Mad John may have been mad, but he was rock-solid reliable.
“Who’s doing it?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out and they will pay. The Indian gods are angry and I am their avenger!”
“Be careful, Mad John.”
He was quiet for a moment and then suddenly his face broke into a huge grin and he started to jump up and down in place—his favorite expression of joy—and sing:
“Don’t worry, be crazy!
Don’t worry, be crazy!”
He stopped and thrust his face at mine, “Like a fox!”
TWELVE
I considered calling down to the Bump sisters, but I’d learned that a pop visit is much likelier to yield interesting information—people don’t have time to slap their game face on. But there was a phone call I wanted to make first.
“Hello?” Josie’s foster mom answered. Even her hello was wary.
“Hi, Roberta, it’s Janet Petrocelli down in Sawyerville. Is Josie around?”
“She’s doing her after-school chores.”
“Well, could I possibly interrupt her to say a quick hello?”
“I don’t like to interrupt her when she’s doing her chores.”
I made a note to buy Josie a cell.
“I’m sure you don’t, but I’d much appreciate it.”
There was a pause and then a begrudging, “Don’t keep her long.”
“Hi, Janet,” Josie sounded strong, if not exactly happy. I felt a pang of longing.
“Hey, my friend, how are you?”
There was a short pause. “Good.” I could tell Roberta was nearby listening to every word. “I was mowing the lawn.”
“My least favorite chore.”
“It’s very grounding.”
I laughed.
“How’s school?”
There was another pause. The Maldens had enrolled Josie in a parochial school (don’t get me started). “School is good.”
“Hey, why don’t I come up on Saturday and take you out to lunch?”
“Hold on a second … Mrs. Malden, I’m going to go out to lunch with Janet on Saturday.”
I heard Roberta Malden say, “We’ll have to check with Father about that.” I hate it when a grown woman calls her husband “Father.” Dr. Freud, I presume.
“I’m coming up, Josie, I’ll be there around noon.”
“See you then.”
I was supposed to go out to Zack’s for dinner and I was looking forward to it, especially dessert—Zack à la mode. But Natasha came first. I called Zack’s cell; he was a landscape “architect”—he’d earned some kind of certificate after a three-week course at Ulster Community College—on a job in Woodstock.
“Hey, baby-baby sweet-baby, how goes it?” Zack purred.
“Things are okay, how are you?”
“I’m at one with the universe, out here making love to a gorgeous row of daylilies I nicknamed ‘Janet’.”
Zack was such a sweet sincere sexy guy, but when he said things like that I always wished he was just a little bit ironic. Our relationship, after a little over a year, had plateaued. We still had great sex, which had been a big part of the deal from the beginning, but I wanted a little more, I don’t know, depth or something. He was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, which is definitely preferable to a lying-sack-of-shit kind of guy like the Asshole (a.k.a. my former husband), but I sometimes wished there were some surprising little twists to his personality, some hidden nooks and crannies, maybe even a little cosmic sadness. I couldn’t help comparing him to Chevrona Williams, who felt like she had all those things.
“Listen, I’m not sure I can make it tonight,” I said.
“Oh baby, I got us a gorgeous free-range chicken right from the farm, with my own potatoes and peas. Why not?”
“I have to head down to Stone Ridge, not sure what time I’ll be back.”
“Does this have something to do with that dead girl you bought the jewelry from?”
“Maybe.”
“What happened to your new simple life up in the country?”
“Good question.”
THIRTEEN
I headed down county. Stone Ridge sits on a ridge at the western edge of the Shawangunk Mountains, a rocky vein that rises between the fertile Rondout Valley and the Hudson Valley. The Gunks are wicked popular with climbers who love to clamber up their overhanging rock faces using their bare hands—which sounds pretty much like my definition of a living nightmare. This is one of the richer corners of the county—long settled, it feels much more tame than up in the Catskills, with prosperous old farms, orchards, stone houses, winding driveways, lawns dotted with specimen trees. This was definitely Van Wyck country, his “Building a New New York” lawn signs were a lot more in evidence here than in the scruffier parts of the valley.
I turned down Leggett Road—pow! I could have been over on the tony east bank of the Hudson—big old estates, sweeping lawns, stables, this was la crème de la Ulster County. Abba had given me directions to the Bump sisters’ spread and there it was: a massive old wood house set way back from the road; a large wooden sign at the entrance to the drive read “Bumpland.” The drive was lined with tall oaks, I drove past lovely gardens and a graceful pond nestled into the gentle downslope of lawn. The whole effect was stately and understated, that is until I began to notice little leprechaun, elf, and gnome figures tucked around—they looked like they’d escaped en masse from a miniature golf course or maybe a mental hospital for psychotic dwarfs; I guess their smiles were meant to be friendly but they looked leering and malevolent to me.
At the bottom of the lawn there was a tall barbed-wire fence plastered with “No Trespassing” signs—on the other side sat Collier Denton’s estate, his stone house not far from the property line, clearly too close for anyone’s comfort. The fence was pretty jarring—a jolt of the South Bronx in Shangri-La.
As I approached the house, I saw there was a service road that branched off and led to a barn, other outbuildings, and a large two-story garage; Billie had told me that Pavel lived above the garage. I parked, climbed the portico of the big house, and knocked on the front door. A middle-aged Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform answered—her challenging expression and the cigarette dangling from her left hand were a warm welcome.
“Hi, I’m here to see Octavia or Lavinia Bump.”
“Who is it?” a fruity English voice called from somewhere inside the house.
“Some person, I don’t know,” the maid called back.
“Oh, how divine, a person, and they’re just in time for tea!” A rather large woman sailed into the foyer. I pegged her for mid-fifties, with a round pretty face, milky skin, unruly red (dye-pot) hair, large green eyes; she was full-figured to say the least and carried it with great aplomb in a thigh-high low-cut dress that showed off her shapely legs and ample bosom; the deep red lipstick was the coup de grace—this gal radiated a distracted but highly sexed energy. She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, thrilled to have company. “Hello, how do you do? I’m Octavia Bump.”
“Hi, it’s a pleasure, I’m Janet Petrocelli.”
“How marvelous—Petrocelli! I adore Italy! I had one of my first great love affairs in Siena, during Il Palio, his name was Maurizio—oh, the places he took me, all without leaving his bed. Mummy and Daddy were livid, so silly of them, I was a very mature fourteen!” She turned to the maid, “Would you be a dear girl and set another place for tea, Inez.”
“I’m Maria.”
“Oh dear, so sorry.” She turned to me, “I’ve just met a maid named Maria.” She pealed with laughter and took my hand. “After tea, we’ll read Dante—‘Midway along the pathway . . .’”
Octavia led me through a series of gorgeous old rooms that looked like no one ever set foot in them; they were furnished in Early Balmoral, lots of chintz-covered sofas, graceful moldings, wood paneling, Persian rugs—the sole discordant note was the array of Jackson-Pollocky-without-the-talent paint
ings that adorned all the walls. As we passed from room to room, I saw several maids dart out of eyeshot.
We reached an immense sunroom in which an immense table was set for an immense tea—cakes and cookies and puddings and pies and bars and trifles—and one tiny plate of crustless sandwiches for any diabetics who might drop in.
“Do make yourself at home, my darling amica Italiana!” Octavia sat down, took a plate and started to heap it with goodies. “I had a mad affair in Capri when I was fifteen, his name was Angelo and he was so roughhewn, primordial, it was like being ravaged by a Neanderthal. Mummy and Daddy were livid again, which I thought was terribly narrow-minded of them, just because Angelo was a peasant, I mean he owned his donkey, and reading is such an overrated skill, don’t you agree?”
“I’ve actually never been to Italy, and my mother was Jewish.”
“Was she? How marvelous.” She took a big bite of orange-frosted cake. “When I was fifteen I almost eloped with an Israeli soldier—after we made mad love, Ari would read to me from the Torah, in Hebrew, it was divinely incomprehensible, I wanted to buy a kibbutz and have his babies. Need I tell you Mummy and Daddy were livid.” She turned to a maid who was slouching in the doorway. “Juanita dear, do bring the tea! … Unless you’d rather gin?”
“Tea is fine.”
The maid left. Octavia took a huge mouthful of some greenish pudding. “I must warn you that my sister Lavinia will be appearing at any moment. Of course I adore her, but she is …” she leaned in close and lowered her voice, “… peculiar.”
“Is she?”
“Oh yes.” She popped a cookie in her mouth. “It happened when Daddy died, she quite lost the plot, now she spends all day with Jerome. I’m quite fond of Jerome, but at a certain age one must refresh oneself. That’s why I took up painting, it’s released all my inhibitions.” She gestured vaguely to the huge splattered canvases. “A curator from Vassar came over and pronounced my work arresting. Would you like to know my secret?”
I nodded.
“I paint from my vagina. I just pretend that I’ve chopped my head right off and my id pours onto the canvas like a cosmic orgasm! My dear, you haven’t touched a crumb.”
Juanita/Inez/Maria appeared with a large silver teapot. “Thank you, Lupe.” Octavia poured us both tea; it was strong enough to peel paint.
“I wanted to ask you about your boarder, Pavel.”
Octavia’s whole demeanor changed, she sat up straight and eyeballed me. “Pavel has been very naughty.”
“Oh?”
“He’s been spending time with that other woman, that crass little nobody who lives up in the woods somewhere.”
“You mean Natas—”
She clasped her hands over her ears and cried, “Don’t mention that name in my presence!” She lowered her hands to her lap in a great show of restoring her dignity. “What you have to understand is that Pavel is the great love of my life. And I of his. He has proposed marriage to me. I, of course, as a lady must, have withheld my consent—I have a duty to uphold my family’s standards. And so to punish me, he’s undertaken this meaningless dalliance with that tawdry mountain woman. I’ve heard she has enormous feet!”
“Natasha Wolfson is dead.”
Octavia’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. Then she was still for a long suspended moment. “Are you quite sure? Dead?”
I nodded.
She stood up and began to pace, a flush of triumph racing up her bosom to her face. “Does Pavel know?”
“I don’t know.”
“I must go find him!” She raced halfway out of the room, turned, came over and lightly cupped my face in her hands, her eyes welled, “You’re my angel, my Italian-Jewish angel, sent from the heavens or Tel Aviv or wherever …” A half-mad smile spread across her face. “Do have some gooseberry pudding!”
Off she sped.
I tried the gooseberry pudding—boy, that is some weird-ass food, slimy and sour, like something they’d make you eat on a reality show. A maid walked by the doorway, texting. I looked out the picture window at Collier Denton’s estate on the other side of the barbwire fence. His house was a rambling old stone affair, the kind second-homers swoon over, surrounded by some serious gardens that had gone a bit to seed, when you looked closely the paint on the house was worn and chipped. A high cloud passed over the sun and suddenly the day grew dark and the scene looked forlorn and melancholy.
“Ripping good tea here, Jerome.”
I turned to see a mannish woman (she would have been a mannish man, too) walk into the room; her build was similar to her sister’s but she was wearing a tweed jacket, oxford shirt, tie, wool slacks, and men’s shoes, all of it a bit disheveled and not altogether clean. Her short hair was slicked back but had burst loose in a few places, and there was a small identically dressed stuffed monkey perched on her left shoulder. She saw me and stuck out a hand.
“Vin Bump, how are you?”
“Janet Petrocelli, nice to meet you.”
“This is Jerome.”
“Hi, Jerome.”
“He’s a bit out of sorts today, his fibromyalgia is acting up. Where’s that sister of mine?”
“She went looking for Pavel.”
“I don’t trust that lad!”
“No?”
“He’s cast some sort of spell on my sister. Not the first, believe me. She’s been led through life by her pudenda. I love her dearly but you do know she’s …” she leaned toward me and lowered her voice, “… unstable.”
“Is she?”
“Absolute nutter! It all started when she was born—being a female is a wretched fate. My condolences to you on that account, dear girl. Believe me, I thank Jupiter every day for my dangly-bits. Time for tea, Jerome.” Vin took out a flask and filled a teacup full of whiskey, then poured in a single drop of tea and took a long swallow. “It’s a bloody marvelous Assam, isn’t it?”
“It’s nice and strong.”
“Esmerelda, Jerome would like a steak and kidney pie,” Vin called in the direction of the kitchen. “I can’t abide steak and kidney pie myself, but Jerome loves it.”
A maid brought in a steak and kidney pie, still in its tin but with the lid off. As she put it on the table, Lavinia reached out and pinched her bohunkus.
“Jerome, stop that! Terribly sorry, Selena, he’s in a mood, his fibromyalgia.”
The maid nonchalantly picked up a lemon square and walked out.
Vin cut herself a big slice of the steak and kidney pie and began to devour it. “I do hope Pavel isn’t down at Denton’s, that always drives Octavia right round the bend.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, good God, yes. Those two bonkers are both mad for the lad, have come to blows on more than one occasion. Jerome has tried to intercede, but they’ve no interest in making peace.”
As if on cue, we watched through the picture window as a Mercedes plowed down Collier Denton’s drive and skidded to a stop in front of his house. Octavia leapt out of the car, ran to the front door and banged on it.
“Oh my, there she goes!” Vin said, not making much effort to disguise her excitement.
The door opened and a tall elderly man in a silk dressing gown stepped out.
“That’s Denton, I do hope neither of them is armed!” Vin chortled.
Octavia asked Denton something, he shook his head and turned away from her, she grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, he slapped her, she slapped him back. He raised an arm and ordered her off his property. She planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. He took out a cell phone and started to punch in a number. She turned and stormed over to her car, got in, and roared off, spitting gravel. Denton put away the phone, straightened up and walked back into his house.
Vin clucked in disappointment, “That was lovely-jubbly compared to their real rows.” Then she helped herself to a second piece of steak and kidney pie, “Jerome’s fibromyalgia always gives him an appetite.”
“And it’s all over
Pavel?”
“Precisely. Denton is a poofter, don’t you know. I don’t care a fidget as long as he keeps his bloody hands off my arse!”
I’d treated clients with gender-identity issues and was in awe of how well Lavinia had resolved hers; her personality-displacement psychosis was another matter.
But it was time for me to get moving—I needed to find this Pavel.
FOURTEEN
Just as I left the house, Octavia pulled up and leapt out of her car. “I’m afraid I shall have to kill that dreadful man. But never mind, he’s just jealous. The witch is dead, I’ve won, Pavel is mine!! Ciao-shalom, dear girl, no time to chat, must go paint, my vagina is adamant!”
She raced into the house in a fit of … Octavianess.
I got in my car but instead of heading down the drive, I turned up the service road and parked behind the garage, out of sight of the main house. I got out and ducked into the garage.
Inside were a dusty Bentley, a Jaguar, and a Land Rover; there were also ancient croquet sets, tennis rackets, saddles, and the like. Clearly these gals didn’t get out of their hothouse too often, and they also clearly had more money than they knew what to do with.
I climbed a staircase at the back of the garage and opened the door into a large loft-like room with a peaked ceiling. It had unpainted wood walls, a vintage kitchen at one end, a woodstove, simple windows, and was furnished in a minimal masculine way, with an enormous roughhewn table, an iron-frame bed, Mission-style chairs, a few bleached animal skulls, a Navajo blanket, wooden candlesticks—the effect was kind of macho chic, like a magazine spread on the weekend house of two gay guys who work in fashion.
There was a picture of Natasha on the refrigerator door and several of her CDs were on the table, along with a small pile of maps of the Hudson Valley, including a nautical map of the river; a bunch of vitamin and supplement bottles were on the kitchen counter. Otherwise the place was without much character, I couldn’t get any real sense of who Pavel was, except maybe a certain primal simplicity—or the pretense of same.
Dead by Any Other Name Page 4