Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Yes, Ms. DuBois. I didn’t send them because I never received your check. It says here that you were supposed to send a check”— the man consulted his records—“over a month ago, but it never arrived. Do you still want the pictures?”

  “Uh, yes—yes, I do,” said Claire.

  “All right, I’ve still got them.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Well, that’ll be eight dollars for the large blowup and then a couple dollars for any smaller prints.”

  “Do you take credit cards?” said Claire.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. A personal check will be fine, though. Just make it out to me, Jeff Dumont, and I’ll send the photos right off to you.”

  “I’m kind of in a hurry to get them.”

  “Well, you can use overnight mail, and if you want to reimburse me for it, I’ll do the same from my end,” Jeff Dumont offered.

  In the end they agreed to use Federal Express. Claire wanted to ask the man about the subjects of the photographs, but was afraid of arousing his suspicion, so she said nothing.

  After she hung up, Meredith said, “We’ve got to tell Detective Jackson about this right away.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But—we don’t know that they have anything to do with Blanche’s murder.”

  ‘True,” Meredith replied, sitting on the bed, “but I have a feeling about this. I think we should call Detective Jackson.”

  “All right,” Claire agreed, her stomach in knots.

  When the detective answered the phone he sounded sleepy.

  “Jackson here.”

  Claire looked at the clock on the VCR; it was only ten-thirty.

  “Am I calling too late?” she said.

  “Uh, no—that’s all right; I guess I just drifted off . . . Is this Claire Rawlings?” he said.

  Claire was pleased that he recognized her voice.

  “Yes,” she said. “I just came across something that I thought might be of some interest.”

  When she had told him the whole story, he said, “Well, I think you did the right thing.”

  “Do you think it might be anything important?”

  “It’s impossible to tell until we see the photos. It could be something; you never know. Call me when you get them.”

  “All right.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. There was a pause, and then she said, “Goodbye.”

  “Good night.”

  “Well?” Meredith demanded after she had hung up. “What did he think?”

  “He said to call him when the photos arrive.”

  “Right.” Meredith turned and swooped down on Ralph, who had just entered the bedroom. She was too slow, though; he escaped through her legs to the sanctuary of the clothes closet, hiding himself behind the winter coats and cross-country skis.

  “Damn,” Meredith muttered, “I almost had him that time.”

  Chapter 22

  “By the way,” Meredith announced over breakfast Monday morning, “I did a little research on Anthony’s abrupt departure from Hoffman LaRoche.”

  Claire took a bite of buttered onion bagel.

  “Oh? What did you find out?”

  “I’m pretty sure that he was let go because they suspected him of stealing drugs.”

  “What? How did you find that out?”

  “I have my methods. Actually, I’m afraid if I tell you you’ll disapprove.”

  “Maybe I will, but I still want to know.”

  Meredith shrugged.

  “Well, you remember on Friday when I told you I was going to spend the day at the museum?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t. I took a bus to Nutley, New Jersey.”

  “Meredith!”

  “I knew you’d disapprove—”

  “But you should have told me!”

  “Would you have let me go?”

  “Probably not.”

  “All right, I’ve proved my point!” Meredith fiddled with her shoelace, sulking. “Well,” she said finally, “do you want to know or not?”

  Claire felt that she should take a superior attitude and pretend not to be interested, but she was too curious.

  “All right, tell me. How did you find out?”

  “Well, everyone has a barber, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Nutley’s not a very big town, and there’s a little barbershop close by Hoffman LaRoche, so it was a good bet Anthony went there, and a lot of his colleagues as well.”

  “So how did you—”

  “I’m coming to that. Actually, to be honest, the idea of the barbershop only occurred to me when I got off the bus. I just came to poke around a little, and then I saw it—and I had an impulse to go in. One of the guys getting his hair cut worked at Roche, and—well, you know what gossip is like. I said I was waiting to meet my father there, and that he worked at Roche—”

  “Didn’t the man ask who your father was?”

  “Oh, sure, but I said he had just started. In fact, I said he had been hired to replace someone who had just been fired. I didn’t even mention Anthony’s name, and the man just said, ‘Oh, yeah—you mean Anthony Sciorra.’ I hardly had to ask him anything; he volunteered most of the information, about how Anthony had been suspected of stealing drugs and everything. You know how much people love scandal. Then I thanked him, pretended to call my father, said the plan had changed and that he wanted me to come meet him at Roche. I left the shop, got back on the bus, and came home.”

  Claire shook her head. “Poor Anthony,” she said.

  “Well, maybe poor Anthony, and maybe not,” said Meredith.

  “Did you find out exactly what kind of drugs?”

  Meredith shook her head. “No, only that when he was confronted with it, Anthony didn’t deny the charges. Apparently Roche had decided not to prosecute him, probably because it would be bad publicity.”

  “Do you think we should tell Detective Jackson all this?”

  Meredith smiled and took a bite of a bagel.

  “I already have,” she said.

  The next morning as she was getting ready for work, the phone rang, and Claire answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling.” It was Robert.

  “Oh, hi. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. Listen, how would you like to come up for Thanksgiving weekend? I know it’s short notice, but—”

  “Oh, that sounds nice, actually. Meredith is going back to Connecticut for Thanksgiving anyway, so I’d be all alone. Yeah, that sounds great. Mind if I bring some work?”

  “Do I ever? Bring anything you like.”

  “Oh, listen, do you mind if I have a package sent to your house while I’m there?”

  “No, why should I mind?”

  “Oh, no reason; just thought I’d ask. I’m having some research photos sent from North Carolina by Express Mail.”

  “Sounds exciting. What are they?”

  “I don’t know yet; it’s something Blanche was working on when she—”

  Robert cut her off tactfully, sparing her the awful word.

  “Listen, don’t you worry about it. Have them ship whatever you like. I’ve got to run. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  Claire looked at her watch.

  “Oh, God, I’ve got to go. I’m late for work.”

  “Have a nice day,” Meredith called after her from the kitchen as the door closed behind her.

  When Claire returned from work that night the apartment was empty. She threw her stack of mail on the couch and went into the kitchen. There was a note from Meredith on the counter. Gone out for supplies—back soon—M. Claire smiled; “supplies” probably meant Pepperidge Farm cookies. She made herself a cup of tea, then settled on the couch to read her mail. There were a couple of catalogs and a postcard of Key West from one of her authors. Pink flamingos stood in a shallow pond, and inset over them was a florid blue sc
ript that read Exotic Key West. Claire read the postcard and then picked up the last piece of mail, a plain white envelope with her name and address printed on it in block lettering. There was no return address. The aroma of oranges floated up from the envelope.

  When Meredith returned to the apartment she found Claire sitting on the couch.

  “Hi,” Meredith called, putting down the bag of groceries she was carrying.

  Without answering, Claire held out her hand, which had five small white seeds in it.

  “Oh, my God,” said Meredith. “Did these arrive in the mail?”

  Claire showed her the envelope, her name written on it in black ink, with its fragrance of oranges.

  “We’ve got to call Detective Jackson immediately,” Meredith said.

  Claire nodded, fighting panic, reminding herself to breathe.

  Jackson had left the precinct for the day, so they called him at home. When they told him about the seeds, he said he would come right over.

  Half an hour later Wallace Jackson sat on the couch in Claire’s living room studying the five small white seeds he held in his hand.

  “No note or anything with it?”

  “No—nothing,” Claire replied. A couple of glasses of red wine had calmed her panic, and she looked at the situation as if from a distance: curious, interested, but with a sense that this couldn’t be happening to her.

  “So what do you think?” said Meredith. “Are these from the murderer?”

  “Well . . .” Jackson began, his voice serious, “it is possible that someone is playing a practical joke on you.”

  “Who would do that?” Claire interrupted him. “None of my friends thinks this is funny, and I can’t imagine who would be sick enough . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Someone doesn’t want her to finish Blanche’s book,” Meredith said, “and this is their way of telling her. Don’t forget that Blanche received the same threat.”

  “Who knows you’re working on the book?” said Jackson.

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s no secret. And just about anybody could find out about it if they tried hard enough.”

  “I’ll have to ask Peter Schwartz who he’s told,” Jackson thought aloud. “It was his idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “You don’t suspect him, do you?” said Meredith.

  “Oh, I can’t really rule anyone out,” Jackson answered, “but, no, I don’t particularly suspect him.” He put the seeds back in the envelope and stood up and stretched. As he did, Claire noticed the long muscles of his back under his creased white shirt. He was always slightly rumpled, which went along with his absentminded air, as though he had more important things to think about than clothes. It was easy to see in him the high school teacher he had once been. “Unfortunately,” he said, “these seeds, without a written note of some kind, don’t really constitute a legal threat.”

  “But you must realize—“ Claire began.

  “Oh, I realize it, all right.” Jackson cut her off, an edge of anger in his voice. “The problem is, no judge would recognize it as a legal threat. That means our hands are officially tied in terms of protecting you. However . . . there are means, and then there are means.”

  “Oh, by the way, I wanted to ask you,” Meredith interjected, “what was it about Willard Hughes’s mysteries that gave you ideas?”

  “Oh, it’s an old idea, really,” Jackson said, “but I wanted to put a little fear of God into him.”

  “Why?”

  Jackson cocked his head to one side, considering the question. “I’m not sure . . . I guess it’s because I don’t like him.”

  “Claire doesn’t either,” said Meredith.

  “Meredith!” Claire tried to sound irritated.

  “Well, you don’t.”

  “But you still haven’t told me what idea you got from his book,” said Meredith.

  “It’s simple, really. It’s the notion that the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  Jackson leaned back on the couch.

  “Oh, different reasons. To check on their handiwork, to gloat, to taunt the police . . . or maybe all of the above.”

  “Do you think that it’s true, here, that the killer will return to the scene of the crime?”

  Jackson looked out the window into the night outside.

  “I intend to find out,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  “Would you rather be boiled in oil or buried alive?”

  Meredith looked up at Claire, awaiting an answer. She sat cross-legged on the couch in her office. Claire was seated at her desk, trying to read a manuscript.

  “Well?” Meredith said impatiently when Claire did not respond.

  “Uh . . . oil, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  Claire thought for a moment.

  “Because it would be faster?” she said hopefully.

  Meredith looked disappointed.

  “Maybe, but much more painful, don’t you think?”

  Claire looked at Meredith, her face so serious and expectant. She had been on a kick lately, and Claire wondered how long it would last. The topic was always death: ways to die, unusual means of death—the more bizarre the better. All morning Meredith had been offering Claire a choice between violent forms of death. No matter which form Claire chose, Meredith always seemed vaguely disappointed, as if Claire had failed her in some way.

  A few minutes later Meredith said, “Would you rather starve to death or freeze to death?”

  Claire put down the manuscript.

  “Look, Meredith, I really need to get some work done. We agreed that you would come into the office today only if you could amuse yourself.” She waited, but there was no response. Meredith was looking down at the floor, one leg swinging back and forth from the couch. “Isn’t that right?” Claire said, hearing her mother’s tone of voice in her own. Isn’t that right, Claire? We agreed, isn’t that right? The roles were reversed, but now Claire had to stick to her part, just as Meredith was bound to play hers.

  “But I am amusing myself,” Meredith said in her whiny voice. When she wanted to, Meredith could sound like any thirteen-year-old.

  “You and I both know that ‘amusing yourself’ does not mean interrupting me every five minutes to ask me how I would prefer to die.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meredith said in a small voice, and then she burst out laughing. “Would you rather be nagged to death,” she said through her giggles, “or—”

  Claire had to laugh, too. Meredith sat on the couch, her body shaking; Claire leaned back in her chair, and they both laughed.

  “Would you rather die laughing . . .” said Claire, “Or—”

  Just then Claire heard a commotion out in the hall, and she got up and opened her door. Detective Jackson and Sergeant Barker stood in the hall, and with them was Peter Schwartz.

  “What are you talking about?” Peter was saying loudly.

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?” Detective Jackson was saying.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here?” Peter yelled as a small crowd of Ardor House employees gathered to watch.

  “Please don’t make me use the cuffs,” Jackson said softly, with a glance at Sergeant Barker, who cheerfully held up a pair of handcuffs.

  “Use your bloody head!” Peter shouted. “Why would I kill my best-selling author?”

  Jackson nodded to Barker, who slipped the handcuffs on Peter with a practiced gesture.

  “Please, Mr. Schwartz,” said Jackson, his eyes tormented, “we’ll explain at the station.”

  If he saw Claire and Meredith standing there, Jackson offered no acknowledgment of it, but as they went by, Sergeant Barker looked at Claire and said, “Sorry, really— this wasn’t our idea. Just following orders—the higher-ups, you know.” He rolled his eyes in a gesture meant to indicate sym
pathy but that looked like something out of a comic opera.

  Jackson and Barker managed to escort Peter out of the office. He put up no physical resistance, but continued to complain loudly all the way to the elevator. When they were gone there was a stunned silence in the office. Several people looked at Claire and Meredith. Claire’s secretary, Kathy Cochoran, went over to them.

  “What’s going on?” she said quietly. “Why did they arrest Peter?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Claire firmly, “but I intend to find out.”

  “Wow,” said Meredith. “Now you sound like me.”

  Forty minutes later Claire and Meredith were seated in the Ninth Precinct station house awaiting Detective Jackson’s return. The blond woman didn’t even ask who they wanted to see. She looked up from her falafel on pita bread and said, “He’s out right now.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Claire. The blond woman shrugged, flicked a spec of parsley from her lip, and pointed to the dingy yellow plastic chairs lining the wall.

  Meredith fidgeted for a while in her chair, then got up and walked around the station, looking up at the plaques on the wall. Claire glanced around the station. The desk sergeant was a youngish, ruddy-faced man with closely cropped brown hair. Cops came and went, alone and in groups, and a few of them glanced at Claire and Meredith. Claire had the impression it was a quiet day; several of the policemen stood and gossiped with the desk sergeant, some of them laughing and looking surreptitiously at Claire as they did. She didn’t think they were necessarily talking about her, but she was an outsider to their club, and to be watched with some suspicion.

  When they had waited twenty minutes, Detective Jackson came in, followed by Sergeant Barker. When he saw Claire, Jackson stopped and gave her a look that was hard to read. It could have been an apology or an accusation; she wasn’t sure which. Sergeant Barker started to approach her, but Jackson held him back.

  “Why don’t you come into my office; we can talk there,” he said quietly, then turned and headed for his cubicle without looking to see if Claire was following. Claire got up and motioned to Meredith, and the two of them followed Jackson. Barker circled them like an eager retriever, obviously wanting say something, but constrained by Jackson.