From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  Diamond rushed down a staircase. “Thank you so much for coming.” She accompanied it with a hug. Now as a woman, I don’t have problems hugging, but I truly had expected a warm handshake and not someone clinging to me as if for safety. “Now that you and Aunt are going to help me, I know I’ll find really what happened to my father. I feel better already.” She smiled and held my hand in a girlish way and then slipped her arm through mine as if we were chummy, like we were BFFs.

  Diamond Dupris was taller than I expected, but still shorter than me. She was boney, in an unflattering, non-model way. Her skin was pale and if it weren’t those dark rings beneath her gently almond shaped eyes and the quivering fingers she seemed to have to force to be still, she could have been attractive, I imagined.

  As she led the way to a spacious library room, I once again noticed the accent. It had that softer misty sound of someone who spoke a blend of languages. I felt empathy for her. Whatever happened on this search for Jimmy March, Diamond was a fighter. I liked her. I liked her a lot.

  “So this is the woman you have spoken about, Mrs. Monica Dobson,” Victoria Dupris said after the proper introduction. She was wrinkled, ancient, and dressed in a black polyester pants suit straight from the eighties. She dragged out the word “so” and the way she said it, it felt to me that perhaps it wasn’t to Diamond’s best interest to have this stranger as a friend. “I have heard a lot about you. Sweet Diamond and I have just been having a nice, cozy chat and your name came up. We were just discussing little Diamond’s plan.” Her voice was husky, that raspy sound of a long addiction to nicotine. Frail fingers with blue, puffy veins studded with long, yellowed fingernails reached out to me. It was more of a finger touch than a handshake because as she withdrew her fingers, she placed a lacy hanky to her lips, admitting a shallow cough.

  “Lovely to meet you, Miss Dupris. Dobson was my late husband’s name, but I prefer Mrs. Monica Wainwright-Dobson.” Two can play empress of the day. I forced a smile on my lips and kept my mouth closed.

  She didn’t get up to greet me; older, well-to-do women rarely do, but there was another reason. She was connected to a portable oxygen tank. Emphysema, I thought, and a teaspoon of empathy surfaced. She was suffering for her addiction.

  Within seconds, a stout, silver-haired maid in a crisp black and white uniform brought in a dolly with a silver tea service. Her eyes were guarded and down, reminding me of a child who is constantly scolded. I’d seen that look before and knew it was her submissive way to survive in that household. Miss Dupris nodded and the maid poured. Accepting a cup of tea, I smiled and a flicker of acknowledgment shone in the woman’s eyes.

  “Humph. Ghastly service these days. If I have told you a hundred times, I cannot tolerate the way you hover, Inez. Will you ever learn how rude you are? Cannot you see you are once more annoying me and now our guest, too.” The elder Miss Dupris spat out the words, and the maid’s face became stoic as she retreated. Victoria Dupris grumbled a bit more, then turned to me and asked, “Cream or lemon?”

  “Lemon. Thank you.” And I waited to have either woman begin a conversation. But the moments stretched and the silence of the house made me think of a cheesy horror novel.

  Diamond seemed hypnotized with the act of stirring her tea, watching the swirls of bland brown liquid and I wondered if she had been as shocked by the rudeness of her aunt’s behavior to the maid as I was. But what was Diamond thinking, if she was thinking?

  Then it dawned on me. Even if she felt disgraced by her aunt’s comment, there was no way she’d protest, not in her position of being an outcast family member.

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Wainwright-Dobson,” the elder Miss Dupris began with a tone that would have kept shave ice from melting even in July, “I will do anything I can, yet it has been such a long time. You must realize even the best memory fades.” She laughed quietly. “People come and go in life. Darling Diamond needs to be realistic. The things that happened in the past can be so difficult. She must be aware that not everyone feels that there is reason to expose details that have long been forgotten.” Victoria Dupris sipped the tea, studied the cup, and then as if to punctuate whatever she was getting at, produced a tiny nod of recognition toward Darling Diamond, as I would now call her.

  “I want her to find the truth.” Another sip, another time to study the cup and then a nod and all this came about as if Darling Diamond were five years old or not in the same room, sitting on the very edge of that white, heavy brocade sofa as her elderly auntie.

  Everything Victoria Dupris said felt like a lie and that’s how her facial expressions read too, but since I became a practicing Christian, I have been striving to give even the most incredible declarations the benefit of the doubt. It could be that Victoria Dupris didn’t know she was lying or it could be, flat out, that Victoria wasn’t going to help her niece find out anything about Jimmy March or share whatever she knew to be true.

  “The truth always has its way of surfacing,” I replied, and after I sipped the tea, I studied the cup.

  Sure, Diamond could be on a fool’s quest, but if she didn’t try, she knew the result. Besides Diamond’s blues eyes silently pleaded with me for support and strength over the ninety-five pound domineering aunt. Lord protect me, I prayed because from the look in Diamond’s eyes and the grunt from the spinster across the tea table, I was certainly going to need it.

  The minutes stretched and the silence became even awkward. It was like she was daring me to start some insipid small talk. I wanted to scream, “Get me out of here.”

  As Victoria placed the plastic oxygen mask over her nose and face, drawing in a breath of oxygen, I swallowed the final drop of what I hoped was Earl Grey, but it was so weak your guess would be as good as mine.

  I slipped the cup into the saucer. I’d had plenty. If Diamond wanted to discuss her efforts so far in finding information about her father, her aunt didn’t bring up the subject. More so, if Diamond had any chutzpah I sure didn’t see it. Hence, this topic was never discussed.

  At the same instant as I stood, Victoria Dupris cleared her throat and frowned. I knew what that meant and I was ready to head for the door.

  I nodded. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Dupris. I must run now. However, I’ve been wondering—” But the sentence did get any further because the butler was there to announce that Diamond’s luggage, which had been delayed, had just arrived.

  And that’s how I found myself suddenly alone with the aunt. As Diamond closed the door, her aunt put the mask down and looked me dead in the eyes. Unlike Diamond, hers were the color of ebony and her look as sharp as a well-honed knife. The lines around her mouth were granite. I’d been surprised by how strong “frail” older people could be and I was glad to have the coffee table between us.

  “I will not have you encouraging my niece, Mrs. Wainwright-Dobson, or whatever your real name is, since I have never heard of anyone with such a convoluted last name, especially in my social circles. If you are in this for the money, smarten up. That girl has nothing. Nothing. And besides all this will blow over. Unless people ask too many questions. People who should mind their own business. People like you. Once the questions stop, scandal dies. I have seen it before. Have I made myself clear? Or are you too much of a ninny to understand? Perhaps one of the servants can be called in and explain this to you in simpler terms.”

  I blinked. That was downright mean. “You’re mistaken, Miss Dupris. I’ve not influenced Diamond in any way. She contacted me, not the other way around.”

  “So you say,” came with a huff and a cough. “If I were you, madam, I would disavow all knowledge of that ghastly singer and so-called novelist Jimmy Whatever.”

  “March. His name was Jimmy March, ma’am.”

  “Whatever his name was, it is not your place to be involved in this. It is family business. Any supposed connection with my recently deceased sister, Elaine,
will now stay with her. Your help is not needed nor is it wanted. Is that clear? You do not belong in our world. I am surprised you do not know your place.”

  For a moment, I actually feared Victoria Dupris was going to add, “Like that cheeky maid,” or worse, and more graphic, but she even outdid my idea of an insult.

  She picked up her cane, pointed it at me, and nearly spit the words, “Stay the hell out of our lives.” She took a long dram on the oxygen, wheezed, and added, “If you know what is good for you. Or you will wish you had.”

  That whisper could have fast-frozen the entire Amazon river.

  “Is that a threat?” Of course it was, but I didn’t know what else to say. “Are you afraid there’s proof of a liaison between Jimmy March and Lanie? Afraid of social disgrace?” I squared my shoulders and hopefully the chin came along with it. I certainly didn’t want this ogre to see that inside I’d lost my unfaltering law enforcement edge. Besides, if this nut case attacked, I knew I could wrestle her to the Persian carpet or make it through the door. A tea table was, however, the only barrier between us and the flimsy antique wouldn’t have stopped a lunatic for long. I wasn’t going to guess how quickly the woman could move, even if she had a breathing disorder. Hatred makes people feel more powerful. I’d seen plenty of that in my old life.

  Then she brandished the silver-handled cane. It all felt surreal. I was about to be attacked for asking a few questions by a nut job on oxygen for trying to be a good person.

  As all this was bouncing in my brain, Victoria Dupris clutched the cane, gasped, coughed a bit more and placed the mask on again, drawing a shallow breath. She tossed the apparatus onto the sofa. “Her name was Elaine and I will thank you to use it correctly if we should ever meet again, which I sincerely hope we do not. Or you will not know what hit you, you, you, hussy.” Then her face turned benign. The woman lips made the frown turn slightly upward.

  I swallowed back a laugh. “A hussy? Are you attempting to threaten me, ma’am?” A grating snort came from her wrinkled face. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wainwright-Dobson. Would you repeat that? Did you say ‘threat’ or ‘treat’? Unfortunately my hearing is not as it should be. The ravages of old age.” She coughed, to make a point of how truly in poor health she was, except the steely hatred didn’t leave the old woman’s eyes.

  Miss Dupris was not only vicious, I realized, but more crazy than I’d imagined. Then it hit me. We were no longer alone. The thick carpet had muffled Diamond’s returned, with the kind maid following her holding a silver tray with a fresh tea service.

  “Thanks so much for the treat,” I gathered my purse, knowing that as I reached the entryway; my raincoat would mysteriously appear in the butler’s hands. Besides, if Diamond had to go out again and leave the two of us alone, the old woman really would assault me. I wasn’t about to take that chance. Victoria Dupris whimpered and brought the plastic mask to her face, but the silver handled cane was right at her side. Her eyes never left me.

  Miss Dupris didn’t bid me goodbye, but her eyes followed me to the door. Diamond didn’t try to stop me as I moved toward the foyer, but then she was there, putting a hand on my arm. “Have you found anything out? Will people tell you anything? May I telephone you later, perhaps when Auntie is taking a nap?” Diamond’s hushed voice was barely audible.

  I patted the woman’s shoulder. Even through the expensive fuzziness of her rust colored sweater, I could feel bones. She bent forward, an air kiss to anyone watching, and whispered, “May I call you if I learn anything from Auntie?”

  “I’m at the Hilton. And you have my cell number.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll walk you out.” Diamond started for the door, but that didn’t happen because like a dog on a leash, she was stopped in her tracks.

  “Diamond, dear. Could you do your auntie a favor and get my sweater,” came Victoria Dupris’s cultured voice, which had lost all its delicate tones, and sounded like it had the power of a baseball umpire, stopped Diamond as if the niece had been slapped with a voodoo curse. “I want the black one. I believe it is folded in the closet. Or perhaps in the Chippendale chest of drawers. In my bedchamber. Upstairs.”

  I spoke in a whisper. “You be careful, girl,” and added in a louder tone, “Might be best if you just hung out around here for a day or so.” The cell-phone stalker, as I now silently referred to the man with the flashy earring, might not be as timid with Diamond as he’d been with me.

  “Are you going to get the sweater or shall I ring for that lazy Inez to come in here then have her go all the way upstairs?”

  In the distance, I could see a depraved curl of Miss Dupris’s lips. It disturbed me and I’m not easily troubled.

  Chapter 11

  The butler did it.

  Okay, I’ve always wanted to say that. Alright, the butler didn’t do anything beyond looking shifty and he somehow had a taxi waiting when I walked down the mansion’s marble steps.

  I didn’t turn around to look at the house. If either of the Misses Dupris were watching, I couldn’t give the younger one false hope that I could help her and the older, nutty one? I refused to provide any hint that she’d troubled me. Even though she had.

  If I were trying to keep my mind off the concert and my debut as the keyboard artist, and I was, the visit at the mansion provided plenty to keep my mind for the event that was looming closer with each second. I could have returned to the resort, tried to book that pedicure or soaked in some rays, but oh no, that didn’t occur to me. Instead, I was determined to dig a bit deeper into the night that Jimmy March was last seen. These days, we pretend we can access anything on the trusty Internet, but some stuff requires a trip to the good old public library. You can gasp now, but it’s true.

  I Googled the address of the main branch and asked the cabbie to drop me at the library on King Street. It was a huge pillared building with walls so thick you just had to whisper. I found the reference librarian, told her my need, and she sent me straight to an intern and the archives.

  Here’s the condense accumulation of what I found that was reported in the newspaper after a disturbance at the Honolulu Theater in Chinatown on the night in question. Or the lack of information, I should say. From the microfiche pages of the Honolulu Advertiser, I read: One, someone reported hearing a shot fired. No name was given for who called in the noise. Two, when the police arrived; no one knew anything about a gun being fired and the officers’ names were not mentioned in the short clipping. Three, the theater management refunded the cost of the tickets for the next night’s event that would have starred Jimmy March. Four, one Babes Waller, reported to have been part of the band, said to a reporter, “Jimmy’s not available right now. He’s fine. No, he never played with a gun. He needs time off for personal reasons.” Personal? How about personally suffering a bullet hole to his chest? That’s pretty personal in my opinion.

  I continued to scan the microfiche. But the next mention of anything happening at the Honolulu Theater was a performance of Swan Lake. Nothing at all about Jimmy March’s abrupt cancellation of the rock concert. To me? It all sounded exactly what was written on that tiny florist’s card: Jimmy March was dead.

  That’s what I was contemplating as I got ready for my first, and God willing, last ever performance as part of a rock band.

  Since I just told you the condensed version of what I found from hours of pouring over microfiche and dusty newspapers, here’s the abbreviated one on my performance with Slam Dunk. I smiled and I played.

  Okay, I know you want more details and it’s not pretty. As agreed, the keyboard was not connected to the audio system. I tried to keep up with Henry, Max, and the others. I didn’t and I couldn’t. And I stunk. Not only did sweat pour out of every pore in my body, but my face was the color of an overripe tomato. My hands shook so badly that more than once they slipped from the keys. My knees felt like overcooked spaghetti, but I remained standing. Y
es, that was a miracle.

  Have you ever had root canal work? I would have chosen that over the hour-long performance.

  I survived, but just barely. Especially when after two songs I got the nerve to look into the audience and right in the third row I saw him. On the aisle was Payton Yu (who waved to me like he was flagging a taxi and then blew kisses—would this guy ever grow up?), Mr. and Mrs. Yu (both smiling and totally embarrassed at their son’s behavior, or so it seemed), various Yu family members I vaguely remembered meeting at the science club in high school, and even Tina, minus her snappy dressed boyfriend. Next to Payton but in the aisle sat Alana, gorgeous as ever, snug in a wheelchair and clapping like crazy.

  The band had barely taken its final bow when I dashed from the stage, pledging to God that I would rather do a year of community service picking up trash on a gridlocked interstate or face an auditorium of pre-teens with a gadzillion questions about how people die by the hands of law enforcement and how much money I made, than be on any stage ever again. Some people think of hell as eternal burning. Public speaking and public performing are my personal version, hence, I was not going to stray from the straight and narrow after that glimpse into my choice for the future.

  As I dashed, I ran once again straight into Payton Yu. Arms as wide as his smile, he said, “You were fabulous, Nikky, oh, I mean Nica, you were wonderful. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

  “Payton, put me down please,” I said in the steely way I might have said, “It’s best for you if you’ll drop that gun to the floor.” People really do obey me, but not my pal Playboy Payton. He swung me off the floor. Even with that extra width around his middle, he was strong.

  “I’ve got to say, I just came tonight for Alana, but man, you were the icing on my cake of life, Nikky, oh, geez, sorry.” He let me go with one hand and slipped another around my waist.

  If I hadn’t been exhausted, trust me, I would have pushed him into next Tuesday. But I was and I didn’t, which apparently seemed like encouragement. Then I was circled by the band and even Mr. and Mrs. Yu came backstage with Alana glowing with joy and shaking hands with everyone.