A Woman’s Eye

by Sara Paretsky

  “Well, what’s the deal then, about the letter?” she said.

  “You can write it right now, if you like,” I said.

  “No, I want to really give it some thought. Tomorrow, same time, here, okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She got up, stretching her arm out to caress me. I pulled back instinctively.

  “You’re still an uptight, repressed conservative, my friend,” she said softly, I watched her leave, balancing on a set of spike heels that made me dizzy. She must not have been too comfortable in them, because when she went to go up the two steps leading to the vestibule, she twisted an ankle and nearly ended up all over the floor, She turned around and smiled mischievously.

  The next day, at the same time, Monica had had to go out, but she’d left the letter for me. Typewritten, shit! But I assumed that the signature would make it plenty valid.

  That night I caught a plane for home. With the money I’d get for that job, I’d treat myself to a nice little week off.

  IX

  Victor was waiting for me at his pavilion. He was furious. He’d been calling me every day at the office, and Quim told him the truth at first, that is, that I was in Paris and then in London checking out some leads, and then lies, that is, that I was still in London. I’d given my word to the two women that I’d give them a little head start, ten days to be exact. Ten desperate days for Victor, I was sick to death of sticking around the house, and Quim was in a rage for having to deal with the details.

  He ushered me in without saying a word, but he made up for that with the look on his face. His curiosity about what had happened overcame his anger at not being kept informed, After all, we had agreed to keep him abreast of all the details.

  I gave him Monica’s letter.

  Dear Victor,

  By the time you read this letter, I won’t be Monica anymore. Get used to the idea. Think of it as a death, because that’s the truth. I haven’t been your wife for a very long time, and I’ve had to make colossal efforts to keep you from noticing. It’s not just a question of love worn out, it’s a matter of total incompatibility, not just with you personally, but with you as a man, a male. I know it’s going to hurt you, but I’ve been Pat’s lover for a long time. My sexual relationship with you wasn’t a disaster because I was frigid, but because I’m a lesbian. I hope you won’t dismiss and scorn me-because I don’t consider my condition shameful-but if you do, and if I disgust you, it’s all the same to me, and I won’t even be surprised, knowing you as I do. I hope you won’t take all this as a big tragedy. Just try to understand, and try to make a new life, as I’ve done.

  Love, Monica

  P.S. Tell Daddy to let you go ahead with the development. My opposition was a silly childish stubbornness, totally illogical.

  Victor looked at me, beside himself.

  “Do you want to read my report?” I asked.

  “What’s the point?”

  “Well, it would clear up a few details,” I said, positive that what I was saying was absurd.

  “It’s all as clear as a bell,” he mumbled.

  A very long silence ensued. He stared at the letter, without seeing it. Finally, he exploded.

  When the fireplace had consumed all the photographs, including the ones I’d made, he seemed to calm down a little.

  “Listen, Lonia, I don’t think I’m up to giving this letter to my in-laws. Would you mind? You could give them the report, too.”

  “Victor, read it yourself first, then decide whether you really want her parents to read it. There’s some stuff …”

  He wasn’t listening to me. I left the report on the couch, went through the Pradells’ yard with Monica’s letter in my purse, and rang their doorbell.

  X

  “Hi, sweetie,” Quim greeted me.

  He was munching on a tired-looking old sandwich and reading the paper, as usual. Every day. I let the dog out and looked over the mail. All business letters, of course. Bank statements, junk mail.

  “A crazed guy showed up,” Quim said distractedly. “Seems his wife is fooling around. Shall I do it, or do you want to?”

  I broke a toothpick and let him choose. Without even looking, he picked the shorter one.

  “Guess I get to do it,” I said.

  “Let me finish reading the paper and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I finished looking over the mail. There was an impersonal note from Victor, accompanied by a check that knocked me over.

  “Hey, Quim, you’ll have to find the gal that’s cheating on her old man after all. I just struck it rich!”

  Quim dropped his sandwich when he saw the figure.

  “We’re partners, right, sweetie?” he said.

  “Sure, but I’ll just help myself to a few bucks first so I can get a permanent. This very day. I’m off to the bank, and then to the beauty parlor.”

  Quim’s mouth fell open, He didn’t know what to say. I don’t know whether he grumbled or not, since I was already gone.

  At the beauty parlor, with all kinds of critters running around in my head, I realized that Victor didn’t want to have any more to do with me. My sorrow was somewhat assuaged by the roll of banknotes I had in my purse, though. A victim of the ups and downs, I leafed through one of those worn magazines, the kind that tell you all about how such and such a singer has the flu, or how Mr. Bullfighter gets terrible headaches.

  Then I saw her: Mrs. Monica Pradell de Cabanes at a dinner in honor of who knows whom. And Victor two spaces away from her. Except that Monica wasn’t Monica. While they were taking my curlers out, with the permanent half done, my little brain was in sixth gear. By the time I walked out the door, my strategy was set: it was the beginning of a crazy week.

  Beauty parlor, Patricia, psychiatrist. The three Ps. I called a dozen counselors before I found the one I was looking for. Naturally, they didn’t want to tell me anything, not on the phone and not in person. Professional secrecy. Adela would help me out.

  “I absolutely must have a look at Monica Pradell’s file,” I said to her. “Among colleagues, professional secrecy shouldn’t be a barrier.”

  I told her about the case, with all the gory details. She called me that afternoon. Monica wasn’t a lesbian or anything like it. And so on.

  I took off for London. Just as I suspected, the Carse Hotel had no record of Monica Pradell’s visit. Then I went to Paris. I surreptitiously altered Patricia’s apartment and found more than I was counting on. They were so confident that they’d forgotten about me altogether and weren’t even being careful.

  Home again. Now it was absolutely necessary for me to get into the pavilion, and into the Pradells’ main house, too, without the family realizing it. Or with some kind of believable excuse. The dog, of course.

  I watched from the car, waiting until they would all be gone. The first day, Mrs. Pradell stayed home. The next day, she left an hour after her husband left, who had gone out an hour after their son-in-law.

  “I’ve lost the dog, and I thought maybe she’d come back here,” I said to the maid.

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Wouldn’t you let me have a look around?” I begged. “Maybe she’s hiding somewhere in the house. I’m so upset!”

  We searched every corner of the house. No sign of the dog. But I did find out that the Pradells had put an oil painting of Monica up in their attic. The maid even let me see a photo album where there were pictures of Monica and Patricia hugging. Next to that scandalous photo there was one of Monica by herself, wearing flat shoes with crepe soles.

  What a perfect setup they’d created, those two! Real pros, capable of deceiving a pro like myself. Or am I such a pro after all? Maybe I’m just picking daisies.

  Then we went to the pavilion, me and the maid. The dog wasn’t there either, of course, but it gave me a chance to lift a scarf without her noticing.

  “Maybe she’ll come home on her own,” I said, all discouraged. “Listen, I’d rather they didn’t know that
I’ve lost the dog, you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, of course,” the maid said. “I won’t say a word, and if she shows up, I’ll let you know.”

  I started the car and two blocks away I let the dog out of the trunk, where she was having a nice nap.

  I raced toward Blue Sea. They had already started the construction and it was a bees’ nest of machines and people. Shit, I’d have to wait until Sunday. On Sunday it was deserted. Sleeping machines, but they’d already torn up the earth. Displaced cliffs, holes, piles, and puddles all over the place. It was a crime to see such a gorgeous landscape so mistreated. A real rape.

  I put the scarf to the dog’s nose. The animal barked, then she looked at me astonished, and it even seemed she remembered. She went crazy sniffing. She ran wild. I could hardly follow her. The coast went uphill, forming cliffs and little sandless beaches you could only get to by sea, at least for the moment. The dog was on top of a rock, quite a few feet below me: she was howling and trying to find a way to get down. I called her, but she didn’t hear me. Or she heard but didn’t pay any attention. In any case, she found a way to keep going down and I lost sight of her. I could still hear her whiny yelps.

  I had to rescue her with a boat. She was soaked, exhausted, hoarse. We didn’t find what the two of us were looking for. But at least she’d found a piece of crepe-heeled shoe.

  It all meshed.

  XI

  I didn’t ask for permission to go into Victor’s office. I opened the door softly and said with my very best smile:

  “Hi!”

  I saw again the same surprised look I saw the first day he came to my office. Then, the same charming smile.

  “I just came to tell you that Monica really was going to a psychiatrist. I thought you might be interested.”

  “I know that, it’s in your report.”

  “I put it in my report because Patricia told me that But it was a story you and she made up. A lie that turns out to be true, how about that! Only one thing is different: the motive. She didn’t go to a psychiatrist because she was a lesbian, she went because you forced her to make love with you whether she wanted to or not. Naturally, she felt raped, So she didn’t want you to develop the place she loved most. It’s as if she wanted to save the land from being raped, since she wasn’t able to save herself from it.”

  He was listening to me with a sarcastic smile, but I could see a spark of fear in his eyes.

  “What’s all this about? Where did you dream up a story like that? What are you getting at?”

  He spoke with a harsh voice, the voice of a secure man. Too harsh and too secure to be real,

  I put Monica’s pendant on his desk.

  “I saw Monica in London. She was wearing the pendant. But what do you know! I just happened to find it in Patricia’s apartment in Paris, By the way, Monica doesn’t look much like this picture, does she?”

  He repressed himself perfectly when I showed him the magazine.

  “Besides, you were in such a rush to burn those pictures you made me believe were of Monica, but in fact were of Patricia,”

  “Now you’re really getting embroiled, honey. The profession’s gone to your head!”

  “Were you aware that Monica’s dog whined and got scared whenever she came across crepe-soled shoes? My colleague’s, for example. And she completely chewed up one of mine, a real old one. Then the poor old hound helped me find the crepe sole that drove her crazy in the first place,”

  I set the piece of shoe on his desk, Monica’s, that is, the real Monica, Victor paled.

  “They’re the shoes Monica was wearing when this picture was taken, this picture I found in your in-laws’ album, I found this one, too, Monica and Patricia together. Monica was prettier than Pat, but I have to admit that Pat carried off the part of Monica real well, and even better when she played herself in that dark Paris apartment. Oh, yeah, I found this in Paris, too!”

  A very curly, mahogany-colored wig.

  He sank into his chair with sagging shoulders. He looked so vulnerable I felt sorry for him. But I had to be strong now, I couldn’t allow myself to be deceived again.

  “It was an accident, Lònia … I was so enraged, and I-I loved her, I loved Monica, but sometimes she drove me wild. She was so harsh!”

  “You’re a disgusting liar. You loved Patricia. That’s why Patricia agreed to pass for Monica. Or what?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He was recovering little by little. “Patricia did it for the money. She was real palsy with Monica, but only because of what she could get out of it. No, they weren’t lesbians, of course, but Monica did have a weird weakness for Pat, and after the accident, I schemed the whole thing and Pat agreed to take on the role….”

  “So in fact, what you wanted was a report from a pro and a letter from Monica obtained by that pro so that Mr. Pradell would reject his daughter as a pervert, right? That way, you’d be the victim and get your in-laws’ sympathy, plus the permit to begin the development.”

  “You’ve done a terrific job, Lònia. Seems like I should hire you foll time, so you’ll work just for me!”

  The nerve! He took out his checkbook and raised his mocking eyes:

  “What will your monthly salary be?” he smiled.

  “I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Pradell that. He’s just outside, waiting for me to open the door. I consider myself well paid with what I’ve learned. Now I know for sure that if I want to stay in this profession I’ll have to get thicker skin. And that I can’t trust male clients, no matter how good-looking and nice they are, when they tell me I’ll do a better job because I’m a woman.”

  Mr. Pradell was waiting by the door, looking pretty grim.

  I waited outdoors, with the dog in my arms. When Victor came out handcuffed, between two guys in raincoats, I still felt a touch of pity.

  SARA PARETSKY’s private eye V, I. Warshawski helped to define the “new” female sleuth in modern American crime fiction. Each of the Warshawski books published to date-Bitter Medicine, Killing Orders, Deadlock, Indemnity Only, Blood Shot, and Burn Marks-has attracted a larger readership, with the last-named novel making a number of national and regional best-seller lists. Ms. Paretsky and her creation both live and work in Chicago.

  SETTLED SCORE

  A V. I. WARSHAWSKI STORY

  Sara Paretsky

  For Bob Kirschner, who helped make it work

  I

  “It’s such a difficult concept to deal with. I just don’t like to use that word.” Paul Servino turned to me, his mobile mouth pursed consideringly. “I put it to you, Victoria: you’re a lawyer. Would you not agree?”

  “I agree that the law defines responsibility differently than we do when we’re talking about social or moral relations,” I said carefully. “No state’s attorney is going to try to get Mrs. Hampton arrested, but does that-”

  “You see,” Servino interrupted. “That’s just my point.

  ” “But it’s not mine,” Lotty said fiercely, her thick dark brows forming a forbidding line across her forehead. “And if you had seen Claudia with her guts torn out by lye, perhaps you would think a little differently.”

  The table was silenced for a moment: we were surprised by the violent edge to Lotty’s anger. Penelope Herschel shook her head slightly at Servino,

  He caught her eye and nodded. “Sorry, Lotty. I didn’t mean to upset you so much.”

  Lotty forced herself to smile. “Paul, you think you develop a veneer after thirty years as a doctor. You think you see people in all their pain and that your professionalism protects you from too much feeling. But that girl was fifteen. She had her life in front of her. She didn’t want to have a baby. And her mother wanted her to. Not for religious reasons, even-she’s English with all their contempt for Catholicism. But because she hoped to continue to control her daughter’s life. Claudia felt overwhelmed by her mother’s pressure and swallowed a jar of oven cleaner. Now don’t tell me the mother is not responsible. I do not give
one damn if no court would try her: to me, she caused her daughter’s death as surely as if she had poured the poison into her.”

  Servino ignored another slight headshake from Lotty’s niece. “It is a tragedy. But a tragedy for the mother, too. You don’t think she meant her daughter to kill herself, do you, Lotty?”

  Lotty gave a tense smile. “What goes on in the unconscious is surely your department, Paul, But perhaps that was Mrs. Hampton’s wish. Of course, if she didn’t intend for Claudia to die, the courts would find her responsibility diminished. Am I not right, Vic?”

  I moved uneasily in my chair. I didn’t want to referee this argument: it had all the earmarks of the kind of domestic fight where both contestants attack the police. Besides, while the rest of the dinner party was interested in the case and sympathetic to Lotty’s feelings, none of them cared about the question of legal versus moral responsibility.

  The dinner was in honor of Lotty Herschel’s niece Penelope, making one of her periodic scouting forays into Chicago’s fashion scene. Her father-Lotty’s only brother-owned a chain of high-priced women’s dress shops in Montreal, Quebec, and Toronto. He was thinking of making Chicago his US beachhead, and Penelope was out looking at locations as well as previewing the Chicago designers’ spring ideas.

  Lotty usually gave a dinner for Penelope when she was in town. Servino was always invited. An analyst friend of Lotty’s, he and Penelope had met on one of her first buying trips to Chicago. Since then, they’d seen as much of each other as two busy professionals half a continent apart could manage. Although their affair now had five years of history to it, Penelope continued to stay with Lotty when she was in town.

  The rest of the small party included Max Loewenthal, the executive director of Beth Israel, where Lotty treated perinatal patients, and Chaim Lemke, a clarinetist with the Aeolus Woodwind Quintet. A slight, melancholy man, he had met Lotty and Max in London, where they’d all been refugees. Chaim’s wife, Greta, who played harpsichord and piano for an early music group, didn’t come along. Lotty said not to invite her because she was seeing Paul professionally, but anyway, since she was currently living with Aeolus oboist Rudolph Strayarn, she probably wouldn’t have accepted.