Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  Meredith had been with Claire for two days now. Ted and Jean Lawrence had come to New York to meet Claire and take Meredith back to Connecticut with them—although Claire hadn’t told Meredith that part yet. Meredith and her father had gone to the Bronx Zoo while Jean did some shopping, then they all arranged to meet at a restaurant. After some thought Claire chose Patzo’s, on Eighty-fifth and Broadway. It was fancy enough for people from Connecticut, but relaxed enough that they could wait there without feeling rushed. Also, Claire thought Meredith would like the new wall murals, a sort of trompe l’oeil of the stone wall of a building, with red geraniums blooming in window flower boxes. Claire found it charming; she secretly hoped Jean Lawrence would think it was tacky.

  They arranged to meet at six; at five-thirty Peter Schwartz stuck his head in Claire’s office and asked if she was busy.

  “Uh—not right now.”

  “Good.” He came in and sat down in the armchair across from her desk.

  Peter Schwartz was the editor in chief at Ardor House, and was generally well liked around the office. He was a small, plump man, and yet he fancied himself something of a satyr. He had made it clear to Claire early on in her employment that he found her attractive—and did it in a way that was neither obnoxious nor intimidating. Peter Schwartz was a man who responded to women, and in spite of his round little body, women often responded to him. He was on excellent terms with his ex-wife, and Claire had seen trim, clear-skinned women show up at his office after work; some of them looked like former models. “Sexual harassment be damned,” Peter said once. “If a woman looks good I’m going to tell her so, and she can bloody sue me if she wants to!”

  Peter wasn’t English—his family were Polish Jews—but he was a hopeless Anglophile (he had a treasured book about the royal family, autographed by the Queen Mother herself). He loved to sprinkle English phrases in his conversation, which always sounded a little forced; he actually referred to the “boot” and “bonnet” of his red Jaguar. Peter was responsible indirectly for introducing Claire to Robert, whom he hired to photograph a book party Claire attended. When Peter learned they were dating, he nodded approvingly. “Good for you. Ripping good folk, the English. See that you keep him around—you won’t regret it.”

  Now Peter leaned back in the armchair, his little pot belly swelling out over his khakis.

  “I was just thinking about Blanche’s last book,” he said.

  “You mean Persian Cat Murders?”

  “No, no—the Klan book . . . how far along was she?”

  “Well, pretty far. I had a manuscript draft that I was reading the night she—died.” Claire couldn’t force herself to say “murdered.”

  “Hmm. Have you finished it?”

  “No—I was just about to, when . . .”

  “Right; right.” Peter paused and looked out the window.

  “Why?”

  “Well, the thing is, I’d like to publish it.”

  “But it’s only a draft.”

  “I know, I know . . . but I was wondering . . .” Peter leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Claire. “Do you—do you think you could finish it for her?”

  “But I’m not a writer—”

  “No, but you’re a bloody good editor, and—well, it’s mostly written, isn’t it?”

  “Well, mostly, I guess . . .”

  “I hate to sound mercenary about this, Claire, but Blanche’s death got a lot of publicity, and I think this thing would sell, I really do. Of course, if her family agrees, I’ll make it worth your while financially.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “You know, I was humoring her when I gave her the advance for this book in the first place, but she really wanted to do it, and if you’re smart, you give the goose who lays the golden egg anything she wants . . . and now it would be a pity to have all her hard work go up in smoke, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Look, just think about it, will you? That’s all I’m asking. Ask that sister of hers—Sally, Susan—”

  “Sarah.”

  “Right—Sarah. Ask Sarah what she thinks, whether she would like to see her little sister’s last book in print. I’ll bet she’ll go for it.”

  Claire didn’t say anything; there was no point in elaborating on the jealousy and competition between the sisters. She just nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll ask her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Peter stood up; standing, his posture was stiff, almost military. It was all part of his sexual vanity, Claire supposed, adding what he could to his small stature, but she found it touching. He paused at the door.

  “You look good, by the way—this English boyfriend of yours has done wonders for your skin.”

  Claire laughed and looked away. She could feel the redness creeping up her neck. She looked at her watch; it was five after six.

  The goose that laid the golden egg. This goose had not fared so well: now she was dead, and Claire wasn’t sure she wanted the job of replacing her.

  Claire took a cab to Patzo’s and hurried in, feeling guilty and flustered. Though she had never seen Jean Lawrence, she didn’t need the red carnation in Jean’s lapel—Meredith’s idea—to locate her. Jean Lawrence sat stiffly on one of the bar stools. With her tight hairdo and immaculate peach suit, she might as well have written “From Connecticut” on her back in crayon. Claire approached her.

  “Hello, I’m Claire Rawlings. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  The woman turned to her and bared her teeth in a sort of grimace.

  “That’s all right.” Her tone suggested that it wasn’t.

  The maître d’ found them a table and beckoned to Claire. Jean Lawrence picked up her drink with a bored air and followed after them. She shrugged when Claire offered her the cushioned seat next to the wall.

  Jean Lawrence was small and had tiny white teeth, sharp as a terrier’s. She was too well groomed, from her perfectly polished nails to her tinted, sprayed hair: she was a woman approaching middle age tensely, warily, like a boxer sizing up an opponent. She was not a comfortable person; there was an edge to everything she did, whether it was lighting a cigarette with her small gold lighter or sipping her white wine spritzer. Claire felt the woman’s anxiety seeping into her, felt her own movements becoming tight and jerky. It seemed absurd that she should have to sit here with this woman, trying to overcome the awkwardness that constrained them both.

  The waiter approached their table. As soon as he caught Claire’s eye he smiled broadly. He was young and shiny-faced, with very blond hair. Claire thought there was something familiar about him; then she realized it was Sergeant Barker, only he had dyed his hair blond. She opened her mouth to say hello, but he bent down in front of her as if to pick up something off the floor.

  As he did he whispered tersely, “Don’t say anything. I’m doing research for a role. Pretend you don’t know me.” He straightened up again, smiling. “Now, what can I get you ladies to drink?”

  When they had ordered their drinks and he was gone, Jean Lawrence said, “What did that boy whisper to you just then?”

  Claire looked bemused.

  “What? Oh, nothing—he just couldn’t find his pen.”

  Jean Lawrence looked at her suspiciously but didn’t say anything. She lit a Virginia Slim with her elegant gold lighter.

  “You know,” she began after their drinks had arrived, “Meredith thinks I hate her, and I don’t at all.”

  No, Claire wanted to say, Meredith hates you, but she just sat and sipped her diet Coke. She was beginning to wish she had ordered a red wine—this woman was going to be hard to take cold sober. A light alcohol-induced buzz would have made it easier.

  “You know,” Jean Lawrence continued, “if that child would just give me half a chance we could be great friends.”

  Claire doubted if that were true, but she said nothing. Behind her, Sergeant Barker roamed the room, serving drinks, bending over tables, eager as a bird dog. He looked
exactly like an actor playing the part of a waiter, and was enjoying himself hugely. Sergeant Barker was the perfect contrast to Detective Jackson. Claire found herself wondering if Detective Jackson’s studied air of ennui and indifference was a mask, calculated to put suspects off their guard. She wondered how many women fell for him, drawn to protect and soothe that world-weary soul.

  “. . . in our days, of course, it was different,” Jean Lawrence was saying. Claire realized she hadn’t listened to a word the woman had said. She smiled and nodded in a vaguely encouraging way. This seemed to satisfy Jean Lawrence, who nattered on about children and their lack of gratitude, sounding just like a Dickensian villain.

  Just then, to her relief, Claire saw Meredith and her father enter the restaurant. Meredith came in first, straggle-haired and grimy-faced, her father following meekly behind, looking totally worn out. Ted Lawrence was a good-looking man—tall, sandy-haired and lean, with aquiline features. His nose was long, with a sort of ridge in it—Meredith had said the Lawrence family all had “mountain noses.” It was attractive on him, but Claire doubted if it would look good on a woman. Meredith quickly spotted them and waved. Claire waved back, but she could feel Jean Lawrence tensing and drawing into herself as Meredith and her father approached the table. Meredith greeted her stepmother cheerfully enough, sitting down with a plop on the high-backed chair next to Claire. Her father sat heavily, and Claire could see it had been a long day. When Sergeant Barker came by with water for the table, Ted Lawrence reached for his gratefully and drank it down without pausing.

  “Well, you look as if you have been through the mill,” his wife said with an attempt at a smile which came off as a smirk. Her long peach-colored nails wrapped around her white-wine spritzer and her face on its thin neck was rigid as a mask.

  “The best thing was the snake house,” Meredith said, addressing her remark diplomatically to the company in general. Her stepmother shuddered.

  “Ugh—snakes are disgusting!”

  Meredith looked at her calmly.

  “Just because you have Freudian conflicts about snakes doesn’t mean other people can’t enjoy them.”

  Jean Lawrence’s manicured fingers tightened around her drink glass. Claire could hear her sharp little intake of breath.

  “Must you always fling your intelligence around as though it were a weapon?” she said shrilly, and, getting up from the table, stalked away toward the rest room. There was a pause at the table and then Ted Lawrence spoke.

  “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Meredith.”

  Meredith snorted.

  “Oh, good Lord, Father, you’ve got to be in pretty bad shape to let a kid get to you like that.”

  “Don’t swear, Meredith,” her father said perfunctorily, then inclined his dignified head toward Claire.

  “My apologies, Ms. Rawlings; I’m afraid my wife is a rather nervous woman. Lately she has been particularly strained.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Meredith sulkily. “I’ve been out of the house.” Her father looked at her reproachfully, then turned back to Claire.

  “Meredith has this idea her stepmother doesn’t like her.”

  “Oh, come off it, Father! She can’t stand me, and we both know it. Don’t worry; my young self-esteem is not injured by her rejection of me—I’m not crazy about her either.”

  Claire felt an impulse to laugh, but the serious expression on Ted Lawrence’s face stopped her.

  “Meredith, I’m sure Ms. Rawlings doesn’t want to hear our family problems.”

  Meredith shrugged.

  “Okay, but I didn’t start it.” She looked moodily at her ginger ale and poked at the ice cubes with her swizzle stick. Her father turned his attention again to Claire. She felt the man’s deliberate self-control a bit chilling but smiled in response to his attempt at diplomacy.

  “I was very sorry to hear about the”—he paused, searching for the tasteful word—“tragedy. It must have been a shock to you.”

  “I figured Meredith would tell you all about the murder,” Claire said, emphasizing the word “murder.” She felt an evil urge to shake this man out of his restrained dignity.

  “Actually, my wife went to school with the—with Blanche DuBois,” he said. “She was interested in the article about you in New Woman because she had known Blanche at UNC.”

  “Oh? Did they know each other well?”

  “They lived in the same dorm for a while, until Jean transferred to another school.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Meredith.

  Just then Jean Lawrence returned to the table and sat down without looking at any of them. Her nose was red; Claire wondered if she had been crying.

  “I must apologize for my abrupt behavior; I’ve been under a lot of strain recently,” she said stiffly, addressing her remarks to the salt shaker. Claire noticed that her eyes were bloodshot.

  “I understand you were at UNC with Blanche,” said Claire.

  Jean Lawrence looked startled. “Yes,” she said in a tight voice. “I was very sorry to hear of her . . . death.”

  “Had you kept in touch at all?”

  “No, not really . . . not for some years now.”

  “Claire—Ms. Rawlings—went to Duke with Mother,” Meredith said.

  “I’m sure we all must be starving; I know I am,” said Ted Lawrence, motioning for the waiter. Sergeant Barker came bouncing over cheerfully, and they turned their attention to the menus. Meredith ordered a turkey burger; Claire and Ted both had pasta. Jean Lawrence ordered a salad with dressing on the side.

  While they waited for their food, Meredith played with the bread sticks, scraping all the sesame seeds off and eating them one by one. Claire could see Jean Lawrence tensing as she watched this operation, and wondered if Meredith was doing it especially to get on her nerves.

  “So what did you buy today?” Ted Lawrence said to his wife in a hearty voice that didn’t even begin to hide the apprehension behind it.

  “Oh, nothing much . . . these New York shops are overrated, if you ask me.”

  “Where did you go?” said Claire politely, ignoring the slight.

  “Oh, Madison Avenue mostly. Everything was very trendy and very overpriced.”

  “Did you buy any drugs?” Meredith murmured under her breath.

  “What did you say?” said Jean Lawrence sharply.

  “Lots of good rugs,” Meredith replied blandly, scooping up a sesame seed and delicately chewing it.

  “So, Ms. Rawlings,” began Ted, turning to Claire.

  “Oh, call me Claire, please.”

  “Claire, I can’t tell you how grateful I—we—are,” he added, with a nervous glance at his wife, “for all you’ve done for Meredith.”

  “Oh, it’s been fun.”

  “Well, I know she can be a handful—”

  “No I’m not; I’m fun, just like Claire said,” Meredith said without looking up from her breadstick project. Jean Lawrence snorted softly.

  “Well, in any event, you were very kind to take her on like this,” said Ted Lawrence.

  “Did she tell you I’m helping her solve a murder?” said Meredith.

  “What?” Her father looked puzzled.

  “What—murder?” said Jean in a startled voice.

  “Well, Blanche DuBois’s, of course. What else?” Meredith replied disdainfully.

  “What—what do you mean, you’re ‘solving it’?” said Jean.

  “I mean Claire and I are helping the police solve it.”

  Ted Lawrence smiled indulgently at his daughter, and Claire sensed a real tenderness toward her, an affection that coexisted with an equally real lack of understanding. It was as though Meredith were a lovable, eccentric foreigner. Just then Sergeant Barker appeared with their food, and for a few minutes they all had a welcome diversion.

  “I’m sure the police appreciate your help, Meredith,” said Ted Lawrence as he sprinkled grated cheese on his fettucine prima vera, “but all good things must come to an
end. We want to take you back to Connecticut with us.”

  Meredith looked at her father as though he had slapped her. Claire sensed a scene about to happen.

  “I don’t want to go back to Connecticut! I want to stay with Claire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Jean Lawrence. “Why should she have to take care of you? We’re your parents!”

  “You’re not my mother,” Meredith said evenly. “My mother is dead.”

  Jean Lawrence’s face tightened and reddened but she said nothing.

  “Look, Meredith, you can’t stay here forever. You have to go back to school,” her father said in a pleading voice.

  Meredith sighed deeply and looked at Claire, who couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Well,” Meredith sighed, “I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.”

  Of course Claire realized this was a cue to deny that Meredith was a burden, but she felt that she should support Meredith’s father at this moment.

  “You can come back and visit soon—how’s that?” she offered.

  “Can I really?” Meredith said, looking at her father.

  “Of course—you can visit, if that’s all right with Ms. Ra—Claire.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” said Claire. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Can I stay for the funeral at least?” Meredith looked at her father with pleading eyes, soft as a beagle’s.

  “Well . . .” he said, avoiding looking at his wife, and Claire knew the answer was yes. She was relieved that the crisis was over, at least for now.

  “I’ll take the train up right afterward,” Meredith chirped. “Then when I come back there’s still the murder to solve.”

  Just then Jean Lawrence choked on a piece of spinach, and everyone occupied themselves gratefully, slapping her on the back and offering medical advice. After a few violent coughs, she was all right, though her face was red and her eyes watered.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, rising and heading once again in the direction of the rest room. Meredith gave Claire a meaningful glance, but what the meaning was Claire could not guess.