The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

  “Madeleine’s?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d be there. I didn’t think you’d…care.”

  “Maybe it was just professional courtesy. Or curiosity. I’m not sure that I do care. Not the way you do, anyway. Misericordiae told me she saw you there. She appreciated it, for what it’s worth.”

  “Old Misery. We’ve had our—disagreements. She never liked me as Madeleine’s friend. But… I didn’t give a damn. I wasn’t going to miss it. I owed that to Maddy.”

  Silence, periodically punctured by the metronomic clicks of that clock. Bile rising within me again. I needed to get out of here: my Zen-like appropriation of calm would only last so long. But first I needed to know some things for sure.

  “So are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?” Virginia turned to me, alarmed. “What?”

  “I’m kidding. I don’t do beating. But are you going to tell me now?”

  “Tell you…”

  “That you slept with me on Azura LaVey’s orders.”

  Ka-pow. That cut to the bone. Virginia’s cheeks colored in shame and embarrassment—even her blushing was aesthetically divine, I noticed sourly—then she looked at the ground for a long moment. I said nothing, let the silence fill the room, let the clock fill the silence. Tick, tick. We’re all waiting.

  Finally she said, “It’s true. I… The first night we met? I’d followed you. I did that and… Yes, I slept with you because she asked me to. But that was only the first time, Genie. After that, when I got to know…”

  “Save the slushy fiction for a romance novel, sweetheart. I just want the facts. The truth.”

  She bit her lip. Another long silence. “I’d been tailing you for most of the evening, trying to engineer an opening. Just to—you know, so we could talk, maybe. Just to see what… Anyway, I saw what happened in the Zig-Zag. I saw that woman stalking you, that burly woman with the cropped hair.”

  “Her name’s Erika. Old friend of mine.”

  Virginia took a moment to click that I was being sarcastic. Then she said, “I was—too scared to do anything, except call the cops. I called anonymously and reported that crazy woman and then ran after you again. …I’m so sorry, I saw her attack you but I couldn’t… Look at me. I’m not a fighter.”

  “Well. You saved my ass, anyway. Patrol car ’s siren scared her away.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that.” “I’m not just saying that.”

  And more silence. So much silence I felt like I could drink from it, just open my mouth and lean into the atmosphere and swallow a large draught. I broke the silence by saying: “So then you followed me to that bar.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did what you were told to do. For fuck’s sake. Don’t you have a conscience?”

  “I only did it because… Azura can be a very persuasive woman. I’m not saying… I only did what I did because she asked me.”

  “Asked you what? Specifically. What did she want you to find out?”

  “If you knew who’d killed Maddy. Or, you know, where the investigation had gone, where it was going. How far you’d got. Just, I don’t know. Information.”

  “And you never got suspicious this woman wanted to know— sorry, to find out in an underhand way—details about a murder investigation? That didn’t hit you as being some weird goddamn behavior?”

  Virginia sighed again. I thought I’d slap her if she did it one more time. She said, “Azura said she was just concerned. Because Madeleine was an old student, and she cared about the well- being of her girls, and all that.”

  “So why the subterfuge?”

  “She didn’t want the school to get mixed-up in all of this. It’d be bad for its reputation. Look, she asked me and I did it. Okay? Those were her reasons.”

  “And did you believe her?” “Then or now?”

  “Either.”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. But I was intimidated by her, too. She’s… I mean, Azura’s cool in some ways. But she’s not the kind of woman you want to mess with.”

  I leaned over and stubbed out my cigarette. I felt tired—not a good start to the working day. My body was alright, but my eyes were tired, my mind. I felt scooped-out, woozy, heat-seared.

  “Genie, I swear to God I thought was she just playing some game,” Virginia said. “Some angle… For all I know she is. You don’t know that Azura is guilty of anything.”

  “For all you know,” I said. “Huh. I oughta fucking arrest you for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “If that’s what you have to do.”

  Oh stop it, I thought. Stop being so goddamn contrite and saintly. Show me some passion, that you care. Show me your other side. Show me Cassandra the night-time wonder woman.

  “And of course you won’t repeat any of this officially?” I asked.

  Virginia shrugged and looked at the ground regretfully. Then she said quietly, “Would you want me to? Wouldn’t it look bad for you?”

  “Probably. But I’d probably do it anyway.”

  I considered this and the realization settled: what a dangerous spot for me to be in. Investigating officer in biggest murder case for decades sleeps with dead girl’s best friend who’s involved on the orders of the number one suspect. Oh, Jesus. I felt sick.

  “You know I could lose my job over this? You do realize that, right? I could get my ass canned for this. Fuck it, what am I saying? I could possibly go to jail.”

  Virginia said, “I won’t let that happen. I’ll deny anything took place. I’ll lie if I have to. I’ll say I haven’t met Azura LaVey in years. Please don’t worry about your job, Genie.”

  I stood and grabbed my coat, slipped it on over my sweater. I loved this sweater: I’d had it for years, it felt like a second skin by now. Warm and tight, nicely ragged, cozy, familiar. Virginia finally got off her knees, sliding back onto the couch.

  “So long, wonder woman,” I said. “It was fun, I suppose.”

  I began moving towards the door and she leaped up, took two giant steps and blocked my way. “Wait.”

  “For what? More stories? Sorry, Virginia, I don’t have time for stories. Got things to do in the real world.”

  She placed her hands on my shoulders, pressing down quite firmly, pressure through her fingertips, through the fabric of my overcoat and my warm familiar sweater.

  “Wait.”

  I waited. She composed herself. I waited some more.

  “It did start…like that,” she said finally. “I admit it. It’s horrible, I was totally in the wrong. If I could take it back I would, a thousand times. But now… Listen to me. Now it’s different. After dinner the other night. That conversation we had, that deep conversation. I felt something. Something changed in my heart. I got to know you. And like you. I hope you can believe me, maybe you can’t, but it’s true in either case. I really like you, Genie. I feel so comfortable around you—at ease. Like I can…” She smiled gently. “Like I can be myself. I mean that. There’s something…special about you. About us. Yeah. This could be something special.” She lifted her hands and held them in the air,

  looking like a hoodlum who knows the game is up. “That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  I took a step back and said, “Aw, bullshit. You were pumping me for information.”

  “In the beginning. Not later. Not now.”

  “Why did LaVey pick you, anyway? And not one of her other girls. One of the current students. You weren’t there but—what, six months?”

  “Nine, actually.”

  “Fine. Nine. So why pick you for this little charade? What is it between you and LaVey?”

  “Nothing. There is nothing between us. I just know her. From back then, and we’ve sort of kept in touch. She buys from my shop sometimes. I don’t know why Azura asked me. I suppose it was… I’m good-looking, right? You’re always saying that. People…like me.”

  I said in a tone so cynical it practically came in italics, “Yeah. They like
you. People like you a hell of a lot, I have no doubt.”

  She ignored my jibe and said, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s… I’m a chameleon. I have a gift for changing into other people. For— what’s that phrase? ‘Hiding in plain sight.’”

  “The fucking femme fatale chameleon. Bravo for you.” “Genie, stop it. Don’t make this any worse. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  I examined her: she really did look totally different. The hot- red vamp from the bar, the voluptuous beauty from the restaurant—if you lined up a picture of Cassandra beside one of Virginia, the dowdy girl with her handmade linen clothes and tousled hair, you’d have to stare pretty hard before you realized they were one and the same. What a strange quality to have, indefinable but very real: the ability to change, to mutate, to blend in. The ability to be invisible or memorable or both. It felt like it was a gift and a curse at the same time.

  Something hit me, a little memory-tweak: “You were the girl with Madeleine. At the theater, three or four weeks ago. Mary- Jane Tussing met you two. She remembered you. She said you were a knockout.”

  “Yes. Lady Gregory. That was me.” “You were blonde that night.” “Right again.”

  “Tussing didn’t know you. At least she said she didn’t. Is that possible? Maybe you really are a chameleon.”

  “I don’t know. Why she would say that, I mean. We know each other. Not too well, but she’d have met me a few times.”

  “So why did she act like that? She actually claimed she thought you were a prostitute.”

  Virginia laughed. “Not again? You two will have to compare notes.”

  I brought us back to serious: “Why, Virginia?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Genie. That’s the truth. Maybe she really didn’t recognize me—we only met for 30 seconds. Getting drinks at the interval. We didn’t speak, just, you know, just nodded hello, really. Or maybe she lied to you and did recognize me. Why, you’ll have to ask her. Besides,” she said angrily, “Tussing is a fucking snob. She wouldn’t want to be seen spending too much time in public with someone as ‘disreputable’ as Madeleine Greenhill.”

  At the door I stopped as another question came to mind, popping into existence like a sub-atomic particle, a flash of energy, there and gone. “Why was your hair blonde that night? The night at the theater. Is this another role, another you? The blonde, the redhead, the brunette. It’s hard to keep track.”

  She shrugged, a tired motion—she looked beat, out of juice. I gave myself evens that she’d curl up on that settee the second I left and stare into the fireplace until afternoon. The thought didn’t give me as much comfort as I’d assumed it would.

  Virginia said, “Again, and forgive me for repeating myself, I don’t know. It had nothing to do with you, or…this, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just…I like to dress up. Play a role. Inhabit another character. Be another person. It’s as simple as that. I need to—escape from the real me for a while. Do you understand…? Sometimes I get tired of always being conscious of my own existence. You know? So I…I change. For a little while. It’s nice, every now and again. Just…destroy that ‘you’ that’s always hanging around. Be someone new.”

  I shrugged, partly in silent agreement and partly because now I wanted out: out of this room, this conversation, out of the clutches of this goddamn chameleon and her quicksilver person- ality, the attractive, elusive power of her, like beads of mercury in a magnetic field. I left without saying goodbye or resolving anything; Christ, I hadn’t even asked her the thorough list of questions I’d made out for “Virginia Newman” the night before. I knew I was being unprofessional; I tried to care, but it was hard. My heart was dragging my sense of responsibility down to its level.

  I’d still need to talk to her. Oh, what fun that’d be. It started to rain, spatters on the windshield, as I revved the engine and peeled away from the house, spraying gravel, spitting curses under my breath. Damn you, Virginia. Fuck you, Cassandra. I hope you’re happy now, you bitch. I hope your beauty turns to rottenness and dust. I hope I never see you again.

  As I pulled out into the sluggish traffic I thought of the fire in her voice when she spoke of Madeleine, and remembered Misery’s words at the funeral: “She clearly cared for my daughter.” To be fair, Virginia had been one of the first people in this whole sorry story to give the impression she actually missed Madeleine, and regretted her loss, and loved her. Well, that’s something you’ve got on the credit side, honey. And it was something, a very big something—but not enough to keep me there.

  Chapter 20

  Dinah

  JESUS. Barely a quarter past nine in the morning and already I felt like going home. I shuffled in the main door at Dicks Division, through a squally burst of rain and wind and street debris that cut and swirled down the street like the licking tongue of a devil’s vengeance. I was glad to get inside, but I still wanted to turn tail and go straight back out again.

  Then Marcella Donat came riding to the rescue. Sitting on my desk when I reached it was a light package from that heavy lady. I carefully placed my mug of coffee on the desk, pulled a letter- knife from the drawer and cut open the envelope. Attagirl, Cella: she’d run down the details of That Island in double-quick time. Full address, gas and electricity account numbers, date of construction—and the biggie, ownership. The joint was owned by a subsidiary company called Claydice Ltd, and that in turn was registered to one Elizabeth Rhonda Arendt. So: one of my five little songbirds “owned” the mysterious private club that so many people seemed to get worked up about. I noticed that That Island was listed as a “private residence.” It had no official existence as a business, no phone or fax numbers. Well, now its existence was my business.

  No sign of LaVey’s fingerprints over this one, but that didn’t mean a goddamn thing. She was clever, good at covering her tracks. And I just wasn’t looking at it from the correct angle, or under the right light. Maybe I needed some kind of magnifying glass here, print-dust, UV rays, blue and penetrating. I’d have to keep looking.

  No time like the present, as my teachers used to say. While I slugged back my coffee I debated internally whether or not to update the Chief. I was leaning towards “no” when a call buzzed through: Farrington with Bethany Gilbert’s autopsy report.

  “Hey-ho, all you good people, give it up for the gorgeous Joanne Farrington, live from the corpse house. How ya keeping, Genie?”

  I said dryly, “How can you be so energetic this early in the morning?”

  “This ain’t early, my little chum. This is late. Your old pal has been up slicing and dicing all night. And you know why I do it? Because I care.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I laughed. “Spare me the pitch for the medal of honor. What have you got, Farr?”

  “Alrighty. Our victim—sorry, your victim; I just work here. Bethany Daria Gilbert, aged 21, brown hair, hazel eyes, five foot four, 100 and blah blah blah pounds. Here’s the important stuff: the girl died from a combination of brain injury and loss of blood. Caused by dozens of incisions to the face, head and neck. Don’t ask me what kind of weapon did this, Genie—that’s your department—but this was one savage fucking attack. And I mean, this is me saying this. She who cannot be shocked.”

  “Yeah, I saw the… I saw her. She was…” “She was a mess.”

  “Yep.”

  “Like, the sheer strength that would have been needed to do that,” Farrington continued. “Her skull is pierced over and over. Her skull. Dense bone. Hard stuff there. Your killer obviously used something thin and sharp with a high tensile strength. And a hell of a lot of muscle-power. The wounds are a strange sort of shape. Very small, I mean tiny. Maybe a needle, something like that. A steel spike, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it did for poor little Beth.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay, thanks again, Farr.”

  Erika Baton. She might as well have left a business card. The ferocity, the insanity, the sheer brute strength…and the intimate nature of the attack. Again, it was up close and p
ersonal. Just like with Madeleine. And almost with me. Most pros killed from a distance, both spatially and emotionally. Erika clearly liked to get her hands dirty. You horrible bitch, I thought; you vicious brutal heartless motherfucker.

  “…owe me that beer.”

  Farrington’s voice shocked me back to reality. I said reflex- ively, “Sorry, what? Sorry, I’d zoned out there.”

  “I said you still owe me a beer. We meeting for drinks or what?”

  “I… You know, give me a few days, huh? It’s crazy busy here at the moment.”

  “Yeah, no problem. I got a date tonight anyways. How’s next week sound?”

  “Next week. Yeah. Next week is cool, Farr. Sure.” “Alright. I’ll call ya. Keep out of trouble, Genie.”

  She rang off, her words ringing in my ears. Keep out of trouble. Meet for a drink next week. I smiled wryly and thought, One depends on the other, doesn’t it? A beer next week. Sounds lovely. If I’m still around by then. I killed my coffee, grabbed my coat and left. The Chief could wait as well as the drinks.

  Bethany Gilbert had been right on the money with something she said—maybe the last thing she ever said—Shrewsbury was a posh, pretentious area, no doubting it. The place positively reeked of wealth, snobbery, aspiration and a sense of entitlement. That was the most unattractive quality anyone could possess, I’d always felt: that inherited assumption that you’re special, you deserve special treatment, the rest of the world is somehow of less value than you. I came from a regular working-class background: we weren’t poor but my mom held down cleaning jobs all her life to support us. We rented a small one-bed apartment with a pull-out couch in the sitting-room and had to share a bathroom with the family of five girls and their belea- guered and constantly exhausted mother who lived across the hall. But I’m not complaining, it was a happy childhood. Frugal, sometimes stony broke, but noisy, clamorous, cheerful, happy.

  When I had saved some money I told my mom she could move out now, I’d support her, she could live somewhere else, somewhere better. She looked at me like I’d offered her a parcel of dog-shit, minus the parcel. “This is our home, Genie,” she’d said. “Why would I leave my home? And Sunita needs me, she’s all on her own now.” I never felt like such an asshole. To make amends I bought the apartment off the senile old bat who owned it and gave my mother the deeds for her 50th birthday. I lost her less than 18 months later; a heart attack brought on by a congenital defect. But at least she died at home. I still haven’t gotten around to selling the joint on; it’s stupid because I rent somewhere else myself while that place sits empty. But I haven’t the heart to lease it out, either. Someday I’ll take care of it.