Dead by Any Other Name (20 page)

fifty-three

Chevrona called for a
police car to transport Sally to jail for booking. While we waited for it to arrive, Sally sat like a zombie on one of the sofas. Howard stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, cold comfort. In the few minutes after her confession he seemed in shock, putting it all together, grasping the magnitude of what his wife had done, but then, subtly, I could see his wheels start to turn. This changed everything for him—and not necessarily in a bad way. Enid Pearlman waited quietly—Chevrona had told her she would need to give a statement—but under her classy and respectful mien, you could tell that she was excited, even electrified by the drama—few things rivet us like another person's fall, add madness and murder to the mix and you have a most seductive stew.

Janice, the housekeeper, had heard the commotion when Sally cleared the shelf, had come out and witnessed her meltdown. She didn't seem to know what to do with herself so she'd brought out the crabcakes, which sat untouched on the coffee table.

I was exhausted and sat on a chair in the corner of the room. After Sally's confession I felt a momentary exhilaration, followed by a hollow feeling, I had done my job, but there was no joy in bringing her down. But there was a lesson. Sally was a victim, of course, a victim of her mother's schizophrenia. It's hard to grasp how painful her childhood must have been. But instead of getting the help she needed and going through a long and wrenching grieving process, she repressed her feelings, shut them down, pretended that she could just “move on” and leave it all behind. So the grief roiled around in her subconscious, but grief will not be denied, it will turn into envy and rage, assert itself in ugly ways. Shakespeare said it like this:

Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak

Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Sally's heart broke and turned her into a monster, a mother capable of murdering her own child.

Several police officers and another detective arrived and took our preliminary statements.

I walked out to my car and stood in the fresh air for a moment. It was dark and the Hudson loomed below, a shimmering liquid ribbon, with the Highlands rising up from the far shore. The night sky was wide and starry and a shiver of hope coursed through me—Natasha's killer would pay for her crime, Josie was waiting at home.

Chevrona and the other detective led Sally to the police car and helped her into the back seat. Chevrona walked over to me.

“You did an amazing job,” she said. “What evidence did Sally find that she used to blackmail Denton?”

“You'll have to ask one of them.”

“Remind me never to play poker with you.”

We were silent for a minute.

Chevrona looked up at the sky. “It's a nice night, a good night.”

“It is, it's a good night.” I felt my throat tighten. “I'm glad we went through this together.”

Chevrona nodded. “I guess we're building a little history.”

“I guess we are.”

The waves flowing between us were filled with something that felt vast and beautiful. Chevrona looked down, rubbed the back of her neck. Then she looked up at me.

“You drive safely now,” she said.

fifty-four

“I'll have the shepherd's
pie,” Zack said to Pearl, who seemed marginally more
compos mentis
lately.

“I'll take the salmon,” I said.

“Cocoa-puffs omelet,
por favor
,” Mad John said. Pearl's mouth fell open at the request and for a moment I wondered if she was having a mini-stroke. Mad John leapt off his chair and started his jumping up and down in place thing, chanting: “I love Pearly, she's my girly!” Then he gave her bohunkus a hearty pinch. Pearl's eye's blinked rapidly, which was reassuring, and then she actually smiled a little and rolled her eyes demurely like a silent-film ingenue. So Pearl was sweet on Mad John. Hey, they made a nice couple.

George walked into Chow, all the riding clothes and accoutrements gone, replaced by solid black. He walked right past us and schlumphed onto a stool at the counter.

“Hey, Georgie, come join us for dinner,” Zack called.

George didn't turn to look at us, just stared straight ahead and intoned, “I'm sorry, I am no longer interacting with members of the human race. Why should I? All they do is crush me in return.”

“Oh, come on, man, Abba and Josie have collaborated on this amazing shepherd's pie, it has a layer of caramelized onions. And Janet is treating.”

George spun around, “Do you really think you can soothe my broken shattered heart with
caramelized onions
? Do you have any concept how deep my despair is?” He got up and shuffled over to us.

“So I take it Antonio left you?” I said.

“You
take it
Antonio left me? You
TAKE IT
Antonio left me!?! The man to whom I gave my heart, my soul, and twelve-hundred dollars in riding-instruction fees has gone back to Argentina, and you glibly ‘take it Antonio left me.' You're supposed to be my friend, Janet, but every time my dreams are lying wounded on the sidewalk, you come along and stomp them into oblivion.”

“I'm sorry, kiddo.”

“I'd kill myself if I wasn't already dead.” He grabbed my wineglass and downed the contents. “Pearl, I'd like the watercress salad, the leek soup, the shepherd's pie, a side of the garlicky kale, and the mixed-berry shortcake à la mode.”

“Shortcake, short
cak
-in',” Mad John starting singing, taking Pearl's hand and swinging her arm. Her face blushed a deeper shade of gray.

Chevrona walked into the restaurant; I'd invited her to join us but she'd been noncommittal. She nodded at everyone and sat down next to me.

“What would you like to eat?” I asked.

She indicated Zack, who was sitting on the other side of me, “I'll have what he's having.”

Did I just hear the sound of a gauntlet hitting the floor?

Pearl turned to shuffle off. Mad John gave her behind a little send-off slap and a tiny high-pitched squeal of delight leapt out of her.

Abba and Josie came out from the kitchen.

“The whole family is here,” Abba said. I looked at Josie, in her apron, her color high from the heat of the kitchen, and she looked so beautiful. Abba put her arm around her, “I don't know what I did before this one arrived.”

“You did magic with food, is what you did,” Josie said.

Zack poured everyone glasses of wine and raised his, “To Janet, who put a murderer behind bars.”

“I had a lot of help.”

“But, baby, you were the little engine that wouldn't quit and I am so proud of you,” Zack said.

“Is Sally going to get out on bail?” I asked Chevrona.

“The judge has denied it so far, but they'll come back and ask again, of course. She's got some pretty high-powered lawyers, but all the money in the world can't undo a confession with five witnesses.”

“And what about Collier Denton?”

“He may get away with murder. Sally spilled—she claims that when she went snooping at Stock's house she found Denton's credit card receipt for a gas can. But she can't produce it and the testimony of a murderer doesn't carry much weight. We are charging him and Graham Clarke with the theft of the Indian artifacts from Goat Island.”

“And Pavel?”

“He gets off scot-free. There's really nothing to charge him with.”

“But he gave all those pills to Natasha.”

“If he had
sold
them to her, he'd be in trouble.”

“What about possession?”

“He didn't actually possess them. And there was a seemingly legitimate prescription for them.”

“So Pavel is going to become Mr. Octavia Bump. Move over, Horatio Alger,” I said.

“You got the big fish, baby,” Zack said.

“Let me get these orders up,” Josie said, going back to the kitchen.

It was getting late and the place was emptying out. Abba went around and lit a few candles and put Natasha's CD on. Outside, the streets of Sawyerville were quiet. Our food arrived and everyone dug in.

I went into the kitchen. Josie was prepping the shortcakes. The back door was open and I was surprised to see Sputnik tied up on the patio, contentedly sleeping on his side.

“You've been away a lot,” Josie said. “He gets lonely, I hope it's okay I brought him over.”

I felt a little stab of jealousy, but nodded. Josie finished with the desserts, put them on the pass-through, and started in on kitchen clean-up. “So this is working out,” I said.

She nodded, “Abba's a great boss. More like a teacher really.”

I had an urge to go over and smother her in a hug and tell her how proud I was of her. Thankfully it passed.

She started to sweep the floor. “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

“I think you took the bigger chance.”

Sputnik woke up and stuck his head into the kitchen; when he saw us together his tail went to wagging.

“You know, Josie …?”

She stopped sweeping and looked at me, “Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask you about something … this is kinda hard for me … there are a couple of people from my past …”

She gave me a sympathetic, knowing smile.

“Did Abba say something to you?” I asked.

“She said a little something.”

“Anyway, I'm thinking I might maybe like to try and track them down.”

“I think that would be a really good thing, Janet.”

“Do you think maybe—“

“I could help? You're damn right I could.”

Okay, the words were officially out, the first step had been taken, I had friends along with me on the journey.

I walked out to the patio and inhaled a deep hit of the heavy Hudson Valley air. Sputnik butted his head “hello” against me, I petted him, “Hey, buddy.”

Then I went inside to help Josie scrub a few pots.

The End

© lynne wayne

About the Author

Sebastian's recent novel,
The Hour Between
(Alyson, 2009) won the Ferro-Grumley Award and was a National Public Radio Seasons Readings Selection. The ghostwritten
Charm! by Kendell Hart
(Hyperion, 2008) was a
New York Times
bestseller.
24-Karat Kids,
written with Dr. Judy Goldstein (St. Martins, 2006) was published in seven languages. His first novel,
The Mentor
(Bantam, 1999) was a Book of the Month Selection.

As a playwright, Sebastian was dubbed “the poet laureate of the Lower East Side” by Michael Musto in
The Village Voice
. His plays—which include
Smoking Newports and Eating French Fries, Beverly's Yard Sale,
and
Under the Kerosene Moon
—have been seen at the Public Theater, The Kitchen, and LaMama, among other venues.

Sebastian has worked as a ghostwriter and editor in every genre imaginable, from business to politics to show business to travel.

A native New Yorker, he now lives with novelist Stephen McCauley in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Saugerties, New York.