Mike feels repelled and confused. And old. “Can I get a list of Press authors?”
She leans onto one curvy haunch as she paints her nails a shiny black, probably not in mourning. “Going back how long?”
He shrugs. “Ten years?”
She waves her talons in the air to dry them, then turns to her computer and begins typing, the clicks of her fingernails hitting the keys like corn popping. “My question is, like, will I get a paycheck this week? Cause I have, like, bills. And I haven’t been paid in a month.” The printer spits out three pages, and she hands them to Mike.
“Who would want to cause . . .” (he almost says “like”) “ . . . harm to the Press?”
She pushes silky hair behind her curled-shell-like ears and taps the stud in her lip. It looks painful. “Omigod. It was high drama around here 24-7. New boyfriends, old boyfriends, bill collectors, banks cutting us off, writers wanting their money. Better than a soap opera. But murder? I don’t think so.”
Mike scans the list of Press authors. Three of them are also clients of the famous literary agent.
QUINCY QUAID’S APARTMENT smells like Raid and cat. The source of the latter odor, a yellow kitty with fur as fluffy as a dandelion, drapes itself at Mike’s feet and begins a rumbly purring as he rubs its head. Quincy Quaid is a delicate petite woman with a writhing mass of blonde hair, too much make-up, and a fluttering manner. “You’re a big strapping fellow, aren’t you? My, yes, nothing wussy about you. You may call me Quincy.” She gives his knee a flirtatious squeeze but he senses that her heart isn’t in it; her face is ashen, her eyes bloodshot.
“It’s almost as though your career was a target,” he says.
A tear slides down her cheek, carrying a speck of mascara with it. “I can’t go on. My creative spirit is broken.”
He feels a stab of sympathy; she seems fragile and vulnerable. “That would be a shame. I’ve enjoyed your books.”
“Mike, I’m terrified. I keep thinking they died because of me! Meanwhile, I’m not licking any envelopes!” She half-laughs, half-shudders.
HE TAKES THE subway to the address of the next author, a disheveled man reeking of bourbon, never a good sign at ten a.m. The writer shoos a tuxedo cat off the couch then clears a space by pushing aside an accumulation of unread newspapers, mail, beer cans, and pizza boxes. “Sit here. Want a drink?”
Mike declines. The writer picks up a glass of something that looks like water, but isn’t, and takes a goodly swallow before he says, “I’ll confess to an abiding, deep, permanent hatred for all three of them.”
“I confess I haven’t read your book.”
“You and the rest of the English-speaking world. Does literary scandal sell books? The question wasn’t answered, because The Press pulled back all copies and burned them.”
“A memoir?”
“It was fiction, baby, utter fiction. I’m a great writer, and it was a great story. But I’m a bald dork from Ohio and nobody wanted it. So screw ’em, I rewrote it as memoir, sent it to the dead agent who sold it in an auction to the dead publisher, to be edited by the dead editor. All three well aware it was fiction.”
Mike knows the book’s premise: a married couple, parents of four kids, find out they are siblings. The writer had written it as the story of his parents, a tragic yet vaguely icky tale. “So it wasn’t true? Your parents weren’t brother and sister?”
“You’re sharp, Sherlock. That’s what I said. Fiction. And those three left me nailed to a cross to die for their sins.”
“So you hated them.”
“Makes me a suspect, right?” He holds out trembling hands as if to be cuffed.
“Did you kill them?”
“No. But I’ll shake the hand of the sorry bastard who did it.”
Mike isn’t sure he is telling the truth. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. Should he come back with a search warrant? Somewhere in this sad clutter, would they find traces of arsenic trioxide?
HE PHONES THE third writer on both lists, a child psychologist from Charleston, the author of five books of advice for parents, starting with Baby Your Baby and ending with Talk to Your Teen. She has a breathy sexy voice with an accent marinated in grits, collards, and ’que. “Ah’m devastated. Ah’m readin’ galleys and suddenly the rug’s yanked and bam, Ah’m flat on ma ass with no agent and no publisher.”
Envisioning a pissed-off Daisy Mae in horn-rims, Mike apologizes for the intrusion and asks if she knows of any conflicts involving the victims.
“Absolutely not. We were a team, Mike. Teamwork is what Ah’m preaching in ma new book, Families That Flourish. But now ma team is gone and ma book with it.” She whispers, “Ah cain’t talk about it now, darlin’. Ah have to take ma kitty to the vet.” Mike hears a mournful piercing howl that gives him chills. What is it with writers and cats?
STAN, THE CLUB performer and new friend of the now-dead publisher, isn’t surprised that the detective wants to talk with him. He has mad ideas for who might have murdered his sweetheart and is dying to share them with a professional.
The detective is a bit overweight but in a firm not flabby way, with a nice face, kind of chiseled and Roman. Stan’s tortie cat likes him too; she weaves around his legs.
“The neighbors heard you arguing,” the detective says.
Stan jumps to his feet in horrified astonishment. “We were arguing? Discussing our feelings! That’s what people do who care about each other!” He can’t believe he might be a suspect. “Furthermore, I never even met that editor. Why would I kill someone I didn’t know?”
The detective shrugs his broad shoulders. “Accident, maybe. What were you two arguing about all night?”
Stan almost forgets his loss for a moment, so wrought up by the unfairness of it all. Also, he is sidetracked by the detective’s pecs and quads. Yummy. Too bad the fellow is a cop; Stan could get arrested, he supposes, for the slightest insinuation of a proposition. This dating thing is damned tricky, like traveling a pot-holed rutted highway, a dangerous bumpy journey almost not worth the effort. So when he’d met the publisher (now dead) and they’d hit it off so well (except for the intrusive presence of the publisher’s ex-wife, also now dead), he’d been so relieved, so glad to have someone who’d understand his emotional needs, assuage his fear of abandonment, tolerate his moodiness and outbursts. In return he had complimented the publisher’s gowns and make-up, suggesting in the most gently tactful way styles that flattered, that disguised the publisher’s burly body and stumpy legs. Now the detective is asking him about the deaths, as though he’s Snow White’s stepmom slipping poisoned apple slices into everyone’s lunch box.
“I loved him,” Stan says, “we were like that,” waggling his crossed fingers. “You can’t possibly believe I would do anything violent.”
“Poisoning isn’t violent, actually. It’s indirect, removed,” the dreamy cop says.
“Semantics. I could never murder anyone.” He closes his eyes to shut out the distracting man in a well-cut suit—clothes are so important—and thinks about his friend the publisher, now dead, gone forever. He is alone, again. Tears well up in his eyes and he pinches his nose to stop them.
THE WRITER NOTICES new tremor in hands. Must taper Xanax. One more letter to prepare, difficult with shaking hands. The cat jumps on the counter, almost spills little jar of powder. Writer shrieks, “Get away!” and then feels bad for yelling at the cat. Lick & stick glue is a great invention. The writer feels stressed.
Doorbell rings and the writer opens door to the hot detective and a uniformed cop pointing a gun. Detective doesn’t miss a trick. The writer is afraid that what is to come will be horrible. The writer runs into kitchen, picks up little jar of powder and throws a good bit down throat. Curious how arsenic trioxide is tasteless.
The detective calls for an ambulance, takes writer in his arms and asks why? The writer explains, enjoys the snuggle, for a little while.
THEY WATCH THE ambulance take the body away, and then the uniformed
cop begins to cordon off the apartment with yellow tape. “It looked like she was preparing another envelope,” he says.
“For her ex-husband,” Mike says. “She told me she was empty, she had to get off the treadmill of four books a year. But she owed so much money she couldn’t afford to get out of her contracts. Somehow, she thought that murdering her publishing team would end her problems.”
The uniformed cop, who wants to be a homicide detective someday, has been following the case. “What made you suspect Quincy Quaid?”
“The lab found yellow cat hairs on one of the doctored envelopes. I obtained cat hairs from the most likely suspects, and only Quincy’s cat was a match.” Mike reaches down to pat the cat’s thick golden fur.
“One of the writers lived in Charleston, didn’t she? You didn’t go there.”
“I heard her cat yowl and that was enough—it was a Siamese.”
Seriously impressed, the uniformed cop realizes there is more to detecting than wearing a well-cut suit.
Hidden
MEMORY IS A funny thing these days. I forget appointments, misplace keys, wander about Kroger’s parking lot looking for my car. But the past springs to life vividly, sparked by the smallest nothing. Combing my short gray hair, I fall into a memory of Emma, her musical Dutch-accented voice muttering as she detangled and braided my hair. I hear the bark of a nervous dog and my heart races, remembering Rudi’s sharp yip-yip of warning. When I walk with my grandchildren through the woods near their home, a sudden rustle from the underbrush bathes me in adrenaline, my breath quickens and I fight the urge to run. And smells! Sardines, starch, Pall Mall cigarettes—all carry me to long ago and far away.
IN MAY 1942, after our father died in a sea battle, Mama, Giles, and I left our home in Rouen and went to live with Grand-papa in a village outside Lille. His house was tiny, with only two rooms; mattresses on the floor in one room, a stove and table in the other.
It was an unhappy time. There were no servants, and Mama had too much work to do. She hated cooking and besides, food was scarce. She fixed brick-hard bread, applesauce, carrots, and eggs, always eggs. Grand-papa drank apple brandy all day and fussed at me for being loud and bouncy. But what was I to do? I missed my friend Anna, our games in the schoolyard, ballet lessons. I pouted and whined until Mama said, “Leni, your incessant crying is making me crazy. Go into the bedroom, shut the door, and count your blessings.”
“What blessings?” I shouted between dramatic sobs. “The Nazis want to kill us!” I slammed the door and buried my wet face in sour-smelling blankets. “I hate it here! I hate my life!” My tears flowed until I was bored and went out to find Giles.
I would pester Giles, follow him into the woods, down to the trickle of a creek, watch him climb and dig holes and catch tiny fish. He was thirteen and I was seven, a mile-wide chasm. If Giles ever humbled himself to play with me, we constructed forts, stocked them with stick-guns and knives. I had to be the Nazi soldier. The soldier ran, hid, was caught and tied up with rope. Giles was cowardly in most situations, but brave enough to capture this little Nazi.
In the village, real Nazis stood on the sidewalk, looking us over, staring at the yellow stars on our coats with sour expressions on their cold faces. One of Giles’s eyes wandered outward, especially when he was anxious or upset, and he was self-conscious, worried a soldier would notice him. He had a bad stutter, and the Nazis knew it. “B-b-b-bumble b-b-b-bee eyes,” they jeered, as Giles lurked behind Mama and me. “Stand tall,” Mama told him, but he skulked along, like he was trying to be invisible.
ONE DAY A man in a black suit drove up to Grand-papa’s house.
“The doctor will take you to a place where you will be safe,” Mama said.
Giles said, “I won’t g-g-g-go. I’ll run away. He’ll take us to a c-c-c-camp to be k-k-k-killed!” His stutter was worse when he was upset.
We had heard stories of trains to death camps. It scared me that he was so upset. Mama calmed us, saying, “You will be safe. The Nazis won’t find you. I promise.”
We put on almost all our clothes until we looked like stuffed bears. I clutched my doll, Giles carried a small suitcase. His face was white and stony. Mama stood at the iron gate, blew kisses, smiled, though her face was wet with tears.
The doctor unpinned the yellow stars from our coats. He told us, “At the checkpoints, I will say I am taking you to a hospital. You must pretend to be sick. Cover up with blankets until you are hot and feverish-looking. Close your eyes and be very quiet.”
Wearing so many clothes, I was burning up and it was easy to look hot. The doctor drove for hours, it seemed, until reaching a small farm on the outskirts of a Belgian village.
Be very quiet. A order we were to live by.
“CALL ME TANTE,” the woman said, though she was not our aunt. She helped us remove most of our clothes, clucked and hissed, “Too thin!” After a meal of fried sausage and potatoes, she led us to her bedroom, opened a hatch in the ceiling, and pulled down a ladder. She shooed us into an attic, a dirty space filled with boxes, bundles, and broken furniture. There was a window with a black curtain, and a pile of blankets for a bed.
“You will stay here, because people gossip and there are collaborators,” Tante said. “Never come down unless I tell you.”
In the corner of the attic stood a tall oak dresser and next to it, a stovepipe through the floor and up out the roof. She stooped and reached behind the stovepipe, tugged on a board until a cupboard door opened, revealing a dark space under the sloped roof.
“Here’s your hidey-hole,” she said. “You can latch it securely once you are inside. No one will know you are here if you are quiet. Go on, try it out.”
The hidey-hole had a low ceiling but was big enough for Giles and me to lie down, elbow to elbow. We both sneezed from the dust. I began to cry. I missed my mother, I was afraid, and I didn’t want to live in a dirty attic. Giles tried to shush me, sang silly songs, but I wailed until Tante climbed the ladder and poked her head into the hidey-hole. “The Nazis will hear you,” she said, “and we will all be shot. Be very quiet.”
Many times Tante fussed at me for crying. I learned to cry in silence.
TANTE WORE THICK glasses, fixed her black hair in tidy braids wrapped round her head, and spoke with a strong Dutch accent. Her husband and three sons had been forced into factories in Germany. She worked the small farm with her father, Opa, and Emma, her sixteen-year-old daughter. The farm was perhaps five acres, with a chicken coop, rabbit hutches, and bee boxes. There was a small barn, a pasture for two cows, and a large garden for growing potatoes, beans, cabbage, carrots, beets. Their nervous cloudy-eyed dog, Rudi, walked slow from arthritis, and barn cats showed up every evening for pans of milk but scattered at the approach of people.
Opa was old, white-haired and bent over. He walked with a stick, but never rested until evenings. Then he sat by the stove and listened to Radio Belgique, turned low because it was forbidden, growling curses at the Boches until Tante shushed him.
Emma had thick chestnut hair in a complicated braid woven around her head. She was jolly with rosy cheeks and, like Tante and Opa, never stopped in the daytime–cooking, baking, cleaning, washing. Tante and Emma spent mornings outside in the garden, weeding, picking fruits and vegetables, then pickling and canning them. In the cellar they buried cabbage and turnips, laid out potatoes, onions, and carrots in boxes. Opa tended the rabbits and bees, repaired tools, hunted wild hogs in the oak forest beyond the pasture.
Tante promised to fatten us up. Giles joked we were like Hansel and Gretel, prisoners of a witch who will cook and eat us. His stutter was worse, or perhaps I just noticed more, being shut up with him all day and night.
We became Emma’s project. She climbed the ladder with a food bucket and climbed back down with the shit bucket. Giles said it was shameful work for her, emptying that bucket. She was kind and cheerful, never severe like Tante. When the terrible smell of his feet made me gag, Emma filled a bowl with hot water and
vinegar and he soaked his feet. It worked! Giles said we made a lot of extra work for her.
The attic’s one grimy window was stuck closed but we folded back the cloth covering a bit to peek out: at Tante in the garden, Emma walking the cows to the barn at dusk, a person riding past on a bicycle. Sometimes we saw children and I was so sad, missing Anna, missing our play with our dolls under the lilac bushes behind her house. We couldn’t even write letters to our mother, Emma said, since not even the postman could know about us. But on each of our birthdays—three of them—somehow Mama managed to get us a letter and some sweets.
AFTER DARK, TANTE allowed us to come down the ladder and put us to work. My chore was churning butter, to burn up my energy; Giles helped Opa outside. Afterward we played tag and climbed the fruit trees. Giles wanted to explore the oak forest but Opa said, “No, the wild hogs will eat you.”
Rudi was a good watch dog, with different barks for neighbors and strangers. The bark for neighbors was a deep woof woof. His tail wagged, and his ears perked up. He greeted strangers with a higher-pitched bark, a yip-yip, and he was stiff and alert. We knew to be quiet when someone approached; no one must know we hid in the attic.
As an extra signal, Tante banged a pot on the wood stove.
Two clanks meant be very quiet. Someone was coming, to talk, or to buy eggs or honey.
Clank-clank-clank meant German soldiers, go into the hidey-hole. Giles said, “They are d-d-d-devils and I wish I had a gun.”
Five quick clanks meant all clear.
I WAS ALWAYS frightened. I didn’t sleep soundly; even dreaming, I was alert to small noises. The loud hoots of owls would wake me. One perched right outside our window and others answered it from the woods. During the night, Rudi barked, at stoats, deer, squirrels. In the dark attic, with only a crack in the curtain to allow moonlight, things in the room seemed to move. The floor moved like quicksand, a witch hid behind a chair, a bundle was full of slugs and snakes. Hands with long fingers worked the attic hatch. Nightmares took me down into dark places until I woke, terrified, grunting strangled screams. (Even asleep I remembered to keep quiet.)
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