by Ed Ifkovic
“But . . .”
He put his finger to her lips. “If you protest too much . . .”
“I’d like to leave,” she pouted, looking around her. “I don’t like the atmosphere in the room. I don’t like games.”
“Let’s just see where this is going,” he told her, dipping his chin into her neck. “We can always walk out.”
Delia started to say something but Peter squired her away. Julia offered him cider, and he looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. He never answered.
The out-of-towners arrived later than the locals. Henry and Peggy Fenwick, like Peter and Delia, dressed as for a party, came in, and Henry came straight to Carlotta. “Just what is this farce, Carlotta? I don’t think I should be here. I told you how I feel.”
Carlotta kissed Peggy and turned away from Henry. “Oh, that’s right,” she snarled, “I forgot. You have no power to help me. Childhood allegiance means nothing.” Peggy started to defend her husband, saying that she was the one who was squeamish and hesitant, that she had to protect her husband’s career even if he, with his misguided loyalties, would gladly throw caution to the wind and splash his face on the pages of The Connecticut Valley Gazette in a futile defense of Carlotta Small. But she smiled through it all.
Henry looked at his wife with a look that said: Everyone has heard this before, Peggy. I’m obviously making a fool of myself—and jeopardizing a childhood friendship. The Fenwicks sat together in a corner, on the divan, and Peggy ate so many doughnuts, groaning her pleasure. “I never bake any more.” Finally, Julia, on orders from Carlotta, kept the plate away from her. Henry refused cider or doughnuts. The color had gone from his face, and he looked ready to vomit. He kept staring at Millicent Wright as though he didn’t know who she was. At one point, I noted, his deer-in-the-headlight look caught Millicent’s bemused attention—she being, it seemed, the most alive being in the room, excited as a debutante—that she winked at him. His eyes got wide as full moons, and he grinned foolishly.
The last to arrive were Jason Fargo and Nathan Brosnan, the two ex-husbands coming together, as though planned, arriving late, both grumpy and resentful. Brosnan told Eben, who stared straight-ahead, “They forced me to come. That insolent Polack Wolniak. Forced me. Put a badge on a farm boy and he runs roughshod over decent citizens.” Jason kept looking at him, and finally said, “Shut up, Nathan. Don’t you realize that one of us here tonight is going to be arrested for murder?”
Nathan gasped.
At that moment Carlotta walked to the center of the room, and the place went eerily silent. I muttered, more to myself: hail, hail, the gang’s all here. I smiled as Carlotta said, “Miss Ferber tells me she wants to have a look at things.”
“What things?” From Peter.
“I’m here to find that out myself.” Carlotta shrugged. “I’m in the dark, too.”
“I’ll bet,” Jason Fargo sneered. “We’re being set up.”
“Are you trying to hide something, Jason dear?” Carlotta asked.
“No, but I suppose you are. Now that you have your good New York buddy to play out some scenario here tonight that will clearly exonerate you, and, doubtless, through some chicanery, impugn one of us.”
“Only the guilty,” I suggested.
“And who would that be?” Henry asked.
“I haven’t a clue.” A pause. “I don’t.”
Delia spoke up. “This is a waste of time.”
I said to everyone, though I knew I was speaking to myself, “I don’t know anything. Really. But if we review stories . . .”
“A waste of time,” Delia, again.
Millicent cleared her throat and spoke in a thrilled voice. “Act One. Scene One. Exposition.” Everyone looked at her.
I stood in front of them all, my back to the blazing fireplace, and cleared my throat. I hated public elocution, ever since my successful (and prize-winning) oratorical days in high school. Since becoming famous, I begged off lectures and appearances, disliked signing my novels. But, drawing up the to my full five-foot height, my eyes set and bright, I began.
“Martha Small was murdered outside Millicent Wright’s back door after darkness fell, just after twilight. Or was the intended victim Carlotta Small? Could the murderer have made a mistake? After all, it was Carlotta who usually made the supper run next door. At this point we have no way of knowing, but everyone assumed it was Martha as intended victim.” I paused. “This is a town of secrets, I’ve learned.” I hesitated, unsure of where I was going. “I’m a writer, so indulge me a metaphor that’s been on my mind. The first day visiting here I gathered wild bittersweet vine in the hills, up on Caleb’s Rise, brought it back to the house, where it sits now in my room upstairs. Martha told me Carlotta hates bittersweet”—I paused, thought about that—“but back to my metaphor. It got me to thinking. Bittersweet is an anonymous vine all summer, inconspicuous, pesky perhaps, twining and twisting around tree trunks and saplings, with its bland leaves, its green small knotty fruit. You’d pass it by, unawares, in lush summer, as you gazed on brilliant daisies and sunblazed marsh marigolds, wild rhododendron. You know, you live here. But in the fall, before the first frost, that bittersweet fruit suddenly bursts open, revealing an almost obscene orange fleshy center, encased in a yellow casing—the raw, almost too garish insides suddenly betrayed. Well, folks, that got me to thinking. It’s a cliché really. Rawley’s Depot is that bland, conservative, uneventful existence, shielding the secrets within. Sooner or later all the hidden secrets will surface, burst out, raw and embarrassing. Secrets can only be contained so long, and then they are exposed.”
Johnny Marks interrupted. “Is that why we’re here, Miss Ferber?” A fake laugh. “To listen to you give us a lecture on Mother Nature.”
Delia sounded nervous. “A botany lesson, no less.”
I smiled. “A few lectures on anything wouldn’t hurt you, Johnny Marks.” Then: “Forgive my rambling, though I don’t ramble, come to think of it. What I’m saying is that Martha’s murder was the result of somebody’s secret finally bursting through the bland casing. The secret had to get out.” I looked out over the crowd. They were waiting. I tried to read faces, but nothing came to me. “So who murdered Martha or intended to murder Carlotta?” I looked at Carlotta who sat, pensive and droopy-eyed, in an armchair. She looked like she wanted to be away from this parlor.
I looked around the room. “Something happened that afternoon that may have sealed Martha’s fate, intended or not. Carlotta changed her mind about tending to Millicent’s supper. At the last moment, as it were. More of that in a moment. But Martha, who delivered supper now and then, did something she rarely did—she lingered. Millicent has told us that, uncharacteristically, Martha stayed and chatted. Neither is a fan of the other, given Martha’s behavior in the past. For some reason Martha felt inclined to chat, and stayed too long, emerging out the back door after dark. The murderer must have been concealed in the thick bushes at the side of the house, and may have seen Martha go in. Or maybe he did not see her at all. Maybe he saw a woman as he hid in Hemlock Ridge. Anyway, when Martha emerged, she was in shadows. Could it have been Carlotta the murderer was waiting for?”
“Tell us,” Peter demanded, impatient.
I didn’t answer him. “Who knew Carlotta had changed her plans at the last minute? Well, I did, being with her. And Nathan Brosnan, who’d received a phone call from her. Really, just the two of us. Peter and Delia, lingering after lunch, assumed she was headed home. So it was just some people in or near the house—maybe Julia, maybe Eben Travers, even Stanley Lupinski.” I glared at them, and the three looked uncomfortable, with Julia blanching, and Eben looking toward the door. Stanley seemed in a daze. “Everyone figured it was Carlotta making the run. So let’s assume Carlotta was the intended victim.” I caught my breath, waited. “Who disliked Carlotta?” I stared, dramatically, from face to face. No one flinched. “Well, I gather a lot of folks, really—and often for not very good reasons. Old resentments, like Eben’s, over
title to the Inn, but I think a lot of that is knee-jerk sentiment, acting a part, old habits that mean little in this real world. It’s a game, sort of.” Eben frowned. “And Constable Johnny Marks, law officer, betrayed a dislike for her from the start.”
“Now wait a minute here, lady.”
I ran over his words. “Seems he didn’t cotton to theater folk, I guess, and there was some personal tension between the two way back when. Does that translate to murder? Hard to say. Perhaps there were other issues between the two still unknown to us. Unlike the bittersweet, issues still encased in a hard shell of secrecy.”
Marks was sputtering. “This is nonsense, all of it. And where is Roger Emerson? Shouldn’t he be here? If anyone in this town hates Carlotta, it’s that man. You’ve read his paper. It’s filled with anger toward her.”
“And toward me, I have to add,” I admitted. “I seem to be his current whipping boy, when he’s not extolling the virtues of oppressive foreign regimes and pipsqueak dictators. But no, he’s not here. And maybe he should be. But the man is essentially a coward, a weakling, who hides behind his printer’s ink. He may be an instrument of murder, but I doubt it. This was a premeditated murder, Martha’s death, and Emerson is too callow, too scaredy-cat, to lay in wait like that. Oh, I can see him killing, but in a pique of anger, in a fit of annoyance, in a burst of frustration. His is the coward’s gesture. But who knows? I could be wrong.”
“But you doubt it,” Carlotta spoke up, suddenly, and there was no humor in her voice. She was displeased with this, I saw. And I didn’t blame her. “You’re always right, yes, Edna?” The eyes narrow and hard now.
I smiled. “You know me well, Carlotta. Obviously, you were paying attention at my dinner parties.”
Carlotta made a guttural sound, unhappy, and stared at the others, who avoided her glance.
“But,” I continued, “Johnny Marks and even that bounder Emerson got me to thinking. Both talked of old resentments in this town, the value of old reputation, the loyalty of the past, the fear of intruders and interlopers”—I smiled–—”as myself.” Johnny clicked his tongue, disapproving. “Again, the meat inside the chestnut burr. The dark side of the harvest moon. The—well, enough. My critics always say I do like the lyrical flourish.”
Peter looked angry. “Is this long discourse necessary?” Delia poked him in the ribs.
Millicent spoke up. “If Miss Ferber says it is, then it is.” She actually winked at me. “She’s a best-selling novelist.”
I nodded at her.
“So I started to focus on the time of the murder. Two witnesses, sort of. Eben Travers and Stanley Lupinski, two neighbors who despise each other. Each one saw the other some time that day, not surprising when we consider that they live right here and have a right to wander their own yards. Stanley saw Eben in the yard, near Millicent’s property line, late afternoon, though Eben insists it was earlier that he was there. Eben saw Stanley, too. But he also saw Carlotta in her kitchen, peeping out into the backyard, more importantly, possibly an elusive figure moving through Hemlock Ridge. But I started to wonder about Eben. You, sir,” I said directly to him, “were standing in the same place the other afternoon, though in darkness now, and you scurried away when I confronted you.”
“Ma’am,” Eben protested, “I work here.”
“No, it’s something else. You seemed anxious, and it got me thinking. You were visible because you meant to be.”
“What?”
I smiled. “In the best sense of the word, Mr. Travers. Because I realized that you didn’t know your daughter Julia did not come to work the other day, having obligations in town, but you fully expected her to walk the path to River Road bus. That’s what threw you off. I think, Julia”—I turned to face the red-faced woman—“that your father is looking out for you, despite his ornery demeanor. He saw what he did the afternoon of the murder because he was keeping an eye on you. I saw the way he looked at his grandson after Martha’s funeral. Perhaps, Mr. Travers, you’d actually like to talk to your grandson someday. And to your daughter.”
I looked at Julia who had started to cry, sitting across the room from her crusty father. Eben, shifting from foot to foot, awkward, caught his daughter’s eye, and for a second they both looked at each other. It was, I thought, a perfect moment. Reunion, a letting down of guard; a hope of heaven.
“Eben,” I said, “it’s time you had a family again.” I glanced at Stanley. “And, I believe, you have a grandson, too.” Stanley just stared.
“But I’m wandering here, though purposely so. To the matter at hand—murder, that is. What this shows is that Eben is a credible witness to that figure in the forest. With his fatherly eye, he knew Julia’s habits, the time of the bus stop. That’s why he saw Carlotta so clearly. Now Carlotta came back, but only for a moment, but that moment is crucial. She also is probably a witness, at least to a black car tucked in the bushes on River Road. A hiker’s car or a murderer’s car? The murderer had to arrive somehow, if such murderer is not a resident of the valley. Maybe. Carlotta parked her Pierce-Arrow on Caleb’s Rise and walked down, so she could sneak into the Inn. That seems guilty, but only seems. And her lying about it only added to the seeming guilt.”
“I’ve explained all that,” Carlotta began, anger in her voice.
I ignored her and went on. “The reason was simple, and the oldest in history: romantic jealousy. We’d spotted Jason Fargo driving to town, which startled Carlotta. She feared a rendezvous with Martha. Jason knew Carlotta would not be around that night. Carlotta believed Martha was sleeping with Jason again because Martha made it a point to seduce all the men in Carlotta’s life.”
The words hung in the air: All the men in Carlotta’s life.
An idea began to geminate in the back of my brain.
Millicent made an indignant sound, and then seemed embarrassed. “Excuse me,” she grunted. “Not that I care a whit what you all think of my exclamation.”
Jason cleared his throat. “I never went to the Inn.”
“That’s true. Jason wasn’t there and she left, later than she intended, going to see Nathan Brosnan, who kept her waiting. You, Nathan, had the feeblest excuse—riding around town, disoriented. That’s somewhat hard to believe but”—I stopped, waited. “But Nathan claimed he stopped for cigarettes, and Officer Wolniak finally located a clerk in Easton who, in fact, identified Brosnan as stopping in. A nervous, jittery man, the clerk said. So most likely Nathan did not come to Rawley’s Depot while Carlotta was going to see him.”
“Yes!” Nathan exclaimed.
“And,” I continued, “probably he didn’t kill Martha.”
“Of course not,” Nathan sputtered, relieved. “You people are all mad. I’m a moral man, with children, a job . . .”
“But perhaps Nathan is the key to who the murderer is,” I said, flatly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Everyone gasped, looked at one another, and Brosnan looked faint, started to blubber, then thought better of it.
“Ironically, a man without a real alibi. Jason Fargo was seen in the Copperhead Tavern having coffee and dessert, lingering to flirt with the waitress there. And Henry Fenwick, old childhood friend, after dropping Peggy back at their home, was in Hartford from early afternoon, with a business associate, until late that night. Ironclad proof.”
Henry nodded, as if to say: of course. I can’t believe I was even questioned about my whereabouts.
Peggy, smiling. “We go to church every Sunday.” She tapped her husband’s arm affectionately.
I shot her a look that suggested both Fenwicks were, if anything, simpletons and nuisances.
“Peter and Delia, after asking Carlotta to spend the day with them, changed their minds about touring the countryside, picking pumpkins or shucking corn or whatever. Peter dropped Delia off at her apartment in Danbury, and he returned home. Both maintain they didn’t go out again. Of course, both assumed Carlotta was going home to tend to Millicent’s supper.”
Peter and Delia exploded at the same time. Peter scowled. “What are you saying? That I tried to kill my mother and mistakenly killed Martha?”
Delia stammered, “Of all the nerve, Miss Ferber. This is beyond the pale.”
The two looked at each other, held on to each other, and for some reason Peter kissed Delia, a move than made Millicent grunt.
Delia yelled, “We don’t need alibis. We love Carlotta. We loved Martha.” She inclined her body, and, again, surprisingly, they clutched at each other, protectively, clinging. Desperate lovers, attacked.
Delia rested her head against Peter’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” I said. “But I’m going to make you even more uncomfortable.”
Peter looked at me, and it was as though the air seeped out of him. He folded, eyes closed, slumped over, waiting.
“The husbands,” I emphasized, “all three of them. Carlotta and her infamous, though as yet unwritten, memoirs, her testament to a life lived at full throttle. Well, the announcement of its publication caused the town, it seemed, to go berserk. That tome, heralded by Roger Emerson in his Gazette as a tell-all scandalous book and vulgar biography, was the impetus that probably led to Martha’s murder. That book. Jason and Nathan were afraid, selfishly, because of secrets they believed Carlotta would reveal. It got me to thinking about husband number one, the ill-fated Harold Brewster, who died so young and so horribly. And that led me to the question of Peter’s paternity.”
Peter looked up, and I could see in his eyes that he himself had played with the thought. What exactly did he know? What had he heard? I wondered. There were rumors that Jason was the real father, especially as he was so immediately a part of Carlotta’s world—so fast, as Shakespeare would have it, that the funeral banquet supplied food for the wedding feast.
I turned to Peter. “Peter, this is delicate stuff. Do you want me to stop?” I looked at him.
But Peter, surprisingly, caught my eye, and I realized he wanted to know. At last. Finally. He nodded. “Go on.” I nodded back at him.