scott free

by Unknown Author

  “You cooperate very nicely, young lady.”

  “I don’t want to be murdered is why.”

  “Why wasn’t she tied up?” he asked Nell.

  “It’s not good for her circulation. I wanted to let her move around a little.”

  “The hell with her circulation! ”

  “All right. It won’t happen again.”

  He waited until the ropes were knotted. “That’s better. How are you, Rona?” Nell didn’t answer him and Liam wondered if she’d already forgotten the name she thought up to call herself.

  “How are you, Rona?” he asked again.

  “Oh. I’m fine, Al.”

  “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “I guess it is,” Nell said.

  “The stars are out and there’s a little slipper moon. Is that what you call it, a slipper moon?”

  “Yes, a slipper moon,” Nell said.

  He said, “And the street is absolutely still . . . except for one lone car that followed me.”

  With the help of Nytol and one glass of Shiraz, Scotti had succeeded in getting her mother to bed, just as the police arrived.

  Their visit to Tulip Path came near midnight, one policeman ringing the front doorbell, another pounding on the back door.

  They asked for permission to search the house, which Scotti granted, admittedly out of fear they would take her in for questioning. Whatever it was they were after seemed to be too crucial for Scotti to win any arguments over correct police procedure. She was wary of these uniformed officers, as well as convinced nothing about their mission was routine. She thought of Delroy, his wailing as she’d run out of die Lashers’, as though he’d stumbled on something horrific and come running for help.

  They took statements from both Houses concerning their relationship to Delroy, all contacts that either one might have had with the Lashers, and their whereabouts in the last twenty-four hours.

  When Scotti identified the Allen Institute as “an educational organization involved in funding” they didn’t question it, although they noted the time of the jitneys she took, and the time she spent at the Ashawagh Hall Writers’ Workshop.

  There were no questions about Delroy’s unfinished letter to her, nothing said about the “secret. ” But they had asked to see Fortune Fanny, curious to know why Scotti had bought a doll?

  “It’s for my grandchild,” her mother had spoken up. “She lives in Bay Shore.”

  Whatever they were looking for they had not troubled to say. They’d left as abrupdy as they’d arrived, ignoring Myrna House’s weepy inquiries about Delroy, as well as her declarations that the “poor boy” was guilty of nothing!

  Nytol would not do the trick once the police had left, so Scotti talked her mother out of “just one cigarette” and gave her a Halcion, then spent a restless night herself, falling asleep and waking up several times before the gray light of early morning came through the blinds.

  For the first time in many years she’d dreamed she was Scott, looking in his school locker for his clothes and finding only Scotti’s, fearing to put them on in front of the other boys in the gym. Bolton House had figured in the dream somehow, as well, but she could not remember that part of it.

  While her mother slept, Scotti made toast and coffee, then called Jessica. She told her everything, to see what Jessica could make of it. She also gave Jessica the license numbers she had impulsively jotted down the night before, of the only two cars visible on Maritime Way. A Pinto and the Ford that Liam Yeats drove there.

  “Do you think there’s a connection between this Yeats and what’s going on at die Lashers’?” Jessica had asked.

  “I don’t know. When I followed Liam Yeats, I was just curious about what he was doing in Springs so late at night. Ginny Loeper had said Nell Slack took up with bad guys. And I have a hunch Nell Slack is involved in whatever’s going on. But it’s just a hunch.”

  “Your hunches are not to be ignored,” Jessica said. “Why didn’t you tell me about this Delroy before?”

  “I was too embarrassed, Jess.”

  “Did he make a pass?”

  “Oh, no. I’d have remembered that. But I had to pee, and he saw me, so he knows. That’s the ‘secret’ he was referring to in the letter they found.”

  “The police don’t know, though?”

  “No. I don’t think I have anything to do with what they’re after.” “Could this Delroy be involved with drugs?”

  “Jessie, I don’t have a clue.”

  “A house search at that hour, out there, is major.”

  “That I realize.”

  “Are you okay, Scott? Scotti? It’s not every night Bolton House shows up in your dreams.”

  “Thank God for that. I’m fine. Thanks.”

  While she waited for Jessica to call her back after she checked the license plates, Scotti sat watching a scant snow flurry outside and listened to some more of the Streisand CD, Barbra singing in French, Debussy’s “Beau Soir.”

  She thought again of the dream, knew that it was prompted by her fear when the police arrived, even though common sense told her they were not about to do a strip search.

  She thought of how she had tried to explain, in the book she was writing, her deep affection for Jessica. The Ashawagh Hall instructor had commented that it was “more tell than show” and asked for a few examples of their “interaction.”

  The dream was a good example. Jessica had groaned when Scotti told her how she’d felt her father’s presence. No one but Jessica understood the hold Bolton House had once had over her, over both of them, for that matter. When Scott had first introduced them, Dr. House had said later, “Someday choose a girl you’re not sorry for. You are not the Salvation Army, Scott.”

  At subsequent meetings he would not glance in Jessica’s direction: he refused to acknowledge her presence.

  Appearances were everything to Bolton House, a major factor in his unhappy marriage as time went on. He had several nicknames for Jessica: “Miss Five By Five,” “Orca,” and “The Waddler.” All Scott had been able to surmise from his taunting remarks concerning Jessica was that she was not winsome enough for a son of his to hang out with, and then marry.

  Only after Dr. Rush’s probing during the institute’s psychological examination had it dawned on Scott that his father was jealous of Jessica, diat he could not bear their easy, exclusive rapport.

  If Scotti were ever to lose Jessica, she would lose that part of her history, the same way Myrna House complained that with so many of her contemporaries dead, she was losing her identity. Winters, what was left of it went to Florida with her friends.

  Scotti had gotten bogged down at the point in her book when she’d begun to deal with Emma. She’d been unable to finish a scene in which she had first tried to explain to Emma why she was letting her hair grow long, and why she was wearing a skirt.

  Emma was just five. For a moment she had listened with a beatific expression on her face, anticipating some game they must be playing together, until what Scotti was telling her began to sink in.

  Suddenly, Emma had punched her, hard. Then her small hand had tried to cover Scotti’s mouth, and the tears began, the hollering: “Take that off!” pulling at Scotti’s skirt.

  New Year’s Eve flashed in Scotti’s mind, and the quiet talk on the couch. Even though Emma explained how much it would embarrass her if her schoolmate met Scotti, it was a solemn admission—not one hurled at her angrily, but a sincere attempt at adjusting to a new way of life. Scotti was encouraged by the thought of a rapport with her daughter.

  Baba suddenly came downstairs with his leash in his mouth.

  He began to whine and dance about with that certain urgency which meant only one thing.

  The Halcion had probably knocked her mother out, for she never failed to wake up if Baba sent out one of his distress signals.

  Scotti hurried into her boots and coat.

  She attached Baba’s leash to his collar, and Baba pulled her
out the door.

  A creature of habit, even in an emergency, Baba only did his business in one place: the Green River Cemetery.

  They ran in that direction.

  Up a slight incline in a small grove was the grave of the famous musician Stefan Wolpe, with the remains of Bolton House next to it.

  The last time Scotti’d been there was the day of his funeral.

  She remembered being intrigued by the inscription on Wolpe’s headstone:

  When I die, out of my mouth, a hundred birds will fly.

  Something had happened between them that Nell could not fathom. She knew Liam had not liked it when he’d walked through the door last night and found the child untied. He had lectured her often enough about following procedure to the letter. He had reminded her too many times that the reason she had spent those years at CCI was that she had ignored Jimmy Rainbow’s instructions and gone back to see if the old lady was all right.

  But Liam had not seemed peeved at her over an infraction of his rules. It went deeper than that.

  The only thing he had told her was that he had seen a car follow him, go to the end of Maritime, turn around, and then head back slowly toward the cross street: Deep Six Drive.

  “Was it a man or woman driving?” she asked him later that evening when they could talk.

  “I’ve already cancelled it.” Affirm was rearing its ugly head. Its devotees “cancelled” any negative possibilities when the course was set.

  “Then why even tell me you saw a car following you?” Nell asked him.

  “I said it’s cancelled.”

  “But it is strange. A car on the street at this hour, going by the house slowly.”

  “Probably an old boyfriend looking for you.”

  “Why don’t you cancel your mouth?”

  They shot each other dirty looks. It was so very strange. They had never had this kind of tight. They had never disrespected each other with harsh words and snide expressions on their faces.

  “I thought you were going to read to the kid?” he said.

  “It can wait. Tell me about your telephone call.”

  She had the feeling that what Deanie told her was true, that Liam hadn’t been able to talk to Len Lasher, that the project was flawed from the start and Liam could not face it. Affirm followers never admitted defeat.

  Liam said, “I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m that dumb.”

  “You smell of peppermint and you never nap unless you’ve had a few.” “Thank you, Sherlock Slack.”

  “Liam? What’s going on?”

  “Al,” he corrected her. “I told you: in this house, Al.”

  “Al, I dunk I know what’s wrong. Deanie says her father can’t speak. He’s too ill.”

  “Really?”

  “She said he uses a synthesizer, a machine to help him talk.” “Interesting,” he said, yawning and making a point of it with an exaggerated stretch.

  “That’s what she told me. He has something called “Lugerig disease,” and not MS. She says he’s dying.”

  “When I talk to him again, I’ll ask him.”

  “You did talk to him then?”

  Liam said, “Yes, I talked to him. I know that man’s voice as well as I know yours, sweetheart. He’s paying the wansum. The kid’s pulling your leg.”

  “She’s just a child,” Nell said. “She’s not smart enough to—”

  “Not smart enough to what? Not smart enough to get you to untie her?” Nell had no answer to that. Deanie had told her that the ropes really hurt, even though Nell hadn’t pulled them as tightly as she could have.

  Liam said, “What’s happening here is you’re not keeping faith with the project, and I wonder why.”

  “Because you’re not telling me what’s going on, Al!”

  “There’s a kidnapping in progress. Okay?”

  “You seem different suddenly, even since we talked on the phone earlier.”

  “Why would I be different?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would I be different? If you can think of any reason why I would be different, let’s hear it.”

  It had been a terrible night.

  The child became angry with Nell for not keeping her promise to untie her when “Al” was asleep.

  Nell could not bring herself to chance it with Liam in that strange, distanced mood.

  Nell made Deanie hot Ovaltine, which she refused to drink. The egg salad sandwich Nell made for Deanie the child called “drek.”

  “What does drek mean?”

  “It’s Yiddish for ‘filth.’ My grandmother calls Edward Candle drek. If she ever met you and Al, that’s what she’d call you two.”

  “That’s not very nice, Deanie.”

  “Are you very nice?”

  When Nell went back upstairs, Liam was not napping, but peering through the blind slats in the darkened front room.

  “Are you worried about that car?” she asked him.

  He gave her this sinister look and didn’t answer,

  She was sure that he’d had a few drinks. That kind of paranoia in him was straight from the bottle.

  She knew the one way to jolly him, a way she did not like at all, but anything to bring him around.

  “I know what you need,” she said when he flopped down in the armchair. But as soon as she was on her knees before him, he grabbed her hands in a painful grip.

  He said between his teeth, “All I want is to get this done. What do you want?”

  “The same thing.”

  He shoved her away and she stood up. Usually Liam appreciated her sexual playfulness, but now he snapped, “Save it for New York! ”

  “Maybe by then I won’t be in the mood.”

  “Oh, you’ll be in the mood,” he answered sarcastically, as though she was guilty of some wrongdoing he could not forgive.

  She went across to the couch, stretched out, shoes off, and pulled the afghan over her.

  She pretended to sleep, watching him chain-smoke and brood until she could not bear to go without a cigarette herself.

  When she sat up and went to her bag to find one, Liam marched down the hall into a bedroom and shut the door.

  She woke up, the television she’d been watching into the early morning hours still on. She could hear Liam stamping around the kitchen.

  She went there and without turning to look at her he snapped, “Where are the fucking eggs? I bought a half dozen.”

  “I hard-boiled them last night for egg salad. They’re in the refrigerator.” “Shit! I want hot eggs!”

  “You shouldn’t eat them anyway, with your cholesterol so high.”

  He turned to show her a face she had never seen before: hard, hateful eyes and mean, tight-lipped mouth. He snarled, “I want fucking eggs over easy and bacon!”

  “Cancel it, since you’re into canceling. We’re out of eggs.”

  He walked across to the hooks hanging on the wall, just beyond the kitchen in the mudroom. He grabbed her coat and scarf and walked back with them, thrusting them into her arms.

  “Get us some breakfast.”

  “Where?”

  “The Springs General Store is down the street. It opens at six. It’s six.”

  She put on the coat and scarf without his help. “I’ll check on Deanie first.”

  “She’s fine. I just came up from there.”

  “Why don’t you get the eggs?”

  “I’m working on the hookup with this Delroy Davenport. I can’t be distracted in any way.”

  She said, “When I come back, you’d better be in a different mood.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’re going to mess this up.”

  He came across to her and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out and hold her, give her some reassurance that things were okay with them .

  He did reach out, with both hands, only to yank her wig down on her head. “If you’re going to
wear it, get it right!” he barked.

  When she went out into the cold a mild flurry was blowing. She was furious with Liam. She hated the cold! He should be the one going for the eggs! What was he pulling? She had never joined him in a venture of any kind. Maybe this was what Jimmy Rainbow used to call “the eleventh hour jitters.” Jimmy used to get the runs.

  Maybe the whole reason Liam had suddenly glommed onto Affirm last spring was that he panicked before a job. He had been out of action ever since he’d beat the rap on the hijacldng scam.

  For the first time she thought: what have I gotten into? What if I just didn’t come back? What if I got out right now, got into my car and went, with everything I own right there in the trunk? What if I headed for New York without a backward glance?

  Even if she could summon up the nerve to ditch Liam and this project, she could never leave so long as Deanie Lasher was tied up in the basement.

  Liam knew that. That was probably why Liam had let her go.

  Myrna House made up her mind to get a prescription for Halcion. She had been awake for over an hour, but she had no desire to get out of bed. She did not even have to go to the bathroom. She did not even crave a cigarette. When Baba sat on the rug by her bed, on his hind legs with his leash in his mouth, she did not feel like letting the bulldog run her life that morning.

  Eventually he went downstairs, where Scotti was. Rather than call up to tell her Baba was waiting for his walk, Myrna House bet Scotti would break her rule about leaving his care to her mother and take him herself.

  Scotti would not want to discuss last night. She hated what she called “rehashing” things. That was why she had given Myrna House the Halcion, because last night Myrna House did want to talk about it, couldn’t stop talking about it, until Scotti told her she needed something to help her quiet down. . . . That was like Scotti: to pretend that she was helping her mother, when what she was doing was relieving herself of the burden of listening.

  Scott would have barked, “Cork it!”

  Scott had not had Scotti’s patience.

  It had been only about six hours since Myrna House had swallowed the magical pill, so she was still under its spell, basldng in this new sensation of peaceful languor.