The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

  Alright, time to end the mystery: I dialed the number she’d left and heard the receiver being lifted, then a grunt of salutation. Yeah, I had the right person.

  I said, “Cella? It’s Genie Auf der Maur. You left a message for me?”

  She sounded pleased to hear me speak but there was a thin strip of tension running through her voice, like an iron filament in a block of stone, as she replied, “Genie. Holy shit, girl, it’s been how long? So weird to hear your voice. How are ya, anyway? Hey, thanks for calling. I know this all must seem a bit…”

  “Out of the blue?”

  “Yeah, out of the blue.” She chuckled quietly. “Holy shit. Little Genie on my phone. But how have you been? You’re okay? You made Homicide, huh. That’s, uh, that’s good, that’s really fucking impressive, Genie.”

  “Thanks, Cella. Yeah, I’m fine, I’m okay. Everything’s okay. Homicide is pretty cool, it’s interesting. How are you getting on? I met your cousin, uh, Jerry Browne. Met her a few nights ago at a crime scene. She’s a good kid.”

  I could hear Cella lighting a cigarette at the other end, the whoosh of combustion like an electric whisper along the line, then her wheezing breath; heavy ladies probably shouldn’t smoke so much. “Yeah, Jerry’s cool, she’ll go a long way I think. She’s got the stuff for police work, you know? No fear, that one. She’s young and strong and, just, no fear.” There was a pause. “Genie, I need to speak with you. I mean, in person. We need to meet. It’s important.”

  The filament of tension had thickened. She continued, “Not on the phone. I don’t, I wanna meet in the flesh. As soon as you can. How are you fixed?”

  I frowned, intrigued, then grabbed a pen and writing pad and said in a calm tone, “Okay, Cella. That’s fine. We’ll meet up, sure. You just say where and when.”

  “This afternoon. At Madeleine Greenhill’s funeral.”

  It didn’t want to, it resisted like a perp struggles against the cuffs, but I forced the old rustbucket to keep going and keep carrying me east, almost in a straight line across Hera from the Detectives Division building towards the Church of the Redemption in Bradshaw, a swanky area nestling under the tall hills that bordered the city on that side. The church was less than a mile from Caritas Heights, which explained how an old dame like Misery managed to walk there for mass every morning.

  As I drove I wondered: why was Cella Donat going to Madeleine’s funeral? She wouldn’t say over the telephone. Then I realized, with a thoroughly unprofessional touch of guilt, I hadn’t even known the girl was being buried this morning. But of course, they had to do it sometime—real life (and real death) carry on, measured and relentless, indifferent to my inves- tigative progress. Cella had quickly filled me in: all the post- mortem work being done and done, Misericordiae had reclaimed her daughter ’s body and arranged the funeral quick-sharp. For a woman with her power, presumably, organizing something at short notice is never much of a problem. Which still didn’t explain why Cella was attending, or why I felt a little guilty.

  I pulled to a stop at a discreet distance from the church. There was a slight conflict of interests here—I was the investigating officer—but to hell with it, I was also a woman with a brain and a heart, I felt love and anger, as uncomplicated and inexorable as that. More than that: I felt almost responsible for Madeleine now, like I was deeply, personally involved. That had only happened me once before on a case, this one involving a child sold into sex- slavery. The only time I’d pulled my weapon with the express intention of killing someone; not arresting or restraining or self- defense, but blowing the sick bitch out of her little cotton socks. That someone could warp the concept of motherhood so badly out of plumb, that she could sell out her biological and existential birthright for a few bucks… It enraged me, it turned me into someone new. Someone worse.

  I hadn’t fired. I stood with my gun pressed to her forehead for what seemed like hours, trembling and screaming at her to justify her existence, to give me one good reason not to end it… My partner at the time had eased the piece from my hand, whispering reassurances and pacifications, then cuffed the mother and bundled her off to justice and safety. I didn’t move for 40 minutes. Right at that moment I was hollowed-out, just a faint reflection of myself. And the woman, I realized afterwards, hadn’t managed to come up with that one good reason.

  Now, by whatever strange dynamic of mind and emotion, I felt involved with Madeleine. I felt for Madeleine. I didn’t know why; there was no particular reason for it. I’d worked on far more depressing cases than this, violent, grim fantasias that would turn your hair white, but somehow had managed to float above it all. Like I said before, you feel the empathy in your gut, you’ll always feel that, but you don’t care too deeply. You can’t. And yet, and yet… Here I was, walking towards the Church of the Redemption for the funeral of this pampered little brat, and shit yeah, I cared. I stood just outside and looked right up the building’s façade as it erupted into the heavens, sheer and dizzying, and I felt sad for her—for her life and, especially, her awful death. Just this massive wash of sadness, useless, bitter- sweet, I was filled with it, overflowing. I let the wave pass over me and through me. I shook my head and grit my teeth and went inside.

  The place was smallish, dark and ornate, that very Catholic ostentation: sculptures and stained-glass, highly wrought metals, lush fabrics, wooden pews so old and worn that they were virtually black. The church’s impenetrable walls and murky corners seemed to absorb and muffle everything, so that each sound was earned, wrenched from the surroundings. An absolutely beautiful speaking rostrum stood to the front and left of the altar, carved balsa wood, a thin golden staircase winding up and around it like a seductive serpent. A small, unimposing- looking woman was up there, giving the homily—Mother Torres, I presumed, as mentioned by Misery during our interview.

  Her soft old hands fluttered like doves as she said, “‘…we like sheep have gone astray.’ Let us listen to that verse once more: ‘All we like sheep have gone astray.’” She paused for emphasis and gave a melancholy sigh. “Madeleine Greenhill was one of us; she was of our people. And we know her people. Her mother and grandmother are among the finest women ever to grace this city. And despite all that’s been said of Madeleine—despite the mistakes she may have made, the wrong turns this young girl took in her life… Madeleine, too, was a fine person. She was beautiful, inside and out. She was filled with light and grace and hope. And yes, let us never forget, please, she was one of us…”

  I tuned out her voice and scoped out the crowd—small, surprisingly small, considering the enormity of this whole thing. Barely three dozen in the congregation: a few loyal friends, Church members, individual representatives of Hera’s various interest groups showing exactly the right balance of compassion and sobriety. At first I was surprised at the tiny turn-out but then I figured, no, this is correct, this is Misericordiae. Discretion and gravity, that fiercely held sense of privacy. And I admired her, just a little: it seemed to show a certain respect for death, an appreciation that nothing is more intimate and yet more immense.

  My gaze drifted a little more. I caught what I took to be a nervous/brave paparazzo lurking by the door, hiding her camera, getting the bad eye from an ever-watchful Ileana, who sat up front in the angled pew behind Misery. The old girl, true to form, was on her own, hands crossed over her lap and holding rosary beads, her expression timeless and inscrutable. She seemed to be looking past the casket, which was closed—no surprise, consid- ering what had happened Madeleine’s face post-mortem. Then a weird thing happened: a shaft of light broke through the gargantuan stained-glass window behind the altar and brushed past Misery’s face, caressing it like a gentle breeze, and she softened, she looked 30 years younger. She looked like one of us.

  I blinked hard and cursed my propensity for flights of fancy. It was this place, with its seductive air of doom and magnifi- cence—it played tricks on your mind. Quit it, Genie. Quit it, quit it, quit it. Get out of here.

  As I
slowly backed towards the entrance I cast my eye around one more time. Nobody I recognized straight up; no Odette, who knew Madeleine so maybe might have turned up, though she’d always said she was squeamish. Funerals and cold dead bodies weren’t for the likes of her. And I still had to talk to her. My hand was reaching for a pack of Dark Nine, hidden within the womblike confines of my pocket, when I thought I saw the girl from the picture: the society photograph, printed in a newspaper, of Madeleine with a group at some party a few years back. The tall girl from the back, stoop-shouldered and intriguing, the way she’d fixed my eye, something about her projecting out into three-dimensional space from the flatness of the page…

  She, or someone like her, was standing across the way, her head bowed but turned towards me. Then someone jostled me and I stumbled slightly and sunlight blinded me for a moment. I squinted back into the sepulchral murk of the church and couldn’t see the girl, couldn’t really see anything. Now I was outside the building anyway, so I lit my cigarette and smiled and thought, Another flight of fancy, Genie. You’re losing it, girl.

  I hung around for 20 minutes at the periphery of the church grounds, smoking too much and trying not to think about anything. I think I failed. Eventually the funeral attendance filed out and then the coffin, pristine and awful, carried by six strong women and led by Mother Torres. I stayed where I was and watched from a distance as they rolled slowly to the graveyard behind the building, an oddly unkempt patch of garden, crooked headstones and weeds run amok. It wasn’t my place; I didn’t need or want to witness Madeleine being interred.

  More smokes, more trying to have blank thoughts. The priest’s words carrying ever so faintly on the still air. Suggestions of incense, collective murmurs. After a while the crowd returned in my direction, mostly silent, heads down, elbows squeezed here and there, brief words muttered up close. None of them greeted me as they passed, en route to waiting drivers; they didn’t even seem to notice me. I was fine with that. Finally came Misericordiae, walking with a cane which I took to be more decorative than practical, Ileana to her left, Mother Torres to her right. Misery smiled at the priest more affectionately than I would have thought her capable of, and kissed her cheek. They pressed hands and Mother Torres went back inside the church. I still hadn’t seen Cella and was about to give it up for a wasted afternoon when Misery saw me, nodding over—the sort of nod that’s less a greeting, more a directive. I threw my cigarette aside and walked up to her.

  She kept those crow-gray eyes on me as she said, “Ileana, start the car, please.” The butler ghosted away, leaving us alone. I smiled dumbly, out of social embarrassment.

  “Detective Auf der Maur. I appreciate your attendance here today.”

  I shrugged noncommittally and there was that stupid goddamn twinge of guilt again.

  “How are things going?”

  At first I thought she meant for me personally, then realized, of course, she meant the case. I mentally slapped my forehead and stammered, “Um, pretty good. We’re, uh, we’re getting places. I’m sorry, there’s a lot I can’t tell you. It’s, uh, regulation. Until, you know, the case is closed. They’re very strict on that, I’m sorry.”

  She nodded in understanding. “That’s alright. You have your professional obligations. May I ask: do you know yet who killed my daughter? I don’t want a name, or some kind of guarantee that this person will be brought to justice. Just a yes or no.” She paused. “I suppose what I want, Detective, is a little hope.”

  I held my breath, looked up to the sky past her shoulder. Then I breathed out slowly and said, “Yes. I think I do. I’m almost 100 per cent sure.”

  “Good.” Misery nodded again, this time in satisfaction; I felt like a school-kid getting an A on her assignment. “Good.”

  Silence hung in the air, low and heavy like foreboding. I wanted to leave; Misery stopped me by saying, “A small crowd. That’s as it should be, I feel, for a funeral. Though Madeleine may not have approved.”

  She gave a sly little smile, out of the corner of her mouth. I smiled too, probably more out of astonishment than anything else. Who would have thought it? Old Misery had a sense of humor, and such a black one at that.

  “None of her friends showed up, needless to say. I wasn’t surprised. Madeleine meant nothing to them. She was useful for a while, and now she’s dead. Nothing more to be squeezed from her.”

  I said, “Yeah, that’s… It’s shit. Forgive the language, but that’s a shit state of affairs. It’s not right.”

  “No, it is not.” She paused once more. “Virginia Newman was here. The only one of Madeleine’s acquaintances to bother attending her last moments on this earth. I don’t have much time for the girl, but to give credit where it’s due. She clearly cared for my daughter. I won’t forget that.”

  Something clicked, some seemingly random spark leaped a bridging gap in my mind. I said, “Virginia Newman. Could you describe her for me?”

  “Tall. Good build. Long curly hair, dark brown. A mopey sort. Slouches a lot. Pretty enough, I suppose.”

  “What was she wearing today? Did you notice?”

  “I did. She wore a two-piece skirt suit, dark green, almost black. Carried a small bag of similar color. A silver brooch on her breast. Her hair was pinned on each temple.”

  I smiled. “You could have been a cop with those powers of observation.”

  “Oh yes, Detective. I notice things.”

  I thought, I’ll bet you do. Then I said, “I think I might have seen her earlier. In the chapel. I think maybe it was her.”

  “She was here, as I said. I presume she’s left by now. They’ve almost all left. Just Ileana and me remaining. And you, of course.”

  “Yeah. I’m still here.”

  There didn’t seem a whole lot to say after that, and Misery looked tired. It was kind of strange, how she seemed more tired than sad or bereft or upset. She was all of those things, of course—I knew she was scalded, burned out inside, by the pain. But right then, there was an old, tired woman standing, slumped, in front of me.

  She said to the gravel-covered ground, “You didn’t come to the graveside.”

  “No. I didn’t feel it was… I had no place being there, really.”

  “Do you believe, Detective? In God, or some higher power?”

  I considered the question as I lit a Dark Nine. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe, other times…” I raised my hands and shrugged. “Probably not, if I’m being honest with myself. But sometimes I’m more scared than honest, you know?”

  Misery began walking slowly towards the street and her car, and I fell into step. After half a minute she said, “I believe. I am Catholic, as you know, and I have always had faith in God. My God, not someone else’s. And certainly not this vague, modernist interpretation of ‘God is everything’ or ‘God is in us.’ This mystical mumbo-jumbo.” She coughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound, suggestive of some murky future. “It gives me strength. There, today, as my daughter ’s remains were being covered with earth, as the earth fell… I drew strength from my faith. Solace. Mother Torres’s homily, the words on rebirth and resurrection, how none of us are beyond redemption… I sincerely hope my Madeleine was redeemed before she departed. I wish it more than anything.”

  “You know, um, for what it’s worth? I think she was. I think wherever Heaven is, Madeleine is there. She’s okay.”

  The old lady nodded again, a sort of unclear gesture, hard to decipher. I wondered if I’d overstepped the mark and amazed myself with the realization that I didn’t really care.

  We’d reached the gates when she spoke again, without looking at me: “Isn’t it strange how some myths of the afterlife offer such little comfort, or hope of a happier time to come? In Ancient Egypt only the royalty expected paradise to be just that. They expected a ‘happy ever after.’ Everyone else assumed they would carry on as before—enslaved and bowed down for all eternity.” Misery turned back and offered me her hand, saying as we shook, “I prefer our way. I prefer
hope. I am a realist, but…I am also a mother. Goodbye, Detective.”

  I didn’t reply. I had no reply, really—I’m not wise or experi- enced or quick-witted enough. Instead I watched Ileana gently

  usher her mistress into the luxurious gloom of an enormous Rolls-Royce. As they drove away, almost silently, I reflected on the terrible irony of her situation: if anyone could be considered royalty in Hera City it was Misericordiae Greenhill, but I was absolutely convinced that there couldn’t be a happy ever after for her.

  Chapter 13

  Cella

  VIRGINIA Newman, I decided, whether or not that was her I saw, could grieve for today—my questions would hold. She deserved that, and Madeleine deserved it, too: one day for two friends, together, cloistered, left alone. I was crossing the street, returning to my car, when Marcella Donat slipped in beside me and scared me half to death. For a big girl, she was surprisingly good at staying out of sight and moving without being noticed. Maybe her and Ileana could have a race one of these days, the ghost-glide derby.

  I actually yelped when Cella grabbed my arm, and fell into embarrassed laughter. “Jesus! Cella. My heart! You nearly…”

  Then I stopped talking and took a good look at her. She hadn’t changed at all from our days together in Vice. Cella hadn’t changed since she hit puberty. A big lump of a woman, not far shy of six feet tall and built like a tank. She was quite pretty in the face, with dimpled cheeks and hair that shone soft and golden, like warm melted caramel. But she had the mass of a bruiser, a back-alley bouncer, and I noticed she still wore the most unflat- tering, shapeless clothes it was possible to buy—baggy trousers, a jacket that looked far too big even for Cella, her shirt collar askew and a tie desultorily pulled around her neck. A coal sack would have been more complimentary, no joke.

  She hadn’t changed, and I was glad of that. My life had taken so many weird lurches and spikes over the last few days, it was soothing to wallow in the familiar. It made me feel safe.