Blue Heaven (23 page)

"Philip, my dear," she said just before hanging up, "Satan may be the Father of Lies, but when Satan's busy, Moira baby-sits."

Twenty

I
'd never seen Claire look more radiant than she did the night she vanquished Moira. She wore a pretty dress of deep blue and I think I spied a hint of the makeup she rarely wears. As she sailed through the door into God's Country she exuded equal measures of strength and femininity, like a Valkyrie just back from the hairdresser's.

"Well?"
we said as one.

"There's hospitality for you! Aren't you going to offer me anything?"

"What do you want?"

"Something exotic, 1 think. Do you have any cognac?"

Gilbert dispensed beakers of the warming fluid and we sat around the fire he'd lit in the living room, waiting breathlessly for Claire to unfold her tale.

"Well, boys, the first thing I want to say is don't get too excited. We're not out of the woods. Not by a long way, I'm afraid. But we had two things to be frightened of before: the Mafia and Moira, and the more dangerous of the two, Moira, is now eliminated. Consider her permanently declawed."

"What have you got on her?"

"Patience, dear. It's a twisty path I've been down and I prefer to take you step by step.

"When we left Winslow's the other day there were a few things I couldn't quite figure out. The first was Winslow's profession, or rather, his avocation. You told me he was a playwright. In fact, such a dedicated and driven playwright that Moira had successfully exploited his ambition. She offered him a production of his work if only he would provide her access to her funds. And so desperate was his
desire to be produced that he aquiesced, putting himself in a very precarious position.

"Well, I looked around that man's apartment and there was no evidence that he was a playwright at all! No theater books, and not so much as a single published play. Not in the living room and not in the bedroom either-I checked. There were no theater posters or prints, no souvenirs of shows he'd been involved in. Most significantly of all, there wasn't a desk or a typewriter anywhere in view. I don't think he could write at that kitchen table . . . it's too cluttered with his roommate's test tubes and chemicals. Now it's possible the typewriter might have been put away when not in use, but I ask you-a writer without a desk? Possible, but not likely. So if that part of Moira's story was invented, what else might be?

"Then there were the curious things he said-and the curious ways he said them. When you told him he had to confess to the duchess he said, 'That's impossible!' At first, I thought he was being rhetorical, that he was just unwilling to face the consequences. Then later I thought maybe he meant it literally. Now, under what circumstances is it impossible to confess to someone?"

"When they already
know
!" I said, leaping to my feet.

"What are you talking about?" said Gilbert.

"Gilbert, don't you
see?"
I said. "The fucking duchess is
in
on it! She's known what Moira's been up to all along!"

"I don't believe it! That
bitch
!"

And no sooner had Gilbert uttered these words than the lady in question burst through the front door and flew into the living room, the tails of her long black trenchcoat snapping viciously behind her. She glared hydrophobically at us, and Dr. Watson, without the slightest assistance from Holmes, could have guessed that she'd seen Wins-low and he had Told All.

"You
traitors
!"
she bellowed.

"Look, who's talking, bitch," snarled Gilbert and, with an athletic dexterity of which I'd not have thought him capable, snatched up and hurled a stuffed dachshund, catching her squarely on the jaw and knocking her flat on her behind.

"I'll have you
killed
for that!" she shrieked, sprawling on the carpet. "I have friends that will cut your legs off and beat you to death with them!"

"Oh?" said Gilbert, dumping a vase of wet tulips on her, "does this mean we're not in
love
anymore?"

"That's it!" she shrieked. "You're
dead meat,
Selwyn!" Claire stood and addressed them primly. "That's enough, you two. We have a lot to discuss."
"You!"
hissed Moira, rising to her feet and backing up. "You think you're very clever, don't you, missy? Well, you're not! I've had my suspicions about you right from the night of Maddie's party and now Winslow has confirmed them all! How dare you try to tell my mother things that are none of your goddamned business!"

"We didn't have to tell her, did we?" I said coolly. "The duchess has been in on it for some time! Maybe since the beginning?"

"What?"
said Moira.

"Don't play innocent," said Gilbert. "Claire figured it all out." Moira looked to Claire, and howled with derisive laughter. "Oh,
please
!
Spare me your detective work, you cow. My mother knows nothing.
Nothing.
And she's not going to find out, either. You listen to me, you idiots! Freddy Bombelli is a very powerful, very
violent
man-you're right about that much anyway-and he's just crazy about me. He wouldn't believe in a million years that I've done anything crooked. But
you,
Gilbert, and your queer friends-he doesn't trust you at
all.
He's only willing to try because I ask him. So, from now on,
I
call the shots. If any of you try to fuck up this plan
ever
again I will run to Freddy, blow the whole thing wide open and tell him it was your idea and
you
talked me into it! Then he'll personally see to it the three of you are next week's gourmet special at Bide-A-Wee. Do we understand each other?"

"Sit down, Moira," said Claire, her voice loud with righteous authority, like Van Helsing telling Dracula to relocate.

"Don't talk to
me
that way, you mailbox!" screamed Moira. "I don't think you realize the position you're in!"

"Ditto, my pet. But, if you can keep that sewage pipe with lipstick closed for five minutes, I'll tell you exactly where you stand." Moira stared haughtily but seated herself.

"Before you interrupted," said Claire, speaking very slowly as one who wants the moment to last, "Philip, Gilley-poo and I were discussing something Winslow said. We told him he had to tell the duchess about your plan and he said it was 'impossible.' Was he being rhetorical or did he mean it literally? I proposed the latter. But
why
was it impossible? These two leapt to the conclusion that it was impossible because the duchess already knew. But we know that's not the reason, don't we Moira?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Poor naïve darling. Well, how does this sound: Winslow could not spill the beans to the duchess because the duchess does not exist. The duchess never existed. The duchess is a pretentious fabrication you concocted quite some time ago. An amusing, cheeky little lie that posed few practical problems. Then suddenly Gilbert wanted you to help him bilk his big wealthy family and you desperately wanted your half of the money. Only you were saddled with this imaginary mummy across the sea who was supposed to pay for the whole thing.

"You couldn't tell Gilbert the duchess was a fiction because he would never have dreamed of yoking himself to you if he didn't think your side was good for at least as much as his. So you kept it a secret. But there was one rather large problem. How could, a nonexistent duchess pay for everything? So, you invented the riding accident so she could ask
you
to pay for it yourself out of a trust fund which, of course, never existed either, and which you had conveniently, and improbably, spent. How to get around that? Have Gilbert's family pay. How to get around Gilbert's objections to this? Convince him it was an elaborate swindle which would in the end double his income from the wedding. How's that so far? Rebuttal?"

"Gilbert," throbbed Moira, "you don't believe this evil woman, do you?"

"Moira," said Gilbert, his voice calm as death, "I don't know what to call you anymore. I'm out of words."

"But the calls from the duchess," I said. "We've all heard her. People have spoken to her."

"Of course," said Claire, "which brings us back to where we started; the real reason Winslow couldn't confess to the duchess was that he
is
the duchess.
He
made the phone calls and played Mummy. Am I right?"

"Don't grin that way, Claire. Your bridgework shows. I was
going
to tell you, Gilbert. I was looking for the right way."

"A posthumous letter, perhaps?" said Claire. "So, Winslow was Mummy, which is why he simply wailed when we said the duchess would have to pay for the wedding. He knew
that
was impossible, too."

"How did you work this out, Claire?" I said, dizzy with admiration.

"Well, once I assumed that Winslow wasn't a playwright I decided to see what else he wasn't. He wasn't a banker either. I called him two days running and he was home during banking hours. So if he wasn't a banker maybe there wasn't a trust fund, and if there wasn't a trust fund, just maybe there wasn't a duchess either. So I called the duchess using the old wrong-number ploy. I pretended to be looking for a bookstore called Trebleclef. I insisted my number was correct and the gentleman at Trebleclef, 'Murcheson,' I assume, insisted, of course, that it wasn't. Well, if this Trebleclef wasn't a bookstore, I asked, what was it? He informed me that it was a country inn with a charming little restaurant. So much for the ancestral home. I asked him if there was an old woman named Gwen there and he said, no, there was only one woman working there and she was a teenager. Here's where it gets good, boys! 1 decided that if Moira's real mum wasn't at Trebleclef maybe she was still in the
States."

"All right, Claire," said Moira, "that's
enough
!"

"No, it isn't," said Claire, sweetly. "Philip, I remembered your joking that the duchess sounded awfully posh for a woman from Pittsburgh so I got a Pittsburgh directory and started calling all the Finches, asking if anyone could help me find a Gwen Finch, about fifty. I said if it was any help I knew she had a daughter named Moira. I finally reached her sister-in-law-your Auntie Mavis, Moira."

"A hateful woman!"

"And
talkative!
She told me I'd have no trouble finding Gwen if I just called California and asked for a list of women's correctional facilities. Even as we speak, Mummy is living in one, learning respect for other people's property. Like mother like daughter. Excuse me, Moira, I'm not usually this mean-spirited but you do have a way of bringing out the worst in people."

"Oh, that's right! Everything's
my
fault!"

"Listen to her!" thundered Gilbert, leaping up from his chair. "You prove right to her face that she's been lying to everybody she knows for years and she sits there pouting like we're the bad guys!"

"Oh, hush up, you. Is it
my
fault you were so greedy you wanted
me
to bring in a fortune too? You weren't satisfied to let me help you get presents from your family and split it up. No! You wanted dukes and princes showering us with money and ancestral jewels!"

"But you
told
me we'd have fucking dukes and ancestral jewels!"

"With your greed did I dare say otherwise? You'd have called it off and I'd have gotten nothing at all. And I
need
the money, Gilley. I need it desperately! I have a chance-
we
have a chance, if you want-to get in on the ground floor of the most profitable-"

"
Nooo
!" screamed Gilbert, falling onto a sofa and beating the arm rest with both fists. "Not another one of your stupid fucking
investments
!"

"Winslow!" I said, in one of the few flashes of insight I'd displayed in my recent career as a full-time dupe. "That lab was his!"

"I was getting to that," sniffed Claire.

"He's absolutely brilliant!" said Moira, "and he's working on an idea that will revolutionize-"

"I don't want to hear it! Whatever it is, I'm not interested!"

"You're
so
close-minded," sighed Moira.

"How did you handle the contacts?" asked Claire, with a trace of admiration. "Who was your man in Little Chipperton and how did it work?"

"Oh, it was pretty simple," said Moira, unable to conceal a touch of pride. "Bri, he's the one at Trebleclef, is an old flame of mine from years and years ago. I just told him I was having a little joke on some friends so if anyone called asking for the Duke or Duchess of Dorsetshire, say they were indisposed, take a message and call me reversing the charges. I have a private line in my room, of course. If he couldn't reach me, he could leave a message on my secret answering machine. (It's hidden under the nightstand, Gilley, so don't tear the place apart, okay?)

"Whenever Bri gave me a message for the duchess I'd call Winslow and tell him who the duchess had to phone back and what she had to say. The same thing went for letters. When the duchess got one Bri would call and read it to me. Then I'd dash off a reply, have Winnie copy it onto my duchess stationery, then send it express over to England to be mailed back here so the postmark would be right.

"Actually, the duchess got to be very convenient. Like when Pina came by to show me her sketches. I made sure Mum would call while she was here and say poisonous things about her. That way if the designs wound up being too much, which they certainly did, I'd have a dodge all nice and ready. And Pina couldn't blame it on me-I was just humoring Mummy!"