The path was flagstone, old and wide, cut into the slope and flanked by mossy stone walls as it descended. The garden itself had once been grand and classical, but was now overgrown, ruined and dreamy, centered around a pocked stone fountain of frolicking nymphs, highlighted by the defiant blooms of rugged old roses. I imagined it in its heyday—manicured, lawn parties, ladies in long dresses, gentlemen in hats, Daphne’s childhood in a gilded bubble.
I headed down toward the folly, which sat on a perch above the train tracks and the river. It was rundown too, but pretty cool—octagonal, stone halfway up, then open, finally topped by an onion dome like a Russian church. As I got close, I saw a flash of blue inside. For a moment I thought it was a large bird. I stopped, focused: it was a robe … a quilted blue robe. Hanging from the rafters.
Daphne was in the robe.
I hurried down the path and stepped into the folly. Daphne was hanging from a noose made from the robe’s belt, her feet dangling about three feet above the ground, a chair nearby. Her head hung over her collarbone, her mouth was slightly open, her tongue protruding. Her eyes were open too, but her eyeballs were rolled back and all I could see was white. The expression on her face wasn’t that final peace we all dream about.
It was terror.
It was quiet, wet, the world seemed very still—it was just me and Daphne’s corpse.
I was with my friend Lena when she died of ovarian cancer, and my friend Manny when he died of AIDS. Fear at the end is common; death is a scary river to cross. But this was different. I barely knew this woman, and it looked like she’d killed herself. Something had happened in the last twenty-four hours that had plunged Daphne into the abyss. And there she was, hanging from a beam.
What to do next?
I had an urge to climb up on the chair and bring her down, move her body into a more dignified position. But it wasn’t my place to do that.
I supposed I should go and tell Godfrey—he probably had champagne chilling for just this occasion. But the thought of going back into that swirling vortex of rage, lunacy, and loss filled me with dread. Still, I really didn’t have any choice, did I? I needed a few minutes to get my bearings. So I just stood there.
Then I took out my cell phone and called George.
“I’m standing in a crumbling gazebo in front of Daphne Livingston’s dead body. She hung herself.”
“Holy shit.”
“It’s spooky.”
There was a pause and then George asked, “Are you sure it’s suicide?”
“I hadn’t considered anything else.”
“Hey, remember, that family is looney tunes. And there’s a lot at stake.”
I looked at Daphne. I guess it was possible that someone had hauled her body up there, but it didn’t seem very likely.
“I’m going to call the police,” I said.
“Good idea. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, keep me posted.”
I hung up and dialed 911. I couldn’t take my eyes off Daphne, dead, hanging there in that quilted blue robe. For the first time I noticed a small trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. And she had soiled herself.
“What is the nature of your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked.
“I found a dead body.”
“Are you sure the individual is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Location?”
“Westward Farm, River Road, Rhinebeck.”
“We’ll send someone out.”
She took my name and asked me not to leave the area.
I hung up, took one last look at poor Daphne, and headed for the house.
I walked in to find Maggie pretty much as I’d left her—naked with her hookah, her remote, and her Dots. Rodent was on another couch, pulling the stuffing out of a pillow.
“Hi, Maggie, I need to speak to Claire and Godfrey. And Becky, too.”
Even from the depths of her stoned zone, Maggie could tell that something was up. She got up, walked into the bisected front hall, cupped her hands to her mouth, and screamed upstairs, “GODFREY! GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS DOWNSTAIRS! YOU TOO, CLAIRE AND BECKY!”
There were footfalls on the front steps and Godfrey appeared, wearing an ink-smeared smock and a do-rag on his head. Claire appeared from the direction of the kitchen.
Claire took one look at me and said, “Is everything all right?”
“I went looking for Daphne. I found her in the gazebo past the garden, she’s … dead.”
The three of them looked at each other. Tears began to stream down Maggie’s face, Godfrey tilted his head and his eyebrows went up.
“Poor Daphne,” Claire muttered. “How did she die?”
“I found her hanging from a beam.”
Maggie let loose an incoherent wail and her tears morphed into a blubbery weeping fit.
Becky appeared. “Wassup?”
“Aunt Daphne killed herself in the summerhouse,” Claire told her.
“How come?”
“She was having a bad hair day. For Christ’s sakes, Becky, why do you think she killed herself? She was a terribly unhappy woman. What is wrong with this family?” Claire said, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t get all fucking high and mighty with me,” Becky said, going to Rodent and picking her up.
“I could have saved her, but she wouldn’t let me,” Godfrey said.
“The police are on their way out here,” I said.
“You called the police?” Godfrey said.
I nodded.
“You had no right to call the police to Westward Farm. I don’t even know you. Who are you?” he said.
“I discovered a dead body and called the police.”
“Well, I want to see my sister,” Godfrey said.
He headed for the door, followed by Maggie, who slipped into a pair of flip-flops and a rain slicker,, Claire, and Becky, who scooped up Rodent.
“Do you really think bringing Rodina is a good idea?” Claire asked her sister.
“Why not?” Becky answered.
Claire lowered her voice, “She’s three years old, Becky, seeing a dead body hanging from a beam might not be the best thing for her.”
“I guess you know all about raising a kid, huh? You know, Claire, I’m sick of you looking down at me, you and your stupid fucking Ph.D.”
“It’s not my fault you chose to fry your brain cells on crystal meth. Not that you had that many to begin with … I can’t believe I just said that. I’m sorry. Look, Becky, please, leave Rodina here. Just trust me.”
Becky made a pouting face and then put Rodina down on the couch. “You stay here, Rodent honey, Mommy will be back in a few minutes.”
We all followed Godfrey outside. He strode around the house toward the garden.
“Oh, Godfrey, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Maggie moaned, rushing to keep up with him.
Claire reached out and took Becky’s hand. “You okay, Beckums?”
“I’m scared, Claire-claire.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Claire said.
All four of them were charged with that strange thrill death brings. I’d seen it over and over in my practice—nothing makes people feel more alive than death.
Godfrey rushed down the garden steps, through its wistful decrepitude, and reached the summer house. We followed him in.
“Oh no, poor Daphne!” Maggie keened on seeing the body, “Poor dear Daphne, poor Daphne, poor Daphne!”
“Cool it, Maggie!” Godfrey barked.
“Wow,” Becky said, looking up at her dead aunt.
Godfrey climbed up on the wobbly chair. “Okay, girls, I’m going to lower her down. Get underneath and grab her.”
The three wom
en gathered under the body and Godfrey began to untie the blue quilted belt that wound around the beam and then Daphne’s broken neck.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I turned. A cop in his early thirties was standing there.
“I am restoring to my sister a shred of dignity,” Godfrey said.
“Until I’m told different this is a crime scene. All of you clear the area.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Godfrey said.
“Dad …” Claire pleaded.
“I am Godfrey Livingston and my family has owned this land since 1732.”
“That’s great,” the cop said. “Now clear the area.”
An older, portlier policeman arrived. He looked at Daphne and his eyebrows went up. “Damn,” he muttered. He blew out air, looked down, scratched his head. “Godfrey, I’m awful sorry.”
“I’m very glad to see you, Charlie,” Godfrey said. “I would like to lower my sister to the floor. It bothers me to see her like this.”
“I don’t see what harm that can do.”
The younger cop walked over to him. “Isn’t this officially a crime scene? It’s being compromised.”
“These are the Livingstons, Paul.”
“Yeah, but …”
“There is no but, Paul. Now, why don’t you help bring Daphne down?”
Godfrey stepped off the chair. Paul shrugged, stepped up onto it, and expertly lowered the body into Godfrey’s and Claire’s arms. They placed her on the floor. Godfrey sat cross-legged beside her and gently pushed the hair out of her face.
“You must be Janet Petrocelli,” Charlie said. I nodded. “Let’s head back to the house. I’ll need to get statements from everyone. Paul, you stay here.”
“Charlie, please, before we go,” Godfrey said, “I’d like to make a soul circle for my sister.” He stood up and held out his hands. Soon we were all holding hands in a circle around Daphne’s dead body, even the two reluctant cops.
Godfrey closed his eyes. “Sister Daphne, the Unknown World awaits you, peace awaits you—like when it rained and cook made us cinnamon toast before Mother got addicted to pills and Father got addicted to transvestite hookers and everything got twisted and weird. Come home, Daphne, home to the Unknown World.”
I snuck a look around—Charlie looked like one of those people in church who work really hard at praying, Paul was scratching his butt crack.
Godfrey turned his head skyward and went into a bellowing chant—“WHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Must have freaked out the birds and squirrels.
He ended it abruptly. Then a hand squeeze went around the circle and everyone opened their eyes.
“I have saved my sister,” Godfrey said modestly.
I looked down at Daphne—she didn’t look too saved to me.
I got a lousy night’s sleep—I kept running things over in my mind again and again. That whole crazy household, what George had said about it maybe not being a suicide, the sight of Daphne hanging from the rafters in that crumbling summerhouse, the look on her face. In the morning I felt a vague unease—coupled with an intense desire to understand what had happened and to somehow make things right. It was the same feeling I used to get when a particularly touching client got under my skin. I never quite managed that whole “don’t take it home with you” thing that was a prerequisite for a sane career in the psychiatric field.
I dragged my ass out of bed and checked myself out in the mirror. Not a pretty picture. I tended to sleep in the same position—curled on my left side—and over the years I’d developed a long morning-wrinkle that ran down my left cheek and was complemented by a section of hair on the back of my head that stuck straight out. When I was in my teens and twenties guys used to tell me I was “cute.” Cute doesn’t age well, but I guess my face had some character—as in “character actor.” Whatever. Aging ain’t pretty, but it beats the alternative.
My place was big, sprawling. The building was built in the 1890s as a hardware store and the upstairs was originally used for storage. It had a loft-like, high-ceilinged front room with a row of windows overlooking the street, and a kitchen at the opposite end. There were three bedrooms, a bath, and a porch off the back. It was about ten times the size of my Brooklyn apartment and I felt like I could breath easier, stand taller—and since I was five-foot-four every centimeter mattered. It had the added advantage of serving as a way station for my inventory, and I played a permanent game of musical furniture.
I made a pot of coffee. It was almost ten o’clock. I like to sleep on the late side. When people rave about how beautiful the world looks in the early morning, I tell them it looks just as beautiful in the late morning. George was picking me up for the town meeting at ten-thirty, and that kid Josie was coming in for her trial day. There was no chance she would work out, but at least my conscience wouldn’t bug me.
I gulped two cups of coffee, wolfed down a banana, fed my menagerie, took a quick shower, threw on some jeans and a shirt, and headed downstairs just as Josie arrived at the shop. She had cleaned herself up, and looked nervous as hell.
“Morning.”
“Good morning, Ms. Petrocelli.”
“It’s Janet. And you look nice. All right, here’s the drill. Nothing in this store is what you would call a valuable antique, so if people ask questions just sort of wing it. Say it’s a nice piece, great color, cool design, that kind of thing. You can knock ten percent off the price of anything, twenty percent if it’s over two hundred bucks. Let Sputnik out back every couple of hours. Help yourself to anything in the fridge or the cupboard. That’s it.”
I was about to head outside to wait for George when the phone rang.
“Janet’s Planet.”
“We need to talk.” It was a woman’s voice—throaty and hip, not young.
“Who is this?”
“Esmerelda Pillow. And we do need to talk.”
“What about?”
“The tides, longing … Daphne Livingston, the life and death of.”
“So talk, I have about a minute.”
“Tick-tock, tick-tock.” She laughed, ironic, knowing—this chick was deep. “No matter how fast we run we all end up in the same place.”
“Cute.”
“Meet me out at the lighthouse tomorrow morning at dawn.”
“Should I bring my I Ching?”
That laugh again, with its mocking edge. Then she hung up.
“I’m in love,” were George’s first words as I climbed into his vintage hearse.
“That was quick. I saw you the day before yesterday.”
“That’s how true love happens, Janet, you of all people should know that. It’s just POW! and there you are—two people madly deeply insanely in love. Oh God, I’m all tingly.”
I’d known George a little under a year and this was the third time he’d fallen madly, deeply, insanely in love, so I took it with a grain of salt—one of those fat Kosher grains.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Dwayne. He’s an artist.”
“What kind?”
“He works in wood.”
“So he’s a carpenter?”
“Don’t be so prosaic, Janet. But, yes, he came to repair my wobbly step—and the rest is destiny.”
“Anything else I should know about him?” I asked. George had a way of leaving out salient details if they smudged his rose-colored glasses.
“No,” George said, a little too casually. “Except that’s he’s quirky, kind, soulful, hot …”
“And …”
“You know, Janet, you’re impossible. You just want to piss on my parade … So what if he’s married, it’s just a technicality at this point.”
“I doubt his wife feels that way.”
“I would hope his wife w
ants him to become who he is.”
“You mean her husband?”
“If he was getting what he needed at home, I don’t think he would have fallen into my arms.”
I reached over and squeezed his thigh. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Oh, Janet, he’s incredible. I’m making him dinner tonight … if he can find a babysitter.”
I just let that one sit there. I’m not into bubble bursting—they have a way of deflating on their own.
“So have you been putting in any shifts at the ER?” I asked.
“Nah. Benedictine Hospital called me last week and asked me to fill in for a few days, but the timing was wrong.”
“You don’t miss the excitement?”
“Sometimes I do. But these days three-quarters of ER visits are folks without insurance who show up with the flu or a nasty splinter. Not exactly life and death stuff,” George said. “Besides, Dwayne is all the excitement I can handle.”
I filled George in on the details of what had happened yesterday.
“What if Daphne was murdered, wouldn’t that be fabulous?”
“George, murder isn’t fabulous.”
“Of course it is. It’s almost like sex!”
I could always count on George to cut to the id.
The Sawyerville town hall was one of those new buildings that’s supposed both to relate to the past and aspire to the future, and fails at both—it was a mishmash of red brick, flagstone trim, a swooping roof, and way too much glass. There was a rowdy crowd out front, lots of signs opposed to River Landing, George waved greetings to his compatriots. He loved all this—the fight, the passion, the camaraderie, and most of all the attention.
A small, hirsute male creature suddenly appeared and jumped up onto George, wrapping himself around his torso. With an explosion of matted hair that hadn’t been washed in a decade or so, a matching beard, filthy bare feet, and wearing a costume left over from a dinner theater production of Oliver, he was a cross between an organ grinder’s monkey and a midget hippie with a Messiah complex.
To the Manor Dead Page 4