Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  It was decided that Meredith would go back to Connecticut immediately after the funeral, which was two days away. Ted Lawrence insisted on paying for their meal, and as they all stood outside the restaurant, he pressed some money into Claire’s hand.

  “This is for your trouble.”

  Claire tried to give it back, but it was an awkward situation, and she ended up stuffing it into her coat pocket as she and Meredith hopped into a cab. Meredith had wanted to walk home, but Ted Lawrence insisted on hailing a cab for them.

  Later on, in the cab to Claire’s apartment, Meredith said, “I wondered why Sergeant Barker glared at me when I started to speak to him, but then I figured it out, of course: he’s working undercover. He makes a better waiter than policeman, if you ask me.”

  Later, in the apartment, Meredith was seated in the red leather chair, a bag of Bordeaux cookies open on the coffee table.

  “What did you think of my stepmother?” she asked, helping herself to another cookie.

  Claire felt she should play the sage adult.

  “I know you don’t like her, but you could treat her more gently. She’s evidently highly strung—”

  “Highly strung?” Meredith threw back her head and laughed. “No; I’m highly strung; she’s a drug addict.”

  “What?”

  “Did you notice how red her nose was when she came back from the rest room?”

  “Yes. I thought she had been crying.”

  Meredith snorted again. “Yeah, right—crying. There was something up her nose, but it wasn’t tears. And did you see how nervous she was all the time?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, cocaine does that to you.”

  “Oh my God—really? She—”

  “Comes down every Saturday to get her drugs in the city. She could get them up there, but she’s got a supplier here, and no one will recognize her—or so she hopes.”

  “Oh, God—your poor father.”

  “My ‘poor father’ married her—against my wishes. He deserves what he gets,” Meredith said bitterly.

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course he knows, but, like most people, he has an endless capacity for self-delusion. That’s why I wanted to leave so much—I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s bad enough with her, but watching my father . . .” Meredith’s face began to soften, and Claire thought she was going to cry, but just then the phone rang. Meredith nearly tripped over Ralph as she rushed to get it.

  “Hello? Oh, hello, Sarah. Yes, she’s right here. It’s Sarah,” she said, handing the phone to Claire. Claire took it, and Meredith scooped Ralph up in her arms and carried him from the room, his paws dangling helplessly.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Claire.” Sarah’s cultivated voice was as dry as corn husks. “I just thought I would let you know about the service for Blanche. We thought we’d have it at Grace Church. I hope you can come.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. Uh, Sarah—at Duke, did you know a Jean—I don’t know her maiden name—a friend of Blanche’s at UNC?”

  “Jean . . . oh, yes, of course: Jean Cummings. Lots of Maybelline. I met her my senior year. What about her?”

  “Well, was she a friend of Blanche’s?”

  “Yes, for a while. They were roommates freshman year. They had a falling out over a scandal involving a plagiarism charge—it seems Jean copied one of Blanche’s old papers and submitted it as her own. When she was tried before the disciplinary board, she wanted Blanche to lie for her, but Blanche wouldn’t do it.” There was a pause, then she continued in a sad voice. “Blanche had her faults, God knows, but lying wasn’t one of them.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jean was offered a transfer as an alternative to being expelled. She went to UNC at Greensboro.”

  “So she wasn’t much of a student?”

  Sarah laughed softly, a short, bitter puff of air.

  “Jean Cummings was not attending college. She was playing Hunt-a-Husband.”

  Claire imagined Jean, polished nails and high heels, sitting in stuffy classrooms pretending to read Spenser, waiting to be noticed by a premed student. Sarah’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Uh, Claire, I’m sorry—I have to go. I’m at work and someone needs my attention right now.”

  “Thank you Sarah, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Sarah was head of marketing at Arlene Lucien, a large cosmetics company. She viewed her position with some irony, but which Claire knew she also took very seriously (Sarah took most things seriously). Sarah cared very much about her job.

  Her cousin Marshall Bassett took it upon himself to kid her about it, even though she did not find it amusing.

  “So how are things at ‘Dyes Are Us’?” he would say with the tone of playful malice which he used so often with his cousin.

  Sarah would pretend not to hear him, and usually didn’t bother to answer, but Claire could see her body stiffen even more, and there would be a thin whooshing sound, which was the intake of breath through her nostrils, as her thin lips remained firmly clenched in a frown.

  As Claire hung up she realized she had not taken her coat off yet. As she shuffled wearily into the foyer to hang up her coat, Meredith’s head poked around the corner.

  “I cannot tell a lie. I was listening on the extension in the kitchen.”

  “Meredith, that’s eavesdropping, you know.”

  Meredith tightened her grip on Ralph, whom she still held captive.

  “Tell me about it. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t think of it, but may I remind you that we are dealing with murder here.”

  With a wrench and a hiss, Ralph sprang from her arms and to freedom under the living room couch.

  Chapter 7

  Grace Church really lived up to its name. It was a stunningly graceful example of Gothic architecture: its many ornate spirals, seen from blocks away, rose majestically over lower Broadway. Claire had not been inside for years, and had forgotten the beauty of the tall stained-glass windows and the burnished wood of the pews. An organist was playing a soft interlude on the pipe organ, and as Claire came through the front antechamber into the church proper, she could smell frisia, Blanche’s favorite flower. Though not religious in any conventional sense, Claire loved churches, and Grace Church was surely one of the most beautiful she had seen. Meredith had begged to go to the funeral, but Claire suggested she meet her at the reception afterward and skip the service. She was worried the girl would do or say something inappropriate and spoil the solemnity of the occasion.

  Claire walked down the immaculate mosaic tiled floor, her heels clicking too loudly on the polished ceramic, past little huddled groups of seated mourners, until she found Sarah, seated near the front. Sarah sat stiff-backed and dry-eyed, as though she were impatient with the whole process, but Claire knew she was suffering. Claire sat down beside her and studied the stained glass. It was a cloudy day, so the colors were muted, but even so, they were incredibly rich. Claire’s eye followed the line of a stone column up to the vaulted ceiling, where a single spotlight shown down on the altar.

  Mystery. Mysterioso. Mysterium.

  Places like this were man’s physical representation of the eternally mysterious, the place where life and death merge and become one. As Claire sat there she became filled with a sense of awe, of the power of the life force, but also of the final mystery, death, which seemed to her now less frightening somehow. It was closer here, but less intimidating, because it was an accepted part of the mystery of life.

  At the front of the church stood a heavy mahogany coffin. Claire shuddered.

  “I know it’s hideous, but my sister stipulated an open coffin in her will,” Sarah had said a few days earlier. “I don’t know where she got such medieval notions—certainly not from our parents, who believed in cremation. I think it’s positively macabre, but . . . well, it’s her last wish. I just hope they do a good job on the makeup,” she added with a sad little smile. “You know how
vain Blanche could be, and she wanted to be beautiful even in death.”

  Repulsed and fascinated, Claire couldn’t help going up to look in the coffin. Blanche did look beautiful; her face in death was serene and beatific, her skin ivory white, a pink blush expertly applied to the cold cheeks. Her thin lips curled upward in a slight smile. A clear plastic lid covered the top of the coffin, and Claire was reminded of Snow White waiting in her glass coffin for the magic kiss of a prince to restore her from a deathlike trance. No prince could rescue Blanche now, Claire thought sadly as she returned to her seat, and fairy tales don’t really come true.

  Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,

  meine Mutter hat manch’ gülden Gewand.

  Claire’s ruminations were interrupted by the minister, a tall, long-jawed man whose deep voice echoed roundly through the stone columns and carved oak pews. He stood not at the high pulpit, but before the altar, his notes resting on the outstretched wings of a fierce brass eagle, its sharp beak open, talons gripping a large brass ball. On the opposite choir pew a carved wooden angel kneeling in prayer faced the eagle, as if begging for mercy.

  Sarah had arranged a very simple and traditional service, given entirely by the minister. She did not have any patience with what she called “these New Age funerals,” where everyone got up to talk about the departed. “They can do that on their own time,” she said peevishly, but Claire knew that what Sarah had most wanted to avoid was the suggestion that she herself might say a few words: she was terrified of speaking in public. So she and Amelia had written a tasteful and moving tribute to Blanche, praising her virtues and making light of her faults.

  “. . . she was a woman people paid attention to,” Father Thomas was saying, “and she could be many things, but she was never boring.”

  Claire smiled. That much was true. Blanche was exasperating, self-centered and capricious, but though those traits in others could be tedious, in Blanche they had a certain grace which was pure Blanche. She looked across the aisle and saw Anthony Sciorra, his face heavy with grief, staring at the altar with an expression of utter defeat. Poor Anthony; poor, deluded Anthony. He looked as though he were in his own world, not hearing a word of Father Tom’s carefully enunciated words. Father Tom was a man who liked the sound of his own voice, and he spun out his phrases with a sense of his own dignity. All is vanity. Well, why not? Claire thought. Better vanity than nothing at all. Next to Anthony sat Amelia, her small, blunt features crinkled into a mask of worry and concern as she glanced at Anthony from time to time. The thought hit Claire that Amelia was not so much mourning for Blanche as she was worried about Anthony.

  Claire called Meredith from the church to say she would pick her up on the way to the reception, but Meredith insisted she could make her own way there.

  “It’s only fourteen blocks, for God’s sake,” she said disdainfully.

  But Claire felt responsible for the child’s safety, and insisted on coming by. When she got there Meredith was in the lobby waiting. She wore an ankle-length forest-green skirt under a black silk blouse. She was so thin that no matter what she wore clothes hung limply on her bony frame.

  “How was the service?”

  “It was nice, actually.”

  “Any cops there?”

  Claire paused. She thought she had seen someone in a battered trench coat leaving the church. Could it have been the familiar weary, sloped shoulders of Detective Jackson. She wasn’t sure.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  When they arrived at Amelia’s the reception was in full swing. It looked much like her other parties, except that it was catered and everyone wore dark colors. Claire was surprised to see so many people she had never seen before. She never dreamed that Blanche knew so many different kinds of people. Upper East Side chic rubbed shoulders with East Village grunge: at the bar, a svelte brunette in a black linen pantsuit stood next to a couple of green-haired, nose-ringed teenagers in black leather.

  “Wow, Blanche sure did get around,” Meredith said with admiration when one of the teenagers turned toward them. Claire inched toward the food table, which was heavily laden, though without Amelia’s artistic touch; it looked like catered food.

  “I just couldn’t face doing it myself this time,” Amelia had said apologetically. Sarah insisted on paying for everything, including the two discreet waiters who served drinks and passed hors d’oeuvres. Claire ordered a red wine for herself and a soda for Meredith, and then turned to greet Amelia, who was making her way through the crowd toward her.

  “Oh, Claire,” Amelia said, hugging her. Then she turned to Meredith. “You must be Meredith. I’m Amelia Moore. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for having me,” Meredith responded politely, then added, “I would have come to the funeral, but Claire wouldn’t let me.”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t let you,” Claire began, annoyed.

  “Oh, a funeral is no place for a young person,” said Amelia. “You should be out enjoying life, not sitting in a stuffy church listening to eulogies.”

  “Oh, but I’m very interested in death,” said Meredith. “After all, it’s a big part of life.”

  Amelia’s head gave a little jerk, and she looked at Meredith as though the girl were possessed. “Please help your-selves to food,” she said lamely. “I ordered far too much . . .”

  Just then the front door opened and Willard Hughes entered the room. Claire had not seen him at the service, and wondered if he had bothered to come, or if he had just shown up here in expectation of a free meal. He was wearing a beige suit, which Claire thought inappropriate, considering the occasion. His thin strands of black hair were combed over his shiny bald crown.

  “Excuse me,” said Amelia, “I must mingle.” She wandered off through the crowd, and Claire wondered if she were trying to avoid Willard. Not a bad idea, she thought too late as Willard sauntered over to where she and Meredith were standing.

  “Hello, Claire,” he said in his most civil snarl.

  “Hello, Willard,” she replied, taking a large gulp of red wine. I’ll be damned if I’m going to face him sober, she thought. Her left palm began to itch, and she scratched it with the bottom of her wineglass.

  “Who’s this?” Willard said, turning his gaze on Meredith.

  “I’m Meredith Lawrence.”

  “Well, hello Meredith Lawrence. I’m Willard Hughes.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes; your picture is on the jacket cover of all of your books.”

  “Oh, you read my books?”

  “Some of them—but Claire has most of them.”

  “Well, she’d better—she’s my editor!” Willard barked, laughing at his own joke. Meredith did not laugh, but looked at him calmly. Her gaze evidently disconcerted Willard, because his left shoulder began to twitch. Claire had an impulse to laugh, but she stifled it with another gulp of wine. The room was beginning to fuzz nicely now, and, feeling her stomach muscles relax, Claire realized that she had been holding them tightly.

  “Terrible thing, Blanche’s death, wasn’t it?” Willard was saying to Meredith.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Meredith leaned toward him.

  “Well . . . yes, I guess so,” Willard said, leaning down, off balance.

  “I’m going to find the murderer,” Meredith told him in a half whisper.

  Willard’s mouth formed a perfect “O,” but he did not say anything. He just nodded, and his shoulder twitched more violently.

  “I see,” he managed finally, looking to Claire for help, but Claire was feeling vindictive, so she just smiled and shrugged.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better go greet the other bereaved mourners,” he said finally, and then, turning to Meredith: “Can I tell you something from experience? The murderer is often the last person you would suspect. Take it from me; I’ve created dozens of them.”

  Meredith rolled her eyes.

  “That’s fiction. In real lif
e it’s different.”

  Willard smiled. “Is it? I wonder.”

  With a final smirk at Claire, he wandered off into the crowd.

  “He’s creepy,” said Meredith. “His books are creepy, too. I read them, but I’ve always thought the person who wrote them must be weird—and I was right.”

  Just then Claire saw Peter Schwartz coming toward them. He looked natty in a black suit with dark blue pinstripes over a crisp white shirt.

  “Claire—I’m so glad you’re here. I just narrowly avoided a ‘close encounter of the third kind’ with Willard. Hello,” he said, seeing Meredith. “I’m Peter Schwartz.”

  “Hello,” said Meredith.

  “This is Meredith,” Claire said. “She’s—”

  “I’m her ward,” Meredith interrupted, holding out her hand.

  “Well, well—why you didn’t tell me, Claire?” said Peter, shaking Meredith’s hand.

  “The papers haven’t all been signed yet,” Meredith continued, “but it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Well, congratulations to both of you,” Peter replied amiably, raising his glass.

  Claire raised her glass and drank. She did not have the energy or the gumption to explain anything right now. She would tell Peter the whole story at the office on Monday.

  “How long have you been in New York?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, about a week now—but I’ve been here before,” Meredith added quickly.

  “How do you like it?”

  “I find the intellectual climate here infinitely superior to the stuffy bourgeois suburbs of Connecticut. There is little there to engage the inquisitive young mind.”

  Peter’s pleasant mouth lifted in a smile, and his eyes actually twinkled.

  “I see. It sounds like you escaped just in time.”

  Meredith shrugged.

  “I would have made do. Still, this is the place for me.”

  Peter smiled more widely.

  “Well, we’re jolly glad to have you here.”

  “Thank you,” Meredith replied gravely. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”