All But a Pleasure
Page 6
“‘The purest soul may yearn for blood, the sanest go a little mad,’” Julie finished the famous quotation. “Gilbert and Sullivan’s last, most serious, and some say greatest, ‘The Drood Solution.’”
“Well, if we’re onto Gilbert and Sullivan,” Dave said, and proceeded to sing in a nice light baritone, “‘When the felon’s not engaged in his employment—his employment—or maturing his felonious little plans—little plans—his capacity for innocent enjoyment—’cent enjoyment—is just as keen as any honest man’s.”
Everybody still left in the restaurant, diners and staff alike, applauded.
Dave having left off, Corwin continued, speaking, “‘When the hatter’s finished jumping on his mother, he loves to lie a-basking in the sun’—a reference, no doubt, to some notorious contemporary episode since fallen into profound obscurity.”
Dave sang again. “‘Ah, take one consideration with another—with another—a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’” Speaking again, “But that’s the only Gilbert and Sullivan I know. I sang the Sergeant of Police in a college production. Back when we had all that trouble with dinosaurs trampling our lawns. You know, ‘The Pirates of Penzance’ is too strong for the Old Woman—that is, my immediate superior—that is, a certain impressive lady I know. Who doesn’t want any kind of entertainment that has anything at all to do with crime or criminals. No matter how light and innocent.”
Corwin opined, “I find that admirable in its way, little as I might personally care to emulate her obvious nobility of soul. Wait! I have perchance encountered her at the Wallace Public Library. A statuesque woman of encroaching maturity, hazel eyes, dark brown hair besprent with silver, nobly sculpted features and dignified mien?”
“Sounds like her,” Dave replied. “Just a hint—don’t put it that way to her face. She’d call it flattery, and she can’t stand flattery. What kind of books was she checking out?”
“Light and frolicsome volumes replete with pleasantries and notable artwork.”
“Well, okay,” Dave went on, apparently sensing he wasn’t going to get any further hints about the Old Woman’s reading tastes. “But I still don’t see…all right, admitting all this philosophy about a seed of bad in the best of us…so why can’t this merciful God just stop holding the bad seeds in existence, make all of us good all the way through?”
“Oh, how boring!” For the first time that evening, Julie felt just a little twinge of doubt as to whether Dave could really be her prince. “I mean—that is—yes, dissolve the really evil stuff, Dave, by all means, but leave us a few little streaks of…mischief. Just enough to keep life interesting.” And you on a regular payroll, she added to herself.
Angela said, “Wouldn’t fires and floods and tornadoes, accidents and diseases and other things like that be enough to keep life interesting?”
Corwin began quoting, softly at first, his voice gradually gaining power:
“…In me lived a sin
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure,
Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung
Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower
And poisonous grew together, each as each,
Not to be pluck’d asunder.’”
“As nearly as I can follow that,” said Dave, “it’s gobbledygook.”
“It is Tennyson,” Corwin answered quietly. “His Idylls of the King: The Holy Grail. You see, I am capable of quoting other authors besides the Venerable Edgar.”
“Tennyson or not,” Dave persisted, “it’s still gob`bledygook.”
“Oh, I understand it,” Julie said, looking at Corwin and thinking, Yes, I really think here’s one we can work with.
“And I’m with Angela here,” Dave went on. “Natural disasters, accidents, and sicknesses would give us all plenty of excitement, without the crime and moral guilt. You should know that, Julie.”
“I should,” she agreed before he could break their rule against mentioning worklines, “and maybe I do. But if we never knew anything about crime, Dave, we wouldn’t be able to enjoy ‘The Pirates of Penzance’ or ‘The Drood Solution’ or most of Shakespeare, or almost any of the world’s great literature. You can’t make very many good jokes and witticisms about cancer and tuberculosis, or even about broken arms.”
“As…that lady I know…would say, ‘And you can about crime?’”
“Well, not about real crimes,” Julie backed down a little. “Not about crimes that really hurt real people. But about crimes that everybody sees are never going to be committed…”
“Or ludicrous mock-illegalities,” Corwin added. “Exempli gratia: flirting in Titipu, or ‘forging one’s own will.’”
“Or—sometimes—things that happened in ancient history?” Angela suggested. “No,” she corrected herself at once, “I guess we probably shouldn’t joke about those, no matter how long ago they happened, or far away.”
Gazing at Angela, Corwin said, “Unless, indeed, the humor is utilized as psychomystical methodology for coping with the horror.”
“Well, all right,” Dave argued, “why couldn’t our knowledge of crime be completely historical?”
Julie said, “People forget.”
“Moreover,” said Corwin, “our own milieu will relegate itself to the historical tomes of subsequent generations. What grounds may we claim for appropriating to ourselves privileges denied our ancestors?”
“The grounds that we should’ve learned better by now,” said Dave.
“We do forget,” Angela said, returning to Julie’s last comment. “That’s why we have to take years of courses in social history before we can really understand the ancient Romans, for instance, or the Bible.”
“Or even the near-contemporary era of our own parents’ juvenile days,” said Corwin. “Although, as touching the scriptural documents of the various religious persuasions, a certain degree of re-interpretation, even re-symbolization, would appear not only permissible, but actually commendable. I should propose, as one example among many, the Crucifixion and Resurrection as a remarkably apt template of the shamanic initiation of Christ the Great and Wounded Healer.”
Oh, yes, thought Julie, we can definitely work with this one.
* * * *
Only yesterday, while they were all roleplaying so happily at Sam Imani’s, that horrible murder had been discovered just on the other side of town. So Angela took full advantage of her driver’s seat and drove right on past Aunt Sally’s to drop Corwin off.
“This cuts both ways,” he argued. “Are you to wet-nurse my security, and I to be prohibited against concerning myself with yours?”
“It’s only twenty-one thirty, Aunt Sally’s house has a built-on garage with an automatic door opener, and I’ll drive with all my car doors locked. You’d want to sit visiting with us for a couple of hours—keeping me up past my preferred bedtime, I might add—and then walk home melodramatically at midnight.”
“And you would prefer not to sit visiting so much as half an hour in Arnheim? Caterina would be yours to stroke for the duration, dear Raggedy Ann. She evinced an immediate affection for you.”
Fighting off temptation, Angela gave a determined shake of her head. “No, I’ll just watch from the car till you’re safely inside.”
“Where, peradventure, the heinous monster lurks concealed amidst the interior shadows, awaiting his newest victim.”
“Cory, don’t make jokes about it!”
“Forgive me,” he said at once in a properly chastened voice. “Certainly, it was no joke to M. Jackson.” The victim’s name had finally been mentioned on the afternoon news. “Let us employ your schema, then,” Corwin went on, “with the unique proviso that you telephone the moment you are safely inside, with all doors leading to the exterior securely locked and bolted, and Aunt Sally in the kitchen—should she so elect—preparing bedtime cocoa.”
She pulled to the curb in front of the Marquette House and parked the car. It was now, or never. “Oh, and Cory…”
“I attend your forthcoming utterance with bated breath.”
“Cory…please…don’t set me up with any more blind dates.”
“Angela?” By the bafflement in his tone, he must have been so pleased with himself, so sure he’d found exactly the right man for her!
“Dave Clayton is really very nice,” she hurried to add. “I never meant to imply he wasn’t! It isn’t that at all. I’m sure he’ll make a wonderful prize for some other woman. He just…doesn’t appeal to me, not that way. And…some people don’t like surprise parties… I simply don’t like blind dates. I never have, not really.”
“I…see,” Corwin replied slowly. “That is… Yes, certainly, I perceive the inexorable justice of your point, and accede as gracefully as possible to your wishes. I hypothesize that I can confidently indemnify you against ever finding yourself alone on a solo date with the much-to-be-pitied M. David Clayton.”
She heard the handle chunk as he turned it to open the passenger-side car door. It was on the edge of her tongue to say, Why don’t you speak for yourself, John Alden? But Corwin was Julie’s romantic prize. Julie was such a perfect match for him! And Julie obviously thought so, too— Angela had seen the way she kept eyeing him. So all she said this time was, “Before you go, Andy, how about a good-night kiss, Raggedy style?”
He paused in the middle of opening the car door. “Sisterly and brotherly?”
“Best friends-ily.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She kissed his cheek. Then, just barely touching, they exchanged one kiss on the lips. Light as it was, Angela felt a warm deep stirring and thought, Oh, darn it anyway! Why Julie?
Then he was out of the car, up the walk…he reached the door, went in…after a dozen heartbeats, he leaned back outside and gave her an “all safe” kind of wave.
She felt that he went on watching until her car was out of sight around the curve. She would give him that phone call the minute she reached Aunt Sally’s.
* * * *
Julie and Dave had driven their own separate cars and met at Scoops and Bottles. When the foursome finally separated to go their different ways, Dave turned up waiting in the Pankhurst Arms parking lot when Julie drove in.
She parked beneath one of the lamp posts, got out, and stood leaning against the closed door of her old red Ford. He got out of his Nash Rambler and crossed over to join her.
“Well, Dave?” she remarked, looking up at him. She was fairly tall, especially in her spike heels, but he was taller. The lamplight, half behind his head, haloed his sand-brown hair; and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes—had to go by the memory that they were gray—she could see them shining.
“Well, Julie?” He seemed to be appraising her the way she was appraising him.
Then, just like that, they were kissing. Tight in each others’ arms, and enjoying long, deep, tongueful kisses.
The first time they came up for breath, she said, “How did you beat me here? Come to think of it, how did you know where to come?”
“Hey, darling, I’m a pollydeck. We know how to use city directories. We also know all the short cuts.”
“Good enough for me.”
Another kiss. This time, even longer and deeper. Eventually one of his arms loosened from around her shoulders, snaked in between their two bodies, found her breasts…
What would he think, she wondered, this fine, upstanding, straight-arrow police detective, if he could see what she had tattooed all over those breasts? She was tempted…yes, she really was a little bit tempted…but she had her own guiderules. Darn it. If there was one thing the Purgatorio taught you, it was playing by guiderules, especially your own. Anybody else’s that you thought good, but especially your own.
So she shook her head free of their latest kiss, and planted a teasing little shove on his chest. “Sorry, Dave, boy. Never on date number one.”
“Never?”
“Never. Never with any floater on date number one.”
“Oh, I get it. You want to make sure there’ll be a date number two.”
“On date number two, yes, if the floater is just good enough for a fling. If he shows real promise, it’s date number three.”
“The better you like him, the longer you make him wait?”
“Now you, Dave, are definitely a date number three.”
“Oh, the agony! How many have you had? Two’s and three’s?”
“Enough to know my way around a man’s body. Nowhere near enough to get jaded. Two’s—one or two. Three’s—just one so far, but he fizzled out and moved away. You…I hope you’ve got plans to stick around awhile.”
“One of these dates down the road, I’m taking you out to see my country home.” He kissed her again. Both arms snug around her. They felt good. Guiderules, Julie Whitcomb. Discipline. Guiderules.
“Well,” he said at last, “here’s hoping I break that rule of yours. Here’s hoping I’m the number two you decide to keep.”
“Mmm. Maybe. Maybe, if I decide you’re worth it.” (And if you decide I’m worth it, she added in her thoughts.) “Meantime…Dave… Never, never on date number one.”
“Hmm. Oh, okay. One more for the road?”
She gave him one more, for the road. Then, because of the murderer who might still be prowling around town, he insisted on escorting her into the Pankhurst Arms. Then… Dave actually left. Without further argument.
Deep inside, she wasn’t entirely sure how happy she was about that. If he wanted to set a precedent, why not start with date number one?
Well, he was obviously a good polly, and good pollies knew how to respect guiderules. They had that much in common with Dante’s Delight Purgatorio, whether or not they would ever admit it. Actually, his leaving like that, with no more argument, was one more point in his favor.
She guessed she’d see it that way in the morning. Even be happy about it. In the morning.
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, September 19
It was Tuesday morning, and Lestrade was plotting strategy with Clayton, just the two of them alone in their office before joining the uniforms in the briefing room.
Murder was rare here and now, Lady be praised. Especially rare in Forest Green, listed for almost half a century among the safest cities its size or smaller in the whole country. A big part of the reason Lestrade had chosen to move down here from Chicago. Gave murder some priority if and when it happened. But the regular stuff still had to be taken care of—traffic tickets, the occasional shoplifting or small burglary, petty crimes, misdemeanors, and—the part Rosemary Lestrade envied the uniforms on patrol—finding lost children, giving emergency ambulance service in a police car, and otherwise just helping out good people in no-fault trouble. Sick as it was, Forest Green’s first murder in seven years was still a single incident, and Chief Grayling refused to pull more than two officers off regular duty to assist the detectives full-time until the case was either solved or buried beneath a dozen weeks, whichever came first. The rest of the force—eighteen uniforms and the station staff—would be briefed on anything special to keep their eyes open for, in case it happened to flutter past them during their regular workload.
“See if we can’t get Chris Grunewald down here from Chicago,” Lestrade told Dave. “No matter how many hours in the Vigo River, I still think there should be some way a competent forensic specialist can at least make an educated guess when those apparent torture marks were made, before death or afterwards.”
Clayton took a sip of coffee. “How much dif
ference does it make, Sarge, really? Either way, we’re looking for a real sicko.”
She sighed. Sometimes he seemed too junior to remember his own street address. “Strenuous date last night, Detective?”
“I was in bed before midnight, Sarge. My own bed. Alone.” He sighed.
“But still thinking about her. Never mind— I don’t want to know, I just want your mind back on your work. Believe me, how long and far you swung or didn’t swing last night makes considerably less difference than whether those marks on M. Jackson’s body were pre- or post-mortem. Which, by the way, made a little bit of difference to Harry Carter Jackson. Pre-mortem, we’re looking for a sicko who just likes hurting people. Post-mortem, we’re looking for a sicko who for some reason or other wanted to make it look like torture. Motive, Dave. It goes to motive.”
“I guess I meant, probably pre-mortem, because who’d want to just make it look like torture instead of mutilation after the fact? Oh, you’re onto your old ‘looking at a frame-up’ hobbyhorse again? Noticed lately how rare frame-ups are in real life? As opposed to fiction and screenshows.”
“Rare, Dave, rare. ‘Rare’ means that sometimes they happen. Anything that never happens at all, we don’t even have any word for it.” Well, maybe that funny young floater she saw every so often at Wallace Public Library did. The rest of society didn’t.
“Okay. Get in touch with your Chicago examiner, see what Chris says… Sergeant, what I just said, about it not making any difference… I guess all I really meant was, the poor floater’s dead now anyway. Out of his pain, however much it was or wasn’t.”
“And that makes it any better?” said Rosemary Lestrade. “Lady God! If it doesn’t matter anyway—if anything that ever happens to anybody, we can just shrug off an hour later and say, ‘Well, they’re dead now anyway and out of their pain,’ then what the hell are we in police work for, Detective Clayton? Why is anybody in firefighting, or ambulance and medical, or teaching—any workline at all that tries to help people—what the hell good is any of it?”