Strangled Prose Page 5
I realized I was below the Twiller house. The path snaked invitingly up the steep slope; I could see the top of the roofline. Mildred was there, sobbing into a lace handkerchief or reclining on a chaise lounge with a damp cloth over her eyes. How had she found out about Carlton’s little passenger? I considered confronting her to demand an explanation. Outraged indignation battled with an ingrained distaste of scenes. Indecision sent me forward and back, as if I were propelled by a piston in my back.
In the midst of all this inner turmoil, I heard Caron’s voice above my head. “Mother, what are you doing? Is that some kind of old-fashioned dance?”
She and Inez were hanging over the overpass, Punch and Judy with pimples. I took a second to compose a reasonable explanation, which was not as easy as it sounded, then yelled, “Taking a walk. What are you doing?”
The girls looked at each other. After a hushed conference, Caron giggled and said, “Taking a walk. I thought you were supposed to be having a reception at the Book Depot, Mother.”
Inez sighed grandly. “For Azalea Twilight, Mrs. Malloy.”
“I know where I am supposed to be,” I yelled. What a silly way to have a conversation, I thought. I pointed at the embankment. “Come down and walk back with me. I need some help putting the Book Depot back into its original state. If you’ll help, I’ll give each of you a paperback.”
They scrambled down the path to join me. Caron said, “Can we have Professor of Passion for our Twilight collections? Will Azalea autograph it in person?”
“Oh, yes,” Inez added with another sigh, clearly on the edge of a literary orgasm. “Her thirteenth book, you know. It must be divine…” More sighs. “I just adored the last one; it was so utterly sensitive. The hero had jade eyes and a mysterious scar on his cheek that he would not explain. His name was Jared.”
I gave them a nudge and we started for the store. “I was thinking of something more educational, such as Pride and Prejudice. You have no business reading things you don’t understand—either of you.”
“Mother, I happen to understand everything I read,” Caron huffed. “After I read Professor of Passion, would you like me to explain any of it to you?”
If we hadn’t been ten feet from the store, I might have marched her off to the nearest closet until the speculation faded to a dull murmur. I hadn’t considered her potential reaction earlier, when all my ranting was addressed to my personal affront.
Caron and Inez would zero in on Professor of Passion, whether they got it from me or from the bookstore in the mall. Caron is not a dolt; she would hardly fail to miss the bit about her father. “Martin Carlow” was not a devious anagram.
Waving Inez ahead, I caught my daughter’s arm. “I cannot stop now to talk to you, but I want you to promise me something. Before you read that book, we need to have a long talk. I can’t explain here. Will you promise me that?”
Caron toyed with the jutting lip, but finally pulled it in and nodded. A theatrical sigh punctuated the facial display. “I won’t read it until we talk,” she said, “but I can assure you that I will not be shocked by explicit sex. I know all that stuff already.”
She probably did, but she didn’t know that her departed father was on the way to a sleazy motel with an undergraduate student when he departed the world in a blizzard of chicken feathers. I wanted to gather her in my arms and make all the maternal noises, as if she were a toddler again, but I knew that the gesture would only offend her. I settled for a sober look and we caught up with Inez.
The Book Depot had nearly emptied in my absence. The hippie was sitting on the floor in front of the champagne fountain, humming tunelessly as he read Professor of Passion. I hauled him up and sent him out the door, the book clutched to his chest as if it were a Dune novel. His pockets bulged with canapés, but I overlooked his transgressions and wished him a lovely dinner.
The last few guests made polite farewells and left to read the book aloud over martinis. The Farberville telephone system would be taxed that evening, I suspected as I watched Mr. Pierre’s staff scurry about with crumpled cups and napkins. Damn Azalea Twilight, I muttered to myself. I showed the girls what to do, then hunted up Mr. Pierre himself to finalize the cleaning detail.
Mr. Pierre seemed a bit unraveled. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Twiller, Mrs. Malloy? We have not as yet”—discreet cough—“settled the account. I must pay my staff immediately.”
I resisted the urge to tweak his goatee, which looked as if it were made of horse hairs and attached with spirit gum. “Mrs. Twiller is at her home. I have no idea where you might find Mr. Twiller, and I don’t believe that I care. Give your staff the remaining crab bites so that they will survive long enough to get their checks in the morning.”
Mr. Pierre gave me a decidedly un-Gaulish glare. “Listen, lady, I have bills—just the same as everybody else. Crabmeat isn’t dogfood, and I’m not leaving until—”
“There you are!” Douglas boomed, coming down the aisle from the office. He took Mr. Pierre aside, and they haggled over a sheaf of bills until both were satisfied. I caught Caron and Inez eavesdropping and sent them to the office for a broom.
When the last silver-plated tray had been wrapped in tissue paper, Mr. Pierre and his minions disappeared toward the vans parked beside the store. Douglas came over to pat my shoulder. “I spoke to Mildred, Claire. She’s appalled that you thought she would ever cast aspersions on Carlton’s reputation. Carlton was one of her dearest friends, and she—”
“If I hear one more word about ‘dearest friends,’ I am going to forget my resolution to behave in a civilized fashion and rip your beard off your chin,” I swore in an undertone, smiling for Caron and Inez’s benefit. No spirit gum there.
“You may have a point,” Douglas acknowledged graciously, as if I were an unruly but promising freshman. “But I know Mildred would like to have the opportunity to explain, so will you please come by the house for a drink later this afternoon?”
“No.”
The professorial pose evaporated. Douglas glanced over his shoulder to see if the girls were occupied, and then said, “There is an explanation, Claire. I implore you to give Mildred a chance. She is totally distraught. I don’t know what she might do if you don’t listen to her.”
“All right,” I said, unable to resist the same old sympathy for Mildred that had instigated the whole disaster. “I’ll listen, but not over a martini. I don’t feel quite that civilized.”
“Claire, my darling, I’ve always known there was a heart of gold under that cold demeanor. We’ll see you about five.” Douglas hurried out the door before I could react to the cold-demeanor comment.
Caron and Inez had dragged all the paperback racks into place and were busy making their selections. I heard Inez pleading for Professor of Passion, but Caron came up with some firm comment that squelched the pleas. They did not, however, choose a children’s classic. Not a day for miracles, clearly.
I was extolling the virtues of Joseph Conrad when the telephone rang. As I went to the office, I wondered if it might be Britton. I was stunned to hear a vaguely familiar voice. Sheila Belinski, the FWO sergeant-at-arms, was no longer in contol of anybody, including herself.
“Oh, Mrs. Malloy! You’ve got to come here right away! The most dreadful thing has happened, and I didn’t know what to do, so I thought I ought to call you to see if you could—”
“Hold on, Sheila. I have no idea what you’re babbling about, but I’m not at all sure that I want to know.” I looked down at the copy of Azalea’s book lying on my desk. “Is it about Maggie?”
“Noooooo…” The sound evoked images of a coyote silhouetted on a distant mountain peak.
“Well, I don’t think I know you well enough to offer advice about your personal affairs,” I said tartly. I had enough of my own personal affairs to last for months.
“It’s about Mrs. Twiller…” she continued. A hesitation, followed by a low, rumbling moan.
“Are you in the book, too?”
That did get my attention. I gaped at the cover of the damned book, searching for a hint of explanation. Derek and Stephanie had none to offer. “Mrs. Twiller dead, Sheila? Are you sure? I think you’d better call an ambulance immediately, in case you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken. She’s dead, Mrs. Malloy! Her face is all blue and her eyes are open and bulgy. Her tongue is—oooooh, awful! I can’t tell you how awful it—” Sheila broke off in a string of arrhythmic hiccups that gradually faded to sobs.
Bewildered, I waited until I thought she could hear me. “I believe you, Sheila. You call an ambulance, anyway, and sit tight. I’ll be there in a minute or two.” My brain finally began to operate. “Are you alone? Where is Camille? Where is Mr. Twiller, for that matter? He left here a few minutes ago; he should be home by now.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Malloy. There’s just me and Mrs. Twiller. The little dog is going to bite me if I don’t close it up in a bedroom.” She stopped to wait out another string of hiccups. “Thanks, Mrs. Malloy. I don’t know what to do—nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ll wait for you.”
The receiver buzzed in my ear. I managed to hang it up, then sat down on my desk. Mildred Twiller wasn’t really dead, I tried to tell myself coolly; she was—she was just blue because of her migraine. That was why her eyes were bulgy and her tongue was—whatever it was. Okay, she was dead. That seemed unavoidable. A heart attack? A sudden stroke on the chaise?
Not the case, I decided reluctantly. Corpses did not display distasteful tongues, unless they had not enjoyed a peaceful demise. Carlton’s tongue had not been found, but it certainly wouldn’t have looked any better. In fact—
I stopped myself inches away from hysteria. Poor little Sheila was doing better than I, and she was babysitting for a dead body with a tongue. I yanked myself to my feet, took a very deep breath, and attempted to smile as I left the office, mentally testing various lies to see if the girls might buy any of them.
The girls were gone. I made it to the door, then stopped and went back to the office to do what had to be done. I picked up the receiver and dialed the emergency number of the police to report the death. The tongue had forced my hand.
Somehow I drove to the Twiller house. A police car pulled in behind me, and two uniformed officers came after me with grim expressions.
“Are you Claire Malloy?” one demanded. He looked as if he were about seventeen years old. Most of them did these days; they must be recruited out of kindergarten. He also looked as if he were anticipating some butterfly-brained lady to attack him with a parasol.
“I am Claire Malloy,” I replied with dignity.
“Then why don’t you tell us about the body inside the house, ma’am? My partner and I are curious.” He was oozingly patronizing, and displayed a noticeable dose of amused incredulity.
“I know nothing about it.”
“Then why did you call in the report?” he countered with a gotcha smirk.
The ambulance saved me from a metaphysical discussion of civic responsibility. The ambulance attendants, lugging a gurney and a first-aid box, shoved us aside to hurry up the walk. I shot the policeman a superior look and followed them.
Everybody pushed through the front door and stomped around the foyer in a bovine ballet. I had no idea where to find Mildred’s body; I shrugged in response to the terse questions coming from all four sides of me. My credibility hovered at zero when Sheila stepped into the doorway from the living room.
“The patio,” she breathed. She took another step forward, clasped her inconsequential bosom, and crumpled onto the floor at my feet.
I tapped the policeman on the arm and pointed down. “Ask her about the body,” I suggested as I trailed the ambulance attendants to the patio. A figure lay on one of the metal chairs, a full-size rag doll with floppy limbs and a rubbery neck.
Sheila was right. Mildred was dead, and her facial features were no less gruesome than promised. I took a quick look, clamped my eyes closed, and blundered back into the living room to sit down on the sofa. I was not yet ready to open my eyes when the policeman cleared his throat.
“Would you like a glass of water, ma’am?”
“No, thank you. Is Sheila—the young woman in the foyer—all right? I have a lot more sympathy than I did a few minutes ago,” I said, guilty about my earlier conduct. If I had been in Sheila’s situation, I’d be on the floor until December.
“My partner is seeing to her, ma’am. But I’m going to need a lot of information about what’s happened. Perhaps you could tell me who the woman was or whom we need to notify?” He was trained to be polite in such situations, but I sensed we would never be friends.
I told him Mildred’s name. I explained that Douglas had left me a few minutes earlier and had presumably been on his way home. The policeman wrote it all down, then excused himself to call in his report from his patrol car.
I stayed on the sofa and tried to assimilate the scene on the patio. Mildred’s body sprawled on the very chair I had sat in when we had lunch. She would never again nibble a croissant or bury her face in Twilliam’s fuzz. Poor Mildred Twiller had muddled through life with the fury of a petunia. But she had been a friend—and now she was dead. I almost felt bad enough to recant all the nasty thoughts I’d been harboring for the last two hours.
Poor Douglas, I thought, would be stricken. He loved his wife in his own way; not with the conventional gesture of fidelity, perhaps, but I had seen the emotions on his face when he talked about her. Where was he?
The ambulance attendants wandered into the living room, their hands in their pockets. One of them glanced around for an ashtray, then sighed and went to lean against the wall. The other stared at me, possibly hoping for another victim to pass the time.
“Why aren’t you doing something?” I demanded.
“Can’t move the body until the CID and the coroner get here. Scene of the crime and all that. There isn’t anything we can do to help her now. She’s deader than a roast turkey on Thanksgiving.”
The second one picked up a porcelain candy dish to read the underside. “Is this an ashtray?”
I explained that it wasn’t but advised him to use it anyway. Mildred certainly wouldn’t care. We sat in silence until the policeman came back to the room.
“You’ll have to wait here until the CID arrives, Mrs. Malloy. They’ll want to talk to you and to the young lady,” he announced. His expression implied that I was getting that which I richly deserved. Arrested, sentenced, imprisoned, and ultimately hanged; I could read the rosy scenario in his eyes.
The ambulance attendants went outside to wait. The policeman and I gauged each other for a lengthy minute. I was seeing a pompous, authoritative teenager; he was seeing, no doubt, a cold-blooded killer. I escaped to the kitchen to get a drink of water. When I returned, I suspected that my actions had been noted in his spiral notebook: Killer obsessively thirsty after crime.
It took the homicide squad more than ten minutes to arrive. Social relations had not improved when two plainclothesmen at last came into the foyer. My blue friend joined them, and after a muted discussion, they all came into the living room to look at me.
I looked right back. The first one had curly black hair, a beakish nose, and guileless brown eyes. He wore a well-cut three-piece suit and a discreet tie, as though he had dashed away from his executive suite to tidy up the situation. He lacked a briefcase, but the image was otherwise perfect. My idea of a Farberville cop included a polyester jacket, an undulating midriff, and a perpetual sneer; this contradiction rather surprised me.
The second man was paler, with a blond crewcut and a bulldog jaw. He was younger, with the eagerness of a high-school hurdler. He waited for the other man to speak. Which he did, once he had finished studying me.
“You’re Mrs. Claire Malloy? I’m Lieutenant Peter Rosen of the Farberville CID. We seem to
have a problem here, if the reports are accurate. A body.” A New York accent, but a pleasant one.
“So it seems, Lieutenant,” I said.
He gave me a polite nod and went out the french doors to the patio. Minutes later, a man with a medical bag went through the living room to join them. Uniformed men passed back and forth like windup toy soldiers, their faces professionally masked. No one noticed me for another half-hour. I strained to hear the mumbles from the patio but could make out only a few names—including mine, Mildred’s, and Sheila’s.
In the interim, Sheila staggered into the living room and flopped across a chair. Her face was white; her long, dark hair fell across her eyes like stray crayon marks. She gave me a numb glance, then sank into the upholstery to study the chintz rosebuds.
“Sheila?” I whispered, not wanting to set off a second display of hysteria. “Are you feeling better? Can I get something for you?”
Shuddering, she shook her head and burrowed deeper. I considered the wisdom of persevering with another question or two, but the reappearance of the lieutenant settled the issue.
“You’re the one who called the emergency number of the department?” he asked me.
“Yes, I did. From what I could gather, Mildred had died rather abruptly, and I suppose I’ve read too many mysteries.” I tried to laugh. “I didn’t call Scotland Yard, though. Too expensive.”
“There are indeed a few points to be cleared up, Mrs. Malloy. The attendants are going to bring the body through this room in a minute, so I thought we might all step into the den.” He waited until Sheila and I stumbled to our feet, and then escorted us to the cozy, paneled room on the opposite side of the foyer.
“Now, let me see,” he murmured as he closed the door and turned to smile at Sheila. “I spoke earlier with Mrs. Malloy, but I don’t believe you were able to come downstairs at that time. You’re … ah, Miss Belinski?”