Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (23 page)

“Why? Because I’m not dead yet?”

“Frankly, yes. Like all paid services, time is money and they usually get it right the first time.”

She rubbed her arms as if chilled. “I see.”

“And even though this is a good thing, there’s still danger. Only have to ask Daisy.”

Paloma nodded.    

“I also think a time element’s involved.”

“Time element?”

“Counting the incident in Chicago, there’ve been three attempts within thirty-six hours. Two in broad daylight. Someone’s desperate. The Catonis have got to be our first concern. Something I’ll be taking care of this morning. But this is just one front to worry about. We can’t be sure who they’re after. Is it Agnes, Nancy or Paloma?” Max looked pleadingly at Paloma. “That’s why I need to know about Paloma. Everything points to her. You were registered as Paloma in the hotel, it was Paloma’s apartment that got firebombed.”

She shrugged. “There’s not much to know. I live a quiet life. Help Daisy with her business, keep to myself.”

There was an obvious question Max would prefer to ignore. He took the plunge anyway. “Any old boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends that would want me dead? No way. Any other thoughts?”

“Here’s the good news. Until we get this sorted out, this house is the safest place to be.”

“Stay here? For how long?”

“We’ll have to play it by ear.”

“I can’t commit to that.”

“Be reasonable, Paloma. What’s the alternative?”

She slumped. “I don’t know.”

“Like I said earlier. Let’s take one day at a time. Okay?”

She agreed.

He stood and put the dishes in the sink. “I need to run out for a while. Pay a few visits.”

“Where?”

“Head over to the parole board. I’m throwing this back on their lap. Then track down Joey. Will you be all right?”

“Sure.”

He folded his notes and put them in his pocket. “Leave the dishes. Relax, watch TV.” More than anything he wanted to lean over and give her a good-bye kiss. Instead, he patted her shoulders. “About last night…well, thanks.”

She smiled. “
De nada
.”

***

Watching Max’s car pull out of the driveway, Paloma’s mind reeled. With all the observations he had made, it did seem like she, Paloma, not Agnes, not Nancy, was the intended victim. Still, plenty didn’t make sense. If anyone wanted to get some of the action wouldn’t it be better to blackmail her rather than have her killed? After all, with the golden goose dead, the eggs wouldn’t get laid. And there was something else. She had pleaded ignorance about the time constraints, but there were a few dates that came to mind. She headed for the phone and made a collect call. 

Daisy answered. “Yes, I’ll accept the charges… Paloma?”

“
Hola, chica
.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Sorry, Daisy, this was the soonest I could get to the phone. How was the service?”

“It was beautiful.”

“Daisy, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“That’s all right. I understand.”

“Any more word from the police?”

“No, they haven’t come by. At least not yet. I think that guy was trying to scare me.”

Paloma sighed. “Yes, you may be right.”

“So where are you now?”

“Actually, I’m in his living room.”

“What are you doing there?”

“It’s a long story.”

“
Ay, chica
, isn’t it always.”

Paloma wanted to deny the implication, but her friend was right. “Daisy, when are the Cordelia letters going to auction?”

“End of September. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“So,” Daisy said, “did you sleep with him?
Chavala, díme la verdad
.”

“Not exactly sleep.”

“
Eres muy mala
.”

“A momentary lapse,” Paloma said. “And how about that boyfriend of yours, was he able to make the service?”

“No
mi hija
. He’s swamped.”

“Daisy, what kind of work does this guy do?”

“He’s a dealer from the Midwest. I told you that.”

“Right.”

“Maybe we can have a double wedding. That is once I forgive your friend Max.”

“Don’t count on it. By the way, what’s up with Brandon? Is he married or not?”

“He says he isn’t. But…I only have his cell number and, well, he’s not specific with things.”

“Oh, Daisy.”

“What?”

“You always seem to meet and fall for married guys.”

“Let’s change the subject. Is it okay to talk?”

Paloma looked around the bare-bones living room. The likelihood of Max bugging himself seemed remote. “Yes.”

“How are the letters coming?”

“I’ve been working on one. Will send it registered mail this week. Still no suspicions?”

“Paloma, we have it made. With all that’s been going on, I forgot to tell you. The first one we sold to the private collector was authenticated by Jerrod’s. Anything you do will be compared to it. Carte blanche, as they say.”

“Good.” 

“And what about your safety?”

“I’m okay for the moment.”

“No clues?”

“A few.”

“What kind of clues?”

Paloma said, “Too vague to go into now.”

“
Hija
, if anything happened to you, I couldn’t take it.”

“I’ll be fine. Listen, I’ll call you again after I send the letter.”

“How long are you going to be at his house?”

“It’s a fluid situation.”

“I see,” said her friend. “
Estos hombres nos vuelven locas
.”

Paloma laughed. “You may be right.
Te quiero, chica
.”

“
Te quiero
.”

After hanging up, Paloma smirked. Daisy’s observation that ‘men drove women crazy’ was undeniably true. To keep Max off her mind and maintain the little sanity she had left, she climbed the stairs and went back to work.

From beneath the pillow, she pulled out the letter she’d been working on the night before. She placed this page along side the photographs she’d mailed to herself, and checked for discrepancies. Her eyes darted back and forth comparing this forgery from the photographs of real letters exhibited at the museum in Amherst. The actual words were less important than their execution. 

Sunday evening,

Dearest Cordelia, I am sorry I was unable to see you, but I had woken with a fever. Recent days are tedious except for salubrious moments when I take pen to paper. Last evening after speaking with Austin, a sparrow whispered  –  Solemn shade along the walk, Puts to sleep stems entwined, Violet bloom now faded and lost, Forget me not the night divined.
 

Finding no glaring errors, she let out a long breath and reached for the magnifying glass.
 

Just as she hoped there was no feathering that would show that the ink was recent, no overlay of ink between letters that would suggest lack of fluidness. With the protractor she then measured the slant of the words. Both her script and that of the poet’s were in sync. Happy with the results, Paloma prepared another batch of ink.

She’d been told the Cordelia letters were a stroke of genius, but they weren’t. Conjuring a childhood friend to whom the poet regularly wrote and forging her writing was hardly brain surgery. And as far as using blank pages from old books, that was commonly done by forgers. No, Paloma’s greatest achievement and trade secret unknown to anyone was the concoction of an ink that would not spread on aged paper. The solution came from years of trial and error, now perfected – a teaspoon of Indian ink mixed with two drops of polyurethane. 

After opening the squat bottle of ink and carefully pouring a small amount into the cap, Paloma pried open the small can. She dipped her baby finger into the liquid plastic, then held it over the ink until two drops fell into the black liquid. With the nib of the pen, she mixed the liquid together, then plunged the barrel, filling the pen. Now she had to move quickly.

Placing the forgery atop the dresser, she held the pen in midair and mentally traced each curve and loop and cross. With deep concentration she placed the pen to paper and continued the rhythm. Forming each letter of each word, she held the pen lightly –
I will see you next Sunday. Perhaps we can have a picnic after service.
She dipped the pen again and with flourish she signed –
E.Dickinson.  

Once finished, she again evaluated her handiwork. The correspondence to Cordelia was of no particular value. It was the enclosed poem that would garner a collector’s interest with a price to match. Examining the minute details of the letters, she was suddenly struck by the imagery of the poem –
stems entwined, violet bloom, forget me not –
and thought of Max. 

Whatever possessed her to do what she did in the early morning hours? She had wanted to prove that he didn’t matter, that he was just another man in the dark. But the situation had gotten out of hand, betrayed not by him, but by her own emotions. And now she wondered – who was he? His stalwart, stubborn ways were familiar, but there was a softness previously nonexistent.          

She looked down the hallway toward his bedroom. The door yawned open, beckoning her. She left the page to dry and, feeling the cool floorboards against her feet, walked down the hall. 

At the bedroom door, she scanned the room, then went to the closet. 

A number of white shirts, freshly laundered, hung on the rod. Intermingled were jackets, trousers. She ran her fingers along the textures, smooth, heavy and strangely comforting. She shook her head. What could she possibly be looking for? But she knew – the vestiges of another woman. And with nimble, gypsy fingers, she quickly patted then felt into the pockets. Finding only parking stubs and some rumpled up business cards, she moved to the dresser. 

Bundled black socks, pairs of boxers, and T-shirts filled the two top drawers. Perhaps pushed back in a corner was something forgotten, silky. She rummaged. Nothing. 

Slamming drawers echoed through the house. Ashamed but impelled, she continued her search. 

Next to the dresser, resting on top of a half-filled wastebasket was a ripped photograph. She reached down, pinched the slivered piece, and took a closer look. It was a section of a woman’s ear and earring. The pearl was similar to one she owned. Peering back, she noticed more squared-off shards in the basket. She bent down, gathered each piece, then laid them color-side up on the dresser – a quarter of a face, an eye, a blue sky. Like a puzzle, she carefully rearranged the torn pieces. The white borders and sharp corners came first. An image of a red scarf quickly followed. She leaned closer. Her stomach bottomed out. How was this possible? It was her at the cemetery months earlier, her face now fragmented and brutally torn apart. 

Feeling faint and queasy, she collapsed onto the bed. Her hands shook. Calm down, there had to be an explanation. Dazed, she glanced around the room. But all she noticed was her pitiful, defeated reflection in the dresser mirror. And suddenly she understood.

 She’d been duped, played for a sucker. He didn’t care, he never cared. Damn! And the nerve to be stalking her! She took a deep breath. There wasn’t time to wallow. How often had he spied on her? Was this the only picture? Hell, no. There was never just one cockroach.

Desperate, she took the wastebasket and overturned it onto the bed. Digging through the garbage, her sweaty hands ransacked the balled up papers, tissue, and cigar butts. There had to be more photographs. Finding none, she glanced around. Where did people put pictures? In boxes. 

She sped down the hallway to her room and threw open the closet door. 

The first box was filled with tax forms from the last ten years. Bolting to the next, she pried open the flaps – stacks of National Geographics, the third – LP records. She stood, enraged, then stomped down the stairs.

At the desk in the living room, she ripped out the drawers and upturned them, emptying the contents onto the floor. Besides paper, tumbling pens, coins, scissors spilled out. Falling to her knees she spread her hands over the mass of bills, newspaper clippings, bank statements. Still nothing. Where else? She bounded to the closet. Coats and sweaters hung on the rod. Hats and gloves cluttered the shelf. She pushed aside the hangers and looked below. From the corner of an accordion file, a corner of gauzy material stuck out. She reached and pulled. 

Disbelieving, she unraveled a silk scarf, a scarf purchased two months earlier in Soho. She yanked out the box. Titles glared out,
New York, Chicago, Buffalo
. She held her breath, reached between the compartments, and pulled out whatever her hands could hold, clumps of photographs, all of her. Flashes of the past were documented – on the subway, in a corner store, coming down church steps, feeding the ducks in Central Park. My God, the man was a lunatic! She couldn’t see any more. Quickly, she stuffed the pictures back. She had to leave, but not without a final act. 

After sprinting to the kitchen for matches, she sped up the stairs and drew aside the shower curtain. Placing the file into the tub, she then dropped single flames into each compartment. Smoke soon billowed. 

Wasting no time, she rushed to her room and threw her stuff together. Moments later she was down the stairs, her heart beating like a racehorse. In the mad dash, leaving from the vestibule, she stopped cold.

Horrified, she reached and pulled it from the hook. Feeling its weave, she stifled a scream.

It burned her fingers and fell from her hands.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The morning couldn’t have been going better for Max. His trip to the State office building found Fenton Bradley, Joey Catoni’s parole officer, in and available. Fenton, like Max, had been from the old guard of little talk and plenty of action. They slapped each other’s backs and after five minutes, Fenton was on the phone checking Joey’s whereabouts on the fourteenth. Turned out that Joey had his weekly urine test scheduled that day. Good news, he showed; bad news, he came out dirty. Boo hoo. This meant that Fenton would be on Joey’s case. On his way out, Max thanked Fenton, but intimated that if anything happened to Agnes, he’d be suing the state. Nothing personal of course.