To the Manor Dead

by Sebastian Stuart

  “Why, are you worried that I’ll kill myself?” The tears were streaming down her face now. She closed her eyes and took in an enormous breath. Then she reached into the picnic basket, took out a tissue, and blew her nose. “You’ll have to forgive me, again.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m really fine. I’m going to get a dog. A rescue dog. I’ll be back home in a couple of months. I’ve got a dissertation to finish.”

  “What’s the subject?”

  “American pastoral: Eden or illusion?” She looked out at the view. “Aunt Daphne was the first person to bring me here. I think I was six. We toured the house. She knew everything about Church, his art, his life. I can still remember her passion that afternoon. She came alive, and of course she looked divine in those days. People noticed her. Then we came out here and sat on this lawn, very close to this very spot, on a blanket a lot like this one. She had brought a bottle of wine for herself and a can of Coke for me, which was thrilling—Coke was verboten at home. At one point she took my face in her hands and told me I was going to have a special life, a wonderful life.”

  Claire looked down at her lap, smoothed out her khakis. Then she turned to me with a warm smile, and asked, “Can I interest you in another cookie?”

  “Look,” George said, holding out his hand as I climbed into his hearse. A huge silver, turquoise, and onyx ring sat there on his left ring finger. “Dwayne and I exchanged rings.”

  “It’s big,” I said.

  “Our love is big.”

  “Have you met his wife yet?”

  “I love his wife. There’s absolutely no animosity. My relationship with Dwayne is wide and pliant, forgiving, yielding. There’s room in it for all three of us.”

  “In other words, nothing has changed.”

  “Janet, for the sake of our continued friendship, I think we should agree not to discuss Dwayne.”

  “All right.”

  “But don’t you see how unfair not discussing him is to me, he’s the center of my life right now.”

  “You’re the one who suggested we not discuss him.”

  “You were supposed to contradict me. Not discussing him is a complete denial of my inner truth.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s discuss him.”

  “Now I don’t want to, you’ve ruined it.”

  Thankfully, we arrived at our destination—the lighthouse parking lot. We got out of the car and started down the trail. It was early evening and the light was soft. Summer had settled over the valley, but at this hour the heat was soft, too.

  After a little way we left the trail and moved through the underbrush toward Mad John’s pad. George let out a birdcall to let him know we were approaching. The reeds parted and Mad John’s face appeared.

  “Hey, people, how’s it hanging?” he asked, grinning like a Jack-o’-lantern.

  We stepped through the reeds into Mad John’s abode.

  “Place looks great,” George said.

  Mad John had tarted things up with two battered folding lawn chairs, a life-size cardboard Jackie Chan movie display, and a defunct computer monitor covered with the kind of glittery horse and star stick-ums that pre-adolescent girls put on everything. In one corner there was a sculptural pile of junk that looked like it had been scavenged from behind a Radio Shack: a jumble of dead computers, DVD players, cameras, telephones.

  “I’m into décor,” Mad John said.

  “So, we’re going to take a little raft trip,” George said.

  The only way to get to Esmerelda Pillow’s house by land was to drive down a narrow peninsula that jutted out into the Hudson, past a half dozen neighbors. We wanted to reconnoiter without anyone knowing it.

  Mad John did his jumping-up-and-down-in place thing. “Goin’ out on the river, goin’ out, yah-yah!!”

  We followed him through the reeds to the riverbank. It was almost twilight in the gnarly inlet, Mad John’s watery dream world, and the river glowed and glittered and civilization seemed a million miles away.

  We climbed on the raft, Mad John untied and pushed us off. We headed out from the bank and then he turned south. The little red running lights of boats moved up and down the river.

  “Isn’t this heavenly?” George said.

  “River magic, moving and flowing, never stopping,” Mad John said. Then he started singing—gibberish, but mournful gibberish, in a strangely beautiful voice. On shore lights came on in the houses, cozy and twinkly. For a moment I could forget about Daphne’s murder and all the possible scenarios that were racing around in my head. The warm languid evening felt like it would never end, the gentle lolling of the raft cradled me and I was suffused with a sense of freedom and adventure. This was what I had moved upstate for—a different life, a chance to slip out of the ordinary, to feel wonder and wondrous again.

  “I wish Dwayne were here,” George sighed. “He’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “Dwayne is stupy-woopy,” Mad John said with a cackle.

  “You know, Mad John, I always thought you were a sensitive guy, but that is a totally shallow thing to say. There are a lot of different kinds of intelligence. Dwayne is intuitive, he can look at me and tell what I’m feeling.”

  “Yeah—horny!” Mad John crowed. “He stupy-woopy!”

  “Mad John, Dwayne is an orphan, he had a traumatic childhood that included neglect, abuse, trauma, addiction, jail, parole, recidivism. He’s deeply wounded.”

  “He’s also stupy-woopy.”

  “I give up, it’s impossible to have a rational discussion with you!”

  “Well, duh.”

  We reached the skinny peninsula, at the end of which sat Esmerelda Pillow’s ramshackle house. Mad John deftly guided the raft ashore, past the half-submerged supermarket cart. He beached on the edge of the ratty, trash-strewn lawn and we all disembarked. It was dark, quiet, and creepy out here.

  The three of us walked silently toward the house. It was clad in dented, buckling aluminum siding. There was a glassed-in porch facing the river. All the blinds were drawn. We went around the side. The door was unlocked. We stepped inside the porch, which opened to the living room.

  I took out my flashlight and flipped it on—the batteries were dead.

  “Shit, Nancy Drew forgot to check her fucking batteries,” said George

  “Oh, let’s just turn on a light, who cares?” Mad John said.

  “What if someone sees it?” I asked.

  “We’ll flee by sea,” Mad John said.

  “Anyhow, the nearest neighbor is up the road a ways and there are a lot of trees,” George said.

  Mad John found a switch and flipped it.

  Wow!

  Esmerelda’s place may have looked like Tobacco Road from the outside, but the inside was strictly Easy Street—joint looked like a spread in Metropolitan Home, all mid-century furniture highlighted with geometric rugs, perfect finishes, bold art, trendy tchotchkes.

  Mad John leapt up on one of the couches and started jumping up and down, chanting, “Groovy pad, groovy pad, groovy pad!” It was very Rodent of him.

  We walked through the living room and into the kitchen, which looked like the contractors had left ten minutes ago—stainless-steel countertops, cherrywood cabinets, red enamel appliances, with not a morsel of food in sight. The master bedroom was a glamorous cocoon, with wall-to-wall beige carpet and a low-slung bed. Mad John fell to the floor and started to roll around like a dog. Tactile little guy.

  The bathroom was marble, with a steam shower and whirlpool tub.

  “Well, now we know where all her drug profits went,” George said as we stood admiring the stainless steel bidet.

  “She was living out some aging-rock-star fantasy,” I said. “It’s really bizarre, the way she left the outside all rundown.”

 
“And brilliant,” George said. “That way, her taxes don’t go up. And people don’t start asking a lot of questions about where her dough comes from.”

  We cased the house quickly and silently while Mad John bounced, rolled, sniffed, and humped everything in sight. The place was organized down to the toothpick and we found her stash of pot in the kitchen—a slide-out refrigerator drawer filled with a half-dozen bricks of the stuff.

  “Tempting,” George said, eyeing the bounty. Then he resolutely closed the drawer, announcing, “No way, Dwayne is clean and sober.”

  “Is that court-ordered?”

  “Who told you?” George got a faraway look in his eye. “What an amazing man. To have lived through four years at Elmira State and still have the faith and courage to love another man.”

  “It may be a habit he picked up at Elmira State.”

  “You know, somewhere in New York City there’s probably a recovery group for former clients of Janet Petrocelli.”

  “That’s a recurring nightmare of mine.”

  Under the marijuana drawer was a flat cherrywood panel. When I pushed it, it sprung open, revealing a hidden drawer secured with three padlocks.

  “That must be where the hard drugs are,” George said.

  I rattled the locks—they were serious.

  “We need a metal saw to get those suckers off,” George said.

  “I’ll have to come back.”

  In the far corner of one of the kitchen counters I noticed a phone answering machine. It was a bit of an anachronism in this day of voice mail, but I could relate—I still used one. And, unlike cell phones, there was no easily accessible record of who has been calling you or of your own location, security features a drug dealer might prize. The number three was illuminated in the calls received box. I pressed play. The first two calls were hang-ups, then:

  “It’s me. Got it. Will deliver.”

  I’d recognize that monosyllabic eloquence anywhere.

  Josie put down the plates of enchiladas, rice, beans, and guacamole in front of George and me.

  “You made these from scratch?” I asked.

  Josie nodded.

  “Mmmmmmmm!” George moaned after his first bite. “These are the best enchiladas ever in the history of the planet.”

  “George is so understated,” Josie said with a big smile.

  “So are you—I had no idea you could cook like this,” I said, savoring the spicy mix of chicken and vegetables.

  “Neither did I,” Josie admitted. She sat down with her own plate. “I found out a few things about Marcella Sedgwick online.”

  “Tell all,” I said.

  “Well, she has three degrees, from Yale, Penn, and UCLA.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, this is interesting. She’s originally from Elkton, Kentucky, a small town in the southwest corner of the state.”

  “I thought she was from an old East Coast family,” I said.

  “According to Todd County court documents I found, she had her name legally changed when she was fifteen years old. Her real name is Amber Lundy. Her mother’s age at the time was twenty-eight, and her father’s address was ‘whereabouts unknown’.”

  I put down my fork.

  “Is the food okay?” Josie asked.

  I nodded. Just then my cell phone rang.

  “Chevrona Williams here. I just got the lab analysis back on the contents of the hypodermic needle. Heroin and recuronium.”

  “Recuronium?” I asked.

  George perked up.

  “It’s a paralytic agent,” Chevrona said. “It’s not a fun way to die. Your body freezes, but you’re still fully aware.”

  “That would explain the expression on Daphne’s face when I found her.”

  “Her last moments were hell.”

  “I think this proves that Esmerelda wasn’t acting alone,” I said. “Were there any fingerprints on the hypodermic?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think the powers-that-be will show more interest in the case now?”

  “No, but it gives me a little leeway to keep pursuing it on my own,” she said.

  “Thanks for the info.”

  “Stay in close touch, Janet.”

  I hung up.

  “Recuronium, huh?” George said.

  “How do you get hold of it?” I asked.

  “A hospital would be a good place to start. It’s used as an anesthetic in most surgeries.”

  I put my hand on George’s arm. “I need your help.”

  Benedictine Hospital is in midtown Kingston, on a hill a few blocks south of Broadway. It’s a sprawling complex of mismatched red brick buildings, added over the years. George, wearing his surgical scrubs, parked his hearse in the lot.

  “Just follow my lead,” he said as we crossed the lot.

  The inside looked like every other hospital I’d ever been in—florescent-lit corridors, lots of signage, donor plaques, banks of elevators, everything rose colored, made of molded plastic. Founded by nuns, Benedictine had the requisite Jesuses and soothing biblical quotes sprinkled around—but discreetly, thank God.

  “Poor Dwayne was in here for three weeks last year,” George said.

  “What happened?”

  “He fell off the roof of his van and broke his tailbone.”

  “What was he doing on the roof of his van?”

  “He doesn’t remember.”

  “Hi, George,” a maintenance worker said as we passed. There were other waves, smiles, hellos.

  “They love me here,” George said. We turned a corner. “Okay, straight ahead on our right you’ll see the pharmacy. That’s where the surgical trays come from—they have sterilized instruments, bandages and packing, and, of course, the anesthetics.”

  I followed him past the pharmacy, around another corner, and into the surgical ward. There was a circular counter in the center of the main reception, manned by a nurse—a skinny woman in her thirties, mixed race, with spiky hair and something like forty thin silver bracelets on one forearm. In my experience, nurses tend to be pretty cool people.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said.

  “Hey, Wanda, how’s it hanging?”

  “They’re not hanging, same as usual,” she said, looking down at her flat chest. “How are yours hanging?”

  George mock-cupped his balls, “Loose and low.”

  They laughed.

  “Busy day?” George asked.

  “Kinda slow. Two hip replacements and a valve repair. Are you here to work, I didn’t see you on the schedule?”

  “I may put in a shift in the ER, someone called in sick,” George said vaguely. “But right now I’m showing my pal Janet around. She’s new to the area and is thinking of volunteering here.”

  “We could use you,” Wanda said.

  “What do volunteers do in the surgical wing?” I asked.

  “If we have an emergency, like a car crash, it’s all hands on deck in the operating room, so we need people out here at the desk. And on regular days it’s good to have a civilian around for the families while they wait out the operations, helps with their anxiety. Volunteers also run general errands, like bringing the surgical trays over from the pharmacy.”

  “How does that work?” I asked, leaning on the counter.

  “You go to the pharmacy and ask for Dr. So-and-so’s tray, and wheel it over here.”

  “I could probably handle that.”

  “If you try really hard,” George said. “Listen, Wanda, do you know who the developer Vince Hammer is?”

  “I don’t live under a rock.”

  “Doesn’t his girlfriend Marcella Sedgwick volunteer here?”

  Wanda rolled her e
yes. “Queen’cella we call her. She waltzes in here dressed for the red carpet. And she always brings a little wicker basket full of cookies and fancy little sandwiches. It’s very noblesse oblige, but they are tasty.”

  “Does she get her hands dirty?”

  “Not if she can help it,” Wanda said. “She loves to flirt with the surgeons, so her favorite job is retrieving the surgical cart.”

  “Thanks, Wanda. George, can you show me the rest of the hospital now,” I asked, already on my way out.

  An hour later, I rang the intercom at Vince Hammer’s estate.

  “Yes?” came the disembodied lackey’s reply.

  “Janet Petrocelli here to see Vince and Marcella.”

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  The gate swung open. I drove up and parked. I hustled up the front steps and the doors opened just as I reached the top. I hoped to find Marcus, but it was a clean-cut clone. He ushered me in.

  In the living room I saw Vince and a small crowd gathered around a large table.

  “Janet, come join us,” he called to me in a we’re-best-friends voice.

  As I got closer I saw that the table held a scale model of a large development that looked a lot like River Landing.

  “This is a friend of mine, Janet Petrocelli. These are my architects. As soon as Marcella comes down they’re going to make a full presentation,” Vince said.

  I smiled at the assembled crew, who looked bright and proud.

  “These people are brilliant, Janet. They moved all the buildings a thousand feet from the nearest newt habitat. We’ve reduced the height of the towers by eight stories. And we’ve added a theater and cultural center to give River Landing that extra cachet. Nothing moves the approval process along faster than a little culture.”

  I looked at the model. It would have looked great with a toy train running through it. Sitting next to the Hudson it would be a disaster.

  “Vince, I need to talk to you alone a minute,” I said.

  A Tony Soprano look flashed across his face. Then he smiled.

  “Of course. I’ll be right back,” he said to the crew.