by Art Bourgeau
"But that doesn't mean they were Felix's—"
"True, but at least it establishes a link between Society Hill and South Philly, and more important, between Lagniappe and the killings. Between the killer and someone who'd been at Lagniappe."
"It doesn't prove a thing—"
"That's right," he said. He showed her something else from the purse. It was a wallet. "This belonged to the deceased. There are some photos in it. I'd like you to look and see if you can identify anyone."
The first photo was of Felix and Cynthia. In the background she recognized Jackson Square in New Orleans, but that wasn't what held her attention. It was Felix.
His dark, bearded looks eerily matched the description of Peter.
CHAPTER 23
MISSY DIDN'T know how she would have made it through the afternoon but for a second ten-milligram Valium.
Nothing after Kaleidoscope had gone right. Her next stop had been Bonwit Teller. She had only been there a little over an hour when her morning Valium failed her. It didn't just fade, allowing anxiety to replace calm, it evaporated, vaporized. One minute she was fine, all calm serenity, the next her pulse was racing and her body was drenched in sweat.
The sense of panic that had filled her as the anxiety dug in hard had made her want to cut and run, but she had fought it, forcing herself to stand her ground. She excused herself from the gray-haired saleslady with the perpetual glasses hanging around her neck and quietly took her second of the day, swallowing the bitter pill without water. Then she had walked out of the store and around the corner to the Commissary on Sansom Street, where she sipped her way through a double vodka while she waited for the Valium to kick in, thinking about what a nervous bride she was going to be, and for the first time in years wishing she were closer to her mother.
Once she was calm again she had walked to the State Store on Chestnut where try as she might she could find no champagne to her liking. The same happened at the one on Walnut Street, but there the manager was kind enough to call a couple of other stores and did locate a bottle of Dom Perignon blanc de blanc at the State Store in the Bourse, which meant she had to drive to Fifth Street.
The caviar had been difficult, too. Since the William Penn Shop had closed its Center City store, beluga was out of the question, but she did find some acceptable substitutes at the Coastal Cave Trading Company in the Reading Terminal Market. In the end she had settled on trout, a delicate, light-tasting one, as an alternative to the saltier Russian and Iranian varieties. And while she waited for the Korean fish merchant across the market to shuck her oysters, she had spent a moment or two at the hot dog stand enjoying a spicy hot chili dog and chatting with David O'Neill, the market manager, whom she had met a couple of times at Savoy Opera Company performances of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Not until she was back home did she realize how much time all her errands had taken. She rushed to lay out the caviar, champagne and oysters, and took a hurried shower. She dressed in a cream linen blouse with a high neck and a black pleated paisley dirndl by Ralph Lauren, then went back to the living room to be sure everything was right and ready.
Looking over the elegance of the spread, the understated dignity of Felix's little gift in its Treadwell & Company box, and feeling the sensuality of the dirndl as it touched her legs when she walked, she knew she was going to be perfect for Felix. As she had done for her father and the office, she would see to it that his house was kept in good order, that all his needs were fulfilled. There would always be food, liquor and drugs. She would shop for him, always look her best for him, and be there whenever he needed her. Any affairs she might have would be discreet. She would never go to bed with anyone from Lagniappe, and she would be very selective, and more careful, as Peter. She would never embarrass her husband, the way some people did. She would be an ideal wife and mother . . .
The sound of a car in the driveway intruded on her fantasy. She went to the window. Rain was beginning to splatter against the glass. Outside was Felix's dark blue Jaguar XJ6 sedan.
The doorbell rang, she waited, taking a couple of deep breaths and forcing herself to relax. When it rang a second time she walked toward it as though going to her judgment. She opened the door and positioned herself so that for Felix to enter the room he had no choice except to come to her.
"Darling," she said as her arms closed around him. She loved the feel of his body against hers. Their lips met, and it was all she could do to keep from pushing her tongue deep into his mouth. It would be too much too soon, she decided . . .As it was she felt him stiffen, seem to push her away. She waited, expecting him to say something about Cynthia's death. It was a workday, her employees would long ago have found the body. And naturally the police would have wanted him to identify it.
But he didn't. Instead he merely said, "What is it, Missy? You said it was very important when you called."
And then she understood . . . he still didn't know. He must have been en route between the site and his apartment or the office, and they had missed him. Well, she wouldn't be the one to tell him.
"Later," she said. "There'll be time for that later."
She stepped back to look at him. He was still dressed in his work clothes: the battered leather jacket, an old button-down shirt and wrinkled chinos with pleats. With his slightly tousled hair she thought he looked wonderfully boyish.
Turning slightly so he could see how the cream linen blouse fitted her breasts, she said, "I like what I see. Do you?"
". . . Yes, very attractive," with more than a touch of impatience in his voice. "Now, please, what is it that's so urgent?"
Missy smiled at his impatience. "Come in and relax, we'll have a glass of champagne first."
She led him into the living room, actually did what for all the world looked like a Loretta Young turn with one hand on her long skirt and the other making a sweep to show the spread awaiting his royal highness. A critic on the wall might have found her performance more like the lady showing off the prizes to contestants on "The Price Is Right".
Sitting on the sofa she said, "Why don't you come over here, and we'll have a drink. Then if you're a good fellow I just might give you a massage to help you relax after your hard day's work . . . come on," patting the cushions beside her.
Felix received all this with a certain wariness. "I'd still like to know what's so urgent."
"Darling, I didn't say urgent, I said important, and it's nothing bad, so relax. It's a very nice surprise, and I'll get to it in due time, but right now do come here. Shall I pour?" she said, reaching for the champagne.
"All right, all right, but first I'd like to wash up. I'm a bit rank after a day at the site."
She poured the champagne, stood up with a glass in each hand.
"You know where the bathroom is, but have a toast with me first."
He took the glass. "What shall we toast?"
She smiled. "Us?"
He raised his glass. "To us—friends . . ."
"And more, much more," she said, clicking glasses.
They drank, she more deeply than he, and while he went to wash up she sat down to wait, enjoying a rare feeling of contentment, her anxieties in the past.
A few moments later she realized that in her hurry to shower and dress she'd left him no clean towels. She went to the linen closet and followed him to the bathroom, hoping to find him at least bare-chested.
He had taken off his jacket, that was all, and was at the sink with his sleeves rolled up, washing his hands . . . And there, next to him in plain sight, was the ovulation predictor kit. In her hurry she had forgotten to move that too. The tubes, the tray, the booklet, there was no way he could miss them, and she felt embarrassed, like the first time her father had caught her smoking.
She lay the towels down carefully on the counter near the exposed kit, not looking at him but sure he was watching her in the mirror while he washed his hands.
"I see you've found my little surprise," she said, lightly stroking the edge of the tes
t tube rack with her fingertips. "Well, it doesn't matter. I was never very good at holding out surprises anyway."
Still bent over the sink he looked at the kit, and then at her, clearly puzzled.
She smiled. "It's called an ovulation predictor kit. It measures when a woman is fertile . . ."
Straightening, he picked up the instruction booklet. "I can see that from the title," he said, holding up the blue—and—white booklet. "But what has that got to do with me?"
"Darling, really, don't be dense. It means that today I'm fertile. I know how much you want a child, and being with you has made me want the same thing. I want to have your baby." Astonishment crossed his face. Replaced by uneasiness. "Missy, don't you think you're . . . rushing things a bit? We haven't even—"
"That, my darling, is the reason for the rushing, as you put it."
Her smile was gone. "I have a fire going in the bedroom. We can take the champagne with us—"
"Missy, back up a bit, none of this is making sense——"
"—and afterward, we'll toast each other and pick out names for the baby, our baby. It will be wonderful, just like it should be . . ."
She was looking at him while she talked, but her voice sounded flat, distant, making it seem as though she was talking to a shadow or perhaps an imaginary playmate.
Felix, carefully drying his hands on one of the fresh towels, never took his eyes off her . . . "Don't you think we should at least discuss this first?" His voice had the tone of someone indulging a headstrong child, but she seemed to miss it.
"If you like," she said, standing there, waiting.
As he took her arm and they went back to the living room, she felt calm, assured. She knew Felix so well, knew what he wanted and how to be what he wanted . . . His touch on her arm felt so strong and reassuring. She wanted to be kissed by him. And she wanted to drive him crazy with what she could do for him . . . but she held back, still determined, for the moment, to remain the lady, knowing well how temporary restraint could be a catalyst, and certain that once they were together she would make herself unforgettable to him.
He led her to the sofa and they sat facing each other, their knees almost but not quite touching. "Missy, tell me, where did you get this idea about a baby? What made you think of it?"
Still the indulgent father.
"I felt it that first night when you brought me home from Lagniappe . . ."
Shaking his head, "I don't think I quite understand . . ."
Missy took his hand and brought it to her knee, stroking his scarred knuckles with the other.
"I know, with you it all comes naturally—"
He took his hand away and reached for his champagne glass. She went on. "When we were alone you made me feel wanted, even without going to bed. Which"—she smiled brightly—"I assure you I look forward to . . ."
Felix set the glass down.
"What's wrong?" she said, voice rising. "It's Dom Perignon."
"I know," he said quickly. "Sometimes champagne, even the best, doesn't especially agree with me."
She smiled. He really was sweet. "Would you like something else?"
He hesitated. "You don't happen to have any beer, do you?"
"Sure, I'll get you one—"
"No, no, I'll get it. You stay right here."
When he came back with a Beck's in his hand he didn't sit down on the sofa with her. He sat in a chair across from her. Taking a long drink from the bottle he said, "I'm so dry after a day at that site that all I can think about is a cold beer." He was sweating.
Missy was losing patience. Here they were, one minute sitting next to each other talking about her pregnancy and going to bed, and the next he was sitting across the room talking about goddamn beer.
"That's nice, darling. Whatever makes you happy," she said, thinking to herself that after their marriage Felix's beer drinking was one habit that was going by the boards and fast. He would drink champagne and learn to love it.
"Now about this pregnancy business—-"
"Darling, you don't have to talk about it like it's a construction problem. This is our child we're talking about, not a shipment of cement blocks or girders or whatever the hell."
She lit a cigarette, got up from the sofa, began to pace with cigarette and champagne glass in the same hand. Watching her, he couldn't help thinking of Bette Davis building to one of her cinematic tantrums.
"I mean, sometimes I don't understand you. You come over here, I have a grand spread for you, you don't drink the champagne, you don't eat the oysters—I thought all Louisiana men liked oysters—"
Felix shook his head. "Missy, do you hear yourself? You call me up, invite me over, and then out of the blue announce that you're fertile and want to have my baby when we hardly know each other. Then you get hysterical because I didn't appreciate the hors d'oeuvres or the champagne . . ."
It felt like a reprimand, and it stopped her short. Just like with her father . . . "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . what I wanted was for everything to be just right for us tonight." She tried to keep the anger she felt out of her voice.
Felix stood, walked to the window and stared out into the rain. "It's all very nice. I'm sorry I haven't been appreciative, but, Missy, it's not right, it's unreal . . ."
She didn't say a word, only kept looking at his back.
He turned to face her. "I don't know quite how to put this . . . well, this just isn't the kind of relationship we have. I want us to be friends, I don't want to be your lover, and I really don't want you to have my baby——"
"Why? Aren't I good enough?"
"That's not it at all. Right now I don't want anyone to have my baby."
"But the other night at the opera you said that your marriage broke up because—"
"Yes, I know, but the key word there is marriage. I was married to Cynthia; she was my wife. It's a normal thing for a man to want his wife to have a baby."
She took a deep drag on her cigarette. "What about me? What about me? I'm talking about our baby"—she hesitated, then said it—"our marriage . . ."
"I'm sorry, Missy. You flatter me but it's out of the question. There's just not going to be any baby, or marriage . . . or anything else between us—"
"There's someone else, isn't there?"
Her tone was not the usual accusatory one of a jealous woman . . . It was, Felix thought, deep, almost a growl, and damned unsettling. Still, she was right, there definitely was someone else, and he decided now was the time to tell her so, regardless of her temper, and stop this craziness. "Yes, there is, so you see what you're proposing just isn't possible."
The storm he was expecting didn't happen. Instead she showed him a tight smile. There was no competition, she thought. He just didn't know it yet. He was no doubt thinking sweet Cynthia was out there waiting for him. He hadn't heard the news, just as she'd thought earlier.
"Who is it?" she said, wanting to hear him say it, and thinking of Cynthia's pointless struggle at the close of their evening together.
"It's not important—"
"Yes, it is. To me it is important. I want you to say her name."
She was savoring her triumph, as she waited.
He looked at her, shrugged. "It's Laura Ramsey."
Missy shook her head. "But what about Cynthia?"
"Cynthia? Good lord, there's nothing between Cynthia and me. We're just friends now, and not very good ones at that."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true; believe it."
"And you want her to have your baby?"
"Look, Missy, you've blown this baby business all out of proportion. With Cynthia I now realize I was using the notion of children to hold a shaky marriage together, to get Cynthia to give up her career. I was wrong, but that's water over the dam. I've learned, and the important thing for me now is to be with Laura. I figure the rest will take care of itself—"
"When did this Laura business happen? You couldn't have seen her more than a couple of times . . ."
"True, but sometimes that doesn't matter——"
"You stupid . . ." She stubbed out her cigarette. "What am I saying? I'm the one that's stupid. I let you use me. I went through hell deciding to have your goddamn precious baby."
"Missy, I said I'm sorry. I think we've both said enough. I really have to go now . . ." And so saying he moved toward the door, quickly opened it and was out in the rain.
As she watched him go she said aloud, "Yes, we have said enough. More than enough."
It was the voice she once used with her dolls, with Barbie and Ken, when they were bad and needed to be punished.
CHAPTER 24
IT WAS after eight when Laura finished her story on the rape-murder of Cynthia Ducroit. The bone-deep tiredness of the morning had returned, but this time she was at least satisfied with her work. And along with covering Cynthia's death she had done a follow-up piece on Terri, Marie and Cynthia, all tied together by the common bond of their murderer. She called it "Evil Knows No Neighborhood," a head that Stuart clearly approved.
The newsroom was empty now. The few still working were on their dinner break, and she thought how cold and impersonal it felt without colleagues around.
Hours had passed since she had heard from Sloan. She couldn't wait any longer to hear about Felix, so she called Sloan, who told her that he couldn't be located at his office, his apartment or his construction site. Clearly Sloan was burning up over the lack of results.
Not until after she hung up did she find the message, taken earlier by Gene, from Felix telling her to meet him for drinks at Lagniappe. She briefly considered calling Sloan back, telling him where he could find Felix, letting Felix clear himself, then decided against it. lt would be better to see him first herself. As she pulled on her trenchcoat and belted it against the rain she knew that no matter what George Sloan thought, Felix was not hiding from the police. Somehow they were just missing each other. She would go over to Lagniappe, meet him for the drink and get the whole thing straightened out.
The streets were empty in the rain and she even found a parking place on Market near the subway entrance. Turning up her collar, she made a dash up Second Street.