“No, but I’ve heard a lot about her.”
Susan, startled, waited for her next words. But Richard had again picked up the conversational ball and kept it.
“She was a remarkable woman. Remarkable,” he repeated. “Our lives together had a simpatico that I think few couples ever achieve. And I loved her the very moment I first saw her. As the Bard himself would say, ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’ ”
“Marlowe.”
Richard Elliot pulled his attention from Kathleen and peered across the room at her husband, who had spoken. “Pardon?” The tone of the question implied an unforgivable intrusion.
“Marlowe,” Jerry repeated. “It was Christopher Marlowe who said, or rather wrote that, not Shakespeare.”
“I think not. Or, if so, he stole it from the Bard, of course. Many, many writers were guilty of stealing from the Bard.” And Richard Elliot dismissed the correction with a brisk wave of his hand.
Jerry Gordon, who had entered his successful career in advertising equipped with a Phi Beta Kappa key earned while majoring in English lit at Stanford University, allowed the man his inaccuracies and accepted another Scotch from Jed.
“We weren’t always together,” Richard Elliot continued.
“Oh?” Kathleen began to pay more attention. So far she’d found Dawn’s husband incapable of talking about anything but himself even while speaking of his dead wife: his bereavement being more significant than her death.
“No. We both had very demanding careers. Immediately after our marriage, I had to leave her to play Hamlet with a very small, dedicated, remarkably talented group of thespians in Raton, New Mexico. Now there are many who will go on and on endlessly about the rigors of the Broadway stage, but I know from personal experience that true theater dwells in America, in the small groups out in what some would call the sticks, who are tirelessly working on and perfecting their craft. You know, I was speaking to Richard Burton about this a few months before his death and, not only did he agree with me but, if he had lived, I’m sure you would have seen more of him in places like Raton.”
“How interesting,” Kathleen lied. “What did your wife do when you were away? I understand she wasn’t an actress.”
“No, Dawn marched to her own drummer and, in her own field, she was as well known as I in mine.”
“What did she do?” Kathleen asked, wondering if he was capable of talking about anything besides himself.
“She was an archaeological anthropologist. Her field was the Anasazi and various aspects of ancient Indian life.”
“She spent a large part of every year working on excavations in the Southwest,” Jed put in.
“And teaching. She was on the staff at UCLA and she did research at one or two major universities periodically.”
“Yes. She was at Stanford just a few years ago, wasn’t she?” Jerry added. “I remember seeing something about it in one of the alumni letters at the time.”
“I don’t believe she was actually in residence in California. I think she was digging with a group of graduate students near Canyon de Chelly for the summer semester …”
“So your wife did a lot of traveling too,” Kathleen commented and then hurried on before he could interrupt. “Why did you choose Connecticut as your permanent residence? It is your permanent residence?”
“Yes. It is also my spiritual home. I grew up in Hancock, and it nourishes me to return here once in a while. Dawn and I lived in the house that my parents lived in, you know. In fact, I still own it. I have it cleaned once a week and it is waiting my retirement, although, of course, that is a long, long way off.”
“Really?” said Susan, who needed to say something. “How interesting. I wonder if you could tell us more about that at the dinner table? We’d better go on into the dining room if we want to eat a meal that is worth eating.”
“Of course, of course. You’ll be interested in my youth,” he continued to Kathleen. “I’ve really led quite a fascinating life.”
Susan rushed out to the kitchen to do the last-minute slicing of the meat, the stirring of sauce and the like. She knew that Jed would be busy at the table pouring the wine and tossing the vinaigrette with the salad. They’d done this so many times that it had become automatic and neither had to remind the other of what had to be done or when. When she returned to the dining room, she found that Richard Elliot had kept his promise and was telling Kathleen about his childhood. Jed was serving and passing around plates of salad. Jerry was taking rather large sips from his wineglass.
“… even then I knew I was going to be an actor. You’ll be interested in this, Susan,” he acknowledged her presence. “Did you know that I starred in the first production that the Drama Club of Hancock ever performed?”
“When was that, Richard?” she asked, rather wickedly, knowing that he was adamant about keeping his age a secret.
“In ‘my salad days,’ ” he replied. “Antony and Cleopatra,” he added, directing the reference rather pointedly to Jerry, “I assume you will agree that was written by Shakespeare?”
“Uh …” Jerry seemed startled by being addressed instead of his wife.
Kathleen took up the conversation. “Even I know that line. Have you ever played Antony? I’m sure that with your looks, you’d be perfect for the part.”
“I thank you, my dear. But in the theater looks aren’t everything, you know. I’ve played Richard, and I’m sure you’ll agree that I’m not deformed.” He smiled, assuming her agreement.
Susan thought his everlasting ego was as bad as a hump any day, but, naturally, kept those thoughts to herself. How had Dawn been able to stand being married to this man?
The meal continued. Midway through Jerry and Jed gave up any pretense of interest in what Richard was saying, and retreated into a discussion of some personnel problems they were having at the office. Susan poured the wine, passed the food, and interjected a “how interesting” whenever she felt it necessary. Kathleen held a look of rapt attention on her face that must have made her muscles ache. Richard Elliot spoke nonstop for almost an hour on the subject of himself and his life. He was having a wonderful time.
“You know,” Susan finally said, as the man paused either to take a breath or to emphasize a point, “I’d like to borrow Kathleen to help me make the coffee and get dessert ready.”
“Of course, of course.” Richard Elliot granted his permission for the audience to leave.
“Jed must have been fascinated by what you were saying about the arts in Seattle,” Susan pointedly put the conversational ball in her husband’s corner.
Jed, looking slightly startled, picked up her hint. “Yes. I’d be interested to hear more about that, Richard.”
“I’ll be back soon,” Kathleen said, more for Jed’s sake than Richard’s, although she addressed her promise to him. Grabbing the empty meat platter and a bread basket containing two forlorn rolls, she followed her hostess from the room.
“What do you think?” Susan whispered quickly, as the door swung closed behind them.
“That man is the worst egotist I’ve ever met. I’m sitting there looking for clues to what his wife was like and all I keep thinking is why on earth did she marry him? Or, at least, stay married to him?” Kathleen answered in the same tone of voice.
“Maybe because he was so busy emoting about his own life that he didn’t notice what she was doing with hers?” Susan offered as an explanation.
“I suppose,” Kathleen said doubtfully. “Whew. I think I drank a little too much.”
“Boredom can make you do that. Maybe the coffee will help.”
“I hope so. Make it strong. I don’t think Jerry can stop yawning.”
“Jed, too. But they’ll be okay. Two chocoholics like them will be thrilled when they see this.” Susan pulled a handsome chocolate rectangle from a bakery box. “I was going to serve desserts left over from the party, but thought this was a better idea.”
“Is that the double chocolate mous
se cake you were telling me about?”
“Yup. It will help pay our husbands back for living through this evening. Put the teapot on the stove, will you? I’ll get the rest of the dirty dishes off the table.”
Kathleen sat down at the table and, pulling her tiny recorder toward her, turned it on and dictated her thoughts about the evening thus far.
“Have you learned anything?” Susan returned with her arms full of plates to ask. “At least anything worthwhile?”
“I’m not sure I’ve heard a single fact all evening,” Kathleen answered, taking half of the dishes from Susan and heading to the sink to rinse them. “That man has made up the most incredible excuses for the fact that he hasn’t had a decent acting job in his whole career. I think, in fact, that the most metropolitan audience he ever played to was at Hancock High however many years ago.”
“Well, he does play some of the smaller houses in the city,” Susan said doubtfully.
“That type of playhouse has more rats than seats. You open there and close three days later, after the reviewers have either ignored you or panned you and all your friends have seen the production. He’s probably better off playing some small town in Colorado. You know,” she stopped putting the dishes into the KitchenAid and turned to Susan, “Dawn sounds like she was a very bright, successful woman—whatever you think of her sexual ethics—she must have noticed that she was married to an egocentric idiot sometime in the past twenty years. I can’t see her staying married to him simply because he didn’t notice that she was sleeping with everyone in sight. She could have divorced him and then lived her life as she chose to. She must have had some reason to want to be his wife.”
“Okay,” Susan agreed. “So what was it?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
Susan put Demerara sugar, cream, and thinly sliced lemons on a lacquer tray. “I’ll put these on the table and bring back the salt and pepper and anything else we forgot.”
“Hmmm.” Kathleen didn’t appear interested and Susan returned to the dining room. She wasn’t gone more than a few minutes and Kathleen was still standing staring down at the dessert platter when she returned.
“Something’s going on in there. Jed asked me what was taking so long—and we haven’t been long at all. We’d better hurry back …”
“No!” Kathleen seemed startled out of her inertia. “Wait.” She rushed over, leaned gently against the door between the two rooms, and listened intently.
“Damn. You would have a house so well-built that it has solid core doors,” she said, moving back to the center of the room.
“Sorry. But I don’t know what you’re listening for—and Jed did seem to want us to return as quickly as possible.”
“I know, but it may not be boredom that he’s trying to escape from. Something may be going on that makes him uncomfortable and we should find out what it is.”
“Kathleen, you’re spying on Jed now too! That’s horrible!” And, pausing only to pick up the mousse cake, she sailed from the room. Kathleen, knowing that Susan had forgotten for the moment that nothing could be quite as horrible as being arrested for murder, followed, coffee and teapots in her hands.
She entered a silent room.
“Oh, good. I’ll pour while Susan cuts the cake,” Jed offered quickly. Kathleen put the pots before him and sat down in her place again, looking curiously at Richard Elliot. Why wasn’t he talking? Why was he looking so … so smug?
“Richard was talking about the police investigation into his wife’s murder while you two were in the kitchen,” Jerry said slowly, as though hesitant to bring it up.
“Your husband says you were with the State Police at one time.” Richard Elliot seemed to be interested in someone besides himself for the first time this evening. “Do you know this odd Detective Sardini?”
“We’ve met. Connecticut is a big state, but I think most of the State Police officers—especially the detectives—have met at one time. I’ve never worked with him, though. Why do you call him odd?”
“Well, he seemed so very conservative and unwilling to accept anything other than his own pedestrian life-style. I would think that a police officer would see so much of the world and be exposed to such unusual sights that he would be more open to differences in people.”
Kathleen knew that, if he had seen some of the things that she had seen, he would understand why police sometimes took refuge in the ordinary, but she didn’t try to explain. “Conservative? How?” she asked.
“Well, he asked about my relationship with Dawn and, when I explained—in passing, mind you, and I don’t think it is so very out of the ordinary—that neither of us believed in monogamy, he acted as though I had thrown a bomb in his lap.”
“A bomb?” Kathleen repeated, hoping for a more definitive description.
“Yes. First he was completely unwilling to accept that I wasn’t jealous of the men that Dawn had gone to bed with. He seemed to assume that I would have killed her for her infidelities. I told him I had played Othello but I didn’t act like that in real life. Do you know, I’m not sure he knew what I was talking about. Appalling lack of education.”
“And then?” Kathleen prompted, thinking she knew what the conversation had been while the women were in the kitchen.
“Then he wanted a list of the men my wife had relationships with. Can you imagine?”
Kathleen could. “And what did you tell him?”
“I asked him if he wanted me to list all the men or just those on the East Coast. I cannot describe the look on his face when I said that.”
“Did he still want you to list the names of the men she … uh …” Kathleen found that she was uncomfortable talking about this, too.
“Yes. He suggested that I start with the men who lived in or around Hancock. Can you believe that man?”
Susan wanted to reach across the table and smack him. Had he given the police what they wanted or not?
Kathleen asked the question. “And did you give them a list of names?”
“That’s just what I was telling your husbands, ladies.”
Kathleen looked at Jerry, hoping for a straight answer. Susan worked to keep her eyes off Jed.
“Richard and Dawn weren’t monogamous, but they kept their affairs to themselves,” Jerry explained.
“The only civilized way to live. There are ordinary people, I know that. But some of us must share ourselves with others, give of ourselves and our talents in very intimate ways. To do less would be to deprive the world of something very special. Don’t you agree?”
The question was directed at Kathleen. Her husband, throwing liberal ideas into the wind, answered for her. “Some of us believe in monogamy,” he said, rather too loudly.
“Possibly. Possibly,” Richard said, accepting the coffee and cake that were handed to him. “But I can tell you all one thing. Some of the people in Hancock who say they believe in monogamy don’t act like they do—not when they’re alone with someone they’re not married to.” He looked around the table at his audience, a large smile on his face.
FORTY PLUS THREE
I
“Weeeeeee!!!” Thirty-nine fifth graders expressed their glee as the driver ran the schoolbus directly over another bump in the asphalt. Susan clutched the back of the seat in front of her, breaking a fingernail. She opened her mouth to curse and then thought better of it.
The bus careened into a pothole.
“Mrs. Henshaw? Mrs. Henshaw?” There was urgency in the childish voice, and Susan turned around in her seat to see where it was coming from. Her gaze rested on the ten-year-old girl seated directly behind her; the child looked a little pale. “Did you say something, Andrea?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you won’t,” Susan said, her voice unnaturally sweet. “You’re going to be fine,” she insisted, taking the child’s hand. “Let’s get you to the front of the bus where it isn’t so bumpy.” She urged the girl from her seat and gently pushed
her down the rocking and jerking middle aisle of the vehicle. “You’ll feel much better there,” she repeated, glaring over her shoulder at the boys in the rear seats, who, overhearing this conversation, were responding by making loud gagging noises.
“It’s getting worse,” Andrea informed her, halfway down the aisle.
“We’re almost there. Here’s Mrs. Lambert.” They had arrived at the front seats where the two fifth-grade teachers were busy with papers and pamphlets. The one on top was titled ‘Sharks: Friend or Foe?’ Susan wondered if, after this trip to the New York Aquarium, she would know how a shark befriended one. In the past she had thought that the friendliest thing a shark could do was not attack her. But she had more pressing problems. “Andrea’s feeling a little carsick,” she informed Constance Lambert, her son’s teacher. “I thought maybe if she sat up here …”
“Join the group,” Connie Lambert replied, waving her hand at five little girls all collapsed in the first two seats of the bus. “Move over and make some room for Andrea, Maggie. It’s much less bumpy up here. You’ll feel better soon,” she also assured the girl, despite five pale faces being evidence to the contrary. She turned her attention to Susan. “How’s it going back there?”
Susan muttered something tactful about the behavior of the fifth-grade boys.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I know they can be a handful—they are a handful,” she corrected herself. “On the way back Ellen or I will sit with them, but we really need this time to get organized. Here.” She gave Susan a handful of papers. “This is some of the information the aquarium sent. Maybe you’d like to look at it ahead of time.”
A violent scream from the back of the bus attracted their attention.
“Johnny Campanelli!” The teacher identified the culprit.
“I didn’t do anything,” was the instantaneous response.
“He did too, Mrs. Lambert,” a girlish voice insisted. “He …”
“I don’t want to hear about it, Mandy.” The teacher leapt to her feet and moved quickly to the children. Susan followed hesitantly. Not feeling remarkably successful in controlling her own two children, whom she could always ground without TV privileges as a last resort, she wondered what would motivate these children to listen to her. Mrs. Lambert provided her with an answer.
The Fortieth Birthday Body Page 11