Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (16 page)
“I'm going to go upstairs, see if anything's up there,” Murray said. “Then I'll look through her bills, if I can find them.”
Juliet, meantime, seated herself on the rug beside the crateâwhere both cats immediately joined herâcurled and flexed her cold fingers, and began to ferret through the photographs. Nearly all were black and white, and some went back to the 1920s. Dimly registering the sound of Murray's footsteps moving across the floors above, she soon learned to recognize Ada, a darling, black-haired gamine with ivory skin and huge, heart-stopper eyes. There she was in family groups, groups of smiling friends, in wedding photographs (several her own, with her several different husbands). Ada at Niagara Falls, Ada beside a totem pole, Ada in the mouth of a cave, Ada dressed up as Charlie Chaplin. Some were in small albums; one large one was framed.
Carefully, Juliet lifted the latter from the box. The frame, covered in forest-green crushed velvet, enclosed an eight-by-ten studio portrait of the head and shoulders of a very handsome man, circa 1945. He had heavy-lidded dark eyes and thick hair that curled back from his forehead in a gessoed wave; he wore a jacket and tie and a crisp white shirt. Written across his shadowy left shoulder in heavy black script were the words: “To my darling Ada, With all my love forever, Frederick.”
Frederick. Frederick A., of the poem Ada had read at Cleopatra's Ashtray.
Juliet looked up, wanting to share this discovery with Murray, then realized she could not hope to explain to him why it struck her as so poignant. But for herself, the image of Ada reading at the mike,
her silver dress ashimmer in the spotlight, held her brain with almost paralyzing force; and she sat a moment breathless, head down, tears in her eyes. The poem came back to her, then Ada's vehement reference, over tea and scones at their first meeting, to the tannery owners who made their money and ran, leaving a town “plagued by acid rain” and “riddled with toxic sinkholes.” Frederick A. had been her darling. No wonder she wanted Free Earth to keep her own land intact.
her silver dress ashimmer in the spotlight, held her brain with almost paralyzing force; and she sat a moment breathless, head down, tears in her eyes. The poem came back to her, then Ada's vehement reference, over tea and scones at their first meeting, to the tannery owners who made their money and ran, leaving a town “plagued by acid rain” and “riddled with toxic sinkholes.” Frederick A. had been her darling. No wonder she wanted Free Earth to keep her own land intact.
She was still leafing through the rest of the photographs when Murray returned to report the upstairs empty (except for dust and mouse droppings). He had also peeked into the padlocked parlor on the opposite side of the front hall. Nada. As he got busy looking for Ada's financial papers, Juliet opened the bottom drawer in the nightstand.
Inside was a thick sheaf of poems, each carefully copied out by hand on lined paper, each dated and identified by a number. There were 412 altogether, the most recent written barely a month ago. Juliet glanced at a few of the earliest (“The Cider Press” was the title of the first, dated August 1932), then set them carefully aside. Were there duplicates anywhere, she wondered? The idea of keeping a single copy of seven decades of writingâno computer backup disk, no photostatsâhorrified her, but might not have troubled a person of Ada's generation. She had probably known most of them by heart, anyway.
Murray, meantime, had found the drawer he wanted and sat on the bed sorting methodically through a jumble of receipts and letters. Medicare statements, Social Security stubs, documents concerning a pension payable to the widow of Frank Caffrey, utility bills, check registers, bank statements. The most recent of these last were missing, he eventually reported to Juliet, doubtless carried away by Skelton for his investigation (as had been, apparently, any contents of the wastebaskets). But the earlier ones showed savings of a little over $12,000. Other than this, the only correspondence of any interest
was a business letter dated some six months before. In it, Kenneth Levenger of Fairground Enterprises asked to meet with Mrs. Caffrey at her convenience. Fairground Enterprises, the crisp letterhead indicated, was a division of the Noble Corporation of Philadelphia; what Noble Corporation might be the letter gave no hint.
was a business letter dated some six months before. In it, Kenneth Levenger of Fairground Enterprises asked to meet with Mrs. Caffrey at her convenience. Fairground Enterprises, the crisp letterhead indicated, was a division of the Noble Corporation of Philadelphia; what Noble Corporation might be the letter gave no hint.
Juliet's attention was soon distracted by a bundle of love letters that turned up in another drawer. Tied with a red ribbon, these had been sent to Ada during World War II by a man named Mack. Though they began and ended with predictable, if unusually spicy, endearments, they were filled in the middle with vivid portrayals of the other men in Mack's unit. Mack had a wicked tongue and an easy way with the English language. Juliet was not surprised to gather, from certain references, that before going to war he had been an English teacher at the same academy where Ada taught public speakingâperhaps it was due to him that so many great American novels were represented on Ada's shelves? Soon Juliet was lost in the world his letters conjured.
But the afternoon was hurrying by, with much still to do. With an effort, Juliet set down the letters and turned her attention back to the books. On the shelves, poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction, were mixed wantonly together, William Carlos Williams beside Robert Benchley, Emily Brontë (in a kitschy early twentieth-century edition) next to Anaïs Nin. Meantime, Murray opened the boxes in the parlor fireplace, discovering hundreds of second-hand paperbacks, including several by Angelica Kestrel-Haven. Carefully, Juliet began to pull the books from the shelves and sort them, checking publication dates and flyleafs. If there was anything of value, she would like to donate it in Ada's name, not leave it to molder unnoticed another fifty years.
At five o'clock, she gave up for the day. The daylight was long gone, she was hungry and tired, and the sadness in the house was seeping into her. She and Murray went out to the car and returned with Ada's valise, carpetbag, and coat. Then they turned down the
thermostat, unplugged the space heater, shut off the lights, said good-bye to the cats, and left, taking with them the bundle of love letters and the handwritten poems. The air outside had sharpened; their breath billowed copiously, even inside the car.
thermostat, unplugged the space heater, shut off the lights, said good-bye to the cats, and left, taking with them the bundle of love letters and the handwritten poems. The air outside had sharpened; their breath billowed copiously, even inside the car.
Later, they would argue about exactly whose fault the accident was. Murray was driving, but he had asked Juliet to turn around and help him back out. However it happened, one moment the Jaguar was cautiously inching along the driveway, the next its back end was gliding smoothly, elegantly, over a little embankment and down into the snow.
Murray let loose a stream of curses. These had no immediate effect on the car, but they seemed to comfort him a good deal.
When he had finished, Juliet suggested he put the car in drive.
“It won't move,” he said.
“You could try.”
“The rear wheels are over the edge of the driveway. I'll spin them into a hole.”
“You don't want to try?”
“No, I don't.”
There was a pause. Juliet had to admit the car was on a distinct slope now, its back end lower than the front.
“But would you?” she asked presently.
“You would like me to try moving forward?”
“Please.”
Murray shifted into drive. A brief jolt and a whining sound ensued, but no forward movement.
A cloud, drifting across the dark sky, slowly moved to reveal a sliver of moon.
“What do we do now?”
He shrugged. “You have a cell phone. You want to call Triple A?”
“Are you a member? I'm not.”
“Doesn't matter if I am, it's your rental.”
“Oh.”
“Rental company? Tow truck?”
“You want to sit here and wait?”
“We could go back inside.”
At this point in their deliberations they were distracted by a pair of bright lights sweeping over them. A vehicle had swerved from the road into Ada's driveway, its headlamps high off the ground and so bright that only after the driver had stopped and dimmed them could they see it was a pickup truck, not new, but well kept.
“You folks stuck?”
The man's voice, shouting down from the window, was solid, capable, calm, and only a little contemptuous, pretty much the sort of voice you most want to hear when your car won't move.
Murray shouted back. The man left his engine running, climbed out of the pickup, and came over. Murray pulled the parking brake and got out, too. In the dark driveway, they shook hands.
“Murray Landis,” Murray Landis yelled.
“Tom Giddy,” said the newcomer, then ducked to repeat this to Juliet through the open driver's side door. “I live next door.”
She got out of the car. “I know who you are,” she said, coming around to him. “Your wife gave us the key to Ada's house this morning. Juliet Bodine.”
She put out her hand, looking him over curiously. The real Tom Giddy was tall, ruddy, broad-shouldered, with bluntly handsome features. He was older than his wife by eight or nine years, she would guess. That still made him considerably younger than Lord Spafford's shorter, less attractive steward. But the men had a similar sturdiness. After her wild miscalculation regarding Mrs. Giddy, she experienced a certain relief.
“Thanks so much for stopping,” she said.
Giddy shrugged. “Reflex. I'm a pro. I work at Harlan's garage,” he explained, to Juliet's puzzled look. “I'm also the one who plowed this driveway. Guess I should have sanded it. Hang on a minute; I'll
hitch up a chain.” As he moved away, “Nice wheels,” he added.
hitch up a chain.” As he moved away, “Nice wheels,” he added.
While Juliet suppressed the urge to explain the car was rentedâit was cold, it was dark, better just let him go about his businessâGiddy reached inside the pickup, put the brights on again, then went around to the back to fetch a chain. Juliet got back in the car and squinted into the glare as the men bent down and worked their mysterious arts. Soon, Tom turned the pickup truck around, got out, and connected the chain to the trailer hitch. A minute later, Murray got back in next to her and shifted into neutral. In seconds, they were up and out. As they headed into the night, Giddy honked good-bye to them on his horn.
Murray + Juliet
What is an inn?
Is it a snug place of shelter for weary travelers? A center of rest and refreshment for wanderers far from home? A thing of bricks and mortar, of plaster, wood, and nails?
Or is it rather a state of mind, a hospitable impulse, a fond hope, a well-meant wish? Is it, as Caroline Walsh, proprietor of the Candlewick Inn evidently believed, mostly a house with a name and a telephone listing in the business pages?
Juliet and Murray arrived at the address of the Candlewick to discover a hulking wooden wreck on a tumbledown lot. By the plentiful street light and the faint light of the moon, they could see that the homes around it were spacious and elegant, their grounds and fences well kept. In this neighborhood, they later learned, at the start of the last century, had lived prosperous owners of factories, powerful local officials. Now the residents were mostly doctors and executives, almost all of whom commuted to Albany daily.
But here also lived Caroline Walsh, native of Gloversville, who had managed from the proceeds of her wholesale novelty company (joy buzzers, false teeth, inextinguishable birthday candles) to put down just enough to purchase the Cormier Mansion, otherwise doomed to the wrecking ball. Late in the 1800s, the Cormiers had come down from Quebec to make a fortune as purveyors of dyes to
the tanneries. The Cormiers had been a canny and philanthropic lotâtheir interest in color had prompted them to found a local museum dedicated to the artists of the Hudson River Schoolâbut not a numerous one, and at the end of the 1980s, the last of their line had died. The house had languished untenanted in the hands of a bank, an escalating eyesore, until Ms. Walsh came to the rescue just five or six years ago.
the tanneries. The Cormiers had been a canny and philanthropic lotâtheir interest in color had prompted them to found a local museum dedicated to the artists of the Hudson River Schoolâbut not a numerous one, and at the end of the 1980s, the last of their line had died. The house had languished untenanted in the hands of a bank, an escalating eyesore, until Ms. Walsh came to the rescue just five or six years ago.
From the outside, it was perhaps difficult to see the improvements she had made since then. In truth, the roof had been patched in many places, the driveway carved out and cleared from the overgrowth that had covered it, the plumbing to the kitchen and several bathrooms refurbished, the electrical system overhauled. Most of this, Ms. Walsh had accomplished with her own hands. But alas, her admirable industry left untouched the peeling facade, the tumbledown fence surrounding the property, the holes in the front porch. Carefully, cradling Mrs. Caffrey's poems and love letters, Juliet picked her way through the uneven snow to the front door. Murray, who had insisted on carrying both their bags, tromped behind her.
The woman who opened the door was tall and gaunt, with a massy tangle of long, salt-and-pepper hair that descended like a storm cloud over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her skin was pale, her eyes large and dark, her nose beaky, and her style of dress not dissimilar to that of Suzy Eisenman: denim overalls worn, in her case, over a bulky Irish fisherman's sweater, with a pair of heavy workman's boots. She was about fifty and recognizable at a glance as a child of the 1960s counterculture. It wasn't only her hair or even her style of dress but something in her stance, her gazeâboth worldly and naiveâand the game way she greeted the arrivals.
She grinned, an enchanting grin that lit up her hooded eyes and instantly comforted Juliet. “Come in.”
Ms. Walsh stood back to allow her visitors to walk into what had once been a grand entrance hall and was now the cavelike portal to a vasty ruin. The hall was perhaps twenty feet high, with a floor
of marble. Around three sides of it, some ten feet up, a balcony ranâor rather, hobbled, given the state of repair of its once uniform balusters. To this balcony led a double set of curving marble stairs, which debouched on either side of the entrance hall. All of this was illuminated by a crystal chandelier made up of at least a hundred sparkling drops. It ought to have shone down on a gleaming floor and creamy paintwork; instead, the marble was dingy, chipped, badly scuffed, and, mercifully, largely covered by a trapezoid of red broadloom. Paint blistered off the walls and lay in the corners in broken curls.
of marble. Around three sides of it, some ten feet up, a balcony ranâor rather, hobbled, given the state of repair of its once uniform balusters. To this balcony led a double set of curving marble stairs, which debouched on either side of the entrance hall. All of this was illuminated by a crystal chandelier made up of at least a hundred sparkling drops. It ought to have shone down on a gleaming floor and creamy paintwork; instead, the marble was dingy, chipped, badly scuffed, and, mercifully, largely covered by a trapezoid of red broadloom. Paint blistered off the walls and lay in the corners in broken curls.
“Welcome to the Candlewick,” said the owner of this humbled pleasure dome. “I'm Caroline.” As the others introduced themselves, Caroline came forward to try to wrest the suitcases out of Murray's hands; a brief tussle ensued, which Murray lost. The innkeeper deposited the luggage on the bottom step of the left-hand staircase, then turned her attention to relieving her guests of their coats and hats.
“Wow. I didn't realize there were two of you,” she said, returning to them after secreting these somewhere beyond the entrance hall. “Shit, I'm really sorry. The only available room has twin beds. Of course, you could take my room if it's too much of a drag. I have a queen.”
She looked from one to the other of her guests, who said nothing.
“Come in, I just started a fire,” she said into the silence. “Sit down and warm yourselves.”
She turned and led them through an archway in the wall between the two staircases. Juliet and Murray had no time to do more than exchange a glance before they found themselves in a huge, pillared dining hall. At the far left end, flames roared in a fireplace easily six feet high and ten across. A couple of mismatched couches, one of cracked leather, the other upholstered in an ancient brocade, had been drawn up along either side of it. The opposite end of the room contained a dining table perhaps sixteen feet long and three
metal folding chairs. This room was paneled in wood. The pillars, also of wood, were ornamented at top and bottom with wreathes of carved oak leaves and acorns.
metal folding chairs. This room was paneled in wood. The pillars, also of wood, were ornamented at top and bottom with wreathes of carved oak leaves and acorns.
Caroline grinned again.
“Pretty amazing, huh?”
She beckoned them to the couches by the fire. “What can I get you? Hot chocolate, Irish coffee, maybe a beer? Or do you want to see your room?”
At the repetition of the singular noun, Murray and Juliet again looked at each other. On the way over, they had discussed the possibility that no second room would be available at the Candlewick, that Murray might have to stay at the Johnstown Holiday Inn or the Adirondack Motor Lodge, whose glum premises they had passed on their way into Gloversville. Yet somehow, neither of them corrected Caroline. Instead, they fell into seats across from each other and turned their eyes to the flames.
“A beer would be great,” Murray said. “If it's no trouble.”
Caroline said it was not, took Juliet's order for hot chocolate and disappeared through a swinging door at the far end of the room.
This would be a good opportunity to discuss sleeping arrangements for the night, said Juliet to herself, while she stared as if hypnotized into the fire. Her body, cold and tense after the sad hours in Ada's house, felt as if it were melting. She had chosen the leather couch, which was terribly worn but also surprisingly soft and accommodating. How long had it been since she'd slept in a twin bed? Maybe not since her dorm room at college.
The recollection of that bed, that room, made her look up again at Murray, who in her sophomore year had often slept with Mona in the twin bed her own was twin to, in that long-ago dorm room. He, too, was gazing mesmerized into the fire. Back in college, Juliet would stay out as late as she could, sometimes even sleep in a friend's room on a bedroll on the floor, to give him and Mona some
privacy. Still, she remembered the look of his dark headâhis hair was jet black thenâon Mona's pillow.
privacy. Still, she remembered the look of his dark headâhis hair was jet black thenâon Mona's pillow.
The fire crackled on. She said nothing. He said nothing.
Caroline clomped back in, a tray in her hands. She gave Murray his beer, then sat beside Juliet.
Then, “Oh shit, where'd you guys park?” she asked, almost jumping up.
“Right at the end of your driveway.”
“Oh. Phew.” Caroline settled back again. “You can't believe how much my neighbors hate me. You're not allowed to park on the streets in this area; and believe me, if they saw a car parked at the curb near my house, they'd call the cops in a minute.”
Juliet had caught a swift, speculative look in her direction from Murray. Their eyes had met for a split second before his gaze fled back to the fire. But there had been enough in the glance to make her own cheeks flame up.
“Why should they hate you?” she asked, turning her eyes fully on Caroline and hoping to refocus her own attention on something that didn't make her blush. As for Murray, every time she looked his way, he seemed to be simply listening, gazing steadily into the fire; yet she was sure she felt the flicker of his glance on her every now and then.
Caroline gave them the history of the house and the community it was a part of. Almost all her neighbors had been looking forward to seeing the Cormier Mansion demolished, she said. It was true it had been an eyesore for a long time, and they were sick of it. So they were disappointed when she came in and saved it.
“Not that somebody saved it, I mean,” she said, “just that it was me. 'Cause I'm local, I don't have a bankroll. I have to restore the place piecemeal. They wanted someone from maybe New York, like you guys, to come in and dump a million bucks on the place, you know? And then, to raise money, I turned it into an inn. Well,
they're just all up in arms about that,” Caroline went on, “even though I only have four guest roomsâat this point, one, 'cause two of them aren't redone yet and the third one, I'm replacing the floorboards.”
they're just all up in arms about that,” Caroline went on, “even though I only have four guest roomsâat this point, one, 'cause two of them aren't redone yet and the third one, I'm replacing the floorboards.”
And now, Juliet and Murray did look at each other openly. Both had naturally assumed other guests were occupying the inn's unavailable rooms. It took a moment to rearrange their thoughts. Then Murray smiled. Juliet smiled. Then they looked away from each other again.
“So none of them can believe the zoning allows me to have this little business,” Caroline went on, “but it does, and they all just hate that. I would never have guests who were rowdy or raucous. I mean, look, it's my house, you know, I live here. I'm the one who's most concerned to keep things under control, right?”
She paused to take a swallow of the beer she had brought in for herself.
“But they're all freaked. I mean, this is a really beautiful house. They should be glad I saved it. They should support my efforts to make it economically viable. This town, for outsiders, people from Albany or New York or wherever, you can't believe what this town will do to encourage outside business. They have this economic development corporation, you know, and all it does is offer tax advantages, noise variances, zoning waivers, training for workers, God knows what all, all to get companies to agree to move here. I mean, not that they shouldn't. They should. People are hurting for jobs; we need that.”
Now Juliet again felt Murray's gaze on her cheek. For a moment, she held still, allowing him to look, obscurely aware of her breath coming a little faster. She turned to him. His eyes were demurely contemplating the fire.
“But do my neighbors give a shitâexcuse meâdo they care a rat's ass if the Candlewick goes belly-up?” Caroline was going on meantime. “No. They'd be thrilled. There wasn't another soul who
would buy the place for anythingâit was just rotting here, even though this is the fanciest neighborhood in town. But they don't care.” Her light, pleasant voice had become a bit harsh, whiny. “If a guest of mine parks on the street, if I don't mow the lawn, if I put out the garbage a day ahead because I'll be away, whatever, the minute they find an excuse they call the cops on me. And all because one day I might, might, if I'm really lucky, have four strangers staying here and five cars parked in my front driveway.”
would buy the place for anythingâit was just rotting here, even though this is the fanciest neighborhood in town. But they don't care.” Her light, pleasant voice had become a bit harsh, whiny. “If a guest of mine parks on the street, if I don't mow the lawn, if I put out the garbage a day ahead because I'll be away, whatever, the minute they find an excuse they call the cops on me. And all because one day I might, might, if I'm really lucky, have four strangers staying here and five cars parked in my front driveway.”
Distractedly, Juliet shook her head as if in sympathy. She was sure there must be more to the story than Caroline was letting on. But she could well imagine that some homeowners near the inn would like to get rid of it. She herself wondered how the income from an occasional rental could keep such an operation afloat. Then she realized that if the Candlewick was a business, Caroline could claim upkeep and improvements as business expenses on her tax return.
Caroline took another swig of beer and laughed. “Sorry, I get kind of foaming at the mouth about this stuff,” she said. Both her auditors felt this too accurate to do more than nod politely. “Tell me what brings you to Gloversville.”
Juliet, rousing herself to pay attention to her own words, explained, omitting any mention of the manuscript and hoping that, if it had been described in the local press, Caroline would at least not connect the story with herself. She also left out the fact that Murray was a police detective. In her telling, Mrs. Caffrey was just a fan who became a friend, came to New York to visit, and had, unluckily, been killed. Now Juliet was here with her friend to look over her legacy under the will.
“Yeah, I heard about Ada. I mean, everyone did. This is a small town, so you can imagine.” Caroline shook her head. “Not that we haven't had quite a few murders of our own. A few years ago, three teens tied up this girl's ex-boyfriend, beat him, cut him, poured salt in the wounds, then strangled him to death. A few months later, a
couple of kids smothered a seventy-seven-year-old man to death in his house, then drove around in his car bragging about it. That made the national papers; you probably read about that. We also had a twenty-year-old take a cab ride that year and shoot the driver. Fuck of a thing to be famous for, huh? Lately the teenagers just pee on the buildings downtown, thank God, try to set them on fire, criminal mischief kind of stuff.” She sighed. “A couple have committed suicide. My generation made plenty of noise, but at least we had a point. I remember going down to Washington for a march in 1967â”
couple of kids smothered a seventy-seven-year-old man to death in his house, then drove around in his car bragging about it. That made the national papers; you probably read about that. We also had a twenty-year-old take a cab ride that year and shoot the driver. Fuck of a thing to be famous for, huh? Lately the teenagers just pee on the buildings downtown, thank God, try to set them on fire, criminal mischief kind of stuff.” She sighed. “A couple have committed suicide. My generation made plenty of noise, but at least we had a point. I remember going down to Washington for a march in 1967â”
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