As I got out, I smelled wood smoke wafting from one of four chimneys. Four chimneys. I could see him now. He probably wore black turtlenecks and played classical music full-blast as he sat before a roaring fireplace, drawing on his draft table.
Girlfriend? Something thin and chic. An artist, perhaps. Lived in New York or Philly and joined Mark on the weekends. Name? Suzanne.
Dog? Purebred Weimaraner. Answered to Max.
Activities? Anything requiring athleticism and daring. Extreme kayaking in the Irish Sea. Mountain climbing in Colorado. It went without saying that Mark ran five miles each morning at the crack of dawn, his breath blowing white, Max the Weimaraner by his side. Suzanne at home curled on the couch sipping her hand-brewed Italian espresso coffee, glancing over the New York Times.
I was a moron. I’d been standing in Mark Knoffler’s driveway inventing Mark’s ultrapreppy fantasy world for him, staring at nothing but the trees. He’d probably already called the fuzz. Or maybe Suzanne had.
Max the Weimaraner did not bark when I rang the doorbell. Nor did Suzanne the artistic girlfriend answer the door. Mark did. He was wearing gray sweats and a brown-and-white Lehigh University T-shirt. He was balding.
He seemed a bit groggy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed and yanked on the sweats. The sweats were TV sweats, not tight running sweats. It was fair to say after assessing his small, middle-aged gut that Mark’s treadmill had been gathering dust in the basement for a while now. What was left of his brown hair was lopsided. He had bed head.
“I don’t do Avon,” he said, closing the door before I had a chance to put my foot in.
“I’m not an Avon lady. My name is Bubbles Yablonsky. I’m a neighbor of Phil Shatsky’s and a reporter at the News-Times.”
Mark arched his eyebrows as if this visit might be more interesting than a year’s supply of Skin So Soft. (Though, really, what could be more thrilling than that?)
“I’m looking for a Marguerite,” I said, taking a chance.
Mark didn’t move. He didn’t say, I’m awfully sorry, but you have been mistaken. There is no Marguerite.
Instead he said, “I’ll go get her, though it might take some time. She likes to sleep in.”
Then he closed the door. I hadn’t been invited in, either.
I often try to put myself in the places of the subjects I’m interviewing so I can get a better sense of what they’re feeling. If some poor woman whose husband had recently blackmailed her into marriage had shown up at my doorstep asking for a Marguerite, I’d like to think I’d have invited her in.
Ten minutes later, during which I cleaned out the receipts from my purse, organized my pens, paid my phone bill and removed a suspicious candy stuck to my checkbook, the door opened and there stood Marguerite.
At least, I’d assumed it was Marguerite. She was dressed in a luxurious Japanese blue silk kimono and her rather large feet were stuffed into matching slippers. Nails were long and red, the kind you find on women who don’t do dishes. Yet her hands were rough and callused.
But there was that hair. It was the same hair I’d seen profiled in the Lincoln parked in front of Phil Shatsky’s house. It was big, big blond hair. And that’s coming from a woman who knows a thing or two about follicle volume.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she singsonged in an absurdly high falsetto. “Won’t you come in?”
I entered a foyer that opened to a step-down living room, the opposite wall of which was nothing but windows looking out to the ravine below.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
There was something off about Marguerite.
It might have been the chest hairs.
“No, thank you.” I bit my lip, thinking about how to phrase this. “You’re Mark Knoffler, aren’t you?”
He grabbed my arm. “It’s the makeup. It’s too much, isn’t it?”
My skilled eye took in the penciled brows, the blue lids and kohl-rimmed eyes framed by thick false eyelashes. “Actually, I think your makeup’s perfect. And I work as a hairdresser, so I should know.”
He brought his red-nailed hands to his lips. “That’s it. That’s how I know your name. Phil told me about you. You’re the one who found Debbie.”
“I was the one who was working on her hair when she died.” I pointed to the living room. “Do you mind if we sit down and talk? I’m beat.”
He apologized profusely for being so rude and sat me in a pink floral chair. Then he ran off to make tea and returned with a complete silver service and poured me a cup, asking me if I’d like sugar or cream. Every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of his black socks under his robe, his white calves with little black hairs.
When the elaborate tea preparations were done, he said, “You’re probably wondering about this.” He picked at the lapel of his robe.
“Not really.” I put down my cup. “To tell the truth, I was wondering how you got hold of Debbie’s clothes when I saw you in Phil Shatsky’s car giving him a Full Sweeney.”
Mark nodded. “That’s easy enough to explain. Debbie gave them to me. Actually, I’m extremely proud of how well I pull off this other persona. I’m not a transvestite by nature. It’s a stretch for me.”
“Pardon?”
“You see, every time Debbie went shopping and bought a dress on sale, she’d pick up one for me, too, provided she could get it in my size.” He held out a plate of cookies. “Cutouts? Or are you sick of them already?”
“Never.” I chose a Santa Claus and bit the head off. It was his just deserts for shooting me up all over town. “Why would Debbie buy clothes for you when you go around giving her husband Full Sweeneys?”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m about to get remarried on Saturday.”
“Then you have my sympathies.”
“Thanks.”
He dipped a candy cane cookie in his tea. “So you should understand what I mean when I say that no one can judge a marriage unless one’s in it.”
“Amen to that”—I was going to add “sister” and stopped—“brother.”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I really don’t care who knows now. I don’t think Phil does, either, after all that’s happened.” He took a deep breath. “Debbie and Phil’s marriage was arranged. Arranged by me.” He added this juicy addendum with pride.
I regarded my Santa Claus with the red sugar and picked off his foot, trying hard not to convey the shock I felt. “I see.” Though I didn’t. “How did that happen?”
“Debbie used to be my travel agent. She knew I was gay and I knew she was having problems with her ex-husband, Ernie. Do you know about him?”
“Kind of. He practically died in my car last night.”
“That’s too bad,” Mark said without emotion. “Anyway, I had just met Phil and we were hitting it off and looking forward to a long-term relationship. One problem. Ninety percent of Phil’s business is centered on housewife referrals. Women choose him above others because he turns them on. He is a stud among plumbers. He’d get three offers of marriage a week before he married Debbie. I kid you not.”
“Which is how Debbie came in.”
“Right. She needed an excuse to get away from Ernie, as well as a house and companionship and a man who could protect her if Ernie came back for revenge. While Phil, who was afraid of losing business if it got out he was gay, needed a—”
“Beard,” I said.
Mark frowned. “I really hate that term. It’s wrong on so many levels.”
“Sorry. But didn’t Debbie mind Phil going off with you, especially when you were disguised as her?”
He stirred his tea, thinking. “It was beginning to bother her, yes. Lately, she’d been making overtures to Phil. I think she was buying the right-wing who-ha that gay men can be set straight. Hello? Like, didn’t she ever hear of biology?”
I didn’t think he’d win with the biology argument, but decided to hold my tongue.
Instead, I remained focused on whether this bizarre configuration might have led to Debbie’s murder.
“What do you mean by overtures?”
“Of the sexual kind.”
“She must have been lonely.” I recalled Debbie’s constant, loud boasting about how great her marriage was, how hot the sex. It was just as Mama had taught me growing up. The only reason people brag is to draw your attention away from those failings they hope you won’t see.
“If you ask me,” he continued, though I hadn’t, “Debbie got the better end of the stick. Phil kept that house in immaculate order. He did all the laundry, all the cooking and even cleaned her cat’s smelly litter box. All Debbie did was pay the bills.”
Ding! Money. That was Debbie’s thing.
“She paid the bills?”
“Why else would Phil agree to this arrangement? He lived rent- and board-free. The only bill he ever paid was the insurance on his car.”
A kept man. And he didn’t even have to sleep with her. He was like a nongigolo gigolo.
“Still, how does a woman who works as a travel agent afford to pay for all that?” I asked.
Mark scooted to the edge of the couch. “Now, if you’ve been able to track down little old me, Bubbles Yablonsky, hairdresser and reporter, I’m sure it comes as no surprise to learn that Debbie always had a scam going.”
I finished off the Santa Claus. “She had more than one?”
“Whatever worked.”
“Like the Lust Boat cruises.”
He held up his hands. “You’ll get nothing from me about Debbie’s dealings. And Phil doesn’t know, either. We operated on a need-to-know basis with Debbie, and our position was the less we knew, the better.”
I picked up my cup and finished off the tea. It was delicious, perfectly brewed, flavorful and comforting. Why didn’t I drink tea more often? It was so much more tolerable than coffee. A much better way to start the day than with Diet A-Treat.
“One last thing,” I said. “Before she died, Debbie was in the salon loudly telling of a Marguerite calling her house at three a.m. and of being in love with Phil. But if you’re Marguerite, then that doesn’t make sense.”
“Then maybe the story wasn’t meant for you,” he said. “Maybe the story was meant for someone else in the salon to overhear. Did you ever think about that?”
“The only other people in the salon were Sissy Dolan and Tula Kramer, two grandmothers who’ve been Sandy’s clients since she opened the House of Beauty about twenty years ago.”
Mark shrugged. “Then you never know. For some women, the only reason to be married is to have a husband to show off. It’s kind of sad, when you think about it. But that was Debbie. She had no inner life, just an external one. She was like a Christmas ornament, shiny and fragile and completely hollow inside.”
Chapter Thirty-one
It turned out that my Thursday was to be a day of surprises. First, Jane declared her independence from Dr. Caswell. Then Dan forced me into marrying him once and for all. Marguerite turned out to be Phil Shatsky’s gay lover. And when I walked into the newsroom I discovered that, lo and behold, I no longer existed.
“I’m sorry, Miss Yablonsky,” Veronica said in perfect innocence, “but unless you have an appointment, I can’t buzz you in.”
I regarded the swinging half door that separated the reporters at the News-Times from the people they were supposed to be writing about. I could leap that sucker, even wearing this black knit dress.
“Cut it out, Veronica, and let me in.”
“Honestly, Dix Notch has declared you don’t exist. We’re supposed to pretend like you never worked here. All your stuff has been packed in boxes and has been sent to your house, except for your extensive nail-polish collection. That I threw out.”
“Threw out!” Okay, that was over the line. I had over twenty bucks’ worth of Sally Hansen in my upper-righthand drawer.
“By the way, you never did do my nails for free like you promised.”
Oh, brother. As though I hadn’t had more pressing issues. “If you’re not going to let me in, then at least let me talk to Mr. Salvo. He’ll take care of it.”
“Mr. Salvo and Mr. Notch are out with the other editors at the Union Club for their annual holiday lunch. They won’t be back for hours and I’m to call security if you so much as touch that door.”
This was nuts. Not Notch banning me from the newsroom. There was nothing new about that. He was always finding one way or another to get me canned. And I’d assumed my days were numbered when he exiled me to the corner of lifestyle. But throwing out my nail-polish collection? That smacked of pure vindictiveness.
I searched the newsroom for an ally, someone to rescue me from this manicure-craving Cerberus, and spied Lawless crossing to his desk from the cafeteria. I waved to him.
He completely ignored me.
“Lawless!” I shouted.
He sat down, opened his brown paper bag, pulled out a sandwich and popped open a Coke.
“LAWLESS!”
Nothing. He was pretending not to hear me, the scum.
I watched as Alison carried over a salad in a tidy Tupperware container. She sat next to him at her—my—desk, stirred the salad with a fork and took a long draft from a water bottle. And then, much to my horror, she leaned over and offered Lawless something. He smiled, nodded and took a bite of her tomato.
Lawless eating a vegetable. I felt the Earth move. It was clear they were now much, much more than simple coworkers.
He was in love. He and Alison had been conducting an affair behind my back.
Without waiting for Veronica’s meaningless approval, I snatched up her phone and dialed 215, Lawless’s extension.
“Lawless,” he answered.
“So,” I began, “Alison is an untalented rookie, is she? Taking your spot and stealing the stories that are rightfully yours, eh? Looks like you two are cozier than you let on.”
Lawless turned his back to Alison and covered the phone. “Will you chill out?”
“No, I will not chill out. What happened to all my notes I took yesterday? Where are my computer files?”
“Shhh. You’re going to ruin everything.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Suddenly, I was furious and only part of my anger had to do with Lawless. It was Notch who’d had me exterminated. It was Dan who was forcing me into marriage. They were the ones I wanted to throttle.
But Dan and Notch weren’t on the other end of my line. Lawless was, and like it or not, he was going to have to bear the brunt of my fury.
“I knew I couldn’t trust you. I just knew it. I confided in you and you’ve been running into Notch’s office and feeding him everything I’ve said. Then you’ve been canoodling with Alison, the young and pretty college grad.”
Lawless glanced at me and turned away. “Did Veronica hear you say that?”
I did a quick check of Veronica, who was playing at sorting the afternoon’s mail, her ear tuned for maximum information retrieval.
“I don’t care.”
“She’s the one you’ve got to watch out for. She’s his snitch.”
“Bull. You’re the one who finked to Notch, Lawless.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “She’s going to repeat everything to Notch when he comes back, so shut your pie hole. Now let me explain something to you and then you can go.”
Go? I hadn’t planned on going anywhere.
“You know that so-called star file you’re so eager to get? I think Notch is in it somewhere. That’s why he wants this story off page one. That’s why he fired you today. He’s got something to hide.”
“But—”
“No buts, Bubbles. He’s also got a rock-solid case for firing you. You knew that Sandy had gone on the lam and yet you didn’t tell anyone here.”
“I told you.”
“Which should prove that I haven’t been snitching to Notch. The point is, you didn’t tell Alison, who was writing a story that made us look
like idiots when it said Sandy was not a suspect. Turns out, there’s a goddamn warrant out for her arrest.”
Only for questioning, I thought.
“And there’s something else. Notch received a call today from a woman named Tess Montague.”
Oh, no, I thought, Tess.
“Apparently you interviewed her extensively in the bathroom of the Masonic temple about Debbie Shatsky and you never identified yourself as a reporter. You told her you were a beautician, nothing more. That’s grounds for immediate termination and you know it.”
“Bull. Tess is friends with Dan’s ex-wife, Wendy. She knew full well I was a reporter.”
“Not until after she’d answered your questions did she find that out. That’s what she told Notch.”
He was right. I hadn’t been up-front with Tess and that was grounds for immediate termination. It was in the ethics handbook. Thou shalt not misrepresent. Though I’d had my reasons and they’d been valid ones.
“I have to say, Bubbles, as much as I’m on your side, misrepresenting yourself was really dumb. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I said glumly, massaging my temple. “It’s so much easier sometimes. Whenever I say I’m a reporter, people either tense up and shut their doors or they burst out laughing.”
Lawless was silent.
Suddenly, I was overcome with exhaustion. Stupid Debbie Shatsky and her big boasts. Things would have been so different if I hadn’t volunteered to help Sandy in the salon on Monday, or if Debbie hadn’t been desperate for superhigh hair.
To think my career at the News-Times had been done in by hair extensions. Not by all the bigwig steel lawyers who had tried to cut me at the knees, but by latex and hair, the death knell rung in the women’s room of a Masonic temple.
Ironic? Uh, yeah.
“It’s over this time,” Lawless said softly. “I’m afraid you’ve run out of second chances.”
“I know,” I said, and thanked him for his kindness. One more touché to irony that, in the end, Lawless would be my only remaining friend.
Yes, it was over. My career at the News-Times was done. I hung up the phone and managed a forgiving smile at Veronica. Then I took one long, last sweeping glance of the newsroom, the cubicles, the papers piled high and the reporters hunched over their keyboards.
Bubbles All The Way Page 26