She wrote the name on a memo slip and handed it to Christa, who glanced at it and then tucked it in her jacket pocket with so little interest that Sigrid’s earlier feeling returned that something more lay behind the psychiatrist's visit than helping with Emmy Mion’s murder or recreating the scene of a patient’s trauma.
“I guess I’m taking this case too much to heart, Sigrid, but we see so much hopelessness and this one looks like it'll have a happy ending.”
“Oh?” Curiosity about where the hook would come made Sigrid more patient than usual.
“Both the kids are cute as Mickey Mouse buttons and there's a couple that wants to adopt them just as soon as Corrie-that’s the younger one that Fm working with. She’s blocked out that whole evening but Fm beginning to get glimmers of light. Nothing big yet, but little glimmers of light at the ’way far end of the tunnel. So it’s really going to be a marvelous success story for the agency.”
She paused and looked at Sigrid expectantly.
“That’s good,” Sigrid murmured inanely. She felt she was being nudged toward some goal, but what?
Christa Ferrell’s winsome smile did not falter. “There are so many gloomy
failures
in the services the city provides, so when I heard your mother was doing an in-depth story about the different agencies for
New York Today
, and there was your name on the investigation of Darlene Makaroff’s murder, the coincidence was too much to overlook.”
So that was it, thought Sigrid, leaning back in her chair and tenting her fingers before her.
Anne Harald’s career as a freelance photojournalist had taken her all over the world, where she recorded award-winning images of the human side of war, famine, calamity, and mass upheavals. She had been out of the country on various assignments for most of the year, but was back now with the avowed intention of staying right in New York at least through Christmas.
Sigrid thought she remembered talk about a projected series in which Anne would use actual case histories to illustrate selected entitling laws. “Someone else will write up all the statistics,” Anne had said. “All I have to do is prowl around and take the right pictures.”
Pictures that would be seen by a wide audience, thought Sigrid. The series would carry a load of built-in grimness, so yes, a segment that illustrated how two little girls were successfully helped would offer welcome relief, especially if they were photogenic (“cute as Mickey Mouse buttons”). With an equally photogenic psychiatrist?
“It would be so good for the agency, too,” said Ferrell, with a guileless tilt of her blonde head.
And suddenly Sigrid had a vivid memory of flaxen hair swinging away from a small, childishly pretty face in just the same gesture. She couldn’t remember what it was that little Chrissie Ferrell was trying to persuade their hall to do “for the good of St. Margaret's but she did remember that it was something that would put the younger girl squarely in the school’s spotlight.
“You'd have to speak to her about that yourself," said Sigrid.
“I’ve
tried.
No one seems to know her phone number.”
Sigrid had heard similar complaints about Anne Harald ever since she could remember. “Mother moves a lot," she said dryly and leaned forward to flip through the roto-file on her desk for her mother's newest telephone number. “She's out of town for the weekend, but you might batch her later tonight.” Using a slim gold pen, Dr. Ferrell made a careful note in a small leather-bound notebook, then gathered up her purse and coat.
“It's been absolutely marvelous seeing you again, Sigrid. You'll let me know if the Thorpe man's arrested, won’t you? And we really must have lunch sometime and talk about good old St. Margaret's.”
Sigrid managed to keep a perfectly straight face. “Oh absolutely,” she murmured.
Chapter 13
Ever since their first meeting back in April, when they'd mistaken one another for burglars, Roman Tramegra had badgered Sigrid for insider information about various homicide cases. Now that he was legitimately in the middle of such a case, he found the reality more daunting than he'd expected.
A lifelong enthusiast for spontaneous undertakings, Roman had loved the dance company’s Hey-let's-stage-a- show-in-the-bam vigor. From Emmy Mion's optimistic can-do management to Nate Richmond’s make-do wizardry; the whole troupe enchanted him-even when badgered from both sides by the Delgado’s’ simmering sexualities or made the butt of Ginger Judson’s occasionally vicious mimicry. His imagination was unleashed by their youthful energy and dynamic tension, and nothing he could write for them was too outrageous. The more outrageous, the better, in fact. When they included him in their careless rough- and tumble, Roman felt that he was accepted, part of the whole and, best of all, this particular whole was, however humbly,
show business
-splashy, glittering, larger than life.
Murder stripped away the glitter.
Emmy Mion’s death had shaken him. That such a lively lithe sprite should have ended so brutally impaled upon those iron spikes was dreadful past remembering; nevertheless, the real horror, only now sinking in this Sunday morning, was his gruesome realization that her killer wasn’t some formless unknown monster but a familiar face, someone he’d shared his tea with, had laughed with, had applauded in delight upon seeing one of his visual bon mots interpreted so precisely.
Yet no shock could completely blunt Roman’s insatiable curiosity, his magpie need to know. Had he not, he asked himself, practically
begged
dear Sigrid for this opportunity to test his sleuthing powers? Could he now go home and face her cool-eyed gaze and tell her he had no stomach for murder after all?
Never!
He rallied himself and tried to keep his face immobile as he glanced around the green room with what he hoped was artless casualness… Most of its occupants were immersed in the Sunday
Times.
A short account of Emmy’s death in the front section dwelled on the bizarre Halloween aspects of the case and quoted a “Lieutenant Sigmund Harald” as expecting an early arrest.
›
A one-paragraph, mostly favorable review of last night’s performance was buried in a back section; and although its overall tone was one of condescension, Roman particularly savored the paragraph’s opening lines: “Eerie percussives and an inventive scenario framed a young improv group’s offering last night.”
An inventive scenarist should be able to spot an amateur killer, he told himself.
Wingate West had stopped by one of the Korean greengrocers in the neighborhood and bought a bag of fruit, which he’d dumped into a large wooden bowl on the table. Cliff Delgado was tearing the peel from a tangerine in small leathery flakes-for once silent on the parallels to stripping a woman-and the pungent oils from the peel drifted across the table and made Roman’s nose itch. He scratched it absently and watched Ginger Judson as she tossed grapes one by one into the air and caught them in her mouth without missing any. Young West had cut a hole in the top of his orange and alternately squeezed and sucked the juice as he read the paper.
No mark of Cain upon any brow, Roman thought gloomily. Of course, neither Eric Kee nor David Orland had yet arrived.
Even as that thought formed in his mind, Orland appeared in an aromatic cloud of mothballs, another
Times
under his arm and a pleased expression on his bruised face. “Good news! Friend of mine works at the
Voice.
Says Bledsoe gives us a rave and the paper’s going to use most of his copy.”
Frederick Bledsoe was another freelance dance critic who’d been in last night’s audience. Unfortunately, the
Voice
wouldn’t be out in time to do today’s performance of
Ghosties and Ghouls
much good. “Next weekend,” was the sudden unspoken hope, and even Roman felt himself perking up at the vision of a healthy box office.
They would need it. Several parents had telephoned that morning to cancel their offspring's dancing classes. Rikki Innes and Helen Delgado were even now down in the comer office, taking calls, soothing anxious mothers, trying to keep the company afloat.
Some parents were less anxious than others though, or at least less vigilant, as Roman discovered when he wandered out to the hall carrying a large tray for protective coloration. He planned to begin sleuthing in the women’s dressing room since the women were otherwise occupied. Instead, he found the three Pennewelf children lined up like stair steps by the water cooler.
“We weren’t doing nothing!” said Adam, the eight- year-old, his instinctive reaction to Roman’s disapproving frown.
“Billy wants to see Nate,” said Mary, his younger sister.
As usual, Billy the youngest, said nothing. Five-year- old Billy was something of a legend in his own time. Except for Nate, no one else in the troupe had ever heard him speak. Silent and well-mannered inside the theater, he communicated in whispers only to seven-year-old Mary, who relayed everything with “Billy says” or “Billy wants.” According to their grandfather, who owned the hardware store next door, Billy had a will of iron and a temper to match. It was Billy who hung around underfoot, completely fascinated, when the troupe had taken over the empty theater. It was Billy who wanted to learn how to dance. And it was Billy who bullied his older siblings into coming along as interpreters once classes began.
“Billy says Nate has pictures for us,” said Mary.
“Then by all means let us seek out Nate,” Roman said, herding the children before him down the dim hall to the next door, which had a huge light bulb painted upon it.
Roman knocked loudly, then pushed it open. “Company for you, Richmond.”
Part workshop, part sorcerer’s laboratory, the large boxy room was more cluttered than any child’s playroom. Along the left wall, Nate Richmond had built a narrow darkroom from wooden two-by-fours covered in heavy black canvas, which in turn was covered with dozens of photographs of the troupe and most of the children who’d attended classes there. Inside his makeshift cave, he’d tapped into the water pipes which served the bathroom on the other side of the wall. His plumbing probably wouldn’t pass a city inspector-some of the joints looked as if they were sealed with chewing gum rather than solder, and holes in the wall had been patched with wide electrical duct tape-but everything seemed to work properly and nothing leaked.
Double-tiered workbenches lined the other three walls. The one nearest the darkroom was devoted to photographic equipment and supplies, the other two were jumbled with cannibalized spotlights, Fresnels, electrical flex, switches, gels, and a hundred other arcane bits and pieces which meant nothing to Roman's untechnical eyes.
The only cleared space in the whole room was at the very center and, although Roman had thought that she was safely occupied in the office, Rikki Innes was seated on a cushion there at a low round table with her long legs tucked beneath her, her pale hair loose around that oval face. Her welcoming smile for Roman turned to dismay when she saw the three children behind him.
Nearby sat Nate Richmond, who'd been minutely examining a proof sheet with the aid of a very large magnifying glass. He held it up to his face and regarded the children solemnly through one wildly magnified green eye. “Hello, Pennewelfs. I was just looking at you. Come and see.”
The three raced across the cluttered room. Billy confidently climbed into the slender man’s lap while Mary and Adam Pennewelf leaned upon each shoulder.
Roman followed and looked over their bent heads at the proof sheets spread upon the table. The man was truly an artist with his camera, he thought. Especially with pictures of children. It was almost as if Nate became a child himself, playing behind a toy camera, for they were seldom self-conscious with him and he captured their level-eyed gravity and their delicious gurgles of laughter with equal truthfulness.
As Roman picked his way back to the door, past scraps of spotlights and electrical odds and ends, he heard Mary say, “Billy wants you to tell him about the alligator again.”
“Alligator?” Beneath the thick curly brown hair, Nate Richmond’s puckish face wore a puzzled look. “Did I ever mention any alligator?”
“He poked his snout up your bathtub,” said Adam. “You told us.”
“And tried to bite your toes,” Mary testified, her little face close to his.
“Oh,
that
alligator.” Nate nodded solemnly. Rikki Innes looked resigned as Nate settled Billy more comfortably on one knee and made a place for Mary on the other. “Well, you see, what happened with that alligator is-” Unnoticed by all except Rikki, Roman closed the door.
The green room was near the center of the wide backstage hall. Nate's workroom was to the immediate left, then the bathroom, then the comer business office. Just beyond its door rose the wooden staircase. Roman heard the telephone ring and Helen Delgado's answering murmur floated through the open doorway.
On the theory that stealth is more conspicuous than brazenness, he passed with a cheery wave to the designer, but her glossy black head was turned away and he mounted the stairs without being seen.
Both railings at each side of the theater were used as catchalls for anything people didn't want to be bothered with taking upstairs immediately and Roman gathered up a sweatshirt and a red kimono that Emmy had used as a dressing gown. Beneath was a pair of purple leg warmers he remembered hearing Ginger inquiring about. And here was his own dishtowel which he'd brought from home because he disliked paper towels.
He draped the clothes on one shoulder, his towel on the other, and continued up.
Inside the big square dressing room at the top of the stairs, a lumpy daybed and two ancient overstuffed chairs were clumped together on the right wall around a scarred coffee table. Snapping on the lights, Roman was startled by the unexpected sight of someone asleep on the daybed.
“Oh, I say! I'm most frightfully sorry,” he began, feeling himself a miserable snoop caught in the act. He started to back out of the room, then abruptly realized the figure was one of those life-size puppets. Unnerving how guilt could make the prone figure look human, he thought, stepping forward to pull it into an upright sitting position. Its ghastly mask grinned at the two jack-o'-lantern heads which were piled on the adjoining chair as if engaged in macabre pleasantries over the dirty cups and glasses standing on the coffee table.
Jutting out from the wall opposite the door were four long pipe clothing racks which held an assortment of costumes and regular clothes on wire hangers.
Mirrored panels lined the entire near left wall. They were topped by strip lighting that blazed into brightness when Roman Sipped a second wall switch. Beneath was a single counter which must have originally been planned for six people since there were six shallow drawers beneath the counter. Now it seemed to be divided by three chairs spaced haphazardly along its length.
Roman had been coming to the theater for two and a half months, but he’d never had occasion to enter the women's dressing room when it was occupied and he wasn’t at all sure which of the three spaces belonged to Emmy Mion. Each seemed to hold a similar clutter of makeup, cold cream, greasepaint, brushes, combs, and assorted boxes and jars.
He set his tray on the end of the counter next to a pair of electrician’s pliers, brought over the dirty glassware from the coffee table, then opened the end drawer.
It held a crumpled wad of rubberized athletic bandages, several half-used tubes of liniment, a second pair of pliers from Nate’s workbench, a tack hammer from Helen’s, and, not too unexpectedly, a wire balloon whisk from the kitchen area. The dancers were always walking away from the utensil drawer with it because its shape made it an instant microphone, holy water sprinkler, or phallus, depending on whether they were improvising rock star, priest, or buffoon.
They took tools just as carelessly, thought Roman, fishing them out of the drawer to return to their proper places downstairs. Only this morning Helen had complained about a missing paint mask and accused Cliff of using it in another of his bawdy skits.
Remembering how Emmy always “borrowed” Nate’s pliers to finish off the last few pistachio nuts which were too difficult to crack with her sharp little teeth, he added the tools to his tray, then opened the second drawer. It was even more crammed than the first. Along with an elastic underbelt and a couple of products connected to what he privately thought of as “feminine hygiene,” he saw lingerie, two mismatched woolly leg warmers, and a bright turquoise scarf which resembled one he’d seen tied around Ginger Judson' s red hair, although they borrowed each other s clothes as casually as they borrowed tools. Nate was grumbling about a jacket and Ginger had recently turned the theater upside down looking for a crocheted shawl till Rikki remembered that she’d worn it home from a party.