“Ha, ha,” Amy said coldly. “Very funny.”
Nor, Amy found, was there any cause for lightness of heart on the trip home from the Plaza. Ma’am, informed that all was attended to, settled back in her seat in one of those faraway moods. Not the dreamily reflective kind, but the kind that suggested exposed nerves right under the surface, where if you dared clear your throat you’d get snapped at.
More of the same the next morning, too, which became a reading morning.
“Liliom,” ordered Ma’am from her chaise longue. “Bring it here, Lloyd.”
Amy drew the bound playscript from the shelf and seated herself in position for a reading. She had a feeling that it was not going to be a good reading, not with the tangle of thoughts chasing each other around in her head.
“Is it familiar to you?” Ma’am asked, her tone suggesting that she pretty damn well knew it wasn’t.
“I’ve heard of it, ma’am. And I did see a replay of Carousel, which was made from it.”
“By adding sugar water. I saw the original, Lloyd, with Le Gallienne and Joseph Schildkraut. No sugar water there. Well, get on with it.”
And even still more of the same when, after an awkward reading, which, thank God, Ma’am seemed deaf to as she reverted to a faraway mood, it came time to report to the McEye for office duty. What with that tangle of thoughts in her head, Amy found, the McEye’s euphoria was totally dispiriting. The complete turn-off.
The trouble was that there was no turning her off. Chainsmoking furiously, she kept up a steady stream of good cheer.
“You have no idea, Mrs. Lloyd, how gratifying this is to the family. Especially after that letdown when she refused to attend the dinner, if you know what I mean. Such an encouraging change of disposition now. A young woman, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose—” The McEye raised a hand high over her head, palm horizontal. She looked positively coy. “I suppose someone way up there intellectually? If you know what I mean?”
“I suppose.”
“And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Mrs. Lloyd, that Miss Margaret is highly intellectual. Oh, yes, and Golightly himself is being most cooperative about preparing this little dinner in addition to the family’s dinner. And Mr. Walter selected the wine and brandy and will also prepare the martinis himself. You know, he actually remarked to me that since Miss Margaret has no disposition to drink she must have certainly invited a thirsty guest. Not that it would do Miss Margaret herself any harm, he said—he does have such a sense of humor—for her to loosen up with a few drinks.”
Perhaps not, Amy thought, but that is not the name of this game. What Miss Margaret apparently intended to do was loosen up the guest. There would be no holds barred in this contest for Kim Lowry between fairy godmother and natural grandmother.
The McEye did her looking around bit, as if making sure there were no eavesdroppers in range. “What I wonder, Mrs. Lloyd—in fact, Mr. Walter put the question to me—is whether after the dinner Miss Margaret would, well, mind if he and perhaps Miss Camilla dropped in to share a nightcap with her and her guest. Would you have any clue to that?”
“More than a clue, Mrs. McEye. Miss Margaret made it plain that she would tolerate no visitors at all this evening.”
“Oh. But Miss Camilla? Or Mrs. Dorothy? She seems quite fond of Mrs. Dorothy.”
“That may be, but her orders were explicit.”
It was hard to believe that the McEye could ever look forlorn, but she was close to it now. Amy added comfortingly, “It does seem that Miss Margaret feels very possessive about her guest. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I suppose that at another such occasion—”
“One can only hope, Mrs. McEye,” Amy said solemnly.
As Mike pulled the car up before the building, the bell of St. Peter’s down the block struck the half hour.
“The stroke of doom,” he said hollowly.
“Thanks,” said Amy from the rear seat. “Just hit the horn a couple of times and don’t bother to get out.”
“If you say so, ma’am. But let’s not try that at the Durie end. Just in case someone there is peeking.”
“If that’s how you feel. But this end is my end.”
Mike hit the horn a couple of times and turned to face her squarely. “You are in a mood, aren’t you, baby?”
“Yes.” Then it slipped out. “My flunky mood. Miss Lowry’s descriptive noun.” In fact, she found aside from a pang of guilt at having laid this on him, she felt a lot better that it had slipped out. She could never keep any secrets from him. It was somehow reassuring, she thought, to know that she still couldn’t.
Mike grimaced. “That artist lady has a sharp tongue it seems.”
“And rhinoceros hide.”
Mike let it go at that. A long five minutes later, Kim Lowry appeared in the doorway. This rhinoceros, Amy thought, had warned that there’d be no fancy dress forthcoming, but for the occasion—a loss of nerve?—she had switched from the familiar jeans and inscribed T-shirt to something less flagrantly defiant. Grass-green corduroy slacks and an almost matching green corduroy jacket of mannish cut over an open-throated, checkered flannel shirt. Done up like this, Amy saw, she looked even taller, but for that she’d have to be forgiven. This tall for any female was no bed of roses.
Mike seemed intrigued by the approaching figure. “As I live and breathe,” he said, “it’s not Maid Marian, it’s Little John.”
“She’s just about my height,” Amy pointed out.
“Maybe so. But somehow it doesn’t look as threatening on you.”
Kim leaned over to peer through the window of the car, then pulled the door open, seated herself, and slammed the door shut with an impact that, Amy saw, made Mike visibly wince. He got the car going with what had to be a deliberate, wheel-spinning lunge.
Kim righted herself on her seat and looked around at the car’s interior. She seemed amused by what she saw. “So far, as promised,” she said.
“Yes,” said Amy.
“So how about a little briefing on the rest? What’s she like? Besides rich.”
“Female,” said Amy.
“Yeah, I’ve come around to buying that. And if this chill is because I dumped on you about it yesterday, I’m sorry. Is she into the figure, is that what it is? Or gone hypermodern?”
Amy found that the apology, considering the indifference with which it had been offered, was more irritating than gratifying. “I’ll leave any such questions to her,” she said. Then it struck her that here was the chance to verify what was—although it seemed such a sure bet—hitherto unverified. It had to be approached with subtlety, however. She softened her tone. “And how is your grandmother? Feeling better?”
“You mean,” Kim said skeptically, “let’s change the subject?”
“No. I did find her highly impressive.”
“Adela? She has her moments. And if going stir-crazy is a sign of improved health, she’s improving.”
“Good. You know, one thing that impressed me was that for all her bitterness about your grandfather’s desertion of her—”
“Where’d you get that?”
“Jason. Jason Cook.”
“Of course. His idea of light conversation. So what about my grandfather’s desertion of her?”
“Well,” said Amy, “for all of that, she still seems to admire him as an artist. I don’t think it’s easy to be so objective under those conditions. What name did he paint under?”
“Ross Taliaferro. His own. Why not?”
Almost expected, this still delivered a jolt. Verification complete, Amy thought, for better or worse. She said, “Well, if he were that good an artist, the name Ross Taliaferro should be more—”
“Except he wasn’t that good. It’s just Adela’s delusion that he was. Actually, she’s in love with those paintings he did of her when he first picked her up as a model. A couple are good, but most of his work was just slick academic. All techni
que, no heart. Proof of the pudding is, after he ditched Adela he wound up in San Francisco as art director of an ad agency there. No museum retrospectives for grandpa. It’s Adela’s fond hope that the old bastard died of frustration because of that.”
“Sad,” said Amy.
“Men,” Kim said.
When the car made the turn off Madison and double-parked before the house Mike was quickly around to open the door and then stand at rigid attention with his cap held to his heart. Pure burlesque, Amy knew with some satisfaction, but a signal to her that the guest had not won his favor during the trip. Kim, however, took no notice of this clowning; obviously it was the way things were done in these parts. She stood there getting her bearings as the car pulled away. Delivery and wait at the garage had been the McEye’s instructions.
Amy pointed. “That’s it.”
Kim looked up. “Not a hotel, is it?” She wasn’t joking, Amy saw.
“No,” Amy said. “Private home.”
“Hers? Where she lives?”
Amy savored the moment. “Yes.”
Kim scanned the building. Her reaction reminded Amy of that lifetime ago when she and Mike had stood here among their assorted luggage and had tried to comprehend what they were seeing.
“Holy Christ,” said Kim. Then her tone changed. “You told me she didn’t have room for my paintings. Shit, she’s got room here for the Metropolitan Museum collection.”
You hear that, ma’am, Amy thought. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive? She said, “I’m sure it’ll all be explained.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Kim.
Amy pressed the doorbell and braced herself. By process of elimination—Peters and Brooks not available—it would have to be one of the maids who’d be temporary doorkeeper. If the engaging but homely Nugent, all right. But if it was the curvaceous O’Dowd or one of those ripe little junior maids, all, however demure their outfits—or was it because of those outfits—possibly suggesting a sort of Playboy magazine effect to the uninformed and sardonic eye of a Kim Lowry, well, it wasn’t hard to anticipate her reaction. And an increasingly hostile Kim …
It was Mrs. McEye who opened the door. But surprise at finding her operating on this lowly level was instantly replaced in Amy by the realization of why she was. Really pushing it hard, all right. Getting a close look at the guest. If nothing else, she’d be able to report to the family that the guest was at least as tall as their Mrs. Lloyd. Looking up at Kim, the McEye seemed intrigued by this. For the first time Amy had a vivid picture of how she herself towered over that stumpy little figure.
The McEye also seemed to have elected herself not only doorkeeper but official greeter.
“I’m Mrs. McEye, the housekeeper,” she informed Kim too brightly. “I trust the drive here was a pleasant one, Miss—?”
“Lowry. Kim Lowry. Yes, it was all right.”
So there it was, Amy thought. As easily done as that. Add the name to the description of the height. However, what mattered was that this name couldn’t mean anything to the family. The name Taliaferro, that one was the payoff. The one deliberately blotted from that inventory book. Kim Lowry? She might as well be nameless.
Mrs. McEye led the way to the family elevator, opened the gate, but there made her farewell. Exercising at least some discretion, Amy thought with relief. It would have taken consummate gall to go along the whole way to the apartment, baiting the guest with leading questions en route.
In the elevator, Kim indicated that she was still trying to comprehend the big picture. “How many people does it take to run this place?”
“Quite a few,” Amy said.
“I see. For all such information, ask the lady of the house.”
“She would prefer that.”
“But suppose,” Kim said, “now that I’m right here in her house I asked what her name was? It might come in handy when I say hello. And this kind of mystery mansion act does run thin after a while.”
“I know,” Amy said. She opened the gate at the second floor and motioned her charge out. “But I’m staff, and staff doesn’t make the rules here.”
“Doesn’t break them either, I have a feeling. Are you allowed to tell me what I’m seeing through those glass walls there? Is that all part of this building?”
“All,” Amy said with satisfaction.
“Holy Christ,” said Kim.
At the apartment door Amy—with a sinking of the heart she couldn’t quite fathom—knocked twice. Brooks opened the door and stood aside in smiling invitation. The round table was set, Amy saw, its Spode and Baccarat all agleam and the two low armchairs drawn up to it. Ma’am was poised on the edge of hers, cane in hand. She looked her absolute best, Amy judged, and even that bright lipstick and the garish circles of rouge on the pale cheeks seemed to go quite naturally with the Jazz Age mannish haircut and, in fact, with the whole decor of the room. Or, Amy wondered, was it a case of getting so used to it that you lost all objectivity?
“Miss Lowry, ma’am,” she said.
Ma’am rose and, fingertips barely brushing the edge of the table, moved forward. “Miss Lowry, I am Margaret Durie.” She stopped in the center of the room a fair distance away and held out a hand in Amy’s direction. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Kim remained unmoving, staring hard at the sightless eyes. She seemed in shock. Then she turned to Amy. “Blind?” she mouthed soundlessly.
Amy nodded and nudged her forward. She was quick-minded enough, Amy saw, to get her wits together before the silence became unendurable. She carefully took the proffered hand in hers.
“My pleasure,” she said awkwardly. “Like, you are my collector, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Do you find that any less of a compliment now that you know I’m blind? I trust that as an artist you don’t find blindness repellent. Though it can be defeating to the artist, can’t it? That one little fleck of light added to the iris of the seeing eye on canvas is what brings life to the whole face, isn’t it?”
“Well—” said Kim.
“And,” Ma’am chirruped, “there’s much more to share with each other, too. Now if you don’t mind—” She withdrew her hand from Kim’s apparently paralyzed grip, moved it lightly up the length of that arm, and rested it on the corduroyed shoulder above her. “Oh, my, you young people today. The older generation literally has to look up to you, doesn’t it? Now do sit down on that sofa, and we’ll have an aperitif while dinner is being brought up. A martini? I’m afraid there isn’t much choice.”
“It’ll do fine,” Kim said, seating herself. In fact, Amy thought, she looked as if she needed at least a couple of really stiff ones—the kind Audie wouldn’t let Abe manufacture—to get her back on the rails again.
“Brooks,” said Ma’am in the tone one used in addressing staff, and Amy, watching the instantly responsive Brooks move to the white enameled chest of drawers—the most acutely Art Deco piece here with that slender strip of chrome ornamentation running like a bar sinister across its face—observed that the pitcher and two bottles arrayed on the chest made a formidable display, martinis, wine, and cognac enough for quite a party.
“Lloyd,” said Ma’am.
“Yes?”
“That will be all. No, wait. Hegnauer’s in her room. Tell her she’s to leave with you and not return until called for.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hegnauer was sitting up in bed, clothed but with shoes off, watching television in the darkened room. She did not take kindly to her instructions. Amy hastily pulled the door shut as the storm broke.
“Oh, no. No. Now is too much.”
“Please,” Amy said.
“No. This is my room. Mornings after you come I cannot stay here. Afternoons I must sit inside and watch her. Now is my time in my room. You tell her that.”
“No, I won’t. But I do understand. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Mrs. McEye about it.”
“Her? You think that one listens?”
“She will when I speak to her. I promise you that.”
The storm, Amy saw, was dwindling down to sullen skies. Hegnauer sat up and reached under the bed for her shoes. “Tomorrow,” she said grudgingly. “And you don’t forget.”
As they crossed the sitting room, Amy observed that Ma’am was now sharing the sofa with her company, Kim apparently still in a fog of bewilderment, Ma’am still chirruping away with an almost frenetic vivacity. Brooks opened the door for the departing staff, then gave Amy a wink and motioned with his head over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it,” he whispered as he closed the door.
Which, Amy thought, should have been a comfort, but somehow wasn’t.
She found quite a gathering in the staff hall when she followed Hegnauer into it. Not only O’Dowd and Walsh attending to the dumbwaiter for the family’s dinner, but also Swanson and both security men and even Mabry, his evening’s stint completed, sharing cake and coffee at the table. And Mrs. McEye. Who, while Amy was filling a cup for herself at the coffee maker, rose and joined her for a private chat. “Everything going well upstairs?” she asked, sotto voce.
“It seems to be.”
“I do hope so. Nugent’s on her way up now with the cart. I instructed her to leave it at the door and just give Brooks notice that it’s there. The tournedos looked positively mouth-watering. I did have a time with Golightly though. You know how he can be. He suddenly remembered that Miss Margaret dislikes beef, and insisted there must be some mistake,” Mrs. McEye looked penetratingly at Amy. “There wasn’t, was there?”
“No. That was Miss Margaret’s order. No mistake.”
“Then I feel reassured. But it is an unusual evening altogether, isn’t it? Miss Margaret actually having company, and the family—well, you might say they’re celebrating that at their dinner. And the young lady is a bit unusual, isn’t she? Miss Lowry. Not quite what one expected.”
Amy found the familiar mincing enunciation—especially in this insistent whisper—was affecting her like a fingernail drawn down a blackboard. And this digging for information was just too unsubtle.
Very Old Money Page 32