“And those young people, they really went in far enough to be certain no one was there?”
Constance made a slight noise, then said. “You couldn’t have missed seeing her. Even if they had stayed in the foyer, Johnny had to pass within two feet of where her body was.”
“They all say they went through the hallway to the living room doorway,” the sheriff said with finality. “They would have seen her. When Buell went back to check the other units, it took five minutes probably. They agree on that. Pierce had joined them by then and confirms that Johnny was gone just about long enough to glance into the rooms, but not a minute longer.”
Charlie’s gloom deepened as he considered this. It could be a conspiracy, he thought, and mocked himself for the thought. Pierce, the son and daughters of public figures, Johnny Buell, all in a conspiracy to hide the fact that Victoria and her killer had to have entered those grounds, that building, that particular room at the same time that they were all coming and going without seeing a thing.
Slowly he said, “Suppose Johnny goes to the dining room and sees Victoria Leeds hiding, or even just there. He says, stay put and I’ll be right back. He gets rid of the other young people, returns with the rope and kills her.”
Sheriff Gruenwald waited him out patiently. “How did she get in? Where did the rope come from? Was he expecting her? What would his motive have been? Why was she hiding? Why didn’t she just say
hi
to the gang?” He looked apologetically at Constance and added, “Besides, it wasn’t really a clean kill. She was trying to crawl away apparently, grabbing at the tarps; the killer held her with his knee in her back, used some weight to hold her, bruised her pretty bad, and it took a few minutes. I’m not saying your scenario is totally impossible, only that I don’t believe a word of it. I doubt that anyone who isn’t a real psycho could have killed her and then appeared normal immediately. Psycho, hired hit man, there’s some that could, but we don’t have them around here, far’s I know. Just don’t believe it.”
Nor did he, Charlie had to admit to himself. “That still leaves the time that Buell took his friends up to Six A and left the gate open. She and her killer could have got in then. At least that gets them inside, instead of lurking behind a tree somewhere.”
Gruenwald nodded. “That might be the only scenario that will work, and it brings in an outsider.” He looked very unhappy about it. “Belmont doesn’t like outsiders wandering into locked buildings with so many people milling about. Can’t say I blame him.” He took a deep breath, shook his head, and went on. “We’re checking the guests who drove past the condo that evening. It will take time. That’s a long guest list. But maybe someone saw something.” He did not sound hopeful. “Well, I better be on my way.”
Charlie motioned the bartender over, signed the tab and showed their room key, and, when the bartender left again, Gruenwald stood up. “I’ve got to get home and get some sleep.” He glanced at Constance, then at Charlie. “You know that I’m off the case officially? I mean, anything I do now is just because I’m interested. A responsible citizen, that’s me.”
Constance nodded and Charlie walked part way out with him. She watched the two men go through the ritual of shaking hands; she listened to the words,
keep in touch, take care, I’ll let you know
, but she was brooding over the many men who felt the great urge, the need even, to help and protect Tootles. Charlie returned.
“You want anything else?”
She shook her head.
Slowly, hand in hand they left the lounge and walked through the lobby to the elevator to ride up to the seventh floor where they had a minisuite. They had spent some time in the room earlier; she had remade the bed more or less, and she had unpacked for both of them while Charlie showered. Now he moved back and forth from bedroom to bathroom, yawning widely often. But she was not at all sleepy yet; she picked up Paul Volte’s book. There were a few things she wanted to reread before going to bed.
It was hard to remember, she thought much later, that a writer like Paul Volte was a true artist, as much as any poet, or playwright, or novelist. His craft was as demanding, and his knowledge of people possibly even more so; he could not make it up, only report and interpret what was. His prose was lucid and beautifully rhythmic, very precise. A true artist, she repeated to herself, deserving of the various awards he had gathered over the years. Coming from a background of art history, art appreciation, criticism, he had developed a superb talent for spotting what was wrong with a piece of art, or, more important, possibly, what was right about it. His word was the word of God in that world, enough to make or break, to send the artist to the heights, or bring him or her down to the gutter. Yet, talking to him, observing him, thin, hungry-looking, abstracted, it was hard to discern any self-awareness in him of the power he wielded. Until you looked closer, she added, remembering the small glint of satisfaction he had revealed when she asked about Toni’s talent.
Was Tootles as unconcerned about his opinion as she appeared? What had the students thought of him? Filled with fear and awe? Toni had shown both, and then, curiously, had dropped both attitudes to show something else, a demanding persistence about something that overrode her earlier fear of him. And Johnny Buell? Had he really thought Paul would write about the condos? What a coup for him that would have been. Worth conniving to get Paul to appear and take the tour. There was little doubt that a good word in Paul’s column, or a paragraph in his next book would send Johnny’s stock off the chart. The people Paul had chosen to write about were all doing extremely well, she had read. The kiss of an angel, his words had been called.
But the wild current that ran all through his book was the common acceptance of possession that surfaced again and again in artist after artist. The artist as one possessed, helplessly yielding to the power possessing him or her, or giving up art, that was the subtext that had turned the book into a best-seller, she was certain. That mysterious power to possess, to demand, to exact a terrible price for success, that was what people had wanted to read about; that was what people wanted to believe, did believe, and he had handled it with such conviction, such delicacy and even humor that to the believers, it must be like an
ex cathedra
pronouncement from the Pope himself, while to the nonbelievers, it was just another one of those superstitions that artists professed to believe in, no more powerful than the old wives’ admonitions: no hat on the bed, salt over the shoulder, no open umbrella in the house… all very
in
right
now
, very much New Age. But she heard her own voice arguing: Just because something had become acceptable that had been scorned by so many for so long, didn’t mean it couldn’t be true. Popularity didn’t automatically make it false.
She yawned and stood up then, stretched, and got ready for bed, disturbed by something she could not quite define about Paul and his book. She got into bed beside Charlie, and he turned in his sleep, his hand seeking her the way it did if he was asleep or awake. She settled in close to him, their bodies touching here and there, their breath mingling, and she began the long slide into sleep.
He believed it, she felt almost certain, Paul believed all that he had written; of course, a good writer must believe, but when had he started to believe it? Before or after writing the book? Could he have written that particular book without first knowing what he had to ask, what he was looking for? She could not think now why the question was important, why this entire line of thought was important. The slide was moving her faster and faster downward, her thoughts becoming more and more jumbled, surreal even. She imagined, then saw, Paul Volte digging a hole that looked very much like a grave. A line of people stretched out of sight over the horizon, each person carrying something—a basket with a kitten, a St. Bernard dog, a tin of muffins, an old woman in a pail, a case of leather-bound books… When they reached the hole that Paul was digging furiously they tossed in whatever the burden was, and then trudged away with bowed heads, downcast eyes. The line did not diminish.
ELEVEN
“All right,” Charlie said,
after finishing his second cup of coffee the next morning. Breakfast had been decent—not good, not bad—decent, and filling. He did not expect much more than that from motel restaurants; decent was a plus, in fact.
“So, all right,” Constance said, watching him. She liked Charlie in the morning. He always woke up so chipper, ready for anything, eager. Youthful, she thought with surprise. Charlie in the morning was very much like the youthful Charlie she had married; as the hours passed, he grew up and matured all over again, day after day. She knew he had seen too much, had been through too much with a big city fire department, then the arson squad, then as a city detective in homicide. Just too bloody much. You can take the boy out of the city, she went on, but you can’t take away the synapse tracks, the traces, the imprinting, the knowledge, the memories of what he had done, and what he had not done, what others had done…
“What I’d like,” Charlie said, gazing past her innocently, “is to tackle Tootles, but she would close like a clam if I attempted it, so that’s your department. I’ll put in some time at the condo, and inspect that fence and do other pretty important things like that.”
“Charlie,” she asked in wonder, “how can you take on a job to save the life of a woman you can’t even bear to spend five minutes with?”
“But I thought I explained,” he said, and began to search for the bill.
“You already signed, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Anyway, it’s not Tootles so much as Babar. My God, she’s worse than ever.”
They walked from the restaurant. “I thought she’d be gone by now,” Constance said, heading for the Volvo. “Oh, dear, we have to do something about that rental car today.”
“Babar won’t leave until the excitement is over,” Charlie said, “and God knows how long it’s going to take to reach that point. Poor old Larry will just have to rough it alone. I hope he’s eating all right with her gone.”
Constance frowned at him. “All right, darling,” she said coldly. “I’ll talk to Tootles. You’ve made the point, don’t try to stretch it too far.”
He looked at her with renewed innocence.
“Tootles, this is ridiculous, and you know it!” Constance was saying a bit later. They were in the office in the main house; sounds of hammering, pounding, banging echoed from within the nearby studio.
“I don’t have an idea in the world what you’re talking about,” Tootles said, but with an absent look, as if she were paying little attention to her own or Constance’s words.
“For heaven’s sake, what are they doing in there?” Constance asked then, as the hammering noise increased.
“Roger, one of the boys who stays here, is making a birdhouse, a memorial. His way of reaffirming life, I guess.”
Constance bit back a retort, and drew in a deep breath. “Let’s go someplace quieter. I have to ask you some questions, and you have to answer them. Do you grasp the danger you’re in?”
“Don’t be silly,” Tootles said with a quick laugh. “But it’s quieter in the other side of the house. Let’s go to the music room.”
It would be the music room for her, Constance realized; Tootles played the piano with gusto and not a trace of talent. Today she was wearing faded blue jeans, and a handsome silk-screened T-shirt with a panorama of butterflies and flowers front and back. Dressed up for the reporters, she had said grimly; they had been snooping all morning, and they would be back. Tomorrow she would wear her T-shirt with dragons.
Constance followed her to the living room, on through to the adjacent room where Ba Ba was watching television with headphones on. Constance glowered at Tootles, who, she was certain, had known they would find Ba Ba in here. She took Tootles by the arm and turned her, marched her out of the room again. “Out to the porch,” she said with grim determination.
The front porch had a pair of wooden benches and several bentwood chairs. Constance did not release Tootles until they reached the furniture, where she almost shoved the other woman into a chair and then dragged a second one closer.
“Now, you just listen to me,” she said crisply, her anger as evident in the coldness of her voice as in the stiffness of her posture. She made no effort to conceal it; she wanted Tootles to see how furious she was. “You’re the only one from this house who could have found time to get over to the condo and kill Victoria Leeds. That’s for openers. Someone, possibly Victoria Leeds, made a mess of your art, providing you a very fine motive for getting even. How much more does it take to convince you that this is serious trouble?”
“But what makes you think I doubt it’s serious? I didn’t do anything, that’s all there is to that. And what good would it do for me to scream and cry and wring my hands and come on like some poor damn bedeviled ingenue? I don’t even know the fucking words! I sure as hell couldn’t improvise that role with any conviction.”
“Why did you ask me to come here? What’s the crisis you claimed threatened you? Why that note on my invitation?”
“Constance! What a dumb-ass question! To share my success, to celebrate with us. To have someone from home witness this crowning achievement. All the above. Emergency? Of course, my very first touring show! Ruined. Maybe I had a premonition. Maybe it rubbed off from Ba Ba.”
“Stop it. Tootles! I mean it, stop or I’ll just walk out and take Charlie with me!”
Tootles shrugged eloquently. “I threw myself on his mercy, and he agreed to help. I think he’s more a gentleman than you give him credit for.”
Now Constance laughed, without guile, a pure laugh of real amusement. “Do you really think he’d stay if I said I wanted to leave?”
For a long time Tootles examined her with narrowed eyes, the way she might have looked at a piece of work one of her students had presented for judgment. She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “I asked you because I was afraid the weekend would be too much for me. I wanted to lash out and hit Johnny for topping my party with his own viewing of the condo, even trying to get a write-up about it, and then assuming I would play hostess for him without so much as ‘if you please. Ma’am.’ He ordered flowers in my name and told me I was supposed to pour the coffee for the financiers! He suggested I might even wear a nice dress, or at least a nice pantsuit! And have my hair done. The little shit! As if I give a goddam about the fucking condos or his long-range goals! My instinct was to wear the crummiest sweats I have, and show up barefoot! And I couldn’t. I didn’t know what it would do to Max if I lashed out at Johnny. Or poured scalding coffee down the crotches of a bunch of fat bankers. Johnny wants the company to become another Bechtel, you know. He has plans, five-year plans, ten-year plans. Christ, he has plans for the next century! All this mess probably set his plans back five years. I hope to hell it does.”
And she was lying in her teeth, Constance thought distantly. Everything she said could be true, it sounded plausible if a bit weak, and it didn’t really sound like a lie, but it had nothing to do with why Tootles had begged her to come. This was how Tootles had been as a child, a teenager: once she started on a plausible story she could keep spinning it out interminably, until her questioners forgot the original question and simply gave up in fatigue. Constance had watched this kind of performance many times. The beauty of Tootles’s stories was that they were always based on a foundation of truth that appeared strong enough to support whatever she constructed on it. No doubt she really had resented Johnny’s topping her party with his own. No doubt she had hated being dragged in in any capacity. Tootles playing hostess to businessmen who were not
her
business men was a ludicrous idea.
Constance finally put her hand on Tootles’s arm to stop her.
“Do you have the computer card key for Six A?”
Tootles had to blink several times to return to the real world.
“Sure. It’s going to be our new home.”
“Where is it?”
Tootles shrugged and looked blank. “I don’t know. Usually it’s in my purse. In my wallet. It’s sort of flimsy, like a cheapo credit card. They’re made that way because, according to Johnny, they’re supposed to be changed every month or so. You know how that works? They key in an order for a random number or something and that’s your lock number and the printer issues a card that gets laminated and if you lose it, presto changeo, a new random number.”
“You weren’t carrying a purse or a wallet Friday night when you returned,” Constance said, interrupting her. “Were you?”
Tootles shook her head, then suddenly brightened and sat up straighter. “That’s right! I knew you could do it, you and that gorgeous man of yours. I just knew it! Maybe this is why I asked you, and I just couldn’t explain it ahead of time. Ba Ba’s right, after all! We’re in touch with more than we can explain, more than we know. Constance, that’s so smart!”
Constance watched her silently. A datum, she thought; that was all that was, another datum, not a reprieve.
“Tootles, knock it off,” she said after another moment. “Why does Paul Volte accept any responsibility for Victoria’s death? Does he believe that superstition? That each success must be paid for?”
Tootles became very quiet, as if she had fallen into a deep sleep with her eyes open. She seemed not to breathe, even.
“It’s all through his book,” Constance said impatiently. “He can’t deny the book. But how strongly does he believe in what he wrote? Does Toni believe it? Do you?”
With a jerky motion Tootles jumped up and went to the porch rail and stood holding it with both hands. Constance followed her to lean against the rail at her side. “Tell me about it,” she said in a low voice. She glanced at Tootles, then turned her gaze away, toward the trees, the sky, anywhere but the woman holding the porch together, possibly holding her own world together with white-knuckled fingers.
“You remember how it was in the sixties?” Tootles said in a rush. “How poor we all were? At the beginning, how poor we were. But did you know that a few of my things had already been well received, well reviewed? It wasn’t much, no money involved, there seldom is in art. At least, I never expected money from it. That didn’t matter, I was on my way.” Her voice had dropped lower and lower, and had become hoarse, almost a whisper. “I had the gift,” she said. “Ba Ba knows; she was there when it happened. I had it, and I was on my way. I didn’t know what the price would be. Ed and I got married and came down here. Remember? My God, Ed was the only man I’ve ever loved like that, with innocence and passion in equal amounts, and enough awareness to know what you’re doing! My first real love. You can’t have it twice, can you? He was a beautiful man, beautiful.” She stopped speaking, gazing straight ahead, her hands white on the rail, the muscles in her forearms like knotted ropes.
“Then Ed died. My first show was up in Spence’s gallery. My first real success, something else you can have only once.” She laughed harshly. “That’s when I learned the price. Ed got killed in a stupid wreck. Later that year I married Spence. Remember? Everyone was so shocked that my grief didn’t last longer. It was a marriage of convenience, as the saying goes. I would be safe with a man I didn’t love. Or more to the point
he
would be safe. He was great in bed, maybe the best fuck I’ve had—something to be said about doing it without love, I mean if there’s a real interest there. Anyway, I could go on making things, doing good work, and we’d both be safe; no one would be at risk. What a deal!
“Spence was good for me,” she said after a moment, much quieter. “He was a good guide, a good critic for me. But he began to notice that he was the one doing all the loving.” She shrugged again and turned to look at Constance. At that moment she looked to be a hundred years old.
“I began to see other men,” she said deliberately. “And along in there I met Paul and a friend of his, Gray Axton. They came down together the first time. Gray Axton,” she repeated. Tiredly she thrust her hands in her pockets and walked back to the chairs and sat down, her legs sprawled out, her chin sunken against her collarbone, scowling into the distance. Constance trailed after her and resumed her seat. “Gray was the second Ed for me, the second chance at love, all that mushy stuff,” Tootles said; her voice had gone very flat. “It wasn’t the same, not the thing I’d had with Ed, nothing could have matched that, but I fell hard, and so did he. He was a painter, and damn good. Spence was excited about his work. And Spence never made a fuss about him and me, or anything else. He just moved out, back to his Washington place. After a few months with Gray I finished
Seven Kinds of Death
, and he went to Vietnam. Back in 1972, winter. My piece made the National Gallery, and Gray was killed.”
She ended it in such an uninflected tone that it was another few seconds before Constance realized that without prodding Tootles would stop there. Constance leaned forward. “You believe, that’s what the point of the story is, I take it.” She kept all compassion out of her voice, all warmth, allowed only an intellectual curiosity to come through.
Tootles looked at her with dull anger now. “Yes, damn it! I believe! You stick your damn hand in the fire once and you learn something about pain; do it again and learn something about idiocy. Ed was the first one that I knew about, knew I was responsible for. Poor Mitch Phillips was the first, before Ed even. But I thought he just died; people did now and then. We were eighteen, and he died the same week I was accepted as a student by the New School of Fine Art in New York. I didn’t make the connection, not until years later. I made it right away with Ed, and with Gray. Yes, damn you, I believe! So does Paul. As for Toni, ask her!”
“Hm, I don’t understand,” Constance said after a moment. “If you had it at eighteen, why didn’t Ba Ba know it and make it clear then? Why didn’t you understand for years?”
Tootles sighed theatrically. “She developed her gift later. I mean, for God’s sake, when I was eighteen, she was just fifteen! She got in touch with… with whatever it is after she came to live with me in New York. She was eighteen by then. And Mitch had been dead for years. It just didn’t come up. I mean, there were other men, but… you know what was going on in the early sixties. It didn’t mean much.”