by Medora Sale
Outside the room a pair of female voices, spitting angrily at each other in subdued tones, approached the library. At first, all Harriet could hear was meaningless babble, but as they came nearer, the babble formed itself into words—snarled words in rapid and almost incomprehensible German. Curious, she strained to catch the drift, and her ear began to adjust itself to the dialect. One voice, slower and more defined in speech, was easier to understand, and that voice suddenly said, deliberately and clearly, “You two won’t succeed in this. I’m going to make sure of it.” One pair of footsteps clicked angrily away down the uncarpeted hall; another swept a couple of steps into the room where Harriet still sat in front of the photo albums. It was the dark young woman who was obviously Clara’s daughter. Her cheeks were scarlet and her lips tight, but as soon as she saw Harriet, an automatic smile of welcome flashed across her face. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here. I am Veronika von Hohenkammer,” and she approached, hand outstretched, graciousness intact.
“I was just looking at some pictures of your mother and her grandchildren,” Harriet said, taking the proffered hand and feeling, irrationally, that she had an obligation to explain why she was hiding around the corner, listening to a quarrel in the hall.
“Aha,” Nikki replied brightly, “you have fallen victim to Mamma’s pride in her grandchildren. On behalf of the family, I apologize. They are really quite awful kids, you know, spoiled and horrid, but Mamma can see no flaws in them. She’ll be devastated if you don’t tell her that they are the most beautiful children you ever saw.”
“Don’t worry,” said Harriet, “I will. I’m Harriet Jeffries, by the way. The person responsible for that,” she added by way of justifying her presence, pointing to a sixteen-by-twenty black-and-white print of the staircase hanging on the wall.
“Ah,” said Veronika. “The photographer. My cousin Klaus is very interested in meeting you. Did you enjoy the reading?” she asked.
“I was overwhelmed by the Shakespeare,” she said. “The German passages went by me, I’m afraid. I don’t understand the language as well as your mother thinks I do,” she added, not quite truthfully. The taut expression on Nikki’s face relaxed suddenly, and the social temperature in the room rose by several degrees.
“Yes, Mamma’s pretty extraordinary, isn’t she?” her daughter remarked as she dropped into a comfortable chair.
“I’m impressed with your English,” said Harriet. “I wish my German were half as good.”
“Oh, well, Papa insisted that we both go to English schools and learn the language properly. I didn’t care for it at the time,” she said, “but, as usual, he was right. And now I’m grateful that he did.” Suddenly, the door across the hall from the study opened, and a man in evening dress with two bottles of wine tucked neatly under his arms walked in.
He nodded in the direction of the two women. “Hello, Frank,” said Veronika casually. “Keeping the party oiled?” She leaned forward to peer at the partially obscured labels. “I hope that stuff isn’t too good. The drinkers are at the point where they couldn’t tell the difference. But there’s no point in bringing it in here. Miss Jeffries and I are not that desperate for booze. Take it to the bartender.” Harriet noticed his cheeks whiten as the girl continued to speak. “Have you met Frank Whitelaw, Miss Jeffries? He’s my mother’s man of business, as they used to say.” Now the contempt in her voice was impossible to miss.
“Miss Jeffries and I met when she was photographing the house,” said Whitelaw stiffly. Trying to lump me in with the servant class, thought Harriet with amusement. For company.
“How nice,” said Nikki, and leapt to her feet. “But, Miss Jeffries, Klaus is dying to meet you, and here I am, keeping you to myself. Now, don’t move. I’ll be back with him in a second.” She left the room without a glance at Frank Whitelaw.
“I’m afraid I should go as well,” said Whitelaw. “To deliver the wine to the bartender.” There was considerable irritation in his voice under the amiable half smile. Harriet wondered if he had been planning on opening one of those excellent bottles and drinking it peacefully by himself in the quiet of the study.
Veronika was true to her word. Before the atmosphere Whitelaw had brought with him had dissipated, she was back in the study, pulling a handsome young man after her. “Miss Jeffries,” he said with flattering emphasis, clasping her hand in both of his. “I am overwhelmed. You must let me tell you how impressed I was by your show at city hall. Particularly that set of industrial buildings. What format were you working in?”
As he chattered on, it became clear that he had seen the show, probably more than once, and had examined her work with great care. He now looked just as intensely at her with large, soft brown eyes. Careful, Harriet, she said to herself as he talked on. Softly, softly. He is about to con you into giving him hours of free help and advice. You don’t need that right now. In spite of herself, his infectious enthusiasm was chipping away at her automatic defenses, and she began to expound on some of her pet topics. As they drifted from 35mm to the merits of large-format photography—“Good or not,” said Harriet cheerfully, “it impresses the hell out of clients”—to processing, she found herself being swept remorselessly down to his basement darkroom.
“I’m impressed,” she said as she looked around the two rooms that Klaus had set aside for his work. “For an impromptu darkroom, it’s well set up. You need a decent enlarger, though. That toy isn’t going to get you anywhere. I got a new Beseler a while back, and I still have my first one tucked away in a corner. Come and see me. Bring a car.” She pulled a small evening bag out from the pocket she had unceremoniously stuffed it into and extracted her wallet. After a certain amount of effort she pulled out her business card. “Call me first,” she added. “I tend to be out a lot.” She looked around her again. “What happens when the family charges in to use the washroom, though?”
He grinned and shook his head. “They don’t. Not a chance. I don’t think Aunt Clara’s ever been down here. She doesn’t concern herself with basements. And Bettl—have you seen Bettl?” Harriet nodded. “I think Bettl has problems getting down those stairs. She doesn’t try very often. Anyway, the only other thing down here of any interest to anyone is the wine cellar,” he said, leading the way out of the full bathroom where he washed prints and film. “Oh, and the freezer and some storage, I think.”
As they moved toward the stairs, the basement door opened again. “Ah, Klaus,” said a voice from the top. “Are you getting the wine? We have some complaints that— Oh, good evening,” the man said to Harriet as she climbed the stairs with Klaus just behind her. “Down seeing our boy Klaus’s etchings? I admire your taste, Klaus old man.” The man stood where he was, half filling the doorway, expecting Harriet to press by him.
“Move, Milan, you son of a bitch,” said Leitner, leaning forward and giving him a not-so-friendly push out into the hall. Milanovich staggered to regain his balance and then stayed where he was for a moment, glaring resentfully at the young man.
More time must have passed than Harriet had realized, because the crowd had thinned out to about fifteen hardy souls by the time she got back into the living room. She felt the first faint stirrings of hope that she might be able to slip away soon. She stifled a huge yawn and looked around for her hostess.
The party had broken up into three groups by now. Nikki and a lively-looking blond girl collected Klaus Leitner when he came back into the room. The wispy brown-haired one, now definitely identified from the baby pictures as the mother of the grandchildren, was leaning apathetically against the fireplace, talking to a group of three or four people. Clara was holding court in the front of the room, in apparently tireless conversation with a pleasant-looking middle-aged couple. Frank Whitelaw sat on the arm of the couch, leaning over her in a proprietary way. Harriet approached the group hesitantly, reluctant to break up the relaxed fag ends of the party but despera
te to get away.
“Frau von—Clara—this has been delightful, but—”
“No, my dear. Do not say it. Here, you must sit down by me and chat for a few minutes before you go.” She drew her down on the small couch beside her. “These are my neighbours, Bill and Lilian MacGregor”—she waved in the direction of the couple—“Harriet Jeffries, and perhaps you have already met my friend and business manager, Frank Whitelaw.”
Once more they murmured acknowledgments of prior acquaintance. Bill MacGregor finished off the glass in his hand and looked around. “Miss Jeffries,” he said in mock horror, “you have nothing to drink. Nor do you, dear lady,” he said with a flourish in the direction of his hostess. “Let me suggest Scotch and water, just this once. Very settling and soporific at this time of night.”
Harriet nodded, helpless, but thinking that the last thing she needed now was something to put her to sleep. Clara von Hohenkammer, however, shook her head gently. “I really never touch alcohol, except a tiny bit of wine on ceremonial occasions.” She turned to Harriet confidentially. “I follow a very strict regime, you know, of exercise and diet. Otherwise, I would not be able to work as much as I do. It gives one great energy. And I am never ill. You must let me tell you about it someday.” She looked around her. “Bettl should have brought me my tea by now, in fact. Bill, while you’re fetching Harriet her drink, do you think you could see if my tea is there? Or if Bettl is in the kitchen?”
“Would you like me to go and get it for you?” asked Whitelaw, slowly beginning to move as he spoke.
“It hardly needs two people to do it,” she said tartly, and turned back to Harriet. “It really isn’t a tea, actually, it’s my tisane; you must let me get you the recipe.” Harriet, who had once tried the mixture in question, smiled as bravely as she could. Her head was now pounding with exhaustion, and the sounds of conversation were hitting her ears, muffled, distorted, and unbearably loud. Just as she pulled herself together to leave again, a Scotch glided into her hand, propelled by the smiling Mr. MacGregor.
“No sign of any tea,” he said. “Someone said that she put it on the table, but I didn’t see it there.” They all began to look around the room, frantically eyeing the numberless little tables in it.
“There it is,” said Clara in a silky tone. Harriet noticed the white spots on her temples and realized that she was very angry. “Sit still. I will get it myself.” In the awkward silence that followed, the whole group watched her progress over to the drinks table, still set up, although the bartender had left long since, where her tea sat in the corner, probably cold and unappetizing by now. Harriet realized that everyone was settling in again and that if she were to get away, it was now or never. She started after her hostess at a brisk pace.
Halfway to the table she saw Clara von Hohenkammer pick up the cup, touch it experimentally to her lips, and then take a swallow. Almost immediately a gargling half cry bubbled out from between her lips. She clasped her hands to her chest and clutched it, letting the cup tumble to the floor, then took a step toward the table as if for support. She reeled against it and fell heavily to the ground.
Chapter 4
For a moment, everything froze. Harriet stopped, bewildered, and then ran toward the fallen actress. At the same time, Veronika von Hohenkammer shrieked, “Mamma,” and launched herself across the room. She knelt down, grasping her mother by one shoulder and trying to turn her over in a futile effort to help her up. Just as Harriet reached them, a gray-haired man in evening dress materialized from somewhere, took Nikki firmly by the arms, pulled her to her feet, and without a word pushed her in the direction of a woman who had followed him. He crouched beside the actress, picked up her wrist, and then looked up at Harriet. “Here, give me a hand to get her turned over,” he said sharply. “She’s a big woman.” Harriet knelt down beside him, and the two of them gently moved Clara onto her back. Her body shuddered with jerky convulsions and then was still. The man bent over her, his shoulders heaving with effort as he tried to bring breath back into her lungs. Finally, he sat back on his heels, exhausted. Harriet shivered. Clara’s face, in a horrible parody of blooming health, was a brilliant pink. Her would-be rescuer shook his head and said, “Did you see what happened? I was on the other side of the room and didn’t notice anything until she gasped.”
“She drank the tea in that cup,” said Harriet, pointing to the cup on the floor, “made a gasping noise, clutched her chest, and then fell.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “That was all. It happened very fast.”
He kept one hand on Clara’s wrist as the other searched her neck delicately for a pulse. “Well, there’s not much I can do for her, I would say,” he murmured half to himself. “And I don’t particularly like the look of things.” Then he spoke in a louder voice to the room in general. “Has anyone called for an ambulance?”
“I did,” said a guest standing in the doorway. “They’ll be right here, and the fire department rescue squad. Who’s her doctor?” he added. A buzz of voices answered him; someone gestured at the man still bending over her.
“Was it her heart?” murmured Harriet softly.
“Not very likely. She was as healthy as a horse.” His reply was as low pitched as her question. “Besides, that’s not what a heart attack looks like, believe me.” The doctor glanced around at the people who were standing about, awkward and silent, and said to Harriet, “Do you think you could find a sheet or something to put over her? And get everyone to move out of here? The dining room will do.”
Harriet nodded. She headed out the door, not sure where she was going, and found herself beside Klaus Leitner. “Can I help?” he asked quietly.
“You can tell me where to find something to cover her with.”
“How about a tablecloth? I think they’re in this thing,” he said, opening a massive antique linen press in the dining room and pulling out an enormous white linen tablecloth.
Harriet took the cloth. “And one more thing. Could you move everyone in here? The doctor wants them out of the way.”
Before she had finished her last sentence, sirens screamed up to the house, and the fire department emergency resuscitation unit appeared. The last thing the guests saw as they meekly filed into the dining room was the doctor in quiet consultation with the rescuers, pointing at the cup and shaking his head.
There were seven people standing uneasily in the dining room, looking awkwardly at one another, wondering what to do. The lively blonde, now considerably more subdued, said, “I am Kirsten Muller, and I work at the Geothe Institute. Perhaps we could introduce ourselves to each other and all sit down. I know I am very tired.”
At once there was a polite rush for the table. Harriet found herself in between Klaus Leitner and a man she hadn’t met. Bill MacGregor leaned on the back of his chair and announced, “There’s an urn of coffee on the sideboard. It smells done, and there are cups and things set out. Anyone else want coffee?” Six people rose and scrambled to get cups; Harriet sat and waited. Perhaps she had been the only person to notice exactly what had happened to Clara von Hohenkammer, but she was not anxious to try whether the coffee had the same effect on people that the herbal tea had. She smiled at the gentleman next to her and settled herself in to make small talk until something else happened.
John Sanders lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his one-bedroom, concrete-walled, upper-floor, southern-exposure high-rise apartment and listened to the hum of the air conditioner. He didn’t really need to have it on. The fierce temperatures of this unseasonable September heat wave had died rapidly with the sun, and the room was getting chilly. But the constant noise was soothing and cut out the clash and roar of sound that rose up from the street. And now, with four days off and no progress in the case and weeks and weeks of lack of sleep behind him, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. He tried to blank out his thoughts, concentrating on the hum of the air conditioner, until the shrill scream of
the telephone dragged him back from the brink.
“John. It’s Ed. You asleep? Sorry . . .” the voice on the other end was calm and not at all contrite.
“Jesus, Dubinsky, do you know what time it is? Yes, I was asleep—I think.”
“Yeah, well, something came up.” He paused a second. “Sinclair and Beech are supposed to be on, but Sinclair has food poisoning. One too many chicken-salad sandwiches. Anyway, he’s not going anywhere tonight.”
“So what’s up?” Sanders was sitting on the side of the bed by now, yawning.
“Some woman died at a party. Her doctor called it in.”
“Someone knife her?” he asked, yawning.
“It’s not that kind of party. You know, respectable, all that crap.”
“Don’t bother. Tell me about it in the car. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.” Like a zombie, he headed for the shower. By the time Dubinsky got there, he would be showered, dressed, awake, and mean as hell.
