Indian Summer

by Ed Ifkovic

  “Edna, for heaven’s sake,” Carlotta cried. “Enough.” She was squirming in her seat, still angry, but, I noted, she seemed curious as to where I was going with this tale.

  “This has to be done, Carlotta. And Peter wants to know.” I looked again at the young man, who now was nodding furiously. “So much hinges on your first marriage, Carlotta. I’m sorry, Peter. I really am. I’m not certain where I’m really going with this, but follow my train of thinking, please. This needs to be told, and I hazard a guess you know some of the story already and now want to know the rest. This is your life. So many rumors floated around New York that the child Carlotta was carrying—and one of her reasons for abandoning Broadway—was Jason, the father. That’s the question here. Jason seemed to appear in Manhattan when Carlotta was already pregnant, but maybe not. He did visit New York earlier, coming from Chicago periodically, according to what Officer Wolniak discovered. At the time, according to Wolniak, Jason was being investigated in Chicago for some questionable involvement in some stockyard corruption. So Chicago was still his residence.”

  Jason did not know whether to look relieved or angry: exonerated, cleared, but tainted with the curse of some Upton Sinclair-style exposé. “I have nothing to say,” he swore now.

  “Of course, he did visit New York and may have met Carlotta earlier, but we don’t know. Now here’s the rub, and I mean no offence to anyone’s memory—or to the living sitting here. I’ve learned, through Broadway scuttlebutt, a good source”—I thought: George Kaufman, the world’s most entertaining snooper and full-time hypochondriac—“that Harold Brewster was a man who, well, preferred the company of other men.”

  Carlotta screamed, “Stop this, Edna.”

  Peter closed his eyes.

  “No, I can’t. Carlotta, you yourself told people, or hinted at it, in moments under the influence of the grape, that Harold could not perform in . . .”

  Millicent choked, sat up, reached for her bonnet, but I saw that the old lady was having the time of her life.

  “And, sorry to say, your taunts and denigration probably contributed to that sad young man taking his own life. Now Martha probably suspected. She knew Harold for a short time, and liked him. Carlotta may have confided, but most likely Martha tried to seduce him, as she did with every man Carlotta was involved with, to no avail. He may have rejected her. So Martha probably used the information to batter a sister she despised. Martha, I’ve concluded, worked out of a peculiar pathology. She had to seduce any man Carlotta had relationships with. She couldn’t stop herself. All, that is, except Harold, for the obvious reasons. And it seemed that Martha, once she had her conquest and then hurled the fact into her sister’s face, lost all interest in that man, checking them off the list and moving on. When they reappeared, like Jason and Nathan recently, she did it all again.”

  My mind was moving quickly now, attempting to place the pieces together. Yes, I thought: this is working. It was working, I knew, because I was making connections I’d somehow missed—the pieces were there, I realized. A jigsaw puzzle before me, waiting. Yes. Again, the same refrain: All the men in Carlotta’s life. I had just talked myself into an idea that might suggest the murderer.

  I paused, gathered my thoughts. There was one man who had escaped the pattern, or did he? One man left out of the equation. My silence was long, difficult, my mind racing. Everyone stared, expectant. Yes, I thought. Yes. That had to be it. There was no one else.

  I turned my head and looked into the corner. “Henry Fenwick,” I said, and stopped.

  Henry turned ashen, a deep gagging sound escaping from the back of his throat. Peggy, staring from me to Henry, looked baffled, as though she couldn’t follow the plot.

  “Recently, Henry admitted that he’d had a one-time indiscretion with Martha, a trivial moment years back that he gave little weight to. In fact, even Peggy knew about it, and obviously forgave her gubernatorial husband.” My mind clicked, and suddenly a new thought came into my head. Yes, I thought. Yes. “Henry,” I began, “a distant cousin of the Small sisters, and a childhood playmate, families bound by money and blood and puritan heritage. Now I’m thinking, just why would Martha seduce Henry? It seemed absurd, unless you understood Martha’s pathology. Why did Martha seduce men? Think about it: Carlotta herself, reeling from the sudden awareness that Harold was a homosexual, feeling vulnerable and lost, confused, might have sought comfort from old friend Henry. And one thing led to another.”

  “No!” Carlotta yelled. “Stop this! Henry is family.”

  “And, by pure chance, Carlotta becomes pregnant with Henry’s child.” Yes, I thought: the pregnancy could have happened after she learned about Harold. Yes.

  Silence in the room. The ticking of a clock. Millicent breathed heavily. Jason tapped his foot on the wooden floor. I waited. I waited.

  I took a deep breath. “Of course, Peter looks like Carlotta. But Henry, a cousin, though very distant, bears similar family traits. It was easy not to see the similarities.”

  Peter covered his face with his hands. Delia sat back, her gaze centered out the window, trancelike. But everyone else seemed to move in the room, to shift this way or that. The frozen tableau buckled, then righted itself.

  “This was the secret a number of folks more or less knew. Henry knew, and doubtless his forgive-at-any-price wife. Jason knew, or sensed. But most of all, Martha knew. That’s why she seduced Henry that one time: All the men in Carlotta’s life. And then she probably used it as a weapon, even as she raised and loved and cherished Peter, as well she should. Peter turned into a decent, good man, though he probably sensed the truth somehow that his father was not Harold Brewster.” Yes, I thought: this works.

  Henry spoke up, but his voice was tinny. “You have no proof of this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Carlotta made a vow never to tell a soul, and she certainly was not going to write it in a book she never really planned to write. But when drinking, when blacking out, she talked foolishly, especially in recent years. And that’s what she probably told Nathan Brosnan, which he used against her in making her forget his underworld dealings. That’s why he met her the afternoon Martha died. That’s why Carlotta rushed to see him. To shut him up. That’s what Nathan refused to tell Officer Wolniak and me.”

  Carlotta was furious. “She’d whisper it to me when I walked by her. My own sister. For years and years. She was awful that way. I’m sorry.”

  “And,” I went on, “Martha saw it as a source of power. In fact, Martha probably seduced Henry recently.”

  “How do you know?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t, but Carlotta may have suspected. She told me, ‘I try to keep men away from the Inn, any man, really.’ Carlotta suspected Henry had come around, fishing for information, worried about the book. Perhaps he was worried that Carlotta, a little out of control these days, drinking heavily, would say too much. He wanted to be governor, you know.” I looked directly at him. “Right, Henry?”

  He bit his lip. “You seem to know everything, Miss Ferber.” Sarcastic, spat out words. “Yes, Martha blackmailed me again. I’m running for governor and she said she’d tell Peter—and others.”

  Peggy stared at him, transfixed. “I told you never to come here by yourself. You simple fool. I warned you . . . actresses and . . . and sluttish old maids.” She started to sob. “Everything we worked for, Henry. Selectman, the Republican Party, the governorship. It’s in your hands. People like you. Why didn’t you tell me? When did she do this to you? When?” He stared at her, and, reaching out to put his arm around her, she shrugged it off. “Damn you. I planned our life together.”

  Carlotta stood up, and everyone looked at her. “Martha was a hateful woman. I have always been proud of my son, Peter. Proud of him. It’s nobody’s business who is his father.”

  “But Henry didn’t want anyone to know,” I went on. “And Martha threatened him.”

  Carlotta, trembling, stood and walked close to me. “You s
eem to relish airing out my dirty laundry in front of the town.” Her hand swept the crowd. “All right, I’ll tell you. The one moment with Henry—a weak moment, a stupid moment, and it was just one time—has haunted me. Martha was the loose woman, not me. I was faithful to my husbands, such that they were. But Martha used that knowledge to terrorize me. She ruined my life, Edna. She did. Whenever I stopped drinking, she’d begin a series of taunts about Henry and Peter, and I’d hit the bottle again. And when I crawled back from New York, she gloated. I didn’t mind it a bit when she was murdered. I didn’t.” Carlotta was out of breath. She twisted and looked at the faces of those around her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  “But,” I said, “you didn’t murder her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Peter who was his father?”

  She laughed. “You don’t understand small-town Connecticut, Edna. Or maybe you do.” But then, returning to her seat, she clammed up. “Enough of this. I’m not saying another word to you, Edna. Ever again. This is pubic humiliation which you obviously enjoy. At my expense.”

  “It’s not as easy as that, Carlotta. Obviously, your husband Harold knew he was not the father. Did you throw that in his face, too? Was he thinking of that when he jumped off the roof of the penthouse?”

  Icy cold: “Damn you, Edna. Damn you.”

  “And now Henry Fenwick is running for governor and Carlotta is suddenly writing a book. And she is drinking too much. And she’s babbled to Nathan Brosnan and maybe to Jason Fargo. Probably. And, greedy perhaps, Jason tells her he wants the story in the book. It’ll sell copies. After all, the Victorian Age is over. We lived through the Roaring Twenties, it’s oh-you-kid, it’s bathtub gin.”

  “I told Jason no,” Carlotta whispered. “I told him I couldn’t do that to Henry. He wants to be governor.”

  “But Henry got scared. He wants to be governor,” I echoed.

  Peggy, trembling now, stood, pulled her sweater over her shoulders. “This is ludicrous, Edna Ferber. I see where you’re going with this . . . this story. This is not a novel, Edna Ferber. This is the life of a good, decent man, a public servant.” She turned to her husband, who sat, withered, a shell, in his chair. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Henry. Tell them.”

  Henry looked at me, then at his wife. “Carlotta promised me.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” Carlotta cried out.

  “But I didn’t trust her anymore. I don’t trust Jason, who was pushing her to be sensational in the book. I have everything to lose . . .”

  “Henry, shut up,” Peggy spoke through her teeth. “No one knows anything.”

  “And on the afternoon Martha died, you met Carlotta in town earlier, and she said she was going home to get Millicent her supper.”

  Johnny Marks crossed his arms. “So you killed Martha thinking it was Carlotta stepping out the back door in the dark.”

  “Never,” Henry yelled, trembling himself, looking around, scared. He smiled thinly. “I was in Hartford that afternoon and that night. With my business partner.”

  I said, “Yes, in fact, you were. And every minute accounted for.”

  Peggy, her chin up, triumphant, “So there!”

  I was thinking fast. Of course, Stas had checked out Henry’s stay in Hartford. His business partner had confirmed it. Something had to be wrong here.

  Henry spoke up: “I’ll show you the receipt, in fact. I caught the 2:15 out of Danbury to Hartford and returned on the 10:01, back to Danbury.” His voice had gotten stronger. “Yes,” he said, happy. “I can prove it.”

  “How did you get to the railroad station, Henry?”

  He looked perplexed. “Well, Louis, my partner, picked me up and . . .”

  “And where was your car?” I asked.

  Again the perplexed look: “Why, home, of course.”

  I turned my head. “Peggy, did you take the car out?”

  She looked baffled. “What?”

  I watched her face, and knew. I knew. So I lied, I did, in full voice. “Officer Wolniak has a witness that you were seen driving the family car in town.”

  Henry, again. “Peggy, you took the car?”

  Peggy was shaking her head. “Of course, I didn’t. You know I almost never drive it. It’s your baby.”

  I spoke over her words. “Of course, you did.”

  Henry: “Did you drive the car out?”

  “So what?” Peggy blustered. “Errands.”

  “Where did you go?” Henry asked his wife, but she ignored him. “You told me you spent the afternoon writing letters.”

  “I left for an hour.”

  Suddenly it was all clear to me. I’d been building my plot line, uncertain where it might end, though gradually I suspected. Now, after the elaborate retelling of events, I knew the answer. No real proof perhaps, but watching Henry looking at his wife, I knew. So I zeroed in. “No, Peggy, that’s what happened. You hid the car in the bushes on River Road and then concealed yourself behind Millicent’s house, thinking Carlotta was inside. You were there in town when she said she had to go home. You knew the routine. But darkness fell, and you got nervous. You were panicking, perhaps, hiding there with that brick in your hand. But when Martha emerged, you impulsively struck her in the head. It had to be you, Peggy. There’s no one else. But you killed the wrong person. You . . .” I stopped.

  Peggy sat there, frozen. Silence in the room.

  Henry whispered, “Peggy, this can’t be true.”

  “Yes, Peggy. You,” I said.

  Peggy looked around the room, caught the accusing stares, and stood suddenly, wild eyed, her breath short and raspy.

  “Say something, for God’s sake, Peggy,” her husband pleaded.

  Peggy, frozen, her jaw set, her eyes cloudy.

  I went on. “Peggy, it has to be you. We’ve talked through everyone else, unless it was a stranger, and that’s not likely. You had the motive and the opportunity. It comes down to Henry and his fathering of Peter. That story had come back to haunt you and Henry.”

  Everyone was staring at Peggy.

  Peggy turned to stare at Carlotta, and the look was filled with hatred. Her face broke, sagged. “I couldn’t let you write that book, Carlotta. I’d seen you drunk as a skunk, babbling nonsense. I couldn’t let you tell that story about Peter and Henry. He’s going to be governor. I’ve worked hard for that. The minute you started talking about that book, well, I knew you were dangerous. I really had no choice.”

  Henry, in a soft voice. “Peggy, no.”

  She looked at her husband, her face flushed with anger. “You’re weak, Henry. If I hadn’t pushed you, you’d still be a lawyer, handling one-dollar cases about farmers fighting over pigs. I made you. And to let it go up in smoke? No! God, you were so easily tempted by Carlotta and Martha. I had to do something, but I didn’t know what. If Carlotta died, it would be done with. Die down. No one could ever connect us to it. Why would they? Us? It was so perfect. I hid in the woods so long and then I almost backed out. I crouched like an animal, holding that brick so tight my fingers bled. And Martha came out suddenly, unexpectedly, in the darkness, and I reacted blindly, just struck her on the head. She had moved out of the house, the light behind her, shutting the door and moving away so fast. In a hurry. I had to act. Then I heard Martha cry out, topple over, and she saw me. I could see her eyes on me in the darkness. She staggered, trying to get away, and I had to hit her again. Blood was all over. I ran back to the car. I had no choice.” She stopped, looked around again, as though for understanding. “Murder, I didn’t think it through. I didn’t want to murder Carlotta, but I had to. Don’t you see? Everyone would think it was Martha who did it—or one of her ex-husbands. Jason maybe. Not Henry. Not me. Never. Not us. Why would it be us? Old friends.” Peggy dropped back into her seat, hands in her lap, and kept talking, rambling now, a little insane. Quietly, as everyone watched, Johnny Marks walked over and touched her arm. “Don’t touch me,” she screamed, finally. “No o
ne has the right to touch me. Tell them, Henry. Tell them.”

  But Henry said nothing, just sat there.

  I turned to Peter and whispered, “Call Trooper Wolniak. He’s next door at Millicent’s.”

  Peggy was babbling, “Get your hands off me, Johnny Marks. Do you hear me?”

  Quiet in the room, then movement as people got up, moved away.

  Peggy and Henry sat alone on the settee, with Johnny Marks holding onto Peggy’s elbow.

  “Leave me alone.”

  I noticed Julia approaching her father. Peter quietly returned from his telephone call, and hugged Delia. Carlotta, weeping, stormed out of the parlor. Jason and Nathan leaned into each other, whispering, then shaking their heads.

  Millicent half rose from her wheelchair. “Parlor Games, Edna, indeed. Quite the denouement. This is one that won’t close in New Haven.” But there was such sadness in her voice. And I felt like crying myself.

  Johnny Marks, surprisingly gentle, moved Peggy to a chair by the front door and stood by her side. She was crying now, and as Johnny leaned in, he whispered something to her. She nodded, staring into his face.

  Then I watched as Stanley, standing alone by the window, the real stranger in the room, walked over and sat down next to Henry, who was crying softly. In a gesture that I found endearing, Stanley reached over and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. The two men sat there, a quiet tableau, Henry sobbing and the quirky Polish immigrant giving what comfort he could to a man he scarcely knew.

  In the kitchen Carlotta had started to wail, and Peter, leaving Delia in the dining room, went to look for his mother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the morning I packed my bags, my scarcely-touched Smith-Corona, and then, while I sat alone in the kitchen, Eben carried everything into the downstairs hallway. Julia, entering the house and finding me sitting by myself, looked like she wanted to say something, but hesitated. The two of us looked at each other, and Julia, retrieving an apron from a cupboard, simply smiled wanly. It was, I realized, a perfect greeting for the morning.