The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Miss Vivienne Gregsby,” the detective says, placing a piece of paper on her desk, “we have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “For . . . for what?” she manages to gasp, although she knows what his answer is going be.

  “For the murder of Dr. Edwin Bradley.”

  “It was an accident!” she cries.

  The detective glances at the two policemen, raises an eyebrow. “You say it was an accident? That you did it by accident?”

  Vivienne backs up until she hits the bookshelves behind her desk. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” But even in her horror-struck state, she understands she’s just said something these policemen can use against her. “It was a car accident,” she adds. “Edwin was hit by a truck. That’s not murder.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Gregsby,” the detective says again. “Proving guilt is the prosecutor’s job. Ours is to arrest you.”

  One of the policemen pulls her arms behind her back and closes the handcuffs around her wrists. Sally, who is now Vivienne’s secretary, comes out of her office and demands that they stop immediately; she places herself between Vivienne and one of the policemen. But the officers order her to step back, along with the teachers clustering around the door. The staff watch, slack jawed and wide eyed, as Vivienne is escorted down the hallway.

  Her feet move and she continues to breathe. She’s aware of her surroundings, but it’s as if this is happening to someone else. She knows she’s being arrested. That these men believe she’s a murderer. That they’re going to bring her to the police station, take her fingerprints, and lock her up in jail. But she also knows it isn’t real. Can’t be real.

  As they pass Henri’s Joy of Life, she takes in the colorful paradise, the sumptuous nudes, the splashes of purple and orange and green, the entwined lovers. She’ll be back, she silently promises them. Soon. It’s a mix-up. Everyone has it wrong.

  She turns her head, and there’s Dance II directly across from her. The frolicking dancers, the graceful curve of the arches, of their bodies, the ribbons of black and pink and blue, the jubilant expansiveness. You, too, she tells the dancers, tells Henri. This is a mistake. A momentary lapse. She’ll be back.

  And then they’re down the stairs and out the main entrance.

  38

  George/István, 1928

  Bradley is dead, and Paulien has been arrested for killing him. Owing to a law, referred to in the vernacular as the slayer statute, if she’s found guilty, she can’t inherit, and Ada is the contingent beneficiary. Sometimes he amazes even himself. Not only is his backup plan in place, but with the exception of having to marry Ada, it will work out just fine.

  This doesn’t mean he isn’t shaken up about Paulien. Whether she’s convicted or not, it’s going to be a terrible ordeal for her. Her motive is abundantly clear, but Bradley was widely disliked, and there are many people who also had motive.

  Ada told him that Paulien posted bail. Apparently she put up her little house as collateral, and because of that, her clean record, and her United States citizenship, the judge decided she was neither a flight risk nor a danger to the community. Although Ada is incensed at the ruling, claiming a murderer is now loose on the streets of Philadelphia, the judge’s assumptions seem reasonable to him.

  Paulien must have a good lawyer to avoid jail while awaiting trial for murder. He’s glad for that, glad for her. Unfortunately he can’t take the risk of going to see her, even though he needs her to believe he’s on her side, behind her all the way. He continues to hold out hope that she, not Ada, will be the one to hand him the Bradley.

  It’s been almost three months since Bradley’s death, and Ada hasn’t yet recovered from the shock. Frankly he’s surprised she’s taking it so hard; it isn’t as if she liked the man. When she got word of Paulien’s arrest, she cheered up, but after a few days she fell back into despair. Women.

  It appears unlikely that Paulien will be convicted. Beyond all the other potential suspects, there’s the whole accident angle. If her lawyer was good enough to secure bail, the man should be good enough to establish reasonable doubt. Although there is Thomas Quinton, who, according to Ada, handpicked the judge and is prepared to use his influence and fortune to smooth every bump in Ada’s way in exchange for the collection and Ada’s undying gratitude.

  Won’t Mr. Quinton, a.k.a. Mr. Mayor, be surprised to discover that no matter who his friends are or whomever he bribes, he’s going to come up empty? No artwork, no museum, and unless Paulien walks, no Ada.

  It’s a magnificent spring afternoon, and he and Ada spend most of it in the botanical gardens, silently and companionably working side by side. The daffodil bulbs he planted last fall are in full bloom, and the riot of yellow as well as the warmth of the sun on his back fills him with optimism.

  Ada seems to be coming out of her winter doldrums along with the weather, and he almost hopes for Paulien’s conviction so that Ker-Feal, which Edwin bequeathed to Ada a few years before he died, will belong to him. He always wanted to own a grand country estate, to be lord of the manor, which is the least he deserves after all his hard work. Bradley had an accident; perhaps Ada will also.

  Ker-Feal or no Ker-Feal, it will be far better if Paulien is acquitted. It’s possible she’ll try to have him arrested, but he’s got the letter outlining her plans for the robbery, and that should dissuade her. Ultimately he knows she’ll forgive him for everything, let go of her anger, and allow herself to bask in the affection she’s always had for him. Especially after they consummate their marriage. She can be a wild woman in bed, and he knows exactly how to please her—and how to keep her wanting more.

  Perhaps when it’s all over he’ll slow down for a while, enjoy the fruits of his labor for a few years. Enjoy Paulien. After Bradley’s death, he let it be known in Paris that Ashton King’s father remained very ill, so there’s no rush to return to Europe. On second thought, a vacation is probably not in his future; he has enough self-awareness to recognize that he’ll never be truly happy unless he’s in the game. Because it isn’t about the money—that’s only how he keeps a running tally—it’s about coming out on top.

  He and Ada sit on the veranda sipping sherry, which he detests, and eating the tasteless hors d’oeuvres the maid brings, discussing the new plantings they’re preparing to install the next day. As they talk, he grows more distant, stares at the sky, frowns wistfully, and begins to answer her in monosyllables.

  “What is it, dear?” Ada asks. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  He doesn’t look at her. “I’m fine.”

  “István Bokor,” she says sternly. “I’ve known you for almost two years, and you are definitely not fine.”

  “Ah, sweetheart,” he says, smiling at her sadly. “I guess there’s no fooling you.”

  She reaches her hand over and rests it on his arm. “Tell me.”

  He sighs. “I don’t want to upset you, but . . .”

  “Upset me?” she asks. “What will upset me?”

  “It’s just that, oh, I don’t know, I just don’t know how much longer we can go on like this.”

  “On like what? Didn’t we just have the loveliest afternoon? Are you unhappy with me?”

  He takes her hands in his. “No, no. Just the opposite.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  Another heavy sigh. “I don’t want to push you, and I know it’s been only a few months since . . . since . . .”

  Ada disengages her hands from his and stiffly places them in her lap.

  He swallows his irritation at her seemingly endless anguish over a man whom she surely wanted dead. He draws the small box from his pocket and flips it open, revealing the opal ring. “I’ve been saving this for you. I never wanted it to happen like this, but I still want to marry you. And now that you’re . . . you’re . . .”

  “Oh, István.” She takes the box from him and begins to cry.

  “Does that mean no?”

  She tries to speak, fails, and begins to sob
even louder.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring it up.” He doesn’t reach out to comfort her, allowing her to feel his distance, how empty her life will be without him. “I didn’t want to—I don’t ever want to—make you unhappy.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not unhappy,” she wails. “I just don’t see how it can happen.”

  He grabs the box and snaps it shut with a loud click. “Never mind,” he says, dropping it back into his pocket and adding a touch of annoyance in his voice. “I see you’re still in love with Edwin, and I can’t compete with a ghost.” He stands. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “No!” she cries, jumping up and throwing her arms around him, just as he knew she would. “I’m not in love with Edwin. I don’t know if I ever was. I’m in love with you.”

  He untangles himself and takes a step backward. “The time isn’t right, Ada. And I’m guessing it never will be. You’ve suffered a great loss, one I can’t begin to fathom. The best thing for both of us is for me to go back to Hungary. My family’s been begging me to come. My father said my job is always open.”

  “But you hated that job,” she protests. “And you have such a gift for horticulture. A munitions factory is no place for you.”

  He shrugs. “I hate the idea of being with you but not really being with you more.”

  She closes her eyes, and a shudder runs through her. Then she squares her shoulders and wipes her tears with a handkerchief. “I’ll marry you. I want to marry you, to be with you. But . . .” She hesitates.

  “But what?”

  Ada looks up at him, her face blotched, a wad of mucus visible in one nostril. “I . . . I . . . I’ve been Mrs. Bradley for so long. It doesn’t feel right, no matter what my feelings are for you. I know it shouldn’t be like this, but it’s as if I’d be cheating on—”

  “You’re Bradley’s widow, not his wife. So even though you’re still calling yourself Mrs. Bradley, that doesn’t mean you’re still married to the man.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “I can’t wait around forever for you to figure this out,” he says sternly. He needs her to agree to marry him, and then he’ll postpone the wedding until after Paulien’s case is decided. If Paulien is acquitted, he’ll leave Ada and marry Paulien. But if Paulien is found guilty, Ada will be there to step into her shoes.

  Ada swallows hard. “Do you think we could put it off for a while? Just a little while longer. Be engaged, but keep it a secret?”

  “I don’t want to put it off.” He pouts.

  “Please, István,” she begs. “For me?”

  He frowns but allows his eyes to warm.

  “I just need a little mourning period,” she babbles. “To make my peace with what happened, to show the proper respect for Edwin. Maybe a year from now? And then I’ll be ready, happy to become Mrs. Bokor.”

  He wraps her in his arms and kisses the top of her head. “Yes, sweetheart, yes. That’s just what we’ll do.” Then he picks her up and twirls her around, both of them laughing. “Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair. “You’ve made me a very happy man.”

  The Trial, 1928

  Ronald says we won’t have to wait for the foreman to deliver the verdict, that we’ll know as soon as the jury files into the courtroom. All I have to do is scan the faces. If eyes meet mine, I’m free. If not, things haven’t gone as well. Simple as that, he tells me. Simple.

  They’ve been deliberating for two days. Apparently this is a good sign. It means there’s no consensus, that at least one juror isn’t convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that I killed you. Which is all we need.

  But the trial took seven days, and now it’s been another two. Jurors have jobs and families. They’re tired, put out, want to settle things and go home. That kind of pressure can make even a tough dissenter reconsider.

  Then there’s the human brain searching for links, which my first lawyer explained could be a defendant’s downfall in a case based on circumstantial evidence. And Pratt laid out those circumstances in nice little rows, the connections all too easy to make.

  But it could also be the other way around. Maybe the dissenter is the only one who thinks I’m guilty, and all the rest are convinced I’m innocent. If he’s the one who’s being forced to reconsider, there’s hope.

  I’ve sat through the testimony, the opening and closing statements, the judge’s instructions. And honestly, Edwin, I have no idea what they might decide. The way Pratt twisted the facts—from my relationship with that damn truck driver to my lies about Paulien Mertens—is concerning. Even Ronald looks at me oddly more often than I’d like. I wonder how you would look at me.

  I’m sitting on a bench in the lobby of the courthouse when Ronald comes to get me. There’s a verdict.

  I fidget at the defense table while we wait for the jury to return. I don’t know what to do with my hands, my legs, my eyes, my muddled thoughts. My heart pounds, and sweat drips down the back of my neck. Yet I’m freezing cold.

  The door opens, and the jury files in. Not a single one of them meets my gaze.

  Part four

  39

  Vivienne, 1928

  Riverside Prison allows visitors only for an hour on Sunday afternoons, which matters little to Vivienne, as she has few. Ronald comes once to see how she’s doing. He tells her how sorry he is and that he’s in the process of filing an appeal. Then, being Ronald, he has to add that the decision will most likely go against them, says he’s sorry again. She waves his apologies away, waves him away.

  Sally McDonald shows up one Sunday with flowers and candy, saying she doesn’t believe for a moment that Vivienne killed Edwin, that she’ll do anything Vivienne needs her to do to rectify the situation. Vivienne would be touched if she were able to feel anything but terror. They don’t let her keep the candy or the flowers.

  Sometimes she imagines she’s a turtle living within a carapace that protects her from the world—as well as from her own judgments and fears. The longer she wears it, the stronger and tougher the shell grows, and the more impervious she becomes to both external insults and those of her own making. She longs for the time when it will thicken enough to cut her off completely. She withdraws into it as often as she can.

  The fear of one possible visitor penetrates her shell. Henri has been insisting that he’s coming to Philadelphia. His last letter indicated he should be here soon. As much as she longs for him, longs to see his face, to be with someone who cares about her, she can’t let this happen. She loves him too much.

  She begs him to stay in France, warns that if he comes she’ll have the guards turn him away. Her life is over, and there’s no future for him with her. The sooner he accepts this, the better off he’ll be. This is all she has to give.

  For weeks after her incarceration, she bangs on the bars of her cell until her knuckles bleed. She screams out her innocence, insists she be let free, demands a review of the evidence, a new trial.

  “Look into Ada Bradley!” Vivienne cries. “She did it.”

  “It was an accident! A goddamned car crash!”

  “There’s a man out there named István Bokor. Ask him what really happened to Edwin Bradley!”

  “The judge is crooked!” she howls. “He was paid off.”

  The guards ignore her. It’s obvious they’ve seen this behavior before, heard many false claims of blamelessness, and know it will end on its own. And they’re right. As the days pass, both her quest for answers and her drive for vengeance begin to abate. Vivienne finally falls silent as the impossibility of the situation becomes unambiguous. There will be no colonnade seven for her father. No Bradley-Mertens Museum. No Henri. No family. No punishment for George. No life for her.

  She covers her face with her hands, huddles in the corner of her cell, curls into a ball, rocks back and forth, gestates her shell. She does this for days, maybe months. She’s losing track of time. The terror begins to recede into a distant ache, and she lets the days drift from one to the next. It’s better
this way. She wonders whether she’s also losing her mind. But it’s just an idle thought. She doesn’t actually care. She just rocks.

  She’s confined to a grimy cell with two cots, but the other one remains empty. There are few women at Riverside, and she’s told she’s the only convicted murderer. She figures the warden wants to keep her away from the other prisoners, perhaps believing she’ll turn them into killers, too. Again, she doesn’t care where she is—or who is or isn’t with her.

  It’s a relief to succumb to her fate, to be free from the constant agonizing over the jury’s possible judgment. Now there’s no hope and no wondering, which is liberating. As Ronald so callously told her, Pennsylvania performs more executions than almost any other state in the country, and that’s what they plan to do to her. It will probably be two or three years before they get around to it. She wishes it were tomorrow.

  One afternoon, Tony, the weekend guard, who has the face of a choirboy and the empathy of a pin, yanks open the door to Vivienne’s cell. “You’ve got a gentleman caller, Killer Girl.” He always calls her Killer Girl.

  Henri. She doesn’t move.

  “Come on, KG,” he orders. “Up!”

  She looks into Tony’s pretty green eyes and wonders what she should do, but it’s as if she’s wondering about someone else, a friend perhaps. Henri needs to go home. Back to the beaches of Nice. To the sunshine. To a life free from her. But it’s as if he, too, is someone else, not the man she once loved so passionately. Does she still love him? she wonders, woozy from so much thinking. A twinge of something akin to pain twists through the numbness that buffets her.

  The inmates are allowed only two showers a week, but Vivienne hasn’t had the energy lately, turning her back to the door when the one female guard comes to get her, holding that mean little sliver of soap. Or lye. Or whatever that nasty, smelly thing is made of. Her hair is lank and uncombed, and she can smell her own stink. She slowly pulls herself to her feet.