An Accidental Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “I guess he and Jim were out there for about half an hour,” Charlotte said. “So I tried to make the girls feel welcome. One of them, Ruth Kligman, I’d met before. Jackson had brought her to a couple of parties.” She frowned. “He was having an affair with her, and not making a secret of it. His wife, Lee, was furious. She’s no doormat, believe me—not the type to look the other way. She gave him an ultimatum, she said, her or me, and Jackson was shillyshallying. What a fool, to think he could keep Ruth on the string and still have Lee to manage his life.”

  “What about the other girl?” asked Cooper.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” said Charlotte. “I’m getting off track. Ruth introduced her as Edith Metzger, a friend from the city. She embarrassed the poor young woman by telling me that Edith was also involved with a married man—her boss at the beauty salon where she works—and didn’t know how to handle it, as if I could give them advice on successfully managing adultery! I could see how uncomfortable Ruth’s remarks were making her, so I changed the subject.”

  Cooper thanked Charlotte sincerely. “We had no identification for either of them, so you’ve been extremely helpful. As Mr. Ossorio mentioned, one of them was killed.” He said nothing about the cause of death. “Since you met them both, would you be willing to identify the body?”

  Brooks put his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders, but she had no need of moral support. She returned Cooper’s gaze steadily. “Of course,” she told him. “I’ll be fine, Jim, don’t worry.”

  “I know you will,” he said, “but I’ll go in with you. I met them both, too.”

  Cooper rose. “Just wait here a moment, please.” He took one of the lab coats off the hook, entered the embalming room, where the autopsy had been conducted, and closed the door.

  Ossorio, who had been listening intently to Charlotte and Jim, finally spoke.

  “Right after Lee left, Jackson brought Ruth to our place. Paraded her around the house like a tour guide, trying to impress her, and he succeeded. Ted and I just stood back and watched. Then we saw her again at Dorothy Norman’s a couple of weeks ago. She came in clinging to Jackson’s arm, tarted up like a Seventh Avenue mannequin, entirely inappropriate for a country house party. Frankly, I snubbed her. I have far too much respect for Lee to make polite conversation with some little homewrecker. Mind you, I can’t say Jackson was exactly solicitous to her. In fact he pretty much ignored her as well. She was painfully de trop.” He grinned maliciously. “I’d like to have been a fly on the wall when they got home. I’ll bet she gave him hell.”

  “No sooner was Lee out of the house than he moved Ruth in,” said Charlotte, disgusted. “I don’t think he even waited until her ship had cleared New York harbor.”

  In order to break their stalemate, Lee Krasner had decided to take a long-planned voyage to Europe, using the estrangement to make up her mind whether or not to divorce Jackson. Aware of her unfailing belief in his genius, as well as her frustration at his inability to work and the deep psychic wound caused by his infidelity, her friends had urged her to take the trip. It’s just an infatuation, they told her. It can’t last. She won’t be able to put up with his moods; she doesn’t have your patience. Don’t give up now, just let it run its course. By the time you return in the fall, they said, it will all be over.

  What they didn’t mention was that Ruth was more than twenty years younger than Lee, attractive verging on beautiful, and blessed with a voluptuous body that she displayed to advantage, advertising her sexuality in ways that Lee no longer could. In the tiny avant-garde art world of her pre-Pollock days, Lee had been renowned for an alluring figure that compensated for a homely face, a vivacious personality and an air of self-assurance that, together with her obvious talent and commitment, made her stand out both socially and professionally.

  Now, at age forty-seven, Lee had become a strident, smothering presence whose chief marital role was as her husband’s nursemaid. She was also making great progress artistically, having produced a series of innovative collages that earned favorable notices when they were shown in New York City the previous fall, while Jackson had not painted at all for more than a year. Who could blame him for catching Ruth when she threw herself at him?

  Twelve.

  Five months earlier

  An aspiring artist who worked as an assistant to the director of the Collector’s Gallery on West 56th Street, Ruth Kligman had set her cap for Pollock when she learned from a friend that he was the top dog in the vanguard pack. She had already seen his work at the nearby Sidney Janis Gallery, and was intrigued by it. How can I meet him? she had asked, and was told to go to the Cedar Tavern, an artists’ hangout on University Place, any Tuesday night. Pollock was seeing a psychiatrist in the city on Tuesdays, driving in from Springs or taking the train, and as soon as his session was over he’d head for the bar and his drinking buddies. Often he’d stay over at the Hotel Earle, on the other side of Washington Square Park, so he could hold court at the Cedar late into the night.

  Ruth was savvy enough to know that she couldn’t just walk into the place and make a beeline for Pollock. For one thing, they’d assume that an unescorted woman was a hooker and she’d promptly find she had an escort, in the person of the waiter, who would accompany her to the door. For another, how would she recognize him? Her friend’s vague description—middle aged, medium height, bald, bearded—probably fit a dozen or more of the Cedar’s regulars. Once inside, she could ask someone, or just wait until someone either pointed him out or called him by name, but she needed a date to get her in.

  As luck would have it, one of her gallery’s artists, a young hopeful named George, was dithering over whether or not to go ahead with a one-man show of his new work, wholeheartedly in favor one minute and the next minute sure he wasn’t ready for a solo outing. He needed to talk it over face-to-face, he told her on the phone, and suggested meeting at his local watering hole, which happened to be the Cedar, for a drink and reassurance.

  “Of course,” she said, thrilled by the coincidence. “How about next Tuesday night?”

  “Make it ten p.m.,” he replied, and the date was set.

  Determined to take full advantage of this opportunity, Ruth dressed to impress. Wearing an eye-catching white coat over a form-fitting black dress, shod in spike heels that flattered her legs, with her hair expertly styled in an updo by Edith that afternoon, she crossed the threshold of the Cedar Tavern determined to seduce the most important painter in New York. The appointment with her indecisive artist was simply a fortunate convenience, to be concluded as quickly as possible.

  But as soon as she got inside, she realized that she was overdressed and out of her depth. This was no cocktail lounge, with soft lighting and piano music. It was a noisy, smoky, no-frills saloon populated by serious boozers lining the long bar and filling the battle-scarred tables and shabby booths. Almost all of them were men, wearing paint-stained work clothes and arguing at top volume. A couple of boisterous female artists, just as carelessly dressed, were keeping up with them, trading wisecracks and matching them drink for drink. The few other women, apparently wives or girlfriends, either tried to carry on conversations among themselves or just sat patiently while the guys bantered on.

  Ruth surveyed the room with dismay. What a dive, she said to herself. I don’t think this is going to work. Maybe I can arrange to be at Janis when he comes in, it’s only a block from where I work. He must have to meet with his dealer once in a while to discuss business. I can call David, Sidney’s assistant, and find out when he’s expected. I could break the ice by telling him how much I admire his paintings. And I wouldn’t have to shout at him to be heard.

  Just as she was deciding that Pollock’s gallery would be a more conducive place to bump into him accidentally on purpose, George spotted her and motioned her to his booth.

  “Over here, Ruth,” he called, waving her on. Reluctantly, knowing she was attracting attention
both as a stranger and an obvious misfit, she hurried past the ogling crowd and ducked into the booth as quickly as possible. As she passed the bar one of the female artists snickered, leaned over, and said something in the ear of her male companion, and the two had a good laugh at Ruth’s expense.

  Furious, she turned on the hapless George. “How could you bring me here without telling me what to expect?” she demanded.

  He was taken aback. “You mean you’ve never been here before? I thought you knew the scene, working in an art gallery. This is where all the artists hang out.”

  With her naïveté staring her in the face, Ruth tried to cover her tracks. “I always visit artists in their studios, where I can look at their work and discuss it in peace. That’s what I did when we picked the things for your show, remember? We can’t have a decent conversation in this madhouse.”

  “Please don’t be angry, Ruth. I just had to get out of the studio, be around other people. And I really need your advice about the show. Let me buy you a drink.” She asked for a scotch and soda, and he signaled the waiter.

  Taking his wave as an invitation, a couple of his friends slid into the booth.

  “Got a new girl, Georgie? She’s a hot number. Aren’t you going to introduce us? What’s your name, honey?” one of them shouted. “Hey, I could go for you,” the other one chimed in. “Why don’t you dump that loser and sit over here next to me?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Ruth with sarcastic emphasis, “I have to powder my nose.” She stood and turned to George. “If you want my advice, you’ll be alone in this booth when I get back.”

  Making her way to the restroom, she approached a round table that seemed unusually crowded. Extra seats had been squeezed in, and a gaggle of eavesdroppers, drinks in hand, stood by attentively, hanging on every word they could pick up over the general hubbub. As she passed, she heard a bellowing voice.

  “You’re a fucking whore!”

  Shocked and embarrassed, she turned to see an equally startled man, in a rumpled shirt under a tweed jacket, staring at her. “Oh, shit,” he said, then shook his head and half rose. “That is, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t mean you. Really, it was a mistake.”

  He stumbled to his feet and, extending a large, nicotine-­stained hand, indicated his vacant chair. “Sit down, please, and let me explain.”

  Without being asked, the man sitting next to him stood up and offered his chair. “Here, Jack, take my seat.”

  Jack. Short for Jackson? Could it be Pollock? About five foot ten, looking to be in his fifties, heavyset, scruffy beard, a fringe of hair around a bald pate—yes, it could be him.

  He was watching her intently, making her uncomfortable with his scrutiny. He took both her hands in his. “You’re so lovely,” he said. “I can’t forgive myself for offending you like that.” She started to demur, but he interrupted. “Who are you? What are you involved with?”

  Aware that all eyes were on them, conscious of her own rapid heartbeat, she tried to regain her composure. “I’m Ruth,” she told him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jackson.”

  Thirteen.

  Sunday, August 12

  Before he admitted Jim and Charlotte to the embalming room, Cooper positioned a screen in front of the gurney that held Pollock’s draped body, which he had yet to autopsy. No need to subject the artist’s old friends to the sight of his corpse, even under wraps. Once the screen was in place, Cooper carefully arranged the sheet that covered the woman’s body, tucking it under her chin and behind her head so that only the face was visible and the marks on her neck were hidden.

  He returned to the anteroom, took his jacket off the hook, and offered it to Charlotte, who was wearing only a light summer blouse, dungarees, and sneakers.

  “Here, you’ll need this. It’s cold in there,” he told her. Jim helped her slip it on and replaced his arm around her shoulders as they both prepared themselves mentally for the viewing.

  Cooper opened the door. “This way, please,” he said, and ushered them in.

  No sooner had they entered the room than Charlotte spoke.

  “It’s Edith.” Even from ten feet away, she was certain.

  “How can you tell?” asked Nugent.

  “Her hair. Both she and Ruth have dark brown hair, but Ruth’s is long and wavy. Edith’s hair is short, as you see, what they call a pixie cut.

  “Does she have blue eyes?” Charlotte asked. Cooper said yes. “Then it’s Edith for sure. I remarked on how lovely they were when I was trying to get Ruth off the subject of affairs with married men. Her eyes are brown.”

  Cooper thanked her, and followed the couple out to where Ossorio and the Fitzgeralds were waiting. Charlotte returned the doctor’s jacket and told the others that she had identified the woman in the next room.

  “We need to inform the next of kin,” said Cooper. “I’ll call the hospital and find out if the other woman—you say it’s Kligman—is conscious. Maybe she can tell us how to get in touch with Metzger’s family.” He reached for the telephone, then paused.

  “Has anyone been in touch with Pollock’s wife? Where is she?”

  Ossorio answered, “She’s in Paris, at the apartment of Paul Jenkins, an artist friend, and his wife, Esther. They invited her to stay with them, so she checked out of her hotel and moved over to their place on Friday. Not realizing she would actually be there, I thought Paul would know how to reach her, so I put a call through to him early this morning.

  “It was nine a.m. their time, and Lee was in the apartment. I don’t know how, but she knew the call was bad news even before Paul told her. As I was explaining what happened, I heard her scream—the look on Paul’s face must have given it away. He told Esther to grab her, apparently she ran to the window and he was afraid she’d do something foolish.

  “He called me back later. It took an hour to calm her down, then he and Esther took charge. They canceled her return passage on the Queen Elizabeth and arranged a flight back to New York. I’m driving to Idlewild to pick her up tomorrow morning.”

  “Has he any other family who need to be notified?”

  Jim spoke up. “Yes, there’s his mother and four brothers. Jack was the youngest. I’m close to his brother Sanford, he’s called Sande for short, knew him before I met Jack. We worked together on a big WPA mural at LaGuardia Airport in the late ’thirties. He and Jack lived together on East Eighth Street in the Village. Then Sande got married to his sweetheart Arloie, had a kid, and the WPA was winding down so he decided to give up being a painter and earn a steady living. He moved the family up to Connecticut and opened a printing shop, did some war work and commercial stuff. When their mom got too old to live alone, Sande and ’Loie took her in.

  “When Sande left—spring of ’forty-two, I think it was—Lee moved in. She and Jack had both been on the WPA, getting a regular paycheck for their work as artists. Seems like a million years ago that we had that kind of government support. But by then it was no longer a case of just doing your own paintings. After Pearl Harbor the WPA became a war services program, and they had to do propaganda posters and window displays for civil defense, things like that. But it paid the rent, and they could still do their own work after hours. By that time I’d been drafted, and I shipped out overseas, still working for Uncle Sam as an artist, but now on the army’s payroll.

  “After I came back stateside I was looking for a place, and Jack and Lee were thinking of moving to the country. You may remember how bad the housing shortage was then—you couldn’t find an apartment in New York for love nor money. Jack told me that one of his other brothers, Jay, was taking over the Eighth Street place, but that he might rent us the front half, where Jack had his studio and a bedroom. Jay agreed, so we moved in when Jack and Lee left.”

  He smiled and gave Charlotte a little hug. “We weren’t married then, but we got hitched a year or so later. In ’forty-e
ight I got a teaching job at Pratt, and we found our own apartment and bought the Montauk cottage for summers. Jack was sober then, and I really enjoyed being around him. He loved to go beachcombing, or we’d go out in the rowboat with a picnic lunch and pretend to fish. But I especially liked our studio visits. He really understood what I was driving at, and his comments were always right on target. When I went to his studio, I could feel the energy, almost like an electric charge, that went into his paintings. Lee once called it a living force, and I think that about sums it up.”

  Jim took a deep breath. “Where was I going with this? Off on a tangent, I’m afraid. Oh, yes, I was talking about Jack’s family. Well, like I said, Sande, ’Loie and mother Stella are up in Deep River. Jay and Alma are still on Eighth Street, I think, and Charles, the eldest, is teaching out in the Midwest. Frank, the middle brother, lives near San Francisco. I’ll call Sande, he’ll notify the others.”

  He paused, and shook his head ruefully. “Stella’s going to take this hard. He was her youngest, her baby boy. She always encouraged him, praised him, never scolded or criticized. She glossed over his emotional problems, just acted like they didn’t exist. And she was so proud of his success.”

  “It’ll be very hard on Sande, too,” added Charlotte. “Of all the brothers he was closest to Jackson, they were only three years apart. But more than that, he was Jackson’s soul mate, the shoulder he cried on before Lee came along. They lived through hard times together, and that forged a bond time and distance couldn’t break. He was so disappointed when Jackson fell off the wagon, really angry with him. Not that Sande is a teetotaler, but he knew how badly alcohol affected Jackson, much worse than most people. He had no tolerance, couldn’t hold his liquor at all.”

  Fourteen.

  Cooper apologized to Nita and Fitz, who had been patiently waiting to give their statements, for keeping them so long, and for the diversion.