The Drowning Tree

by Carol Goodman

  “That would be incredible, Neil. Dia: Beacon’s going to be a major museum.”

  Regula Howell gives me a little condescending smile and I suddenly remember where I’ve seen her name before—in an article in the Penrose Alumnae Magazine. She’d started out in the early eighties working at a gallery in SoHo that handled artists as renowned as Basquiat and Haring. She has her own gallery now and it’s rumored that she supports young fledgling artists out of her sizable private income. What an amazing connection for Neil to make, I think, trying not to be jealous.

  “So, if you can spare him for a minute, June—”

  “Juno,” Neil corrects her, “like the goddess.”

  “Of course.” Regula smiles, queen to goddess. “It’s just that I’ve got a party to get to across the river. Perhaps you’re going there as well, Juno, it’s at Forest Hall.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not all that involved in the college outside of the window restoration.”

  “Oh, I just thought since you knew Gavin Penrose.” Regula gives the sandals a little swing and the jeweled dragonflies wink in the pale watery light. “It’s his engagement party. Didn’t you know? He’s marrying one of my classmates, Joan Shelley.”

  DRIVING BACK ACROSS THE RIVER I THINK ABOUT AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY. WHEN Detective Falco first brought up the scenario from the Dreiser novel I thought it sounded too melodramatic to have anything to do with what happened to Christine. Handsome rake seduces poor, working-class girl and then tosses her over for rich heiress. And then what? Drowns her when she shows up pregnant demanding that he marry her? I can see Gavin Penrose in the role—he even has a good name for a rake—but I have trouble fitting Christine into the role of damsel in distress. As much as her looks suited her to her study of nineteenth-century painting—hadn’t I noticed during her lecture how much she resembled the lady in the window?—her character didn’t. She’d never marry for propriety or convenience; she’d raise the baby on her own.

  But what if there was something wrong with the baby? What if she needed money badly? Would she have gone to Gavin Penrose? Could he have been so worried about saving face in front of his new—wealthy—fiancée that he took Christine out on a little prenuptial kayaking trip, fed her her own pills in a thermos of coffee, and then swamped her boat? As preposterous as it seems, I can’t dismiss the odd coincidence that Gavin Penrose is suddenly announcing his engagement one week after Christine’s funeral—an engagement no one knew about. Or maybe I’m the only one who didn’t know about it and I’m just piqued that I wasn’t invited to the party.

  I don’t have much time to pout Cinderella-like in my sooty old factory, though. When I get home I find a faxed invitation along with a copy of an envelope addressed to me with UNDELIVERABLE stamped across the address. There’s also a message on my answering machine from Fay Morgan explaining that my invitation came back to her just today and that when she showed it to him, Mr. Penrose insisted she call me right away and tell me he especially hoped I would be able to come share in his joy in this time of grief.

  Fay pronounces the last words like someone reading from a script. Her own natural inflections return with her parting comments, “You really ought to talk to your mail carrier and clear up the confusion regarding your mail delivery.”

  The fact that she’s right (it’s not the first time my mail has gone astray) doesn’t stop me from feeling peevish as I rush into the shower and pull out the same blue linen dress I wore four weeks ago to Christine’s lecture—the only thing I own good enough for a reception at the president’s house. I’ll add it to the list, Fay, I say to my reflection in the mirror, after cell phone purchase. You’ve already gotten me to a geneticist and given me three weeks of hell waiting for the results of that blood test.

  As if she heard me the phone rings and when I let the machine pick up it actually is Fay again—reminding me that the invitation includes a plus one. “Perhaps you’d like to bring that nice man who works down at the kayaking shop if you’re still seeing him.”

  Jesus, I think, as soon as Bea graduates I’m out of this little town. How in the world did she know about Kyle? We barely even went out.

  But even my ranting can’t disguise the real source of my annoyance. Who can I call for my plus one?

  Then I know exactly who to call.

  “HONESTLY, MISS MCKAY, I’D HAVE TAKEN YOU OUT FOR DINNER WITHOUT THE cloak and dagger pretext,” Detective Falco says when I meet him half an hour later in front of the factory.

  I don’t say anything for a moment because I’m so taken aback by the transformation wrought by his well-fitting tux. He couldn’t have gotten a rental so soon. I wonder what kind of social life he leads that requires a more extensive dress-up wardrobe than my closet’s meager offerings.

  “You’re certainly dressed up,” I say.

  “You look lovely yourself,” he says, turning my grudging comment into an exchange of compliments.

  I adjust my shawl over my shoulders. At the last minute I traded the dress’s matching linen jacket for a velvet devore shawl that Bea bought for me from the Metropolitan Museum gift shop last year. Although it’s hardly a designer item, the iridescent wisteria blossoms complement the blue in my dress, and the silk and velvet against my bare shoulders feels luxurious. I just wish I had Regula Howell’s blue satin dragonfly shoes instead of my scuffed black sandals, but then I’d probably be taller than the detective … I stop this train of thought by reminding myself that this isn’t a date and to remind him I say: “I just thought you’d be interested in knowing that Gavin Penrose is engaged. You’re the one who brought up the whole American Tragedy scenario.”

  “Actually, I already know about his engagement to Joan Shelley. He told me about it in our first interview when I asked him what he was doing the night Christine died. He said he was driving Miss Shelley back to her apartment on East End Avenue in Manhattan—an alibi she confirms. Besides that, there are a couple of reasons why I don’t think Gavin Penrose is the father of Christine’s child—”

  “Any you’d care to share with me?”

  Detective Falco smiles and tugs at his black silk bow tie. “Not at the moment—but thanks for the lead to the geneticist.” He holds the car door open for me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, putting on my seat belt.

  He gets in the driver’s side but doesn’t start the car. “You don’t have to tell me what you went there for,” he says. “I know we don’t know each other very well.”

  We don’t know each other at all, I think, surprised that he should be so … what?… concerned. And why did he accept my invitation if he had already ruled out Gavin Penrose as a suspect? Maybe it’s just that he’s in the habit of ferreting out missing information or maybe he really is worried about me.

  “It’s to check for the breast cancer gene,” I tell him when he’s given up waiting and started the car. “My mother had it. Fay Morgan suggested I do it. She tested positive for the gene last year and had a prophylactic mastectomy.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She said Gavin Penrose went to bat for her with the insurance company.”

  “Huh. No wonder she’s so loyal to him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Detective Falco shifts the car into reverse, then back into park, and then half turns in his seat to face me. “Just your mother?”

  “Maybe a great-aunt as well.”

  “That’s not a lot. You probably don’t have it.”

  “Probably not.”

  He puts the car back in reverse and pulls out of his parking spot and heads up College Avenue. Neither of us speak until we’ve pulled up in front of Forest Hall. A uniformed valet approaches the car, but Falco puts up his hand and signals for him to wait. He takes off his seat belt and turns around in his seat to face me, seemingly unconcerned about the Jaguar and two Mercedes waiting behind us.

  “Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this and you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself—okay?”<
br />
  I nod. Who am I going to tell, I think.

  “Christine went to the genetic counseling office because her unborn child had tested positive for Tay-Sachs.”

  “Tay-Sachs? Jesus—that’s fatal, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a nightmare. The child usually dies within its first three years.”

  I close my eyes and picture Christine standing in front of the Lady window, her neck bent down under the weight of her own hair. Overlaid on that image is a picture of her standing on the train platform asking me whether I thought if you loved someone well enough they would return that love. Was she thinking of the baby? Or of the baby’s father?

  “Poor Christine,” I say, “It must have killed her—it might really be what killed her … but wait, aren’t most people who get Tay-Sachs Jewish?”

  “Yeah. According to Dr. Pearlman you’re a hundred times more likely to be a carrier if you’re of Eastern European Jewish descent. Christine might have been the rare exception of a non-Jew with the gene or she may have had a Jewish ancestor she didn’t know about.”

  “The Webbs? That family has interbred up there on Webb Road for the last two hundred years. It doesn’t seem all that likely.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and the other thing is that both parents have to have the gene for their child to contract the disease.”

  “So the father would most likely be Jewish. Is that why you don’t think it’s Gavin Penrose?”

  “Well, that and the fact that he has an alibi for the night Christine died. Of course he could be the father and not have killed Christine. Maybe she came to him and told him about the baby and he responded so harshly that Christine decided to kill herself. He wouldn’t have committed any crime, but I’d sure like to know if that’s what happened.”

  “So would I.”

  “But, it’s a pretty big stretch to imagine that both carriers would be individuals without any known Jewish background. Especially when there are possibilities who are Jewish …”

  “You mean Nathan Bell.”

  “Yes, there’s Nathan Bell. And at least one other. Your ex—Neil Buchwald.”

  THE COLUMNS OF THE CENTRAL COURTYARD HAVE BEEN WRAPPED WITH HUNDREDS of tiny white lights, and white gardenias are floating in the fountain. Four marble urns, one in each corner of the courtyard, are filled with lilies, white lilacs, and white roses. The drinks table has been set up in the dining hall near the glass doors leading to the terrace so I head there because I really need a drink. Detective Falco follows close on my heels.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he whispers in my ear as I try to decide between a White Russian, a white wine, or a White Mojito. Apparently Joan and Gavin have opted for a white theme to celebrate their impending nuptials. The dining room chairs have been slipcovered in white muslin (which to my mind makes them look as if they’d been straitjacketed) and the painting frames have all been festooned with white tulle—some of which has slipped over the frames onto the paintings themselves.

  “It probably has no bearing on this case,” he goes on in a low voice—but not low enough for me to ignore. “As you yourself said, the news itself might have pushed Christine to suicide. It might not matter who the father was.”

  “But you’re still going to find out, Detective Falco.”

  Falco shrugs. “Well, yeah, if I can.”

  “Will you tell me if you do?”

  “Okay, on two conditions. First you tell me when you get back your test results. And you start calling me Daniel.”

  “It’s a deal,” I say, clinking my White Mojito against his White Russian. “I guess it was pretty useless for you to come here.”

  “Oh, you never know what you might pick up at a thing like this. Why don’t we just relax and have fun.”

  Sure, I think, right after you tell me my ex-husband—who I saw today for the first time in over a decade—might have impregnated my best friend. I take a long sip of my drink. The conversation Neil described having with Christine couldn’t have happened more than five weeks ago. Why didn’t I ask him if that was the first time he saw her? Why had I been so anxious just to believe that he hadn’t seen her before that? Because I’d let myself hope that Neil was better enough that there might be a second chance for us. I didn’t want a little detail like the thought of him and Christine together ruining that. But if Neil was the father of Christine’s baby, I’d better find out, and Detective Falco—Daniel—might be my best source of information.

  “Okay, Daniel,” I say, finishing my drink and picking up another one from the bar, “although you’ve obviously never been to one of these college functions before if you think fun is what they’re about. Half the people here are worrying that they won’t get tenure, the other half are worried that their departmental budgets will be cut, or if they’re spouses they’re worried that their wives or husbands are cheating on them with their young and beautiful students.”

  “No dancing?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Maybe later on the terrace. Academics are a pretty reserved bunch.”

  “So what do people do at these things?”

  “They trade gossip and recent honors—book deals or journal publications, grants and fellowship awards.” I look around the room and notice Professor Da Silva standing in front of a painting of Virgil leading Dante into the underworld—a school of Lorraine work—and instantly regret my glib dismissal of academia. Many of these people are real scholars and—like Professor Da Silva—real friends. I realize that the line I’d just taken was Christine’s and even she had stopped complaining about academia when she’d gone back to grad school. “There are the paintings,” I say. “They’re worth seeing.”

  “Great. Tell me about these.” Falco gestures with his glass toward the closely hung paintings. “I don’t know much about art but these look dark and dreary enough to be worth a fortune.”

  “They do need cleaning, in fact—” I squint past the festoons of tulle and notice a few blank spots. Maybe that’s the real purpose of the tulle—to disguise the blank spots. “It looks like a few have been removed. I think it’s part of Gavin’s campaign to spruce up the college for its centennial along with the restoration of the Lady window. Not that these paintings are really all that valuable. Augustus and Eugenie collected them on their various trips back to Europe, but unfortunately, most of them turned out to be fakes. Take this one for instance of the Muses on Mount Parnassus. Penrose thought it was by Mantegna, but it’s really a nineteenth-century copy. And this one of the three graces—”

  “Now this looks familiar, wait, let me guess, I did take one art history survey class at John Jay … Botticelli?”

  “Very good—only it’s not. If Christine were here she would explain how you can tell it’s not a real Botticelli.”

  “So are they all fakes?”

  “Not all of them. Occasionally Penrose got lucky, or, as Christine believed, he followed Eugenie’s better judgment and picked out an authentic work. There’s a real Ingres here and a Rubens …” I start looking for the voluptuous flesh of some minor goddess by Rubens, but if she’s here she’s well hidden by the tulle.

  While I’m looking for the plump goddess I see instead the queenly Regula Howell through the French doors leading to the terrace. She’s exchanged her long Aztec coat for a full-length ivory chiffon off-the-shoulder gown with tulle wrap. She looks like an amazon warrior, her height accentuated because she’s standing next to tiny Joan Shelley, who’s wearing a wispy little white dress that looks like the costume Bea wore in her third grade ballet recital. I guess I missed the part of the invitation that said wear only white.

  “Maybe it’s one that’s been removed for cleaning. Why don’t we go look at Penrose’s paintings,” I suggest to Falco. “At least we know who painted those.” It’s also occurred to me that if we run into Regula she might say something that will reveal to Daniel Falco that I saw Neil today, something I neglected to mention when Neil’s name came up earlier.

  We walk through
the central courtyard and turn down the Forest Hall with its paintings of mythological characters turning into trees.

  “Daphne and Apollo, right?” Falco points at Penrose’s rendition of the myth. Unlike most versions I’ve seen—Bernini’s sculpture, for instance—instead of looking over her shoulder at her pursuer she’s looking at her own outstretched hand, which is beginning to sprout leaves. The look of horror on her face is haunting.

  I nod. “You’re pretty up on your mythology Detec—Daniel.”

  “I took Latin for six years at Our Lady of Perpetual Help and read some Ovid—that’s where most of these stories come from, right?”

  “Yes. His early subjects usually came from medieval folklore and Romantic poetry, but like J. W. Waterhouse and other second-generation Pre-Raphaelites he turned back to classical mythology. He especially liked stories about nymphs.”

  “If you ask me he was looking for an excuse to paint young naked girls.”

  “Well sure, but if you look closely some of these young girls aren’t so beautiful while they’re being turned into trees. I think Augustus Penrose was fascinated by metamorphosis—one thing turning into another. Maybe it was because he watched his sister-in-law go crazy.”

  We continue walking down the hall until we’re standing in front of the second painting in the Iole and Dryope series. Dryope’s just noticed a drop of blood on her fingertips and her expression is one of dawning horror.

  “Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess which myth this is.”

  I try to keep from smiling—I seriously doubt that Falco will know the story of Dryope and Iole—and move closer to study the painting myself. I know from Eugenie’s journal that the portrait of Dryope is really Eugenie and that Iole is Clare. While Falco rubs his chin, no doubt wracking his brain for the allusion—it’s really not fair, I think, Dryope is a pretty obscure myth—I study the two figures to see if I can tell the two sisters apart and decide which one is depicted in the Lady window. They look too much alike though. As in the photo Christine showed in her lecture the only difference is their hair. Iole’s flows freely down her back, while Dryope’s hair is drawn back tightly—as if snatched by the clawlike fingers of the branches and yanked and twisted into an uncomfortable-looking chignon of bark and twigs.