by Gloria Dank
“I hear you, Snooks.”
“Why did I volunteer to help Detective Bentley? Was I not in my right mind?”
“I would imagine it was a moment’s feverish hallucination.”
“Yes, that must have been it,” said Snooky, beginning to scrape with short, angry strokes. “That must have been it.”
Snooky spent the next few days over at Hugo’s Folly, helping Sarah with the meals. Irma was up and about, and the three of them spent a lot of time together, chatting in the kitchen, having tea in the living room. Gertie popped in for meals, but otherwise was, like the wildlife she pursued, rarely to be glimpsed. She would come into the kitchen, unload various objects from her pockets—usually a messy-looking collection of twigs, bits of moss, brown leaves and feathers—and stand rubbing her hands together over them.
“Naked miterwort,” she once announced brusquely to Snooky as he passed by her on his way into the dining room.
“Pardon me?”
“Naked miterwort. I’m sure of it. It’s an herb, you know. A perennial. Your sister would have heard of it. Of course this bit is all blasted, but then it is winter.” She brooded over the tiny twig in her hand.
“How fascinating,” Snooky said kindly.
“Yes. I’ve been coming up with the most amazing specimens. This year is the best ever. I can’t wait for spring. Miterwort flowers in April.”
“What’s this here?” Snooky asked, pointing at a piece of measled gray fur.
“Not sure. I think it might be rat.”
“Rat?”
“There are rats in these woods, didn’t you know that? Norway rats. This is my greatest find so far.” She held up a long feather reverently. “Do you know what this is?”
“A feather?”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s from a goshawk. An honest-to-God goshawk. One of the biggest birds I’ve ever seen in these parts. May have come down from Canada. Don’t know what it’s doing here. It was a young one, too. Gorgeous.” She twirled the feather, a dreamy expression in her eyes.
Snooky picked over the small pile of pine cones, leaves, feathers and fur. “What’s this?”
“That?” She looked at him, amused. “That’s a maple leaf. You mean to say you don’t recognize a maple leaf?”
“Oh.”
“Pathetic, the level of botanical education they give to the young these days. I suppose you spent your college days partying and fooling around with women?”
This was, in fact, an uncannily accurate description of the time Snooky had spent in college, but he felt obliged to defend himself. “I was interested in philosophy,” he said hotly. “I read Kierkegaard.”
Gertie gave him a withering glance. “Philosophy!” she said. “Philosophy is not life. Botany is life. Philosophy is—is just words.”
With a loud harrummphing sound, she turned back to her little pile of treasured odds and ends, dismissing him.
Over lunch, Snooky remarked on how well Irma was looking. “You seem to have come back to yourself, Irma. You must be feeling better.”
“I am, dear.” Irma was wearing a white cashmere dress and a red scarf which matched her lipstick. Her face glowed with color, not all of it artificial, and her eyes were a bright, bright green. Her gray hair was neatly curled around her little head, every strand firmly anchored in place with hairspray.
“You do look awfully well, Aunt Irma,” said Sarah, on the other side of the table.
Gertie, hunched in her chair, feeding rapaciously, not unlike one of the goshawks she was so fond of, made a kindly booming sound in agreement. Irma trilled to herself and looked pleased.
“Life goes on, my dears. Life goes on. Of course I will never really get over the terrible shock of it, but life goes on. I went on alone after Hugo’s death, too.”
Sarah murmured in sympathy. Gertie paused, her fork in mid-air.
“Hugo was a good man,” she said.
“Oh, yes, dear … yes, he was. The very best.”
“He was a good brother.”
“So he was.”
“Not right to have somebody take his place.”
Irma stared at her, her eyes wide. There was a sudden palpable tension in the air, like frost, or a storm cloud moving in.
“Gertie, I’ve been alone now for nearly fifteen years since Hugo passed on. You don’t begrudge me my little bit of happiness, do you?”
Gertie looked embarrassed. She made a brusque waving motion with her fork and knife. “No. Sorry. Didn’t mean it.”
The atmosphere relaxed. Irma picked up her wineglass and began chatting about her plans for the day. “First I’ll go to Harry’s Market and see if he has anything good … then I’ll go to Tiny Sam’s for a cup of coffee.” Tiny Sam’s was a little diner in town—in fact the only diner in town. It was run by Tiny Sam himself, who always made a point of waiting on Irma when she was there. Tiny Sam was a giant of a man, nearly six and a half feet tall, weighing over three hundred pounds. “He’s such a pet,” she said now. “Always so kind. He sent me flowers when Bobby died, did you know that? Such a kind man. It’s too bad he’s already married.”
“Aunt Irma!”
“Oh, well, dear, there’s no harm in it. We all enjoy our little flirtations. And I’m very fond of Tiny Sam’s wife, too.”
Tiny Sam’s wife was a resigned-looking little mouse of a woman who, after twenty-five years residence in Lyle, had not yet acquired a name of her own. She was known far and wide simply as “Tiny Sam’s wife.” She was a worn-looking woman with a pointed little face and fluffy brown hair that she had styled every week, with various unsuccessful results, at Dinah’s House of Beauty, the only hairdresser’s in town. The lunch counter was her domain and she ruled over it with an iron hand, scuttling back and forth between the counter and the kitchen like a rat in a very simple maze. It was known that Tiny Sam was slavishly devoted to his wife and was, despite his size, completely cowed by her. She would flick a spatula against his massive side and announce to the restaurant at large, “Got to take off this weight. Got to take off this weight, Tiny Sam.” However, despite this well-meaning mantra repeated several times a day for twenty-five years, Tiny Sam never did take off any weight. Instead, he increased, slowly but with inexorable force, putting on an extra inch here, another roll of avoirdupois there. It seemed impossible that Tiny Sam’s wife could even get her arms all the way around his incredible girth. Still, they seemed perfectly happy in their own way. “Got to take off this weight,” she would announce joyfully every day in her rasping voice, as if the idea had just struck her. “Got to take off this weight, Tiny Sam.”
“Yes, dear heart.”
Irma was still detailing her plans for the day. “And after Tiny Sam’s, I’ll go on to the bakery and see if I can pick up a nice fresh bread for dinner. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Sarah? Maybe a nice hot wheat loaf. And some buns for tea, and one of their cheesecakes for dessert. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful, Aunt Irma.”
“I’ll be in the woods,” said Gertie shortly, pushing back her chair.
“I have to go myself,” said Snooky. “Bernard’s getting peevish because I haven’t been around to cook meals for him. I promised him and Maya dinner tonight.”
Sarah walked him to the door and gave him a kiss. “You’ll be okay?” he asked her.
“Uh-huh. I have to study, anyway. The LSATs are coming up in a couple of months. I want to be ready.”
“I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“How happy William would be to know that I’m going out with a lawyer, one of his own kind,” said Snooky. “That’s why I haven’t told him about you. I know what he’d say.”
“And what’s that?”
“He’d ask me, ‘What does she see in you?’ ”
“I’d like to meet William sometime. He can’t be as bad as you say.”
“Oh, he is. And his wife is worse.”
“And his children?”
“Two
little monsters, unredeemed by any of the common traits of humanity.”
“Go,” said Sarah, giving him a gentle push out the door. “Bernard is waiting for his dinner.”
Snooky was driving down the long winding road leading from Hugo’s Folly, humming contentedly to himself (the radio in his rented car was broken and he hadn’t bothered to get it fixed yet), when an extraordinary sight met his eyes. There was a woman teetering down the road toward him. She was wearing three-inch spike heels and seemed barely able to keep her balance, yet she was marching along determinedly, holding onto a large blue purse slung over her shoulder. Her hair was a mass of bright blond curls, and her face was a symphony of blue eyeshadow, pink rouge and red lipstick. As she lurched along on her stiletto heels, her coat fell open to reveal a bright yellow dress and a large expanse of heaving bosom. Snooky passed her, went twenty yards farther down the road, then braked to a screeching halt. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, and swung the car around.
When he reached her again, she was lurching along, making fairly good time on the way up to the Folly. There was a fiercely determined expression on her painted, overweight face.
Snooky rolled down the window and leaned out, slowing down to match her speed. “Hello, there,” he said pleasantly.
“Get lost, creep!” she snarled.
“I wonder if I could be so bold as to offer you a lift?”
“Get lost, or I’ll call the police.”
“Going to Hugo’s Folly?”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
“I surmise that you are,” Snooky said grandly, “since it’s the only house on this road. Sure I can’t offer you a lift?”
“Get lost, creep!”
“Very nice talking to you.” Snooky rolled up his window. He waited while she teetered away. Then he floored the accelerator and roared past her, turning the car to block the road. It was a narrow road, and to get past him she would have to go into the woods. The woman stopped, wavering uncertainly on her spike heels. He opened the door and got out.
“It’s no good,” he said. “I know who you are.”
She stared at him, her mouth a red clown circle in the artificial whiteness of her face.
“You’re Bobby Fuller’s mysterious girlfriend.”
Her mouth opened wider, an astonished zero.
“You’re on your way to confront Irma Ditmar, aren’t you? For stealing Bobby away from you?”
At this she suddenly came to life. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she snapped. She hurried back down the road the way she had come. Snooky, guessing that she had walked all the way from the Lyle train station, a distance of three miles, was impressed by the speed she still managed to muster. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled after her.
“It’s no good,” he called. “The police know who you are. You and Bobby were seen together. It’s only a matter of time until they find you.”
“Get lost, creep!” But somehow the ritual words had lost their punch. She teetered wildly on for a few more steps. All at once the bravado went out of her. She got tangled up in her own heels, tripped over herself and fell flat on the rocky road. When Snooky reached her, she was lying there, weeping pathetically.
“Don’t cry,” he said, genuinely concerned. “Don’t cry. Here. Come here.”
He helped her over to the side of the road, where she collapsed limply on a large rock. She flailed at him weakly with her hands. “Keep away from me. Creep.”
But it was said without real conviction. She opened up her purse and rummaged around, producing a large wad of Kleenex. She peeled one off the top and applied it delicately to her nose and eyes. “My makeup,” she wailed. “It’s ruined.”
Snooky sat down nearby and pulled his coat around him. It was a pale winter’s day, and the sunlight slanted weakly through the trees. “It’s cold. You should button up your coat.”
“Oh.” She scrabbled at it ineffectually, then blew her nose. “Yes.”
Now that Snooky had found her, there seemed to be, strangely enough, little to say. She fit Charlotte’s description exactly. At the moment, however, with her mascara running and her nose all red, she did not seem terribly brazen. The fight seemed to have gone out of her.
He waited until she had stopped snuffling. “Listen to me,” he said in a tone of authority. “You’re going to get into my car, and you’re going to come with me, and we’ll go somewhere in town and talk. The police know all about you. As I said, it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with you. I recognized you, didn’t I? So you see. I knew Bobby, too. I’ll help you if I can, but only if you tell me what’s going on. You were on your way to Hugo’s Folly?”
She nodded.
“All right. Come with me. I know someplace we can talk. I’ll get you something to eat, too. Your feet must be killing you.”
“I’m okay.”
But Snooky could see tiny spots of blood through her white stockings. She looked down at them, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Damn. Ruined my stockings, too. And these were a brand new pair.”
“Come on.”
He helped her hobble over to the car. He got in, started the engine, turned the car around and headed down the road in the direction of Lyle. His passenger did not seem to feel like talking. She sat slumped in her seat, staring dully out the side window.
“My name is Snooky Randolph. What’s yours?”
“What’s it to you?” she snapped, some of the old fighting spirit reviving. Snooky shrugged.
“Don’t tell me, if you don’t want to. Suit yourself. It won’t make any difference to the police. They have your full description. You and Bobby were seen together in Wolfingham, and you know what a fine police force they have.”
She apparently did not know, because this news seemed to depress her. She slumped farther down into her seat, and dabbed at her face with the tissue.
“So what’s your name?”
“Diane,” she muttered at last.
“All right, Diane. You live around here?”
She turned her face away.
Snooky was wondering where to take her. He drove cautiously down the main street in Lyle. There was really only one choice—Tiny Sam’s—but Irma had said she might drop in there later in the afternoon. He checked his watch. He thought they might have time.
When they entered the diner, Diane staggering along on his arm, Tiny Sam’s wife looked up from behind the counter and gave Snooky a friendly nod. She gestured toward one of the red vinyl booths in the back. Snooky made sure his companion was comfortably settled.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
It was so busy that Tiny Sam himself, in addition to a harried-looking waitress, was waiting on tables. He moved ponderously over to the booth and smiled at them. “Afternoon. What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” said Snooky. “And fries, and a chocolate milkshake. I love your chocolate milkshakes, Tiny Sam.”
Tiny Sam smiled. “And the lady?”
“The same, please.”
Tiny Sam left, moving like a vast ocean liner through the crowded waters of his diner, the waitress scurrying around him like a miniature tug. Snooky’s companion said, “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
She rummaged in her handbag, drew out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and leaned back with a sigh against the back of the booth. Smoke curled languorously past her face. Snooky could see that underneath the streaked makeup was a pretty, good-natured, rather stupid face, chubby and round, younger than she first appeared. She regarded him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. “You really know the police?”
“The detective in charge of this case is a close personal acquaintance.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
She chewed her lip. “They know about me, huh?”
“Yes, they do.”
She sighed and flicked her ash into the ashtray. “I guess I always k
new they’d find out about me. You can’t hide forever. Some poet said that.”
“So true.”
“I read poetry myself. I love T. S. Eliot. Don’t you? Have you ever read him? I love that bit about ‘a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.’ Isn’t that beautiful? I guess that describes how I feel right now. A pair of ragged claws, all alone, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.”
The effect of hearing T. S. Eliot—and one of his own favorite passages—quoted from the red, overpainted mouth of this grotesque-looking woman was startling. Snooky stared at her.
“You read T. S. Eliot?”
“Yeah.”
The meal arrived. Diane dissected her cheeseburger neatly with her knife and fork, eating it in rapid, tiny bites. “Bobby and I used to read poetry together. He had never read T. S. Eliot. I used to read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock to him at night.” She fell silent, depressed by this memory.
“How did you meet him?”
She regarded him warily. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I’m trying to help you. And because, if Detective Bentley gets hold of you, you’re going to need a friend. I speak from personal experience.”
The story that emerged, in bits and snatches, helped along by Snooky’s questions, was straightforward. Diane—her last name was Caldwell—worked as a hairdresser and manicurist in a shop in Wolfingham. One day, half a year ago, Bobby had walked in for a haircut.
“We started talking—of course I always talk to the customers—and at the end he asked me out. We went out to dinner and talked and talked and talked. Bobby was so … so sensitive.” A large tear glimmered in one mascara-smeared eye. “He was the nicest man I ever met. The kindest. He was always thinking of me, not of himself. We saw each other practically every day for three months. And then he met that—that woman.”
“And what happened?”
She picked up her smoldering cigarette and inhaled on it vigorously. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“He said that that old hag had fallen for him—of course, who wouldn’t? She chased after him for a while. He used to come and tell me about it, and we’d laugh together. But then … I don’t know. Suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore. Bobby started coming to my place less and less, and he always seemed so—so secretive about it. Like he didn’t want anyone to know. And we went out less and less, in case anybody might see us. Still, I couldn’t believe he’d leave me for that old hag. That bitch.”