The Devil's Interval (24 page)

“You're quiet, Maggie,” observed Dr. Mephisto.

“Just thinking about footwear,” I said. I gestured with my mug at her shoes. “Cool shoes.”

“Thanks,” she said shortly, giving me an “I know what you're wondering, and you have no chance in hell of finding out” look.

Michael sighed, “Okay,
cara
, you are way too preoccupied to be thinking about shoes. What's up?”

I remembered Calvin's counsel, and decided it was not a bad idea to go for the free—well, already paid-for—advice.

“I just had a very upsetting conversation about the story I'm working on, the one,” I added hastily, “Michael's helping me with.”

“How's that going?” asked Dr. Mephisto.

“Good,” I said, “at least from my point of view. Michael involved some of his students and they've been very helpful.”

“How about for you, Michael?” asked Dr. Mephisto.

Michael leaned back on the couch, and stretched his arm along the back, his most relaxed, least-defended pose. “Pretty good,” he said. “My students got into the assignment, and I do think they've turned out some decent data, and frankly, it felt good to be more involved.”

“That's great,” said the therapist, putting her feet up on the ottoman, all the better for me to admire those expensive shoes. I could tell she was taking credit for this idea, but I couldn't think
of a graceful way to remind both of them that it had been my inspiration to ask for Michael's help. I gritted my teeth and smiled back at both of them.

“So, do you want to talk about what upset you this afternoon?” asked Mephisto.

“I do,” I said. “In fact, I'm hoping you can help me understand a little more about it.”

I sketched out the conversation I'd had with Mrs. Hawk, what I'd learned about Grace's childhood, and what Calvin and I had started to wonder about Grace's sexual adventures with Travis Gifford.

“Boy,” said Michael, “for a woman who rates having sex right around the level of laundry-folding, you're sure spending a lot of time speculating about walks on the wild side.”

“Michael, that is
not
what I said,” I protested.

“In all fairness, I do think,” said Dr. Mephisto, “you're misquoting Maggie.”

“But here's why I was excited we were seeing you this afternoon,” I continued. “I want a therapist's point of view. Is it likely that someone who was abused in that way as a kid, tied up, and, in the last case, virtually abandoned—or at least that's how it must have seemed to her, how is it possible that she'd like getting tied up for sex play?”

“I'm not an expert in abused kids,” said Dr. Mephisto, “but it's actually quite common to see people re-creating some sense of the trauma they've experienced. Since you've already described the fact that Grace would sometimes revisit the ‘tying-up' as a kind of comfort gesture when she was a child, it does make some sense she'd experience that kind of practice as some kind of emotional clue.”

“But wait,” said Michael. “Lots of people get into bondage or some playful S&M, no matter what happened in their childhood, right?”

“That's true,” said Dr. Mephisto. “And again, I'm only speculating. But what Maggie describes is a very specific activity,
and assuming it was consensual between Mrs. Plummer and her partner, it might have enabled her to regain some sense of control over her childhood memories. In other words, as a child, being tied up was something terrible that happened to her. As an adult, she found a way to desensitize—and, in fact, to eroticize—the act of being restrained.”

Michael shook his head, “I don't know. Seems pretty speculative to me. And in the end, does it matter? Travis readily owned up to their particular brand of sex play; he never said Grace coerced him into it. And what if she had? Hardly seems grounds for murder.”

“No,” I said slowly, just thinking back to the AWE factors Michael's students had raised. “But remember, one of the things your students suggested we figure out is who else knew about the bondage. Whoever murdered Grace, assuming it wasn't Travis, had to know about it in order to stage the murder scene in the back of Travis's limo.”

“So who could have known?” asked Michael. “Did Travis's mother, Ivory, know? Did Ginger know? Those seem like the logical suspects.”

“Do you happen to know…” began Dr. Mephisto.

“What?” I prompted her.

She laughed, “I think we've moved way behind the reason for our work together today. You've managed to get me caught up in your mystery.”

“So you're saying we need to get back on topic?” said Michael.

“We do,” she said.

“Okay, okay,” I countered, “but go ahead and finish what you were going to ask. Do we happen to know what?”

“Well, I have to wonder if Grace had also involved her husband in this kind of sex play. In other words, if this is something she'd initiated because of all the reasons we were discussing, she might have engaged in this kind of activity with her husband as well.”

“She might,” I said, “but it hardly matters. He has an ironclad, cast-in-cement alibi for that evening.”

“Perhaps he has,” said Michael slowly. “But if he and Grace
were into ‘tie-me-up,' might he have mentioned that to one of his buddies?”

“You mean Bill Brand, Ginger's husband, don't you?” I said, getting excited.

Dr. Mephisto raised her hand, “Time-out, folks. First, I'm lost with all these names. Second, you're paying me to work with you on your relationship, not be the third Harvey Girl.”

“Hardy,” I muttered. “And they were boys. Harvey Girls were in that movie Judy Garland did. Okay, okay.”

Michael nudged me with his foot. “Say thank you, Maggie. It was helpful for Dr. McQuist to talk about this stuff, wasn't it?”

“It was,” I said, somewhat grudgingly. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she responded politely. “And now, back to work.” And more yada yada yada about the questions of trust, intimacy, and how and why we managed to turn unloading the dishwasher into a power struggle.

A
t 3 a.m., I sat upright in bed, my heart doing that too much caffeine, just averting a midintersection collision kind of race. I swung my legs over the bed, slipped into my squirrel slippers (a hideous, furry birthday present from the boys, but I couldn't part with them), threw on my robe, and crept downstairs. The bluish light from the stove made the kitchen eerie and unfamiliar. I turned on all the overhead lights, even though the sudden brightness made my eyes hurt. I filled the kettle and turned the burner to high, fished out a Sleepytime chamomile tea bag, and waited for the kettle to whistle. “Sleepytime,” I said in disgust, as my heart began to slow down. “You are such an old lady.”

While I waited for the kettle, I flipped through the latest issue of
Bon Appétit
, stacked on top of yesterday's newspapers on the kitchen table. “Great American Breakfasts,” was the cover story. Lemon pancakes. I could mix up a batch, surprise everyone when they got up. I yawned. Or not. The kettle began hissing and rocking, preparatory to one big whistle. I turned it off, poured the hot water into the cup, gave the teabag a perfunctory dunk or two, and took a sip. My heart was back to normal. At the edge of my consciousness, I felt the dream that had awakened me nibbling away. Like the “mousey on the housey” in
Hansel and Gretel
. The kids' book? Or the opera? We had taken the boys to see the San Francisco Opera production last season, thinking the color and
drama and, of course, the magic of an all-candy house would enchant them. But it was a noirish production, and the children's poverty and hunger heartbreaking. And everything looked gray, even the candy house seemed foggy and depressing. And the witch was truly frightening. Had I dreamed about a different witch? I coaxed the memory, struggled, and let go. Took a sip of tea, and suddenly the image from my dream was clear. I saw Ginger standing in the San Francisco Botanical Gardens, as I had seen her that day when she and Frederick dedicated Grace's fountain. But there was no one else there, in my dream. Just
Little Shop of Horror
plants, growing and grasping, but nothing was the right color. Like that disappointing production of
Hansel and Gretel
, everything looked gray. But the plants were growing all over Ginger, choking her, and in my dream, she was calling for someone to help. Not Bill. Was it her father? Was it Travis? Grace?

I remembered reading that creative people dream in color; the rest of us in black and white. Raider padded into the kitchen and put his nose on my lap.

“I'm not even creative enough to dream in black and white, buddy,” I said aloud. “Just gray.” Raider lost interest. He didn't care for middle-of-the-night conversation; he just wanted a treat. He collapsed on the floor, and took up his preferred semivigilant position, half on, half off my feet. I spied my briefcase, stationed next to the window seat, and brought it back to the table. Once upon a time I had thought being an editor was glamorous, fantasies of Anna Wintour, front seats at the Fashion Week runways, all that. Ha. Instead, my life was a computer and a briefcase. I rummaged inside the briefcase. Two files of work awaited me—first drafts of this month's standing features and columns. Hoyt had whipped the deadline-ignoring troops into order, which meant I got their work in plenty of time to review. But not now. The other folder was filled with office detritus—correspondence Gertie thought I should review, invoices to approve, especially vicious Letters to the Editor for past transgressions. Yuck. Tomorrow. I glanced at the kitchen clock, 3:30. It was tomorrow. Well, later today. Instead, I
took out the list of AWE questions Michael's young overachievers had posed.

“Who else knew about Grace and Travis's taste in S&M?”

Underneath the question, I had written: Ginger, yes; Bill, maybe; Frederick, who knows? Ivory, no, not til after the murder. Or so she said.

“Who else is a player?” I said aloud. Raider didn't even stir.

I scribbled: Purity, Carol Ann, Carol Ann's husband? Who else am I forgetting? Gus? Why would he or wouldn't he know? If Ginger knew, would she have told her father? Too kinky. Anyone else at A Mom's Place or the Botanical Gardens?

I circled Carol Ann's name. Hard to know why Grace would have told her—according to Purity, Carol Ann hero-worshipped Grace. That made it seem unlikely that Grace would have let her young protégé see a darker side. Stapled to the AWE sheet was a three-year-old clip from
Small Town
's Glam Around Town feature the researcher had pulled for me. Grace and Frederick, the beautiful couple, at yet another swank party, she in form-fitting black, with a white rose pinned in her hair; he in black-tie. They were both mugging for the camera, arms around each other. No one could link up this self-confident, seemingly untroubled young woman with a little girl leashed, dirty, and neglected in a cheap apartment. “Oh, Gracie,” I whispered. “I am so sorry this happened to you.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and jumped. “Maggie,” said Michael gently, “it's the middle of the night. You're down here talking to yourself.”

“Not myself,” I said, swiping at my eyes, suddenly wet and prickling with tears. I pointed at the picture. “I'm talking to Grace. I woke up at the witching hour, 3 a.m. exactly, and I was thinking about that witch in
Hansel and Gretel.”

“I've always wondered where that expression came from,” said Michael. “Is it when witches are supposed to catch their broom ride or something?”

“Jesus was born at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, according to Christian lore,” I said. “So, the exact opposite moment at night is
the witching hour.
Amityville Horror
, when stuff starts going crazy in the house—remember that? It happened at three o'clock in the morning every time.”

Michael rubbed the back of my neck. “Here's the thing,
cara
, being married to you is never boring. Sometimes even instructive.” He sat down next to me and took the picture from my hand. “This thing is making you crazy,” he said.

“It wasn't,” I said, “until this afternoon.” I rubbed my finger across her face in the photograph. “It was interesting, it was provocative, it was a cool story. Even though I'm fascinated by Travis, even though I really like his mother, and I was—oh, I don't know—flattered that Isabella wanted my help, it was still kind of a lark.”

“Lark, Maggie? The guy's on Death Row, the woman was murdered.”

“Bad word,” I said, digging in my bathrobe pocket. I dug out a cocktail napkin with dancing olives, arranged Rockette-style along the edge. “Where did this come from?” I asked.

Michael shrugged. “I never know where those weirdo little napkins come from. You buy them every place we go.”

“It's my small rebellion against my mother,” I said. “She thinks it's a crime to use paper napkins for anything.” I mopped my nose with the dancing olives. “Anyway, not a lark, I didn't really mean that. I know this is serious. But I could think of it as…”

“Some kind of adventure?” asked Michael.