by Warren Adler
But how?
At that moment, the two people brought the painting to floor level. Fiona could see the outline of where it had been. Obviously it had not been removed for many years.
"Carefully now," Madeline cautioned as the two people, each holding one end, slowly moved it toward the entrance.
"So..." Madeline said, continuing to watch the two workers bringing the painting toward them. They would have to pass them to get in the vestibule where Fiona could see a large wooden packing crate awaiting the painting. "...barring any definitive evidence or witnesses, I would expect that this inquiry is.... how can I be delicate ... insulting ... and maybe, just maybe, legally actionable."
"We're not here to insult anyone or abridge their rights."
"I know," Madeline said, holding up her hand like a traffic cop gesturing a vehicle to come to a stop. "Just doing your job. I'm sure my husband will have some ideas on how to proceed ... an action that I hope will get the maximum response."
"She means trying to getting our asses fired," Gail said.
"Ah," Madeline sneered. "The balcony is heard from. I was wondering how long that would take."
At that moment, she turned to observe the painting move past them toward the vestibule. Fiona followed her gaze.
"Wait," Fiona shouted to the two people who were navigating the painting to the vestibule.
"Don't listen to her," Madeline cried.
Fiona took out her badge and flashed it. The two people who carried the picture bowed to the badge's intimidation.
Fiona studied the painting for a long moment.
"Of course," Fiona said. "That's it."
"What's it?" Gail said.
Fiona pointed to the figure's left hand, difficult to see at a distance, but clearly visible now. It hung loosely at the figure's side, graceful, smooth, the fingers elegantly poised ... except that the index finger was cut off at the top knuckle, at the exact place where Roy's finger was severed.
"Roy's message," Fiona said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Madeline cried.
"His finger, Mrs. Shipley. Roy's finger."
Madeline traded glances with Clayton.
"Are you crazy?" Madeline said.
Fiona shot a glance at Gail who looked equally puzzled.
"Would you prefer this to be a private talk, Mrs. Shipley?" Fiona asked. Madeline appeared to reflect for a long moment. Then she nodded.
"It's alright Clayton. Don't worry." Madeline said.
"I'll explain later," Fiona assured Gail.
The two people carrying the picture, after a nod from Fiona, continued to bear their burden into the vestibule looking completely confused by the episode.
"The kitchen will be fine," Fiona said, leading Madeline into the kitchen. They sat across from each other at the same table where they had had their exchanges with Gloria and Roy.
"I don't know what this is all about," Madeline said. She had dropped her arrogant pose, at least for the moment. Trying a new tack, Fiona reasoned.
"It's beginning to make sense," Fiona said. She wasn't quite sure of her ground, she admitted to herself. But there seemed no other way to approach this, except directly. She wished Roy would come back. She was sure, that once confronted, Roy would crumble, admit everything, and fill in the blanks.
"Wouldn't you just love to pin something on me, something scandalous and creepy, something that would make good fodder for the tabloids?"
"Mrs. Shipley," Fiona began. "How much do you know about your husband's background?"
"Everything," Madeline said. "Absolutely everything."
"About his father?"
"Of course."
Fiona savored the idea of sudden revelation, hoping to throw Madeline off-guard.
"The war hero who died at the Battle of the Bulge, the one in the picture?"
"It doesn't have to be underlined Sergeant. I know all about the young man depicted in the picture.... with Roy's finger."
"Do you?"
"Are you shocked?"
"About what?"
"Roy painted in his own finger. I know he painted the picture. William told me. His mother hired him originally to paint portraits of her dogs. Then he decided to stay on as a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. Is there something sinister in that?"
"Mrs. Shipley?" Fiona asked. "Have you ever seen a photograph of William's father."
Madeline's brows knitted and for a few moments she was deep in thought. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind. Then, inexplicably, she smiled.
"No I haven't."
"You don't think it's curious?"
"Curious?" She reflected for a moment. "Yes. It's curious. But there was this magnificent picture. Perhaps Deb destroyed any earlier pictures. People who grieve do bizarre things."
"Your point is well taken, Mrs. Shipley," Fiona said. "It doesn't really mean anything, except to someone paranoid about having the subject exposed to the media and all the resultant juicy coverage. A man running for President of the United States cannot afford such exposure.... even if he's really not responsible for the events."
Madeline sighed and shook her head.
"I wish you would make yourself clear."
"I wish you could help me make it clear, Mrs. Shipley. We'll just have to confront Roy Carpenter. He's been quite a good soldier so far..." Fiona marveled at her odd use of words. Good soldier!
"Would you care to hear my speculation on this subject, Mrs. Shipley?"
Madeline looked around the room as if inspecting it for eavesdroppers.
"Just you and me Madeline," Fiona said, studying Madeline's face. "Girl to girl." She seemed expectant, wide-eyed, her head slightly cocked, like a dog awaiting a signal. Fiona felt confident that she was following the right line of questioning, was on the right track. Revealing a theory often disoriented a perpetrator.
"I'm listening," Madeline said, more composed than Fiona had hoped she would be at this stage.
"Roy Carpenter is, in my opinion, your husband's father," Fiona said, watching Madeline's face, which remained curiously immobile at the revelation. It was not what Madeline had expected from an experienced actress. Surprise, shock, perhaps, but not this cold calm visage, devoid of expression.
"Go on," Madeline pressed.
"Deb Shipley concocted the scenario with Roy Carpenter a willing participant. One might argue that she was ahead of her time. She wanted this child, wanted a son, in my opinion. Her whole modus operandi, her glittering social life, her friendships with the high and mighty, all were put into the service of her one unalterable obsession, to construct a political career for her son that would bring him to exactly where he is today ... at the very apex of political life, on the verge of becoming President of the United States."
Madeline, in another reversal of expected reaction, clapped her hands briefly.
"Bravo," she cried. "You should write scenarios for Hollywood."
"Am I far from the truth, Mrs. Shipley?"
"The truth is it?" She shook her head and offered a broad spectacular smile, the mighty seductive smile that lit up the silver screen.
"I'm sure of it."
"The one great truth," Madeline said. "The one great truth in a mountain of lies. The needle in the haystack. The magnificent golden kernel of truth. Find that and you have discovered the secret of great drama, and you have touched the soul of the actor. Do you think oh great detective that I don't know the one great truth? Do you think I would be expending all this time, energy and treasure if I did not know it."
"You know?"
"The truth is essential to a solid marriage, Officer. I've been through three of them. I'm an expert on the subject. Of course we know. William has always known."
"About everything?"
"Don't look so shocked."
"Then why..."
"Where is the crime in this, FitzGerald? In an odd way, we're victims in a cabal that took place before William was born and in an even stranger twist of fate, he, to
o, became a willing participant. Yes he knows and he also aspires to fulfill his mother's fantasy. Imagine that. He wants to be President of the United States. There may be a crime in that..." Madeline laughed, a real laugh, with her head thrown back, her hair falling undone. She re-twisted it on top of her head.
"I had no idea..." Fiona began, stunned by the revelation.
"William lived in this house. He wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid. He was a curious little boy. He actually saw them in flagrant delecto up there in that room. Sorry to be so crude. Apparently Deb was one hot number and Roy, although you wouldn't know it to look at him today, must have had the right stuff to keep that woman satisfied. Naturally, he couldn't know for sure that Roy was his father and, for obvious reasons, he would not have urged a blood test. Which would have meant an unwanted confrontation on the subject. I'll say this for Deb Shipley. She was one clever bitch. Amazing how she covered her tracks. We actually didn't know how she did it until ... well until ... I got into the picture and we put our heads together and I began to use some of my chits with the power boys. I must say they will do flip-flops for us Hollywood types, especially, if they are, modestly I say this ... a super star. I see I've got you hooked, officer."
"I admit it," Fiona said. It was, indeed, a compelling story, told with compelling drama by a performance expert.
"It seems that Deb had this old buddy, Chester Brewer, an assistant Secretary in the Penagon. Voila! He was in charge of personnel. Seek and ye shall find. He found a name. Missing in Action in the Battle of the Bulge. William Shipley, a genuine much-decorated hero with, miracle of miracles, no relatives. An orphan in fact. Suddenly, by magic, the records reflected a marriage to one Deb Sanders. From that came more records and in these records, a name, William Shipley Junior and a history. No. More than a history. A mythology. And a magnificent painting to embellish that myth. Oh we must forgive Roy his little joke. Poor asshole probably needed something to validate his ... assumed progeny. I'm sure they had a good laugh over it. Hell, it did the job for more than fifty years. Still doing it in fact. Of course, I'm having it retouched, a little finger painting."
She chuckled, smiled and continued.
"Old Chester Brewer," Fiona said. "It would never have occurred to me."
"Probably cost her a pretty penny. But then Deb knew the various ways one could inspire loyalty. Sometimes money. Sometime promises. Sometimes sex. That's a talent, let me tell you."
"Takes one to know one," Fiona muttered.
"As I said old Deb was the quintessential bitch. Against her we're all amateurs. The point of our little discreet investigation was to be sure that when William got into a bigger arena some snot nose reporter wouldn't dredge up the, as they say, the real truth. I'll say this for old Deb." She glanced up suddenly, a truly believable heavenward gesture. "Bless you, darling. The painting was one great idea." Her eyes drifted downward. "Think of the people of power who came through that house. There in living color was the great symbol of William's legitimacy. She gave William one helluva Dad."
"Another lie on the resume," Fiona sighed.
"Come come, dear Fiona. People create themselves and their histories all the time. Take little me for openers. I'm the perfect example. My official bio is bull. You can't imagine how dull my early life was. As for my career, how do you think I got my start?" She laughed again. "Let your imagination run amuck. It will still not approach the actuality. Oh I do have talent and God, by some strange twist of genetic miracle, made me a knockout. You should have seen my parents. Ugly as sin. You know what my real talent is. I'm, quite literally, one of the great blow job specialists in the world. Are you shocked? Do you know how far that can get you in Hollywood? Maybe even in your business, Fiona. I blew my way through the door. It gave me opportunity. How was I to know that my persona on the silver screen was an emotional explosion? It's all bull, Fiona. Oh there's shock value in Deb's story. Big socialite keeps secret lover, issue of same is William Shipley, candidate for President. No, we don't want it splashed across the world media. Yes, it can seriously cheapen William's image, embellish it with ridicule and humor, a very dangerous thing for a candidate for the highest office in the land. My entire modus operandi is dedicated to William's image. So we public figures tell lies. Create and recreate ourselves. Haven't you heard, Fiona? Life's a movie and movies are a crock of lies. Bottom line to all this. So what? Is there a crime in that?"
Her soliloquy, Fiona decided, using the appropriate term, although cynical and certainly morally reprehensible was mesmerizing.... and convincing.
"No crime in that," Fiona admitted. "But..."
"Why have I spilled the beans to you?"
"Good question."
"As I've been telling you this, I've been pondering that ... Fiona. Do you mind if I call you Fiona? As the daughter of a famous Senator I'm hoping that you know what I'm going through. Politics is like show business. Same driving motives. Image and emotional response moves an audience to react. In politics that translates into votes or the perception that you can get votes. I know I'm gambling on your discretion, but I believe you understand completely what I've been talking about." She suddenly stopped, grew thoughtful, and leveled her violet eyes at Fiona. "Besides, there is no proof. Never will be. And, of course, I'll deny everything." She chuckled "I'm also gambling that you'll buy my theory about this murder."
"What theory?"
"In my opinion the little bastard made it all up. There was no black man in a black car. This street smart fourteen year old sumbitch is.... as the brother's say.... jiving you."
"We haven't discounted that possibility," Fiona said. It was now clear that this was where Madeline had been headed from the beginning. Accepting that theory would put the case to bed, foreclose on the possibility of any further revelations. The memory would fade. Damage control accomplished. P.R. mission fulfilled.
It amazed Fiona how completely Madeline had blunted her earlier suspicions.
"What about the money? He didn't take any money."
"I've wracked my brains over that one. You want to hear my theory?"
Fiona shrugged her consent. The woman's persuasive skills were awesome.
"I think he found where she kept the money and took that, left the money in the purse. Deb dealt only in cash. She might have had some stashed away. My own view. He's taken you. He fooled you with Gloria's brother. He's jived you, Fiona. He's street smart enough to louse us all up. Look what he's achieved. Gloria committed suicide. Roy tried to burn the house down. Now you think I had her killed with Clayton's help.... poor Clayton, that wonderful gentle giant, now a victim of the stereotype. Would you really throw him, like a piece of dead meat, to the whim of that little monster? And if you did, what would you accomplish? What about motivation? Actors always think in those terms. Do you really believe that I would set up Deb for the killing field? Why? Down deep we both wanted the same thing for William. Didn't we? I'll say this. She was an adversary. No question about it. I know she hated me. Wouldn't you if I absconded with your child, took charge of him, took away her participation in her great dream? In that case, I should have been the body in that bed. Not the other way around. The point I'm trying to make is that neither Deb nor I had it in us to go that far. Far yes. But not that far." She paused, sucked in a deep breath, then expelled it. "If I were you, I'd accept the obvious. The boy did it on his own. Don't let the bleeding hearts be manipulated by that little bastard. He did it. Drop all the peripheral folderol and stop messing around with other people's lives. Everyone has suffered quite enough in this tragic affair."
Fiona felt as if a steamroller had flattened her.
"That said," Madeline muttered, slapping her thighs and getting up from the table. "Is there anything else I can do for you ... Fiona?" She smiled pleasantly. "Nice name, very alliterative. I hope you don't mind the familiarity. Considering the discussion, I hope you'll return the favor. Madeline is my real name. Newton I got off a Fig Newton box." She started to move away. "Can we call
this a wrap? I've got work to do around here. All of this junk must be appropriately dispatched, including that painting, which will be duly repaired and, as I told you, hung in the Governor's Mansion. Perhaps, at some future date, in the living quarters of the White House."
"I think we've covered enough ground for one day," Fiona said, feeling foolish and inept in the face of this force of nature.
They found Gail and Clayton sitting in the great room, chatting amiably, which seemed incongruous to their original roles. Gail's eyes sparkled and Clayton seemed uncharacteristically animated, if not in words, in expression. Perhaps it was all in her imagination, Fiona conceded. Nevertheless, the change in calibration, especially concerning Gail, made her take note.
The great room was now all but empty of its original possessions. More than anything, the dismantling of this room was the real death knell of Deb Shipley, her life and times. Her era was over. Here was her obituary. Death of a Washington Madame. She was over, the set struck by the orders of Madeline Newton.
"Mrs. Shipley and I had a nice little chat," Fiona said, knowing that her tone had all the earmarks of surrender. "She had certain theories that are worth exploring."
"Does she?" Gail said with a brief look at Clayton. Fiona eyed them with interest.
"If Roy shows up while you're still here, would you please have him call us," Fiona said.
"Of course," Madeline replied.
Fiona was struck by the curious fact that Madeline, who had provided her with such sensitive and intimate revelations, had not mentioned Roy's erotic paintings of Deb Shipley.
"He's welcome to stay until we decide what to do with the property," Madeline said.
"Very kind of you Mrs. Shipley," Fiona said.
"It's the least I could do ... considering."
CHAPTER 21
"You've been over that ground before," the social worker said.
She was different than the one who was present when they had visited the Juvenile Center before, a light skinned black woman with almond shaped eyes flecked with yellow and soft hair done in bangs. Fiona suspected she was part Asian. She had an air of superiority which made her officious, a woman with an attitude. She was the type Fiona detested most.