To the Manor Dead

by Sebastian Stuart

  We sat there in silence for a moment.

  “You look a little tried,” I said.

  “I am tired.”

  “Work?” I asked.

  Detective Williams looked at me for a moment, trying to decide whether to open up or not. I put on my best sympathetic-therapist face.

  “Yeah, work.” She hesitated, looked down. I’d seen that look so many times in my practice. She wanted to talk, needed to talk. But it’s tough. I knew it was best to let it ride. It rode … until finally: “And home. Things suck at home …”

  She stopped herself, fought to hold down the words.

  “I’m a former therapist,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  I nodded. We sat there in silence again.

  “How about I buy you a drink?” I said.

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had in awhile.”

  We drove up to the Rondout, a hip Kingston neighborhood hard by the Rondout Creek where it flows into the Hudson. This was one end of the old Delaware and Hudson Canal, which opened in 1826 and linked the two rivers. For a brief period in the late nineteenth century this corner of Kingston was one of the most prosperous places in the state. It’s filled with cool old architecture, bars, restaurants, galleries, a marina. I liked it down there, it had character and there were enough people around to make it feel urban. Chevrona and I went into a little French bistro, sat at a small table by the bar. She ordered a beer, I ordered a glass of red wine.

  “It’s nice around here,” she said.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Way the hell out in the country, Margaretsville.”

  “You like it?”

  “I did.”

  She downed her beer and signaled to the bartender for another. She wasn’t quite ready to spill.

  “I’m still working on the Pillow case,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Who do you think killed her?”

  “My bet is still that it was a rival drug dealer, maybe from up in Albany. This is a decent-sized market and with her gone, it’s wide open. And the way she was murdered, it was overkill, designed to send a message: this is my turf now.”

  “Do you have any evidence?”

  “Well, we’ve asked around on the street in Newburgh and Albany, and everyone seems to know she’s dead. But no one’s talking about who might be responsible. But we’re going to wait for things to die down and then see who moves in on her territory.”

  “What about that guy I saw pick her up in his boat that morning?”

  “Morris Emmett, out of Albany, guy has his finger in a thousand pies, all of them rancid. But we can’t touch him, he’s way too smart.” She finished her second beer, signaled for a third. Then she turned to me, suddenly looking completely miserable, and said in a quiet voice, “My partner decided she’s not gay anymore.”

  My first thought: that partner is an idiot.

  We just sat for a while. Gotta sit sometimes. “How long have you two been together?” I asked finally.

  “Six years.”

  “And out of the blue she told you she’s not gay anymore?”

  “She started sleeping with some guy.” Her face got hard. Then her eyes filled with tears. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, fighting them down. Her beer came and she drank half of it in one swallow. “You should know something about me: I do not cry.”

  “I didn’t see a thing.”

  “Yeah, he owns a garage up in Delhi, and Lucy took her car in for a tune-up. She got a tune-up alright. That motherfucker. And I thought she was it, ever-and-ever time.”

  “No such thing.”

  “No such fucking thing. The worst part is going back there every night. Place feels like a meat locker.”

  “How long has she been seeing this guy?”

  “About a month.”

  “Do you think it’s serious or just a fling?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I’m sleeping in the den and we don’t talk much.” Chevrona pushed her chair back from the table, put her hands on her knees, took several deep breaths. “What do you think I should do?”

  I got a charge that she trusted me enough to ask me that question. “I think you should be talking with Lucy. You have six years together and whatever happens, you owe each other consideration.”

  “Talking about this shit doesn’t come easy to me.”

  “There aren’t a lot of people it does come easy to. But if you two start talking, at least you’ll be able to figure out where you stand. Then you’ll be able to think about your next move.”

  She polished off her beer. “Thanks,” she said.

  I shrugged.

  “This is going to sound weird,” she said, “but I’m glad I’ve got Pillow’s murder to work on. Murder is murder, but love is …” She searched for the words—but then let out a soul-deep sigh.

  I’d never heard it put better.

  Josie put the scrambled eggs down in front of me. Sputnik sat next to me, waiting for his taste.

  “They’re not as good as Abba’s, but …” she said. Then she went back to the kitchen and busied herself cleaning up, head down, pretending not to be waiting for my reaction. The haircut she’d gotten from George and Abba was a big improvement, framing her face in a way that brought out her large, soulful brown eyes. They’d also been buying her clothes, cool stuff that fit well and made her look smart and fresh.

  I took a bite—Josie had grated in some romano and chopped up some dandelion greens she’d “harvested” from my mostly concrete backyard and tossed them in, giving the eggs a tasty tang.

  “They’re delicious,” I said.

  Josie looked up at me, trying to keep a lid on her beam.

  “Aren’t you going to join me?” I asked.

  She brought her plate over and sat across from me at the round oak table.

  “So, how’s it going down in Kingston?” I asked.

  “Good.”

  “More, please.”

  She took a bite of her own eggs and sadness swept across her face. But she pushed it away. “It’s hard to find me a foster family. Because of my age.”

  “What if they can’t find you one?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave.”

  “I just asked a question.”

  “There are group homes. There is one in Albany my social worker thinks she can get me into.”

  “All right.”

  “But she’d like to keep trying to find me a better situation. Once I go into the group home she says it will be impossible to find a foster family.”

  We ate in silence for a while. No matter how many bites I took, my plate kept getting fuller. Yes, Josie was a good kid who deserved a chance. Yes, Josie was no trouble. Yes, I had an extra room. Yes-yes-yes … NO!

  I left a few bites of egg on my plate and put it down on the floor for Sputnik, who inhaled it. “You have another fan of your cooking.”

  “He’ll eat anything,” Josie said.

  “This is true.”

  “I’m getting pretty good on the computer,” she said. “Do you know you have wifi here?”

  “No kidding.”

  “It must be from a neighbor. I got online last night.”

  “Great.”

  I hate the Internet. When it first came out I was like: oh, wow, cool, fun, I can access anything—now it’s just a black hole, an energy suck, a vomitorium of information, a headache with a keyboard attached.

  “Have you thought of selling on eBay?” Josie asked.

  “I’ve thought of it, but it’s a lot of work.”

  “Would you like me to try selling something?”

  I picked up the plate from the floor and took it over to the sink. Then I turned to her. “Josi
e, this is my business, my home, my life … I just, um, how can I say this? I was married to a bastard who left me after ten years and it really did a number to my head … and my heart. I’m just pulling myself back together, and I feel like I have to be a little selfish right now. Does that make any sense?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It also makes sense for you to let me try to sell something on eBay. I’m not asking you to adopt me.”

  I looked at her in surprise. She met my gaze—and there was a feisty gleam in her eye. You know, there’s nothing in this whole goddamn motherfucking shit pile of a world more beautiful than seeing a feisty gleam come into the eye of a kid like Josie.

  “All right, kiddo, you’re on,” I said, turning back to the sink and washing my plate. “Just find anything that looks promising and give it a whirl.”

  Josie ran into her room and was back in a flash with two rubber squeeze toys from the 1950s—a towheaded boy and girl, sort of a three-dimensional Fun with Dick and Jane.

  “What about these two?” she asked.

  “They’re pretty adorable,” I said.

  “Kinda creepy, too.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Should I set a reserve?”

  “Wait a minute, this is your thing.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” Then she disappeared back into her room.

  I thought for a moment and then called out to her, “Listen, while you’re online, see if you can find out anything about a Marcella Sedgwick.”

  “Spell it,” Josie called back.

  Olana is an opium-pipe dream, a Moorish castle that sits on a hill high above the east bank of the Hudson. It was built by the landscape painter Frederic Edwin Church in the 1870s, inspired by his travels to the Middle East. The exterior is all exotic tile and brickwork capped by a minaret. Inside, it’s an enfolding harem of Oriental carpets and velvet drapes, dark, moody, dramatic. I parked in the lot and walked to the front of the house. I looked out at the sweeping southern view—Church had put in a heart-shaped pond that glittered in the foreground, framed by the river and valley beyond. It was a windy day with skittering clouds, and the air smelled like the past, leafy and sad. Church thought the Hudson Valley was the most blessed place on earth, the center of the artistic and spiritual world. Standing there, it was easy to believe.

  I spotted Claire on the lawn, sitting on a plaid blanket with a picnic basket by her side. She was wearing well-cut khakis, a blue blouse, and chic sandals. With her legs tucked under her, her hair combed behind her ears, her face clean and fresh, she looked like Nantucket, summer benefits at country museums, ease, grace, entitlement. She saw me and waved. I headed over.

  “Isn’t this heavenly?” she asked, indicating the view.

  “It is,” I said, sitting.

  “I come here when I need to recharge. It’s my refuge.” She ran her fingers through her hair, chin tilted up—she was very pretty. “I brought us a little je ne sais quoi—just lemonade and cookies.” She opened a bottle of fancy Italian lemonade and poured me a glass. Then she opened a tin filled with cookies. “I baked these myself.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” she said with a disarming smile, “but they’re from a wonderful little place in Tivoli.”

  The lemonade was delicious and cookie scrumptious.

  “First of all,” Claire said, “I want to apologize for my behavior at Vince Hammer’s. It was inexcusable.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “As you may have noticed, there’s a slight vein of rage that runs through my family,” she said with a wry smile. “And being home has been very difficult for me. The scab just gets ripped off the wound, and you realize it hasn’t really healed at all. But I’ve been doing lots of yoga and focusing on my work. I feel much better.” She looked down, plucked at the grass. “I was fond of my Aunt Daphne. She was always kind and encouraging. She’s the only one in the family who asked me about my job at Bard, who showed any pride in what I was doing.” She looked up at me. “I’d like to help you find her murderer.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “I know she met Esmerelda Pillow at a bar in Catskill. They became friends. Daphne was always attracted to people who were … if I were being kind I’d say eccentric; if I were being honest I’d say degenerate. Esmerelda would come to visit, by boat. They would sit in the summerhouse together. I thought they were drinking buddies. I didn’t realize there were drugs involved. But it would explain Daphne’s deterioration over the last few months.”

  “So you met Esmerelda?”

  “A couple of times, yes. I found her very off-putting, bizarre and shifty. The drug connection helps me understand why Daphne tolerated her.”

  “Do you think it’s possible she and Daphne were lovers?”

  “Good God, what a thought.”

  I told her about the photographs.

  “Trust Daphne to deliver a surprise, even from the grave.” She smiled. “I don’t think it was Esmerelda, though. I didn’t sense anything like that.”

  “Can you think of anyone else it might be?”

  “This is going to sound very sick—welcome to Livingston world—but I wouldn’t be shocked if it was my father.”

  “Really? I thought they hated each other.”

  “They did, but it’s a thin line. Daphne and Godfrey always had a very intense relationship—and he does own an old Polaroid.” She sighed. “Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water. Do you think her lover, whoever it was, killed her?”

  “I don’t.” I thought of telling Claire about the man who had appeared out of the woods, but thought better of it. “The pictures could be completely unrelated to her death.”

  “What I wanted to tell you was that about a week before she died, Daphne told me that she was going to be going away for a while. I asked her why. She was vague, but she mentioned Esmerelda. She seemed scared. I think Daphne got in a little too deep. That she was beginning to mistrust Esmerelda, to be afraid of her. Daphne was always very intuitive. I think she sensed something.”

  Just then a voice called, “Claire!”

  We looked over—a young couple about Claire’s age were approaching us. The woman was wearing an almost identical outfit to Claire, and the man was in jeans and a white oxford shirt with a thick brown-leather belt and matching flip-flops. They both radiated upper-class ease.

  Claire leapt up.

  “Boops!” she said, hugging the woman.

  I’m sorry, but WASP nicknames are weird.

  “How great to see you!” Boops gushed. Then she held Claire at arm’s length and scrutinized her face, as if looking for cracks. “How are you?” she asked, a little too sincerely.

  “I’m fine, just fine,” Claire answered, a little too casually.

  “I heard a rumor you were back. You haven’t called.”

  “I’ve been so busy,” Claire said. “I’m teaching at Bard.”

  “How fantastic! You really are okay.” There was an awkward silence and then Boops said, “Oh, I’m sorry, this is Mark Warren, my fiancé.”

  “How do you do?” Claire said.

  “What a pleasure,” Mark said, and they shook hands.

  There was another awkward pause, and then Claire turned to me. “And this is Janet Petrocelli.”

  I could see Boops take me in—and peg me as N.O.C.D. (Not Our Class, Dear)—but she turned on a warm smile and handshake. “How nice to meet you,” she said.

  I nodded to them both.

  The wind gusted. Claire crossed her shins, her shoulders went up. “So … when’s the big day?” she asked with a strained smile.

  “September. You must come,” Boops said.

  “I will.”
>
  “I heard about Daphne. I’m sorry,” Boops said. “Of course, none of us had seen her in years.”

  “She was a fascinating woman,” Claire said, straightening up.

  “Yes … she certainly had quite a life … well …” Boops slipped her arm through Mark’s. “Mark is from Santa Barbara and he’s never seen Olana.”

  “You’re in for a treat,” Claire said.

  Boops kissed Claire on the cheek. “We’ll get together.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m really happy that you’re … teaching. Call me.” As she and Mark walked away she leaned into him and said something.

  Claire sat back down.

  “Old friend?” I asked.

  “She’s an Alcott,” Claire said, as if that explained everything. She took several deep breaths. “‘I’m really happy that you’re … teaching.’ What she meant was: ‘I’m really surprised you’re not in a straightjacket.’ You see, I had a little … break when I was fifteen. I spent a few months at the Center for Living in Hartford. I have fought my way back tooth and nail to my current state of semi-sanity. Fuck you, Boops. Fuck you.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  It really was a curse, having my so-called sympathetic face. There’s a saying in dentistry: “Drill, fill, send ’em the bill.” One of my former colleagues amended it to: “Sit still, let ’em spill, send ’em the bill.”

  The only problem was I was no longer sending anyone a bill.

  Claire made a big effort to pull herself together. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than one date.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but …”

  “I’m frigid. I loathe sex, I loathe being touched, I loathe men.”

  “Claire …”

  “Do you blame me? You’ve met my father.”

  “I can imagine that it was very difficult.”

  “Look.” She held out her wrists and I saw the scars.

  “Claire, I think you should be talking to a therapist.”