“Don’t you want to know where I’m going?” I asked.
“Only if you care to tell me, dear,” she said blithely. At that very moment I saw something that both shocked and sickened me. Ramon, the shampoo boy, was working at my station with one of my regular customers. They were laughing and teasing each other like secret lovers, while I, the cuckolded spouse, looked on in despair. I had been neglecting my home and now I saw it disintegrating before me.
Nicole said, “I’m sure Ramon can help me close up.”
“Or open up,” I snapped back, then instantly regretted the double entendre. One of my worst imaginings was that Ramon would eventually replace me as Nicole’s lead stylist and confidante.. Now it seemed to be coming true.
She removed her reading glasses, looked directly into my eyes, and said, “Stanley, I realize that you are under tremendous stress, more than I’ve ever seen you in, actually. And I’m sure that explains the remark you just made, as well as the prima-donna attitude you’ve recently adopted. Now, I’ll continue to help you as much as I can, but frankly I do not condone what you are doing, nor how it’s affecting your work. I have a business to run here, and lately you have been more of a liability than an asset.”
I said nothing, realizing that explanations were futile.
Nicole continued, “Ramon will be finished shortly, and you can take your next appointment at your station then.”
I bowed my head and shuffled away sulkily. I knew Nicole was right. How much longer could I pretend that I was Perry Mason without serious consequences to my job and my friendship with her?
A short time later, I reclaimed my station, and Ramon returned to his own work in the shampoo area, but I noticed a smug grin appear on his face whenever he caught my eye. Once I was with my customers, though, I was all happy talk, busy fingers, hello doll, kiss-kiss.
And what a welcome sight when one of my favorite people arrived for her weekly appointment! Mallory Framson stood five feet exactly and weighed ninety-five pounds to the ounce. Her sparrowlike size belied her regal deportment, burnished like fine silver by eighty years of glorious living, most of it as a concert pianist and teacher. Mallory insisted on having her thick white hair styled the same way every time—bobbed and brushed back away from her face. On someone else it might have created a stark, boyish look, but on Mallory it reflected her progressive energy, which was always moving forward in time and space.
The rest of the afternoon went fast. Around six o’clock I said good night to Nicole and made for the back door. She followed me there, then grabbed me and hugged me hard. “Stani, I was foolish to say the things I did earlier. Forgive me.”
“I’m the fool, Nikki. I’ve brought it all on myself.”
“Let me help you.”
“I wish you could, but now it’s become personal. You were right … it’s part of my obsessive nature. Until I find out how and why Calvin killed Roger and then prove it to Branco, I won’t be able to stop.”
“Stani, be careful, please.”
“I’m trying.” I got in the car and drove home again to check on Yudi. There was no sign of him anywhere, so I glumly set off for Cambridge and my rendezvous with Jennifer Dough ton. As I drove, I recalled how Yudi had appeared and disappeared at Yosemite a lot, and tried to reason that perhaps it was just the way he did things. After all, he’d been gone only about twelve hours. I just hoped he was safe, wherever he was.
Traffic and parking in Harvard Square took more time than I expected, and I was a few minutes late getting to the Harvest Lounge. I looked around the place, then checked with the hostess. Fortunately, Jennie hadn’t arrived yet. I sat in a remote private booth and ordered a drink. My mind raced with confused thoughts of Roger, Calvin, Aaron, and Hal; then of Yosemite, Yudi, Wacky-Jacky, and Mr. Leonard; and finally of Branco and Nicole. I was in a mess, and I realized I was counting on Jennifer Doughton’s arrival with her important news to set things straight.
Ten minutes later a handsome waiter—not the one who’d taken my order—came to my table. I assumed he was checking my drink (or perhaps some other more personal need), but instead, he said, “Mr. Kraychik?” I nodded, and he handed me a small note that said:
Sorry.
False alarm.
J.D.
False alarm? What about the “unbelievable” facts Jennie had turned up? What about all the enthusiasm she had shown earlier that day? I asked the waiter, “Who gave you this?”
“Someone telephoned. I wrote it down.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Just to give the message to you.”
“No other words?”
He shook his head.
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Woman.”
“Thanks.” I tipped him, drank up, and left.
I drove to the Choate Group offices, but the place was closed and locked. I went back into town and checked again at my place for a sign from Yudi. He wasn’t there, no written message, and nothing on the answering machine. I called Nicole, but she had no word on him either. I got back in the car and drove around the Back Bay searching for him. I knew it would be futile, but I had to do something. How can someone just disappear?
After two hours of aimless driving I gave up and went home. What a nice surprise to find Sugar Baby waiting for me there! Nikki had brought her back and had left a note telling me that she was rooting for me, no matter what I had to do. I poured myself some Pernod and played mousie with Sugar Baby. Then I watched television. Then I poured more Pernod. Then I sulked and brooded. Then I drank more Pernod. I knew I was just marking time, waiting for Yudi to magically materialize the way he did in Yosemite. Finally, around midnight, I collapsed into bed.
That’s when I returned to a shady redwood grove in Yosemite. Everything was peaceful and beautiful under one of the gigantic trees. Birds chirped and blossoms swayed. I looked up and saw Yudi sitting on a branch high overhead, holding his suitcase tightly to his chest. I waved, but he didn’t see me. Then Lieutenant Branco appeared from behind the tree trunk and walked toward me. He opened his arms to welcome me, and he pulled me close to him. I felt the strength and warmth of his body pressing against mine. Finally, I was safe! He was about to kiss my neck when loud explosions interrupted everything.
Sugar Baby was sprawled heavily on my chest, lapping my neck with her scratchy tongue. Someone was pounding on my apartment door.
“Stan! You in there?”
In my anisette-laden torpor I recognized Branco’s voice. The clock near my bed said twenty minutes to seven. I thought, What the hell is he doing here at this hour? I wrapped a blanket around my naked body and stumbled to the door. I opened it to see Branco looking tired and sleepy. He wore old jeans and a faded plaid shirt under a black nylon parka. He looked like an ordinary mortal, for a change.
“Sorry to wake you, Stan, but it’s serious.”
Jesus, I thought. Yudi. My belly tightened in sharp spasms. I felt sick.
“Just tell me, Lieutenant.”
“It’s Calvin Redding. We found him about an hour ago in the Swan Pond in the Public Garden. He’s been strangled with a nylon rope.”
“Christ!” The squeezing around my chest stopped. “I thought it was Yudi.”
He studied me carefully for a moment, then said, “I’d like to come in.”
“Sure. I’ll go put some clothes on.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t stay long.”
Too bad, I thought.
Sugar Baby appeared in the bedroom doorway and indulged herself with a long stretch. Then she tiptoed gracefully out to evaluate my morning visitor. I asked Branco, “You want some coffee?”
“This is business.”
“Don’t cops drink coffee on the beat?”
“Lieutenants don’t have beats!”
Actually, Branco looked as though he needed a real drink, and maybe even a friendly little scuffle on the plush wool carpet in my living room. But that was in the dream, and this was reality. Or
was it? Was he really in my apartment at that hour, with me clad toga-like in a blanket and nothing else?
“I’ll make enough for two,” I said, “in case you change your mind.” I hiked my blanket up and went to the kitchen to prepare the coffee. Branco followed me, Sugar Baby him.
“Your little friend show up yet?”
“You mean Yudi?”
He nodded.
“No,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you’d have found him by now.”
“We’ve stepped up our search for him, especially now with Redding dead.”
“You don’t suspect Yudi?”
“Him … you …”
The cup I was holding in my hand was suddenly flying through the air toward the kitchen wall across from me. “Damn it to hell!” I screamed as the cup crashed against the wall and broke into three large pieces. Sugar Baby vanished from sight. The blanket almost fell from my shoulders.
“Good thing that cup was empty,” Branco said calmly.
“Why me!”
“Because you’ve been pursuing Calvin Redding with a vengeance since the first killing.”
“That’s right! And if you’d listened to me, Calvin would be alive now. Damn! We could have wrung the truth out of him. Now we’ll never know what happened.”
Branco remained calm. “Can you account for your time last night?”
“I was here all night.”
“Maybe you had a guest who could verify that?”
I spat the words, “I was here alone all night! You can check the bedroom if you dare.”
Then the untrusting bastard left the kitchen to look in the bedroom. He came back and said, “Nobody in there. Whose stuff is that in the living room?”
“Yudi’s. He was staying here until he disappeared.”
Branco went to the two suitcases and rummaged quickly through the clothes inside.
“I hope you’ve got a search warrant, Lieutenant.”
Branco glared at me. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He stood up and came back to the kitchen.
I said, “I thought you found your new suspect in Aaron Harvey.”
“He wasn’t where you said he was.”
“He was there yesterday morning. I found him and I talked to him in person, two things you seem incapable of doing. But, Lieutenant, you’re not still chasing that blackmail angle, are you?”
Branco narrowed his eyes. “If Aaron was blackmailing Redding, why would he kill him?”
“Exactly my point the other night! He wouldn’t, unless Calvin put Aaron in his will, or put the condo in his name, or something like that. I don’t know. You’re the cop! You’re the one with the bloody rule book! You go and find out, instead of saying ‘no-no-no’ to me and then trying to pin a murder on me. All I did was go to sleep last night! Alone!”
On the stove, the little Italian pot gurgled, and the coffee was ready. I poured two cupfuls and pushed one toward Branco. “Here’s your fuckin’ coffee.” I couldn’t look him in the face, not after the dream I’d just had, so I sipped quietly for a few minutes. It was good stuff from Celebes. Finally I broke the silence. “It seems all we ever do is argue. Can’t we just talk about something neutral for once?”
“Like what?”
“The weather.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s hot, it’s cold, it rains, it snows.”
The corner of Branco’s lip curled into the tiniest smile, then relaxed. We sipped our coffee without a word. Then I looked at him and saw a weary face. His blue-gray eyes, usually luminous, were veiled with a disappointed glaze. Maybe he really did work hard, even for a cop.
I said, “So, are you still on the case?”
Branco nodded. “But I’m keeping an extra-low profile. I won’t go against orders, but I’m going to find that killer.”
I wondered how long his renewed commitment would last. Suddenly Branco banged his cup down like a gavel. “If your friend shows up, tell him to report to me immediately.” Then he went to the door.
“Sure thing, Lieutenant. Maybe you could even try to find him yourself, while you’re looking for Aaron Harvey.” I followed him to the door, and when I opened it for him, I said curtly, “Have a good one.”
He turned and looked at me. “Have a good what?”
“Whatever …” Then I explained, “That’s how they talk out West.”
“This is the East,” he muttered, and he walked out the door.
What had begun in the world of erotic dreams ended like that.
I opened the shop at nine that morning, did one body wave and a color-cut, then met Nicole coming in as I was on my way out the door at ten-thirty.
She sighed. “Now where?”
“Cambridge,” I said.
“You were just there yesterday! Has Yudi showed up yet?”
“No, but listen, Nikki, something incredible has happened. Calvin Redding is dead. They found his body early this morning. Strangled.”
“Another one!”
“Yeah, and my prime suspect as Roger’s killer.”
“Well, now who do you suspect?”
“Whom, doll. And to be honest, I suspect anyone and everyone, excluding you and me, of course.”
“Of course. What’s in Cambridge this time?”
“I want to talk with Jennie Doughton at the Choate Group. She didn’t show up for our meeting last night.”
“So that’s what you were up to?”
“Among other things. I want to find out what changed her mind.”
‘‘When will you be back?”
“Around one.”
Nicole harumphed and shook her head. “Just go!” she ordered.
On the drive to Cambridge the overcast sky turned the variegated trees, which had blazed with color yesterday, murky and dull. I pulled into the Choate Group lot and parked in a place right near the door marked RESERVED in big red letters. The receptionist, my newfound object of torment, was waiting for me at the door, waving his arms in a frenzy.
“You can’t park there!”
“Why not.”
“It’s reserved.”
“Is it?” I gave him my best puppy-dog face and I handed the car keys to him. “Then would you mind moving it, Muffin?”
I walked into the building and jogged up the ramp to Jennifer Doughton’s office. Through the glass walls I could see she wasn’t there. The door was locked, and something else was wrong. Everything but the desks and chairs had been removed from the office she once shared with Calvin Redding. All the drawers were halfway open and empty. I was peering through the thick glass wall when I heard a familiar voice.
“I’m afraid she’s gone.”
I turned and saw Roy Brickley approaching me. He continued, “It was totally unexpected, but I imagine she’s been under a lot of strain and just didn’t know what else to do. I wish she’d come to me first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jennifer Doughton has left the Choate Group.”
“How can she have done that? I just spoke with her yesterday.”
“I know, and last night she said good night as though she’d be coming in as usual. But when I arrived this morning, I found her office completely emptied. She’s just walked out on us, and believe me, I’m shocked. Of course, with this kind of departure it will be difficult to recommend her for employment elsewhere.”
“Didn’t she leave a resignation letter or something to explain her sudden departure?”
“Nothing,” said Brickley.
“It’s hard to believe,” I said, “especially after ten years with the firm.”
Brickley’s eyes twitched for an instant. “You seem to know a lot about Ms. Doughton,” he said with a beneficent smile. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Jennifer Doughton had been caught snooping and had been fired outright. I felt bad, since I’d put her up to it. Brickley continued, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Have you heard the news about Calvin Redding?”
�
��What news?”
“Turns out he didn’t leave town after all, Mr. Brickley.”
“Then you’ve seen him?”
“The police found him facedown in the Swan Pond this morning. Strangled.”
Brickley wavered slightly, then held on to the balcony railing. “Oh dear! My poor boy.”
“Hardly a boy.”
“Calvin was like a son to me. He was a brilliant talent. Do they know who did it?”
“They’re looking for Aaron Harvey.”
Brickley shuddered. “I warned Calvin about him. Oh, oh, oh! I must call Vivian. This is horrible, horrible news! She’ll be devastated, I’m sure. First Jennifer, and now this!” Roy Brickley hurried up the ramp to the next level, went into his office, and closed the door. His emotion seemed real enough, but I couldn’t tell whether it was grief over Calvin’s sudden death or some other response.
Then I wondered if Jennifer Doughton’s disappearance was connected to Calvin’s death. She’d certainly despised Calvin Redding enough to want to kill him. And from what I could determine, she had the strength to do it. But would she actually kill him? Had she found some piece of information that had driven her to it? Had she killed him and botched it, so that now she was running from the police? Perhaps Jennifer Doughton did have good reason to vanish suddenly. I already knew that neither the police nor I would find a trace of her at her apartment.
I was leaving through the Choate Group lobby when I heard the receptionist arguing with another associate who wanted the space my car was in. While they bickered, I snatched my keys from his hand, got into my car, and drove off. On the way back to town I suddenly remembered something Yudi had said the first night we were together in Boston. I double-parked outside my place and bounded up the stairs. Perhaps that certain “something” he’d wanted to show me the other night was still in his bags.
18
THE CONCIERGE SYNDROME
IT WAS SOMETHING I’D NEVER DONE before, though I’d imagined it often enough. Such behavior was commonplace, even encouraged, among some members of my old-fashioned Czech family. Still, as I began the deed, my stomach churned in disgust, and I actively tried to convince myself that what I was doing had to be done.
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