Caught Dead in Philadelphia

by Gillian Roberts

  I said something unprintable.

  He said an English teacher should use the language more creatively.

  I didn’t say anything. The reference to my profession shocked me. It doesn’t take much to distract me: a couple of murders, a new lover, a direct threat to my life, and zap—pedagogical duties slip my mind. I slumped down as much as the seat belt would allow. “Damn. I’m giving a test Monday, and I didn’t bring my notes.”

  “Good. Your mind will be creatively occupied, then.”

  We drove slowly enough. Mackenzie didn’t seem in any fierce rush to get on with his policing. He avoided the Expressway, even though there was a chance of its moving smoothly at this hour. We made our way toward Beth’s safe harbor, passing T.G.I.F. celebrants on both Penn’s and Drexel’s campuses, past unreclaimed turf with hopeless, abandoned houses, past the zoo. A camel, peering over the fence at us, chewed sideways, looking as bored as I expected to be.

  This was not my idea of how to spend a weekend. I’m not ever fond of deferring gratification, and with a death-threat, it seems an even sillier way to spend the remaining time.

  We finally reached Beth’s share of prime Main Line real estate. “Nice house,” Mackenzie said. “Nice goin’.” He turned off the motor. “Okay, do you have it straight?”

  I nodded. It wasn’t hard to learn. “I shalt not leave the bosom of my family.”

  “I believe it’s ‘shall’ in the first person. But the most important commandment is: Thou shalt not indulge in the urge to sleuth.”

  “My, but those words trip right off your tongue. You have a pathological delusion about your godlike self, don’t you? Now I know what that C stands for. No wonder you didn’t want to reveal your true identity. But even He had a first name.”

  “Listen, Mandy, I’ve grown fond of your body. I’d like it to stay intact. So relax and enjoy spring in the country.”

  I lapsed into sulking. From necessity, not chivalry, he opened my car door and took me gently by the arm. “You know,” I said, “you could assign somebody to watch my house instead. Isn’t that what manpower is for?”

  “You’d be just as hemmed in as you’ll be here, only much less pleasantly. An’ why make yourself an easy target? Our friend the note sender knows that address. At least give ’im a workout.”

  He rang the doorbell. Beth was all burbling surprise and smiles. It was obvious she hadn’t seen the six o’clock news. Mackenzie introduced himself and improvised a weak story about the breakdown of both my car and my bathroom plumbing. He was heavy on the “Ma’ams” and the drawl, and another Yankee woman was suckered in.

  Beth nodded, clucked, and tsked every time he said something unintelligible about my pistons or my S-curve leak. Her otherwise critical eyes went blind at the sight of anything ambulatory and male that might get me to do simultaneous carpooling with her.

  Mackenzie leaned close to Beth and whispered, sotto voce. I heard his voice, heavy with concern, say words like “depressed,” “shock of Liza,” and “not to be left alone.” Beth, who adored sick strays, went on red alert. The prospect of keeping her kid sister from ending it all was visibly thrilling.

  “We’ll stay with her constantly,” Beth said in a stage whisper. I again had the feeling I had evaporated, or left the premises without knowing it. “She won’t be alone for a minute.”

  I’d be cushioned by my lovely relatives, and I’d die of suffocation and boredom, instead.

  “Take care,” Mackenzie said. “I’ll try to stop by.”

  “Listen here, Chipper—”

  “Wrong.” He closed the door behind him.

  “What a nice man,” Beth said. “Nice” isn’t a word I relish, not for days, not for weather, and not for what’s-his-name.

  “And so attractive,” she added, my subtle sister. She liked that theme so much she played it over and over as she guarded me. Even Horse, the resident beast, was solicitous. He sat on my feet the entire night.

  But I was too tired to react. Three cups of strong coffee with Beth couldn’t stop my yawns or bring the circulation back into my limbs. I excused myself and went to the guest room, weighing the consequences of sleeping in my clothing. I couldn’t remember if my mother had warned against it—what if Prince Charming finally found you and you were fully dressed like Sleeping Slob? I wondered if Mackenzie’s given name was “Charming.” Charming Knight? I wondered if I was indeed having a breakdown.

  * * *

  I’ve never understood why they call this the temperate zone. It is anything but. With weather ranging from below zero to one hundred degrees, it should be called the schizoid belt.

  But every so often, with totally intemperate zest, a day blooms with a nearly painful beauty. It’s a day for believing your lover’s promises, for rediscovering humanity and feeling kinship with it, for deciding not to join the Sun Belt defectors just yet.

  Saturday was one of those. I looked out the guest room window at a sincerely blue sky dotted with cartoon fluffs of clouds. Such a spring day promises a mind-boggling, glorious summer. I’d lived long enough to know that this promise is a bald-faced lie. Still, days like this are so sweet, prior knowledge becomes questionable. This is a brand-new beginning, and anything’s possible.

  The delicious pale-green-and-growing air was even in the shower and on my toothbrush, and I floated down to the kitchen in a euphoric haze.

  Beth was all smiles. Then she looked worried. “Karen and I have to run an errand. Sam will be with you, okay?”

  I was tempted to stop this nonsense about my mental health, to tell her the real reason I was here. But that would probably impair her mental health, so I drank my coffee with only a nod for comment. I was happy to be unmonitored. Sam was not the most loquacious of men, and I would be left on my own to communicate with nature and myself. It would also be a reprieve from sisterly talk about Mackenzie’s beauty and eligibility. From all talk, for that matter.

  And I needed to stay undistracted. The breeze outside had cleared my mind, and I was positive that today I’d figure out what had been going on in my life and in Liza’s and Eddie’s. Maybe all those people were right and I did know something. Maybe I could even find out what it was. I happily waved good-bye to Beth and Karen before putting on a sweater and taking my coffee out to the flagstone patio behind the house.

  I was, however, definitely being tailed. Sam silently joined me, settling on the wrought-iron chair next to mine. A robin hopped very close to our feet before fluttering to a more prudent vantage point.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Mandy, can we talk?”

  The day was filled with surprises. “Sure, Sam, what about?”

  He cleared his throat again. Even in a worn-out sweater, Sam looks like a man in a vest and starched shirt. “I know about it,” he said.

  At least seven recent and embarrassing possible “its” flashed across my mind, none of which I’d be eager to have my brother-in-law “know.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” I said in my most ladylike tones.

  “I know why you’re really here. I didn’t want to worry Beth with it, but while you two were having coffee last night, I watched the late news. I saw you. Another murder, Mandy?”

  “Oh, God, Sam, I can’t control these impulses! What am I to do?”

  The robin returned, staring quizzically. Maybe we were the first sign of spring for him, too.

  Sam was also staring. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were in any way involved in the commission of the crimes!”

  I wondered if Sam ever cursed, muffed a sentence, or loused up his grammar.

  “It was a joke,” I said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean it that way, and I don’t know why I keep finding corpses. It’s been horrible, and I’m terrified. But I hate to ruin this glorious day by dwelling on it.”

  “So, instead, you’re dwelling in it. My dwelling, that is.” Sam allowed a cautious chuckle at his own brand of witticism. For Beth’s sake, I would like to think there’s a secret
, volcanic center to Sam. He’s the kind of man who could probably commit endless crimes with impunity, because nobody’d be able to describe him. He’s a lot of “sort ofs”—sort of tall, sort of sandy hair—and, now that I think of it, lots of “nices,” too—nice features, nice build, nice guy. Run that one through an Identikit, I dare you.

  The door slammed, and Horse galumphed over to sit on my feet. “Mackenzie thinks I’ll be safe in the bosom of my family. He doesn’t think I should be seen with him, because then the murderer will think I know something.”

  “Wouldn’t the, uh, culprit, think it anyway?”

  “We prefer not thinking about that possibility.”

  “But still…”

  HER. HIM. YOU. A sterling example of clear communication. I pulled my sweater more closely around me, then I looked up. I could blame my sudden shivers on the moody sky, which had clouded over. “The uncertain glories of an April day,” I said, noting how the colors of every new blade of grass and bud had gone dark. “Which reminds me, I have a test to write.”

  Our coffee and conversation were both finished, and without a word, we went back inside.

  “I won’t, of course, say anything about this matter to Beth.” Sam went into his study. I walked into the library and found a soft leather-bound edition of The Collected Works of Wm. Shakespeare. Wm.’s words were barely legible on see-through paper. I thumbed through Macbeth, trying to remember the substance of our class discussions. But all I remembered was murder and guilt and bloody hands.

  I decided that perhaps more caffeine would activate my professional brain cells. I went back to the kitchen. The coffee maker was empty, and ignoring the fact that this was a four-star kitchen, I opted for instant. I turned on the burner under the copper teakettle and stared at it as if it were an oracle.

  Sam walked in with his empty cup. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Making refills. Thinking.”

  “It’s dangerous to think hunched over a teakettle. You could get burned.”

  “Ah, lately I’ve learned that you can get burned a lot of ways. But you’re right. I’m keeping it from boiling, anyway.”

  We settled down to wait for the kettle to whistle. I made table talk. “Sam, judging from your experience, why do people commit murder?”

  Sam looked startled and nervous. “That’s hardly my area of the law, Amanda. Contracts are quite different.” Always cautious, he reconsidered what he’d said. “Well, perhaps not. I’d assume that people do everything, including murder, because they want something that somebody else has or controls.”

  “Liza’s most valuable possession,” I said, “was Hayden Cole, if I may characterize their relationship with such unflattering terms.” I was beginning to sound like my brother-in-law. “And now, considering who else would want that possession, and want it a great deal—”

  Sam shook his head disapprovingly. “Let the police handle this, Amanda. It’s fruitless for us to speculate without having all the information, isn’t it? Don’t upset yourself with—”

  “I’m not upset. I’m puzzled.” Well, so it wasn’t exactly honest, but it was kind. Sam didn’t want to baby-sit for a deranged sister-in-law. And for Sam, behavior a level above comatose is dangerously out of line. “Do you like Hayden Cole?” I asked.

  “I’ve told you I know the man only casually. Why?”

  “Frankly, I don’t like him. He’s plastic, artificial. A good copy of something. You know how Gertrude Stein said, ‘There’s no “there” there’? That’s how he is.”

  “I know what you’re suggesting, but I think you’re wrong. He’s reserved and undemonstrative, but he’s human, Amanda.”

  I felt properly chastised. I know that Hayden has feelings. It’s just frustrating not to be able to fathom what they are.

  I busied myself with turning powder into coffee. Sam accepted his refilled cup and smiled. “I’ll get back to work now,” he said.

  “Contracts are so clean, aren’t they? People spell out what they want in black and white. Nothing’s hidden, secret, explosive.”

  Sam sighed and paused at the kitchen doorway. I wasn’t sufficiently merry for him to leave me in good conscience. So I smiled and winked. “Enough of this gloom, right, Sam? You’re inspiring me. I’ll get work done, too. I’m giving a test on Macbeth Monday, and I haven’t written it yet. Now that would have been a great court case, wouldn’t it? Who, ultimately, was the guilty party? If you think Fate is directing you, are you guilty? Is anyone ever the guilty party? I think I’ll use that for my first question.”

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?” Sam said, so I readjusted my manic level.

  “Sure. It’s hard not thinking about what’s happened, though. Before Monday, the only murders I knew about were in between book covers.”

  “Of course,” Sam said. “Try not to let it get you, though.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m trying,” I muttered as he left.

  Horse lumbered in. “Does anything make sense to you, dog? What’s your theory?” He tried to sit on my feet, but I walked out to the garden and he shambled alongside. “Horse, what is your considered opinion?”

  He looked up and lifted his ears in a splendid dumb-dog imitation of great concentration. He pondered the question, remained stymied, and opted for ankle-licking when I settled down in the rejuvenated sunshine. Then he gave up the pretense of thought. His weight blanketed my feet, and after a moment, I heard his light snores.

  I sipped coffee and flipped through Beth’s volume of Shakespeare. I would indeed ask a question about guilt. “If you were to judge the events in Macbeth,” I began.

  “I have new shoes!” Karen was suddenly in front of me.

  “Did we frighten you?” Beth said. “You look startled.”

  “I was concentrating. I didn’t hear you.” I considered how easily a person could sneak around a house set in green padding, protected by a dog who would only catch somebody in order to sit on his feet.

  “Sorry we were so long. But we were near the shoe store and Karen needed new tennies. So, unfortunately, did every other child in the entire area. I’ll start lunch now.”

  “Thanks, Beth, but I’ll pass. I’m enjoying the sunshine, and I’m not hungry.”

  “Now, now, loss of appetite isn’t healthy. Unless,” she said, “it’s from love, of course.” She waited in vain for a response. “Stay where you are,” she then continued. “We’ll eat out here. Everything’s ready. Cheer up, Amanda. Life must go on.”

  Her attempts to raise my spirits made me almost as depressed as I was supposed to be.

  Karen filled the time by demonstrating the variety of gymnastic feats possible with her new red shoes. In between her shouts and jumps, I scribbled away at my test. “Whom would you consider guilty? Macbeth? Lady Macbeth? Both? How important was the influence of the witches’ prophecies?” I wondered how Liza would have answered the question. She’d had some interesting ideas about guilt and responsibility, as I recalled.

  “Ready or not, here we come!” Beth carried a tray of food and led a small parade. I should have guessed. It wasn’t Sam, trailing her with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses, who put the flush in her cheeks.

  “Karen,” she said in an unnaturally high melodic mode, “come meet Aunt Mandy’s friend, Officer Mackenzie.”

  “C.K.,” he corrected her, putting a basket of homemade bread on the table.

  The Wymans were too polite to question the man’s lack of names.

  Lunch was delicious, if boring during the spell while Karen assumed that we had convened to see her new shoes, and consequently discussed them at length, along with who else was similarly shod in school, and what stylistic variations were possible.

  But it perked up when Beth began burbling about the evening’s plans. I had more or less assumed we would gather around the tube, or do simultaneous silent reading. But no. “It’s only a local carnival, of course,” she said, “very suburban, I guess, but it’s fun. And im
portant for a whole group of charities out here. We all combine in this one effort. I’m sure Amanda will enjoy herself. And why don’t you stop by, too, Officer—ah, C.K.?”

  Mackenzie looked mildly taken aback, startled. “The, ah, Main Line Charities Carnival?” he asked.

  “Yes!” She was thrilled; she was delighted. I mean I was surprised myself that he knew about some rinky-dink local fair, but Beth, looking for omens and signs that Mackenzie was my intended, was astounded. Delirious. “You’ve heard about our little event! What an amazing coincidence!”

  Mackenzie nodded. “Some of Amanda’s, ah, friends—the people at the Playhouse—are helping out. Their sponsor, Sissie Bellinger, seems to have involved them as clowns, or somethin’. And Hayden Cole’s the auctioneer. Something like that?”

  “Oh. Of course,” Beth said, considerably subdued. The Unmentionable Case led to the fair, and its lights had dimmed somewhat.

  “So you’re plannin’ to go and take Amanda,” Mackenzie said quietly. He didn’t sound thrilled.

  “Oh, this isn’t some wild kind of event that would upset her,” Beth said with a chuckle. “Besides, we wouldn’t leave her at home alone. And I promised to man the food booth for two hours, and Sam was going to take care of Karen. Unless you, of course, would be here to keep her company.”

  This was becoming fun. I waited. Mackenzie could either come clean and tell my sister that I was not suffering from depression but from danger, or be my date himself tonight.

  “Tell you what,” Mackenzie said. “I’ll just clean up some paperwork and drop by the fair myself. Buy you some cotton candy, Karen.”

  I couldn’t believe that he had chosen none of the above.

  Sam excused himself and went back to work.

  I stood to help clear the dishes. “No, no,” Beth said. “Relax. Karen will help me.”

  Obviously, in Beth’s campaign strategy, it was leave-the-lovers-alone time.

  “I want to show C.K. how springy my shoes are!”

  Beth frowned, then erased it. In order to cleanse the world of single females, married females in the presence of unmarried males present domesticity as the most blissful and placid of stages. So when Beth spoke, her voice was rich with maternal honey. “Later, sweetie,” she told her daughter. “Right now, Mommy could use your help.” Beneath the sugar was the steel of an Oberfuehrer’s directive.