Puppet

by Joy Fielding

  This is all her mother’s fault, she decides. Seeing her mother for the first time in all these years, and under such extreme circumstances, has unsettled her, unearthed a veritable powder keg of long-buried memories and emotions.

  She takes stock. What is she feeling exactly? Angry, no question. Helpless, definitely. Anxious, certainly. Confused, yes. Irritated, yes. Frustrated, you betcha.

  What she isn’t feeling: pity.

  What she isn’t feeling: compassion.

  What she isn’t feeling: tenderness.

  No way.

  I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are.

  How dare you, Amanda thinks, kneading the muscles in her neck until her fingers start to ache. How dare you say something like that to me now? What are you trying to pull? What are you thinking? That just because I came back here, because I agreed to see you again, that all is forgiven? That I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because you’re locked up in the ugliest damn building I’ve ever seen, wearing the ugliest damn sweat suit I’ve ever seen, and you look so frail inside all that thick cotton, and so, I don’t know, so … human, for want of a better word.

  But we all know that’s not true, don’t we, Mother?

  Well, with a daughter like you, no wonder your father had a heart attack.

  Yes, that’s more like the woman we’ve come to know and loathe.

  I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are.

  No, you haven’t. “And it’s too goddamn late now.”

  “What is?” Ben asks, tucking the phone back inside his jacket.

  “What?”

  “What’s too late?”

  “What?” Amanda asks again, unable to say more.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  He smiles. “Fucking fine or just fine?”

  She finds herself smiling in return. “Was that Jennifer who called?”

  “It was.”

  “Checking on tonight’s dinner plans?”

  “She heard about something she thought might interest me.”

  “And did it?”

  “Apparently another witness has come forward.”

  “In my mother’s case?”

  “Have you ever heard of a woman named Corinne Nash?”

  “Corinne Nash?” Amanda chews the name silently in her mouth, pushing it across her tongue, trying to recognize the flavor. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “She claims to be a friend of your mother’s.”

  “Impossible. My mother doesn’t have any friends.”

  “You’ve been away a long time, Amanda.”

  “Some things never change.”

  “And some things do. Shall we go talk to her?”

  “You know where this woman lives?”

  Ben turns the car onto the entrance ramp of the 401, waits for a break in the eastbound traffic. He offers nothing further.

  Amanda smiles knowingly. Sometimes it pays to sleep with the enemy, she thinks.

  The house on Whitmore Avenue is old and in obvious need of repair. Its mustard-yellow brick could use a good sandblasting, and the concrete stairs leading up to the tiny front porch, although shoveled clean of snow, are noticeably crumbling. A late-model Caprice sits in the driveway, too wide for the narrow garage attached to the house. Wooden shutters, whose white paint is chipping, frame small windows overlooking the street. A bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head sits in the middle of an oak door, both in need of polishing. “Look familiar?” Ben asks, pulling up in front of the house.

  “No.”

  He turns off the engine. “Let me do most of the talking,” he cautions as Amanda climbs out of the car. “Amanda …,” he warns as she hurries up the steps.

  “I won’t say a word.” She begins pounding on the door.

  “Oh, that’s good. She’ll think it’s the Gestapo.”

  “I’m not saying a thing.”

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice calls from inside the house.

  “My name is Ben Myers,” Ben says, his gloved hand reaching out to cover Amanda’s mouth. “I’m representing Gwen Price, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  The door opens immediately. Amanda shakes free of Ben’s hand and steps aside, almost afraid to confront the woman face-on.

  “You’re Gwen’s attorney?” The woman’s voice is thin, almost girlish, and she’s conservatively dressed in a brown skirt and beige sweater set. On her feet is a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. “Please come in. How is Gwen?”

  “She’s doing pretty well.”

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirls around their heads as they step inside the small front foyer. Corinne Nash closes the door behind them. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your boots …”

  They immediately oblige, and Amanda takes the opportunity to sneak a look at her surroundings. The downstairs rooms are compact and neat—a living room to her left, a dining room to her right, a doorway open to the small kitchen at the back. A wooden staircase, covered by a runner of pale green carpeting, leads from the center hall to the rooms upstairs. Amanda pictures three bedrooms, the master bedroom only slightly larger than the other two, and probably only one bathroom. The walls throughout are an insipid shade of green that stops just short of institutional, and the carpets covering the wood floors in both the living and dining room are floral in pattern, as are the drapes.

  “This is my assistant,” Ben begins as Amanda finishes removing her boots and lifts her head.

  “Oh, my God,” Corinne Nash exclaims.

  Amanda finds herself backing against the door as the woman walks toward her, one hand extended. Corinne Nash is tall, about five feet eight inches, with a huge bosom and ample hips, which make her little-girl voice all the more out of place, as if the voice were emanating from somewhere else in the room. Her chin-length hair is the same shade of golden brown as her eyes, and her lips are wide beneath a nose that is short and sculpted. In her youth, she was probably a force to be reckoned with, Amanda thinks, feeling the door handle at her back. “You’re Amanda, aren’t you?”

  It takes Amanda a second to recover her voice. “You know me?”

  “Of course I know you. Please, come in.” Her arm sweeps across Amanda’s shoulders, as she guides her toward a living room bursting with furniture. “Let me take your coat. Please sit down.” Her fingers flutter between the floral-print sofa in front of one window and the two cantaloupe-colored wing chairs in front of the other. An overstuffed, muted orange-and-green-striped armchair and matching ottoman sit in front of a fireplace at the far end of the room, and an antique Queen Anne chair upholstered in dark green needlepoint sits beside an old upright piano. On the wall above the piano is a painting of a naked woman reclining on a settee, the naked woman bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to the woman of the house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? It’s already made.”

  “Coffee would be great, thank you,” Ben answers for both him and Amanda.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Cream and sugar,” they answer together.

  “Just like your mother,” Corinne Nash says upon her return, depositing a tray with three mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of assorted cookies on the glass coffee table in front of them.

  Amanda makes a mental note to start drinking her coffee black. “How do you know me?” she asks as the woman sits down in the closest of the two wing chairs.

  “I’ve seen your picture many times.”

  “My picture? Which picture?”

  Corinne Nash seems slightly taken aback. “Well, let’s see. There’s the one of you when you graduated from high school, and then there’s another one of you just sitting staring out the window. One of those candid shots. Apparently your father took it when you didn’t realize. That’s your mother’s favorite. And of course, all those pictures of you as a baby. It’s amazing—you still have the same face. That’s how I recognized you. Have you seen your mother? She’
s so proud of you. She must be so relieved you’re here.”

  Amanda grabs her mug of coffee from the tray and raises it to her lips to keep from screaming, What are you talking about? My mother never kept photographs of me. She was never proud. She looks to Ben, her eyes appealing for help. But he looks as confused as she is.

  “Mrs. Nash,” he begins, “I understand you’ve talked to the police.”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get your mother in any more trouble, that’s why I waited a few days to come forward, but then I read that she had already confessed, and I wanted to do the right thing. I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t made things worse for her.”

  “What exactly did you tell the police, Mrs. Nash?”

  “That I was with Gwen at the Four Seasons when she first saw that man.”

  “You were with her when she killed John Mallins?” Ben asks.

  “No, not when she shot him. The day before.”

  “I don’t understand,” Amanda interrupts. “You’re saying my mother was at the hotel the day before she shot him?”

  “Yes. We’d gone to a movie, and then went for tea. They have a lovely bar in the lobby, and we often meet there for tea in the afternoon. They have these lovely biscuits.” She offers the tray of cookies. “These aren’t as good, of course.”

  Ben takes one. “Delicious. You made these?”

  “Oh, my, no. I can’t bake to save my life. Never could. My grandchildren complain about it whenever they visit. They say grandmothers are supposed to be able to bake cookies.”

  “How long have you known my mother?” Amanda asks, trying to give the woman context.

  “About five years. We met at the movies. We were both alone, and we just sort of drifted into a conversation. Actually, I think I was the one who started talking to her. She was shier. At least at first. But I wore her down, I guess. It turned out we had a lot in common. We were both widows and recovering alcoholics. Our children were grown. We both liked movies and the theater. So, we started meeting every couple of weeks, and then once a week, and after the movies, we’d sometimes go for tea.”

  “And that’s when you saw John Mallins?” Ben asks, bringing them back to the matter at hand.

  “Yes. Actually, we were just leaving the lobby bar when they came through the revolving door, laughing and holding hands on their way to the elevators. And I turned to Gwen and said something like ‘Isn’t that a lovely family?’ Only Gwen looked like she’d just seen a ghost. She was shaking so hard I thought maybe she was having a seizure, so I sat her down and asked her if I should call an ambulance, but she insisted she was okay, even though you could see she wasn’t herself. Then after a few minutes, we left. I called her later to check on how she was feeling, and she said she was fine.”

  “That was it?” Ben asks. “She never said anything to you about John Mallins?”

  “Never mentioned him at all. In fact, it wasn’t until I read about what happened in the papers and saw Gwen’s picture next to that man’s, that I put two and two together.”

  “And you’re sure the man you saw that afternoon was John Mallins?” Amanda questions.

  “The police asked me the same thing. I’m absolutely positive. I’m very good with faces. It was the same man all right.”

  “Think hard, Mrs. Nash. Had my mother ever mentioned John Mallins to you before?”

  “Never. I still can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “That she shot that man. Like I told the police, your mother is the kindest, gentlest person I’ve ever known.”

  Amanda feels the coffee mug slip through her fingers. Before she can stop it, it bounces off her lap, spilling its contents across the floral-print rug. Like John Mallins’s blood, Amanda thinks, watching as the stain reaches for her toes.

  THIRTEEN

  DID she really say my mother is the kindest, gentlest person she’s ever known?” Amanda whispers as Corinne Nash rushes into the kitchen to retrieve some paper towels.

  “That’s what she said.”

  Amanda shakes her head in disbelief. “Who does she usually hang out with? Hitler?” She sinks back into the sofa, almost disappearing inside the cacophony of pink-and-green fabric flowers and vines.

  “Have a cookie,” Ben offers. “They’re actually pretty good.”

  Amanda grabs a biscuit from the black enamel tray, swallowing it almost whole, as Corinne Nash scurries back into the room carrying a handful of paper towels. She drops to her knees, begins blotting up the stain.

  “Oh, no,” Amanda says, joining the older woman on the floor. “Please let me do that.”

  “Nonsense. It’s done.” Corinne proudly displays the now-wet paper towel. “Have another cookie,” she instructs. “I’ll get some more coffee.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Amanda protests. “Really. I’ve put you to enough trouble already.”

  “I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day, have you?” Corinne Nash shakes her head. “Just like your mother.”

  Amanda’s smile is so tight, her cheeks feel as if they might split down the middle. When she speaks, her words rumble unsteadily from her throat, as if she is gargling. “I assure you, I’m nothing like my mother.”

  “Oh, really? I see all sorts of similarities,” Corinne Nash says with a smile.

  “I think maybe we should be going,” Ben interjects quickly, guiding Amanda toward the front door. He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as she steps into her boots and gathers her coat around her.

  “Wait,” Amanda says as they are descending the front steps. “I just thought of something.” She stops on the second-to-last step, takes a deep breath of late-afternoon air, turns back to Corinne Nash. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a key to my mother’s house, would you?” she asks, lowering her voice in an effort not to sound like her mother.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Corinne says with almost audible pride. “We exchanged keys a few months ago. We thought it would be a good idea. You know, in case of an emergency or something. I guess this qualifies. Would you like it?”

  “Please,” Ben says before Amanda can say otherwise. “Good thinking,” he adds as Mrs. Nash disappears back into her house to find the key.

  Amanda ignores the compliment. “I don’t sound anything like my mother. How could she say that? You don’t think I sound like my mother, do you?”

  “Here it is,” Mrs. Nash says upon her return, proudly offering the single silver key to Amanda. “Her plants probably need watering.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Ben says, thanking the woman again.

  Corinne Nash waves good-bye as they climb into the car. “Please tell your mother she’s in my prayers.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Amanda mutters. She is still muttering and Mrs. Nash is still waving as Ben throws the Corvette into gear and pulls away from the curb.

  The two-story house on the west side of Palmerston is much like its owner—aging but proud, stately but eccentric. The bricks are a dull brown, the front door a bright yellow. Snow covers the sidewalk and outside steps, and no one has bothered to shovel the narrow driveway that is shared with the house next door. “A curse on you, Mr. Walsh,” Amanda hears her mother yell as Ben pulls his car into the mutual driveway. “You’ll be dead before the new year.”

  Sure enough, two months later, old Mr. Walsh was dead.

  In the years that followed, several families moved in and out of the house next door. Amanda wonders who lives in it now, if they will be as incensed as her mother used to be at finding a car blocking the middle of the driveway. Not that her mother ever went anywhere, Amanda thinks, looking over at Ben, remembering how often this very car sat idling in this very position.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “You’re sure this isn’t considered breaking and entering?”

  In response, Ben holds up the key to the front door. “This was your idea, remember?”

  “We aren’t in
terfering with a police investigation?”

  “Do you see any yellow tape?”

  Amanda exhales a deep breath of air, watches it spread across the car’s front window. He’s right, of course. The police have no reason to search her mother’s house. They already have the murder weapon. And even if they don’t have a motive, they have something much better—a confession. Amanda releases another painful breath from her lungs and pushes open the car door.

  “Careful on the ice,” Ben warns as Amanda makes her way slowly to the walkway. She pretends not to see the arm he offers to help her up the snow-caked front stairs.

  “Just what do you think we’ll find in here?” she asks as the key twists in the lock.

  “I have no idea.”

  In the second it takes for the key to release the lock, Amanda thinks of half a dozen reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this: they are snooping where they don’t belong; her mother will be furious when she finds out; this isn’t her house, not anymore; she hasn’t set foot in here since her father died; she vowed never to set foot in it again; just standing on the front porch is making her feel sick to her stomach.

  To this list she adds one more reason: they might find something.

  The door falls open. Ben steps confidently over the threshold. “Coming?”

  “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Would you like to wait in the car?”

  Amanda shakes her head, the only part of her body that seems capable of movement. Her limbs have frozen. She has the feeling that if she tries to force one leg in front of the other, it will snap off like an icicle.

  A gust of cold air blows against the back of her coat, gently nudging her inside. She steps into the small front foyer, her eyes on the tiny gray-and-white squares of the linoleum floor. “Doesn’t look like much has changed,” she hears Ben say.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Amanda lifts her eyes.

  What Amanda sees: the ersatz gray-and-white mosaic tiles of the foyer disappearing into the dark wood floor of the narrow hallway, the gray-carpeted living room to her left, the wood-paneled study to her right, a stairway at the back, beside the kitchen, a sobbing child flying down those stairs and darting between rooms to escape her mother’s wrath.