by Mary Daheim
“I thought you'd come by sooner to pick it up,” he said, showing me my cell number on the small lighted screen. “Then I heard about your car. That's a real shame, Emma. The Jag was a classic around here.”
I tried not to think about my rotten luck and took off in Ed's Beamer, which was also something of a classic in Alpine. But then so was Ed. In a way. And while the car was handsome on the outside, it was something of a mess on the inside. No wonder it had tinted windows. All the better not to have admirers see the empty McDonald cups, the Wendy's hamburger wrappers, the Itsa Bitsa Pizza boxes, the Burger King french-fries containers, or the object that looked like a dead possum but was probably one of Shirley's fur hats.
The weather was still holding, and the road was dry once I got past the ranger station. As I pulled into the driveway that led to Paula's house, I noticed that she had put up strings of icicle lights that cascaded from the eaves of her house. They looked lovely, especially when reflected off of the big stained-glass windows.
As she ushered me inside, I complimented her on the decorations.
“I haven't been able to do much until Victor left,” Paula explained. “He made so many demands, and between him and the end of the quarter and finals, spare time has been at the top of my Christmas wish list.”
“It is for all of us working girls,” I responded, sitting down in the chair that Victor had recently vacated. Rheims and Rouen sidled up to me, then settled on the braided rug at my feet.
Paula, who was wearing a purple caftan shot with silver threads, floated around behind the counter bar. “One eggnog coming up. I assure you, it'll beat the socks off of Crystal's rum punch.”
I stared at Paula as she poured what looked like a jigger and a half of rum into a red mug. “I'll bet it will,” I replied. “I have to drive home, remember.”
“Then I'll go easy on the refills,” Paula said, pouring an equal amount of rum into a green mug for herself. “Now tell me what's new in the investigation. I'm hearing some strange stories about Nat Cardenas.”
I wasn't about to spread rumors, at least not until I got half-blitzed on rum eggnog. “Milo talked to him,” I said, then found a perfect opening to change the subject. “Did you call the sheriff's office to let them know about Victor's departure?”
Paula sat down on a Second Empire chair that may or may not have been the real thing. Outside, I could hear the wind stirring the bare branches of the cottonwood trees. “Yes,” Paula replied. “I talked to Dwight Gould. He said Dodge wouldn't be happy.”
The news didn't surprise me. Then I wondered when Milo had been happy about anything. Was it when we were still together? Struck with guilt, I took a big swig of eggnog.
And another. “Paula, are we friends?”
“What?” She gave me a goofy grin. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I don't know,” I said slowly. “Maybe this is the time of year when we take some personal inventory.”
Paula shrugged, creating ripples of silver in her caftan. “I suppose it is. But I don't even have time for that. I've still got some projects to grade, and then I have to finish a bathroom window divider for a couple in Sultan who are giving it to each other for Christmas. It's so hectic. I've never been a big fan of the holiday season.”
I didn't agree, so I kept my mouth shut. Rain began to spatter the tall, beautiful windows that ran from floor to ceiling.
Paula snapped her fingers and stood up. “We need snacks. How about some Brie? Or salmon mousse? I've got a terrific Gouda in here someplace.”
“Any of those will do,” I said, watching the cats sniff around Paula's hem. “Didn't Victor eat you out of house and home?”
“He tried,” Paula said as she set out both kinds of cheese, opened a box of crackers, and tossed some kitty treats at the Siamese cats, who had somehow assumed pathetic expressions. “But he complained about everything, including the Brie.”
I offered Paula an ironic smile. “It must make you wonder what you ever saw in him.”
She dropped a cracker, which broke in two on the floor. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Paula,” I said, still smiling. “When we first met a few years ago, you told me about your past, which included an affair with a tuba player. Did you think I'd forgotten?”
“There are a hell of a lot of tuba players,” Paula retorted. “What makes you think it was Victor Dimitroff?”
I leaned on the counter across from her. “It's a little much to be a coincidence, isn't it? Besides, you knew he lived in the Ansonia, and you knew it had an elevator. I have to assume that either you visited Victor there, or you lived there, too. It's famous for artists of every type who've been residents over the years. Besides,” I added with a little shrug, “why not Victor? I can see that he must have been rather attractive before he fell in love with himself. Or,” I added, catching my breath, “did he fall in love with Crystal?”
Paula uttered a fractured sort of laugh. “I don't think so. He used her. Typical of men.”
“So they were lovers?” I munched on a chunk of Gouda and noticed that the rain was coming down harder, heavy drops that beat a prelude to snow against the glass.
“I doubt it.” Paula bit off the words, then finished fixing the crackers, cheese, and mousse. “Let's sit down. You seem to be full of odd little ideas.”
We resumed our places, but not before Rheims and Rouen had to be evicted from the chair in which I'd been sitting. In a sulk, they left the living room and disappeared.
“You must admit I have good reasons for thinking odd thoughts,” I said. “I've been trying to figure out what's going on with the murder investigation. So far, I've lost a front window, my beloved car, and most of my reputation.”
“That was a shame about your Jag,” Paula said. “I loved that car, too. Is it totaled?”
“I guess.” But the Jag wasn't uppermost in my mind. “So why did Victor really come here if he and Crystal weren't lovers?”
“He wanted a change of pace, a winter retreat,” Paula explained. “He'd gotten to a point in his Vichy composition where he really needed to concentrate. I gathered he'd made arrangements to stay with Crystal, but by the time he arrived, Aaron had shown up. Victor tried to get some work done at the ski lodge, and kept hoping Aaron would bail out. But after a couple of days, he realized that wasn't going to happen, and he made plans to leave. Of course Aaron wasn't at Crystal's the whole time—he was in jail for a few days, and before that, he'd met up with some old pals and bunked with them. But Crystal could never be sure when he'd turn up again as long as he was in the vicinity. Victor, as you may have noticed, is not a patient man.”
Finding the eggnog not only delicious, but comforting, I took a couple of quick swallows. “Victor strikes me as someone who doesn't like waiting for anything, including international renown,” I said. “Yet he called on Crystal. We know he did, at least the night she was killed. Did that bother you since you and he had once been so close?”
Paula frowned at me. “What is this, girlfriend? You're probing my psyche?”
“I'm curious,” I replied, drinking more eggnog. “I'm trying to sort through everything in my mind, including all the players. Maybe I'm tired of being ‘it.’”
“Understandable,” Paula commented in an offhand manner.
“For instance,” I went on, “did you know that Aaron thought someone was trying to break into Crystal's cabin this morning?”
Paula's eyes widened. “No. Did he actually see someone or did he imagine two-headed bugs crawling up the walls?”
“Who knows? But he called the sheriff,” I said as Rheims and Rouen padded back into view. Actually, there were four cats, or maybe six. My eyes didn't seem quite focused. “The more I think about it, the more I figure that Aaron wouldn't want any contact with the law unless he really thought he needed some help.”
“Checking on a prowler beats getting busted,” Paula said. “Hey, how about another nog?”
“Why not?” I tried to g
ive Paula my mug, but we bobbled the handoff. It bounced off the braided rug, undamaged. We both giggled as we proceeded back to the counter bar. I was still giggling as she did a hit-and-miss job of replenishing our drinks.
“I shouldn't do this,” I finally said. “It's beginning to snow, and I've borrowed a car, Ed Bronsky's expensive Bummer. I mean, Beamer. I might as well cap off the holiday season by driving it off the bridge at Deception Falls.”
“Ed.” Paula sighed. “Talk about an impossible male. I've always wondered how you dealt with him when he was at The Advocate.”
The wind was moaning in the eaves of the converted farmhouse and the cats were uttering surreal little cries. Maybe they wanted to go out. I thought cats had more sense when it came to comfort.
As we meandered back to our chairs, Paula gave the cats a cross-eyed glance, then looked at me with a curious expression. “Did you come here tonight just to ask about Victor and me and our long-ago romance? How come, Emma? You've never pried into my love life before.”
That was true. It wasn't my style. In any event, Paula was open, if casual, about her past relationships. “As I said, I'm trying to sort things out. Clearing my name,” I added, gulping down more nog.
Paula laughed, the familiar gusty sound that was one of the things that had always endeared her to me. “In other words, you're trying to eliminate Victor as a suspect. Or,” she continued, no longer laughing, “you're trying to figure out if I'm on the list.” She blinked at me. “Am I?”
“Who ishn't? I mean,isn't.” I started to giggle again.“I sure am.”
“Am I?” Paula repeated, then frowned. “Did I already say that? My lapse seems to be having a brain. I mean…” she began, and threw up her hands. “Have another cracker,” she offered, holding the plate out to me. Three crackers slid to the floor. “Don't eat those. Take a clean one. I'd better eat a couple myself.” She gave me a lopsided grin.
“Thanks,” I said, taking two and jiggling my eggnog mug. “You're right. This is much better than Crystal's poisoned punch.”
“I can make more,” Paula said.
I looked outside. The trees were now blurred by snow. Or maybe it was my eyes. I definitely felt blurry. “In a minute,” I said. “Maybe.” Then, on teetering legs, I stood up. “Excuse me, Paula,” I said with an apologetic smile, “I need to use the bathroom. Okay?”
“Sure,” she responded. “Just don't let the cats in. They like to swim in the toilet bowl.”
Picking up my purse, I laughed. “I like cats. Maybe someday I'll get one.”
“Keep the cats out,” she murmured. “They like to jump in the toilet bowl.”
“So you said. Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll let them.”
Proving Paula's point—or points, as long as she was repeating herself—Rheims and Rouen followed me to the bathroom door. It took some doing, but I finally managed to get myself on the inside while they stayed on the outside.
I emerged five minutes later to find Paula mixing another batch of eggnog. At least that's what it looked like she was doing. For all I could tell, she was stirring up a pot of bats, toads, and eye of newt.
“Love's a good motive,” I said, propping myself against the counter bar. “How about Victor? I crossed him off my list earlier because I thought he was too—”I fumbled for the right word—“impetuous. Then I got to thinking that you can't compose music and be totally impetuous, right? And you have to have patience to play in a symphony orchestra. ‘Course, maybe that's why he quit. What do you think, old buddy?”
Paula refilled both our mugs. “Not Victor,” she said, shaking her head. “Victor has affairs. I doubt he's ever been in love with anybody but himself.” She looked at me and we both giggled.
“Love,” I said in a voice that didn't sound at all like me. “What a crock. How do people get together and stay together?”
“Don't ask me,” said Paula, drinking deeply. “My parents were miserable together.”
“That's sad,” I said, with a wobbly shake of my head. “My parents stayed together, but they were killed in a car crash when they were in their early fifties.”
“Maybe they were lucky,” Paula said in a melancholy voice. “Maybe they were still happy.”
“That's the trouble,” I said, my voice dropping a few notches. “Women are always looking for happy endings. Men are just looking.”
“And then running.” Paula sighed. “Everybody runs, I guess. Sooner or later.”
“A toast,” I said, raising my mug. “To love, and the six or seven people who've been lucky enough to find it and keep it.”
Paula didn't join the toast. “Love sucks,” she said, also leaning against the counter. “It makes us do some crazy things. I hate love. It made me crazy.”
It made me crazy. The past tense. I don't know how that phrase managed to sink into my befuddled brain, but it did, right there alongside my nutty little idea.
I reached out and clapped Paula on the shoulder. “Oh, hell!” I gasped, between giggles and gurgles. “You did do it, didn't you?”
Paula slumped against me. “Yep, I did. I killed, killed, killed Crystal Bird. Crazy, huh?”
THERE WAS SILENCE in the room, though the storm had begun to gather force. I felt sick, and full of self-loathing. Sometimes it was wrong to be right. Or at least horribly painful.
Paula just stood there, staring at me with a moronic grin on her face. Maybe, once she got over the shock of her admission, she would scream denials or even attack me. But for the moment, she hugged me and I hugged her back. I wished Paula would say something, anything to break the tension. And where was Milo? Fifteen minutes ago while I was in the bathroom, I'd called him on my new cell phone. Had I imagined the call had gone through? Had I followed the instructions correctly? My vision had been so blurry that I'd had trouble reading the pamphlet and great difficulty pushing the tiny buttons.
“You were jealous of Crystal,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Maybe not just about Victor. Maybe you saw her and Crystal Clear as some kind of threat. Goodness knows, I did.”
Paula leaned against me, her ample body a deadweight. “Jealousy is a powerful motive,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Ugly. Very ugly emotion.”
“True,” I agreed, wishing she'd move. “I didn't want to think it was you, I tried not to believe it. But you said that love had made you crazy, as if you were referring to something specific—like Crystal's murder. You also mentioned the rum punch Crystal served me when I called on her the night that she was murdered. I don't remember telling you about that. And then it dawned on me that it tasted so bitter because there were already a dozen or so sleeping pills—my pills—in the drink. In fact, I felt slightly sick the next morning. It was you who arranged the meeting between Crystal and me, it was you who stole my pills. You set me up, and I ought to be damned furious about it. But I'm not. I'm just sad.”
Finally releasing me, Paula half staggered to the Second Empire chair. Rheims and Rouen jumped into her lap. “You're wrong, Emma.”
I had also sat down, and tensed in the chair. “In what way?” I asked.
Paula stroked each of the cats with shaking hands. “I wasn't jealous of Crystal and Victor. How could I be? Crystal wasn't in love with Victor. And vice versa, for all I could see.”
“Interesting,” I murmured, wondering how long Paula would remain calm. The wind was howling and the rain was swiftly turning to snow. Maybe Milo had been held up at the higher elevations. “Still,” I remarked, “you must have been pretty fed up with men. You haven't had a lot of luck. Neither had Crystal.”
“Men!” Paula made a slashing gesture with one hand, which sent Rheims and Rouen leaping off of her lap. “They're a useless sex. Why did I ever bother myself?”
“It's true,” I said, not without sympathy. “Men can be a pain. Why do you think I never married?”
Paula's expression was ironic. “Because you're a romantic. You've told me your sad story, about a married man—the worst kind—and how you had his
child even though you knew he wouldn't leave his nutty wife. I've never figured that one out. Haven't you ever heard of an abortion?”
“I had,” I said quietly. “It was legal when I got pregnant with Adam. I didn't choose to take advantage of what was handed down then by twelve old men.”
“Well, I did. Twice.” Paula's voice sharpened. “Why not? Both of the men ran out on me, and yes, one of them was married.”
I actually managed a laugh. “So you let a bunch of old farts on the Supreme Court manipulate you. What's the difference between them and the men who took off? I don't get it, and it's not just because I'm Catholic.”
“The Supremes didn't knock me up.”
“But you developed a hatred of men,” I said. “You got gypped, as well as manipulated. So what are you trying to tell me?”
Paula also laughed, but without mirth. “What you, apparently, didn't figure out.”
But I had. “That you became a lesbian?”
Paula clapped both hands to her head. “You don't become a lesbian. That's what you are, how you're born. It simply took me a long time to figure it out and admit who I was. Am. As it did with Crystal.”
Deep down, that's what I expected to hear. But it wasn't enough. “I don't think it's always that simple,” I said. “Sometimes, I think it's a form of rebellion. Look—I can't say as I blame you. As of today, I was about ready to give up on men myself. Maybe I will. I might even find a woman who can fill a void in my life. But I won't become a lesbian.” I put the emphasis on the verb and looked Paula straight in the eye. “But I think with you, it cut both ways. You were jealous of Crystal, and you were physically attracted. She not only didn't reciprocate your romantic feelings, she'd been involved with a man you once cared for very deeply. And that's why you killed her, and you tried to pin it on me because … I don't know. Why, Paula? As I said before, I thought we were friends.”