Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) (4 page)

Chapter 4

I believe it was Saint Augustine who said that all creatures become depressed after making love. But before that bittersweet mood sets in, after the so-called little death, there is first a feeling of complete discombobulation, isn't there? I had recently spent a wonderful, unplanned weekend with someone, and it wasn't until we were parting—reluctantly, regretfully, late Sunday evening—that I recalled how little I actually liked him.

That was the kind of disorientation written on the faces of the temporary residents of the Covington Center for the Arts that morning after Will Gryder's murder. We'd all slept late.

In ones and twos they came down the stairs and groped for coffee from the huge urn Mrs. Wallace had set up in the dining room. Everyone took a turn casting a furtive glance at the uniformed officer ambling around the grounds. Eventually everyone began to talk, but not really to one another. Then the fog began to lift from everyone's mind, but there was still no real eye contact being made. Yet, oddly, the members of the group seemed composed. Each was civil, each had dressed himself or herself carefully enough. It was as though all were fighting to remain in control.

I sat alone in one of the dim little alcoves that seemed to be ubiquitous throughout the enormous house. Well, I wasn't utterly alone: I was having a conversation with Lulu the cat. I had already told her that, quite frankly, she'd better get cracking, or the field mice were going to destroy her reputation, and forever besmirch the reputation of Scottish Folds everywhere. Lulu seemed not at all concerned about that, curled up and alternately snoozing and purring in my lap.

I could hear disjointed snatches of conversation from the nearby dining room. There was a bit of gallows humor: some speculation about what would happen to Will's splendid six-room, rent-controlled apartment between Columbus and Central Park West. Then I heard Ben Polikoff's grave voice say that if some thief had murdered Will for the cash in his pockets, then everyone had better be doubly careful because, after all, there were literally hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of musical instruments in the house—Roz's violin being particularly valuable.

When I went in to join them, I was startled by their weird mixture of lethargy and tension. Everyone managed a friendly greeting for me, Except Miranda, whose stuporous silence seemed more the telltale sign of a hangover than of any rancor she may have been feeling toward me. I still had Lulu in my arms. It gave me something to hold on to.

It had been drizzling all morning, but the rain wasn't cold. Then, around eleven, the sun came out and the air grew unexpectedly sweet and warm. The ground outside was thawing into muddy slush as water from the leaves of the mighty chestnut dripped down.

Mrs. Wallace kept gamely trying to interest us in brunch. What was our pleasure? Fresh muffins? Eggs? Pasta? Quiche? But there were no takers. Grumbling, she folded her apron and went about her chores outside.

Darcy, in a close-fitting T-shirt and black jeans which showed off her marvelous little figure, engaged me in a brief conversation about Al Pacino, her favorite actor, and about the theater in general and my own career. But our chat quickly petered out. I suppose she was just trying to make me feel a little more at ease.

A few minutes later Ben rose from his place energetically, announcing that he was going to take Roz into Northampton. A nice lunch out and a little shopping would do her a world of good, he insisted, looking down at her bent figure. Maybe they could even take in a movie. And anyone who felt like coming along was welcome, he said.

Just about ready to start climbing the walls, I jumped at the chance to tag along with them. I was the only one to do so. The others murmured their excuses, or said nothing, and one by one began drifting out of the room. I brushed my teeth, changed quickly into a skirt and blouse, and was ready in less than ten minutes.

I followed Roz and Ben as they walked out of the house arm-in-arm. Her wild red hair seemed to give off sparks in the afternoon light. Was she really grasping Ben's arm for dear life—or was it he who was gripping her so tightly? I couldn't tell.

The seat covers of the chocolate-brown Mercedes were opulent leather. I slid comfortably into the back. Roz, seated in front of me, seemed to be fending off her private gloom; her face kept twisting and untwisting, as if she were making the effort to think only of better times.

As we were pulling away, Ben suddenly stopped and cut the motor, cocking his ear. I knew what he was listening to. Miranda's cello was floating through the lovely, mournful “Swan” andantino from
The Carnival of Animals
, by Saint-Saëns. The three of us sat listening until the piece was finished.

It was Roz who broke the silence. She shook her head a little before speaking. “Heavenly, wasn't it?” she said. “Almost as if she was capable of some . . . genuine . . . individual . . . tenderness.”

Ben expertly wheeled the Mercedes up the winding gravel path and out onto the main road. “Ever been up in these parts before, Alice?” He was looking at me in the rearview mirror.

Ben Polikoff looked like such a vital man—extremely healthy, competent, self-possessed, sophisticated. It didn't seem to square with his almost childish dependence on and constant attention to his wife, as though she were an invalid, or as though her slightest unhappiness unbalanced him.

“Yes, I've spent some time in Northampton,” I answered. “I once taught a workshop at Smith.”

“Is that so? But you didn't go to Smith?” he asked, a gentle smile on his face.

“Now, Ben, do I look like a Smith girl to you?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “In fact you do—tall and blond and beautiful.”

It was one of the rawest compliments I have ever received, but I really didn't take it as one.

“You know, there was a rude little ditty in my day, Alice. As a sort of Smith alumna, I hope you won't be offended.”

“I'm sure I won't.”

“The fellows used to say, when it came to dating, ‘Smith to bed, Mt. Holyoke to wed.' ”

The “fellows,” I assumed, were pathetic Harvard frat boys who got tight on beer and their own fantasies. I laughed politely, catching Ben's eye in the mirror.

I leaned back into the leather seat. What a difference there was between this humming, responsive vehicle and the one I'd rented for the drive up here! I felt as if I could ride five hundred miles in this one without experiencing a jot of fatigue.

“Maybe I should just keep going till we reach Tanglewood,” Ben quipped. “Maybe Seiji is doing something interesting this afternoon.” It was a feeble joke. The Tanglewood music festival was a summer affair. But it must have been some kind of private joke between them, for Roz extended one hand and very slowly and affectionately began to massage her husband's neck.

“Do you get to Tanglewood often, Alice?” he asked.

“Oh, Ben,” Roz interjected a little chastisingly, a little patronizingly, too, “she's an
actress
.” As though somehow actors were forestalled from attending such events. As though we, as a class, were culturally retarded, if forgivably so.

I would have responded testily, but I realized that Roz wasn't entirely responsible for what she was saying. The grief lines still creased her forehead.

We drove on in contented silence for a while.

“I hope you'll join us for lunch,” Ben said, speaking, obviously, to me. “There's a fine new Italian place on Main Street.”

“Sounds terrific,” I said, secretly checking for Roz's reaction. I could see none.

Brilliant sunlight was pouring into the car now. It felt warm and renewing on my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes, truly luxuriating in the ride. I felt that I could quite easily fall . . . fast asleep . . . lulled by the happy purr . . . of the engine.

Then Roz screamed.

“Ben!” she shrieked. “A dog, Ben! Watch—”

I heard the awful screech of brakes. Saw a blur of brown fur before my body twisted and the force of the skid sent me hurtling forward. Then the whole world was brown.

Chapter 5

It was quiet. So quiet I knew I couldn't be dead.

I pushed myself up and back onto the seat. For a minute I just sat there staring foolishly out of the window. The car had executed a wild turn: half on the road and half off, the front end was now facing in the direction from which we had come.

I feel fine, I told myself. Just fine. And my head is so . . . so tight! I sat waiting happily for the drive to recommence.

A strangling noise from the front seat jolted me back to reality. Roz was thrashing about, trying to get out of her seatbelt. Ben wasn't moving at all. His belt had prevented him from smacking into the window, but he seemed to have hit the top of the wheel, and now he was collapsed over it. Roz's struggle had become crazed by now.

I opened the back door and climbed out. My legs buckled for just a moment, then they became strong again. I tried Roz's door. It was still locked from the inside. I banged on her window. She looked at me wild-eyed. I gestured that she should open the door from the inside. But she didn't understand. I got back into the backseat, reached over and opened the latch in front. Then I slipped out again and pulled her door open. Her thin frame seemed to be wracked with spasms.

“Be still, Roz—
be still
!”

My plea brought her to her senses. She was breathing heavily, gagging, but at last she calmed. I undid the seat belt quickly and helped her out, gingerly leaning her against the side of the car.

Then I hurried to the other side to see about Ben. He was dazed, bleeding rather badly from the forehead, but conscious. “I'm all right,” he croaked. “I'm . . .”

“Stay where you are, Ben,” I warned, unbuckling his seat belt. A ridiculous instruction—where was he going to go? “Just stay there. I'll get help.”

I ran up the other side of the road, looking for a car to flag down. Two went by without stopping. But then, a minute later, a bread truck braked and the driver climbed out, stared into the Mercedes, and told me he'd call the police from the gas station two miles down the road.

There were two local police cars and an ambulance. The medics began very carefully to extricate Ben from the car, while Roz and I wearily answered the officers' questions. These men were a lot less polished, more New England folksy than the state police who were investigating Will Gryder's murder.

When the questioning was finished, Roz turned to me in desperation. “Oh, God! That dog! What happened to that poor dog? It's probably lying somewhere, suffering. We have to find it, Alice. Please.”

Yes, she was right of course. I couldn't let the poor thing suffer. I had to find it. So, while Ben was being eased into the ambulance, I started my search—up and down the shoulders of both sides of the road. I could find nothing, though. No dog, living, dying, or dead.

Then, in growing fear, I began to search for bloodstains. But there weren't any of those, either. Was it possible the dog had escaped unhurt? I hoped that was the case.

I looked a while longer and then gave up and started back toward the car. I could see the tracks my boots had made in the slush.

That's right! I could
see
the tracks my boots had made. Why hadn't I thought of that before? There was a dog in the road and it was crossing in front of the car when Roz cried out—so where were its tracks? It must have left prints in the muddy ground, just as I had. Why couldn't I find them anywhere?

I looked up to see the police officers waving me back to the Mercedes. I signaled that I'd be just a few minutes longer.

I crisscrossed the road again. There were tire tracks in the sludge, and footprints, but no paw prints. None at all. What I did notice were curious, elongated marks. It looked very much as if someone had dragged a sled across the mud.

I couldn't understand it. We had all seen the dog flash across the road—or so we thought. But of
course
it was a dog. It may have all been a blur, but it
had
been there. It had been what made Ben swerve off the road.

Still confused, I walked back to the others. Roz went with Ben in the ambulance. One of the officers helped me into his patrol car and drove me back to the Center.

They were all there waiting for me.

Obviously on Roz's instructions, the police had phoned the house to tell everyone there about the accident. Beth and Darcy and Mathew and the cook—yes, and even Miranda—were all so solicitous of my welfare. For which I was grateful, because five minutes after I entered the house the full impact of what had happened hit me. I was weak, trembling. Mrs. Wallace prepared a giant cup of cocoa for me. Darcy wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Miranda took off my boots. And Beth, while chafing my hands, barked out other instructions related to my comfort to Mat Hazan, who kept muttering as he obeyed them, “This place is nothing but a chamber of horrors.”

A while later, Roz phoned from the hospital. Darcy took the call and relayed the news to us: Both Polikoffs were okay. Ben had to have a few stitches for the head wound, but there had been little damage other than that. They were going to keep him in hospital for a day or two, and Roz would remain with him. But everything was going to be fine.

Soon Beth was taking me by the arm and leading me up the long staircase. “Time you had a nap, Alice. We'll put you in Roz and Ben's room. It's more comfortable there.”

We went up together, slowly, and Beth eased me down onto the old four-poster. “No need to undress,” she said, seemingly from a dozen miles away. “Just lie back and I'll cover you with this quilt.”

The last thing I remembered was a feeling of shame—shame that I'd been so wiped out by a minor traffic accident, while the sight of Will Gryder's gruesome corpse, grotesquely impaled by the weapon buried in his chest, had not noticeably fazed me. There was something very strange about that.

***

I awoke to find the last light of afternoon painting the big windows in the Polikoffs' room. I must not have had any bad dreams, because I felt completely rested, at peace. Staring at me from the armchair cushion were the bright round eyes of Lulu.

“Well, hi, kiddo!” I called out. “You're supposed to be downstairs, you know. That's where the mice are.” The cat blinked a few times, then she hopped off the chair and trotted over to the bed. She situated herself in the crook of my arm and sniffed me amiably.

My throat was dry, but I was too comfortable to get up for water. The door was cracked open and I could hear voices downstairs. The scent of roasting meat and rosemary soon reached me. How pleasant it all seemed—I was in a lovely old house in New England on a beautiful autumn evening. Downstairs was a group of lively, talented people waiting for me to join them. There was a sensational meal in the oven and probably a great bottle of wine already opened and waiting.

Nice daydream. Except that every element of it was just a little off. I had been thrown into contact with a group of people who were certainly bright enough, but I wasn't sure they cared very much for me—and maybe not even for one another. There had been a terrible murder here. And today I'd almost been killed.

The motor accident came back to me then in detail. We had been very lucky. It might have been much worse if the car had not skidded in a circle and ended up back on the road. The Mercedes might have gone off the shoulder completely, into an embankment; it might have flipped over. Or suppose there'd been another car on the road! Lucky indeed. We might all have been killed.

And what about the dog who'd caused the accident? I couldn't stop thinking about it. I hadn't been able to find any trace of it. Why not? Trying not to disturb Lulu too much, I propped myself up against the bed pillows. I was trying to remember that moment just before the crash. Roz had screamed out a warning. “
A dog, Ben!
” she had said. Then I saw that brown blur. I hadn't questioned that it was a dog. But where were its tracks on the muddy road?

The cat rose up and stretched expansively. “Well, kiddo?” I flicked at her ears. “Answer me that. What happened to his tracks? Was he hurt or not? Was he there or not?” Lulu climbed off the quilt and thumped out of the room. I chuckled to myself. “What a useless creature,” I said aloud. “No mice, no answers.”

I reclined again and stared out of the window. Almost full night now. The trees were beginning to appear threatening.

I finally got myself out of bed and walked over to the old dresser, regarding myself in the mirror. I was a mess. After washing up in Roz and Ben's little bathroom, I borrowed a barrette for my hair and then used a cotton ball to apply what I took to be Roz's facial toner. I looked at the label on it and saw that it had come from Kiehl's, a venerable Lower East Side institution that custom-makes cosmetics and perfumes for its customers.

The scent of the cologne in the little bottle I'd opened was transporting. I stood there sniffing it, thinking. I had been foolish to put those questions to little Lulu. But the really important question, I hadn't even asked: why was I obsessed with the brown dog?

I guess I already knew why, though. Knew it kind of fearfully. It was because the accident might not have been an accident at all. It might have been all too deliberate. Someone, perhaps the same person who had murdered Will Gryder, might have wanted to kill me. Or either of the Polikoffs. Or all three of us. I put the cologne away.

Clues? Motives? Possible scenarios? I had none to back up my belief, but the belief was there just the same. That's just how I felt. It was an informed guess, based no doubt on the timing of things—the coincidence of both events. Gryder is murdered about eight o'clock in the evening by person or persons unknown. Sixteen hours later three suspects in the killing—and I knew that Ford Donaldson more or less had to consider us all suspects—are almost killed in an accident.

I'd done as much repair work on my appearance as I could, but I went on regarding my face in the mirror.

Mirror mirror on the wall,

Why get involved in this case at all?

My image grimaced, then said to me: “And if you
wanted
to get involved in this case . . . where would you start? You know nothing except what Lieutenant Donaldson told you.”

“Not true,” I told her, smiling. I knew something that Donaldson himself didn't know. I knew that Beth and Will had made love in a shed on the premises, and then fought violently. Miranda had told me so. And now I believed her. And I knew that the first thing I should do was take a look at the shed. All this because of a dog who was supposed to be there but wasn't—not even his paw prints.

I was overwhelmingly thirsty now. I went down to get a drink and join that glowing house party of the imagination.