Daisy Lane (8 page)

“May I speak to Miss Rodefeffer, please?” Scott asked.

“She’s taking a nap,” the woman said, even though Mamie could clearly be heard screeching at someone to “get me some more tea!”

“Tell her it’s police business,” Scott said.

“She’s watching television,” the woman said in a low voice. “She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s watching one of her shows.”

“Rose Hill police business often takes place at times which are inconvenient to the citizens we protect,” he said. “Nonetheless, I need to speak with her.”

“On your head be it,” she said, drawing back to let him in. “She ain’t gonna like it.”

Scott knew his way to the north parlor, where Mamie spent most of her time. Mamie’s house smelled like lemon furniture polish and Murphy’s oil soap, which is what Scott assumed they used to wash all the beautiful hardwood floors and ornate moldings. Every Persian rug was spotless though worn, and every piece of wood furniture, ornate and delicate, was polished to a deep glowing sheen.

‘Money,’ thought Scott, as he did every time he was in this house. ‘It smells like old money.’

Mamie was sitting in her padded rocker by a roaring gas log fire, watching a Spanish-speaking soap opera on a massive television sitting just five feet away from her. The television was so wide that it served as a room divider, making the part of the room Mamie sat in feel cramped and crowded. On the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace were hundreds of romance novels, stacked and stuffed into every available square inch of space. There were three more paperback books on the end table next to her, with a cup and saucer perched on the top one. Every horizontal surface in the room had books stacked on it, and there were tall, leaning stacks on the floor as well.

It was so hot in the room that Scott felt smothered. Mamie didn’t notice him, so engrossed was she in her television show. On the screen a man and woman were arguing, and then suddenly they embraced in a passionate kiss.

“Hah!” Mamie cackled. “I knew it!”

A commercial came on and Mamie began unwrapping chocolate candies, throwing the wrappers on the floor as she ate them, one after another. There was a bowl full of the foil-wrapped candy on her lap and what looked like dozens of wrappers on the floor. Scott wondered how many she could eat, as thin as she was.

“Miss Rodefeffer,” he said, and she turned, her mouth open and full of chocolate.

“The police!” she shouted. “What have I done?”

“Nothing,” Scott said. “I have some questions for you about someone who may have worked for your father.”

“Not now,” she said, as the commercial ended and the program began again. “My stories are on.”

“It’s about someone you may have known, Miss Rodefeffer,” Scott said. “Someone named Nino Vincenzo.”

Mamie started up out of her chair and the bowl of candy dropped to the carpet, spilling its contents all over the floor.

“Balenchine!” Mamie yelled. “Come here and clean this up!”

Scott made as if to help but she gestured to him to stay back.

“Balenchine!” she yelled. “Get in here before I have this policeman arrest you!”

The woman whom Scott met at the door came in, shoulders drooping, and surveyed the mess before getting down on her hands and knees, picking up every piece of candy and all the wrappers, and putting them in the bowl. Then she slowly pulled herself up. All the while Mamie was scowling and sucking her teeth in a loud way. There was chocolate smeared on her lip, but Scott thought it best not to mention it.

“Balanchine!” Mamie yelled, although the woman was only a foot away from her. “Bring us some tea.”

“I don’t care for any,” Scott said. “But thank you.”

“More for me, then,” Mamie said.

She pulled a giant remote control with oversized buttons out of the depths of the rocker cushions and muted the television.

“Never heard of him,” Mamie said, as she adjusted her layers of cardigans and skirts around her skinny legs. “You’re wasting my time.”

“In the picture down at the museum you were holding the swan he made,” Scott said. “I saw a swan just like it in the case there with his name as the artist.”

“My father employed hundreds of foreigners,” Mamie said. “I don’t remember any of their names. They all looked alike to me. Couldn’t understand a word they said.”

“Nino Vincenzo,” Scott said. “He made the swan you held in the photo.”

“I don’t remember,” Mamie insisted, but her face was reddening as she said it. “It was a long time ago. I’m an old lady who deserves to be left in peace.”

“He was looking for someone named Mary,” Scott said. “His sweetheart, maybe. Could that have been one of the women who worked in your house?”

“I don’t know a thing about it,” Mamie said. “When was this?”

“Yesterday,” Scott said. “He got off a bus, walked down to the Branduff’s house, and asked for Mary.”

“Ask him yourself, then,” Mamie said. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Vincenzo who Mary was?”

“He died,” Scott said. “He passed away before we could find out.”

“Nothing to do with me,” Mamie said, although she was visibly upset.

Balanchine came in with a steaming teapot and seemed taken aback. She looked with concern at Scott and then back at her employer.

“Everything okay, Miss Rodefeffer?”

“I’d be fine if everyone would just leave me alone,” Mamie said. “Leave the tea and go.”

Balanchine poured the tea and then left the room, giving Scott a disapproving look as she went.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Scott said. “I haven’t been able to get hold of Mr. Vincenzo’s family, and I was hoping you might remember something about him.”

“Nothing to do with my family,” Mamie said.

Mamie wiped her eyes with a tissue she kept pushed up the sleeve of her cardigan. She noisily blew her nose and cleared her throat.

“Miss Rodefeffer,” Scott started to say, but Mamie interrupted him by turning the television sound back on with a click of the remote.

“See yourself out,” she yelled.

She picked up a tea cup and saucer and it rattled in her hand. She set it back down rather abruptly. She glared at Scott, her eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

“Are you hard of hearing as well as stupid?” she asked him. “See yourself out, I said.”

“Mamie,” Scott said. “You know you can count on me to be discreet.”

She turned on him with fury, her face flushed so scarlet he feared she might have a stroke.

“Leave now and I won’t have you fired for the impertinence of calling me by my Christian name,” she said. “The mayor is an old family friend on whom I will not hesitate to call for assistance if you harass me any further.”

“I apologize, Miss Rodefeffer,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

Mamie didn’t respond, but she did turn up the volume on the television.

Scott went into the central hall and noticed that the lights were on in the dining room. He looked down the hall for any sign of the housekeeper, and seeing none, he walked softly into the room. All around the elaborately decorated formal room there were ornate, gilt-covered Victorian display cases with dozens of pieces of Rodefeffer glass inside. He didn’t discover any delicate swans among them.

Grandpa had got up at 6:00 a.m. that morning. Grace fed him breakfast before he left the house. Because he did not believe in working on Sunday, he did all the prep work for Sunday morning on Saturday. All he had to do then on the Sabbath was sit out by the greenhouse and wait for everyone to pick up their orders. He didn’t accept payment on Sundays and he didn’t lift a finger to help his customers carry anything, either. He took his Bible very seriously.

The deacon’s wife showed up at 7:00 a.m. to pick up the flowers for the Owl’s Branch Baptist Church. At 7:30 a.m. Sister Mary Margrethe came for Sacred Heart’s flowers. At 8:00 a.m. one of the ladies on the altar rota appeared to collect the flowers for the United Methodist Church.  At 8:30 a.m. the rector’s wife picked up the order for the Episcopal Church.

Grandpa spent the rest of the morning reading his Bible. After lunch he went to his room to take a nap that Grace knew would last until suppertime. Grandpa’s Sunday naps were a respite for him which Grace also enjoyed. Five hours with which to do anything she pleased out from under the watchful eye of her grandfather was a luxury.

Stretched out on an ancient wooden folding lounge chair on the second floor porch, Grace soaked up the afternoon sunlight while she finished the second book in her series.

Late in the afternoon, from her vantage point on the balcony, she saw a long dark car pull up outside the front entrance. Grace hopped up and ran downstairs as quietly as she could. When she reached the door and opened it, an old lady had her hand raised to knock. Grace recognized her as Mamie Rodefeffer, the daughter of the man who had built their house, known for her sharp tongue and tendency to knock over things with the multiple tote bags she usually carried. She was dressed up fancier than she usually was, no tote bags in sight, with a fur arranged around her shoulders that consisted of two dead foxes biting each other’s tails. Grace thought it was disgusting looking.

“Hello,” Mamie said, and smiled in a way that showed she was someone who rarely smiled. “Is your grandfather at home?”

“He’s taking a nap,” Grace said. “I can’t disturb him.”

The smile instantly disappeared.

“Are you at least going to invite me in?”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I’m not allowed to invite people in.”

“This used to be my house,” Mamie said in a cross tone. “My father built it for my mother before he brought her over from Berlin in 1908. My brother and I were born in this house.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “My grandfather doesn’t allow me to have visitors.”

“It used to be a beautiful house,” Mamie said. “It’s a pity what he’s let happen to it.”

“If you could come back later when he’s awake,” Grace said. “He might let you see it.”

“Might let me see my own house,” Mamie said. “That’s rich.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said.

“How old are you, twelve?” Mamie asked, staring at Grace through smudgy cat-eye glasses that magnified her eyes to an unnatural size.

“I’ll be sixteen in a week,” Grace said.

“Starving you, is he?” Mamie said. “No wonder you’re a runty little thing. Probably fit as a fiddle, though. Only the strongest survive among the lower classes; like mongrel dogs, all of you.”

Grace could only stare at someone so rude.

“I heard someone died on your front steps this weekend,” Mamie said.

“Yes ma’am,” Grace said. “Nino Vincenzo. He was looking for Mary.”

“Lots of foreigners worked for my father,” Mamie said. “Nothing to do with me, I’m sure. What did he say exactly?”

“I couldn’t understand him,” Grace said. “He spoke Italian.”

“He asked for Mary, they said.”

“He did,” Grace said. “And he brought her a glass swan.”

“Do you have it?” Mamie said. “I’d like to see it.”

Her eyes had taken on a predatory glint that made her face seem even more pinched and cross, and her smile was sly. Still, Grace couldn’t imagine what harm it would do to show her the swan, so she retrieved it from the pantry. She carefully took it out of the box and offered it to Mamie.

Mamie’s face was transformed when she saw it. The deep frown lines between her brows and around her mouth disappeared and softness took their place. Grace thought for that moment she could see the young person Mamie used to be. Grace allowed Mamie to take the swan from her. The old woman held it up to the sunlight and looked through it.

“There’s a mark inside,” Mamie said, pointing to it with shaking hands. “Just inside there, do you see?”

“It looks like a cursive ‘M’,” Grace said.

“Clever girl,” Mamie said. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“That must be for Mary?” Grace asked her. “Did you know her?”

With a glare at Grace, Mamie turned back into the querulous old lady she had been before she saw the swan.

“Nonsense,” Mamie said. “Nothing to do with me. I just happen to collect these. I’d like to buy it from you.”

“It’s not mine to sell,” Grace said. “It belonged to Nino.”

“Well, he’s dead and you could obviously use the money,” Mamie said.

She handed the swan to Grace so she could dig in her old-fashioned pocketbook.

Grace put the swan back in the box and backed up to the door.

“It’s not for sale,” she said.

“Don’t be impertinent,” Mamie said as she withdrew her checkbook and a gold-plated pen. “I want the swan and you want money. Name your price.”

Grace’s broom, which she had left at the top of the stairs to the second floor, fell over and clattered down the stairs.

“What was that?” Mamie said.

“That’s just Edgar,” Grace said.

Mamie’s face turned pale.

“Who did you say that was?”

“Edgar,” Grace said. “He’s a ghost. He makes a lot of noise but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”