An Independent Woman (5 page)

“I don't scream,” Barbara said. “How did you get in?”

“I told you, I picked the lock. You don't impress me, lady. You liberal do-gooders give me a pain in the ass. It's burning out there, and you sit here with your fuckin' jewels. So thank you for nothing.”

Then he left, and a few moments later she heard the downstairs door slam. She was dog-weary and a little sick inside, her pulse hammering. Thank God he had not tied her up! She thought of going downstairs and seeing whether he had disabled all of her telephones, but then she decided that it didn't matter and she truly didn't care. All she desired right now was to get into bed, turn off the lights, and pull the covers up to her chin. Anything else could wait until tomorrow.

S
HE WAS TOO TIRED TO SLEEP
, too tired to let go of her churning thoughts. Was she sane, or was she acting out the last thing he had said—“It's burning, out there and you sit here with your fuckin' jewels”? He had walked off with the money and at least a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. Did she care or didn't she care? Long ago, half a century ago, she had taken an inheritance of fourteen million dollars and turned it into a trust, coddling herself with the virtue of what is right and what is wrong. Her grandfather had died, and the fourteen million was stuck in her grandfather's bank, left to her in his will.

Why am I thinking of that? I am an old woman of seventy, and I have just been robbed by a black civil engineer, and I am hiding under a comforter. Who was it that said, “Successful and fortunate crime is called virtue”? Was it Seneca? Who was Seneca? I've forgotten that, too … I want to sleep and forget that this ever happened
.

“But I have the ring,” she said, almost in a whimper.

She would not think about the robbery anymore. But she did think about it; she lived it through again and again. She had experienced a great deal, but she had never been robbed before. She had a feeling of violation, of penetration to the uttermost soul of her being, of having been raped in a way that was worse and more devastating than any physical rape. She had been a liberal all her life; for almost half a century, there had been no good cause in San Francisco that Barbara Lavette had not been a part of—frequently as the leader. It began with the great waterfront strike of the thirties, and it went on from there, one thing after another until it became a commonplace to turn to Barbara Lavette—
So why the guilt?
she asked herself. It was not the jewels; she had been entirely truthful with herself and with the thief when she said she did not give a damn for the jewels. It was what he said and how he said it; and his leaving the ring. She recalled his gesture of contempt as he tossed the ring on the comforter. Any hockshop would have gladly paid a hundred dollars for the ring. What was gold selling for now—four hundred, five hundred dollars an ounce? She tried to recall the sum; she didn't read the financial pages, but the enormous rise in the price of gold was talked about all over the City.

On the other hand, her father's name, Dan Lavette, was inscribed on the inside of the ring, and when she recalled that and realized that it would be worthless to the thief unless melted down, and a conclusive piece of evidence if he were to be caught with the ring in his possession, she was at last able to relax. “Let virtue be what it is,” she said to herself, smiling forlornly for the first time since the night began.

She must have dozed after that, and she awakened to the vague morning light. She left the bed and looked out of the window. Green Street tilted down Russian Hill to the Embarcadero, and from her window Barbara could see the last wisps of fog curling before the wind and drifting across the Bay. It was a beautiful sunny day, and for all that she had had so little sleep, she felt renewed and refreshed.

She showered, pulled on a pair of gray slacks and a cashmere sweater, and went downstairs. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, except that the drawers in her desk were partially drawn and the clay jars in which she kept sugar and flour were upended and dumped on the kitchen table. He must have been careful, since she had heard no sound until his footsteps on the creaking stairs awakened her. The phone plugs had been pulled out of the wall and broken, so she was still without a telephone. Somewhere she had an extra phone wire, but that could wait until she had cleaned up the kitchen table and had breakfast.

She had regained her composure, and that pleased her, but the cleaning of the kitchen table and the precise, orderly way she went about boiling two eggs and preparing a bowl of dry cereal made her acknowledge to herself that she was putting off the telephone call. In many ways Barbara was a precise and orderly person, but this time she was purposely slow and deliberate, giving her additional time to consider the question. She had heard that little that was stolen was recovered, and she had also heard that many people preferred to simply let it go and claim the insurance; but to claim the insurance, the theft must be reported to the police, and there was the rub.
Do I or do I not want to report this to the police?
She had told the thief and she had told herself that she didn't give a damn about the jewelry, but the diamond and ruby brooch had been a gift from Carson. Was it callous—or could a lifeless thing have meaning? Why did she plead with the thief to let her keep her father's ring? Why was she so hungry, buttering a third slice of toast and chewing it slowly and savoring each bite of it? Was this indifference? Carson had been her husband, and after she had divorced him, he had been her lover and protector, and this very morning, providing she could get her head together, she would begin to work on the final chapter of her new book, the story of her time with Carson and his death. It was to be published as fiction, and originally she had planned that when the manuscript was finished, she would change the names; but for the last eight months she had evoked Carson daily, reexamining her relationship with him, and had come to the conclusion that she would publish it as she wrote it, and let come what might. And yet the most precious gift of jewelry that he had given her was gone. When she had offered to buy the ring from the thief, he had derided her—and still she could tell herself that she would keep her word, although by now she realized how ridiculous her proposal was.

“
It's burning outside, and you sit here with your fuckin' jewels!
”

No, no, no! exploded inside of her. I am not a racist! I did not make slavery! I paid my dues. Who are you to judge me? What do you know of me?

Angrily she rummaged through her tool drawer, found a spare telephone cord, and managed to plug it in. She looked at her watch; it was seven-thirty. She sat staring at the telephone and brooding, and then she looked at her watch again and it was seven forty-five. She went into the bathroom, glanced at the mirror, and then brushed her thick white hair. Her dearest friend, Eloise, had pleaded with her to dye it the rich honey color it had once been, but after Carson died she had become indifferent to her looks. Then she went back to the chair by the telephone, an ancient green velvet upholstered Victorian chair that she had inherited from old Sam Goldberg, her father's lawyer and, after Dan's death, her surrogate father. Evidently the chair finally brought her to a decision, and she picked up the telephone and called her own lawyer, Abner Berman.

“Do you know what time it is?” he demanded sleepily.

“It's a time when honest men are on their way to work.”

“Barbara?”

“Yes. And I have a problem. It's a short walk to my house, and I have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” he wanted to know. “You always have a problem.”

“This is a different kind.”

“You always have a different kind. Come to my office in an hour and bring your problem with you.”

“No. I can't talk to you in your office. You're too rich and successful, and the walk will do you good. I have fresh-brewed coffee, and I'll give you toast and eggs.”

“Barbara!”

“For two hundred dollars an hour, you can afford to come here.”

“I don't charge for house calls. I'll be there in an hour, and just coffee. I'm trying to lose weight since Reda left me.”

S
O
R
EDA HAD LEFT HIM!
Abner was a corpulent, good-natured man of fifty or so, and they had been married for twenty years, and he announced this offhandedly at the end of a sentence, and then hung up before she could question him. No more
until death do us part;
it was all over the place.

Until death do us part
was her own curse, and every man she had loved was dead. Well, she had an hour before he'd be there, and she might as well put it to use. But when she sat down at her desk she could not escape the night, and instead of writing she found herself not only reliving the night but probing through her own past.

At nine o'clock the doorbell sounded, and when she opened the door, it was not to Abner but to two men, one stocky and mustached, the other thin and tall. They showed her their open wallets and badges before they announced themselves:

“Inspector Meyer,” the stocky man said. “This is Inspector Phelps. Can we come in?”

She pulled herself together and nodded. “Of course. Come in and sit down. You'll excuse me for a moment.” Then she ran upstairs and into her bedroom, and when she picked up the telephone, she realized that it was not working, that the connection had been ground under the thief's heel. “Oh, Abner, Abner,” she whispered, “for once get yourself over here on time.” And then, as she closed the bedroom door behind her, she heard the doorbell ring.
Abner.
It has to be Abner.
She called out, “I'll get it!” And then down the stairs as if her life depended on it, and still with no clear idea of what she would do.

As she went to the door she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the two detectives handling the broken telephone line in her living room.
Fool, fool, fool
, she thought.
Why didn't I get rid of that one?

She opened the door, flipped the latch, and closed the door behind her, whispering to Abner, who stood on her small porch, “There are two detectives inside. No time for questions, Abner. Just go along with me, please.”

“Who have you killed?”

“Abner, shut up. Just go along with me.” Then she opened the door and followed Abner into the house, trying to recall the policemen's names: “Inspector Meyer, isn't it? And Inspector—”

“Phelps. I'm Phelps.” He still held the telephone cord in his hand.

“This is my friend Abner Berman, and my lawyer,” Barbara said, smiling as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have her lawyer at her house at just past nine in the morning.

“Your lawyer?” the Inspector asked.

“His wife just left him. He comes for coffee and breakfast. Would you like some coffee?” she asked, feeling utterly ridiculous. Abner was watching her, puzzled.

“No thank you, Ms. Lavette.”

So they knew who she was; of course they would, her name was on the door. She still used her maiden name.

“There was a robbery last night, Ms. Lavette,” he went on. “We caught the thief this morning, down on Fisherman's Wharf.”

“Really?” Barbara said.

“He had his loot on him.” He paused. Abner was studying her, his brow knitted. “Were you robbed last night?” the inspector went on.

Barbara hesitated a long moment, and then she replied. “No.”

“Is she a complainant?” Abner put in. “Did she call the police and report a theft?”

“No,” Meyer said.

“Then why are you questioning her? Was the house broken into?”

“Not as far as we know. But this?” Phelps exhibited the broken telephone plug.

“It happens.” Abner shrugged. “She said she wasn't robbed. That's it.”

“Not quite.” He reached into his pocket and took out the brooch and held it out for her to see. “Is this yours?” When Barbara did not answer, he said, “We spoke to Swinburn this morning, got him out of bed. Our jewelry expert said that only Swinburn carries this kind of stuff. When we described the brooch, Swinburn remembered it. It was purchased by Carson Devron three years ago, for sixty-five thousand dollars. You don't forget that kind of a buy. Your relationship with Devron, if you will forgive me, was all over the scandal sheets, so I'm not prying. Whether Devron gave it to you or his wife, I don't know, but we will find out when we check the insurance companies. The thief we caught is a smooth and smartass operator with a record. He did two years for manslaughter. His name is Robert Jones, and he's not your usual kind of crook, so all this makes me wonder. I'm going to ask you once more, is this your brooch?”

“She doesn't have to answer that—or anything,” Abner said sharply. “She's not a complainant, and I think she's had enough for this morning. I suggest you leave.”

Phelps was still staring at the telephone plug. The inspector nodded. “Come on,” he said to Phelps. Barbara went to the front door with them, managed a weak smile, and closed the door behind them. Then she returned to the living room, looked wearily at Abner, and flopped into an easy chair.

“How wondrous are the doings of men—and women,” Abner said. “I need coffee and breakfast, so get your ass out of that chair, Ms. Lavette. I have to call my office, because we're going to have a good long talk. Is there a phone here that works?”

“In my study.” Barbara sighed.

“Thank you.” He went into her study and she went into the kitchen and made toast and cracked eggs. Her hands were shaking. When Abner joined her in the kitchen, she asked him whether he wanted bacon.

“I'm off bacon. I'm going to lose weight. No, the hell with it, give me bacon. Today I need it. I'm also off cigarettes, but not this morning. Do you have any cigarettes?”

“I don't use them. I keep some in a box on the coffee table—in the living room.”