To the Manor Dead

by Sebastian Stuart

  “Does it have to do with Daphne’s death?”

  “Yes. How about at Olana? Day after tomorrow? Mid-afternoon?”

  “See you there at three,” I said.

  I headed back out. Mad John urged me onto the dance floor. I shook my head. I’ve always been an insecure dancer and my confidence hasn’t improved with age. The Asshole said I looked like “a spastic goose” when I danced. Wasn’t that sweet of him?

  Josie, who I’d left in charge of the store, came into Chow. She had her usual anxious expression, but her eyes lit up for a moment at all the dancing.

  “There’s a woman in the store came to see you,” she said.

  “Did she give her name?”

  “Detective Williams.”

  “All right, I’m going to head over.”

  “Come on, Josie, dance with us,” George said.

  Josie shrank into herself, tucked her short leg behind her.

  As I walked out, I heard George said, “Abba, I think Josie needs a haircut.”

  “I’ll get my scissors.”

  Chevrona Williams was standing in the middle of the store holding a couple of files and looking around with mild disinterest—definitely not a junque junkie.

  “Hi, there,” I said.

  She gave me a little smile, showing those nice white teeth, all unforced cool and androgynous elegance.

  “How are you, Janet?”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  I told her what happened up on the mountain.

  “Why didn’t you report it to the police?”

  “I just did.”

  “This sounds like attempted murder.”

  “Actually I think it was closer to attempted scare-the-shit-out-of-her.”

  She smiled again, in that taciturn Clint Eastwood way. God, was she hot. I’ve never done the lesbo thing, but some women sure do tempt me. I learned as a therapist that human sexuality is a continuum with every possible permutation. After listening to people’s deepest darkest sex secrets for fifteen years, I’d developed a complex and profound philosophy of human sexuality: whatever. As long as it’s consensual and there are no kids involved, go for it and leave the guilt at the door. Of course, there are all sorts of emotional and moral nuances when the guy getting gang-banged by a pack of pierced-and-poppered bears happens to have a wife at home who thinks he’s at a software conference. But that’s a separate kettle from the nookie itself, no?

  “Have a seat, can I offer you something to drink? Soda, juice, coffee, tea?” I said, wishing I could have sixty seconds in front of a mirror, just to run a brush through my mop, maybe dab on a little lipstick.

  “Coffee sounds great.”

  Chevrona remained standing as I poured her a cup.

  “Please, sit,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  Chick had more class than all the Livingstons combined.

  “Did you get the license plate on the car today?” she asked.

  “It was one of Vince Hammer’s goons. I did something stupid, went nosing around his house and got caught.” I handed her the cup of coffee. “I guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “That brings me right to: what have you learned?”

  “Not a lot. Did you have any luck with the Parliament butt?”

  “Yes. It has Godfrey Livingston’s fingerprints on it.”

  “Wow.”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited. The butt was found on his property, people still have a right to smoke.”

  “Yes, but it’s a huge property and I found it in the summerhouse where Daphne died and it’s a fresh butt.”

  “True, true, and true.”

  “By the way, why are his fingerprints on file?”

  “Godfrey Livingston has a fairly long arrest record.”

  “For what?”

  “Trespassing on government property, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, that kind of thing. Nothing too serious, he was a political radical back in the 70s. His last arrest was in 1988 for possessing marijuana with intention to sell. Since then he’s kept out of trouble.”

  “Age tends to calm people down,” I said.

  “I can’t wait,” Chevrona said, with an ironic undertone that made me think something tough was going on in her life.

  “So what’s in those files?’

  She held up one and said, “Livingston,” and then the other, “Pillow.”

  “How come you have them both?”

  “I asked for them. Nobody was doing anything with the Livingston case so it was hard for them to say no. I got exactly the vibe you warned me about—the folks across the river want this disappeared.”

  “How’s the coffee?”

  “Fine,” she said politely.

  “It’s out of a can.”

  “I can believe that.”

  Starbucks, here I come.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Well, Daphne Livingston died of hanging, Esmerelda Pillow had her head cut off. Two very different means of death, but both are neck-centered.”

  “So that might indicate a single killer?”

  “It’s something.”

  “So you agree Daphne was murdered?”

  “I’m leaning in that direction.”

  “Becky Livingston told me that Esmerelda visited with Daphne pretty regularly. She saw them in the summerhouse together the morning Daphne died.”

  “Okay, Janet, you have to tell me stuff like this first.”

  “I was about to, then there was the cigarette butt, the coffee, then the files … um, sorry.”

  “Forgiven.”

  “It would take someone pretty strong to get her up to the beam. I don’t think Esmerelda could have done it.”

  “It could have been more than one person,” Chevrona said, standing up.

  “I hadn’t even thought of that. Do you think these crimes are going to be solved?”

  “They’re not going to solve themselves. We know nothing is happening across the river, and there’s nobody over here mourning Ms. Pillow. She ran a lot of dope through Kingston. Of course, it’s very possible the two crimes are unrelated.”

  “In spite of the neck connection?”

  “Necks are vulnerable places.”

  I looked at Chevrona’s neck. It was long and smooth. I touched my own neck.

  “There are a lot of vulnerable places,” I said.

  Chevrona walked to the door and just as she was about to leave, she turned to me.

  “That girl you have working for you?”

  “Josie?”

  “She’s solid.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s with her leg? Abuse?”

  “Neglect.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  I tooled down the drive of Franny’s estate with the expensive bottle of bourbon riding shotgun. I just hoped it would work its magic on Ethel. Franny was right, there was information to be had: Ethel had an inside track as to what was happening with local law enforcement, a.k.a. the obstructionists. And the Dunns’ newfound wealth hadn’t come from a lottery scratch ticket.

  Franny came out of the house to greet me. I handed her the bottle and she gave me a conspiratorial look. She led me through the formal rooms to the sunroom, which was filled with books, magazines, and well-used old furniture. It was a warm humid day, the view obscured by a hazy sky, but there was no air conditioning on. Old Yankees love to suffer.

  “Ethel, our guest is here,” Franny called in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Yeah-yeah,” Ethel called back.

  Franny sat in what was clearly “her” chair, clasped her hands in her lap, and said, “So!” She was quite keyed
-up about our little truth-serum scenario.

  Ethel appeared carrying a tray that held a teapot with two Lipton tags hanging out and two cups. She looked squat and lumpy in chic black slacks and high heels, a turquoise silk blouse, and a very hip black leather vest. She had on a pouffy red wig, a lot of make-up, and all in all bore an uncanny resemblance to a drag queen impersonating Ethel Merman.

  “You remember Janet, Ethel.”

  Ethel let out a little grunt of greeting.

  “Janet buys and sells antiques, I’m thinking of finally parting with a few of the relics out in the barn. But, Ethel, where are the sandwiches I asked for?”

  Ethel just gave her a deadpan look—you could practically smell the thirty-five years of passive aggression between these two.

  “I asked for cream cheese and olive sandwiches,” Franny said.

  Ethel mockingly mouthed I asked for cream-cheese and olive sandwiches.

  “By the way, Ethel,” Franny said, “Janet brought me the most marvelous present. It’s a new bourbon made right here in the Hudson Valley.”

  She held up the bottle of Tuthilltown Hudson Baby Bourbon.

  Ethel couldn’t disguise her interest.

  “The guy at the liquor store told me it was the first bourbon ever made in New York State, the distillery is down near New Paltz,” I said. “He said that it was ‘smooth and dreamy with hints of vanilla and caramel,’ and so popular that he can’t keep it in stock.”

  “I think we simply must try it,” Franny said. “The sun’s past the yardarm somewhere in the world.”

  “Well, if you insist,” Ethel said.

  “Oh, did you want to join us?” Franny asked.

  Ethel gave a disinterested shrug.

  “I was looking forward to those sandwiches.”

  Ethel disappeared and reappeared in record time with a small plate of crustless white-bread sandwiches.

  “I’ll go get some ice,” Franny said, leaping up and heading into the kitchen.

  Ethel plopped down on a loveseat.

  “Nice outfit,” I lied.

  Ethel gave her wig a few proud pats and said, “I got it on the Internet.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Boy, that one’s been a goddamn nuisance lately,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Sticking her nose where it don’t belong. If she’s not careful, someone might bite it right off.” She gave a little cackle.

  Franny appeared with an ice bucket, which she put on the small corner bar. She put ice into three cocktail glasses, poured in hefty amounts of bourbon, handed the glasses around, lifted hers and toasted, “Chin-chin.”

  Ethel and Franny both took hearty swallows. I pretended to sip mine—my one experience with bourbon had led to a nightmare two-day hangover. The fumes alone were making me dizzy.

  Franny sat back down in her chairl “Well, what does everyone think?”

  “Too soon to tell,” Ethel said, taking another swallow.

  “I think it’s outstanding!” Franny said.

  The two of them were emptying their glasses at an alarming rate.

  “About your antiques,” I said.

  “Oh, let’s not talk business now!” Franny turned to Ethel. “I bet your brother would love this bourbon.”

  “He might,” Ethel said.

  “I had a nice chat with him the other day,” I said.

  “That’s not what he called it,” she said, polishing off her drink. She held out the glass to Franny and said, “Chop-chop.” Then she laughed.

  “You see how she talks to me? Like she’s the one paying me a salary,” Franny said. But she got up—a bit unsteadily—and took Ethel’s glass and her own over to the bar. As she refilled them, she said, “The tyranny of the serving class is one of humanity’s great unwritten stories.”

  “What are you babbling on about, you old bat?”

  Franny handed Ethel back her glass and they both swallowed. “Nothing, just the thousands of times you’ve robbed me of my dignity over the years.”

  “You haven’t got any goddamn dignity to rob.”

  Franny swayed over to me and hissed, “She lurks around corners, steals the change from the bottom of my purse, and once she fed me dog food!”

  “And she ate it!” Ethel cried in triumph, before laughing like a stevedore.

  “You’re ghastly!!”

  Ethel gathered herself, raised her chin, and said matter-of-factly, “Alpo beef chunks in gravy. I told you it was an old family recipe—and you believed me!”

  It was Upstairs Downstairs at Whatever Happened to Baby Jane’s house.

  Franny turned on me and cried with frustration, “See—she wins, she always wins.”

  I debated whether to wade into this folie a deux—after all, I had done some couples counseling—but decided to try and move things toward the matter at hand.

  “Ethel, you and your brother are doing so well these days,” I said casually.

  “You noticed,” she said, before taking a big swig of her drink, smiling at Franny, and going in for the kill. “You’re pathetic, and you smell. You’ve smelled for thirty-five years.” She turned to me. “She hates to bathe, she only showers once a month. In the summer. She never washes from October to May.”

  Franny turned to me and said, a bit sheepishly, “I don’t like being wet, it gives me the wee-woos.”

  “But you don’t mind stinking like old cheese. Everybody knows you smell. I once asked your husband if he’d seen you and he said, ‘No, I haven’t smelled her.’ Oh we had a good laugh on that one! And she picks her nose when she does her stupid crossword puzzle.”

  “Oh you-you-you-YOU!!!” Franny cried.

  “Oh shut up and make yourself useful,” Ethel said, holding out her empty glass. Franny polished hers off, took Ethel’s, and headed to the bar. I was a little worried that they would both pass out before I got any information out of Ethel, but her lips certainly were loosed.

  When Franny turned back to me, I gave her what I hoped was a meaningful, even urgent, look. As she handed Ethel her refill, she asked, “By the way, dear, where is the money coming from to buy all those lovely clothes.”

  “Oh, now I’m ‘dear’, am I? You two must think I’m pretty goddamn stupid. Liquor me up a little and I’ll spill the beans. Well, sorry, Ethel Dunn is one smart cookie!” She took an enormous swallow, puffed herself up into a Queen Elizabeth pose, and added with great nonchalance, “My affluence comes from my brother Charles.”

  “Who’s he getting it from?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “Vince Hammer?” I said.

  “Oh goodness, someone went to college.”

  “How much does he give him?”

  “Charles’s retainer was in the six figures and there’s been a recent bonus related to certain occurrences.”

  “You mean allowing Daphne Livingston’s body to be cremated.”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  “Does your brother think Daphne was murdered?”

  “He’s of two minds—probably and definitely.”

  “And who does he think did it?”

  “Godfrey, of course.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “No, I just said it to throw you off balance. Get a life, sister.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said, standing up. “Franny, I’ll call you about the antiques next week.”

  “What antiques?”

  “This bourbon is quite pleasant,” Ethel said.

  “It’s goddamn good!” Franny said.

  “How does the wig look?” Ethel asked her.

  “It’s a becoming color,” Franny said.

  “I rather thought so.”


  “What should we have for dinner?”

  “Let’s call in for pizza,” Ethel said.

  “Smashing idea,” Franny said.

  As I left, they were pouring more bourbon and discussing toppings.

  I headed down River Road on my way to the Rhinebeck police station to talk to Charlie Dunn. Armed with Ethel’s bourbon-fueled admissions, I thought I might be able to pry some information out of him. Then I remembered it was Wednesday and that the blood Livingstons were meeting with Vince at his lawyer’s office up in the Albany. It couldn’t hurt to take one more look around Daphne’s place.

  I turned down the drive and drove through the decrepitude that was Westward Farm—rusting machinery, crumbling outbuildings, overgrown fields. The ruined romance of the place was starting to grow on me. I parked in high weeds behind an old garage uphill from the house, so I could sneak out unseen if I had to. The afternoon had grown more muggy, the sky hazier. Summer was settling in. And summer in the valley brought consuming heat and humidity, transforming the northern landscape into something close to southern gothic, a jungle of green vines and lazy animals, a slow-motion dance, full of languid longing and nameless lurking sorrow.

  I headed down through the garden to the summerhouse. I stepped inside and looked around. Nothing had been touched, it was the same—an eccentric folly that had been allowed to slide into Gray Gardens decay. But there was something intangible in the air that I hadn’t noticed before and I was struck by a memory …

  When I was twelve, the boozy, defeated, put-upon aunt I was living with out on Long Island cribbed together enough money to send me to this ratty camp somewhere in the Poconos for two weeks. I’d say it was a sweet gesture, but she just wanted me out of the house so she could drink in peace. The camp was full of other screwed-up, farmed-out kids with no interest in archery, braiding lariats, or singing lame-ass songs (though we all dug gorging on the ’smores—especially after sucking down a doobie). The main activity at the place was sex—the counselors all fucked like bunnies, and we ragingly hormonal campers cared only about making out, heavy petting, going thisclose to all the way, and then comparing detailed notes on same. The greatest challenge at camp, aside from winning the sack race, was finding safe secretive places for all this hanky-panky. Over the years several tryst spots had obtained near-mystical status, as in “I squeezed Johnny’s dick under the kitchen” (the rickety wooden buildings were all built on lattice-covered platforms, providing commodious crawl spaces easily accessed by horny adolescents) or “Linda let Ricky lick her down there out at the pine tree” or “Judy went down on Phil in the dead cabin.” The dead cabin was an abandoned, collapsing hut reached by a serpentine trail through the woods. Summers of teenage bodies writhing, squeezing, and licking had left it littered with cigarette butts, beer cans, used condoms, and with a peculiar pungent smell, a mix of sweat and lust and loss.