by Warren Adler
"At this stage, that could be interpreted as theft, Roy," Gail said.
"I told you. They're mine. They belong to me. To no one else. Not even to Madame. They were mine. A gift to myself."
"No one is denying that Roy," Fiona said.
"I don't believe we have the authority to authorize them leaving the premises," Gail said.
"Please," he pleaded. He was begging. It was agonizing to see his pain. "No one need see them. They mean little to anyone but me. Why expose her to.... people couldn't understand. Surely, it can't have anything to do with what happened. Where's the harm?"
"And if we agree..." Fiona began, looking at Gail, who nodded her consent.
"I'll tell you everything," Roy said. "I promise."
Gail locked the car doors and they moved with him across the alley.
Inexplicably he stopped for a moment and studied the little pet cemetery where engraved plaques marked the graves. Fiona noted that one of the markers seemed newer than the others. "Marshall," it said. "A true and loyal friend."
"Might have been different if he had lived," Roy sighed, moving through the back door, and into the kitchen. He slumped in a chair, exhausted. His face was ashen, sunken.
"May I have a glass of water?" he asked.
Gail got up and filled a glass from the tap. He took it with both hands, the finger with the missing tip held stiffly barely touching the glass.
Fiona noted his Adam's apple slithering up and down in his scrawny wrinkled neck as he drank. Then, with his hands still shaking, he put the empty glass on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He sucked in a deep breath, as if to steady himself.
"Will you let me keep them?" he asked, his voice reedy.
Gail looked toward Fiona.
"I can't see how it would hurt," Fiona said, searching for reasons that might justify the decision.
"Me, neither," Gail said.
He nodded and seemed relieved. They waited though a long silence. There was a sense that he was gathering his thoughts for some momentous revelation. They were not disappointed.
"She was my life," he said.
"You were lovers?" Fiona asked gently. With the paintings as obvious evidence of having been composed from life, she had little doubt of the contention.
Roy hesitated and in his expression, Fiona could see the mechanics of his mental processes. For some reason, far out of context of the moment, Fiona was reminded of a chicken about to lay an egg. It was purely a fictional observation, since she had never seen it happen. At any moment, she expected to hear a cackle and the flutter and flap of useless wings.
"Yes..." His eyes moistened and reddened and his nose began to run. "God. I loved her."
"Incredible," Gail whispered.
Why incredible? Fiona asked herself. Deb Shipley had lived with a public persona that eschewed any intimate relationship with men. But privately, she had what she wanted, needed. No, not incredible at all, Fiona militantly insisted to herself. She knew what it meant to have a demanding sexuality, understood the prospect of a barren life without the ministrations of a partner. Hadn't Fiona, like many women, yearned for her very own secret lover?
Gail, she knew, would never admit to such a fantasy. Perhaps it never occurred to her. Early traumas, Fiona knew, could numb sexuality. It certainly appeared to have done so to Gail.
Lust, Fiona had concluded in adolescence, despite her mother's admonitions, was a healthy instinct, which needed disciplined but resourceful management. She had not always been successful in that process, but she had been lucky enough to escape unwanted pregnancy and disease. She felt suddenly deeply bonded with Deb Shipley, envying her secret life.
"I had no idea you could paint like that," Fiona said.
"That's how it began," Roy sighed, nodding as if he had obtained some inner consent. "Madame hired me to paint her dog. Back during the war." He paused and grew reflective. "I was so lucky to have found the great lady of my dreams."
"She was a widow, Roy. Why did it have to remain such a closed secret?"
He folded his shaking hands on the table, showing knuckles and joints misshapen and swollen with arthritis. It took a great leap of the imagination to see him as the handsome young lover of the wealthy widow.
"We chose to live that way," Roy said, averting his eyes. "The world was different then. Her aspirations were to reach great social heights and to enjoy all the influence that such a position rendered. That might not seem important now. It was then ... to her. And later to her plans for Billy. Very important. She preferred to appear ... unencumbered."
Snobbery, Fiona decided, agreeing with his assessment that the world was, indeed, different then. She had seen it growing up, the stratification of Washington society. The importance of "position" and "family," the imperfect alliance of the "meritocracy" with the "aristocracy."
It struck Fiona suddenly as comparable in a bizarre way to Gail's laddered world of social structure, the Gold Coast snobbery of the elitist segment of the black community, the obvious source of her guilt.
"For all that time?" Fiona prodded gently.
Considering her own experience with the lack of longevity in her own relationships the question seemed more germane to her own life than his. She studied his face as he searched his mind for an answer. She could understand his hesitation. The evidence pointed to a long secret life, to massive subterfuge and denial, to the complicated interaction between truth and fiction.
Again, his eyes seemed to provide the answer. She could feel Gail's gaze leveled on her, not Roy, and could sense the tension building inside her. Then, suddenly, the dam broke.
"At the time of her murder, were you still lovers, Roy?" Gail asked.
It was, of course, considering the circumstances, an appropriate question, one she should have asked. Her detective's curiosity had been temporarily blinded by events in her own life. The blatancy of the question seemed to stun him temporarily into a kind of disorientation. He seemed to fall in upon himself.
"Roy, you can't avoid the answer." She turned to Fiona. "It does impact on the case."
"I ... I loved her," Roy whispered.
"We understand that Roy," Gail pressed. "Did she return that love 'till the very end?"
He took deep breaths as if he were hyperventilating.
"Take your time, Roy," Fiona said.
Roy seemed to gather his strength.
"I know what you're getting at," he said finally. "Yes, the answer is yes. We are ... joined together.... still. Through..." He cleared his throat. "...All eternity."
"I was referring to the physical aspect," Gail said.
"That part of it had greatly diminished."
"Ceased, you mean?" Gail pressed.
He nodded.
"Did anyone else know? Gloria? William? Anyone?"
"Discretion was our watchword," Roy said without embarrassment. "To keep this secret was ... to her ... to us ... the most important priority of our lives."
"Are you saying," Gail asked. "That no one, no one in fifty years ever found out that Mrs. Shipley and you were lovers?"
"We were never confronted," Roy said.
"You mean nobody acknowledged that they might have suspected?" Fiona asked. "Not Gloria or William?"
"I told you," Roy said. "Our priority in life was to keep this secret."
"You never occupied her bed?" Fiona asked, her mind awash with the gritty details of what it meant to conduct a clandestine affair.
"Her bed? If you mean the bed in her master bedroom, never," Roy said. "This must seem very strange to you. In fact, it is strange to me. I've never discussed this with anyone." He looked upward. "Forgive me Madame." He smiled. "We had our room, our sanctuary. Our bed."
"The one you burned?" Gail asked.
He nodded.
"And no one but you and ... and Madame.... ever went into that room in fifty years?"
"Madame declared it her sanctuary, her private place. Oh I tidied it when it needed it. I painted her there. There were
only two keys."
"And Gloria had no idea?"
"It was never discussed."
"When did you remove the pictures, Roy?" Fiona asked.
"About ten years ago, she had her religious conversion. That's when our physical relationship ceased. She wanted the pictures removed. I obliged." A strange sound rattled in his chest, a kind of sob. "I told her I destroyed them. It was the only lie I ever told her."
"So one might say that ten years ago some of the intensity went out of it? It was, in some way, over." Gail pressed.
"Over? Our love? Not at all. She tried to find solace in the church. She developed a different view of what constituted sin. I respected that. Besides..." He studied the faces of the two women seated opposite him. "Love evolves with the rhythm of aging. The calibration may change, but the energy fights to endure. My love for Madame was the most important and satisfying part of my life." It was obvious he had thought about this for a long time. "I'm not sure either of you can understand what I'm saying. You see me as a broken down old man, which I am. What you might not see is the light that still shines inside of me. I spent my life in joyful dedication to Deb Shipley. I would not change a minute of that life. Am I making myself clear?"
"Not completely," Gail admitted. "I can understand the last ten years which you admit was a time of.... well abstinence. But before. How was it possible to live this secret life?"
"If I may," Fiona interjected. "What we mean is how ... the mechanics of it. How could Gloria not have known?"
"We cherished our Thursdays," Roy sighed. "And if she suspected, she would have put it out of her mind."
Fiona remembered Gloria's defense of Madame's privacy.
"What about William?" Gail asked.
"Yes, Billy," Roy said. "We worked it out. Billy as a child had his own life. Nannies. Boarding schools. Later college. Then, of course, he left home to marry. Madame would never allow our relationship to be known to the boy. That was her greatest fear, that our love would demean the name of his heroic father. That would have been the end for us. Never." His voice rose, his defense of this position adamant. "She lived for his future."
He grew silent suddenly as if he were editing any further comment.
"Children are curious," Fiona said.
"Madame made it clear from the beginning," Roy said. "She drew.... boundaries. Don't you understand? We all had boundaries in this house."
"Boundaries!"
The word, its image and implications resonated in her mind. Boxes within boxes. Closed compartments. Locked vaults. Guarded secrets. It had a touch of the gothic. Yet, her world, the mysteries inherent in her work, dealt with secrets, hidden shames, private agendas, and often bizarre motivations.
Could Roy have been the person who put this horror in motion? She studied him now, a cornered figure, his hidden world exploded. She let various scenarios penetrate her mind, rejecting them all. No, she decided, trusting her instincts. No way.
But Gail continued the quest, apparently still unconvinced.
"Roy. Do you know there is very little value left in Mrs. Shipley's estate?"
He shrugged his indifference.
"I told you. It was of no importance."
"Did you ever discuss it?"
He hesitated for a brief moment, then shook his head.
"Surely, if you were that intimate, she would have told you about the condition of her finances?" Gail pressed.
"I never asked and never cared. I still don't care."
"Have you any money?"
"Very little. I have no need for money."
"Roy, face reality. Mrs. Shipley left you and Gloria the house. They're going to sell it and all the contents, with the exception of what William will take for sentimental reasons."
"I know. That's why I was storing the paintings. I didn't want anyone to see the paintings. They are my treasures."
"Did you plan to return?"
"Where else would I go? I haven't dealt with that."
"You realize Roy that you still have to answer to charges. And then there's this possibility of a new charge. Arson."
"Maybe that will solve the problem for me," Roy chuckled wryly. "The Government will deal with my housing problem. Frankly, I really don't care."
"There are obviously some things you care about Roy, the pictures, for example."
"The pictures are mine," Roy insisted. "No one has any right to these pictures. Not even to see them. They're mine."
"We won't make an issue of that at the moment," Fiona said, inclined to go along with his contention of ownership.
"I appreciate that," Roy said.
Fiona contemplated him for a while. His energy level seemed to be diminishing in front of their eyes. He seemed utterly helpless and forlorn, broken, fragile, sickly.
"I'm sure Gov. Shipley could find a place for you, Roy." Fiona said.
The suggestion had an immediate energizing effect on Roy. She saw his knuckles go white and his lips quivered.
"Under the same roof with that woman ... never. I'd rather die."
Fiona was stunned by the vehement force of his negativity.
"That's a pretty heavy indictment, Roy."
"I can never forgive her for the misery she caused Madame. Taking Billy away from her. Separating them. He was her life. It was she who guided Billy's career from the beginning. It was her devotion, her money, and her effort. Even her religion could not give her the solace she needed. That woman...."
His voice quivered with anger. All restraint disappeared.
"I hate her. We both hated her."
Fiona and Gail exchanged puzzled glances.
"But surely," Fiona said. "She is an asset to his aspirations. She is dedicated to his career. She has raised his profile...."
"With Madame.... he needed no one else. That woman pushed her away. We..." He appeared on the verge of hysteria.
Fiona stood up and got him another glass of water, which his shaking hands could barely get to his lips. He managed a few sips before the water slopped over his chin and he put down the glass.
"Do you think, Roy," Fiona asked with a brief glance at Gail." That the feeling was mutual? I mean did the same attitude exist on Madeline Newton's part toward Madame?"
Roy reflected for a brief moment.
"Absolutely," he said firmly. "Absolutely."
"But you wouldn't accuse her of.... "Fiona began.
"Wouldn't I?" Roy interrupted. "That woman is capable of anything."
It was, Fiona remembered, Gail who had raised the possibility earlier. Still, it seemed far-fetched and illogical, although Roy's support of the idea, notwithstanding his emotional state and his distorted perspective, did increase its credibility.
"Do you really think that's a possibility? Roy?"
A crooked thin smile spread across his lips. But he said nothing further.
Fiona mulled the possibility. Roy slumped deeper in the chair, looking exhausted.
"I'd suggest you rest, Roy," Fiona said.
He nodded weakly. His condition was alarming.
"Roy," Fiona said, "We'll call you in a few hours. Please stay put and rest." She looked toward Gail who nodded. "The bank people won't be back until tomorrow."
"Please keep the pictures out of their hands," he said.
"We'll do our best," Fiona said.
They helped him to his room and directed him toward his bed. He lay on his back and closed his eyes.
"What do you think?" Gail whispered.
Fiona contemplated the question. She studied him, a lonely, broken man, hardly looking the part of someone who had sacrificed his life on the altar of undying love and devotion. She could not deny an odd kinship with the man. There was something heroic in his willingness to put his love above all selfish concerns. Or had he been simply foolish, a victim of a wild debilitating romanticism? It reminded her of her own dilemma with Hal Perry. Had she taken the road to happiness or to lonely oblivion?
In a moment Roy was deep in sleep, his
eyelids fluttering, one cheek palpitating, his Adam's apple sliding up and down his neck. There was a blanket at the foot of the bed. Fiona unfolded it and laid it over him.
They left him there, locked in his dreams. Fiona hoped they might be more pleasant than his reality.
"That again," the Eggplant roared, when Fiona broached the subject of Madeline Newton as the possible instigator of Martine's murderous assignment.
"Only a theory Chief," Fiona said. They had recounted the events of the morning including all their juicy revelations about Mrs. Shipley and Roy Parker. They told him about the pictures that Roy was caught taking out of the house. The Eggplant seemed less than excited about the revelation.
"Old money, old secrets. So what?"
"You're jaded, chief," Fiona said. "This is a half a century love affair. Where is your sense of the romantic?"
"Where yours should be?" He chuckled lightly as if he saw some humor in the remark not apparent to Fiona.
"Which is where?" Fiona asked, cutting a glance at Gail.
"For openers those pictures could be evidence," the Eggplant said.
"They are, Chief," Fiona said. "Evidence of one very hot love affair. The woman's poses were blatantly erotic."
"I'd say pornographic," Gail said.
"That would be in the eye of the beholder, Chief. The fact is he admitted his involvement with Mrs. Shipley. The paintings were ... well ... extraneous. Frankly, I didn't see the harm in his squirreling them away. Besides, he could have made a good case for his ownership of them. There is no way he could have been the perpetrator here. No way. Even the long time love affair seems irrelevant to the case. And I really don't think they impact one way or another on the search for the perp, whoever, he.... "She shot a glance at Gail. "...or she may be."
"You'd love that wouldn't you?" the Eggplant said. "Both of you."
"Love what?" Fiona asked innocently.
"Her being the one," the Eggplant said.
"Make one helluva story, Chief." She reviewed the possibility in her mind. "Love it?" She shook her head in the negative.
"I'd say that gives him and our star something in common on the P.R. front." the Eggplant said.
"Only in the scandal category," Fiona said. "He has no stake in the future only the past. The star does."