Drumsticks (14 page)

It took him a few moments to answer me, and when he did his voice was lifeless. “Felice phoned me a week or two after the funeral. She said she wanted to apologize for—for some things she said at the service. Things said in anger.”

“She made some sort of threat, didn't she?”

“Yes. She was going on about our being to blame for what happened, berating Mrs. Benson and myself for not having had any faith in Kevin. For disrespecting him.”

“That must have made you pretty upset.”

He cleared his throat, looked at me mournfully.

“Didn't she say something about getting back at you?”

“Yes. She said she was going to pay us back and show us up as fools who didn't understand his music.”

Perhaps I was imagining it, but I thought I saw his eyes travel rather desperately around the room after he pronounced the word “music,” his searching glance coming to rest on one of two magnificent black Bose speakers. A man I had once lived with, Walter Moore, was forever talking about the day when he would be able to afford them.

The story was that Black Hat had asked his father for money to bankroll his career as a rap musician. Jacob Benson had roundly refused him. I had no trouble seeing that. One look at the man told me he was no fan of hip-hop culture. He probably loathed the very idea of rap, found it degrading filth. I could hear them—father and son—arguing about it now. I could just hear the venerable Dr. Benson mocking his son for his aspirations and for the thuggish clothes he wore, railing against him for wasting his education and the opportunities his parents had worked so hard to afford him. As for the ridiculous name he had taken on—Black Hat—what the hell was wrong with his own name—Kevin Benson?

Yes, he'd probably said things like that, and more.

And God, what he wouldn't give now to relent and give Black Hat every cent he had in the world for whatever kind of music he liked. Let the boy call himself the Naked Ape, if that's what he wanted. Anything to have his child back.

“Did that threat have any meaning for you, Dr. Benson?”

“No. The girl was distraught. Of course we were upset at the scene she made, but she was—ah—grieving.” He swallowed hard before going on. “Grieving, as we were. She asked for our forgiveness. And I gave it.”

“Did Felice happen to say where she was calling from at the time?”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“Did she say she was staying with a friend? Calling from out of town? Anything like that?”

“No. I assumed she was at home.”

“Do you know any of her friends? Someone she might be staying with?”

“No.”

“And there has been no contact since the phone call?”

“None. As I told you earlier, we weren't close with her.” He shook his head. “Don't misunderstand, Detective. It isn't that we have anything against the girl. It's just that she wasn't the girl we envisioned Kevin marrying. And who is to say that the marriage really would ever have—Well, what does all that matter now? I'm very sorry about her disappearance. Kevin … Kevin had feelings for her. I'm sorry out of respect for his memory.”

That smarmy feeling was coming back. Dr. Benson was sagging, on the verge of weeping. I was ripping open a wound. Maybe more than one wound—I could just as easily write in my head the dialogue for the arguments he must have had with Black Hat over young Felice. I had to think of something to turn Benson in a different direction.

“I wonder,” I said suddenly, “if I could have a glass of water.”

“Yes, surely.”

It took a couple of tries before he could rise from his seat. He winced from what were surely arthritis pains in his limbs, and used his hand to brace his back as he walked toward the kitchen.

As soon as he rounded the corner, I hurried over to the fireplace. In addition to the ones in the display case, there must have been twelve dolls artfully arranged at the corner of the mantelpiece, the Dilsey and Mama Lou duplicates among them. Ida didn't sign her work, but I didn't see how these could have been made by anyone else. All the models I had seen on her folding table in Union Square were represented here.

There was also a sweet photo of Black Hat, arms around his mother, in a silver frame.

I was back in my chair when Dr. Benson returned. He handed me the water tumbler and I dutifully drained it.

“I was just admiring those figures above the fireplace,” I told him. “They're charming. Where do they come from?”

He glanced over at the dolls. “I'm not sure. My wife buys them from a seamstress she knows, I believe.” He nearly laughed then. “She has a mania for them, as you can see. They're everywhere you look in the apartment.”

“They're so lovely. Do you think she'd mind if I asked her for the lady's name?”

“Lenore is out tonight.”

“Do you expect her back soon?”

“Not for some time.”

“I see. Well, actually I think that takes care of the questions I had for you, Dr. Benson. I'd just like to add my condolences for your loss. I'm sorry about Kevin.”

“Thank you, Detective Hayes. I wish you would—”

He stopped there.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The girl's mother—she must be suffering over what's happened. I know she must be. I'd like to … Would you … if you speak to her—”

“Yes, I will, Dr. Benson. I'll tell her you're sorry to hear about Felice.”

I waited a few minutes out in the hall before calling the elevator.
Don't have kids
is what I was thinking. Don't ever open yourself up to the unimaginable grief the Bensons, or for that matter Felice Sanders's mother, must be dealing with.

Downstairs, Mike folded the magazine he was reading so I couldn't see the cover. I was betting it was some sex maniac crap.

I didn't give him time to take up where he left off with me. I said good night on the fly and was through the revolving door before he could speak. But then I stepped back inside the lobby, and caught Blue Eyes reaching for the magazine.

“You've come to your senses,” he said. “I knew you'd be back.”

I borrowed a phrase from Leman. “You're not too dumb, are you?”

He flashed a killer smile.

“And yes, it is
Miss
. Now, let me ask you a couple of questions, Mike.”

“Okay.”

“Did you ever meet Kevin's girlfriend? Ever see him with a young woman at all?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“I see. One other thing: the Bensons must have been real shaken up when they lost their son.”

He nodded grimly. “I feel sorry for them. They're decent people.”

“What does Lenore Benson do with her days—surf Fifty-seventh Street?”

“I don't follow you.”

“You know, shopping. I mean, she doesn't seem to spend much time at home. Am I right?”

“Not lately she doesn't. But she's not out shopping. That's for sure.”

“You mean you know where she is?”

“Yes. I got a cab for them—that day.”

“What day?”

He took a quick survey of the lobby before answering, “The day she lost it.”

“Lost it? What did she lose?”

“‘It.' You know. He carried her out one day. She was stiff as a board and talking … crazy.”

“You mean crazy for real.”

He nodded. “Like I said, I whistled up a taxi. I heard him tell the cabbie they were going to Payne-Whitney. She hasn't been back since.”

Payne-Whitney. That wasn't a chic new women's boutique. Nor was it an investment house. It was a famous, very expensive psychiatric facility with a view of the East River just as impressive as the one from the Bensons' living room.

CHAPTER 12

Deep in a Dream

She crossed her legs exactly the way a woman should.

Lenore Benson looked fabulous.

She also looked fifteen to twenty years younger than her husband.

The exquisite dove gray frock and luminous pearl necklace didn't hurt, but I had the feeling she would look fabulous in a flour sack. She was an immensely beautiful woman.

One look told me why the oh-so-proper Jacob Benson chose her to be the woman on his arm at the Wealthy Negroes Ball. And the hostess for those important dinner parties with his medical colleagues. And the mother of his child.

My guess was that Lenore Benson was a transplant from the South—one of those unreal black belles whose remarkable grace was an ironic legacy from the example-setting white belles who had trained and owned their ancestors, and sometimes blithely sent them to their deaths.

Very likely the salespeople at Bergdorf's greeted Mrs. B by name. Very likely she could identify a cold meat fork at thirty paces. But she also headed literacy campaigns, ran a birth control clinic, and knew how long ham hocks should cook.

“Oh yeah. She's nuts all right.”

Leman Sweet's words sounded crass, insensitive, true.

Whatever Mrs. Benson had been, wherever she was from, she was somewhere else now. Her statue-like placidity and the checked-out expression in her eyes told me so.

Sweet and I were watching her through the doors of the dayroom. We were waiting for her psychiatrist to join us.

“Why do you think Benson lied?” I asked. “Well, not exactly lied. He just implied she was only out for the evening.”

“Probably 'cause he thought it was none of your business,” Leman said. “This headshrinker feels the same way. He won't say much and the law says he don't have to. But he can't stop the police from investigating a crime. We got a right to talk to anybody no matter how crazy they are, if they might know something about a missing kid.”

“Or a murder,” I added.

“Yeah. Or a murder. Anyway, this doc says we can ask her a couple of questions, for all the good it's going to do. She's on a lot of cool-out medicine and sometimes she won't even talk to him.”

A small white man with silver hair walked swiftly through a set of doors at the other end of the hall, heading toward us. The headshrinker, as Sweet called him, greeted us civilly enough. He would remain in the room, he informed us, while we questioned his patient. But we had to realize how profoundly unresponsive Mrs. Benson had been lately. Her son's death had sent her spiraling into the kind of depression she might never come out of.

He held the door for me. Only when he placed his hand on my back and began guiding me into the sunny, tranquil blue room did I realize how hesitant I was to step inside. I had to admit, the “quiet room” gave me the willies.

But when Mrs. Benson looked up at us in that kindly grande dame way, I felt much better, almost at ease, almost normal.

At Leman's encouragement, once again I took the lead in talking to “her kind.”

“Mrs. Benson, how do you do. I'm Nanette Hayes. This is Sergeant Sweet from the city police. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

“More oranges?” she said. “You're too kind.”

For the next five minutes or so she made no responses at all, not even one of the enigmatic variety we had just heard. But then something I said seemed to strike a chord.

“We're worried about something, Mrs. Benson. It's Felice Sanders. No one has heard from her for a long time. We thought maybe you could help. Do you remember when you last spoke with Felice?”

“Yes. A lovely girl,” she said. “Lovely prostitute. Oh dear, what did I say? I meant ‘posture.'”

“What did she say when you spoke to her?”

“It couldn't be helped.”

“What was it that couldn't be helped?”

“Unsuitable, completely unsuitable.”

I looked up at the psychiatrist, whose face was unreadable.

“Please,” I said to him, “we know you're here to help Mrs. Benson, not us. But you do know this girl's missing, don't you? Detective Sweet told you the police are looking everywhere for her?”

“Yes.”

“I'm asking you—did she really talk to Felice Sanders? Do you think Mrs. Benson knows what happened to the girl?”

His impassive face softened and finally he shook his head. “I really don't know.”

When Sweet refused to stop staring at the doctor, he repeated his disclaimer: “I'm sorry. I don't know.”

“I saw the beautiful collection of dolls you have at home,” I said to Lenore Benson. “Could you tell me where to buy one?”

“Yes. She's a lovely woman. Very talented. Someone to talk to.”

“Who is that?” I asked. “Do you mean Ida Williams?”

“All of them. There're so many to choose from.”

“So many dolls, you mean?”

“Yes, they are.”

She reached out convulsively then, as if trying to catch one of those oranges she had mentioned a while ago. It was then that I noticed the hatch marks across her wrists. Leman saw them too. Just as quickly as she had made the gesture, her hand was back in her lap and she was once again the picture of unearthly composure.

Leman spoke then: “Mrs. Benson, I have a photograph I'd like you to look at. Do you know who this man is?”

He placed the copy of Miller's photo into her hands.

“Julian! Good heavens, it's Julian. And doesn't he look well?”

“You're identifying this man, Mrs. Benson?” Leman asked skeptically.

“I should think I'd recognize Julian Bond when I see him, young man. He's sat at my table often enough.” She handed the sheet back to Leman with a gracious smile.

“Mrs. Benson, do you know a man by the name of Miller?” I asked.

When I got no answer, I added, “Or Lyle Corwin?”

“I'm sure his name is Julian, dear,” she said, her flinty tone providing a hint of the immovable steel magnolia she must have once been.

“I think we ought to wrap this up now, don't you?” I asked Sweet.

He nodded agreement, but then said, “Just a minute.” Sweet took pains to make eye contact with her. “Mrs. Benson, is Dan Hinton a friend of yours?”