“How can you stand not having an elevator?” she panted, reaching the top.
In fact, I was extremely grateful I had no doorman or elevator man and a handful of neighbors I rarely saw. That way Oliva and I could meet unobserved. I showed her in.
“How was your trip?” I asked.
“Necessary.”
She dropped the duffel bag on the floor and collapsed theatrically on the couch.
“I need a drink,” she said.
I fixed her a vodka on the rocks, then played her the saved messages from Monique on the answering machine. She listened carefully two or three times, then did a credible imitation of Monique’s voice. I was impressed.
“Do you actually speak French?” I asked her.
“Restaurant French and bedroom French. That’s all you need of any language in this town . . . Allo, Jo. It’s—eats—Monique—Meuneek . . . What are you trying—try-ang—to do to me?” she laughed.
“You should have been an actress.”
“Sugar, all women are actresses, whether they know it or not.”
I told her that I’d already set up an appointment with the lawyer.
“This is how it’s going to work,” I said, explaining the scenario. “You are Monique de Passy, a French countess. You’ve just gotten engaged to a very tough lawyer by the name of Nate Nathaniel. Got that?”
She nodded, sipping her drink. “Got it.”
“Nate Nathaniel has a lot of respect for this lawyer you’re going to see. The apparent reason you’ve made an appointment with her is—”
“Wait,” she said interrupting me. “This lawyer I’m gonna see is a woman?”
“Right. Her name is Patricia McCluskey. She’s tough and she’s smart. So you’re going to have to watch your step.”
“I always watch my step, sugar, believe me.”
“Okay, McCluskey thinks you’re seeing her to talk about prenuptial agreements in this country. You’re French, remember, so you want to understand how the law in New York works. And when you get there, you want to be very charming and let her do most of the talking. Get her to give you a basic rundown of everything. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“But the real purpose of your visit is to get your will signed. But she can’t know this. It has to look like an afterthought. Something like, oh, I didn’t realize the time . . . I’m going away . . . I need to get this will signed as an interim thing, just to put my mind at ease. Is there any way I could do this now? That kind of thing. And all in a French accent. Think you can do it?”
“Sugar, this is a piece of cake compared to some of the things I get asked to do.”
“Well, there’s just one more little glitch,” I said. “You can’t sign that will yourself.”
“Come again?”
“No, listen, you’re going to pretend to have something wrong with your hand so you can’t sign it.”
“You lost me.”
“In New York State, you can direct someone to sign your will as long as it’s in front of witnesses. And that’s what you’re going to do. This lady’s a crack lawyer. She’s going know about this, okay? And if it doesn’t work out with her, we’ll try it with another lawyer, okay?”
“Okay . . . But what if she starts asking me questions about this guy Nate?”
“That’s true. Since you’re consulting her about a prenup, she may ask you some questions about his character,” I said, thinking out loud. “Just imagine Nate Nathaniel as a cross between, oh, Robert Redford and Ted Bundy, okay? He’s all preppy charm on the outside and a serial killer underneath. You don’t have to be explicit about him, though. Just be very vague and steer the conversation back to how you could be protected by a prenup. And remember, you’re going there completely confidentially. Stress the fact that you don’t want anyone to know about the visit. Especially not Nate. Got that? She won’t be able to tell him she saw you so she won’t be able to pick his brain. Plus, they loathe each other.”
Oliva narrowed her eyes. A sinister smile crept over her face.
“That’s your story and you’re stickin’ to it, right?”
I tried not to register any expression, but I was growing leerier by the second of this woman who was set to play such a crucial role in my life. I saw no point in denying anything to her since she knew I was up to no good anyway. She was too smart a cookie. I sat there frozen, waiting for her to up the ante and demand more money. But she was curiously contained, which made me even more nervous.
“I know this is a ridiculous question,” I said. “But how do I know I can trust you?”
“Trust me how?”
“Well, for example—not to go to the police.”
Oliva let out a whoop of laughter. “Sugar, now that is one thing you can definitely trust me on. I’m so allergic to cops I break out in a rash just watchin’ ’em on TV. What if she asks me for some I.D.?”
“I don’t think she will. After all, she’s seen your picture in the paper. And by that time you two will have presumably gotten to know each other a little. You understand I want the will to look like an afterthought—something that just occurred to you on the spur of the moment. It’s not supposed to be the focus of your visit.”
“I got that, sugar. But I could also get some fake I.D. if you want. Just to make sure.”
“You could?”
“I know a guy who’d do it for me this afternoon. Nothing easier, trust me.”
I thought for a moment, then decided against it. Using Oliva was risky enough. I certainly didn’t want a third person involved if I could help it.
“No,” I said firmly. “If she asks you for identification at that point, you just say you’re running late and scrub the whole thing. Got that?”
“Suit yourself,” she said, preoccupied with examining the polish on her nails.
“Listen, Oliva, I’m counting on you not to tell anyone about all this.”
She looked up at me. “Don’t worry, sugar, my business is strictly my business. You’re a little nervous ’cause you’re just getting your feet wet.”
I didn’t know whether to be frightened or reassured. A murky figure operating outside the law was hardly the best person to trust. But what else could I do? When you ain’t got nothin’ you got nothin’ to lose, as the poet said. At least I wasn’t hiring her to kill Monique. That honor I had reserved all for myself.
Chapter 30
Murder concentrates the mind.
Was I capable of taking a life? Could I do it even if I knew I wouldn’t get caught? I kept thinking about the moral consequences of homicide, wondering if I could live with myself after committing such a heinous act.
It was inventory week. I was counting lamps in the stockroom, thinking of Uncle Laddie, who had pushed Aunt Tillie out the window. I always liked my Uncle Laddie. He was a funeral director but he had the looks of a mad scientist—large wild eyes and a high, wide forehead topped by a halo of frizzy brown hair. He loved physics. His hero was Albert Einstein. I remember one evening when I was sitting next to him at the dinner table, he was talking to me about space travel, one of his favorite topics. He explained to me that every act in life could be described by a mathematical equation. Then he purposely tipped over his glass of grape juice (he was temperance) onto the white tablecloth. It looked like a spurt of purple blood.
“Reflect on this, Jolie Ann. When we can mathematically describe something as simple as a spill, from the second the glass tips over to the time when the stain has all dried up, we’ll be sophisticated enough to travel to other solar systems . . . What do you think about that?”
“It’s interesting,” I said. I always told Uncle Laddie the things he said were interesting, even when I didn’t really understand them.
“There’s a good lesson for you, Jolie Ann. Shows you the power of thinking a simple thing through. That little stain,” he said, pointing to it with his fork, “can lead to the discovery of new worlds.” He had a far-off look in his eye.
“
Yeah, Mama’s gonna brain you for ruining her best tablecloth,” I told him jokingly.
He didn’t seem to hear me. Then he said in a monotone, “A crime is like a stain.”
Two months later, my Aunt Tillie was dead. And they could never prove a thing against Uncle Laddie. I never told a soul about our conversation. But I always remembered it, and I was thinking hard about it now.
I marked down the number of four-light, brass “Athena” floor lamps we had left in stock on the master tally sheet, wondering how could I “describe” Monique’s murder from beginning to end. There, in the dim stockroom surrounded by all shapes and sizes of brand new unlit lamps, I realized for the first time that I was far more concerned about getting away with murder than I was with committing it. My mind had turned that corner in the human psyche where dark wishes become firm plans. I had jumped off morality’s fence and landed smack on the devil’s trampoline.
The only question now was how to do it?
Coming out of the stockroom I caught sight of myself in one of the smoky showroom mirrors. I hardly recognized the person staring back at me. I had bloomed into a poisonous flower.
How to commit the perfect crime? I considered my options one by one, dancing around each method like a bather around a cold pond, dipping in a little at a time before getting up the courage to take the plunge. A gun was the first thing that occurred to me. Shooting people on television always looked so easy. But you needed a good aim and a clear shot. I knew how to handle a shotgun from my days in Oklahoma. I was one of the rare women who actually shot with the men on the quail and pheasant shoots Lucius and I went on. The big headache in shooting someone, of course, was the gun itself. Obtaining and disposing of a weapon was too difficult. Guns were as noisy, obvious, and risky as singles bars in New York. Guns were out—along with knives, blunt instruments, and bare hands. All these methods were too chancy what with sophisticated forensics and pesky DNA. A pinch of hair, a morsel of skin, a soupçon of saliva—and before I knew it I’d be the one who was cooked.
Poison, the woman’s weapon, was a possibility. I read up on poisons and watched crime shows dealing with poisoners and their methods. A nice, heavy metal poison like arsenic might suit me well. Arsenic, readily available in weed killer, was called “the great impostor” because it mimicked other symptoms and was often mistaken for a bad case of flu or food poisoning. But the thing with poisons was that you had to administer them correctly, assuming you had the opportunity. Even then, they weren’t guaranteed. They didn’t always kill the victim and they could usually be traced.
All the TV documentaries on homicide I watched agreed that crimes involving hit men were the toughest ones to solve because there was nothing to tie the victim to the murderer. Hit men were the Julius Caesars of homicide: They came; they saw; they murdered. And if they were professionals, they left no trace. The drawback was in finding such an individual. Hit men didn’t advertise. There were no Hit Men Boutiques where I could stroll in and pick one out, like a coat.
I figured finding a good hit man was like finding a good plastic surgeon: You discreetly extracted his name from a friend who had used him with successful results—which means you didn’t look like you’d been to one; you just looked better. However, to the best of my knowledge, none of my friends had ever used a hit man. And it wasn’t safe to hire someone off the street. He could turn out to be an undercover cop, or a blackmailer, or some bungler who wouldn’t get the job done properly.
One evening, while pondering these options, I tuned in to one of my favorite crime shows, American Justice. That night, the program was about Andre Castor, the celebrated performance artist, accused of pushing his wife out a window. Castor swore he was innocent and that his wife, a depressive, had jumped.
Yes, Castor had been in the apartment. Yes, Castor and his wife had been fighting about getting a divorce. Yes, Castor would have had to pay her a bundle if they split up. Yes, Castor had a history of violence toward women. But no, Andre Castor swore he had not pushed her.
Who was this man kidding?
Castor claimed his wife jumped out the window because they had been fighting about getting a divorce and because she was depressed. He insisted her death was suicide.
The district attorney had a difficult time building a case against the artist, despite all the circumstantial evidence. Finally, after two years, Castor was brought to trial. It looked like he was going to be convicted for his wife’s murder when the defense suddenly scored an enormous coup. They introduced into evidence a rambling letter written to Castor by his wife a week before she died. The letter stated, among other things, “No one in the world but you suspects that my insides are being eaten away by worms and I long for death every single hour of every single day.”
Here was a view of the deceased radically different from the image of the happy-go-lucky housewife the prosecutors had presented.
According to Bill Kurtis, the authoritative host of the show, that letter had a profound effect on the jury, persuading them that Mrs. Castor was hiding her true nature from the outside world. That, and the fact that no one actually saw Castor push his wife, led to his acquittal.
However I killed Monique, I was bound to be a suspect the minute they discovered the will in my favor. However, if Andre Castor—who had achieved his artistic reputation by stunts like drenching his naked body in cow’s blood while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner”—could get away with murder like that, so could I.
Pushing Monique off a great height was undoubtedly the most expeditious way to get rid of her. The question was where to do it? Luring her up to a roof was a long shot. Positioning her in front of a window at just the right moment and just the right angle was tricky as well. She was younger and stronger than I was. I’d have to catch her off guard. A terrace was a possible place. It had certainly worked for Uncle Laddie.
Or better yet, a secluded balcony—just like the one off the bedroom in my old apartment. The low stone balustrade and narrow ledge were ideal for the swift maneuver of a nimble murderer. It was the perfect spot for the perfect crime.
I envisioned my former bedroom and the French doors leading to the tiny balcony overlooking the service alley fifteen floors below—a completely private place. No one lived across the way. The balcony itself was a precarious spot. One had to be careful. I recalled the last time I’d walked outside onto that half-moon of stone and nearly fallen over the side myself. If I could get her out there, I’d hardly have to push her, just get her off balance so she’d fall.
There were logistical problems, to be sure: getting myself invited up to the apartment; being alone in the master bedroom with Monique; luring her out onto the balcony; shoving her off without being seen. Last, and most critical, of course, I had to get away before the body was discovered so I could claim I’d left the apartment before the fall occurred.
The more I thought about it, the more I saw the dangers inherent in the plan. Finally, I decided this approach was just too risky for me.
I went back to the idea of poison. A drug overdose, perhaps. That would at least give me some time to get away.
I suddenly remembered the Rotinal tablets Anne-Marie de Passy had given me. I still had the vial with Monique’s name on the prescription. I knew how powerful they were. One had knocked me out for almost an entire day. Four or five of them ground up in some beverage and Monique was history. The advantage of using the Rotinal was that the prescription was in her name. How could anyone prove she hadn’t taken them herself? I just had to figure out a way to administer the dose.
The more I thought about this method, the more I warmed to the idea. Anne-Marie de Passy had suspected Monique of killing her brother with an overdose of Rotinal. It would be poetic justice if Monique died the same way.
The hurdle in front of me now, however, was the will itself. If the signing didn’t go smoothly there was no point in killing Monique, for I’d have nothing to gain.
Tuesday morning I called the showroom to inform m
y odious supervisor, Mr. Armand, I’d be late for work. He pointed out that this was the fourth time I’d been late in a month. I didn’t care. I knew I wasn’t long for that dead-end job no matter what happened.
Oliva arrived at my apartment a little past nine. She had darkened her hair and cut it the way we discussed. She walked up the stairs with a heavy step. I let her in. She was puffy-eyed and cranky.
“I don’t do mornings,” she said, plopping down on the sofa.
I gave her a strong cup of coffee to wake her up. I offered to help her get dressed but she turned me away at the bedroom door, saying, “Back off, sugar. This ain’t the prom.”
I waited anxiously in the living room, smoking to calm my nerves. Forty-five minutes later, Oliva emerged from the bedroom wearing the black couture suit and hat I was lending her for the occasion. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She looked exactly like Monique. She was the Countess de Passy, right down to the deceptively gentle demeanor. It was remarkable.
As I wrapped an ace bandage around her right hand, we talked through all the important points one last time.
“What do you do when you first get there?”
“Be charming,” she said with a smirk.
“That’s right. Be charming, relaxed . . . but businesslike. Say how much Nate admires her as a lawyer. You can even make a little joke about how if he knew she was going to be representing you on the prenup, he might be upset . . . Chitchat. Know what I mean?”
“Gotcha.”
“Then what do you do?”
“How many the hell times do we have to go over this?” she said.
“Just go on.”
“Okay okay, . . . So after she’s talked to me about the prenup for a while, I tell her I have this one other thing that’s on my mind. I mention the will. I say I’m anxious about it because I’ve got this trip coming up. I say I just happen to have a copy of it with me and I’d love to get it signed right away just for some peace of mind. I know she probably can’t help me because I’ve hurt my hand.”
Social Crimes Page 28