by Joan Hess
“How interesting,” I said. “Were you born there?”
“I don’t like it when people ask me that.”
It was getting monotonous. “Is there anything you do like people to ask you?”
She pondered this for a moment. “No, and I don’t like it when people ask me that, either.”
I was hardly in the mood to apologize. Wishing Luanne would hurry, I returned my attention to the paintings. They reminded me of posters from the 1970s, when marijuana and LSD were two of the four basic food groups. I looked more carefully at a particularly lurid collection of body parts and tortured faces, then at Serengeti. “Do you model for Salvador?”
“I don’t like it when-”
“Never mind,” I said wearily.
Eventually Luanne emerged from the hallway. “You would not believe this place,” she began, then noticed the motionless figure on the sofa. “Who’s that?”
“She doesn’t like it when people ask her that,” I said as I propelled Luanne out the door. Giggling like teenaged girls, we went down to my car.
“Well?” she said as I started the car.
I recounted my lame conversation with Serengeti, and added, “I’m almost sure I could see her depiction in a few of the paintings, but with all that black makeup and hair, I could be wrong. It’s happened before. Not often, of course.”
“That particular affectation is called goth,” Luanne said. “It was faddish when heavy-metal rock became popular back in the eighties. All those pathetic kids, rebelling against societal conformity by knocking themselves silly to look identical. At least this girl didn’t have paper clips stuck through her eyebrows and staples in her cheeks. That’s not to imply she hasn’t had other parts of her body pierced.”
I didn’t want to think about it. “Well, at least we escaped. Couldn’t you have come up with something more original—or at least been wearing a wristwatch?”
“Would you have preferred me to swoon?”
“No,” I said, “since Salvador would have insisted that he carry you upstairs to his bed. Lanya and Fiona would have turned on me, since they saw us arrive together. He seems to have gotten himself into a bit of mess, don’t you think?”
“Don Juan ended up being dragged to hell, at least according to George Bernard Shaw. Our boy may feel like he’s on his way as we speak.”
I laughed. “And hell hath no fury like two women scorned.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Luanne said thoughtfully.
“That hell hath no fury?”
“Of that I’m sure,” she said, then refused to discuss it further.
Sergeant Jorgeson came into the Book Depot the following afternoon. He never looked cheerful, but he seemed gloomier than usual. Instead of his customary brown suit and muted tie, he was wearing slacks and a pale blue cotton sweater.
“Ms. Malloy,” he said, “I trust you’re well?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said cautiously. Jorgeson was not a customer, nor the type to make social calls. “You look very nice in your civilian clothes.”
“Mrs. Jorgeson wants to know if you prefer yellow or red chrysanthemums. “
“Please tell her that I’ll be delighted with whichever she selects. It’s very kind of both of you to offer your garden for the wedding.”
“Happy to do it,” he mumbled, looking around to make sure we were alone. “Then the wedding’s still on, I guess.”
I stiffened. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, the lieutenant called me last night, said he was worried about you.” Jorgeson held up his hands. “It’s not like he said much, Ms. Malloy. He can’t call during the day on account of how busy they keep him, but when he’s tried to call you in the evenings, there’s been no answer.”
“So he sent you to check on me? How thoughtful, Sergeant Jorgeson. Perhaps you’ll be so thoughtful as to check on him next week while he’s at his mother’s house with his ex-wife. He seems to feel as though he should tell her in person about the wedding.”
Jorgeson rubbed his jaw as he looked at me. “Do I detect a certain note of coolness in your voice, Ms. Malloy?”
“You’re the detective, not I.”
“But I’m not the one you should be talking to.” His lips pinched as he fell silent, either hoping I’d say something or praying I wouldn’t. When I opted for the latter, he sighed and said, “Well, then, Ms. Malloy, I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Jorgeson wants me to go to the nursery and find a special brand of potting soil. She worries about things like that, even if the plants don’t. One more thing. The head of the traffic control wanted to know if you’ll be staging these outside performances today or tomorrow. What with the bikers arriving, Thurber Street’s going to be a three-block nightmare.”
“Not until Monday, but I’m not responsible for any of it. The events are being arranged by Fiona Thackery and members of ARSE. Did you hear about the knights in armor last Wednesday?”
“I did. I do not think you should expect a fruitcake from the chief of police at Christmas, Ms. Malloy.”
He left before I could point out that I’d never had a fruitcake from the chief, or even a greeting card. In truth, the chief held me in such regard that if Farberville had amost wanted: dead or alive poster, I’d be featured. I could easily imagine his expression when he’d learned that Peter and I were getting married. Which we most assuredly were, even if the lovely Leslie sat on a folding chair in Jorgeson’s backyard and wept throughout the ceremony. So what if she was beautiful, intelligent, independently rich, charmingly eccentric, well bred, sophisticated, and chic? So what if Peter’s mother doted on her?
No good answer came to mind, so I collected a stack of books on self-esteem and assertiveness, sat down at the counter, and looked through them. Outside, thunderous motorcycles began to make their way toward the strip of bars and restaurants up the street from the Book Depot. Engines revved in the parking lot of the beer garden across the street. Men and women clad in black leather jackets walked along the sidewalk, no doubt sweltering in the July heat. The ones who were dressed in more humdrum attire had graced tattoo parlors in their past. A few resembled ambulatory comic books. The plastic cups they carried most likely did not contain lemonade or one of Sally’s chilled herbal teas.
They seemed harmless and more interested in impressing each other than in creating problems for the police. However, I decided I might as well lock up and go home, since my customers were not daring enough to venture out among potential road warriors and Hell’s Angels, even if most of them qualified for Medicare.
Caron had gone to a bunking party the previous evening, so I had the car. I rarely had a chance to shop for groceries during the day, and the cupboard was nigh onto bare. An hour later I parked in my garage, grabbed a couple of heavy sacks out of the backseat, and lugged them upstairs. Two trips later my mission was completed, but my arms and shoulders ached. I poured a drink and flopped down on the sofa to recover before I faced the final chore of putting everything away. If Caron was home, she was holed up in her bedroom, aware that I might demand her help. She was a devious child, but she was the product of a gene pool that might have been murkier than I’d formerly thought.
On this occasion, however, she was blameless. The groceries had been dispersed to the cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer, and I was sitting on the balcony when she came home. A few minutes later she came out to join me.
“The telephone is not unplugged,” I said, wincing as a motorcycle cruised past with the subtlety of a 747. “I am simply enjoying the view of the campus. It’s much more attractive without students cluttering it up.”
Caron was not interested in my serenity or my sanity. “The most incredible thing happened this afternoon, Mother! Inez and I went to the bookstore, hoping you’d let us have the car. You were gone. While we were deciding what to do, Miss Thackery came by to see you about something or other. She had her fiance with her, the squirrelly guy who teaches drama at the college. He told us that if we volunteer
to help out at some dorky community theater production for the next two nights, he’ll let us borrow costumes from the drama department wardrobe for the Renaissance Fair. Miss Thackery got all indignant because we’re supposed to make the costumes ourselves, so they had a squabble right there on the sidewalk. Inez and I were About To Die. Mr. Valens kept saying that all four members of the stage crew had quit because the director yelled at them, and the dress rehearsal was tonight. Miss Thackery said it wasn’t fair for us to get special treatment, but he said-”
“Who won?” I asked, unwilling to hear a blow-by-blow recitation.
“He did,” Caron said smugly. “Miss Thackery was fuming, but she wasn’t about to agree to help him herself and risk breaking a fingernail. We have to go to the dress rehearsal tonight and the performance tomorrow night, and then Mr. Valens will meet us on campus and let us try on costumes.” She sank down and leaned her back against the railing. “We are going to look utterly cool. We still have to dress as bar wenches, but Mr. Valens says there are all kinds of off-the-shoulder blouses and tight leather bodices. He even says they have special padded undergarments to make you look ...”
“Brazen?” I suggested.
“Yeah, brazen. We’re going to keep them here until the fair. Inez is convinced that if her mother sees them in advance, she’ll freak out and make Inez wear a sweater. You don’t mind, do you? I’ve always felt like Raggedy Ann instead of Barbie. This time I may catch Louis Wilderberry’s eye, especially when Rhonda’s tiptoeing around in a green leotard, tissue paper wings, and pointy ears.”
Her eyes were watery, I realized with a flicker of guilt. I could still remember the horrid Halloween school carnival when she was in first grade. Despite my better judgment, I’d allowed her to dress as a prosecuting attorney, while her friends all dressed as princesses and ballerinas. Surely she deserved to exact her revenge after ten years.
“As long as Miss Thackery doesn’t bear a grudge, you may wear whatever you like,” I said. “And without a sweater. Whatever happens between Inez and her mother is none of my business.”
Caron got up and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mother. The rehearsal’s at six, in the town hall of some retirement village near Hasty. Mr. Valens said it’s likely to last until midnight because nobody has a clue what to do. The regular performance will be over at ten. He offered to drive us, but I’d rather take the car if you don’t mind. He’s kind of creepy.”
“Why do you think that?”
She made a face. “I don’t know how to explain it. He looks all meek and toady, but when he and Miss Thackery were arguing, I was afraid he was going to—to get violent and slap her or something. She must have seen it, too, because all of a sudden she capitulated and walked away from him. It was like he was simmering right below the skin. Inez said she didn’t get that feeling, but half the time she was staring at those biker people. There was a little kid, maybe four or five, who already has tattoos on his arms and hands. That’s child abuse. I mean, what if he’s really smart and gets all these scholarships and becomes a famous judge and is in line to be nominated for the Supreme Court—but he has a swastika tattooed on his hand? Or he’s short-listed to be president of Harvard? Somebody ought to call Social Services and have that child removed before his parents can really screw him up for life.”
“Go for it,” I said. “You’ll find the number in the telephone directory, listed under Stump County offices. They may want you to go with them to spot the child on the sidewalk. Last year the unofficial estimate was five thousand bikers, but it’s predicted that there will be more this year. It may take hours to find him.”
Caron’s lower lip shot out, which was as good as any response to a moral dilemma of this magnitude. “Well, somebody ought to call them,” she said as she went inside and slammed the door.
I stayed where I was. Caron called good-bye as she went out the kitchen door and down the steps to the garage. After a half hour or so, I went inside to watch the news. The local TV station had live coverage from Thurber Street, but to the reporter’s dismay, everybody appeared to be congenial and reasonably sober. She did her best by stressing the potential for destruction, disaster, and death should the situation deteriorate. I waited for her to suggest that viewers stock up on bottled water and batteries, but eventually coverage moved on to a goat show at the county fair ground.
I was debating which delectable gourmet dinner to nuke when the phone rang. I grabbed my drink, went into the living room, and picked up the receiver with only the mildest flutter of apprehension. “Yes?”
“Ah, Claire, I wasn’t sure I’d catch you at home,” Salvador said in a curiously flat voice, as though he’d have preferred that he hadn’t.
“I can leave if you wish. There’s rumored to be a lot of action on Thurber Street this evening. Nothing like a couple of thousand Harley-Davidson hawgs to stir things up.”
“No, I would like to talk to you—that is, if you’re not busy. I don’t want to interrupt if you have plans. I shouldn’t have called. It was a terrible idea, and I’m really sorry. We barely know each other. Why don’t I let you get back to whatever you’re doing?”
“Why do you want to talk to me, Salvador?” I said. “I am an exceptional conversationalist, I grant, but I am not a licensed therapist or an attorney. If you’re suggesting some sort of libidinous liaison, you seem to have several willing candidates.”
He took a moment to respond. “No, nothing like that. You’ve already made that clear. I just need to talk to someone who’s…well, a disinterested party. Someone who can be objective. I don’t even want advice. No, that’s not true, but I have to make the decision. Talking to you will force me to sort out the situation in my own mind. Everybody wants to slap a label on me: I’m rich, I’m a womanizer, I’m a celebrity, I’m a cynic. So maybe I am all of those things, but that’s not all I am. Right now I’m just a very confused, forty-year-old guy without a clue what I should do.”
He sounded so miserable that I felt my dislike of him beginning to waver. “And there’s no one else you can talk to except me?”
“I sent Hoshi and Dazai back to their group in Iowa. They were too hungover to protest. Gudgeon’s gone caving in Kentucky. As for the ARSE group, there are obvious complications.” He exhaled loudly. “Forget it, Claire. It might do me good to figure this out on my own. If I’m still around, I’ll see you at the Renaissance Fair next weekend.” A dial tone suggested the discussion was over.
I replaced the receiver and took a swallow of scotch. His final remark could have meant he might go out of town, or it might have been an oblique reference to his demise. His remark about “obvious complications” was less than enlightening. I was in an awkward position, which is my least favorite kind. I clearly could not call Lanya or Anderson for a chat about Salvador’s mental stability. He’d tried his best to impress me with his urbanity and wit, but that did not rule out the possibility that his ego was not invulnerable. Inside even the most pretentious twit is an inner child, although in Salvador’s case, said child was likely to have been bound and gagged at an early age.
“Drat,” I muttered as I put the epicurean delight back in the freezer. I couldn’t call Luanne, since she and some of her gay friends had decided to check out biker chic. By now they were undoubtedly sharing a pitcher of beer with men named Fat Daddy and Mongo. I looked for Salvador’s number in the phone book, but he was not listed. Caron had the car. Farberville’s only attempt at public transit was a fleet of two taxis, and they were in perpetual use by drunks needing a ride home or escort service employees making house calls.
I switched on the TV, but news had been replaced with a game show in which celebrities attempted to be adorable by exposing their ignorance. Competition was fierce. I flipped through more channels, all of them apparently showing commercials all the time. Why bother with a cast and a script, when there are SUVs to be sold, germs to be eradicated, and pills to be popped? I gave up and tried to read, but somewhere in the corner of my mind I was w
aiting to hear the scream of a siren as Salvador was rushed to the hospital. Of course, it was more likely that if he had done himself grievous injury, his body would lie undisturbed until Gudgeon came back with a bag of bat guano.
It wasn’t that I simply didn’t want to get involved. I really, most sincerely didn’t want to get involved. I disliked Salvador, but in a passive way. When the Renaissance Fair was done, the only person in ARSE I would ever encounter was Fiona Thackery— unless I could arrange to be in the ICU on the night of parent- teacher conferences. That would require planning. I was thinking of other potential escapes when the phone rang. My book tumbled to the floor as I leaped up and grabbed the receiver.
“Are you okay?” I demanded, perhaps more shrilly than necessary.
“Are you?” asked Peter.
I caught my breath. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You sounded frantic.”
“I am never frantic,” I said coolly. “I may have been perturbed on occasion, but had I been frantic, my hair and clothing would have been in disarray and I would have been shrieking. That is hardly seemly behavior, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” he said, sounding a bit bewildered for some reason. “So how are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Are you still at spy camp?”
“Tonight’s the final exercise. We have to crawl around in the dark and infiltrate the terrorists’ campsite. Why any terrorists would set up camp near Farberville is a little hard to imagine. They’d be much more comfortable in a motel.”
I sat down on the sofa and reached for my drink. “Then tomorrow you’re going to Rhode Island? Your mother must be excited.”
“I’m taking the shuttle to La Guardia. She’s sending the car to pick me up. It’s a three-hour drive, if we don’t get caught in construction. I’ll call you when I get there, probably around five or so.”
“Are you going to bounce around the backseat of the limo all • by yourself?” I asked, then bit my lip.
“No, I’ll sit in the front seat with Witbred, just like I did when he drove me to nursery school. My mother has always believed he’s been with us all these years out of devotion to the family. The truth is that he takes advantage of free room and board so that he can spend all his money at the racetrack. His loyalty lies with his bookies.” Peter paused, but I wasn’t about to come to his rescue. “I don’t know when Leslie’s coming out to the house. She’s in Paris right now, and my mother is uncertain when she’ll get back. It’s not a big deal, Claire.”