“Well, I suppose if you can do it, why not?”
A few of my wealthy clients who complained about the sorry state of commercial florists had flowers trucked in from their houses in the country or else from private greenhouses out of state. However, this was the first time I’d heard of having flowers flown specially across the Atlantic on a regular basis. Even I, who encountered all sorts of extravagances in my line of work, found this extraordinary.
“Did you like your narcissus?” Mrs. Griffin asked.
I suddenly remembered the plant she’d sent me. In the wake of the evening’s reading, I’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh yes! Sorry! I meant to thank you for it. It’s lovely. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“I thought you should have a little something to cheer you up.”
“That’s very kind of you but I’m not sad, Mrs. Griffin,” I said, trying to make light of a perplexing remark.
“Never mind, we all need cheering up,” she replied.
Using a garden clippers with the precision of a surgeon, Mrs. Griffin trimmed the leaves and thorns off a sunset-colored rose and placed it strategically in the middle of all the tulips. She stood back a little, admiring her creation.
“Voilà!” she said crisply, removing her gloves. “I’m finished here. We’ll do the rest later, Bridey.”
The maid nodded and began picking up the debris.
“Why did you put a rose in the middle of all those tulips?” I inquired.
“I enjoy the unexpected,” she said. “Will you join me for lunch later on?”
“I don’t usually take a long lunch.”
“It will be short and light. I promise.”
“Well, thank you,” I replied, accepting her invitation against my better judgment.
“I’ll meet you in the living room at a quarter to one,” she instructed.
She disappeared down the corridor. I went off to the ballroom to begin work. I had qualms about joining her for lunch. Dining alone with her was bound to produce a certain intimacy, and I wanted to remain as independent from her as possible. But a part of me, the part that had stayed up half the night studying the newspaper clippings of her daughter’s murder, that part wanted to know how she’d remained all these years in the same house where the crime took place, that part was interested in getting to know her.
The morning passed slowly. I made several sketches I wasn’t happy with and smoked too many cigarettes. By noon I was famished and wished to God I could just go out and eat my sandwich on the lawn as I’d originally planned. I was in a bad mood on account of the work not going well, and the last thing I felt like was having to make polite conversation with my employer.
I walked back to the main house at the appointed hour and waited impatiently for Mrs. Griffin in the living room, anxious to get lunch over with as quickly as possible and go back to work. I glanced at the fine Louis XVI ormolu-mounted mantel clock above the fireplace. It was set at exactly twenty to one, as was a charming blue enamel clock by Fabergé on the table beside the sofa. I adjusted my wristwatch, concluding it was fast. I was pleased when Mrs. Griffin appeared at the door at exactly a quarter to one, according to those supurb time pieces. She kept a punctual house. I liked that. And she looked refreshed, having changed into a pale blue linen dress and pearls. Her hair was perfectly in place and, I detected, a slightly lighter shade than it had been in the morning. This was the first time I suspected she was wearing a wig.
I followed her into the dining room, where Deane served us lunch at the small round table in front of the bay window facing out onto the garden. As he passed the platter of fish to Mrs. Griffin, he whispered: “The piece on the left has no butter, Madam.”
She nodded.
“I’m on this ghastly diet,” she said, serving herself the dry filet of sole. “My cholesterol—whatever that is—has suddenly shot up for some unknown reason and the doctor’s put me on this ridiculous regime for at least six months. Such a bore, I can’t tell you. When I was your age, no one had ever heard of things like cholesterol and plaque and whatnot. You ate what you wanted and you were either fat or thin. The older I get, the more I think there’s such a thing as too much information.”
“Or not enough,” I said.
She let the remark pass.
“My cook hates preparing food for me these days because I’ve told him he can’t use any oil or butter or cream. You don’t know what that does to these prima donna chefs. It’s like telling an artist he can only paint in black and white. So he loves it when I have company and he can show off. How is it?”
I tasted my fish.
“Delicious,” I said enthusiastically.
“Good. I don’t want him to lose his touch.”
I sipped some mineral water, avoiding the wine, and looked out onto the garden. The trellises were weeping great bunches of wisteria. A lone bird was warbling softly. Everything seemed so perfect and tranquil.
“It’s lovely and peaceful here,” I said.
“I loathe noise. I have what my doctor calls hyperacusis. Which means I’m oversensitive to sound. I hear things no one else can hear.”
What an interesting bit of information, I thought. That being the case, wouldn’t she have heard something the night Cassandra was murdered?
“I don’t know how you stand living in the city,” she went on. “I couldn’t stand the noise.”
“I’m used to it now. I think of the noise as company.”
“You live alone?” she asked.
“Except for Brush.”
“Animals are so comforting and you don’t have to worry about them like you do about children. But Pom-Pom is a very bad little man and he’s ruining all my rugs.” She glanced down at the sleeping dog. “Did you have a productive morning?”
“Not really,” I sighed. “But I’m just getting started. I did have some ideas I wanted to discuss with you.”
“I’d really rather see things than discuss them, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll plow ahead on my own then. Right now, I’m just trying to get to know the room as well as I can.”
“Oh yes,” she said sympathetically. “Rooms are like people. It takes time to get to know them. And even then, the interesting ones keep revealing themselves more and more.”
Mrs. Griffin finished eating before I did. She leaned back and took a cigarette from a silver box on the table, hesitating before lighting it.
“Will the smoke bother you?” she asked.
“No, not at all.”
She struck a match and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, then exhaling the smoke through her nose and mouth like a practiced smoker. I’m not sure why the sight of her smoking surprised me, but it did. I hadn’t pictured her with that particular habit.
“My doctor’s absolutely forbidden me to smoke. But I don’t care. There are some things in life I simply won’t give up,” she announced.
“What’s another one?”
She cocked her head to one side as if the question amused her.
“Linen sheets,” she replied.
“Linen sheets don’t sound like a vice, and they certainly won’t kill you.”
“No, they kill the maids though,” she chuckled. “They’re a terrible bore to wash and iron. I have a lady who comes in once a week just to do them, but she’s getting so old she can hardly hold the iron. The young ones don’t know how to do them correctly. And they’re not interested in learning. Nobody wants to work for anybody anymore. The days of real service are gone, along with all the lovely old-world amenities and craftsmanship. Don’t you notice that?”
“People say that, but I try to use the old techniques whenever I can. I’ve studied with people who know them. Certainly in my craft the older techniques are the most reliable.”
“Chocolate!” she said suddenly.
&
nbsp; “Sorry?”
“Another thing I won’t give up.”
I laughed. “Oh I can certainly sympathize with that. I’m a chocoholic.”
“Let’s see . . . What else?” she said thoughtfully.
She seemed as fixated on this notion of things she wouldn’t give up as she was on the blue string of smoke rising from her cigarette.
“This house,” she said. “I won’t give up this house.” She said it defiantly, as though someone had asked her to.
“Why should you?”
Of course I knew perfectly well why she should, and I honestly didn’t know whether I’d asked the question out of nervousness or in order to be provocative.
“Why should I?” she asked. “Well, for one thing, because my daughter was murdered here.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and picked through the fish. When I looked up again, she was staring hard at me. I felt my mouth shape itself into a nervous little grin. I said nothing.
“You knew that, didn’t you? That Cassa was murdered right here, in this house?”
“Yes,” I said softly. “I did know that.”
Now the question: was I going to tell her how much I knew?
“I suppose you wonder how on earth I continue living here.”
I nodded.
“Everyone does,” she said.
Her mood changed to one of reflection.
“I wonder it myself sometimes,” she said, making careful cross-hatchings with her fork on the tablecloth. “My husband wanted to move after it happened. But I wouldn’t. I just couldn’t bear to leave. I know this is going to sound odd, but, you see, I feel close to Cassa here. She grew up here. I feel her all around me still. I need to feel her all around me, especially now that I’m getting old. It comforts me.”
She put the fork down and sat very still. She looked smaller and frailer than before, dwarfed by a memory which seemed to hang on her like some huge, ill-fitting coat.
“Did they ever find out who did it?” I asked.
She took one last puff of her cigarette and dabbed it out on the little silver ashtray in front of her.
“No.”
“How awful for you.”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“They never found any clues?”
“How much do you actually know about what happened?”
“Just what I read in the newspapers,” I replied.
“The newspapers? It happened over fifteen years ago.”
I swallowed and took a deep breath.
“Ah—I want to confess something to you, Mrs. Griffin. I didn’t know very much about the crime before coming to work for you. But yesterday afternoon I went to the library and photocopied some newspaper clippings. I took them home with me, and I, uh, read them. Actually, I was up half the night.”
She smiled a strange half-smile.
“Yes. I know.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“Well, I know you went to the library and got newspaper clippings about the murder. I didn’t know you were up half the night reading them.”
I was stunned.
“How did you know I went to the library?”
Resting her head on the back of the chair, she closed her eyes and talked to the air as if she were exhausted or in pain.
“I don’t have to tell you this, but I want to,” she began. “When people first come to work for me, I feel it’s necessary to have them watched for a time.”
This took a few seconds to sink in, but when it did, I was truly astonished. And rather horrified.
“You mean I’m being followed?”
“Yes.”
“You had me followed?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.”
“How long, exactly?” I felt my anger rising.
“Let’s just say, ever since you were chosen for the job.”
I could feel my head swelling up with blood. I was furious. I ran my fingers through my hair.
“Mrs. Griffin—I can’t believe this. I’m speechless. I mean, what a terrible thing to do!”
“Oh yes,” she said wearily. “I suppose it is from your point of view. But it’s just a precaution.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “And, naturally, everything I learn is confidential.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting? My life is none of your business.”
“No, I know it’s not,” she said quietly.
“Well then, how dare you? Really, Mrs. Griffin. How dare you?”
“It’s just a precaution, that’s all.”
“Look, Mrs. Griffin, I’ve worked for an awful lot of very rich, very prominent people and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“How do you know?”
She had a point there—I didn’t know. I suppose some of them could have had me followed. But the idea still seemed outrageous.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t know it because my reaction to it would have been the same as it’s going to be now—which is to say, I quit.”
I threw my napkin down on the table and got up. Mrs. Griffin quickly grabbed my arm. Her frail, bony hand felt like a bird claw. There was no strength in it. I could easily have wrenched myself away, but something in me stopped and let her hold me.
“Please! Please don’t go!” she cried. “I didn’t have to tell you. I wanted to tell you because I want to be honest with you. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. Please . . . please sit down and listen to me.”
She tugged at my arm, looking so pathetic and needy, I just couldn’t refuse her.
“All right,” I said, gently extracting my arm from her grip.
I sat down again, crossing my arms in front of me, glaring at her, defying her to explain herself. She spoke slowly as if she wanted to choose her words carefully.
“You see, after Cassa died, there was a terrible fear,” she began. “A terrible fear that took hold of us, Holt and me. Not just a fear for our own lives, but a fear of life in general. Can you understand that?”
I nodded.
“When a child dies, it breaks the pattern, the most fundamental pattern in life. Cassa was our only child. And I’d had some trouble conceiving her. Consequently, I was overprotective of her. We both were. I wanted everything to be perfect for her. I never wanted her to go through what I’d gone through in my life.”
She shuddered.
“But somehow,” she said after a time, “somehow she got away from me. I don’t understand how exactly. There was a kind of wildness in her, I suppose. People have their own destinies.”
She paused again, then went on: “I didn’t understand at first because I thought, well, we’ve given her everything. And when I came to understand it, by that time it was too late. She’d gone off and married Roberto.”
“Roberto Madi?” I asked.
“Roberto Madi,” she said with distaste.
“You didn’t like him?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t like him. She married a handsome ski bum. I hated his face.”
“Where did she meet him?”
“In Europe. He was her guide. I’m convinced that he knew who she was before he met her and just set out to get her, although he always denied it. Oh no, according to Cassa, they had a great love, a great passion—ha! Filthy man.”
“They didn’t say much about him in the paper.”
“Oh, he had no background, no family, nothing. He could have been wanted by the police for all we knew.”
“Do you think he was wanted?”
“Certainly by my daughter,” she said, as if the idea was repellent to her. “Nothing we said could dissuade her. Nothing. Holt threatened to disinherit her if she married him, but sh
e didn’t care. She had a little money of her own, and most of the trusts ended with her anyway, so she knew one day, whether we approved of her or not, she’d be rich. She wouldn’t listen to either of us.” Her voice had grown hoarse.
Mrs. Griffin picked up her glass of wine. Her hand was shaking. She nearly spilled some of it before managing to take a sip.
“He married my daughter in secret and was planning to steal all her money,” she continued. “He manipulated her. But we found out. I can’t tell you the horrors we lived through. Holt was trying to get him deported. Anyway, finally, she agreed to leave him. The night she was killed, there was an awful scene. Holt and Roberto had a terrible fight . . . Afterward, Cassa told us—she promised us she was going to leave him, but she said we had to let her alone and allow her to work things out in her own time. Holt got so angry. I never saw him like that. And Roberto—my God—the two of them . . .”
She buried her head in her hands and began to cry. I reached out and patted her shoulder.
“Oh God, oh God, I should have protected her more,” she sobbed. “It’s all my fault.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Griffin. Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, wiping her eyes with her napkin.
“So you see,” she said, looking up at me, “it’s very difficult for me to trust anyone.”
“All right,” I said, feeling more sympathetic toward her, “I understand now.”
Sensing her vulnerability at that moment, I decided to ask the question I’d been longing to ask ever since reading the newspaper accounts.
“Didn’t you ever suspect him?” I said.
“Who?”
“Roberto Madi? Didn’t you ever suspect him of the murder?” I pressed.
“Oh, please don’t ask me that.”
“You said she was going to leave him and he’d tried to steal her money. Wasn’t he the logical suspect?”
“I can’t answer that. Please,” she groaned.
“Why not?”
“I can’t. I just can’t. Please don’t ask me.”
She began crying again.
“I wish,” she said, her voice faltering, “I wish to God I’d known that night was the last time I was ever going to see Cassa alive . . . If I’d known—” she stopped.
A Trick of the Eye Page 6