The Ledger Page 8

  “What, exactly, if you don’t mind, Addie, does this mean? I would like to know, sweetie, I would really like to know, if we are going to have a delightful little circus tent here Saturday night or if we are going to have an absolute shithouse?”

  Mrs. Fenley shrugged tolerantly at Christie and moved toward the young man. “Baby, don’t let it get you down. You are getting too emotional about the whole thing, Dobbie.”

  He was a chunky young man with a head full of light-brown curls and his stubby fingers, covered with rings, patted the curls along his forehead and smoothed his long sideburns. Christie sat, fascinated, a spectator at a performance. Dobbie was exquisite. His eyes danced about the room, along the walls, the ceiling, the floor, past Christie. He wore a shiny pirate shirt of deep purple. His rather wide hips were accentuated by low-slung, striped pants which belled over his ankle-high boots. His fingers dug at his belt.

  “And this damn thing is killing me, Addie. Take it off me. This was all your idea. Take it off me. Take it off me, now!”

  Mrs. Fenley smiled, sighed and moved her fingers expertly along the intricate belt. It was a series of rectangular compartments linked together by bits of leather. She turned to Christie. “It’s for his own good. It’s done wonders for my waistline; exercises you all day long without any effort. But he is unbearable, really he is.” She spoke in a fondly exasperated tone and the young man pulled his mouth down. “An hour a day at least wouldn’t kill you, darling, and it would take a few of those extra inches off.”

  Dobbie dropped to the floor and rubbed his waist. “Now we’ll discuss my weight, shall we, dear?” His long lashes moved up and down, then his eyes rested on Christie. “Addie, who is this? No. Wait.” He rolled forward to his knees, inched toward Christie. He peered up and studied her. “Don’t move. Don’t you dare to move.”

  Or you’ll what? Christie thought, but she sat perfectly still. She felt herself taken in: by Mrs. Fenley and her good-natured sighs; by the boisterous, petulant young man; by the room, warm and large and elegant and airy; by the completely isolated, unconnected-to-reality commotion all around her.

  Dobbie dug furiously through a pile of clothing, clutched at a green silk dress. “Here,” he said, turning to Christie. “This one. Come here, stand up. Oh, for God’s sake, stand up. Nobody listens to anything I say.”

  Christie stood up. Mrs. Fenley smiled. Dobbie held the dress against Christie. “Look at her eyes, Addie. I knew it. I knew it, they’re turning green.” He spun around. “This dress and your emerald, Addie. I want her in the entrance hall, in emerald. In an emerald booth.” He turned again to Christie and his voice went higher. “Who is she? Why haven’t I seen her before?”

  Christie felt herself become an object: a part of the room, a subject for discussion. For some peculiar reason it was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

  “Darling, if you will just settle down for a moment.” Then, to Christie, “Dobbie gets very emotional when he’s been working hard. And believe me, this boy has been working like a trooper for days now. She isn’t a model, Dobbie. Unfortunately. You will simply not believe this. She is a policewoman. Or should I say a detective? Is there a distinction, my dear? You must forgive my ignorance.”

  It was clearly an area foreign to Mrs. Fenley. There is a distinction, Christie thought, but miserably she admitted to herself, it is a distinction of very little value here. Mrs. Fenley didn’t wait for Christie’s clarification. Her attention went back to Dobbie who expressed his awe, his delight, his curiosity, his disbelief.

  The feeling of unreality began to crack; Christie felt her uncertainty give way. There was a slight hard edge which she tried to keep from her voice. “Mrs. Fenley, I can see you’re very busy and I have a few things to do too.” She glanced at Dobbie. “Can we speak here?”

  Dobbie was on the floor again, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head hunched forward. “Oh, talk here, Addie. I want to hear, please. I need some distraction from this goddamn stupid circus ball of yours.”

  Christie sucked the inside of her cheeks between her back teeth. One quick movement of her booted foot and Dobbie would roll across the thick carpet right into the fireplace.

  “About Elena Vargas, you said?” Mrs. Fenley motioned to the maid who carefully carried a large silver tray. She smiled her excuse to Christie; the last interruption, the smile promised. The maid was young, dark, unpretty. The hostess was gracious, assured the unsteady girl that the arrangement of cups and saucers and pots and cakes and plates was fine, and that she might leave.

  “Not a word of English,” Mrs. Fenley said in her deep amused voice. “From Colombia or the Dominican Republic or some such God-forsaken place.”

  “Ugly as sin,” Dobbie said. “She unnerves me. All that silence. Something sinister about it.”

  “Don’t be unkind, dear. And just one sugar cube, if you insist on not wearing that belt. I bought it for him at Abercrombie’s,” she told Christie. Her eyes moved to Dobbie. “Self-restraint, Dobbie. Have you ever heard of it?” The charcoal eyes slid toward Christie; there was a slight hardening, barely discernible. “Look at her bone structure. My God, the hipbones actually stick out, even when you’re sitting. Madame Krousisky would lose her mind over you.”

  Her thin flatness was envied by this rich and beautiful woman; her natural slenderness was apparently greatly esteemed. Somehow, Mrs. Fenley’s beauty seemed slightly diminished now, slightly manufactured. Her slenderness was revealed as not natural to her; the fine bone structure of her face was the result of semistarvation. Only the very rich had this particular look, and beneath the carefully applied beauty Christie sensed an ugly desperation.

  “Elena Vargas?” Christie prodded, determined now to get on with the interview.

  “My dear, there have been so many. But yes, of course. Elena was from that home upstate. God, it was a long time ago. She was quite young. Let me see ...”

  “She was placed with you about nine years ago. She lived here with you for one year. As a companion to your young daughters, I believe?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. A dark girl. Beautiful. Very beautiful.” She glanced at Dobbie. “There was a face you would have appreciated. But, what exactly, Detective ... is that correct? ... Detective Opara, am I supposed to tell you?”

  Tell me about Elena. Silently, words flooded Christie. Tell me about Elena Vargas and how she survived her year with you.

  “Well, as I understand it,” Christie said professionally, all traces of the awed young interloper gone now, “Elena came to you directly from the Good Shepherd Protectorate upstate. She had finished high school at sixteen and was to attend evening classes at Rochelle Business College here in Manhattan while living with you. I’ve checked at the college and their records show that Elena started the course but dropped out after less than two months. According to their records, she was an extremely bright girl and was taking a course in bilingual stenography. I was wondering if you could give me some further information, as to why she ...”

  Mrs. Fenley’s attention had strayed from Christie. She looked past her and her smile was automatic but lacked pleasure. “Here’s someone who might be helpful. Kelly, darling, do come into the room and see if you can assist.”

  The girl was tall and lanky. Her hair hung in two long ropes of shining gold, half hiding her face. Her body was covered with what appeared to be blankets, that reached almost to the floor. Her bare toes, as they moved across the carpet, were dirty. Long fingers played restlessly with the hair, pulling it across her face.

  “This is my daughter Kelly.”

  “By her first marriage,” the girl said. Her voice was harsh and ragged.

  “Don’t be bitchy,” Dobbie said as he wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth, then licked at his finger.

  “You just wish you could be,” Kelly informed him. There was a surprising lack of emotion; the words, though rancorous, fell flat.

  “Kelly, darling,” Mrs. Fenley said, as though she had heard n
othing, “do you remember Elena Vargas? It was some time back. Let me see, you couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old.”

  The girl stood, her hands working inside the blankets. “I was eight or nine years old. You were divorcing Harrison. It was after you met Arthur.” For the first time, she spoke directly to Christie. “Arthur is Fenley. The current and all-time champ. Timewise that is.”

  “Don’t be rude, dear. This young lady is a detective. She is inquiring about Elena Vargas. Although, to be perfectly honest,” the quick smile, the innocent ignorance, “I really don’t know why, do I?”

  “A routine matter,” Christie said.

  “She’s a call girl now, isn’t she?” The girl shoved small wire-framed eyeglasses along her nose. “I’ve read about her. In the Daily News. That’s the grooviest paper, isn’t it? All those great pictures about dead people and stuff. How many does she take on in a night?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar, Kelly,” her mother told her.

  “It’s her style, Addie. God, I’ve told you a million times, let the girl have her style.” Dobbie’s eyes shone.

  Kelly looked down at the decorator. “You’re a little shithead, Dobbie, do you know that?”

  Christie kept her eyes on her match, inhaled tobacco, blew out smoke. She carefully ignored the tension and spoke quietly to the girl. “Kelly, do you remember anything about Elena Vargas?”

  The blanket rose, shuddered, then fell over the girl’s shoulders. “She was scared to death. All the time. Of everything. Of us.”

  Mrs. Fenley’s voice was still pleasant, but firm. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Kelly. I’m sure we treated her kindly.”

  “Sure. We treated her kindly.” The girl collapsed on the floor in a heap of blankets. “Shove your fat ass over, Dobbie. You take up too much space.”

  Christie waited until they arranged themselves. “You were a little girl when Elena was here, Kelly. Do you really remember her?”

  “Yeah. I really remember her. I remember everything. Don’t I, Mama?” The voice was mean, cut off by a quick unhappy laugh and followed by a sigh. “Yeah. I remember Elena. She was real nice. She was supposed to go to school at night. I heard you talking about it just now and then I remembered. I listen at doorways. And I listen in on telephone conversations. And I listen outside of bedroom doors. It’s a gas sometimes.”

  Dobbie blinked rapidly. “Kelly, you are becoming an all-time bore.”

  “It’s my style, sweetie.” It was a perfect imitation of her mother’s voice. She hunched forward. “I’ll tell you about Elena. She had no one. No one. That’s a crummy feeling, you know? And here she was, in all of this.” Her hand moved a few inches, then withdrew. “She had a nice room. I used to go to her room. To get away from my sister. My sister is a member of the Junior League. Couldn’t that like knock you out? I mean, the Junior League.” The long gold hair covered the face completely as she leaned forward. The glasses glinted now and then from behind heavy strands of hair. “Elena was a real person. I mean, she was real, know what I mean? Like, she cried at night. From the heart. Real tears. Like ... like despair.”

  Mrs. Fenley’s face was taut; the smoothness was masklike. She poured tea into her half-empty cup. For the first time there was impatience in her voice. “Get on with it, Kelly. Detective Opara hasn’t all day, and frankly, I’ve given more time to this entire matter than I can spare.”

  The girl covered her head with the blanket, then let it partially fall. She peered over the rim of her glasses at Christie. “She cried because she wanted something out of life. You know what she wanted? She wanted to go to a lousy, yukky secretarial college. She even had a scholarship from that orphanage she lived in.

  Isn’t that groovy, she was a real orphan. That’s what it was about Elena, she was real.”

  “Why did she drop out of the secretarial college, Kelly?”

  The blanket shrugged. “No way. No way for Elena. She had to miss too many nights. You remember, don’t you, Addie? No? Addie wouldn’t remember. ‘Elena, dear, you won’t mind staying home with the girls tonight, will you? We are in such a state; cook’s sister died and the maid is pregnant and the agency just sends us this endless stream of little colored girls ... I beg your pardon, my dear, but you know what I mean, and they are just not reliable and I am so relieved that you’re here in my time of crises,’ and yak-a-ta-yak-yak-yak.”

  “Kelly, you are making all of this up. You know you are.” The growl was no longer charming; it was angry.

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. What’s the difference? You get the picture, don’t you, lady cop?”

  Christie wondered if the girl was on something; there was a sallowness to what little complexion showed and her voice was flat, her cadence a little singsong.

  “Well, Kelly, it’s no big tragedy if Elena had to miss school now and then. It’s no reason for her to have dropped out completely. Especially if she had her heart set on a secretarial career,” Christie said, waiting.

  “No. That wasn’t the reason.” Kelly’s face emerged, turned toward her mother. “Was it, Mama?”

  Mrs. Fenley sipped at her tea, carefully put the fragile cup on the fragile saucer. “I will be perfectly frank with you, Detective Opara. It sounds dreadful, I know, but I haven’t much recollection of this Elena Vargas. I ... traveled for much of the year that the girl lived here. As my daughter so ... generously informed you, I was having certain marital difficulties at the time. My recollection of Elena is quite dim.”

  Kelly rolled her shoulders against Dobbie. She held a long lank strand of hair to one side and her glasses glinted. “Cutie, you too can become a dim memory. Forgotten. You ever think of that, doll-baby?”

  Dobbie pulled back, brushed his body where the blanket had made contact with him. It was of some fluffy material and he became very concerned that no trace of it remain on his purple shirt.

  “You know what Mama told her?” Kelly swung her head toward Christie. “Mama told Elena that she had it made here. That she was foolish to stay at that secretarial school. I mean, Elena was practically black, right, Mama? Even though her features were practically Caucasian. Is that the right word? Yeah, Caucasian. That’s a nasty-sounding word, isn’t it?” The girl’s long hand combed the hair over her face, then parted it down the center, like a curtain, as she turned toward her mother. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t really remember Elena, do you Mama? Well, I do. She was beautiful.” Again, toward Christie. “But Mama told her that it was just nonsense, this going to secretarial school, when she had it made right here, living with us. And taking care of us. And she was practically one of the family and she could watch all the nice parties and all the pretty ... no, all the beautiful people right here. And in Palm Beach and in Newport and even in—now get this—even in sunny Spain from whence her ancestors had probably come long, long ago, even though Elena came from Puerto Rico and believe me, the Spaniards in the part of Spain where Mama hangs out would take one look at Elena and say, This way to the kitchen.’ ”

  Kelly ran out of words and dropped her head against her knees. She pulled the blanket over her head, then, not looking up, she asked, “Don’t you really remember Elena, Mama? Not even now?”

  Beneath the magically smooth, transparent makeup, Mrs. Fenley had gone chalk white. I must apologize for my daughter’s incredibly bad manners, Detective Opara. She seems to be going through a particularly hostile stage just now. I would advise you to discount practically everything she has said. It is sheer fantasy.”

  Dobbie waved his hand before his face. “That cigarette smoke is killing me.”

  Christie crushed the cigarette into a small rounded dish that appeared to be an ashtray. Kelly watched her, then laughed.

  “Beautiful,” she said. “That is beautiful. It’s a nut dish.”

  “Really, Kelly, your manners ...”

  “Yeah, it’s a nut dish,” Kelly said. “But she would sit there and let you grind your butt into that gen-u-ine Modigliani over there b
efore she’d tell you that you had boffed. That, my dear, is considered good manners. And good manners, my dear, will see you through any and all situations. Including, my dear, the nuclear holocaust to come.” The girl stood up, arranged her blankets. “When we have succeeded in blowing up our world into little pieces, lady cop, if by some real crazy fluke, the likes of you and me have survived, we shall see that the other survivors, the ones really meant to be survivors, will have good manners and enough compassion to organize charity balls in order to provide some little bits of food and clothing for us ‘poor unfortunates.’ They will carefully succeed in re-creating the splendid society in which we find ourselves at the present time. In the meantime, I shall just stay inside my blankets, where it’s safe and there aren’t any circuses and like that.” She yanked at the blankets, pulled one hoodlike over her head, but the blanket dropped clear to her shoulders. For the first time, the young face emerged. Kelly was a pretty girl with thin, hollow cheeks and dark intent eyes. “Hey, lady cop. When you see her, Elena, tell her Kelly said ... ‘peace.’ ” The burst of laughter was genuine, young, honestly delighted. “Oh, wow. Tell her ‘peace’ or ‘piece,’ however it means the most to her. Oh, boy.”

  Christie didn’t watch the girl as, huddled inside of her blanket, she left the room. The laugh seemed to turn deeper, dangerously close to a sob. Christie stood up, caught her shoulder bag by the leather straps. “Mrs. Fenley, I’m sorry I’ve taken so much of your time. I realize how terribly busy you are.” Christie’s arm swept the room. She realized it was the same gesture that Mrs. Fenley had used earlier.

  The large gray eyes were vacant for an instant. The long thick lashes, too lush to be real, too subtle to be false, moved twice slowly, then twice rapidly. In an easy, graceful motion, the lithe body rose, the cold hand was offered. “My dear, I must apologize for all this disarray, but we are absolutely frantic. Our ball is tomorrow night and there are about six zillion things we have to do. Oh, Dobbie, for heaven sakes dear, do get up and try at least to look animated. By tomorrow night, my little magic worker here will have transformed that great hall into the jolliest circus you’ve ever seen. The workmen should have been here by now. Dobbie, don’t you think you should give them another call?” The gray eyes searched Christie’s face, then roved over her body. “You would look marvelous in the green, my dear, if you could possibly ...”