Carom Shot

by JJ Partridge

  The northern part of Benefit Street is famous for the nearly identical eighteenth-century clapboard residences built right to its sidewalks. The two and a half story dwellings, painted in preservationally correct shades of dull red, brown, yellow, and blue, have four windows on a floor with another over a decorative entryway. Reinman’s home, at the corner of Friends Street, was slightly larger than most, with a full basement, rear entry, and driveway down the slope, and had been recently painted a pale blue with a darker blue front door and had shiny black shutters. A boot scraper was affixed to the single granite front step and a Preservation Society plaque proclaimed that one “Jared Wilson, Cir. 1794” was its first known occupant. One rap with its brass pineapple-shaped door knocker produced movement in the curtains at the window to my right and, a moment later, the door opened.

  She plainly expected me to hand her an envelope, give her instructions, and leave, and was surprised when I took off my hat and breezed by her, only to stumble against a large cardboard box filled with clothing. “Carl’s clothes. For the Goodwill,” she said with some exasperation, realizing that I had come for more than a quick delivery. She gestured to her left and I entered a low ceiling living room, austerely decorated and not particularly welcoming. Its pale red drapes were partly drawn and a blade of morning light sliced into the room, brightening a suite of showroom-new furniture, two walls of filled bookshelves, and a blue carpet. A porcelain banjo clock ticked off the seconds from the mantle over a slate fireplace. She passed by me and snapped on a table light, her expression one of impatience. Dressed in the gray woolen cardigan in which I had first seen her, and a white blouse, she put her hands in the pockets of a pleated gray skirt, holding herself stiffly.

  I put the fedora and case on a drum table in front of the greenish sofa and made small talk about the snowstorm. I said that the probate court session of yesterday must have been postponed and lied that I’d taken a tumble on a patch of ice yesterday on my way to Carl’s office—“just to get things going.” She nodded as she directed me to the sofa. I asked after her daughter and she replied that Deborah remained in Vermont and that the movers were coming on Monday. A brief silence was relieved when she said she had boiled water for tea and asked me to join her. I accepted, and when she left the room, I slipped off my jacket, putting it next to my hat and case. My eyes immediately fixed on the botanical watercolors of orchids behind the sofa; closer inspection confirmed that they were exquisitely drawn and colored, particularly the delicate throats of the blooms. The artist was D. Cabel. That was unexpected.

  I heard her say, maybe after a second or two of watching me at the watercolors, “Do you take sugar or lemon, Mr. Temple?”

  “Just milk is fine,” I replied, and shortly, she returned, setting a tray with cups, milk, tea packets of Twinning’s English Breakfast, and a pot of hot water on the table. As she poured water over the tea bags, I continued with prattle about the houses of Benefit Street, that I had rented one when I first came back to Providence, how they had been saved from demolition back in the fifties by earnest preservationists, and what an upscale neighborhood it had become. All the while, I thought: Why am I doing this? I felt inane even as the words kept flowing; after all the Simeon’s and P. D. James’s I had read, why hadn’t I picked up Maigret’s and Dalgleish’s methods of confronting the critical and usually reluctant witness? A copy of T.R. was half hidden under magazines on the table. I picked it up and, still into a flow of words, gushily, went on about what an important book it was and how proud the University had been of Reinman’s successes, praising her son-in-law lavishly. I really laid it on and it was all bull! Damn, I couldn’t get started!

  Her eyes narrowed as I went on about Reinman and her impatience had been replaced by a vague animosity. “You said you wanted me to have some papers?”

  This was the moment. I picked up the case, unzipped it, and … weakened. “The watercolors,” I said, “are beautiful. Your daughter’s work?”

  Her face brightened. “Yes,” she gestured toward the botanicals, “from years ago. I don’t know where she got the talent. Deborah was always interested in flowers, then, it was botany, and she could always draw beautifully.” Her voice faded; it was too obvious that she was speaking in the past tense.

  The room was silent again and I knew I had to get on with it. It came out bluntly. “Mrs. Cabel, did Carl ever mention a student by the name of Anne Sullivan?”

  * * *

  The clock ticked off seconds.

  “She is ... was ... a former Carter student who was murdered a few days ago. Lived off Thayer Street. You’ve read about it ....”

  I opened the case and laid out the Merrill Lynch statement, address book, and greeting card, one by one, next to T.R., explaining where I had found them, and the disjointed events that led me to uncover a relationship between Anne Sullivan and Carl Reinman. She listened intently even as her face clouded, as though my story was beyond her powers to comprehend. “Anne Sullivan’s dormitory telephone number, from last year, is in here,” I said, picking up the address book, opening it to “A” and holding it out toward her. She didn’t look at it. I put the address book back on the table and picked up the brokerage statement. “I know she received a sizeable amount of cash within days after Carl took the exact amount from his Merrill Lynch account. The only debit to cash in five months.” I picked up the greeting card. “I believe she sent him this card.” I opened it and showed it to her. “Look at it. She ‘slipped up’. What might she have been telling him? I can tell you that in May, she was pregnant, that—”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Look,” I said, aware that I’d never get anywhere trying to bully or bluster her, “she was murdered last Friday night. I believe your son-in-law had a very recent relationship with her and maybe gave her a lot of money. If I turn over what I have to the police, they would investigate the relationship, even if it’s only to exclude a possibility. I’m his executor, or will be, and that makes it very awkward, but I’m not going to hide anything that would be relevant to the investigation of a murder. On the other hand, if Carl has ... had ... an alibi for last Friday night and early Saturday morning, I see no reason to get the police or the family involved.”

  Our eyes locked; I half expected an angry order to leave. The mantel clock took this inopportune time to chime. Slowly, the dull quality in her eyes cleared and her face tightened. One hand went to the chair arm for support and she stood.

  * * *

  I followed her to the second floor and down a narrow hall to an austerely decorated room—it didn’t need a placard to say “guest”—with a bed covered by a tight blue spread, a bureau with an attached mirror, a ladderback chair with a cane seat, and a faded blue and maroon braided rug; a single window with its shade up let in a harsh light which almost erased the color from pinkish walls. The bureau top held multiple plastic bottles for prescription medicines and a single photograph in a silver frame. She picked up the photograph and handed it to me. “My daughters,” she said in a threadbare voice.

  It was a studio portrait of two girls in white pinafores sitting primly on either side of their mother. Deborah was easily recognizable, and pretty, at about eight, her smiling face had not yet acquired its pinched look; her sister was younger, maybe four or so, with curly dark hair and a natural, unposed smile. Mrs. Cabel, her hair drawn back in a bun, with her arms around the girl’s shoulders, beamed with a mother’s pride in her daughters. The photograph must have been a memory of better times, precious to her, something brought along on trips. I was reminded of Annie Sullivan’s photograph in her First Communion dress as I handed back her keepsake.

  Mrs. Cabel sat on the edge of the bed, holding the photograph, and I sat on the chair. She was composed, her eyes calm and trained on me, her hands primly in her lap, when she began. “We’re farming people, been so for generations. Hay, vegetables, dairy. Good land right on the Connecticut. Early on we knew the farm wasn’t for the girls. Both are smart, always int
o books, not practical like you have to be to farm. Deborah graduated from UV the year my husband died. She had made up her mind she was going to get a master’s in botany and then teach at the college level. She got into Cornell with a scholarship and got a job as a teaching assistant. Her sister had a full scholarship to UV, so with the life insurance money and the farm, we could make ends meet. Deborah was on her way, happy, intelligent ... full of life when she met Carl. My daughter became infatuated with him and she got pregnant. For some reason, she waited too long to tell him and when she did, she went back and forth on what to do. Finally, at his urging, she decided to have an abortion.”

  A drop of perspiration appeared above her lip as she revealed this uncomfortable family story. What did this have to do with an alibi for Friday night?

  “She was further along than they thought, and the abortion got complicated and she ended up hemorrhaging and in the hospital. Nearly died.” She looked down at the photograph and put it aside. “Within a week of leaving the hospital, she was filled with guilt and shame and had a breakdown. Tried to kill herself with sleeping pills. I went out to Ithaca to help out. Carl stood by her ..., I can’t imagine why ..., but he did and they married after she recovered.” Her eyes flickered towards me. “I’ve never understood that; even then, he was so full of himself. Of course, Deborah was obsessive about him. She would do anything for him. Maybe, that was what he needed,” she added snidely.

  “By the time he got his position here, Deborah was back to normal, got a job teaching elementary classes at a private school and things seemed okay for awhile. She wanted children desperately but I knew he didn’t; especially after he became a celebrity. Even so, Deborah told me they tried for quite a while, especially since Carl absolutely refused to consider adoption ....”

  The vasectomy pamphlet remained in my case downstairs; the date on the doctor’s receipt told me Carl didn’t try for very long.

  “At some point, Carl began taking up with other women, or maybe he always had. My daughter Beth teaches at UV, and she heard about it ..., that’s how I found out .... Deborah became depressed again, quit teaching, became reclusive ..., I don’t know what all. I think she knew about his philandering and that’s how she dealt with it. Gave up her few friends, probably because she wouldn’t hear anything negative about him. Nothing. She’d say that other women were jealous because Carl was so handsome and a perfect husband. She couldn’t ...,”—she struggled to find a word—“... judge him.”

  The emotions boiling inside her made her voice strained. “All the publicity for T.R. was devastating for Deborah. Before that, she could cope. Now, Carl was traveling all over the country, on television, and at the White House, and never at home for more than a few days before he’d be off to some meeting or conference or party. Her depression got worse, and she got treatment at a psychiatric hospital. Sometimes her medications agitated her, sometimes they sapped her strength. They went on for years like that ..., he’d be doing his thing while she became more and more remote ..., only occasionally well enough to be in any kind of society. Maybe it worked for Carl. She was an uncomplaining servant, devoted to him, out of the way, never complaining, never interfering with his image, and he could carry on as he pleased.”

  Her narration abruptly stopped as she looked out of the window and I found myself staring at her pale reflection in the glass. What was going on?

  “Then, one night in June, there he was on the kitchen floor, desperate for breath, alive only because Deborah gave him CPR until the ambulance arrived.”

  A dry, out of context laugh seemed to mark a turning point in her story. “Deborah saved his life! Deborah, whom he had neglected and cheated on and prevented from enjoying a real life! But when he left the hospital and came home, totally dependent on her, she changed. She became purposeful as she nursed him, read to him, picked up his books and mail at the office, typed his letters and answered his e-mails, and worked with a young woman the University sent over. Drove him to the doctor and down to that place they have in Little Compton.” Her fingers went to her temples, dramatically emphasizing how Deborah’s turnaround was perplexing. “I could see that she had regained a sense of identity, even stopped her medications. And, she made plans! She managed their finances, had this house painted, started to redecorate ..., things she hadn’t cared about in years!”

  “As she improved, it was Carl who became depressed, especially in September, after weeks without improvement, the doctors told him that he needed a heart transplant. That was devastating. His speech remained halting. He had lost thirty pounds and he was gaunt. Fatigue made writing difficult, if not impossible. Worse for him, important people no longer called, and his attempts to reach them, now that he was out of the public’s eye, were rarely successful or short and barely polite. He couldn’t keep up with events. A heart transplant was the only possibility for a better, longer life, but, even if it was successful, he knew his life was changed forever. So, Carl being Carl, he took his frustrations out on her. I came down on some weekends and saw that he’d become coarse and abusive to her. Yet, she had gained the strength to ignore it and to lay down the law to him. She was no longer a servant … and he knew it!”

  Mrs. Cabel paused to take a handkerchief from a sweater pocket; she pulled it open but didn’t use it for her eyes or nose, instead, she tugged at it. “Then, a few weeks ago, something happened between them. She became at once distant and consumed with anger towards him, barely speaking to him, making him fend for himself, and he reacted by threatening a divorce! Can you imagine it? A divorce? In his condition? He still thought he would punish her! She wouldn’t confide in me. I begged her to take her medications, see her doctor, but she refused. I knew she was heading for another setback, maybe worse than before, even when she went back to her medications. Finally, I got her to agree to come home last weekend—her sister would be there—while I came down to handle Carl’s needs. But, he made such a fuss when I arrived Friday afternoon that instead, Deborah drove down to their place in Little Compton ….”

  Finally, we get to last weekend.

  She was now pulling the ends of the handkerchief with enough ferocity to split it at the middle and her eyes stared ahead like I wasn’t there. “Deborah was long gone when the telephone rang about nine-thirty or so on Friday night. I was getting ready for bed, Carl was upstairs in his room. It was a young woman, asking for Carl. I asked her name, and she giggled when she said ‘Anne Elizabeth Sullivan’. Giggled! Then, she said, ‘Tell him Annie,’ and giggled again. I thought she was drunk and I almost hung up, but she insisted it was important so I put the phone down and went upstairs and told Carl. He recognized her name, seemed confused, then angry, and ordered me out of his bedroom! Ordered me! I hadn’t hung up the downstairs phone ..., and so I listened.” Her face screwed up at what must have seemed to her to be a shameful act. “This Annie told him that she needed money. He said that he had given her all the money she was ever going to get and why was she calling him now? She said that he owed her, that there were plenty of people who would be interested in her story, like some of those scandal sheets ..., the kind you see in the supermarket. Then she laughed, and told him to calm down or he’d have another heart attack; maybe all she’d have was a talk with Deborah! It went on like that until Carl agreed to meet her that night and she told him where.”

  Mrs. Cabel pulled herself up with the aid of a bedpost. “I’d like a drink of water,” she said and left the room; seconds later, I heard the sound of a tap running from down the hall. I stood and stretched and sat back down. The coherence of her account baffled me; on a moment’s notice, most people can’t tell a story with multiple strands without digressions and repetitiveness. Mrs. Cabel’s tale had a rehearsed quality and she seemed determined to give me every sordid detail.

  Spots of color were high on her cheeks when she returned and sat on the bed; with hands playing over the bedspread, her gaze was directed at the floor. “A few minutes later, Carl came downstairs to the kitchen. H
e had his overcoat on, looking ashen, sweaty, his eyes huge. He went out through the pantry, down the back stairs, and I heard the door open but when I didn’t hear it close, I went to look and found him sprawled on the threshold. I knew he was dead. I just stood there, I don’t know how long, staring at him. All I could think of was that he had died trying to see that girl! How could I ever explain that to Deborah?”

  Her eyes sought a measure of understanding but the disconnect between her anguished voice and the paper thin set of her lips keep me impassive. “God help me, I stayed with him the whole night! Somehow, I managed to get him upstairs, undress him, and left him by the bed. In the morning, I called his doctor. He came right over and I told him that I found Carl just as he was. The doctor had been treating him for months so there were no questions. He helped me with the funeral arrangements, then I drove to Little Compton and told Deborah. She took it very badly, as I knew she would. I had brought her medications and forced her to take sedatives that calmed her enough to get her home. Beth came down and we managed. I never told Deborah about the girl. She was barely fit for the memorial service on Tuesday but we got through it and Beth took her back home ....” She looked away toward the window. “What else could I do?”

  No answer was required.

  “The morning of the service, the murder was in the newspaper. How could I forget her name? Somebody would surely investigate, somebody would call here. But nobody did, not that day, not later, and I realized that, as time went on, it would be less likely that Carl would be linked to her. I searched Carl’s bedroom and his study and found nothing to connect him to the girl. I was going to go through the things at his office—”

  Our eyes met; her face was an accusation.

  We sat in silence. She had to be Yankee tough to stay overnight with the corpse cooling upstairs, call the doctor, and move on. But not tough enough to overcome a need to condemn Reinman, to destroy his stature, even if it put her in a compromised position. Why? Was it because I had praised him so effusively only minutes ago? At least one of his colleagues had to know the pain he had inflicted on her daughter, that even his death was a catalogue of duplicity and shame.