Losers, Weepers

by Jessica Thomas

  She grinned. “For my peace and quiet, however, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this. Yes, it was Reed. He was quite the young stallion, and Margo had a weakness for them, you know.”

  “Yeah. He ain’t doing too bad now, either.”

  Mother gave a dismissive head shake. “I doubt it will last. Reed marries class and sleeps with sexpots. Only this time, he seems to have got it backward. He’s married to Merrilou and making a big play for Martha Meyer, since her husband died suddenly.”

  Aunt Mae came out of the house bearing a coffee tray and muttering, “No, no, no! Martha will never give Reed Catlett the time of day. Her pedigree is so perfect, she could be registered with the AKC. Reed just ain’t in it for her. Coffee, Alex?” She began to pour a cup.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to get over to the palace and interview the queen and princess. If you don’t hear from me, I’m in the tower. Enjoy your gardening. Sorry I can’t stay and help.” I smiled winningly.

  They both gave me knowing looks and I left.

  The tale Mom and Aunt Mae had unfurled this morning reminded me of something I had read in school—not in fact, but in style. Then I got it, that F. Scott Fitzgerald story about Jay Gatsby, where the fellow says, the rich are unlike the rest of us. It made me worry a little. Charlie Cohane wasn’t rich. She was financially okay, but that wasn’t rich. Had she gotten in over her head some way with one or more of her wealthy friends in the art world? Was she trying to keep up with the Gulfstream set? Did she know something she shouldn’t? Could Dan have been smuggling in art from abroad? Did the Tellmans deal in fakes? Did Charlie somehow find out and threaten to report them? Or blackmail them? That was hard to believe, but a great reason for murder.

  Was the note really true, just strangely composed under terrible stress? Who could have hated the good-natured Charlie enough to kill her? Or was it more than one person? Or was it really Charlie herself, perhaps painfully ill, and muddying the waters so her mother and Ellen wouldn’t have to deal with the shame of suicide as well as death?

  There were definitely two or more people involved in Zoe’s disappearance. But that had no bearing on Charlie, had it? That was mostly a crime against Reed—who had a long list of non-admirers. The Bartles, the Tellmans, the Portmans, his own children and very possibly his wife. And, if you got right down to it, the kidnappers. Surely they could have gotten it all together by now. You’d think a quarter of a million would be a sufficient ransom. Who was stalling—Reed or the perps?

  But now for the Tellmans. I turned into the drive of their imposing edifice and parked. As I walked toward the front door, I deeply hoped I wouldn’t find one sister standing over the bleeding body of the other with a smoking pistol, while Zoe Catlett stood nearby and said fervently, “At last, darling, you can be mine. All mine.”

  Chapter 15

  I was admitted to their home by both sisters, who seemed to come from different directions and arrive simultaneously at the door, laughing at their synchronized appearance. It was a pleasant way to begin an interview. I introduced myself. They followed suit, insisting we use first names for simplicity, and escorted me to a warm sunporch overlooking the marshes and tidal inlets and, farther out, the deep blue of the Atlantic Ocean. As we sat down, I noticed a definite family resemblance between the two. Not enough to be blood sisters perhaps, but definitely there. Certainly both were attractive still. I placed them in their mid-fifties, but lithe, with young-looking complexions and smartly styled dark brown hair. And not a gray root in sight.

  Mom was right. There was no Jeeves the butler in evidence, but a maid appeared in answer to a bell I neither heard nor saw anyone ring. Jan asked for breakfast tea, Betsy opted for cocoa, and I followed her lead. It sounded refreshingly different from the gallons of coffee I had been drinking lately and would be—I was willing to bet—well made.

  As we had walked through the house to the sunporch, it looked as if they were planning to move. Draperies were missing, light spots on walls showed where paintings had hung, furniture was out of place, and rugs were rolled up against walls. I wondered where they were going and why?

  Betsy must have sensed my curiosity and explained, “We were planning to get just about everything into storage and then paint and make some minor repairs. After that, we intended to put the house and barn on the market. Now, with Charlie . . . gone . . . we’re not sure exactly where we are.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I replied. I wondered if they were running from something. Like maybe the cops.

  “Nom of course you don’t.” Jan smiled. “Betsy, we have to go back a bit here.”

  She sipped her tea and turned back to me. “New England winters are getting a bit much, especially for me. We decided to sell the property, breaking it up so the house and barn go together and the gallery goes separately. I might add that the house was getting to be a bit much also.”

  When she paused, Betsy took up the explanation. “We’ve loved the Caribbean and especially St. Lucie for years, and last winter while we were there we bought a marvelous house—just the right size to have some company, but not much—and the master suite is on the ground floor. Oh, happy day.” They looked at each other, and I could see they couldn’t help grinning like two kids. They were obviously delighted with their future home.

  “So what is your problem?” I asked.

  Betsy ticked off on her fingers. “First of all, we don’t wish to appear uncaring of Charlie’s memory. We loved her, too, and would prefer to put everything on ice for a few months. But we can’t. At this point, too many things are already in the works for us to call a halt.”

  She held up the second finger. “The gallery is already sold. We are having our final gala reception there next week, hoping to move most of the remaining inventory as our guests belt down the free champagne. Then we have to clear out of that building. We would postpone, but we can’t. Too many agreements made, all the invitations sent out, caterers hired from Boston, et cetera.”

  I nodded my understanding and sipped my cocoa. Superb. I was sure I had a mustache, didn’t care and licked it off. “I think people will understand. Ellen Hall is a businesswoman herself. She knows you have to stick to certain schedules. And I imagine Mrs. Cohane is a reasonable lady. My mother is a friend of hers, and Mom doesn’t usually go for the hysterical types. And who else matters, really?” I shrugged. “Especially if you’re leaving the country.”

  Jan chortled, “I like your style. The only other big problem is the house and barn. Charlie was going to oversee the repairs, the touching up, et cetera. Now we have to find a handyman who’s capable and honest and will simply do what’s needed without someone standing over him. Then painting contractors will come in, and who will oversee them? We had planned to leave as soon as the gallery was cleared. Ellen, of course, was going to handle the sale of the house. Do you know her well? Do you think she will still wish to represent us? She’s the best broker in town for high-end property.”

  I thought for a minute. “Ellen is a friend, although I was always closer to Charlie. My lover Cindy actually knows Ellen better. But, yes, I think so. Just explain your situation. I’ll talk to Cindy and ask her if she has any relevant thoughts. I know a handyman who might be suitable if the job is fairly straightforward. Certainly he is honest. I’ll ask him to call you. His name is Harmon.”

  Both women uttered their thanks for my suggestions. “I have a question, just pure curiosity, do you figure your new owner will actually use that beautiful old barn to stable horses, or turn it into a boutique? Or both?”

  Betsy laughed and put her hands out, palms up. “In Ptown, who the hell knows? There’s room for about six horses on the ground level, although none are stabled there now. The top level is a very plain, spartan apartment and a studio with great northern lighting. It could be made quite luxurious, but I’m not sure who would want to live on top of six horses.”

  We all laughed, and Betsy concluded, “So I would imagine the new owner would c
onvert it into two or three condos and make a mint, once they got a hundred years of horse manure shoveled out of the bottom floor.” She got another laugh.

  “Is it rented now?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” Jan explained. “Every year we let a couple of young artists use it in exchange for doing some simple work around the property—mowing the lawn, keeping the parking lot clean, trimming the hedge, painting the fences—the sort of thing young men or women can handle fairly easily, without trouble. And still have time for their own artistic endeavors.”

  “How generous.”

  “Sometimes we luck out,” Jan said. “This year we have two young men. One of them is quite talented. We should have wanted a show from him someday soon, had we been here. We still will, in a way. We have an interest in a small gallery in Soho, as well as some other arrangements in the works. The other lad better stick to repairing fences, I think, although he does pleasant seascapes that sell well.”

  At that point, the phone rang. Betsy reached around and picked it up.

  “Hello. Yes, this is she. Oh, no.” There was a pause while she grimaced at Jan. I felt embarrassed to be listening, but couldn’t really think of what else to do, and tried staring into space as if I were deaf.

  Betsy went on. “Well, what about the Mercury? That, too, I see. There seems to be nothing we can do about it today. We’ll expect them both tomorrow mid-morning, then. Thank you for calling.”

  She replaced the receiver. “Damn, damn, damn! That was the garage. The man who delivers the auto parts from Hyannis had some sort of accident en route this morning. The parts for the Lincoln and the Mercury, as well as various other people’s vehicles are spread somewhere all over Route Six. We will have neither car until tomorrow. Isn’t that just great?”

  “Simply lovely,” Jan said. “Especially since we have an appointment with Choate Ellis in an hour, and I really don’t want to postpone it. I want some answers today.”

  Betsy shrugged. “We can always rattle up in our stylish truck.”

  “No, we can’t,” Jan replied rather testily. “I sent the boys off in it to do some errands. And it is not a truck, it—”

  Betsy waved her hands airily. “Whatever. We’ll just have to reschedule. We’ll all manage to live.”

  “I’ll be glad to give you a lift into town. It’s the least I can do to repay you for the best hot chocolate I’ve had since I was eight. And I’m sure Choate Ellis will see that you get home. Most likely in grand style.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. And how generous of you. Let’s have a refill. We have a little time to spare.”

  We had the second cup and spent the spare time with me asking the standard police questions I should have asked to start with.

  Had they noticed any strangers lurking about? Did they or Charlie have any known enemies? Did anyone have a grudge against the gallery itself . . . perhaps a past employee or disgruntled customer? Did Charlie have money troubles they knew of? Had she been depressed? Did anyone owe them a large sum of money? Had they noticed anything at all unusual recently?

  One or both of the Tellman sisters answered no to every question.

  Dropping the two of them off at the bank, I turned toward Ellen and Charlie’s house. I really had put this off too long, but God, how I dreaded it.

  From the parking space, I could see through the window that Ellen was in the office attached to the house, so that’s where I went. She stood up as I entered and we embraced silently, tears very near the surface for both of us.

  Finally, I managed to get my voice under control. “How are you doing, honey? Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?”

  She sighed. “No. Sometimes I handle it pretty well. Others, I don’t. I guess I’ll get better at it.”

  I looked around the office. “Where’s your secretary?”

  “Over at the town hall registering some deed changes and looking up some tax assessments. Life goes on. Why?”

  “Well, there are some things Sonny really needs to know, but he thought it might be easier if you and I just talked.”

  “About Charlie. I honestly don’t know if she was killed or if she . . . killed herself. I change my mind almost every hour. None of it makes any sense to me. A year ago, I would have said suicide for Charlie was entirely out of the question. Now, I’m not so sure about it.”

  Her eyes teared up, but I pretended I didn’t notice. “In what way?”

  “It’s been developing over the last year,” she said dreamily. “Sometimes she was my sweet Charlie. Sometimes she seemed cold, and angry at the world. And angry with me. It was all so stupid. Nothing needed to change. We had never thought much about money. Suddenly—for her—it became everything.”

  I wasn’t following her very well, but said nothing, as she continued. “As you know, my business has really done well of late. Yes, I spend a lot of time and energy at it. No, I’m probably not the sweet, naïve young girl Charlie fell in love with. But we aren’t kids anymore, and things change.”

  Her expression was bleak and her voice had a bitter twang, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “At first, Charlie was as happy as I was at our increased income. Then, oh, at least a year ago she began making little snide remarks. Calling me Donella Trump and Jill Gates. Asking me if I could spare five dollars so she could buy a cup of coffee. My wardrobe expenses came under discussion. Alex, I’m not beautiful, but I do try to make a good impression on clients. I go to the hairdresser every week, and I have nice-quality clothes.”

  I had to admit to myself that Charlie—like me—was not the greatest American model. With us, cleanliness was next to all that mattered. Ellen was still enumerating their problems, and I switched my attention back.

  “She really blew when I bought the new station wagon, but hell, Alex, it was for the business. I have to cart prospective big spenders around, and it makes a better impression to have a good-looking, comfortable car than an old milk cart. You can show a piece of prime property easier from a Chrysler than a beat-up Kia.”

  I offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. I lit hers and mine and asked, “Didn’t she do pretty well financially at Tellman’s? I know they thought highly of her. Didn’t they pay her well?”

  “Very well, plus all sorts of commissions and perks, and I’ll tell you how much they valued her. You know how a business will take out a life insurance policy on a partner or an important employee to make up for how much they feel that employee’s death would cost the company in lost revenue and good will?” I nodded. “They have one for a hundred thousand on Charlie.”

  “Good grief. You don’t suppose they killed her?” I blurted. “Or had her killed, I guess?”

  Ellen actually laughed. “No way. They’d have killed the Easter Bunny first. No. You can forget them.”

  She became serious again. “Alex, I have thought about this to distraction. I think Charlie had some sort of nervous breakdown. We never used to argue about money. If I had more available, well, I paid for some of our vacations, some household improvements. You know how it is. The bills get paid. That’s all that really matters. I thought everything was for us. Charlie began to act as if we were no longer us, but you and me. We were definitely drifting apart. I don’t know if it was just a bad patch in our lives together—you know, they do happen from time to time in any relationship—or the beginning of the end.”

  She picked up a pen and began to doodle on an envelope. I waited. “Last winter we went out to Aspen for a week. I paid for the business-class airline tickets and hotel—a good one. We had both been working hard. I thought we deserved a little luxurious coddling. It was my . . . my pleasure to be able to do it for us, Alex. You do understand, don’t you?”

  She looked actually in pain. “Of course I understand, Ellen. Last summer I had the deck redone on Aunt Mae’s cottage that Cindy and I use. I got a real kick out of watching their faces light up when they saw it. Little thing or big, it’s fun to do something nice for someo
ne you love.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded emphatically. “On the flight Charlie kept urging me to have more wine, more canapés, more coffee. She kept saying loudly that as I’d paid for it, I might as well enjoy it. By then I wasn’t enjoying any of it. Later, at the hotel, Charlie went into this act of ordering the cheapest dish on the menu. Then, she tipped the room service waiter about five percent and complained every day about the cost of using the ski lift. It was awful.”

  She took a deep breath and went on. “Then this spring we went to Ireland. Charlie insisted we split the cost down the middle, and she made all the travel arrangements. It was a horror. Flying is bad enough nowadays, even if you can afford to upgrade, and at this point in life, thank God we can. But we didn’t. We flew tourist, and I can tell you, it was grim from start to finish. Stale peanuts and all. Once there, we stayed in third-rate B and Bs. In one place, we had to share a bathroom with two other people. Instead of renting a car, we took tour buses. Ireland is supposed to be lovely, but unfortunately, all I remember is an upset stomach, uncomfortable seats, lumpy beds and rusty pipes. And every bit of it unnecessary.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was like some hysterical woman in a bad movie. It sure wasn’t the Charlie I had known so well. But Ellen wasn’t finished with her saga.

  “After a year of riding me about being Ms. Millionaire, while she never spent a penny on herself, a few weeks ago she suddenly went completely the other way. She bought herself a whole new wardrobe, and I must say she looked great. Then one night she came home in a new car . . . just whirled up the driveway in a new Accord and called to me, how did I like the color.”