She put the Scotch on the bedside table, gathered throw pillows from around the room, and tossed them onto the bed. After snapping on the television, she was about to throw herself down into their midst when she noticed, on the top of the dresser, a small vial of white powder. She went over and picked it up wonderingly—Verity never left her cocaine out. She read the note beneath it, and then crumpled it with contempt. She rummaged in the top drawer of the dresser for her golden spoon. Not bothering to draw out lines, she simply inhaled two nostrilsful of the stuff, and collapsed onto the bed.
She stared at the television, idly changing the channels by remote control, never watching anything for more than five minutes before she moved on to something else. She had poured herself another drink, but finished only half of it before her eyes closed, and she dozed off to a documentary on the marine birds of Newfoundland.
When the telephone rang Verity groaned and turned onto her side. Her arm dangled down to the floor, and her fingers searched the carpet for the instrument. She found it and knocked the receiver out of the cradle. She did not pick it up. The voice on the other end was tinny and distant.
“Hello . . . Verity? . . . Hello . . . Louise, is that you?”
Verity opened her eyes, and slowly rose on her elbows, staring blearily about the empty room. The tinny voice continued. Verity rolled over and picked up the receiver.
“Cassandra?” she said weakly.
“Are you all right? Why didn’t you answer?”
“I dropped the phone. You woke me up.”
“But are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I was just asleep. Are you still in, um, New York?”
“Yes. I’m calling from the hotel. Let me give you the number.”
“No, don’t bother, I don’t have any paper. Or a pen. How’d it go last night?”
“Great. They had them playing until four in the morning!”
“That’s wonderful. You must—” Verity sucked her breath in as a sharp jab of pain shot through her abdomen. She shifted onto her back and with her free hand took the bottle of pills from the bedside table, deftly flipping off the lid.
“What’s wrong?”
“I stubbed my toe.” She spilled out four of the capsules onto the sheet.
“You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Oh, you just woke me up, that’s all.” She started to put back two of the capsules, but then shrugged, and simply recapped the bottle.
“How’s Louise?”
“Up to her old tricks, and some new ones. But I’ll tell you about them later,” said Verity grimly. She tossed all four capsules into her mouth, and washed them down with Scotch.
“Don’t let her get to you. Any news?”
“A little,” said Verity. “This morning I talked to the detective that Jonathan hired.”
“You did! How did you find out who he was?”
“God, Cassandra, I’m in no condition to go into all that now. But it’s important. When are you coming back?”
“One of the early shuttles tomorrow. I’m not sure which.”
“Wake me up when you get here.”
“All right. You sound done in. How was your New Year’s Eve?”
“Crowded with incident. But you’re right, I should have gone to New York with you.”
“Are you staying in tonight?”
Verity didn’t answer. A wave of euphoria swept over her entire body.
“Verity?”
“Sorry. Listen, I’m half asleep now. I’ll see you when you get in tomorrow, okay? And I’ll tell you everything the detective said.”
“All right. Sorry to wake you.”
“No problem. Good-bye, Cassandra.”
“Good-bye.”
Verity hung up the receiver. She sat up on the bed, threaded her fingers through her hair several times, and smiled contentedly. She ran through the channels on the television swiftly, stopping at some film from the forties that looked vaguely familiar. She looked all around the room absently, and saw the cocaine on her dresser. She got up, went over, and snorted two more large spoonfuls.
She started to climb back onto the bed, but lost her balance and fell against the bedside table, bruising her thigh. She hardly felt it. She grabbed for the wobbling bottle of Scotch, but only managed to knock it to the floor. Half of it spilled out onto the carpet, immediately filling the room with its odor.
“Oh, Goddamn . . . ,” she breathed. She reached clumsily down and picked up the bottle, holding it up to the light to see how much remained inside. She poured out another drink into her glass, fell onto the bed, and stared blearily at the television. She lifted the glass to her lips, and spilled some of the Scotch onto the lapels of her robe. “Shit,” she said, “what’s wrong with me tonight?”
The movie made no sense. She couldn’t follow any of the plot. The dialogue seemed random and pointless. She decided simply to watch the costumes. She spilled more of her drink, and in order not to bother with that anymore, she simply swallowed off everything that remained in her glass. She reached to set the glass down on the table, but it missed the edge and tumbled to the floor. Verity leaned over the edge of the bed, and watched it roll away. She waved a hand at it in dismissal and fell back into the pillows. Her breath came in heavier intakes but she wasn’t aware of it. She stared at a peculiarly shaped shadow across a portion of the ceiling. It changed shape and texture with the blue-gray flickering of the television screen. The effort to keep her eyes raised became too much for Verity; her lids began to droop. She stared straight ahead at the window and the bright misshapen moon rising over the top of the firs in the back garden. Soon her eyes closed and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her breath came heavier and only erratically. She lay absolutely still. She breathed harshly for several seconds, and then a cough seemed to be strangled in her throat. Her breath slowed and finally stopped altogether. Verity’s dried lips parted as her jaw went slack and then, slowly, on either side of her, her fingers uncurled out of damp fists.
25
It was the maid, Serena, who discovered Verity’s body in the bedroom early the following morning. Cassandra arrived from the airport just in time to see the ambulance pull away without siren or flashing lights.
Two days later, Rocco and Apple—still on tour—flew up from Philadelphia for the funeral services. Louise came with Eugene Strable. Eric was conspicuous by his absence. Louise offered the vague excuse that he was job hunting out of town, and she had no way of finding him. Cassandra did not question this.
Cassandra was alone. In less than a year she had lost her father, her brother, and her sister. She pondered going to the police, yet still she could not bring herself to believe that the woman Richard Hawke had married was responsible in any way for the three deaths. Cassandra in fact could not imagine that she was personally acquainted with a murderer. And while Cassandra wondered what she should do, Louise remained with her in the Brookline mansion. And Louise’s comfort was worse than no comfort at all. Cassandra and her stepmother spoke no more than civilities to one another. Whether on purpose or by accident Cassandra wasn’t sure, but their meals seemed never to coincide. Eugene Strable often came over in the evenings, and sometimes he stayed the night—though he at least had the decency to conceal his automobile behind the garage.
During the first few weeks of January, Cassandra came to see how great a temporizing and calming influence Verity had been. Her laissez-faire attitude toward Louise and Louise’s laughable plans had kept Cassandra in good humor. Verity, in her way, had been a bulwark against the grief that Cassandra felt for the deaths of her father and her brother. Now that prop had disappeared, and Cassandra felt herself abandoned. On the last day of January, Cassandra packed a suitcase and a couple of cardboard boxes, and moved into the Prudential Towers apartment. She was tired of avoiding Louise, knowing that any chance word might provoke an argument. She was even more anxious to leave the house on account of memories of her sister. Cassandra still couldn’t walk into
the living room without expecting to see Verity sprawled on the chintz-covered sofa.
That night, Cassandra telephoned Rocco in St. Louis, asked about the performance, and told him that she had moved out of the Brookline mansion.
“Good,” he sighed. “Apple wanted me to ask you to do that anyway. And I was going to.”
“Why?” asked Cassandra, puzzled.
There was a pause. “Let me put Apple on,” said Rocco. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Hi,” said Apple, just a moment later.
“What is all this about?” Cassandra asked. “You’re both being mysterious.”
“There’s no mystery. I just don’t think you should stay in that house with Louise Larner.”
“Why not?” said Cassandra. “Other than the fact that Louise is Louise, and always will be.”
“Cassandra,” said Apple carefully, “your father is dead. Jonathan is dead. Verity is dead.”
“I’m well aware of those facts,” said Cassandra, a little harshly.
“What happens if you die? Who gets your trust money? Who gets your house?”
“Louise,” said Cassandra. “But that’s—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
“That’s what?” prompted Apple. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“You think Louise has actually been killing us off, one by one?” laughed Cassandra. “That’s crazy. You don’t set out to systematically kill off a whole family. People notice.”
“Well,” said Apple, “in this case, people haven’t noticed. Even you haven’t noticed. The problem is, you’re too genteel.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when you look at Louise, all you see is a woman who has bad taste. You’re looking at a woman who says the wrong thing at the wrong time. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, God, she’s overdressed for this occasion.’ And what you should be thinking is, ‘She killed my father. She killed my brother. She killed my sister. And if I don’t watch out, she’s going to kill me.’ Rocco and I have been talking about this lately. I thought it was just me who was thinking like this—and I didn’t want to run off and go accusing anyone of murder. And the same with Rocco. But once we got together, we realized we ought to say something. Besides, there’s something you don’t know.”
“What?” asked Cassandra warily.
“You know that private investigator that Jonathan hired?”
“Yes,” said Cassandra. “Verity found out who he was—she may even have talked to him—but then she died before—”
“She did talk to him,” Apple interrupted.
“How do you know?” demanded Cassandra, astonished.
“It was Ben James who recommended the detective to Jonathan,” Apple explained. “This was before Ben became involved with the band of course. But Jonathan knew Ben through Verity, and called him up and asked his advice. Ben gave him the name of his detective—his name is Norman, I think, Something Norman—and Jonathan hired him. Then Jonathan died, and Verity got hold of him. She told him to start looking into Jonathan’s death too. And he did, but then when he didn’t hear from Verity again, he got worried, and called up Ben. Ben’s been trying to get in touch with you. . . .”
“I’ve been moving,” said Cassandra. “I haven’t sat down in two days.”
“. . . so he called us this morning,” Apple went on, “to see if we knew where you were. Ben’s very upset about Verity’s death. Very upset. But he didn’t know Louise, really, and it never occurred to him that—”
“That she might have murdered Verity?” said Cassandra.
“Anyway,” Apple went on, “he gave me the detective’s name, and I’ll give it to you now. He’s in Manhattan, and he’s listed.”
“Thank you,” said Cassandra simply. “I’m worried too, now. Put Rocco on again, will you?”
“What are you going to do?” Rocco asked, when the receiver had been passed to him.
“I don’t know yet,” said Cassandra. “I’ll have to think about all this.”
“I want you to stay out of Louise’s way.”
“I intend to,” said Cassandra. “I’m certainly not going to give her the satisfaction of dying. I’m not convinced that Louise did have anything to do with all this—that’s too crazy. But if she did . . .”
“Just be careful,” said Rocco. “Be real careful. ’Cause I love you.”
“I love you, too,” said Cassandra absently. “Now tell me that detective’s name.”
Three days later, at her desk at the Menelaus Press, Cassandra received a telephone call from Louise.
Her stepmother was incensed. “You might have left word with me,” she snapped. “You know how I found out? When I went down to the kitchen and asked Ida if she had seen you. Ida said, ‘She moved out on Monday.’ She wouldn’t even tell me where you had gone.” Louise paused. Cassandra did not tell her where she was now living.
“I thought,” said Louise, “that you might have gone flitting after that Italian.”
Cassandra said nothing.
“So you’ve left me with the responsibility of running that house. And with all the work I have to do running the agency.”
“Louise,” said Cassandra, “please don’t do me any favors. Move out today if you like.”
“I don’t have any place to go!”
Cassandra sat back in her chair, rolling her eyes. “For God’s sake, Louise. You run a real-estate agency. You’ve got more listings than anybody in town.”
“Well,” said Louise after a pause, “I’m not going anywhere for the time being. I’m much too upset about Verity.”
Cassandra made no reply to this, but asked, “Where is Eric, Louise? Verity died one month ago. Why hasn’t he come back here?”
“He’s in New York,” returned Louise vaguely. “He has a job, and it’s keeping him busy. Very busy. But Cassandra, what I need from you is—”
“Louise,” Cassandra interrupted, “I have to go. And please do me a favor and don’t call me here anymore. Personal phone calls are very disruptive, and I’m just as busy as you are. Good-bye.”
She hung up the telephone, grimly smiling at the discomfiture that had been apparent in Louise’s voice.
“Feel better?” asked Sarah, pausing at the door of the room.
“Louise always makes me want to scream.” Cassandra motioned for her assistant to seat herself in the chair opposite the desk.
“What’s up?” asked Sarah.
“I got three letters today,” said Cassandra, holding them up, “praising the job I did on the last issue.”
“Hey, great!”
“Well, not so great,” said Cassandra. “Since I didn’t do any of the work. You did all the work.”
“Well,” said Sarah, “you were busy.”
“Yes I was. With the band. And this month I haven’t been any good either.”
“Well, your sister—”
“There’s no need to make excuses for me,” smiled Cassandra. “I’m just lucky to have you here to take over.”
“I’m hardly taking over,” shrugged Sarah.
“The point is,” said Cassandra, “you could. I wanted to let you know . . .”
“Let me know what?”
“. . . that you ought to take as much responsibility as you can.”
“I’m an overachiever,” laughed Sarah. “You don’t have to encourage me. Watch out, or when your back is turned I’ll push you out the window and take over your job entirely.”
“I trust you,” said Cassandra. “I just wanted to give you a word of advice.”
“What?”
“This job is good for about three years. Learn everything you can, then quit, and go out in the real world. The thing about working with Iphigenia is that you get to do a little of just about everything.”
Sarah looked around the room. “How long have you been here?” she asked.
Cassandra only smiled. “I’m taking the afternoon off,” she said, “to attend to personal
business. Take over, will you?”
26
Louise stepped out of the library and peered first down the long hallway. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs. “Serena?” she called upward. “Cara! Where are you?”
There was no response to her summons. The stereo system in the living room had been set to an easy-listening station. Connecting speakers in various rooms produced an uneasy echo.
Once more Louise called the names of the servants, and then, perplexed and irritated, went back to the kitchen.
Ida stood at the counter, trimming the fat from a pork roast with a long, sharp-bladed knife. She looked up at Louise without perceptible reaction, and then went back to her work.
“Ida,” said Louise, “where are those girls?”
“Ma’am?”
“Serena and Cara,” said Louise, growing more irritated. “I was upstairs half an hour ago and my bed hadn’t even been made up. It’s four o’clock.”
“They’re not here,” said Ida.
“This is Monday. Thursday is their day off.”
“That’s right.”
“Ida,” said Louise with growing impatience, “where are they?”
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