One Foot In The Gravy

by Delia Rosen

  I snaked my arm around the jamb, found a pole lamp, switched it on. Gary recoiled like Dracula, his arms crossed in front of his face. He didn’t look like Dracula, however, in his white jockey shorts and a white terry-cloth bathrobe, the kind they have in hotel rooms. There were no bulges in the deep pockets.

  I moved in. I couldn’t tell if it was just the sudden brightness that bothered him, or whether he was hiding eyes that were bloated from crying. I thought I saw moisture on his cheeks. Grant shut the door and moved to the right so that we formed the points of an equilateral triangle. He obviously didn’t want Gary to be able to watch us both. It was pure police and I have to admit it turned me on a little.

  I know. A kvetch and meshuge.

  I approached Gary with my hands out slightly, like I was dealing with a drunk at the deli.

  “Let me look at you,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Gary, come on. I don’t want to talk to your sleeves.”

  That did the trick. He dragged his arms across his eyes, then pulled at his hair for a moment before lowering them. His face was a mess. It wasn’t just tears, it was agony.

  “Thank you,” I said. I was closing the gap.

  “Nnnn,” he grunted.

  I could see Grant moving more cautiously. He was keeping his distance like an orbiting satellite. “Gary, would you answer a few questions for me. About one of your books?”

  That seemed to raise the tiniest spark in his eyes. “My books?”

  “Yes. Carl Is Afraid of the Closet.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Great. First, I assume the main character was named after your mother’s older brother, Karl?”

  He hesitated as if considering whether this were a trick question. Then he nodded.

  “And your other book—”

  “Novel,” he said, finding his emotional footing. “It’s a young adult novel, not a book. A telephone book is also a book.”

  This was what I wanted: to get him somewhere closer to lucid than Insuhtoo and Nnnn. “So sorry. You’re right,” I said. “The other novel—who is Wagner?”

  “A 19th-century German composer,” he replied.

  “Of course,” I said. “When your first novel was published, you had a book signing at Lolo’s.”

  “Yes. It was in the newspapers.”

  “I know. You must have been very happy. I saw a photo of you signing copies.”

  “Twenty-nine of them,” he said.

  “Good number. Do you remember signing a copy for Lizzie?”

  The name rocked him back a little.

  “Gary, don’t go away from me—this is important.”

  He started to raise his arms, seemed to fight the urge to rake his face, then dropped them.

  “She’s in the photograph,” I said.

  “I signed it with just my name,” he said. “Later, I went to her home and added an inscription.”

  “What did it say?”

  I noticed Grant looking around. He had picked up on the fact that Gold’s books were missing from her bookshelf.

  “It said, ‘To Lizzie,’ and then I added with the same pen, ‘Who saved my life.’”

  Gary started to cry. He stood there heaving like a big baby. I don’t mean that as a judgment; he literally looked like a big, swaddled infant.

  “Tell me about her,” I said. “What did she do for you?”

  Through the awful, heartbroken sobs he said, “My father . . . found out . . . about my mother.”

  “Found out what? That she was pregnant?”

  “That . . . of course. But then . . . about . . . the group.”

  “Baader-Meinhof,” I said. “The Red Army Faction.”

  Gary nodded. The weeping waned; he was tapped out. He looked around and Grant’s hand went for his lapel; the detective relaxed when Gray reached for the arm of his tattered old couch and fell onto the seat. I circled to the other side and sat slowly with an extra Gary of space between us.

  “Go on,” I said. “Tell me about Lizzie and your dad.”

  “My father . . . Lizzie only knew him from the time he engaged her . . . to care for me,” he said.

  “Was that in Canada?”

  “Yes. My mother was pregnant. She called and told him about that, then told him everything about her connection with the terrorists. She wanted him to take her baby—me—out of the country. She was afraid the police were looking for her, that maybe they knew about my dad, so he found and engaged Lizzie to go and get me.”

  “Why Lizzie?”

  “He figured I’d have an easier time getting into Canada than the U.S.,” Gary said. “Even though I had a passport with a different name, customs officials were scrutinizing every first-timer who came from Germany.”

  “Even babies?”

  “Of course,” he said. “What better hostage to get a terrorist mom to surrender?”

  Good point, I thought. “How did he get the passport ?”

  Gary smiled. “Dad was pretty resourceful. He had scored a connection to the State Department through a connection in government. Cash in a brown paper bag put him in touch with something called the Dead Passport Office—the graveyard where our old passports go when we renew. He bought one that belonged to a baby—”

  “But what if the real person—”

  “Showed up? It would be a miracle. Gary Gold was dead. Long live Gary Gold.”

  It was pretty clever, I had to admit. A victimless crime that would be a lot tougher to get away with in the post-9/11 world.

  “So you came here,” I said.

  Gary nodded.

  “You didn’t live with your father, did you?”

  “No. When he found out about the RAF, he was afraid he was on some kind of watch list. He set me and Lizzie up in this house. He came by when he could, at night.”

  “Did you go to school?”

  “She tutored me,” he said. “She had a teaching degree in Canada.”

  “How was that?”

  He smiled warmly. “She was a hard teacher, but she taught me a lot about words and books and life.”

  “And—your mother?” I asked. I hated to jerk him from here to there, but I wanted to get him while he was lucid.

  “I have not seen her since the day she bore me,” he said. “I couldn’t exactly renew my passport and Dad didn’t have enough money for another.”

  “Do you know he left her the chocolate shop?”

  “I do,” Gary said. “He always thought—no, he hoped that with the right encouragement and the passage of time, she might risk coming to America. I understand, from my father’s attorney, that that time is not now.”

  He was fighting tears again. I was fascinated by the story, but at the same time I was increasingly concerned. I could tell, by his expression, that Grant felt the same. Either this young man was severely unstable and had off’d those close to him for reasons as yet unfathomed, or we did not have our killer. I had to start directing the conversation.

  “Gary, would you mind sharing something else? How did you feel about your father?”

  His smile collected tears in the corner, then respilled them. It was not the smile of a murderer.

  “I loved him,” he said. “Hoppy Hopewell was a good, good father.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, he published my books.”

  Big, damn duh, I thought. P.O. box for an address and paid for by the cashing-in of his insurance—whence “Policy” Press.

  “For another, he paid for this house and put me in touch with his friends, like Lolo, who needed writers. He was always looking out for me.”

  Gary broke down again and put his face in both hands.

  “I . . . miss . . . him . . .” he cried. “That’s why . . . I . . . couldn’t . . . come to . . . the door . . . that day. . . .”

  “I understand,” I said, moving closer.

  I saw Grant shake his head, but I backed him off with a frown. I laid a hand on Gary’s elbow and, like
an octopus, he threw his arms around me and hugged me close and bawled into my shoulder. Grant started toward us to rescue me; I shook my head and shifted my eyes back and forth, telling him I was okay and to search the damn house. Grant gave me a look, but I made an exasperated face that I hoped said, “I know it’s not admissible but search anyway,” and he did. He came back about two minutes later and shook his head. By that time, Gary’s hysterics had subsided again. I eased away from him.

  “Would you like some water?” I asked.

  “Why . . . does everyone think . . . upset people need water?” he asked.

  “Maybe because you just cried me a river?” I smiled.

  He considered that. “Okay. Thank you.”

  I went to get it while Grant kept an eye on him. I looked around as I filled a glass at the sink. The place wasn’t the dump I’d imagined on my first visit. It was neat, with photographs of a young Hoppy, Anne, and what I assumed to be other family members on the wall. I got a little choked up myself when I saw a tiny black bow tied to a wall frame of what looked like a pretty recent photo of Hoppy at the store. I couldn’t forget that he had a sordid side and had preyed on young women. But that had no coin here. As far as Gary was concerned, Hoppy Hopewell and Lizzie Renoir were saints.

  I returned with the water and Gary slurped it down. I remained standing. I felt bad for the young man. His lack of social skills was not his fault; Lizzie obviously had done the best she could. But that had been years ago and there had been very little social interaction since then. Gary Gold was effectively a hermit.

  Before we left him to his solitude, however, there was one more place I had to go with him.

  “Hey, I want to thank you for being so honest and open with me,” I said to him.

  “You’re welcome.” He searched for something more to say. “Thanks for the water.”

  “My pleasure. I have one more question for you, if you’re up for it.”

  He gave me a look that I would describe as borderline wary—not because I thought he had anything to hide but because after he answered he was going to be alone again.

  “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

  His chest heaved slightly and his lower lip quivered. But he really didn’t have anything left.

  “I don’t,” he said. “I still can’t believe any of it.” He looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I told him. “I didn’t really—”

  “No,” he cut me off. “About scaring you at your house. This whole thing has left me in a little bit of a daze.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” I told him. “I understand.”

  I thanked him for his time, but most importantly for his trust. He didn’t rise when we left; he continued to sit in his corner of the couch, looking at the spot where I’d been sitting, but probably seeing happier times and people he could only visit in his memory.

  Grant followed me out and shut the door.

  “Well done,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “So Hoppy canceling his insurance policy—”

  “Yeah. To pay print bills. Nice gesture, but they really didn’t help him.”

  “How so?”

  “The only editors he had were a chocolatier and a woman whose first language wasn’t English,” I said. “Everyone needs a critic.”

  “That is a fact,” he said.

  There was an uncharacteristic humility in his answer. I think it was a compliment.

  “What’s really sad,” I went on, “is that never mind the writing. Between Lizzie and Hoppy, they scared the crap out of that kid. He hasn’t had a chance to experience much of life himself.”

  “He’s going to have to now,” Grant said.

  That was a fact too. But it wasn’t something I could afford to think about right now. There was still a killer out there, and we were no closer to finding that person than we were an hour ago.

  “Someone tried to frame that kid,” Grant said.

  “I was just thinking that,” I told him. That was why they had taken the books signed to Lizzie. And the photo albums. And maybe even planted the blue ribbon for us to find and draw the conclusion we did. The killer was no dope.

  “What are you going to do now?” Grant asked when we reached the curb.

  “Go back home and go through the Lizzie file,” I said. “I want to think about some of the points the Foxes raised. You?”

  It was a loaded question. He probably felt like I did the other day when I’d left the door open and didn’t know whether or how to close it. Except that in his case, he probably realized that whatever answer he gave was probably the wrong one.

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked.

  I hadn’t anticipated that. He was learning to defer.

  “I think you should probably get some sleep,” I said. That showed concern, I thought; it was kind of a chickeny bookmark move. I wanted time alone to think.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “Maybe I’ll check in later?”

  That was a good, oh-so-mildly pushy response.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I avoided a kiss but gave his hand a squeeze as I went around to the driver’s side and headed into the night.

  I did, however, succumb and snagged a glance in the rearview mirror as I pulled away. The boy was standing there watching me go.

  Whatever other tsuris was poking and driving me, that made me grin.

  Chapter 29

  I got home feeling beat. Not just physically but emotionally; the visit with Gary had not been the walk to the scaffold I had been expecting.

  I flopped into the sofa with a Diet Coke, pushed the cats away—they knew when I meant business—and set my laptop on the coffee table. I had the edited Lizzie folder beside me with the notes I’d taken during the Cozy Foxes dinner.

  The Hoppy-Anne-Lizzie-Gary pieces all fit now. They formed a nice little tray puzzle that seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with the two murders. I was starting over.

  I went back through my favorite places hoping something would stand out, trigger a new direction. The only thing new we had was that whoever tried to frame Gary knew more about him than the rest of us had. They knew about Lizzie and probably about Hoppy. That left a lot of gossipy rich people on the table.

  But why ? What started this?

  I was going through my files and stopped on the old newspaper article. I wished the photographer had taken a reverse angle so I could see Gary’s face. It would have been nice to see him happy—

  “Hello !”

  I was looking at the fuzzy photo of autograph seekers at Lolo’s house. There was a face in the crowd—

  A tumbler clicked into place.

  It reminded me of something someone had said.

  Another tumbler.

  That reminded me of something that person had said.

  Tumbler number three. I reached for my cell phone and remembered I left it in my coat, which was on the coat rack by the door. I had to call Grant, tell him—

  The doorbell rang as I reached into my pocket. I opened it. “You saved me a call—”

  It wasn’t Grant.

  Poodle Baldwin stood at the threshold. “Can I come in?” she asked.

  I tasted the egg salad I’d had for dinner. “Sure,” I smiled and stepped aside, the phone in my palm.

  Poodle entered. She shut the door behind her. She was wearing a duster. Her other hand was in her pocket. We stood two feet apart staring at each other.

  “Hi,” she said belatedly.

  “Hi,” I replied awkwardly.

  “You were at Lizzie’s tonight.”

  “I was,” I said. “How did you know?”

  “I dated that cop,” she said, then frowned. “Not yours,” she added quickly. “The one in the car. The one who was on his cell when you left.”

  “Nice guy?” I asked.

  “A peach,” she replied.

  “So he just happened t
o mention—”

  “No. I asked.” She looked down at her feet. I couldn’t tell if she was ashamed or marshaling her energies or thinking or all of that. I had my eye on the hallway to my right, beside the sofa. If I needed to make a run for the bathroom or bedroom—

  “You were at Lizzie’s too, weren’t you?” I asked boldly. No sense dragging this out. “Not today, but—”

  “I killed her,” Poodle said without a hint of remorse. “Also that shit Hoppy. I tried to tell you the other day, before I went to Lizzie’s. But you weren’t hearing me. I thought you would. I thought you would understand.”

  “I did!” I insisted. “My God, you think I don’t know what a man like Hoppy could do?”

  “He wasn’t a man,” Poodle said. “He was a creature. An it. A dog who used young girls the way a stud uses bitches. Him and that sick beast he procured for. The thing that made Hoppy worse is that he made you think he cared.”

  “He may have,” I said.

  “Only for one woman!” Poodle said with anguish. “The German girl. I was just a substitute for her. He took my heart and my body and he broke them all up because he had fallen for his little tart girlfriend and couldn’t have her! We all became little Annes. You know why?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I think because it was right before the fall,” she said. She was starting to lose it now. She began to approach me. I backed away, toward the hall. “When he met her, he was still a poor little rich kid, free to roam the world and pluck whatever young petals he wished. Then he found out he was broke. It was the last time he was happy Hoppy!”

  I didn’t know how on-target her pop psychology was, but there was probably some truth there. That, plus the fact that he struck me as an arrested adolescent who couldn’t relate to any woman over fifteen.

  “I hated him and I promised myself he wouldn’t get away with what he’d done,” Poodle said. “I vowed to stop him from damaging other girls.”

  “Yet you waited all this time—”

  “For a plan!” she said. “Oh, and to get through years of therapy because of what he’d done to me!”

  “But why Lizzie?”

  “I went to her because—Jesus.”

  “What?”