by JJ Partridge
Patricia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, making that squeaky sound that to me is as annoying as chalk on a blackboard. “About three weeks ago, something was bothering her. I thought maybe it was break-ins around where she was living. Gave me her bankbook for safekeeping. Don’t think she was scared, though, just not so cocky. Not like she had been.” She turned her glare toward the ceiling. “Anyway, the money will help my parents cover her funeral costs.”
Nadie said, “I wonder if more counseling might have helped in her situation, or caught her emotional issues earlier. She dropped out, not many do when they’re on scholarships, even if they’re having problems like a pregnancy, and she did call—”
Patricia interrupted by raising one hand, palm side toward Nadie. “Like I said, don’t feel that you coulda done anything. Annie knew what she was doin’. She always had an angle, a fallback. She was always calculating. Always! She ....” Suddenly, as though she felt she had gone too far, she folded her fleshy arms under her breasts and motioned toward the console television. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s my sister. We got along. She had brains and she was pretty. You can even see it in that First Communion photo on the teevee.” She gestured with an elbow. “She’s on the left. Mom put it up there so my Dad could remember her like that. When she was a little girl.”
Nadie and I turned to the photographs, and they must have reminded Patricia of the time because she stood up. “Look, my folks are going to be back in a few minutes and this would really upset them. Particularly Dad. I really don’t want to go on, anyway. It makes me feel like I’m a whiner. We’re all in this. People have been two-faced. To my parents, they’d say it was the black guy, or this Stalker, but I heard them, the old biddies and people who know better, gossiping at the wake, blamin’ her, blamin’ the victim. Yesterday was the funeral, then the FOP hall where it was more of the same, only now with a lot of loud mouth, half-in-the-bag, cops. I don’t know how we got through it.” Bitterness welled up in her voice and tears filled her eyes. “You just don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what she put us through ....”
Nadie stood, grim-faced. “If you’d like to talk to me again sometime, I hope that you’ll ....”
Without a response, Patricia Sullivan got up, wiped at her eyes with her fingers, and handed Nadie her coat on her way to the hall. As I helped Nadie into her coat, my eyes strayed to the photographs on top of the television. Nadie followed Patricia to the hall; I walked to the television and inspected Anne’s photograph. A blonde little bride for Jesus, with eyes uplifted to heaven and white rosary beads in her fingers, a smile at her lips. It probably pleased the parents when taken but it seemed patently artificial to me, especially with its sepia tones and the backdrop of imitation clouds looking a lot like mashed potatoes. I pictured the Anne Sullivan of her sister’s tale, a little girl in a white dress, with a trace of a knowing smile. Anne Sullivan of Elmwood. Posing ..., even then.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A black Chevrolet station wagon pulled in behind as Nadie drove off. In the side mirror, I watched the car nose up to the driveway’s gate and a stocky man in a baseball cap and dark windbreaker jacket got out, put his hands on his hips, and faced us. No doubt, Mr. Sullivan.
We headed back toward Broad Street with Nadie driving. I ignored her agitated, one hand in my face, remonstrations for getting her involved with Ms. Sullivan until she made a wide turn on to a nearly empty Broad Street, completely oblivious to the huge snowplow rumbling toward us on her left. I made a grab for the steering wheel which provoked her into a brake slam that sent us into a skid and out of harm’s way as the monster swung behind us on to Stanhope Street.
“What are you doing!” she screamed and whacked my forearm before regaining control.
“That plow was going to cream us!”
There was a split second of hesitation before an angry exclamation. “I saw the plow! I saw the plow!”
We lurched forward, heading toward the city instead of retracing our trip. Nadie was on the attack, contrasting her careful driving to my carelessness, which expanded into an analysis as to why am I such a control freak and other character flaws. I endured the verbal barrage by shrinking away and staring out of my window.
We entered Nuevo Providence, the Latino commercial section, jammed with tiny, brightly painted, heavily signed bodegas, hair stylists, laundromats, restaurants, bars, money-wiring offices, thrift and video stores, and liquor stores with neon “cerveza” signs and ads for Bud Lite specials in Spanish. Sidewalks were bustling and business seemed brisk; apparently, Providence’s most recent wave of immigrants had easily adapted to the Rhode Island ethic of snowday. It would have been no different years earlier when the markets, variety stores, and drugstores were owned, operated, and named for Dave or Ginny or Patty, when the barber shops were operated by Joe or Louie, and the local taverns and hangouts had neon shamrocks in their windows.
Nadie braked for a traffic light, pounding the pedal at least six times, probably scaring the daylights out of the driver of the Camry behind us. Her focus had shifted from me as I caught her saying, “... the father must be an abusive lout. Her family has been put through hell. You could see that Patricia had no one to talk to through her ordeal. You could just feel her anguish ....”
Anguish? Is that what it was? Seemed more like anger, jealousy, and sibling rivalry, but I’m not the psychologist.
Her analysis of the dysfunctions of the Sullivan family continued as we drove into the graffittied plywood alley that is upper Broad Street. My mind was tight as a jalopy’s engine cranking over as I tried to budge some rusty deductive skills, taking in the street scenes which included one heavily bundled citizen swigging out of a paper bag as he lurched through the snow. “Ugh,” I muttered, reminded that this neighborhood, prosperous within my own memory, a place of stately Victorian houses, majestic oak trees, and thriving retail activity, had fallen into dilapidation and become infamous for its curbside businesses of drugs, prostitution, and stolen goods. At least today, the snow hid the broken glass, dog turds, cigarette butts, and fast-food containers which cluttered its gutters. A few kids, a sign of life and hope, were playing, unsupervised, in a vacant lot which also held snowed-in or abandoned cars. Outside seedy bars, stragglers congregated, blowing on gloveless fingers or sucking on cigarettes: business would soon be back to normal.
I made occasional noises to indicate interest in Nadie’s monologue as the coincidences finally ripened: Annie—not Anne—on the flyleaf! Williams had called her “Annie,” as did her sister. Why would Carl Reinman? And more interestingly, why was the autograph from Carl? Or was there more? My mind buzzed with Nadie’s description of Reinman as a womanizer, Joe Bucas’s outburst about Reinman’s dalliance with the red-haired sophomore, and the Carl autograph.
We drove past the darkened Central High-Classical High complex, through the newly chic Weybosset Hill where art galleries and coffee shops were open and apparently busy, and two traffic lights later, the old chic DownCity arts district where a revival of Jesus Christ Superstar was playing at the Performing Arts Center according to its message-popping marquee. Nadie, ignoring my silence as we weaved through the downtown streets, continued her analysis of the effects of the murder on the Sullivan family, referring more than once to a psychological study on police families that I bet she had dug up on her computer since this morning. I was so stuck on connecting the dots between Carl Reinman and Anne Sullivan that I was startled when Nadie parked in front of her apartment building. She unbuckled her seat belt and turned to me with eyes softer than I would have expected. Had I missed something? I fumbled with my seat belt release and she leaned over and pushed the red button on the lock which allowed the belt to retract smoothly across my body.
“Damn things,” I said under my breath and reached over to pull the car keys from the ignition.
Nadie grasped my hand. “I didn’t mean to sound so shrewish. Really.”
I wasn’t sure what she was talking about—wh
at had I missed in her stream of consciousness—but I know an out when I hear one. “I’m sorry, too,” I said.
“As far as the money is concerned, there was a bankbook, whatever that means ..., and in case Franks didn’t tell the police about it, you should call Tony. You did what you had to do; let someone else interpret the facts.”
I nodded. It was not exactly an affirmative nod, more like an I understand you nod. She patted my hand as though I was being a good boy.
The slamming of the car’s doors was like two rapid rifle shots, helping me to regain my bearings. She dropped the car keys in my open palm and we went upstairs. She suggested cocoa and moved a kettle to a two-unit electric range, while I went into the bathroom, uncinched the corset, and stretched, hoping to relieve the strain that had been aggravated by the sofa and the car seat. I realized that she was on the phone to the Women’s Center when she called out to me that she’d have to be available for counseling on Saturday night: the volunteer staff was needed before and after Kingdom’s rally.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I struggled into my pants and waddled into the kitchen. “Saturday night? With The Stalker out there? Can’t be!” She had already disconnected and blithely confirmed that Kingdom’s rally had been rescheduled for Saturday night! But not on The Green. Inside the Sports Complex!
Tuttle was in his office when I called. “It’s a goddamn media circus. All three local stations, plus Boston stations, and reporters from all over the place. We’ve had inquiries from the Times, the Globe, Newsweek, U.S. News …, you name it. Came down from College Hall this morning. Nobody asked me! When they’re through, they’re all going to march over to The Green. It’s going to be a security nightmare! After what happened yesterday? Are they kidding? The deal is that he comes without his ..., his ....,” he struggled for a word that was more neutral than troublemakers, “... people. Sure, he will. And they won’t be outside, waiting for him? Then, after The Green, maybe more marches! And the organizers won’t tell us where! And they want security—?”
“Whoa,” I interjected, trying not to reveal my own chagrin about not being in the loop for this important and totally bizarre decision.
Tuttle continued. “Too many variables. Especially if Kingdom gets the kids riled up. And that march will be a perfect setup for The Stalker. Perfect! What an opportunity! I told Gregson and the Provost….”
Nadie deposited a mug of steaming cocoa on the counter and I let it cool. Tuttle was right. It was a crazy idea. What was Danby doing? Tuttle went on as to how he was trying to work his way through the security mess, how he had managed to cash in some chits with the Traffic Division and the Patrol Division for help. We also had a deal for off-duty security cops from RISD, Providence College, and Johnson & Wales to work the streets between the Sports Complex and The Green. Actually, he admitted, with the rally inside the Sports Complex, they could probably control admissions if Kingdom cooperated. But once outside, fired up by Jesse Kingdom, the opportunities for mischief and for The Stalker picking somebody off were off the chart.
I tried to encourage him before I hung up. I drank the cocoa and became even more annoyed that I hadn’t been consulted. Maybe I was wrong about Danby’s growing confidence in me.
The rush of shower water from the bathroom finally got through to me. Nadie takes a lot of showers, as though she can clean away whatever troubles her at the moment. The bathroom door opened a crack and Nadie’s eyes held an invitation.
I was in such dudgeon that I almost passed. Almost.
My bruises got her appropriate attention while the needles of hot water on my skin and scalp did little to distract me from her body. We started fooling around, barely dried off, and made love. Our lovemaking played out in silence, and was an opiate for my aches and pains. It came on so quickly that for once, the shade in the bedroom’s single window wasn’t lowered before we clung to one another; the late afternoon light made her skin luminescent and smooth like an abalone shell. Afterward, I slept. It must have been more than a catnap because when I awoke, the light passing through the window had become faint. Nadie, wearing a green silk kimono I had given her last Christmas, was sitting in the room’s only chair, under a lamp, reading a novel by Anita Shreve.
“How is it?” I said, startling her.
“It’s murky, different than her others,” she replied, and went back to the book. I slowly became conscious of the aroma of nail polish, an odor I really dislike, and saw that her toenails were now a bright plum-purple color. I made sniffy noises of displeasure and she put the book down and came over to me, smiling, exuding a fragrance that covered the lingering trace of acetone. She leaned forward and kissed me on the ear, and I reached within the kimono to caress a breast. Her skin was warm and her fathomless eyes reminded me of those of the Afghan girl on the famous National Geographic cover. She responded by lying down next to me. I put an arm around her and she snuggled close. Then, Reinman and Annie Sullivan managed to crowd my composure. Could the randy Reinman and Annie have been lovers?
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but I want you to hear me out.” I hesitated a moment. “Joe Bucas ...”—Nadie sat up—“... I ran into him at the Faculty Club yesterday. Detested Carl Reinman. Said that he suspected Reinman of having affairs with students. Then, there’s what you said the other night about Reinman, how he seemed to be on the prowl all the time. And Anne Sullivan, her personality, how she lived, the money, her pregnancy ..., or pregnancies ....” Nadie moved to the edge of the bed; her fingers played with her purple-tipped toes. “In the hallway at the Sullivan house today. Remember the bins full of books that Patricia Sullivan said she took from her sister’s apartment? On top of one was a copy of Reinman’s biography of Teddy Roosevelt. He autographed it to Annie Sullivan. Not Anne Sullivan, but Annie Sullivan. That’s what both Williams and Patricia called her. From Carl—not Carl Reinman, at least I think so. It seems so damn personal! Now this may sound nuts, but suppose Anne Sullivan got involved with Reinman, she gets pregnant, and she blackmails him. He would have been vulnerable. He was Mister Morals. And he certainly had enough money to pay her—”
Nadie slapped the covers of the bed, stood up and wrapped the kimono around her as though suddenly chilled. “I can’t believe it,” she said with real amazement in her voice.
“Look,” I said defensively, “consider the possibility. If Reinman was being blackmailed, it doesn’t mean he killed her. I’m not saying that. But it would explain the money ....”
“Wait a second! Just wait a second! I thought this was all about justice. So that Williams doesn’t get railroaded or lynched because he’s black! That’s why you didn’t have him arrested for assault! Remember? That’s why I agreed to see her sister. So you could confirm the money angle, to cast doubt, so the police would investigate. You’re not trying to solve a murder!”
I didn’t have a response. She had me. Somewhere, somehow, I had crossed over a threshold without realizing it. Did I really care about Williams’s rights? I had been concocting a blackmail scheme from innuendo and gossip. Dross! Worse, I was targeting someone whose reputation and property I had a legal duty to protect! Well, maybe not quite yet, since the Providence Probate Court had certainly closed today along with the rest of municipal government.
Nadie got off the bed and took a small wooden box from the middle drawer of her bureau, opened it up, and took out a joint. I sat up at the sound of the match. “I thought you were through with that.”
“I am. But I just feel like one right now,” she said fiercely. She inhaled deeply, then let the smoke slowly leave her nose. There had been a silent truce on the pot issue for months: Nadie was for its legalization and I wasn’t. She came back to the bed, bringing the box with her, and lay down after plumping the pillows. “Now, where were we?” she said calmly, her eyes scrunched almost closed. “Forget the moralizing. Let’s be very honest here. You have somehow convinced yourself that a drug dealing punk that you were inveigled into protecting, who later attacks you, i
s not a murderer. Why? Because he said so. You find out from his lawyer, now verified by Williams himself and by the victim’s sister, that she had some money, actually alot of money, some in a bank account. The victim had also been pregnant but had an abortion. Preliminary conclusion, blackmail. Maybe if the cops follow the money, they have to lay off Williams. Okay so far?”
Acrid smoke curled towards the ceiling. I didn’t reply.
“Then, a busybody like Bucas tells you that he thought Carl Reinman was fooling around with young women years ago.” She stopped for a drag and again exhaled slowly. “And, from me, you heard that he made a pass at me, also years ago. Well, Dick Tracy, what then? It so happens the victim owned an autographed copy of a bestseller by Reinman who taught at the university she attended. He didn’t write out his entire name! Gol-ly! He used her nickname! The same name everyone else used! Can you believe it?” she said in mock amazement.
I didn’t like where this was heading.
“Now, if Reinman had impregnated her and was unwilling to keep paying blackmail, he’d have a classic motive for murder.” She paused for another drag and I remembered something from a Dorothy L. Sayers mystery, Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane airily discussing the universal motives for murder: passion, revenge, money, and blackmail. One or two out of four, I thought. “One tiny problem,” Nadie continued. “Even if ... through some unbelievable mischance ... you are right about the blackmail and money, Reinman was at death’s door! Barely able to get out of bed, by all accounts. Needed a heart transplant. And, he died the same night she was killed! He had the perfect alibi. He was dying … or dead!”
I opened my mouth and she warned, “Don’t you dare say ‘Ugh!’”
Ugh! She was right. Getting high, but still right! When I didn’t respond, she knew she had me. “This isn’t one of your crime thrillers and you’re no Spenser! You aren’t even Miss Marple! You’ve got to stop interfering. Does anyone want Alger Temple investigating their lives? I don’t think so! You have no God-given right to do it ... and no obligation, either. You’ve interfered with the Sullivan family already—now you want a go at the Reinman family, too?” She glared at me. “Aren’t you his executor?”