Mother Shadow

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “Her room is right across from Becky’s. She’ll be getting dressed to take her to school.”

  “And the child?”

  “Getting dressed.”

  “You’ve got a very large phone bill. It must be all these toll calls to Pasadena.”

  “Who are you calling in Pasadena?” I asked.

  “A friend. Is it so unusual to have a friend in Pasadena? I mean, it’s not like I’m calling some extravagant place like…like…Paris, France.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?” I asked.

  “Just a friend. What are you so hot and bothered about Pasadena for?”

  “Bobby, if I don’t like your answers, you’ll be blinking your big, innocent eyes from behind bars—remember?”

  He bolted. His hands were on the doorknob before Boulton could grab him by his right arm and swing him back onto the bed.

  “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!”

  He pulled his knees to his chest and covered his face with his arms.

  “I’m not going to hit you, you little sod.” Boulton moved back to the door.

  I sat down next to Bobby on the bed. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and leaned against the wall.

  “Come on, Bobby, who’s your friend in Pasadena?”

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone? I never done anything to you. I mean really anything.”

  “Is his last name Erwin, Bobby?” I asked.

  The virgin eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  I looked at Claire; she shook her head.

  “I think his friend is his new mother,” she said.

  Bobby’s eyes focused on the door, but he didn’t try for it. “Patricia’s my new mother. I told you that. Why don’t you just get what you came for and leave?”

  Claire handed me his phone bill. “Is that the Kenilworth telephone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wondered how Eleanor knew Victoria was haying an affair with Waingrove. How much does she pay you to spy for her?” Claire asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “I don’t like your answer, Bobby,” I said.

  “None of your business!”

  Boulton walked over and slapped him hard.

  I leaped off the bed. “Wait a minute! You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Miss Hill, please,” Claire said softly.

  Bobby was holding a blanket to his face, the eyes wide with betrayal. “You said you weren’t going to hit me.”

  “Boulton has a tendency to fabricate,” Claire said, pulling the blanket away from his face. “What kind of information do you give Eleanor?”

  “Just everyday stuff.”

  “An example, please.”

  “If Patricia has a crying jag, or she’s drinking too much. Waingrove sleeping with Victoria. If I overhear what Victoria is planning to say in interviews. I don’t know…just stuff.”

  “What else?”

  “Just regular stuff.”

  Claire got up and looked out the window, down at the front of the house. “It doesn’t look as if Waingrove is leaving early. You’d better go and talk to the child, Miss Hill.”

  “What if I run into Waingrove or the nanny?”

  “You’re a very resourceful woman, Miss Hill. You’ll think of something.”

  “Thanks. How do I get into the house from here?” I asked Bobby.

  “The back door is under the stairs. It’s unlocked in the morning.” His eyes blinked purity. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’re two maids—one upstairs, one downstairs.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Claire pulled a black leather chair up to the bed and sat down. “Eleanor arranged for you to deliver the flowers to Patricia, didn’t she? You were supposed to seduce her. Was that the plan?”

  Bobby tugged at the blanket.

  “Are you going to tell Eleanor about us being here?” she asked.

  Bobby looked at me. I smiled. “It’s either the police or him,” I said, patting Boulton’s shoulder. “Or you could answer her questions.”

  “It was so easy. I mean, Patricia was so ready.” He grinned and stretched, puffing his chest.

  I was almost glad to leave the room. I made my way down the stairs. Near the back door was a locked wrought-iron gate. I peered over it and was able to glimpse a piece of Shangri-la. Waingrove was in the pool doing laps. I moved to the back door and listened. I heard the sounds of a washer and dryer performing their functions. I opened the door and breathed in the sharp smells of bleach and detergent. My adrenaline was pumping. I kept telling myself to stay calm. I made my way around a pile of dirty clothes on the terra-cotta floor and into a big kitchen with a brick fireplace and an eating area. Everything was blue and white, down to the plates hanging on the walls. The dishwasher purred on the dry cycle. This was the kind of kitchen dreams and commercials were made of.

  I stood by the fireplace and peered around the corner of an open door into the dining room and the dark eyes of the downstairs maid—unless it was the upstairs maid, who had come downstairs.

  “Yes?” she said, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  “I’m Mr. Waingrove’s secretary,” I blurted.

  “He’s swimming.”

  “Yes, I know. He wants me to get him his briefcase. Upstairs.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  We stared at one another for a moment. Smiling and nodding my head inanely, I slowly moved past her through the dining room. I didn’t hear her running or screaming, so I kept going and ended up in the English pub. From the French doors I could see Waingrove spread-eagled on the candy-striped raft bobbing in the pool. Two men, their backs to me, stared into the stream. One held Patricia’s limp pink hat in his hand; the other had the dead fish by its tail. The fish shimmered like a piece of jewelry in the morning sun. I made it through the pub and out into the main hallway. I turned toward the stairs and took them as fast as I could.

  I saw her Maryjanes first and came to a dead halt. Rebecca stood on the landing, watching me.

  “You were here yesterday,” she said.

  “I’ve come back to talk to you.”

  I could hear a woman humming down the hallway, and then the crisp sound of a sheet being snapped over a mattress.

  “Did Mother send you?” The depleted eyes looked me up and down.

  “Yes. Could we talk in your room?”

  “I’m waiting for Anna to get out of the shower so she can button my dress.”

  “I’ll button it.”

  “Are you a psychologist?”

  “That’s a big word.”

  She turned and walked down the hall away from the maid. I followed Rebecca into her bedroom.

  Pink organdy puffed around the windows. Pink piqué cascaded from a dressing table. The rug was as soft as cotton candy. Dolls and stuffed animals were methodically lined up according to height around the room. The closet door was open. Maryjanes and expensive tennis shoes were placed neatly in a row. Dresses dangled from their hangers like a precision march of headless and limbless little girls.

  Rebecca plopped herself down on her pink quilted bed and stared at me without interest. I sat down on the tufted stool in front of the dressing table.

  “You have a lot of toys,” I said. Oh, hell, it was a start.

  I got a shrug for an answer.

  “I bet you have a camera.”

  I got another shrug.

  “I bet you like to take a lot of pictures.”

  “My mother is in pictures, so I don’t need to take them.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nine and a half.” Her voice was slow and bored.

  “What gives you the right to be so condescending at nine?”

  “And a half.”

  “Oh, hell, did you take this photograph?” I walked over and showed it to her.

  “You’re not a psychologist.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Who are these people, anyway?” she a
sked, looking at the photo.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I think that’s my grandfather. And it sort of looks like my mother. But I don’t think it is.”

  “Why?”

  Another shrug. If I ever have a kid, I’m going to put weights on its shoulders so it will never be able to shrug. She slipped off the bed, walked over to the dressing table, and opened a pink leather jewelry box. A tiny plastic ballerina in a wisp of tulle skirt tilted up and began to twirl stiffly to the tune of “Greensleeves.” She took out a quartz watch and slammed the lid down.

  “That’s a pretty jewelry box.”

  “Grandfather sent it to me.”

  “Did you like your grandfather?”

  “I don’t know my grandfather. Why should I like him?”

  “Good point. What about your father? Where’s he?”

  “I’ve never met him.”

  I looked away from her eyes. They made me as uneasy as Bobby Alt’s. She was much too young to be so depleted of her innocence, and he was much too old to still have his. I noticed that when she got off the bed she had kicked the dust ruffle up. Hidden under the bed was a cardboard box. So she did have secrets, and they weren’t all in her head.

  “I bet you have a camera. I bet you took this picture,” I said.

  “I bet I didn’t.”

  “Bet you did.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  I was on my knees by the bed, pulling out the cardboard box. It was filled with bleached-blond Barbie dolls. Two of the dolls had their ripe, firm breasts pushed in. Another had been mutilated with scissors or a razor. Another Barbie had her missing pubic hair painted in in red ink. I looked at Rebecca. She was filled with sugar and spice and self-loathing, all the good things little girls are made of.

  “My dollies,” she said simply.

  I placed them back in the cardboard box and shoved them under the bed with my foot. I hadn’t discovered any camera; but I had discovered a pink nightmare, and I wanted out of it.

  “If you didn’t take this picture of your grandfather and your mother, do you know who did?”

  “I told you that’s not my mother.”

  “So you did. Do you know who it is?”

  “No.”

  “This woman sure looks like your mother.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” A large, white-haired woman in a blue nylon uniform stood in the doorway.

  “Hello…you must be Anna,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “I still don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m Brian Waingrove’s secretary.”

  She pinched her lips together at the sound of his name. She didn’t like him, either.

  “He’s going to be staying here this afternoon and wanted me to come to the house and take some letters for him.” I tried to keep my voice even.

  “Oh. What are you doing in here?”

  “I heard Becky calling for you and you were in the shower so I came up to see if I could do anything for her. I was just going to button the back of her dress.” I pulled Becky to me and began fumbling with the little buttons.

  “Is this true, Rebecca? Remember, we always tell the truth,” Anna commanded.

  Rebecca shrugged. God, I loved that shrug.

  “She’s doing it wrong.” Becky squirmed away from me and placed herself in front of Anna. “You button me!”

  “Well, if there’s nothing more that I can do…It was nice meeting you. I’ll be around the pool, with Mr. Waingrove, if you need me.”

  I slipped past them and out into the hallway. Trying not to run, I made my way down the stairs, back through the main hall, and into the pub. There were milky-white footprints on the floor. Patricia was right—chlorine does stain wood floors.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder. “If it isn’t the ubiquitous Miss Hill,” Waingrove said, keeping his hand firm on my shoulder.

  I knew he didn’t like women; but even before I could open my mouth, he had shoved me hard against the eighteenth-century paneling.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Looking for the codicil.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that you came here to return the photograph you stole from Victoria.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I moved sideways against the wall. He edged closer. His gray terry-cloth robe was open. He wore a wet black bikini. Water clung like tiny diamonds to the black hair on his chest and belly.

  “Does Judith know you’re screwing Victoria?” I asked.

  I moved away from the wall, trying for the open French doors. He shoved me back again. His nose twitched, and he slammed his hand across my face. My cheek and chin burned as if they had been scalded. My eyes filled. I tried not to blink. I didn’t want the bastard to see my tears. He came right at me, pressing the full weight of his body against mine.

  “For a man who doesn’t like women, this kind of closeness must bother you,” I whispered in his ear.

  He ran his hand down my right side and into my pocket. He found the photograph. We stared at each other for a moment. I raised my knee and jammed it into his groin. He sucked in air.

  Something moved behind him. Boulton came into focus, slamming the butt of his gun into Waingrove’s head. He crumpled to the floor, his gray terry cloth spreading out around him like a king’s robe. Claire appeared in the open French doors. Bobby squeezed in around her and began moving frantically about the room.

  “Is he dead? Oh, God, is he dead?”

  “Just resting his eyes,” Boulton said, picking up the photograph and handing it to me. “Miss Conrad was worried about you. I think you need some kind of weapon, Maggie.”

  “I handled him,” I said.

  “He wasn’t very adept.”

  “I believe we’ve outstayed our welcome. Don’t worry about us, Mr. Alt, we can walk down the drive,” Claire said, as if she were leaving a tea party.

  “What’ll I do about him? What do I tell him?” Bobby gasped.

  “Try not to be too clever, Mr. Alt. You might end up dead. Come along, Boulton…Miss Hill.”

  We followed Claire out the main hall and through the front door.

  Bobby ran after us, screaming, “You’ve ruined everything! You bastards! Bastards!” He slammed the front door.

  As we started down the drive, I turned and looked back at the house. Rebecca was in her turret, staring down at us.

  “What did she have to say?” Claire asked.

  “That the picture wasn’t taken by her. And that it’s not a picture of her mother.”

  Claire looked sharply at me. “Any reason?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say who she thought it was?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “She shrugs a lot.”

  “What did Waingrove say?”

  “I think I get on his nerves. He wanted the photograph back.”

  We reached the large curve of the drive. Boulton stopped and cocked his head like an animal does when listening for its foes.

  “Jump!” He yelled. “Jump!”

  He lunged for Claire, clutching her to his body. He grabbed for my hand. It slipped from his as he took her over the edge of the drive. Numb with amazement, I watched them roll down the hillside.

  And all the time he yelled, “Maggie! Maggie!”

  I heard the limo and whirled around. Its chrome grille pointed right at me. I felt the heat of the engine. The screeching front tire pulled at the hem of my skirt. Bobby Alt’s virgin eyes drove right into me. I jumped. Dirt filled my eyes as I hit and careened down the hill. My head, elbows, knees banged into rocks. I grabbed at ivy, roots, air. I kept falling, rolling. Dry bark scraped at my skin. I slammed into a tree. Dusty leaves rattled. I opened my eyes. The sky was a blue canopy over me.

  Boulton’s face blocked out the blue. “Did he hit you?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, Maggie! Whe
n I say jump, jump!”

  He gently lifted me to my feet. I was missing a shoe, and both my hands clutched hunks of ivy and geraniums in a death grip. I looked up toward the drive. Claire stood about halfway up the hill, leaning precariously on her walking stick. Her black suit was covered with dust and ivy; leaves and twigs clung to her hair.

  “That is a disgusting young man!” she observed.

  “Right,” Boulton sighed.

  16

  “CHILDREN MAKE MISTAKES,” I said, following Claire into the cottage. “Or maybe she just didn’t want to believe it was her mother. This is a pretty shocking photograph.”

  “That child may be only nine, but she does not look as if she is easily shocked.” She collapsed into the Queen Anne chair. Little puffs of dust billowed around her.

  “I think she’s permanently shocked. She’ll probably grow up to be a private detective.”

  “Experiencing horror when one is young is an excellent prerequisite.” She picked more flora off her jacket.

  “All right, if this isn’t Victoria Moor in this photograph, who is it?” I slumped on the sofa.

  She leaned back and stared at me without answering.

  “And why would Victoria Moor make up a story about incest to protect whoever is in this picture?”

  She shut her eyes.

  “And why would she and her mother be so interested in the photograph if it’s not her? It has to be her.”

  “Her daughter doesn’t agree.”

  “A nine-year-old child.”

  “Whom Victoria did not tell.”

  “Didn’t tell what?”

  She opened her eyes. They shone with the excitement of thought. “She didn’t tell Rebecca that the woman in this photograph was supposed to be her. Children are so easily overlooked.”

  “Explain, please.” I crossed my legs and watched another run squirm down my knee to my ankle.

  “A picture is not worth a thousand words. Before we even saw this photograph, it had already been interpreted for us by Bobby Alt. When we finally see the photograph, with our very own eyes, Victoria and her mother are right there with us, performing the equivalent of instant analysis by describing its content and context for us.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wonder how we would’ve interpreted this photo if we had not been told who was in it and what they were doing.”

  I took the photo out of my pocket and studied it. “The exact same way. This is Ellis and Victoria. Even Eleanor Kenilworth agrees that it’s Victoria and her son.”