One Foot In The Gravy

by Delia Rosen

  “Or else the attacker was afraid she knew more than she let on,” I suggested. “I only met her a few times, but Lizzie had a kind of reserve that someone might have interpreted as secretive.”

  “And that could’ve cost her,” Grant said.

  More than he knew. As we stood there looking at the place, waiting for a eureka moment, he got a call from the hospital.

  Lizzie had died.

  Chapter 22

  People talk about emotional roller coasters, but that doesn’t really describe anything. A roller coaster is made of a little anxiety and anticipation, a bunch of nervous laughter, and the rest of it’s pretty level.

  What we should really be talking about are emotional boxing matches. You mostly take a lot of blows and maybe land a few yourself, and unless you’re really lucky, the entire experience is mostly painful, occasionally exhilarating, but primarily just draining.

  That’s how I felt when Grant dropped me back at the deli. We hadn’t spoken for most of the ride. I was pretty much over his stupid man-vision view of our relationship. Despite what I’d told Poodle about being worldly-wise and guarded, I had let his shoulders in, among other things, without the proper safeguards being in place. That was my fault, and now I was paying the price of feeling emotionally abandoned. Let the buyer beware.

  I was not, however, over the death of Lizzie Renoir. I felt it would be appropriate to pay Lolo a courtesy call. Grant was going to go straight to the hospital to talk to her—she had arrived shortly after Lizzie did; I would wait until after we closed. I wanted to work. I also wanted to avoid the press that were beginning to arrive as we were driving off. They were sure to be at the hospital and at Lolo’s for at least an hour or two. I didn’t want any further identification with the fallout from Lolo’s party. About the only thing Grant had said on the way back was that at least he and Deputy Chief Whitman would be able to play “This Cop, That Cop,” which he explained as an advantage of having a case spread across two jurisdictions. Each lead detective could tell the press that the other was in charge of releasing information, with the result of being able to bat them back and forth and say nothing for hours. There was nothing worse for an investigation, Grant said, than being pressured from above when they were taking heat from the press.

  One of my projects since arriving had been to add some healthier choices to the menu. People didn’t come to Murray’s to lower their cholesterol or chow down on roughage, but some of the people who came with those other people might want dishes that had greens and soy instead of egg or meat or dairy. I charted the sales of those menu specials and, when there was something that seemed to spike, I made it a permanent fixture. I was reviewing those figures now, standing behind the counter. I didn’t feel like closing myself in the office—not after spending an hour in Lizzie’s place, which had been claustrophobic with cops and tape and just plain bad karma.

  As part of my newly confident self, I made the first move and, toward the end of the day, told my manager that everything was fine with me. I didn’t open up with anyone, but she had been there for me the day before and I wanted to keep that door ajar. There were things I wanted to know about her life, and one day soon I hoped she’d share them. Whatever badness had visited me the previous afternoon, good came out of it.

  It was six-thirty when I pulled up to Lolo’s house. There were other cars in the driveway, one of them an inexpensive model; probably a temporary housekeeper, I guessed. Lolo didn’t look like the kind of woman who ran her own dishwasher.

  I’d brought a quart of potato salad from the deli. I didn’t know if gentiles brought food the way Jews did making a shiva call. If not, it didn’t matter. It was one of the sides we’d made for her.

  The door was ajar; I later learned this was the way Society acknowledged the loss of a domestic—sort of like riding boots reversed in the stirrups to symbolize the loss of a warrior. It had a certain patronizing charm. The first thing I noticed upon entering was that the roof had been seamlessly repaired and the hall floor waxed and polished. Hoppy had been plastered over and scrubbed away. Good riddance, thought I.

  I could see seven other people besides Lolo. I didn’t know any of them, but a few seemed to know me from the deli. I pretended to recognize them.

  Lolo seemed genuinely upset, which was hardly surprising. Two murders in one week, a party guest and an employee; tragic and, from a purely functional perspective, it could have a real chilling effect on her social life. And that’s what Lolo was mostly about, directing the A-list of Nashville society from its peak . . . not from a base camp. Right now, she had to feel like she was in Everest’s Death Zone.

  She was seated in a big armchair in her huge living room, which was lit by a chandelier the size and brilliance of the Close Encounters mothership. She was dressed in black and drinking red wine. This was also a salute to Lizzie, who—she explained while her new helper got me a glass, which I had initially declined, then accepted when the reason was forthcoming—kept the wine cellar stocked with the best of the Canadian vineyards.

  “I was told by dear Lizzie that the Canadians are the top vinifiers of imported grapes,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure that was a great distinction, but maybe it was.

  “I’m going to miss her,” Lolo went on as a gentleman scootched along the adjoining sofa so I could sit beside Lolo. “She was a steadfast companion.”

  Like Tonto, I thought, but for a Lone Ranger who couldn’t ride, shoot, rope or do anything much except display his silver bullets.

  I let my eyes take a turn around the room, then asked with sudden cagey inspiration, “Has Anne Miller been here?”

  Lolo’s blank expression wasn’t an act. “Who, dear?”

  “A-a friend,” I stuttered. No one else seemed to react to the name, except for the man to my left who asked if it was the movie star.

  “No Ms. Miller has been here,” Lolo said. Unless—”

  Lolo tinkled her dinner bell, which sat on the chair table to her right. A black woman came in from the kitchen. “Ma’am?”

  “Are you Anne Miller?”

  “I’m Sabrina Brown, ma’am,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Lolo said. She looked at the container in my lap. “Would you like her to take that?”

  “No,” I said. “I was taking it home.”

  Lolo dismissed the servant and returned the bell to its place. I don’t know what disgusted me more, her making the point that my friend must be a servant or that she didn’t know the servant’s name. I was about to get up to go when Lolo raised a finger as if to forestall any thought of departure or extraneous conversation.

  “I heard from Officer Clampett that you were at Lizzie’s apartment,” Lolo said.

  All the whispered, respectful conversation going on around us winked out, like the passing of demure little clouds. Every eye shifted in my direction.

  “I was there,” I said. “I didn’t see him there.”

  “He heard it from Deputy Chief Whitman. Why were you there, dear?”

  This time, “dear” sounded accusatory, like “You little busybody” or “Yankee.” Maybe it was just my imagination. Or maybe Lolo was genuinely ticked off. She had been nice enough when we were planning the menu for her party, she was pleasant when she and her Cozy Foxes slummed it at the deli, but now I was in her club and bound by her rules.

  “Detective Daniels had some questions for me,” I said as I was trying to formulate a reason.

  “How thrilling for you,” Lolo said. “May I inquire, were those questions about my party?”

  There was definitely some ice in her voice now. Society stuck together, even when one of their own banged young girls or took his own life. Could she also count on the discretion of the gentry?

  “Noooo,” I said, dropping my voice about an octave as if that would dispel any such notion. “The officers—well, this is rather tawdry.”

  “My ears have heard much.”

  I edged closer. “You know how she was killed.�
��

  “Certainly.”

  “Detective Daniels wanted to know if I could tell them anything about the tenderizer before they moved it. The pulverizing capacity per square inch—you know, could it have done the damage or was it a plant.”

  The leader of the Cozy Foxes considered my testimony. “Very clever,” she said.

  I didn’t know whether she meant me or Grant. “Wasn’t it?” I said generally.

  The conversation resumed around us as people drifted away. Obviously, nosiness had a shelf life in high society. But thinking of the Cozy Foxes again gave me a sudden inspiration. “There is one thing that occurred to me while I was there, in poor Lizzie’s kitchen.”

  “What was that?”

  I leaned forward to make sure the others would not hear. “Detective Daniels seemed a little stymied at the crime scene. Wouldn’t it be interesting, thought I, if the Cozy Foxes had a go at it?”

  “At what, the bloody scene of the crime?”

  “No, no. Not in person, but—at the deli, say. What if I could convince the detective to let me have the file and we all review it. Would that fall under the charter of what your literary club can do?”

  It was as though I’d attached alligator clips to her big toes and turned on the juice. She literally trembled with excitation.

  “Could you manage such a thing?”

  “I believe I could.”

  “We would meet . . . after hours?”

  “No one else there.”

  She sipped the wine, her mind no longer on who had purchased it—if it ever was. “I love that idea, Gwen Katz. I love it to the marrow.”

  “Then why don’t we plan it for tomorrow?”

  “I will phone the others at once and tell them to be there,” she said.

  I didn’t doubt that they would be.

  Her manner was considerably more respectful now that I’d shown some kind of fealty, and she was still giddy with delight as I rose to go. She extended her hand knuckles-up for me to clasp rather than shake.

  “Tell me something, though,” I said. “I hear that a lot of the women at your party didn’t especially like Hoppy Hopewell.”

  “That is true,” she admitted.

  “Then why did you invite him?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Simply to see whether my party was more important than their hate.”

  Chapter 23

  Grant happened to call while I was driving home. He wanted to warn me that the grapevine had heard I was at Lizzie’s house and we should have a story prepared.

  “Too late,” I said.

  I told him where I’d been and what I’d said. He was impressed.

  “So now they knowI a playa,” I said, trying to sound ghetto. It was lost on him. “Hey, it’s good that you called. I need a favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to borrow your Lizzie Renoir file.”

  “Sure. You want security code to the arms locker too?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No, you’re crazy. I can’t do that.”

  “Then give me an unofficial version in an official-looking folder,” I said. “A redacted copy of the report, some of the less upsetting crime-scene photographs, floor plans, and all the key facts. Also the financials, everything you’ve got.”

  “Why those?”

  “Bank statements speak to me, like tombs to an Egyptologist.”

  “I assume you’re going to tell me why you want all of that?”

  “I want to see what the Cozy Foxes have to say about this.”

  “You want culpability findings from Lolo’s coffee klatch?”

  “This killing is probably related to the first, do you agree?”

  “It seems to be.”

  “Fine. The Cozies have been involved with this party from the start and they have all been to Lolo’s place countless times,” I said. “They know each other. I want to see how they relate when they’re forced to review this morning’s crime. And who knows what else might come out of their chatter?”

  “If one of them is involved, what makes you think she’ll show?”

  “Because no one declines a Lolo Baker invitation. To do so would damn near be an admission of guilt.”

  I heard him sigh.

  “We’ve got nothing to lose,” I said. “Even if none of them was involved and they decide that Lizzie was killed by space aliens, we’ve at least eliminated them from the list of possible suspects. Except, maybe, for Helen Russell.”

  “Why Helen Russell?”

  “Because she’s a hell of an actress.”

  Grant agreed to put something together. He asked if I wanted to pick it up or if he should drop it off.

  “However you’re comfortable,” I said, certain he had no idea why I hit that word with a snap like a fly swatter.

  “I should have it in about two hours,” he said. “I’ll bring it by?”

  I told him that would be fine. Then girded my mental loins to accept it at the door and send him on his way.

  My father once told a joke that lasted a full fifty minutes.

  It was Yom Kippur and there wasn’t much else to do, beside talk. We couldn’t watch TV. We couldn’t eat. I was fourteen or fifteen and it was my mother, father, my mother’s parents, and a stray aunt and uncle—a minyan at least, if women had been allowed to participate. (An aside: one reason I became a non-practicing Jew is when I discovered that a slave could be one of the ten people but not a woman. Nice, right?)

  After about twenty minutes, everyone knew that there was no way even the greatest punchline ever written could satisfy the build-up. Still, there was something about it....

  The joke went like this:

  It was during the Depression and the circus was coming to a small Midwestern town. (He spent about ten minutes describing the town, the weather, the population.) Buster and his son Cuffy were excited as could be about the circus, since there wasn’t a lot of excitement in their impoverished region. (Sort of like that high holy day, but I digress.) Buster scraped together the admission price and he took his son on opening night. (At this point, the tent and sideshows were described for another ten minutes.) Finally, it was time to enter the big top. Buster had secured them seats in the front row so they would have the best view of all three rings. (At this point, seven or eight minutes must be invested describing the aerialists, the elephants, the trick riders, and of course the ringmaster.) After a while, it was time for the clowns. The last one to emerge from the clown car was the headliner Peskio. He ran along the front row squirting water from a flower at the pretty women and throwing confetti on the children. Buster and Cuffy were literally jumping with anticipation as he reached their seats. Peskio looked squarely at Buster.

  “Are you a giraffe?” he asked.

  “No-ho-ho!” Buster laughed uncontrollably.

  “Are you an ostrich?”

  Buster was laughing so hard he couldn’t answer, only shook his head.

  “Then you must be an ass!” Peskio yelled.

  Buster stared at him, stunned, as the clown guffawed and moved on. Cuffy stared up at his father in tears. The man’s world collapsed. He had been insulted in front of his boy. The rest of the night was a blur to Buster, who stared blankly at Flingo the Human Cannonball, Steppy the Stilt Walker, and other amazing sights. Before leaving, Buster took a flyer from one of the hawkers. The circus was headed to California and then it was coming back. They would be here again in exactly one year. Buster resolved to be ready for them. (Dad invested another ten minutes on what Buster did: he took a correspondence course in public speaking, read books of philosophy, trained with a heavy bag so he would be fit and intimidating, and went to free courses at the local high school to learn rudimentary Latin so he would have a better understanding of language and its meaning.) Sure enough, twelve months later, the circus was back. Buster made sure that he and Cuffy had the same seats. They psyched themselves up with games along the midway, and gorged on cotton candy for energy. They took their
seats and barely heeded the trapeze or animal acts as they waited. Finally, the odious red car appeared and from it the clowns emerged. At last, the moment arrived. Peskio unfolded himself and made the rounds of the front row. He reached Buster and Cuffy and without even a glimmer of recognition on his big painted face, he stared at Buster.

  “Are you a giraffe?” he asked.

  “No!” Buster said proudly.

  “Are you an ostrich?”

  “I am not!” Buster replied.

  “Then you must be an ass!” Peskio yelled.

  At which point Buster squared his shoulders and said to the clown, “Screw you!”

  That was the joke.

  I tell it because, as I said, while it isn’t funny, it’s got something. What it has is a life lesson, one that applied to me so perfectly that it causes me to wonder what else my dad knew about life that I don’t, and makes me sad I won’t ever get to ask him.

  After a day of plotting, and then of refining my plotting about how I was going to put Grant Daniels in his place, he came to the door, I invited him in, we had some wine, and he stayed the night. All of it, until just after dawn.

  It isn’t that I’m weak. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with some of the toughest CFOs since the advent of Christianity. I tossed my husband when, after avoiding our marital bed with this excuse or that—from work to late night TV—he told me, “I’m not having an affair, I’m just not interested in you anymore.”

  What’s happened, as you’ve seen, is that down here I’m disgraced Army lieutenant Philip Nolan, the Man Without A Country. I’ve been set adrift with nothing familiar but myself—and so much of me was tied up in the work I did and where I lived and who I lived with.

  All gone now, except for Starbucks. I mean—Starbucks ? My only lifeline? How desperate and lonely am I?

  Grant, flawed and clueless as he can sometimes be, is one of the few new buds that looks like it could flower. Him, and now Thom. That’s why my brain overruled my heart on this one and I’m glad it did. We had a good, good night.