She smiled, her nut-brown skin crinkling around the eyes. “I should have known when his mother didn’t come to the funeral. She said it was because she was sick, but if he’d really been dead, she would have been there, even if they’d had to carry her in on a stretcher.”
“I noticed the wheelchair ramp. Lieutenant Voorhees told me that your husband was planning to move back in with you.”
“Yes,” she said, “he was. The ramp was the least of it. We were also going to put in a new shower—one that he could wheel himself right into—and a studio for him. I’m going to go ahead with the studio anyway. I have hopes that Julius might want to use it some day.”
“Does he show an apptitude for art?” asked Charlotte.
“Very much so. He’s a very talented draftsman. But I don’t want to push him.” She laughed. “You know how teenagers are. If I encourage him to be an artist, he’ll probably want to be a rocket scientist, and vice versa. But it will be there for him, if he wants it.”
“I’m very sorry about your husband,” Charlotte said. “It seems a terrible tragedy that he had to die just when things were starting to go well for him.”
“That’s what I thought, too—at first,” she said. “But the more I think about it, the more I think that Don’s life as Ed Verre was a precious gift. Some people go an entire lifetime without ever coming to terms with themselves, with their creativity, with their God.”
“All of which happened to him in the last few months,” Charlotte said.
Louise nodded. “To say nothing of coming to terms with me. I’m glad we had the extra time together, however brief it was. Did he shown you his ‘Path of Experience’ series?”
“Four of them,” said Charlotte. “He hadn’t finished the fifth one yet.” She thought again of the fourth, the one that had prompted her to suspect him. The punishment that he was repenting of wasn’t that he had killed Randy, but that he had tried to drive him crazy. “I thought they were brilliant.”
“He finished the fifth one on the day of the hurricane. He was planning to expand the series to thirteen, which is the number in Blake’s series. That’s what he was doing at the Falls: taking photos for the next one. He was going to have a waterfall in it.”
Charlotte remembered the camera around his neck, the camera that was still there when they pulled him out of the river.
Louise got up and went into another room. She returned a moment later carrying a canvas, which she leaned up against a wall. “This is it: ‘The New Life,’” she said. “He worked on it all day Tuesday, all night too. He had a kind of epiphany out there in the hurricane.”
The painting showed a beatific Job and his wife facing a brilliant light that was descending from heaven in the midst of a whirlwind of mystical ecstasy. It was the Lord answering Job out of the cyclone.
Charlotte thought of Spiegel’s observation that although he had managed to penetrate the glass, he had yet to come out on the other side. In this painting, he had made it through. Then she noticed the Biblical quotation written across the top of the painting.
It was: “He bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up.”
Charlotte was sitting at home a week later reading an old issue of the New York Post that Vivian had left lying around. Sipping her coffee, she turned to “Page Six,” and found herself looking at a photo of Xantha and Arthur Lumkin at a Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute gala at the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza. Xantha, dripping diamonds and dressed in a gown that looked like an inverted mushroom, was standing on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Arthur’s cheek. Arthur, in white tie and tails, was looking sideways at a young man with black hair that curled down over his collar. A white-gloved waiter holding a silver tray of champagne flutes looked on. The caption was: “Lovebird Xantha Price, the oh-so-trendy fashion designer, gives hubby, financier Arthur Lumkin, a pretty peck on the cheek at the Costume Institute ball.” Studying the picture, Charlotte speculated on how to read it: the peck might have meant that Arthur and Xantha had made up, but it seemed more likely that the young man with the curly black hair had replaced Randy in Xantha’s affections. The “lovebird” might be a double entendre. In any case, it looked like the gossip page’s earlier prediction of a Lumkin-Price bust-up was wrong, to say nothing of the claptrap about the new emerald ring. Having been the subject of more than her share of gossip-page speculation herself, she should have known better than to believe it.
As she drank her coffee, Charlotte pictured Arthur drawing up a floor plan of the curly haired young man’s apartment, and then, in a flight of fancy, she imagined a whole book of floor plans. Maybe making floor plans of his wife’s lovers’ apartments satisfied Arthur’s need for a hobby, the way building model airplanes did for other men. And what of the photos he had taken of Xantha and Randy in bed? she wondered. Did he and Xantha stay up at night, munching on popcorn and reminiscing about old times as they leafed through his collection of photographs of Xantha with her lovers? There was a time when she would have dismissed such speculations as preposterous, but she had long ago realized that there was no limit to people’s sexual eccentricities.
She was getting up to get a second cup of coffee when the phone rang. She knew immediately who it was. If it was Saturday morning, it must be Tom. Ready to hit the blue highways, which is what he called the secondary roads that were marked in blue on the road maps.
She picked up the phone. “I have a hankering for some hot Texas wieners—all the way,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I can pick you up in half an hour. Whaddya say?”
As he spoke, Charlotte realized that her neurotic urge to flee was gone; her heart no longer beat with excitement at the prospect of a road trip. She felt grounded and at peace for the first time in a long time.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to take a ride out to diner-hunting territory on a beautiful September morning.
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they headed across town toward the Lincoln Tunnel, that glorious underground artery that led seekers of the perfect diner to the happy hunting grounds of the Garden State on the other side of the Hudson.
“The Falls View,” said Tom.
“Don’t you want to try the hot Texas wieners somewhere else?” she asked. Tom had expressed an interest in trying the wieners at other diners in the Paterson area to see for himself if the Falls View’s sauce was the best.
“Nope. I have a special reason for wanting to go there.”
“What?” she asked.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Let me guess. A new Chuck Berry tune on the jukebox?” Tom shook his head. “A new flavor of Jell-O?” He shook his head again. “A new waitress? Someone with a beehive hairdo, named Rayette?”
“No,” said Tom, shaking his head even more emphatically. “Something even more special than a waitress with a beehive hairdo.”
“I’ve got it,” she said. “A modification of the recipe for the sauce; a change that requires a new review in Diner Monthly.”
“Nope,” he said. “Let’s just say that you’ll never guess.”
They arrived half an hour later. Charlotte was starving for eggs and home fries, Tom for hot Texas wieners. That Tom would eat hot Texas wieners for breakfast seemed to be carrying his devotion to the Falls View’s culinary specialty much too far, but Patty had told them that Texas hots were a popular breakfast item.
They took a seat in the only empty booth—the diner was packed, as usual—and were immediately greeted with a fresh pot of coffee by an elderly waitress with stiff white curls whose name tag identified her as Lillian.
“Well,” said Charlotte, after Lillian had gone, “I’m waiting.”
“Be patient,” said Tom, as he flipped through the selection of tunes on the jukebox. Then he put in his fifty cents and picked three. As the opening refrain of “Reelin’ and Rockin’” blared out (Tom had turned the volume control to high), they were joined by Patty.
<
br /> Her big brown eyes were dancing as she slid into the booth next to Tom. “Have you told her?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, stroking his mustache with smug self-satisfaction. Then he reached out his hand, and wriggled his fingers. “Give,” he commanded.
Reaching into the pocket of her black apron, Patty withdrew a ring of keys and handed them to Tom, who held them up and dangled them in front of Charlotte’s nose. “Would you like to take a little ride out to Blairstown?”
Charlotte’s gaze shifted from Tom to Patty—who was grinning like a Cheshire cat—and then back again. “Plummer!” she said. “Have you gone and done what I think you’ve gone and done?”
“Yep,” he said. “I’ve done it. I am about to be the proud new owner of a vacation diner park on the Beaver River in Warren County, New Jersey. Courtesy of the heir to the Randall Goslau estate, Miss Patricia Andriopoulis.”
Charlotte leaned back in delight. Tom was the perfect owner for Randy’s camp: he would carry on the tradition of diner worship. “Well,” she said, a twinkle in her gray eyes, “I suppose that if you’re not going to settle down with a woman, you might as well with a diner.”
“A group of diners,” said Tom. He threw out his arms. “A whole harem of diners. Anyway, who knows? Maybe some day I’ll find a tenant for the Short Stop. Until then, you can stay there any time, Graham. No strings attached.
“Thanks,” she said.
He turned to Patty. “The same goes for you. But only if you let me look at Randy’s postcard collection.”
“Any time,” Patty said, who was still smiling. “I thought I’d better grab Tom’s offer,” she explained. “I figured that the market for a vacation retreat in the form of a collection of classic diners was pretty limited.”
“I’d say you figured correctly,” Charlotte agreed.
“I’m buying out Uncle Nick,” Patty went on. She nodded in the direction of the Falls. “He bought the Torpedo Base, the old sub shop on the other side of the Falls. He’s already demolished it. He’s going to build a new restaurant there: The Acropolis.”
“How original,” said Tom sarcastically.
Patty ignored his comment. “Mom and I are going to run the Falls View. So that makes two of us who will be settling down with a diner.”
“I guess I won’t need to list the Falls View in the Diner Alert column, then,” said Tom.
Patty shook her head. “No way,” she said.
“Won’t the Acropolis cut into your business?” asked Charlotte.
“Nah,” said Patty. “Different kind of clientele. You won’t be able to get eggs any time there.” She continued: “I’m also going to build a new pound for the puppies.” She nodded across the street to where a dozen or more dogs were crowded into the tiny, fenced-in enclosure.
“You’re not thinking of leading a life of leisure, then,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t know how to lead a life of leisure. I’ve worked here since I was ten. I love to waitress. I love people, seeing the regulars come in. I love to serve them food. I’m a Capricorn—back to the earth. We’re concerned with the basics: food, clothing, shelter.”
“For people and for animals,” observed Charlotte.
Patty grinned. “I couldn’t go a day without a diner fix,” she went on. “My life runs on diner time.” She nodded at an old man sitting at the counter. “How would I know it was ten o’clock if I didn’t see Roger Barry come in for his free cup of coffee?”
“Speaking of diner fixes, what about you, Plummer?” asked Charlotte. “What are you going to do with your new acquisition?”
“I don’t know. Play some tunes, mix some milkshakes, turn the neon signs on and off. Fix that Red Robin sign: I can’t wait to see the robin hop. But I don’t really have to do anything. For me, a diner is like a work of fine art. I can enjoy myself by just looking at it.”
“It would be a good place to work on your new book,” suggested Charlotte.
“There you go,” said Tom. “Maybe you’d like to work on your book there, too. There’s plenty of room.”
Charlotte didn’t reply. Sometimes Tom could be as irritating as Vivian. “What about Mrs. Blakely?” she asked. She had told him about her visit with Randy’s neighbor. “She’s going to give you trouble about the neon signs.”
“I’ll charm her,” said Tom. “Invite her over for some onion rings.”
He was joking, but there was some truth to it, Charlotte thought. If anyone could charm the irascible Mrs. Blakely, it was Tom. “When are we going out there to look them over?” she asked.
“How about right now?”
It was after eight by the time Charlotte got home. They had stopped at the Sunrise Diner for a roast chicken dinner on the way back. Not that Tom hadn’t wanted to cook on the grill at the C & E, but he hadn’t stocked up yet on groceries, and didn’t feel right about loading up the refrigerator until after the deal was closed. She was just settling down to review some scripts when the phone rang. It was Jack, calling to tell her that his lawyer would be sending her some papers to sign. “How long is this going to take, Jack?” she asked. He replied that he expected the divorce to be final by the summer. He would be getting married as soon as it was, he added. “By the way,” she said as their conversation was coming to a close, “Lieutenant Voorhees asked me to pass along his thanks. The police have recovered all of the other Spiegel paintings.”
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“I don’t know. Bernice Spiegel was claiming them, but that was when her brother was still thought to be dead. She could hardly claim now that her brother never intended to leave them to Randy when he told me, and probably others as well, that they did legally belong to him.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He said that although he meant to retract the agreement, he hadn’t done so at Randy’s death, which meant, as far as he was concerned, that they still belonged to Randy, and hence to Randy’s heir, who is Patty Andriopoulis.” She had told Jack about Patty.
“What will Patty do with them, do you think?”
“I imagine she’ll sell them. I can’t imagine Patty as a collector of contemporary art. Why? Are you thinking of buying one?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d like to buy ‘Hometown Diner.’” His voice carried a smile. “As a souvenir of my experience as an FBI operative.”
“I’ll let Patty know,” she said.
After they had exchanged a few more words, she hung up. She thought back to the day they had met. It had been at the opening of a show at a Fifty-seventh Street gallery. She had been dragged along by a friend, who had introduced her to an old acquaintance from her home town of Minneapolis.
She had been bowled over by this big, open, honest man: such a pleasant contrast to the egocentric, self-absorbed, juvenile men she was accustomed to from Hollywood. He had sent her red roses the next day. All that romance had now been reduced to the cold exchange of legal papers.
As she sat down, her eye caught the black plastic case of the tape recorder sitting on the end table. Now that this most recent chapter in her life was coming to an end, it no longer looked as threatening as it once had. Getting up, she fixed herself another drink, and then sat back down.
Where shall I begin? she thought. Then she supplied the answer: with the beginning of the end. With one hand she picked up the microphone, and with the other she pressed the “Record” button. Then she spoke:
“The last thing I expected when my friend Christina Dodd asked me to attend an opening party for a Paul Klee show was to meet my fourth husband.…”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used f
ictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Stefanie Matteson
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3715-0
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