Wallflower (41 page)

Millie smiled. "Sure. An old spinster English teacher. She was my teacher, too."

"Bertha Parce?" Aaron asked.

Millie nodded.
"
I'm amazed you know her name."

"What about two men named MacDonald—did she ever have any trouble with them?"

"
Jimmy and Stu MacDonald? You call them men! They were just boys when I knew them. I think they moved east. That's what I heard anyway."

"
What happened?"

"
God only knows. Whatever it was, Bev was sensitive about it. Whenever their names came up, she'd start to act real antsy, then try and change the subject."

"Cynthia Morse?"

Her roommate at Bennington. Yeah, they had a big falling-out. But I don't understand, Lieutenant." Millie smiled curiously. "How do you
know
about all of these people?"

"
Let's hold off on that for now. I want to ask you about some others." Millie nodded. Do the names Laura and Anthony Scotto ring a bell?"

"
I don't think so. No."

Janek glanced at Aaron.
"
What about Wexler—Carla and Robert Wexler?"

Millie shook her head. Then she stopped shaking it.
"
Wait a minute! There was a
Bobby
Wexler."

Aaron smiled slightly.
"
Who was he?"

"
A musician. Mama's accompanist one summer. There were so many of those guys. She went through them pretty fast. But I remember Bobby. It was the summer Mama sang at Cavendish. He was practically a kid. Actually I think he and Mama were involved. She usually screwed her piano players. That's probably why she tired of them so fast."

"
Do you think you'd recognize this Bobby Wexler if you saw him again?"

"I might," Millie said.

Aaron showed her a photograph of the Wexler family taken several months before they were slaughtered. Millie studied it. "Yeah, that's him," she said. "It's been years, but the smile's the same, the old lecherous smile." She looked up at Janek. "Yeah, it's him, I'm sure. Now are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"While you're at it, show her the picture of the Scottos," Janek gently instructed Aaron.

Aaron showed Millie the picture. They both watched as she studied it.
"
I may have seen the woman," Millie said.
"
What's her first name again?"

"Laura."

"And she was married to this guy?" Aaron nodded.
"
Do you know her maiden name?"

Aaron checked his notebook.
"
Laura Gabelli."

Millie nodded. "I may have seen her. Around Tufts College, I think. Bev transferred there from Bennington. Did you know about that?"

They didn't know. Millie filled them in. "It was after the big falling-out with Cynthia Morse. Bev took a year off, came back to Cleveland, took a job as an aide at a psychiatric hospital, then for the next two years attended Tufts, where she majored in psychology. After that she moved back to Cleveland to get her doctorate at Western Reserve."

"
Do you know of any failing-out she might have had with this Laura Gabelli?" Aaron asked.

"
No. But it wouldn't surprise me. Just like Mama, Bev had failings-out with damn near everyone." Millie paused.
"
Look, guys—all these questions about the two of them, then all these old names of people Bev didn't like. You're scaring me a little bit. I think the time's come for you to explain."

She looked to Janek, then to Aaron, and then back to Janek again. There was something so open and vulnerable about her that Janek was hesitant to fill her in. But he knew he had to. He owed her that, and he could see that she was the kind of person who'd rather know the truth, no matter how harsh, than be lied to or kept in the dark.

"Bertha Parce, the MacDonalds, Cynthia Morse and her two daughters, the Wexler family, and the Scotto family all had one thing in common," he said. "They all were murdered within the past fourteen months by a woman named Diana Proctor, who also happened to be your sister's patient."

Millie, mouth partly open, gazed at Janek. For a moment she appeared to be relieved. Then, abruptly, she sat up, as if the implications of what he'd said had hit her like a blow.

"But you don't really think—! I mean, you couldn't possibly believe—!" Her forehead creased; her pupils dilated. "You think Bev had something to do with . . . that Bev may have directed—?" And then: "You
do
think that, don't you? Yes, I see you do." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh, my God!"

Millie Cannaday began to scream. Her shrieks of anguish echoed through the house.

T
hey stayed with her until she calmed down. Then Janek explained to her that yes, Beverly was a suspect, although so far no more than that. He and Aaron had come to Cleveland, he explained, on account of the portrait of her mother, which they'd seen in Beverly's bedroom. Certain objects, taken from the homicide victims, had been arranged in what seemed to be a votive offering style before the painting. Thus the question arose as to whether Victoria Archer had in some way been the inspiration for the Wallflower murders. Janek readily admitted that such a theory must seem farfetched; he was certainly not prepared to tell Millie her sister was a murderess. Still, the case remained open. By the way, did Millie know anything about the portrait?

"The full-length one of Mama in her red dress? Sure, I know about it. A man named Peter Aretzsky painted it about twelve years ago. It took up a whole wall of Mama's bedroom."

"Your sister inherited it?"

Millie smiled. "Bev wanted that picture something awful. That, Mama's red dresses, her miniature piano, and her big old four-poster bed." Millie rolled her eyes. "Bev always had her eye on the picture. She loved it, said it showed Mama the way she really was. Which is pretty funny . . . considering. You see, there's a story behind that painting." Millie turned to Aaron. "Are you taking him to see Melissa Walters?" Aaron nodded. "Ask her about the painting, Lieutenant. She can fill you in about that and a lot of other stuff. She was Mama's best friend . . . if in fact, Mama ever had one."

"S
hit! She knew Bobby Wexler and Laura Scotto. That's proof she lied to us, Frank. So we got her, don't we?" Aaron hit the steering wheel with delight.
"
I'm starting to feel good about this case."

They were back in their rental car, driving to their final appointment of the day. The snow had stopped falling. Although it was only four-thirty, the sky was already turning dark.

Janek wasn't sure that proof of Beverly's lies quite meant that they'd
"
got her." But he did think it might be enough to persuade Kit to grant them more time. So far the trip to Cleveland was working out.
Now how the hell am I going to get a confession?
he wondered.

T
he lobby of the Alhambra Residential Hotel was a Moorish fantasy, a pastiche of thick walls, Arab columns, Córdoba arches, a central courtyard embracing a fountain, and a rectangular tiled pool stocked with carp.

Built in the late 1920s as a luxury establishment, the hotel was so well constructed that even now, after years of wear, it still emitted an aura of luxury and class. Palms planted in large terracotta pots occupied the corners. Ceiling fans, still now that it was winter, stood poised to whirl and cool perspiring guests.

A creaking elevator, paneled in mahogany and trimmed with brass, took them to the fifth floor. Here they followed a corridor, one side open to the courtyard, until they reached the door to Melissa Walters's suite.

A short old lady opened up, a lady who clearly did not wish her visitors to find her old. Her hair was blued, her forehead was powdered, her cheeks were rouged, her eyebrows were drawn, and her lips were waxed bright scarlet. Melissa Walters showed the soft smile and refined social mannerisms of another era.

It was so exciting to meet real live detectives! Would the gentlemen like something to drink? Port? Sherry? She had some fine old Madeira—could she tempt them with that? And she had taken the liberty of ordering in some prepared canap
é
s, as well as a good selection of cookies from Damons, Cleveland's finest bakery.

Melissa Walters settled into her favorite chair.

Oh, yes, she remembered Vicky Archer. My goodness, they'd been the best of friends! Impossible to forget
her.
A great entertainer, a great personality. She'd been the life of this city for a time. Had the gentlemen been to the Fairmount Club Lounge? Perhaps they should go down there and take a look. Not that the place was anything now but a shadow of its former self. Still, at one time, not too long ago either, the lounge had been Cleveland's premier night spot and Vicky Archer had been its most glittering star. But please forgive her. She was rambling; she knew she was. She apologized for that. She had so few visitors these days, most of her friends having passed away. Vicky had been one of the first. It was tragic the way she died so suddenly and so young. They'd been confidantes even though she, Melissa, was fifteen years Vicky's senior. Oh, they'd had some great times together, wonderful times. . . . What? What was that they were asking? The painting, Aretzsky's painting? Of course, she remembered it! She'd seen it practically every day. Whenever she visited Vicky's suite, just two doors down the hall. A story? Oh, yes, there was a story about that picture, a scandal if they wanted to know the truth. Oh, they did, did they? What sly devils they were! Well, certainly, she'd tell them about it. In fact, it would be a pleasure. But would the gentlemen take a glass of Madeira first . . . ?

Janek and Aaron accepted her glasses of Madeira. They even licked their lips over her delicate canap
é
s and grinned foolishly as
they nibbled on her tasty little cookies. Anything to keep the old lady talking. Janek, who'd conducted thousands of interviews over the course of his career, recognized that Melissa Walters was a potential gold mine of information. If there was a secret about Beverly and Victoria, a secret even deeper than what he and Aaron had managed to dig up so far, this lady might reveal it if she were handled carefully enough. The way she sang Victoria Archer's praises suggested a profound ambivalence. He had picked up on undertones of anger, envy, even dislike.

"Aretzsky! Ha!" Melissa's scarlet painted lips parted in a smile. "He was smitten by her, of course. Utterly smitten! He would come around the lounge every night just to see her, watch her move, listen to her sing, perhaps be so fortunate as to be the recipient of one of her ravishing smiles. He was an excellent painter as it happened, probably Cleveland's best. But so temperamental! He'd refuse to paint a person he didn't like. He lost out on a lot of lucrative corporate work on account of that little peccadillo. Still, Aretzsky was your first choice if you wanted your portrait done. That's how he got Vicky's attention . . . although he didn't hold it very long."

Melissa asked if she could refresh their drinks. When they shook their heads, she shrugged and poured herself a double.

"I remember the night Aretzsky presented her with some drawings, quick little sketches he'd made of her right there in the lounge. She liked them, of course. She was no fool. And when he told her he wanted to paint her in oil, big, life size, maybe even bigger than life size, she certainly did not refuse him although she may have pretended to waver a little bit. Well, then he had her; at least he thought he did, the idiot! She began going to his studio to sit every afternoon. That dreary dump he lived in, near the lounge down at Carnegie and One Hundred Fourth, up four flights to a big, undusted room with his easel and messy paints at one end and his awful, smelly unmade bed at the other. They made love on that bed, of course. Vicky always knew how to inspire a man! I know he made nude sketches of her. She showed them to me once. But the big painting was the thing. Vicky in her red dress surrounded by a halo of reddish light. That's how they always lit
her down at the lounge, you see. Oh, he made her look terrific—vibrant, bursting with energy and life. She was always glamorous, but he doubled her glamour. He idealized her. It was a picture painted by a lover. You couldn't look at it and fail to see that."

Melissa spread her arms.
"
Poor Aretzsky! That ugly, little, shrunken waif of a man with his bad skin and little wisp of a mustache—did he really think he was good enough to hold the interest of the Great Victoria Archer? Poor idiot! She ditched him, of course, soon as she got her mitts on his painting. Then he was heartbroken, or perhaps worse—a man destroyed. He started to become a nuisance, too. Long, reproachful, beseeching stares at the lounge. Silent phone calls to her suite in the middle of the night. He must have sent her fifty letters drenched in tears. She didn't bother to open them; just a glance at the envelopes and she'd toss them in the trash. I remember seeing him hanging around the stage door at the lounge or here, in front of the Alhambra, hoping to beg a precious moment of her time. And of course, the deeper he humiliated himself, the more disgusted she became, and the greater her disgust, the more cruelly she behaved. For make no mistake about it, gentlemen—Vicky Archer could be a real bitch!"