by Byars, Betsy
A voice called, “Herculeah!” It was Gilda. “Want a ride home?”
Herculeah nodded.
She managed to get into the car.
“You looked as if something was wrong.”
“Something was wrong,” Herculeah admitted.
“It wasn’t your friend.”
“Well,” she tried to smile, “let’s just say it wasn’t who I thought it was.”
Gilda looked at her sharply. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Rebecca’s house.”
“Oh?”
“We could go there now.” Herculeah had a blank look on her face, as if her mind was far away.
“The house where Rebecca was killed. We could go there now. Are you up for it?”
“I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Then we’re off.”
She pulled the car back into the stream of traffic, and with horns blaring their alarm, they headed for the murder house.
12
THE UNUSED HALF-SMILE
Although Meat would never, ever admit this to his mother, the date hadn’t been that bad. At least, he could think of it as a date now instead of a life-threatening disease.
When his mother had told him about the arrangements, he had been beset by one fear after another. They had been like furious, uncontrollable ocean waves washing over him—each one more treacherous than the one before.
The first wave of fear, of course, had been that she would be an ogre. That she would be ugly was a given. Only very ugly girls would allow their aunt to arrange dates for them.
But, to his surprise, the girl had been pretty. Even with his limited knowledge of girls, he realized this was exactly what most girls wanted to look like—small and blonde, with white teeth and a turned-up nose, and encased in the lingering scent of some flower Meat had never smelled before.
Of course she wasn’t what Herculeah wanted to look like, because Herculeah wanted to look like herself. However, his thoughts continued, if Herculeah had had to look like someone else, this would have been his personal recommendation.
His next wave of fear had been that he would never have anything to say, that the afternoon would be one long painful silence after another broken only by her asking, “What are you thinking?” followed by the truly desperate “What are you thinking now?” But from the moment she got into the car, she had handled the conversation.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she’d said. “I was soooo bored. I was afraid you’d refuse to take me to the movies and I’d have to go by myself, and while I was desperate, I wasn’t that desperate.”
Meat’s mother was watching them in the rearview mirror, and she gave him a look. It was the look dog trainers gave their dogs before the command, “Speak!”
“It’s not so bad.”
“You’ve been to the movies by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re a guy. You can get away with stuff like that. You can go anywhere by yourself and nobody gives you looks like this.”
She gave him a look of such pity and scorn that he had to admit to himself that there was probably no movie great enough to risk getting a look like that.
But now the date was almost over. They had had pizza, they had seen a movie, and now they were on their way home, sitting side by side in the backseat while Steffie leaned forward to describe, scene by scene, the movie they had just seen for Meat’s mom.
“And I knew who was going to be mutated, didn’t I, Albert?”
She poked Meat, and he said, “She did.”
“And I knew who was doing the mutating, didn’t I?”
“She did.”
Actually nothing in the entire movie had taken him by surprise, because Steffie had predicted every single thing. Even after the woman behind them asked her to shut up, she continued her predictions in a whisper.
“I’ve always been like that. I always know what’s going to happen. There’s a word for what I am, but I can’t think of it.”
“Clairvoyant,” Meat said.
“That’s it! Your son is soooo smart. But I can only do it in the movies and on TV. In real life, I just bumble along not suspecting one single thing. Oh, are we here already?”
They pulled up in front of Steffie’s aunt’s house. Meat’s mom gave him a look in the rearview mirror, and Meat got out dutifully, held the door for Steffie, and then walked her to the front door.
There Steffie said, “Oh, thank you, thank you. I was sooo bored. You want to do something tomorrow? We could go back and see that movie about the end of the world.”
“I think Mom’s got something planned.”
“I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Fine.”
He went back, got in the car, and sighed with relief. He would spend the rest of the drive, he decided, practicing a half-smile that would, when he saw Herculeah, make her think he’d gotten Novocain on that side of his face at the dentist’s office.
He didn’t get to practice his half-smile for more than three seconds, because his mom glanced at him over her shoulder and said, “So what was Herculeah doing following you?”
“What? What do you mean ‘following me’?”
“Well, I can’t imagine what else the girl was doing. She was standing not ten feet away from you—I saw her in the rearview mirror. She watched you and Steffie get into the car, and she watched us drive away. I half expected her to run after the car like that dog we used to have.”
Meat cleared his throat. “Let me get this straight. Herculeah saw me with Steffie.”
“Yes.”
“She saw us getting in the car?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
But even as he spoke, he recalled Steffie’s words as they got into the car.
“Did you see that girl standing on the sidewalk watching us?”
He had said, “No.”
“Well, I wish my hair was springy like that. All my hair will do is turn under.”
And his mother had said, “I saw that girl. Your hair is a hundred times prettier than hers.”
And Steffie had fluffed her hair and said, “Thanks,” as if that was exactly the comment she had been fishing for.
He felt himself sinking into the car’s upholstery, the way the Wicked Witch of the West shriveled up in The Wizard of Oz.
His mother was still talking, but his increasing misery had blocked out her words.
“And one thing more,” his mother continued in a loud commanding voice. “Look at me, Albert.”
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Due to the importance of this one thing more, she had not started through the intersection even though the light was green.
Horns blew behind them.
“I think you should make it clear to Herculeah that you have a life of your own to lead.”
“I think that’s a done deal,” he said.
Satisfied, his mother steered the car through the intersection.
13
THE MURDER HOUSE
They pulled into the driveway of a large, two-story brick house with columns across the front. In the yard was a FOR SALE sign with the prominent name of the realtor on top.
Herculeah looked at the house. It had obviously been the home of people who were rich, but it was no mansion. Also, it did not have the look of a house where a murder would take place. However, it did resemble the house described in A Slash of Life.
Herculeah and Gilda got out of the car and crossed the well-kept lawn. Halfway to the steps, Gilda stumbled and stopped.
“Are you all right?” Herculeah asked.
“Yes, it’s nothing. I just remember something that happened right here.”
“It must have been something unpleasant, because your face is pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said firmly, and continued up the walk and up the steps. Herculeah followed.
“I’m glad they’re keeping the place up,” Gilda
said as she fished in her large purse for keys. “This house is very important to me.”
She put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
She hesitated as if entering the house was going to be very difficult. She took a deep breath.
“I’ll go first, if you like.”
“Please.”
Herculeah stepped into the entrance hall. She was still in a sort of daze from seeing Meat and his date. Usually she felt that a house of murder had a special aura. The temperature was colder somehow—a ghostly chill perhaps. Today, in her numbed state, the air seemed ordinary.
She did notice that the inside of the house was the same as the house in A Slash of Life.
She glanced to the right. The large Buddha sat in a crevice in the wall. Herculeah recognized that it was made of jade and probably very valuable.
“Oh, here’s the Buddha,” Herculeah said. “You mentioned it earlier in the car, and this morning, Uncle Neiman told me that you specifically mentioned the Buddha at the book signing.” Had it only been this morning? “It was in the book, and here it is in the house.”
“Yes.” Gilda stepped into the entrance hall and crossed to the Buddha. “Rebecca and I never left this house without rubbing our hands over Buddha’s belly for luck.”
She rested her hand on Buddha’s belly. She sighed and turned away. She paused in an arched doorway. “Here’s the parlor. We weren’t supposed to play in here, but it was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.”
“Is that where she was killed?”
“No, that happened in the library.”
“We don’t have to go in the library if that would upset you.”
Ever since they had entered the house, she had felt Gilda becoming more and more anxious.
“I want to see it.” She glanced at Herculeah with gratitude. “I could never do it without someone like you along for support. This is the last time I’m ever coming here, and it’s a way of closing the book, of saying good-bye.” She strengthened herself with a deep breath. “The library is this way.”
They walked down the hall to a room, and Gilda opened the door.
The library was large and lined with books. But they weren’t the kind of books that you read, Herculeah thought. They were rich-people books-leather-bound, with titles embossed in gold.
In the center of the room, facing the door, was a large, handsome desk. The divided front was carved with scenes of two famous people at their desks—Abraham Lincoln on the right, Shakespeare on the left.
Gilda interrupted Herculeah’s thoughts. “She died at that desk,” she said.
“Don’t go in any farther,” Herculeah advised. “You can say good-bye from here.”
But, as if she was sleepwalking, Gilda moved into the room. Her steps on the thick Oriental carpet were soundless. Herculeah followed.
“This was her father’s desk,” Gilda said, “but after his death, it became hers. She was a lot like her father. That’s his portrait behind the desk.”
Herculeah glanced up at the oil painting of a man trying to look genial but failing because of the straight line of his mouth. “Did she resemble her father?”
“Somewhat. Her father was good to my mother and me. My mom was the housekeeper here for many years. Mr. Carwell left my mother money in his will—a lot of money. That’s how I bought my apartment at Magnolia Downs.”
The top of the desk was empty of items, the dark wood polished to a sheen. “There used to be a leather-edged blotter here,” Gilda said, “a silver inkwell there, a silver box of cigars on the right. And, of course, the letter opener.”
She fell silent.
“The police never found the murder weapon. Whoever killed her must have taken it with them. The only thing missing from the desktop was the letter opener. It was a long, thin stiletto that had come from Italy. It was very beautiful, and probably the murder weapon.”
“Have you seen enough?”
Gilda didn’t answer. She went and stood behind the desk, beside the leather chair with the same carving as the desk. “She was sitting here, and her murderer was standing about where I’m standing. The murderer probably picked up—”
For a moment Herculeah was back at Hidden Treasures watching Mathias King wielding his invisible “lovely stiletto.” She remembered the way his long, thin fingers drew the blade in the air and then with a quick jab thrust it into a victim. Her hair frizzled. Her hair always frizzled to warn her something was about to happen.
“Gilda,” Herculeah said firmly, “maybe we should go home.”
Gilda glanced over at Herculeah. “You’re right.” Without glancing at the desk again, she crossed the room and into the hallway.
She paused at the Buddha. “I never left the house without rubbing Buddha’s belly.”
“Never?”
Gilda thought for a moment, and a cloud seemed to fall over her face. “Not that I remember.”
She glanced back at the door to the library. “A person would have to be insane to kill a lovely woman like Rebecca.”
Then with a final motion she rubbed her hand over Buddha’s belly. As Herculeah moved for the door, Gilda said, “You don’t need any luck?”
Herculeah smiled. She returned, rubbed Buddha’s belly, and then led the way out of the house.
14
THE CURIOSITY GENE
“Bye, and thanks,” Herculeah called as she got out of the car and shut the car door.
“It’s I who am grateful to you,” Gilda said. “I’ll give you a call. We need to talk some more. You’ve helped me a lot.” She waved good-bye as she drove away.
Herculeah turned and went up the steps without glancing over at Meat’s house as she usually did.
As she unlocked the front door and entered the hall, her mom called from her office, “Who gave you a ride home?”
Herculeah went to the open double door to her mom’s office. The room had once been the living room, but now it was Mim Jones’s office. It was where she saw her clients.
There were two comfortable chairs facing her mom’s desk, and Herculeah sat in the one facing the window. Now she could glance at Meat’s house without being seen.
The house was dark. Meat must not have returned from his—her brain practically spit out the word—date.
“The nicest woman in the world gave me a ride home,” she said.
“The nicest woman in the world?” her mom said, raising her eyebrows. “Nicer than your own mother?”
“Well, close,” Herculeah said. “Her name’s Rita Hayworth.”
“Go on.”
“But everybody calls her Gilda.”
“So what did you do all day, hon? Are you all right? Your face looks flushed.”
“I’ve had a busy day. I went to Death’s Door to get some books and then I went out to Magnolia Downs and had a Tai Chi lesson and then—and then I went with Gilda to see the house her friend was murdered in.”
“That’s quite a day.”
“I actually learned something at Tai Chi. Would you like to see me hold up the sky?”
“I’ve been seeing you do that your whole life.”
Herculeah glanced out the window. She could see Meat’s house, but nobody was looking out the window at her house. She hesitated.
She could have told her mom about Meat’s treachery, and her mom would have been sympathetic. But it had been such an emotional moment that she didn’t know how to describe it. She knew what it was not. It was not jealousy. It was not envy.
It was not any of those terrible emotions you read about in books.
However, until she figured out what the emotion was, she would keep it to herself.
“I think I’ll take a shower,” she said.
She got up and started for the door. Again she hesitated. She said, “But if I get a phone call—and I’m halfway expecting one—”
The phone rang, cutting off her comment.
“There’s something wrong with this phone. It rings upstairs, but when I
pick it up, I just get a dial tone.” Her mom picked up the phone and held it out so Herculeah could hear the tone for herself.
“It’s Tarot,” Herculeah said.
“Tarot’s learned to ring like a phone?”
“I’m afraid so. Next he’ll be answering it. ‘Mim Jones’s office.’”
Her mom laughed at the imitation of Tarot. “Oh, wait a minute.” She shifted some papers on her desk and then held up an envelope. “You’ve got mail.” She sang out the words.
“I never get mail.”
“And it looks like an invitation.”
“I never get those either.”
Herculeah crossed to her mother’s desk and held out her hand. The envelope was a square of heavy cream-colored paper, and it was addressed in fine black script that looked almost like calligraphy. She had never seen the words “Miss Herculeah Jones” written more beautifully.
Her mom said, “It wasn’t mailed—no stamp. Evidently someone put it through the mail slot. I found it when I got home. It was on top of the regular mail.”
Herculeah turned the envelope over in her hand. The return address was One Kings Row. There was only one person she knew who would have an address like that.
She slipped her thumb under the flap of the envelope and worked it loose. As she reached in to withdraw the heavy cream-colored note card, she felt a faint frizzling in her hair.
She took out the card. On the front, in black ink, was the drawing of a house. It was a two-story house with a tall attic. The windows were shuttered, and there was a gate guarding the walkway up to the house. The tips of the iron fence posts were as sharp as sabers. Chimneys grew out of the roof, and guarding them were what appeared to be birds perched on the edge of the roof.
Herculeah opened the card.
Her mother watched as she opened it. The picture on the front of the card was exposed, and her mother studied the house.
“The house looks spooky,” her mother commented. “Who does it belong to—the Addams family?”
“No, but it belongs to a man who’s just about as spooky.”
“So what’s inside the note?” her mother asked.
“Oh, nothing.”
“It must be something because it’s taking you an awful long time to read it. Is it an invitation?” She laughed. “I’m curious.”
