Helen Hath No Fury (11 page)

“Amanda, Susan, and I are all in a book group,” Denise said to her friends. Perhaps my inclusion in her social circle needed explanation. “We’ve just had a tragic loss in the group, a woman Amanda was particularly close with.”

I wondered why she kept saying I was Helen’s close friend, but it didn’t seem worthwhile or diplomatic to contradict her.

“So sad. Are you still gathering information about Helen?” she asked. She smiled and glittered at the small group around her. “Amanda has a nose for crime, you see.”

“Not really,” I said. “And it’s not truly an investigation.
We’re simply pooling what we already know. Very informal.” I smiled because she’d made me feel uncomfortable about what we were doing, as if I were playing Nancy Drew. I wondered if that was so.

Denise flashed a rueful smile. “I do wish I’d known her better.” Then she must have decided that talk about a dead woman wasn’t likely to delight campaign contributors, and she waved, expansively, at her surroundings. “Isn’t it the most glorious evening?” she said. “We’ve been on the deck. It’s absolute heaven, isn’t it?”

I suspected that people like Denise had weeks filled with this painful time-passing inane chatter, and I wondered how they avoided being carted off screaming.

“Oh, my! I haven’t introduced you all,” she said. “Forgive me! This is Amanda Pepper, a friend of mine, and her … oh, I can’t believe I’ve misplaced your name.” She lowered her gaze for a moment, a hint of a frown creasing her forehead between her brows.

“C. K. Mackenzie,” he said to one and all. “Glad to meet you.”

Denise smiled with relief. “And this is Stefan and Dianne Stoverman, and Millicent Delucca, and Roy Stanton’s son and right-hand man, Zachary.”

“We’ve met before,” Zachary said. I hadn’t recognized him. He was groomed and tailored and smooth, although his unsmiling expression was still sullen. I realized he looked a lot like his father, and I wondered if his thuggy personality was also a genetic inheritance. He shook hands with Mackenzie and me.

Denise beamed at her other guests. “Amanda’s a teacher at Zachary’s alma mater,” she said. “They did something right there, because we’d be lost without Zachary. He’s been this campaign’s biggest asset.” Denise was every bit the politician that her husband was. Perhaps more. I took
her praise of Roy Stanton’s son for what it was, bright and meaningless conversation.

Zachary had been a senior my first year of teaching, and I’d never had the displeasure of trying to teach him, but I’d heard a great deal about him, and none of it was good. From time to time since then, I’d heard more tidbits about him, and again, none of it was good.

But politics obviously agreed with him, had galvanized him out of his torpor. Maybe kids actually did mature. Maybe an apprenticeship as thug and bully was useful to a career in politics.

Denise seemed unsure of whether it was permissible to leave us yet, and she was still making chitchat and probably weighing her options when Susan tapped me on the shoulder. She clutched half a dozen shiny plastic envelopes. Pink and powder blue and green and yellow. I saw handwriting through the top clear one. I had obviously missed a major stationery revolution. Everybody had these envelopes except me.

Susan looked surprised to see us all together, but then greeted us, one and all. The couples Denise was shepherding around must have been major players if Susan also knew their faces and names.

Finally, Denise’s group drifted off, and Susan walked us over to the bar, a pretty room of woven wicker and inlaid woods that made me feel as if the ship had docked at a tropical port. We sat at one of the tables, and she had us order drinks, then told us that the drinks were on her.

We refused, till she said the drinks were on the candidate and that she was
so
sorry she’d made us come out. That she’d hoped and expected to have a drink with us, and talk about Helen’s desk diary because she thought there was something to it, but one of the special guests—in fact,
the
special guest, a Broadway star with a definite
right tilt to his politics—was having a tantrum about the seating chart.

We made a dinner date for the next night. She handed me the clear plastic envelope, took a deep breath, and darted back to the fray.

We turned to our drinks but, within seconds, heard Susan’s voice once again. She was back. “I couldn’t resist,” she said. “I realized that—you know how I said we’d talk tomorrow?”

I nodded.

“Well, then, if this were a mystery, I’d be in trouble, because before I could ever tell you what it is, I’d be dead.”

“Excuse me?” Mackenzie said.

“I heard you were a reader,” Susan said to him with a mock frown. “You know. Books. That’s what happens in them. There’s a phone call, a promise that the next day you’ll find stuff out, except boom! You don’t because the caller’s dead. There’s always a second corpse. It’s kind of a requirement.”

“Luckily, this is real life, not predictable, stale fiction.” I wondered if she was a little nuts, if writing mysteries all those years hadn’t warped her mind.

“You’re right,” she said. “But it was a thought. And a funny enough one that I lost my headache for a minute. I’ll tell you, it’s possible that death is preferable to that egotistical jackass on the dais. I wish
he’d
said he had something to tell you—tomorrow.”

And she was off, and not much later, so were we. By taxi this time. Enough healthy stuff was enough.

A
MAZINGLY, THE NEXT DAY BLOOMED WITH PURE
spring essence again. Philly’s so often stingy with its favors, doling out one good day, then changing its mind. We’re ruled by a weather goddess with attention deficit disorder, so we’ve all learned to carpe the good diems.

But today, we were being given a second helping. That was evident even up in our loft, surrounded by city and few green things. You could tell. The light from the skylight and front windows was different. I knew it would smell pale green and feel silky.

A perfect day to go to a garden, a spectacular garden, to live like a Du Pont without having to work with chemicals. We were both smiling as we locked the door behind us. Then Mackenzie stopped. “We’re meetin’ Susan and her husband for dinner, right? Doesn’t make sense to come all the way back here first, but we never looked at the stuff she gave you.”

We’d found better ways to occupy our time when we returned home last night. The Delaware may be unfabled, but it can be sufficiently romantic.

“Maybe we should take it along—look over it while we’re there. Or better still—we’ll get to the restaurant early and give it a look. Sound informed, okay?”

“Didn’t you say it would be worthless?”

“I did indeed and I still believe that to be the case. But
it still seems polite to give it a look. She bein’ so excited about her find and all. Just so we don’t sound totally ignorant.”

I went back and found the clear envelope and tossed it behind me into the minuscule backseat, which seemed designed for plastic folders, not human beings.

We were taking my car, top down. Driving a ’65 Mustang, no matter how lovingly maintained, can make a simple outing a major adventure. The old darling can’t have that many miles left in her. “Do you realize,” I said, “that when this car was made, you weren’t supposed to trust a
person
over thirty?”

“Good thing you weren’t born yet.” He adjusted the driver’s seat back into a more comfortable position.

“Not me,” I said. “This is a
car
over thirty, and we’re trusting it.”

“I’m sure you have a reason for saying that,” he murmured in a tone you’d use only if the person you addressed was foaming at the mouth. “We aren’t exactly going into the wilds. We’re going to Kennett Square. If we get stuck, we could almost walk to Wilmington, so don’t worry.”

“I was making conversation.” I could see how we’d be if we were together for years to come. One of those silent couples in restaurants, enduring each other in a masochistic marathon. Probably living with a single goal—to outlast the other one.

But of course, we wouldn’t be together for years to come because things do have to move in one direction or the other. That includes relationships, and ours did not seem destined to move forward. Together. Because of the marriage-phobic driver.

I heard myself.

No. I heard my mother playing ventriloquist with my thoughts. I shook my head.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. A mild and fleeting headache.” I patted his hand, and we were on our way to Chester County, near Wyeth country. “How come Pennsylvania was graced with Longwood Gardens?” I asked. “Why would a Du Pont leave Delaware?”

“It’s a stone’s throw,” Mackenzie said. “And it was an arboretum before Pierre had it. A family named Peirce owned it from 1700 on and, about a century later, started planting specimen trees. Pierre bought it early this century so as to save the trees.”

I should have known he’d know. “The wisdom of the immigrant,” I said. “You know more about my home turf than anybody I know.”

“I like that stuff.”

And on we drove, on the outskirts of commercial areas, business for the very non-Du Ponts in often crumbling towns, until we were near the former residence of Msr. Pierre. “Money can do real nice things, too,” C. K. said. “Like this place. Some of the trees were here, sure, but he created the rest.”

And quite a rest it was. I’d come here as a child, once or twice a year, and had always loved its profusion, excesses, and astounding colors. Once, we’d come on a frosty winter day. The magical expanse of snow and icicle-laden greens in sharp winter light has stayed locked in my mind ever since.

We started with the Flower Garden Walk because, “That’s what we always did,” I said.

“Great reasoning,” Mackenzie said, but he didn’t mind. Every inch of the thousand acres of gardens was a good place to be. Besides, I knew the walk would be breathtaking at this time of year, and it was.

“Eighty thousand bulbs,” he said as we walked between explosions of yellows and oranges, then masses of
white blossoms, then clusters of pinks and purples. Tulips and daffodils and crocus and I don’t know enough about plants to say what-elses. But beautiful. Overwhelming, in a fashion no garden I’d ever cultivate could hope for. I silently thanked Mr. Du Pont.

At the end of the walk there’s a stone bench. Its armrests, on either end, are carved into mythic-looking birds. The bench had been one of the wonders of my childhood. “Sit there,” I said, pointing at one end. “I’ll sit at the other end. Whisper into the bench back and I’ll hear it.”

I listened as a very slow, Southern voice said, “Whoever hears this, I love you.”

“I heard that,” I whispered into the stone.

“Then I guess you’re it,” the stone said. I stood up. “Magic, huh?”

The whole day felt that way to the point where I wondered if I should move to some green and open space, if I’d always feel this contented and at peace in the country. At least, in this expensively elegant form of country.

We wandered through the peony and wisteria gardens, both in full bloom. The wisteria vines, heavy with blossom clusters in white, purple, and lavender, had been trained to tree-shape but were lovelier than any tree I’d ever seen. We strolled through part of Peirce’s woods, trees canopying us and the azaleas that bloomed everywhere, and I felt removed, rejuvenated, and almost on vacation.

“Let me show you the part of this place I fell in love with first,” I said, taking him into the conservatory to the Children’s Garden, where a topiary rabbit with floppy ears stood taller than the children running through the plants. Inside a kiddie-sized maze topped with flowers, small people giggled and shrieked.

“You loved a maze,” Mackenzie said. “This is probably the origin of lots of your problems.”

“Want to see the orchids?” I asked, and then, as if the image had been a delayed-action development on my retina, I did a double take and turned to look again at the two figures who’d just entered. “That’s Ivan Coulter,” I said. “And Gretchen. What would they be—”

“I suspect the same as you. A trip down memory lane. She’s a bit old for the scale of this room.”

I turned sideways, trying to be inconspicuous. Even though I’d been here first, I was sure they’d take my presence as a further intrusion, that they’d resent me, whether or not that made sense.

“You were sayin’ about orchids?”

“The um … the … Mackenzie, are they looking at me?”

“Absolutely. The girl’s all but pointing.”

“What should I do?”

“Tell me the next place to go. They’re talkin’ about you, Mandy, not to you.”

But that felt wrong. Not simply unsociable, even rude, but almost as if I were, truly, guilty of making everything worse, as Gretchen had said. For a moment, I watched them, thinking about how long and how powerfully Helen’s death would last and change the future of all those close to her.

Nothing would ever be the same for any of us. None of us would ever feel as confident about what or how well we knew anyone else. None of us would take a tomorrow quite as much for granted.

And Gretchen. I watched Ivan and Gretchen talk softly, full of sorrow for them. Actually, full of sorrow for her. My Ivan-sorrow was in reserve, pending clear information about where he’d been and what he’d been doing.

I walked over to them, leaving Mackenzie to examine the topiary. “Gretchen, Mr. Coulter. I’m glad to see you both in such a lovely place, and my sympathy to both of you.” I introduced myself, sure he wouldn’t remember me from the time Helen had once introduced us. I felt as if I were saving face by pretending I didn’t know they’d been talking about me.

Ivan Coulter was gracious. He kissed his daughter’s forehead and told her to go ask the guard right outside the conservatory about how late lunch was served in the Terrace Restaurant. He’d be right along.

“I thought flowers, a totally different environment,” he said without preamble. “We’re in limbo, and Gretchen … she’s having a hard time of it.”

“Understandably.”

“I worked on a shopping center not far from here,” he said. “Years back. Got in the habit of coming to this place whenever I could. It’s therapeutic.” He seemed almost defensive.

“This is one of my favorite places, too. A good place for Gretchen.”

“She’s a little old for this part now,” he said, “but she wanted to revisit it. As a grown-up, she said.” He managed a small smile.

“So did I. That’s why I’m here, too.”

“Since we’ve bumped into each other,” he said, “do you have a minute?”

I nodded, reluctantly. I had all day, but it had been such a good day till now.

“Gretchen’s upset about this project you—”

“No. Not me. The book group. Because we were fond of Helen. We wanted to do something
for
Gretchen, gift her with a sort of group portrait of her mother. Memories. Anecdotes—”

“Now you know it’s somewhat beyond that,” he said. “I gather you came to the house about it—”

“Not about that. About my raincoat.”

He looked as if not only didn’t he comprehend, he didn’t care, either. “I gather from Roxanne that you—collectively—don’t feel it possible that Helen ended her own life.”

He said it in a way that held the words away from him, at a distance. If they’d been objects, his arms would have been stretched to the limit, the words dangling from his fingertips.

“Roxanne shouldn’t have said—”

“Roxanne is a dear friend,” he said. “I would consider it a breach if she didn’t tell me things that were important.”

“I’m sorry if anything has caused you or Gretchen problems or pain,” I said softly. “That was the last thing anybody … we simply wanted—we want—to know her, because it’s obvious we didn’t while she was alive.”

He looked at me appraisingly. “True. Because one thing you didn’t know was that Helen was subject to depressions. There are people like that, and you wouldn’t necessarily know it about them. They say most comics are depressed people. Things that other people bounce back from could flatten her. Everybody has their heart broken. Helen dated countless men. People said she dated every Tom, Dick, and Harry. I joke that she married me because I didn’t fit, I was the only Ivan.

“She must have broken lots of hearts, and you’d think she’d roll with the romantic punches, but she didn’t. Life could do her in. She was coming out of a depression when I met her, and she had another bad one when she had problems getting pregnant.” He shook his head in small, tight back-and-forths, saying no to the memory. “It was terrible, to tell the truth. Of course, eventually,
Gretchen happened, and the bad time was just a memory.”

“Were there—that was a dozen, thirteen years ago. Were there any more episodes since then?”

“Not as bad as those. No. But she’s—she was—emotional. Moody. And lately, she hadn’t been herself.”

“We saw her the night before—she didn’t seem depressed, or lethargic, or apathetic, or any of the symptoms I’d think were to be expected.”

“People can mask their true selves. Helen had a public face. When everybody left, however, the facade would collapse.”

“That Monday?” As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. Ivan hadn’t been there. Ivan couldn’t know that answer.

He had to know how ugly it looked that he hadn’t been where he was supposed to be. He had to know that I knew, that all of Helen’s friends did. So if he’d clear up the confusion, clear away the suspicion—

Instead, he breathed deeply, straightened his posture, and tightened his lips. “I’d appreciate it if you would not further bother my daughter.”

“I didn’t ever mean to bother her.” Roxanne had done this, and damn her for it. And him, too, for being so evasive. My friend was dead and I didn’t believe the story and he infuriated me. “Where were you Monday night and the next day?” I asked in as noncombative a voice as I could muster.

He scowled. “I was where I needed to be. And I was surely not on that roof with my wife, if that’s your secret scenario.”

It hadn’t been, not really, until he said it. I’d accepted the idea that he was out of town. With somebody he shouldn’t have been with. That was the guilt I’d imagined. But now … Helen would have gone up to the roof
with him. And then he could have disappeared. That wouldn’t be difficult.

“I accept the idea that some misguided form of mourning for Helen has driven you to this … this whatever you call it. This quest, this …” He waved away whatever the end of that sentence would have been. “I’m asking you to respect our mourning and to stop adding to our misery. To Gretchen’s misery. Stop it right now.”

“But I—”

“I have nothing more to say. There in fact is nothing more to say. Have some respect. Have some compassion. She’s a child and her mother is dead. Decency. That’s all I’m asking of you.”

“But—” And then I looked across the bright and charming room and saw Gretchen, who couldn’t have looked more out of place. The slight girl was the one dark spot in the cocoon of green leaves and flowers, her shoulders slumped and her expression, fixed on me, heartsick. She looked helpless against the force of me.

I had become the villain of the piece, the source of pain, the problem.

Ivan Coulter turned away from me, toward his daughter.

I felt kin to every hypocrite who said she “meant well” while she worked her evil. Like something the grounds-keepers here would spray into oblivion, something predatory and without value.

So that was it. Another damn learning experience. I was finished with this well-meant but hurtful pseudo investigation. I wasn’t really going to unravel the secrets of a life. People were too complex to read in reverse this way, and Helen could no longer explain herself.