Little Death by the Sea

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Maggie stood up and stretched, working the knots out of her neck by rolling it from side to side and letting it flop—chin down onto her chest—as she’d done hundreds of times before during the cool-down segment of her gym workouts. She had been trying to get Elspeth to try aerobics for the benefits of stress relief.

  She talked with her mother earlier that morning for a report on Nicole’s first time at a local Mother’s Morning Out program. According to Elspeth, it had not gone badly nor well. Nicole, true to form, sat on the sidelines neither observing nor pretending not to observe. Elspeth had stayed the whole morning, which Maggie thought rather defeated the purpose of a Mother’s morning out, and had taken the child home just before lunch. (“I think she made real progress, dear.”)

  It was all Maggie could do not to tell her mother that Nicole’s mother would soon be there to help put things right. But she had promised Elise she would wait. She had, however, begun to wonder if perhaps Gerry weren’t right. It could be an awful shock, just springing Elise on them out of the blue. Perhaps she would talk to Elise tonight about a phone conversation with them first. If Elise would just talk to them on the phone, then they needn’t see her in her present condition until she was ready.

  Satisfied with this plan, Maggie put a call into Elise. She waited for ten rings before hanging up. She had talked with her about two hours ago and knew that Elise was spending most of the day sleeping. That’s fine, she thought, looking at her watch. It was two thirty. She would talk with her this evening. And in the meantime, as much rest as possible was the best remedy for Elise. She imagined her mother’s face animated by rapture at reclaiming her daughter. She saw her father, with tears of unrestrained joy as he embraced his youngest girl. Maggie felt a thrill run through her. How many times in one’s life could you actually anticipate the happiest of all moments to be lived? For, surely, that is what Saturday will be for her unsuspecting mother and father, Maggie thought.

  The letter had come to her office. Tissue-thin, nothing more than a wafer of paper. Addressed to her.

  From Laurent.

  Maggie maneuvered her Mitsubishi out of the Lenox Square parking lot, deliberately avoiding the side of the mall where she’d met with Gerard the night before. She inserted a “Traveling Wilbury’s” cassette tape in her tape player and turned the volume down low.

  Dierdre had brought in the mail that afternoon, grumpily dumped two industry magazines, a flutter of portfolio postcards, and a computer software catalog onto her desk, before pulling out the aqua-blue air mail envelope and placing it squarely in front of Maggie. “It’s come. Merry Christmas."

  Just a few crippled words, which Maggie had memorized. My God! It had been nearly five months! No explanation as to why he hadn’t written earlier, no comment as to the fact that so much time had passed between them, just

  “Maggie,

  I miss you very much and think of you now. I think, too, that I will see you in a little time. Very soon, ma cherie. Remember Laurent loves you.

  Laurent Dernier”

  As Maggie drove down Peachtree Street toward her apartment, she leaned over her Macy’s department store purchases to reach for the letter again. “I think, too, that I will see you in a little time.” Did that mean he was coming to Atlanta soon? The unfortunate English was just choppy enough and she was just insecure enough on the status of things between them, that she wasn’t at all confident that he was promising to see her soon. Perhaps he was going to suggest she come back to Cannes? She tucked the letter into her handbag in the passenger seat. Why does he say ‘and think of you now’? Is that just bad English, or is he some place special that’s now made him think of being with her? Has he returned to Cannes, perhaps, after a long trip and now he’s reminded of her? She rubbed her eyes tiredly.

  It didn’t matter. He’d written her. Finally. She might not be a French Fling after all.

  She parked the car in the back parking area of her apartment building and looked up at the darkened structure. Smack in the middle of fashionable, trendy Buckhead, The Parthenon was a throw-back to another era. It was one of the main reasons Maggie loved it so much. A huge, looming edifice, it looked more like a haunted castle or even a mausoleum than a honeycomb of modern apartment units. It was made of rugged, gloomy stonework instead of the burnished woods and pastel stuccos that typified the architecture of the neighborhood. Somber and out of step with its surroundings, it had been an area landmark for over eighty years. The Parthenon was that curious mix of something so wrong for its eco-climate and cultural setting that it was perversely viewed as a resounding success. It was “cool” to live at The Parthenon. It was the acceptably weird thing to do. Maggie had felt a small sliver of pride in thinking that Elise would be impressed that she, Maggie, hadn’t picked the typical digs, the eclectic, color-coordinated tastefulness of an upscale apartment complex, but had gone for something so artsy and off-beat. It hadn’t occurred to her that maybe Elise was too sick to care where Maggie had chosen to live.

  She raked her parcels together in one hand and hooked her purse strap with the other. The parking lot was dark with only a half dozen cars in it. One inadequate street lamp peered dimly from the corner of Peachtree Road and Wilson Avenue. At least sixty yards from the dark parking area, the lamp only served to throw elongated, murky shadows at Maggie as she got out of her car.

  Maggie allowed herself a nervous glance over her shoulder as she locked her car and hurried up the sidewalk to the front of the building.

  Why am I always finding myself out after dark? she wondered breathlessly. She marched up the sidewalk, redistributed the weight of her purchases and wished she had remembered to carry her mace can.

  She glanced up at her apartment window and was glad to see that the living room light was on. Elise is awake anyway, she thought, and, immediately, was struck by the pleasant anticipation she realized she’d been feeling all day long. It was a nice feeling. That she would come home to find Elise, perhaps with a pot of tea ready? She had felt a little apprehensive in shopping for clothing for her sister. In the end, after more than an hour of scouring rack after rack of juniors, misses, and designers’ separates, she’d decided on simple tubular dressing: a knit skirt, a crew-neck top and a turban. Each in a raspberry wine color with navy piping.

  Maggie unlocked the front door to the building and shifted her parcels again. The take-out sack of Chinese food was pressed close to her chest and the aroma of steamed dumplings and mu shu pork rose lightly into her nostrils.

  As she stepped through the building’s front entrance, Maggie realized how badly she wanted to tell Elise about Laurent. Even if he hadn’t really taught at the Sorbonne and M.I.T., he was still more intelligent than half the gaggle of accountants and lawyers Maggie had dated last year. She wanted to tell Elise how mysterious and sweet and sensual Laurent was. From his heavy, expressive eyebrows to the subtle twitch of his full French lips. Maggie found herself nearly jogging down the corridor that led to her apartment.

  3

  “And that kind of frequency looks good to you?” Gerry gazed out his office window into the black pool of nighttime Buckhead. He tossed a pencil in his hand.

  “It looks excellent to me, Gerry.” Patti sat opposite Gerry in his office. Her blonde hair was teased into a frizzier version of what Gerry was sure was popular these days. Her make-up was a little toned down today, though, he decided, and she looked, if not pretty, at least, not awful. “This buy will guarantee saturation, practically.”

  “Practically.” The voice came from the doorway.

  Gerry looked up at Pokey Lane standing in the hall, smirking.

  “Ah, Pokey,” Gerry said. “Leaving for the night, are you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘practically’?” Patti Stump swung her bony legs into a crossed ankle position, as if aiming them at the art director in the doorway. “What do you know about frequency? Give me a break.”

  “Hey, come on, Patti...” Gerry made a calm-down gesture with his hands. It
was too late in the day for this shit.

  “I know as much as any first-year assistant buyer would know, darlin’. That if you spend a fortune on drive-time and every other kinda prime air time that you can saturate just about anything. ‘Practically,’” he added sarcastically.

  “How much are we spending, Patti?” Gerry looked up from his hands.

  “I don’t believe this!” Patti shrieked. “I have a budget. Does anybody remember the budget?”

  “Yeah, that’s what the client is gonna wanna know.” Pokey shook his head.

  “Settle down, Pokey,” Gerry said. “In fact, if that’s all for the day...”

  “I don’t know what your problem is, ass-hole,” Patti snarled at Pokey. “But I—”

  “Hey! Hey! That’s not necessary, Patti,” Gerry said. “Come on, let’s pack it up for tonight, what do you say?”

  “I’ll say we should pack it up, when a little monkey-faced layout artist can tell me how to buy time—”

  “I said, that’s enough, Patti!” Gerry wanted to reach over and stuff her red floral scarf down her throat. “So, knock it off, both of you. Pokey, kindly take off, will you?” Pokey shrugged and gestured to Gerry in a catch-ya-later-buddy motion that served to further infuriate Patti in its attempt at male confederacy. She folded her arms onto her chest and glared at the retreating art director.

  “Jeez, Patti, don’t let him get to you, will you?” Gerry rubbed his eyes and leaned back into his chair. “It’s really to late to get much more work done, what is it? Eleven o’clock?” Let’s knock off, shall we? I mean, what is it between you two? Are you, like, ex-lovers or something?”

  “Don’t be revolting. The man’s an ape.”

  “Yeah, well, stranger things have happened in my experience. Anyway, tomorrow, all right?”

  “Gerry.” She paused dramatically, slowly getting up from the swivel chair that faced Gerry’s desk. Her face was flushed, unpleasantly so, and her eyes were wide and fixed on Gerry. Her long fingers groped unconsciously at the loose cotton belt that hung from her waist.

  He found himself bracing against her words.

  “Gerry, I would like to talk with you about something that’s personal.”

  “Patti, did you talk to Maggie? You know I have all the women in the office talk with—”

  “I know you do, and I did. She was useless.”

  “I see. Well, can it wait?” In his present state, he’d probably give her a thirty per cent salary increase just to be able to be in his car and on his way home within the next fifteen minutes.

  “I don’t feel it can, no.”

  “All right.” He stood up and began packing up his briefcase, hoping this would at least be moving them both in the right direction: out the door.

  “There is someone in the office who is making it difficult for me to perform my job.”

  “Do you mean Pokey?”

  She made a face.

  “No. No, I mean difficult in that I find myself distracted as a result of our close working relationship.”

  Omigod. Gerry snapped shut his briefcase and looked up at the woman. She was dressed in some awful polyester double knit skirt suit. A tall woman, she, nonetheless, looked like she was swimming in the bulky material and Gerry was struck by how warm she must be in it. “Let’s continue this talk in the elevator, shall we?” He nodded toward the door.

  She picked up her own briefcase at the foot of her chair.

  “You know, Patti, these things happen all the time.” He knew he sounded idiotic. “But we’re expected to behave professionally in any case, you know?” I mean, we need to transcend our feelings and emotions and get on with getting the job done. I mean, what would the industry be like if we all just sort of behaved according to how we felt at the time? Like, if I hated a particular voice talent but he was the best one for the job, I’d be shooting myself in the foot, right?” I’m blathering, he thought, as he jabbed his finger at the down arrow on the elevator. “So, we all have to, you know, do things and work with people we don’t—”

  “Why do you keep inferring that I’m having trouble getting along with someone?” Patti’s brittle voice stabbed at the airspace between them with no air conditioner’s hum to softly blanket its abrasiveness. “I am attracted to someone in our office. I think they may be attracted to me too.”

  “Well? Then, what’s the problem?” Gerry punched the down button again. Damn, stupid elevators! Has the building turned off the damn, stupid electricity or what?

  “The problem, as I’m sure you know only too well, Gerry, is that I’ve fallen quite hopelessly in love with you.”

  4

  The Macy’s shopping bag sat in a collapsed heap next to Maggie’s purse on the floor of her living room. Maggie took a quick breath and expelled it slowly. She had checked the entire apartment, at first calling merrily: ‘Allo! Ma soeur! Ou ête vous?’ and then, in a panic. Elise was not in the bathroom, the tiny galley kitchen or the bedroom. Maggie had even checked the closets, just in case it turned out her sister had returned to her even madder than when she’d left. No Elise. No note.

  Maggie walked into the kitchen. Either Elise had not eaten lunch or she’d washed up expertly after herself, an idea Maggie found difficult to believe. Her mind raced: she had talked with her shortly after eleven a.m. and then had not been able to get through. She tried not to think of Gerard. Tried not to think of the torturing bastard again with his claws into Elise. Frail, pale, sad Elise. Maggie’s hand rested on the phone and her heart pounded up into her throat. It wasn’t possible that Elise could be taken from her again! That she could appear and then disappear without a vestige that she’d ever been here. No record, no memorial.

  Maggie pushed the playback button on her answering machine and listened quickly to the handful of messages: two telemarketing reps, her mother, (‘why don’t you and Brownie come to supper on Saturday, darling? Your father wants to cook out.’), and a hang up. Maggie replayed the messages to try to determine when the hang-up had occurred. Her mother must have called after work, or she would have called her at her office. (Why don’t people tell you the bloody time they called?) The telemarketing calls were the last two calls on the tape, which made sense from a marketing stand point: dinner time, the best time to catch people in and with their guards down. The hang-up was the first message. Precise time unknown and not determinable.

  In exasperation, Maggie turned away from the machine. What the hell difference did it make anyway? Elise hadn’t left a message on the machine, probably didn’t even know how. Maggie scanned the living room for any signs of a struggle. There were none that she could see. The living room was tidy, each cushion in its place, the smell of Chinese pancakes and plum sauce slowly beginning to mix with the scent of lavender potpourri on the coffee table.

  It was while she was standing in her living room, holding her breath, that she could hear the noise. It had certainly been there all along, but she hadn’t picked up on it until she stood still. A rumbling hum of voices was coming from somewhere nearby. She moved to the door, aware of the loud ticking of her living room clock, the muted gurgling of the pipes in the kitchen. She held the door open and listened. Now she could hear the staccato burping of police walkie-talkies, the velvet mumblings of a gathering crowd. It had been there all along, but blanketed in her excitement to see Elise and to tell her about Laurent, or perhaps she had delegated it to the part of her brain that chalked up all inexplicable background noise as television programs seeping through her thin apartment walls. She stood and listened. This was no television program.

  A man appeared in the hallway and walked slowly toward her in the semi-darkness. He seemed to drag his feet painfully as he approached her. Maggie watched him come, knowing, in the way people do when the unthinkable is unfolding, why he was coming, knowing what he would say.

  His name was Bill and he lived down the hall from her. She’d only nodded at him a few times, although she had no reason to believe he wasn’t worth knowing.
No reason except he always looked like he was just coming off a bender, or about to begin one. Bill had that washed-out, drugged-out look of too much recreation, not enough fun.

  “You’re not gonna believe what’s going on upstairs,” he said to her as he passed her in the doorway. “Two cops are upstairs right now, you know? in the second floor landing. They got a dead friggin’ body up there, man. Some woman bought it in our building, can you handle it?” He whistled, and continued his shambling walk to his apartment door, not bothering to see her reaction.

  Maggie retreated back into her apartment and closed the door. She staggered to her couch and sank into it, her heart a heavyweight of emotion. She stared out the narrow French doors that led to the small stone balcony overlooking Peachtree Road. She could see the tips of the lone mimosa tree just outside her apartment, its stubborn, flamboyant blooms unfurled amongst a stand of the ubiquitous Georgia pine, a radiant reminder of nature’s individuality, its irony.

  Her eyes, dry and wide, slowly lowered to look at the Macy’s bag of gladrags, her sister’s triumphant homecoming gown. The bitter melancholia blurred her eyesight until the little fleck of gold caught in the intricate pattern of the coral Isfahan rug beneath her feet nearly jumped out at her.

  Maggie reached down to touch the little glittering droplet. She picked up the gold charm in trembling fingers.

  Chapter 8

  1

  Chief Detective Jack Burton stood in the kitchenette and stared out the little curtained window into the inky night. For some reason, his claustrophobia hadn’t kicked in tonight. The apartment was small, the rooms cramped and over-decorated but he still felt able to breathe. He glanced down at the small plastic bag containing the charm. It was a gold Scotty dog.