all. He sounded like you and me. His voice was really pleasant. It’s hard to explain but, no, he didn’t have an accent. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
Perhaps if Marcus heard Carpenter’s real accent, then maybe he hid it in front of the Watkins family in order to make them feel comfortable. He wanted to be accepted as familiar despite the mask or the fact that they didn’t know him.
“I was also wondering if it would be okay if I went upstairs for a moment. I don’t want to intrude, but is the top left room still the music room?”
“No, not anymore. My dad made it into a storage room, just boxes and a file cabinet. We never go in there anymore. Claire was the only one who played an instrument, so he sold her piano. My mother didn’t want him to, but he didn’t want it in the house anymore. You’re not intruding at all. If there’s something here that can help, I want to help you.”
My father was the opposite of Colin Watkins. He kept boxes of my mother’s things stored away in a hall closet, never tossing away a single sheet of paper. I inherited these boxes along with those of my father’s, and they sat in a bedroom closet, usually untouched by my own hands. Sometimes I pulled something out, like one of my mother’s old cookbooks or scrapbooks of recipes. I often found recipes for the tantalizing tidbits that she enjoyed making, like Spinach Quiche, recipes I am proud that my mother marked instead of the Jell-o molds and crock-pot concoctions.
Thank God you chose the potatoes au gratin over the meatball biscuit bake, Mom.
Although I could never take my mother’s place, I cooked her recipes – making my father the Creole and Cajun meals she once made – just as I watched the detective shows my dad loved, letting him solve the crimes the way my mother did.
“We may be Jewish, Bren, but we’re still Southern,” my father would say, as we ate nostalgia-wrapped Southern dishes in silence. It was as if my mother was still there in spirit, sitting across from him and sharing in the meal that blessed both time and space. I don’t think my father ever came to terms with her death. Whenever I asked him about it, I always received the same answer, “Your mother was ill. Depression was a cancer for her, and it won.” And with that he would look away and turn on the television. Mom was depressed. She killed herself. The End.
I looked up the staircase towards the music room and understood why Colin sold the piano even if it had been a hasty move. It was part of Claire, and the sound of her playing was never going to be heard again.
“Karen, what happened to the small wood table that was in the music room?”
“The one with the flower engravings? It’s in my father’s office now. Why?”
“That’s where we found the four feathers from his mask. Could I see it?”
“Sure. It’s in here.” She led me down the hallway and into a large wood-paneled office. Lining the walls were two glass bookcases, one holding two drama awards from Karen’s competitions alongside several piano awards from Claire. Another bookshelf held varied titles on history and business, economics, and city planning.
Lining another shelf behind the desk were all of Claire’s snow globes, the one with the young girl and her cat taking center stage. I recalled every single snow globe my father bought for me over the years. I still had a number of them tucked away in a box…some of the others, however, were gone. On hearing the news of his death, I hurled them across my living room, shattering their fragile parts against the wall. I didn’t want to ask about Claire’s bedroom or what had become of it. I frankly never wanted to set foot in there again.
“There it is, by the window,” Karen pointed towards the left side of the room.
I walked over to the antique table, placing my glass of tea on one of the wood coasters that lay on Mr. Watkins’ desk. I slid my hand across the top of the table, feeling the indentions and curves of the flowers the way I imagined Carpenter might have done.
“This is a lovely piece.”
I pulled out the drawer and shifted the interior contents to one side.
“What are you looking for?” She stood next to me. “An inscription. But I’m not seeing one.”
I pulled out the whole drawer and placed it on top of the table. “Let me help you. You can hand me all the papers.” She stretched out her hands.
I handed her all of the folders and what looked to be insurance papers. I scanned the back of the drawer.
“Do you see it?” “No.”
Karen walked around to the side of the table and looked down at the wood’s interior.
“That’s because it’s over here. The inscription. Is that what you’re looking for?” She pointed at the backside of the drawer, behind the handle.
“What does it say?”
“It says Carpenter and a date, 1875.”
We looked at one another for a moment.
How did he know this piece was in the Watkins’ home in the first place?
“What does that mean, that his name is there?” She placed the papers back into the drawer, her hands shaking as she clumsily dropped a few folders onto the floor.
I bent down and helped her pick them up, taking the rest of the papers from her hands. Perhaps I shouldn’t have involved Karen in this. In all reality, she was still a child.
“I’m not sure yet. Do you still have the buffet table in the dining room?”
“Yeah. Is there something in that one as well?” Her face looked nervous, scared.
“I don’t know. During my interview with Carmen, I asked her if he had shown any interest in stealing anything in your home. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t here to rob you as well. She mentioned that Carpenter showed an interest in your buffet table…that he rubbed his hand across it, commenting to her that it was a fine piece of work. That was all. He only mentioned it to her once, but the fact that he didn’t bother to show an interest in anything else in your home concerns me.”
“Yeah, it was when she poured him a glass of wine. I remember because the wine bottle was on the buffet table along with the wine glasses.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course. I’ll show you.” She slid the drawer back into the table. I followed her downstairs and into the formal dining room. Set against the rose wallpaper was the large buffet table. It was a gorgeous piece with three flower engravings on the front two drawers and vines etched around the handles. The top was a varnished finish that held black and white photos of the Watkins family, pictures of grandparents and babies in old-time strollers.
“This is a beautiful piece, Karen.”
“That’s what he said, too.”
I bent down to examine the front of the table. It had three cabinets: the large one in the middle was embossed with striking roses. Two smaller cabinets flanked this, the center part of each one displaying etched lilies and vines. These were the same design and etchings represented on the small wood table. I turned a brass key and opened the cabinet, the smell of old cedar escaped from its recesses, revealing fine china plates, bowls, and pitchers. I looked at the back of the wood panel behind the handle. There it was scripted in a black calligraphic font like the small table: Carpenter followed again by a date. This one was 1876.
“Right. I can’t go into detail about it right now, but can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, Brenda.” A state of confusion crossed her face.
“I need for you to ask your father to call me once he gets home. Please mention that I asked for him, as I don’t want to upset your mother with any questions. This would be helpful to me if you could do this. Here are my direct numbers. I’m giving you both my office and the number where I’ll be staying for a few weeks. Again, let’s keep this between the two of us and your father, yes?”
“Of course. I’ll let him know.” She rubbed her arms as if the whole room had grown cold.
“Thank you for letting me stop by. I know this is hard for you and your family. We’re doing everything we can to find this person. I want you to know that.” I tou
ched her arm.
She guided me towards the front door.
“I’ll tell my dad to call, and if you need anything else – well at least before the summer – I’m here.” She gave me a slight smile but her lips were trembling.
As I drove down the street towards Roy’s apartment, past the woman watering her plants and a couple now pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, I could practically see Karen sitting at the bottom of the staircase. I imagined that she sat there many times since Claire’s murder, hoping to feel her sister’s presence envelop her in a way she couldn’t do in life.
I entered Roy’s lobby and rang the buzzer, hearing his voice over the small intercom. Around me on the walls were three large modern paintings of geometric designs in various shades of browns and orange that I recognized belonged to Connie Sartain.
“Yeah, this is Roy.” I waited a moment, letting his voice vibrate into the empty room.
“Roy, it’s me. I need to talk.”
The buzzer opened the door, allowing me entrance to the vacant elevator. I took the first lift up to the seventeenth floor and stepped out into the quiet and empty hallway.
There was a “Taste at the Lake” festival going on by the river promising culinary concoctions from local restaurants. That could have been the reason for the deserted building. The walls echoed my footsteps as I made my way to Roy’s front door. I rang the doorbell and heard both of his dogs barking in the background.
“Calm down…calm down. Geez.” Roy opened the door. “Come in. How are you? Do you want something to drink? You’ll need one. Roberta called while you were gone.”
I petted both of the dogs as they jumped up to greet me, Ben knocking me back into the hallway with his large, gangly orange paws. My cat, Jude, wasn’t far behind, his small meows escaping from the other room.
“Did she find something? A glass of Riesling would be appreciated.”
“Yes, she did. A card. Her husband put it in his briefcase a few days before Connie was murdered. He claimed he forgot about it, but Roberta thinks he was trying to keep her from getting too involved with her sister’s issues. She said that he assumed it was from one of Connie’s clients or friends and hid it away. I guess Roberta and Connie’s relationship was complex, and Roberta felt guilty about her sister’s situation, which caused stress in the marriage.”
“What did it say?” I took the glass of wine from his hand.
“Get this. It had a drawing of a painter’s canvas on the front. Inside it said, There’s nothing better than a private art lesson to rekindle the past. He ended it with his initials, T.C. Nice, huh?”
“I guess the husband has some guilt of his own now. I just came from the Watkins home.”
“And?” He followed me into the living room as we both sat on the sofa.
“The signature’s there. In both the side table and the buffet. Not only are they there, but they’re also written in the same way as the masks: black calligraphy. The dates are different, though. These were made in 1875 and 1876. From the writing, it definitely seems like the same person. Whoever made the masks also made those two tables. I’m going to wait for a call from Colin Watkins to see if he’s aware of the inscriptions. Maybe he has some idea who they might belong to.” I picked up Jude and kissed his furry stomach. He scrambled away, chasing a toy mouse down the hallway.
“So if the masks and the furniture are linking those two families, then what about David? What does he have to offer? He must have something of this Carpenter person’s too. Jesus, Gwendolyn was so unaware of the card, that she’ll probably be oblivious to that too.”
“I’ll have to go visit her again. There must be something in her home that belonged to this man. Karen also said that Carpenter didn’t speak with an accent at all, not with them. It could be that he didn’t want to stand out any more than he already did, but which accent is real? The one he used with the Watkins or the one he used with Marcus?” I leant my head on the back of the sofa. The ceiling lights reached down like long tendrils covered in crystal and silver glass.
“Why have both accents? ‘Carpenter’ isn’t an Italian name, anyway. It’s odd that he even has an accent at all.”
“Unless this is his family and they changed the name when they came over? Immigrants sometimes took on the name of their profession. It helped them blend in better…become accepted more. Let’s say this is a relative…the great-grandfather of Carpenter…he was an artist…he made the tables and the masks. He was, in all reality, a carpenter and brings these crafts with him from Italy.” The afternoon light shined against the crystals, reflecting small prisms along the walls and floor.
“Carpenter has clearly stated that something took place in the past and that’s the motive for his killings. But…why would our Thomas Carpenter have an accent? Surely if this IS his family then they have been here long enough to assimilate and have dropped the accent altogether by now?” Roy slid his hand over my head.
“Let’s think about the antiques for a minute. Let’s say he knew they were at the Watkins home. The scenario is that he goes to their home, targets Claire and murders her, but never steals the antiques. He admires one piece by touching and mentioning it, but then he leaves. He doesn’t attempt to steal it and he purposefully places the feathers on the other antique. He knows the masks are at Connie’s house and yet again, murders her and never takes them. There’s no sign of him rummaging through her house looking for them. Nothing.” I petted Ben’s head as he lay down on his dog bed near Roy’s feet.
The living room, with its large floor to ceiling windows was growing a shade darker as a thunderstorm cloud swept over the city skyline. It looked like the beautiful afternoon was giving way to another torrid rainstorm.
Roy put down his glass on the coffee table and leaned closer towards me, putting his arm around my body. I closed my eyes and felt his breath, the heat from his lips on my mouth and neck, the wine giving me a tickling sensation, as thunder rolled into the living room, closing around both of our bodies.
All I wanted was to push Carpenter out of my mind and erase the image of his bird mask. But as I looked at Roy, I could not escape Carpenter; Roy’s blue eyes transformed into a dark brown, his face turning into a visage of feathers.
Roy kissed my neck, running his hand down my body, touching my breasts, his fingers encircling my nipples through my blouse. He unbuttoned it, undressing me while he licked my earlobes, biting them gently. He easily aroused me, but I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t relax like I normally did when his delicate lips explored my body, his beautiful chest against my own, and his strong arms pulled me towards him.
My mind was still focused on the bird illustration, all five of the identical birds, sitting on tree branches with their little faces, three with a large line right through their middle. I tried to imagine Carpenter sitting in the corner, aware that I would not see him, that I would be oblivious to his presence, his eyes studying me, waiting for me to receive the napkin.
As I felt Roy’s mouth, his soft tongue licking my nipples, traveling down my stomach, my thighs and between my legs, heat grew from the middle of my body right up through my head and strands of hair as I saw all of the little birds fly off of the napkin and into various corners of the living room, their wings flapping against the ceiling, feathers floating down in the air. Replacing their images on the white background of the ceiling was Karen’s sketch of Carpenter’s mask. As it morphed in my mind, the long feathers wrapped around my arms and brushed against my face. It was as if his hand was on the small of my back, his lips kissing my own.
Marcus had been the only person so far to see Carpenter without his mask, and I had to rely on his account: tall, dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and distinct jaw line. In other words, a handsome young man. I imagined Carpenter offered all three victims a glimpse of his face, perhaps as a completion of his task. But I would never know. As Roy pushed himself inside of me, forced me against the cushions, I couldn’t hear him talk dirty in my ear. I loved it whe
n he pulled my hair and spoke roughly to me. I often encouraged it with my own naughty responses, but this time, I couldn’t see or hear anything.
All I could hear was one word: Carpenter.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
The evening found me curled next to Jude on Roy’s orange sofa. My feet dangled off of the edge in black slippers, a pillow rested between my knees. I wrapped Roy’s cotton robe around my body as I rolled over and turned to face the windows. Written notes and some of my clothes littered his living room, my messy presence already making itself known. Both dogs were asleep on their beds, Ben’s red rubber ball tucked securely under his chest. I glanced around the room, at Roy’s fairly simple decorations – the exception being his Chagall print of “Romeo and Juliet,” a replica of the ceiling mural in the Paris Opera House. He bought it at a local gallery the year before and it hung over a plush orange chair, next to a few plants in dark brown macramé holders that matched the chair’s two pillows.
In his kitchen, which overlooked a large courtyard, he kept all of his late mother’s 1950s flour and coffee canisters on the counter under his father’s pots and pans that embellished the walls. I had seen them put to good use when he chose to make me dishes like vegetarian lasagna or rice stuffed bell pepper. He spoiled me with his experimental culinary concoctions and philosophy: “Cooking is like pleasing a lover. If you leave her too long, she becomes burnt and fussy. If you stay and caress her, soothe her into what she is meant to become, you taste the rewards.”
As I sensed Jude’s warm body, his soft purrs vibrating against my stomach, I slipped again into a light sleep. Roy’s phone rang, breaking the silence of the empty apartment. I listened to the repetitious ringing resonate in the kitchen and looked at the ceiling, the large medallion surrounding the spindle lights, wondering why Roy wasn’t answering the phone.
Was he somewhere in the apartment, or did I doze off and he decided to run an errand?
