Mother Shadow

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “No.”

  “Your turn to be honest with me. Did you send your butler over here to ransack my apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Well, somebody was looking for something and has made a terrible mess, and I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Don’t touch anything. We’ll be there as quickly as we can, Miss Hill.”

  I gave her directions and hung up. I made my way to the refrigerator and got a bottle of white wine. I took a glass and went and sat down by the baby-blue pool. Hands shaking, I filled my glass and leaned back in a cheap plastic lounge chair. I drank and refilled the glass. The sun was going down, burning the tan walls of the apartment complex red.

  The codicil had been stolen from me, my apartment ransacked, and I’d just confessed my sex life to a woman I hardly knew. I gulped and poured myself another. My hands still shook. The pool light went on. I could hear a woman bitching in Spanish. Another one bitched in English. A man belched. The palm tree’s spotlight clicked on. A baby bitched. I poured more wine. Oh, hell, if I wasn’t confessing, I was protecting. I drank and shut my eyes. I smelled meat frying. Grease crackled. Dishes clattered. A man and woman laughed. Homey sounds…comforting sounds…

  6

  “GLASS CONTAINERS ARE NOT allowed by the pool. You speak English. You can read the rules. Do you hear me? Wake up!”

  Froman’s eighty-proof breath filled my nostrils. I blinked. Boozy, belligerent eyes bore down on mine. Behind her face apartment windows were yellow squares of light in the darkness.

  “Drinking by the pool. Men leaving all hours of the night. I will not tolerate such behavior,” Froman yelled. She was the kind of drunk who never slurred her words; her voice just got louder and louder.

  “I rent to mi…nor…ities. I believe in e…quality. And what has it got me? You! Sleeping it off around the pool!”

  My head pounded. My neck was stiff. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how Froman’s renting to minorities and believing in equality had brought us together by the pool. I knew there was an important reason for my being here outside at night, if only I could think of it.

  “Wake up!” Froman bellowed.

  I turned my head away from hers and slowly opened my eyes again. There, within reach, but dangerously near the edge of the pool, was my half-empty bottle of wine. Fear slowly crept back into me, jarring my memory. I was in danger.

  “Waiting for someone,” I mumbled. My mouth tasted like Froman’s smelled.

  “Your friends are already here. I know what you’re up to.” Her watery eyes narrowed. “You stay down here while they have the use of your apartment.”

  She snapped her head in the direction of my apartment, a movement that suddenly propelled her backwards right into the lone palm tree. Wrapping her arm around its bumpy trunk, she steadied herself. Bathed in the jaundice glow of the floodlight, she checked her rigorously sprayed brown hair for loose strands. There were none. Froman was a neat drunk.

  I looked up at my window. Shadows crossed the square of light. Struggling awkwardly to my feet, I grabbed the wine and hurried toward the stairs.

  Froman swayed after me. “Living in an apartment complex is a group effort. I must look out for the rights of the group. And you are threatening those rights by your ab…aber…rant behavior.”

  I could never figure out if Froman was a communist or a fascist. Whatever her politics were, they didn’t allow for human frailties or human delights. I felt a perverse sense of triumph when I threw open my door. I wanted her to see that my apartment had been ransacked right under her big red nose.

  Claire Conrad, dressed in white trousers, white blouse, white jacket belted at the waist, stood leaning on her ivory walking stick in the middle of my life’s possessions. She was reading my novel. More people had been interested in my novel in one day than when it was first published.

  Boulton stood by the box springs of my bed. He held my radio by its cord as if he were holding a dead rodent by the tail. He dusted it with a white powder. Was it only yesterday that my radio had told me virginity was making a comeback?

  Froman bumped past me into the room. She jerked to a halt. Her mouth sagged open. No words came out.

  Claire peered over the book at me. “You’re awake. Who is this?”

  “Mrs. Froman, the manager. How could you let me sleep?”

  “You obviously needed to. You should never use the word ‘corn’ in a title. The critics might use it back at you.”

  “They did.”

  She turned to Froman. The dark blue eyes filled with loathing. “Mrs. Froman, did you see anybody go in or out of Miss Hill’s apartment this afternoon?”

  Froman wagged her head.

  “Do you think any of the other tenants might—”

  “Everyone keeps to themselves here,” I said. “I can predict nobody saw anything.”

  “I need a drink,” Froman moaned.

  I handed her the bottle of wine. She sucked from it like a baby.

  Putting my radio in a plastic bag, Boulton said, “There are two sets of prints in the apartment. One set I assume to be Miss Hill’s. The other prints are only on the champagne bottle, the glass, the night stand, and…” The watchful brown eyes moved quickly up my body and came to rest on my lips. I felt as if he could see the unique spidery pattern of Neil’s hands on my arms, my breasts, my hips, my thighs, like stains.

  “I assume these prints belong to the policeman.” Boulton held up the radio. “There is one lone print that doesn’t match. It’s on the dial of this.”

  “Good. Then we have what we need,” Claire said.

  “Have what?” I asked.

  “A clue.” The refined lips smiled.

  Froman quit sucking and bawled, “What’s going on here? Are you the police? You don’t look like the police.” Her voice was gaining strength.

  “Boulton, give her one of my cards.”

  From inside his coat he produced an ivory-colored card. Froman read it carefully and sneered.

  “I don’t need a private detective to know what’s going on here. You don’t fool me. I told her to quit playing that music. I had to come all the way up here this afternoon and pound on the door!”

  “When?!”

  “You tell me. You were here.”

  “And did Miss Hill turn off the music? Or did she put it back on the classical station?”

  “She knows what we agreed to.”

  “I wasn’t here this afternoon!”

  “I heard you in here making this mess. I know what you’re up to. You want out of the apartment without paying the security deposit. I’ve seen it all before. Pretend you’ve been burgled…” Froman was booming.

  “Wait a minute,” I yelled over her. “I don’t want out of my apartment, and I have been burgled! You let it happen!”

  “You’re going to get out, all right. Now!”

  “This is my apartment. You have no right…”

  “You are a monthly. I decide when this is your apartment and when it is not your apartment. It is not your apartment.”

  “You are a fascist!”

  “How dare you! I have fought the good fight.” She swayed primly to the door and opened it. Standing on my thin balcony, she pulled herself up to attention and screamed, “Out! Out! I want you out! Now!”

  “I’m not leaving!” I yelled back.

  “She’s right,” Claire said. “You can’t stay here.”

  “This is my home.”

  “Out! Out! Out!” Froman chanted. “Shut up!” the man next door yelled. “This is Mrs. Froman!” she bellowed back.

  “Up yours!” he replied.

  Froman slammed my door in my face.

  I turned on Claire. “This may not look like much to you. But I live here. She has no right to throw me out.”

  “Look around, Miss Hill. What do you see?”

  “I don’t have to look around. I know. Chaos.”

  “Exactly.”

  “To be honest with you, my apart
ment doesn’t look much better than this even when it’s in order. I’m staying.”

  “Miss Hill, you may love to wallow in your own private chaos. But this is not your chaos. This has been created by somebody else—by somebody who has a great deal of anger and rage in them. Look at the unnecessary destruction. It’s not safe to stay here, Miss Hill. You can stay with us until we resolve this…situation. Pack some clothes, and be sure to include a proper outfit for a funeral. Ellis Kenilworth is being buried tomorrow…This should do.” With her stick she lifted a beige dress off the floor. It hung limply from the ivory cane like boned flesh.

  “I hate that dress.”

  “Then why did you buy it?”

  “Haven’t you ever bought an outfit you didn’t like?”

  “No. Did you make some sort of agreement with the manager about your radio?”

  “While I’m gone I can leave it on the classical station.”

  “Then our intruder must not have liked classical music. He or she turned the dial, probably to rock music, and the manager heard it and began pounding on the door. So the intruder turned it back.”

  “But why didn’t the person leave his gloves on to do that?” Boulton asked.

  “I’m sure one could get very warm destroying another’s possessions. He probably had his gloves on when he changed the station. But what if he took his gloves off to wipe his forehead or just cool himself, and Froman begins to bang on the door demanding he change the music? Afraid he’ll be discovered, he changes the station back, forgetting to put on his gloves. Do you know anyone, man or woman, who detests classical music, Miss Hill?”

  “Not for that brief a time.”

  “While you pack, do you mind if I listen to your phone machine?”

  “Be my guest.” I began to gather my clothes from the floor. Boulton opened my two suitcases. My mother’s voice filled the room.

  “Happy birthday, Maggie. Why aren’t you answering? Oh, hell, come home.”

  I folded my jacket with the big shoulder pads. His voice made my stomach tighten. “Neil,” he said, then hung up.

  “Was that his name or a command?” Claire asked, half-smiling.

  I glared and stuffed more clothes into the suitcase.

  “Call him back,” Claire said.

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “I’d like you to ask him to run a check on that fingerprint. See if it has a name. Boulton can meet him at the police station with the radio.”

  “You mean you want me to ask him for a favor? I won’t!”

  “Miss Hill, to me love is an adolescent disease. By the time you’re an adult, you should already have had it and be immune to it. I obviously hold a minority view. But I have very little patience for people who are in the thick of love. I am here to work. If you are going to get all tangled up in your emotions, you will be absolutely no help to me. Now, try to look objectively at your situation with this man and you will see that Neil owes you a favor.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  The Englishman handed me the phone; it was covered with white dust. I dialed. He answered.

  “It’s Maggie.”

  His voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t talk now.”

  “Then why did you call me?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe. It’s business. There’s an Englishman named Boulton—he’s going to meet you at headquarters with my radio. He wants to know if you can put a name to a fingerprint that was left on it. Don’t worry, it’s not yours.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I just want you to do this for me.”

  “I can’t. Against the rules.”

  “You owe me one.”

  His voice lowered. “You wanted it last night.”

  “Does she know I wanted it?”

  “Jesus Christ! How did we end up like this?”

  “Boulton will be there in about twenty minutes.” I hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Claire asked.

  “I feel like shit.”

  “Is he going to meet Boulton?”

  “I don’t know. Give it a try.”

  Boulton turned to Claire. “What about you?”

  “Miss Hill can drive me back to the cottage.”

  “Do you think that wise?”

  “I’m a very good driver,” I said, zipping up my suitcase.

  “But Miss Conrad is a very bad passenger,” he replied.

  I went into the bathroom and stood for a moment leaning on the sink. Tears formed. I threw cold water on my face until the tears stopped.

  Boulton appeared in the doorway. “Would you mind leaving me the key to your apartment? I’ll come back and collect the telly and the computer and anything else you’d like.”

  I wiped my face with a towel. “My books. Thanks.”

  The front door was open. Claire stood on the balcony waiting. I stepped over bedclothes, shattered dishes, and other possessions. How quickly my life had come to look like debris!

  In the dim light of the garage I unlocked the car.

  “Is this you?” Claire asked, peering down at my car.

  “No, it’s not me. It’s a Honda.”

  “If I drove a car, I would not drive such a small one.”

  “You don’t drive?! I don’t know anybody who doesn’t drive.”

  “I have a fear of automobiles. Boulton thinks my fear comes from my parents’ having died in a car crash.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I would prefer not to die in a Honda. My parents died in a Bentley.” She strapped herself into the car.

  On the long drive back to Pasadena I told her about my visiting Valcovich and the peculiar feeling I had that someone had just left his office.

  She never spoke until we were out of the car and going down the brick steps to her house. “It’s important I meet this Valcovich. Obviously, if I use my name he will try to avoid me. You said he was very concerned about his TV persona.”

  “I think he fancies himself an actor. You have an incredible memory.”

  “I have a phenomenal memory. Tomorrow Valcovich will receive a phone call from a theatrical agency wanting to put him in a movie or a television show. Think up something clever.”

  “Me?”

  She unlocked the door. “Yes, you. I never use disguises. It’s the one thing Sherlock Holmes and I do not have in common.”

  Was she kidding?

  “Personally,” she said, stepping into the foyer, “I think he used disguises because he could play at being lower class. Very Victorian.”

  Gerta hurried into the hall. When she saw me, she blurted, “I knew you would have a complex matter.”

  “That’s me. Filled with complexities.”

  “Gerta, show Miss Hill the guest room and fix her some dinner.”

  “Oh, no…I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I said, while Gerta tugged my suitcase from my hand.

  “You will put Gerta to trouble if you don’t let her do this for you. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good night, Miss Hill. Oh, by the way, I took your book with me. Do you mind if I read it?”

  “No.”

  She strode across the living room and disappeared into her bedroom. I followed Gerta down a hallway opposite the living room. We passed a small formal dining room. At the end of the hall was a door and, across from it, stairs that led down. Gerta opened the door and ushered me in.

  Chunky beams criss-crossed the ceiling. The wood floor was a warm yellow-brown. Stucco walls glowed a soft candlelight color. A faded rose comforter enveloped the bed. Across from the bed was a small fireplace. Two chairs, in old chintz slipcovers, faced one another by the open hearth. The slipcovers looked as comfortable as old sweaters. Bookcases were built around a mirror and a dresser. A seductive room.

  “You like it?” Gerta asked.

  “The kind of room I’ve dreamed about.”

  “That’s the reaction Miss Conrad wishes from her guests.”<
br />
  “Does she have many guests?”

  “Depends. Not lately. Of course, she has not been working. That’s why it’s so good to see you. You’ve given Miss Conrad something to do. Work makes her happy.”

  “Glad I could make Miss Conrad happy.”

  “I fix you something to eat. Come into the dining room after you unpack.”

  I thanked her and began hanging up my clothes. I opened the window next to the bookcase and stared out. The hotel, unfit for humans, was a black hulk in the moonlight. I closed the window and went back down the hall to the dining room.

  A spotless linen cloth had been draped over the end of the dining-room table and set with sterling silver and china so thin I felt I could crush it in my hand.

  Gerta watched me eat her spinach soufflé. “Won’t you sit down?” I asked. “I’d love some company.” I sipped the red wine, which tasted like smoke and earth. Gerta shoved herself into a chair.

  “How long have you been with Claire Conrad?”

  “A long time. I knew her father first.”

  “The man who died in the Bentley.”

  “Such a tragedy…such a waste. I came to her after the tragedy. She had no one.”

  “Did the accident happen here?”

  “In England. Soon after the war.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “That was no war. The real war! The one we all understand. She was just a young girl.”

  “She’s not English, is she? She sounds American.”

  “Very American. I’m American, now.” Gerta beamed.

  “Congratulations.”

  “You eat. Go on.” She pushed my plate closer to me.

  “Where are your rooms?” I asked, swallowing.

  “Right off my kitchen.”

  “Has Boulton been with Claire many years?”

  “Not so many.”