The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (23 page)

There, still draped across the table, was Cynthia
Ducroit. Her dress had been pulled down in the front to expose her
breasts and pushed high over her buttocks in the back. Her hands were
cuffed behind her back, and her pantyhose and panties had been pulled
down.

"Oh, my Lord . . ."

When he saw her face he could barely recognize her.
The collected blood had turned it to a vivid dark purple. Her
eyeballs were bulging, the veins in them broken from the pressure of
apparent strangulation. Her mouth was open, her tongue partially out.
There was a trail of blood across her cheek from her nose.

His hands shaking, Claude fumbled with the chain
deeply embedded in the flesh around her neck. "Don't die on me,
please, don't die on me," he said over and over as he pulled and
tugged until the chain finally came free.

Gently as possible he turned her on her back and
pulled up the front of her dress to cover her breasts. "Just
rest easy.  Claude's got you. Everything's going to be all
right." He couldn't absorb, or accept, that she was already
dead.

He began to administer the CPR he had learned at the
Mount Zion Baptist Church auxiliary. As he worked her chest to get
her heart going as he'd been taught, he could hear his wife's voice
telling him, "Claude, you better take that course. You don't
know when someday that stuff might come in handy." He had been a
good student and he did everything right. Not a move was wasted. He
held her nose closed with one hand, put his lips over hers and began
to blow air into her mouth. Some of the blood from the nosebleed had
congealed on her lips and was sticky, but he ignored it.

Cynthia's chest rose and fell in time to his efforts,
and he settled into a rhythm. Breathe, blow; breathe, blow . .
.Unaccustomed to such effort, he soon was lightheaded, even dizzy,
but he refused to stop for a second. After about ten minutes he
looked at her face between breaths, and felt rewarded. By loosening
the chain around her neck, the blood collected in her face had begun
to drain, and the vivid purple color was gone. Her skin had a more
natural tone. Encouraged by this change, Claude doubled his efforts,
trying his best to save a life that was already lost.

The pain in his back grew worse from the strain of
being bent over the table so long, but he would not give in to it.
Old man, you can rest in that easy chair of yours all you want later.
Right now, take care of business . . .

Around nine, an early arriving employee found him
still at it. When she saw him bent over Cynthia she screamed and ran
out. He knew he was in trouble now, a black man in the room with an
unconscious white woman, he would have a lot of explaining to do, but
that would come later. Right now he was needed here, and he kept
on—breathe, blow; breathe, blow . . .

Some five minutes later the hysterical clerk returned
with two burly policemen. They took in the situation at a glance, and
one of them relieved him while the other called for help.

Claude sank down in a chair, tears on his face. He
had been at it for over an hour.

The rescue squad arrived and took over. They worked
on her for at least fifteen minutes more, but it was no use.

Cynthia Ducroit was gone.
 
 

CHAPTER 21

IT WAS late when Missy padded barefoot into her
bathroom, groggy from the Valium and alcohol she had used to slow the
cocaine and help her sleep after the excitement. She had missed work
again without calling in sick, but with the way things were going for
her there, she no longer cared.

Her bladder was filled to bursting but she did not
attend to it right away. Instead, making a game of the sharp pains
from holding back, she inspected her face in the mirror for bags and
circles, then slowly brushed her teeth, relaxing her muscles several
times until her water almost forced its way out but stopping it at
the last moment each time.

Near the sink on the counter was a small test tube
holder and a plastic tray containing what appeared to be lab
paraphernalia. On the tray was a decal showing a spray of flowers
followed by the word "Essence," the name of a popular
ovulation predictor kit, and a color chart that went from white to
light blue to medium blue. She picked up from the tray a small
plastic cup a little smaller than an old-fashioned glass and carried
it with her to the toilet.

She raised the hem of her floor-length black
nightgown until it was past her waist, then straddled the toilet.
Holding the cup between her legs, she relaxed and let her urine flow.
Its warmth, seeping through the thin plastic sides of the specimen
cup, felt good to her fingers.

She dropped the hem of her nightgown and carried the
specimen cup to the counter. Even though she had been doing this for
several days, she first consulted a blue-and-white instruction
booklet provided with the ovulation predictor kit before she began
the test for luteinizing hormone.

Satisfied now that she remembered the proper steps
she took an eyedropper of urine and squeezed it into one of the small
tubes, then filled a second tube with the developer, set the timer
for fifteen minutes and took a shower. While the water beat down on
her she thought about how it had been with Cynthia. The gun, the
terror from the attack and the idea that her beloved Felix wanted her
dead made her wonderfully passive, not resisting anything she was
ordered to do. She had kept her eyes closed almost the whole time,
even though at first she'd asked that the small light over the stove
be turned on.

The couple of times she did open her eyes they had a
faraway, glazed look in them, like she was trying to retreat into a
never-never land where none of this was happening.

It hadn't done her any good, not one damn bit . . .

Missy turned off the water and dried herself. The
timer had gone off while she was showering. She returned to the
counter, where she rinsed the test stick in cold water, then inserted
it into the second tube filled with developer. Five minutes to kill.
She went to the kitchen to make herself a Bloody Mary. This waiting
was the worst part, but it also gave her some time to come to grips
with what she was doing—getting ready to get pregnant. No one was
forcing her to do it. And she was doing it of her own free will as a
present to Felix. Something that would cement their love and eventual
marriage.

The sound of the timer going off made her grab her
drink and hurry back to the bathroom. The developer in the second
tube had turned a deep blue that she compared to the color chart. No
doubt about it. This was the fourth stage. Today she was fertile. And
she was the one who would decide what would happen. No more terrible
look from her father that made tears stop. Her father . . . she was
shocked to realize she was glad he was gone. He didn't deserve to
share in this, in her child, not after what he had made her do . . .
What? She still couldn't remember.

She looked at one of the pictures on the bathroom
wall. It was a small framed photograph of her and her father and her
first horse. He was much younger then, his hair was still dark . . .
which helped make him look so much like Felix . . .

She took a ten-milligram Valium to keep her rising
excitement in check and began to dress, stopping only long enough to
telephone Felix and ask that he stop by immediately after work. When
he claimed a previous engagement she pressed until he agreed to stop
by "for just a few minutes." She smiled, knowing that for
the rest of his life he would thank her for those "just a few
minutes."

She drove into town. Choosing the exit off Delaware
by the Sheraton, she took a left and a right on the cobblestone
street around Society Hill Towers and in an effort to avoid the heavy
traffic on Walnut went west on Spruce past block upon block of
restored townhouses. Near Tenth the neighborhood changed to
brownstones with apartments inhabited by singles, especially art
students. At Fifteenth it turned into a male hustler's paradise.

As she drove on she thought about how the evening
would go. It would be their first time in bed together. She decided
she'd been too willing, too forward. Felix wasn't Carl, not yet
anyway. He was a romantic Southerner. Well, he would be pleased. He
would arrive to find her dressed in something simple with a full
skirt. They would have champagne, caviar and oysters . . . Louisiana
men always liked oysters, she'd heard somewhere. They would sit close
and talk. She would carefully lead him into talking about his
feelings for her. They would kiss. She would allow him liberties, and
when he saw how bare she was under her skirt he would have to have
her. Who could resist it?

But then she would resist, exciting him even more,
until they would go to her bedroom where a small fire would be
burning in the fireplace. She would lie back and offer him the
missionary position. And when it was over, there would be no doubt
about them being together. Thinking on it, she was at Eighteenth
Street and her turn almost before she knew it.

She parked in a garage on Sansom and set out on foot.
Her first stop was Treadwell & Company, a men's furnishings store
in the same block on Walnut with Nan Duskin. During his lifetime her
father had often raved about their superior selection. What better
way to recognize her bond with Felix than with a present: something
simple in gold, something to mark her territory. What she really
wanted was to give him a wedding band. Later. Too bad men don't wear
engagement rings.

At Treadwell 8: Company she was waited on by a tall,
cadaverous man who, except for his discreetly striped suit, could
have been the male half of "American Gothic." She told him
she was looking for a chain. Something in gold. He led her down the
aisles past umbrellas and scarves, past wallets and briefcases, past
bowlers and skimmers to the jewelry section. Once behind the counter
and leaning on it with both hands like a preacher in a pulpit, he
said, "A watch chain?"

"No, a waist chain."

"I beg your pardon," he said giving her
precisely the same look he would give a hostess who tried to serve
him saltwater taffy for dessert after a full meal.

"A waist chain. I want a simple gold chain to go
around my"—she hesitated, and then used the word—"husband's
waist."

"Madam, I'm afraid we do not carry such an
item."

Normally if a salesperson—man or woman—dared to
speak to her like this she would have had his guts for garters, as
her old roommate used to say, but today she felt so at peace with the
whole world she took no notice of it.

"Hmm, I see. Well, show me something nice in an
ankle bracelet."

The salesman's knuckles whitened as he squeezed the
edge of the counter. "I'm afraid you've found the wrong shop.
Perhaps you should try one of those on Market Street"—and to
himself added, "One with an Italian name"—"I'm sure
they would be able to help you better—"

"No, I want it to be from here . . ."

In the end she settled on a gold bracelet with no
ornamentation, over the salesman's suggestion of a set of
gold-and-diamond cufflinks, feeling that the bracelet was more
personal and therefore more symbolic of their future.

She had two more stops to make before returning home
to wait for Felix: the first at Kaleidoscope, her hairstylist, on
Nineteenth Street, and the second at Bonwit Teller, whose bridal
department was her first stop in the intricate process of choosing a
wedding gown.

She arrived at Kaleidoscope unannounced, but with the
aid of a fifty dollar bill passed with a hand squeeze she was able to
get the receptionist to juggle the appointments around and take her
right in. As she entered the private cubicle a look of surprise
crossed the face of Kelly, her stylist, a striking blonde in her
early twenties whose Vanity Fair looks made her seem more like she
belonged on a tennis court at the Germantown Cricket Club than
working for a living.

Kelly recovered quickly, straightening her clothes
slightly and running her fingers through her streaked hair. "Missy,
I didn't know you were coming in today. We only did you last week.
You're not due for at least two more weeks."

Missy closed the door and crossed the small space to
kiss Kelly lightly on the cheek. "I know, but I woke up this
morning sadly in need of you."

The intimacy of the remark did not seem to fluster
Kelly.

"How sweet. But I want you to know you're
throwing off my whole schedule."

To appease her, Missy reached into her purse and
pulled out a small vial filled with white powder and a coke spoon.

"That's why I brought this. After a couple of
toots you'll race through everyone else."

"Oh, all right. Get undressed," she said,
taking the vial and spoon from Missy's outstretched hand.

While Kelly lit the small burner and put the wax in a
pan to melt, Missy quickly undressed, shedding shoes, slacks and
panties but leaving on her blouse.

She climbed into the chair. The stereo system
throughout the salon was playing the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields
Forever" and the music seemed caressing as she made herself
comfortable, gazing at the somber black-and-white photos that
decorated the walls of the cubicle.