Dancing with the Dead (14 page)

“You go ahead, you wanna go to bed. I’ll be in later.”

“Mary, Mary . . . you’ll be in now, and it won’t be to sleep, huh?”

“Not tonight, Jake.”

He moved toward her. She tried to spin away—a dance step—but he caught her elbow. Then he bent down and kissed her on the lips, holding her head tight to his with his free hand on the nape of her neck, biting her lower lip. Then he kissed her gently, for a long time.

Mary felt her resistance break loose and begin its downward spiral, like a leaf spinning to earth in autumn. Jake’s commanding bulk was near and overpowering; she could feel the heat of him. She let herself be led toward the bedroom.

The next morning, while Jake was still asleep, Mary walked softly into the living room. The sun angling low through the window was warm on her bare feet. She sat down by the phone and asked Long Distance Information for Rene Verlane’s number in New Orleans.

She’d thought Verlane probably had an unlisted number, and she was surprised when the operator read it out for her to write down.

She didn’t let herself hesitate before punching out the New Orleans area code and the phone number. What she was doing was insane and compulsive, she knew. But she’d lain a long time in bed thinking about it, and she was determined. She had to call Verlane, had to tell him he was right, the same man killed his wife and the Seattle woman; they looked so much alike, and they were murdered and molested in the same manner, so it just had to be. Mary understood and sympathized with Rene Verlane, because she looked enough like the victims to be a sister. And, like them, she danced.

A woman answered the phone on the third ring and said she was the maid. Mr. Verlane wasn’t available to come to the phone and might not be for several days, did Mary care to leave a message?

Mary said no and hung up.

Of course! Verlane was traveling in search of his wife’s murderer. He’d be in Seattle, where he said he was going on yesterday’s TV interview. He’d seemed vehement about that, a man with a mission.

She thought about calling back and trying to get the name of his hotel, then she decided the domestic help wouldn’t give it to her, wouldn’t necessarily believe her when she said who and what she was, and why she was calling. Rene Verlane was probably wary of the devious news media. And the police, suspecting him of murder, might not be above trying to trick him. One deadly game led to another.

A horn honked down in the street, a driver signaling to pick up a car-pooler. An intrusion from the outside world. Mary pictured herself sitting there holding the phone. Such a foolish figure. She shouldn’t have called. What exactly would she have said if Verlane
had
come to the phone? The fact that she resembled the two dead woman, and that she danced, might have interested him, but where would the conversation have gone from there?

Probably, Mary thought, to someplace where she’d have made a total ass of herself.

Her body jerked when the phone rasped to indicate the receiver had been out of its cradle too long.

She hung up and pressed down hard on the phone, as if trying to anchor it to the table with glue. Verlane might not be in Seattle long; a wealthy man like that probably took planes as casually as others rode buses, brief journeys from this city to that. Maybe she’d call another time, when she could be sure he was home. Or maybe she was only telling herself that, knowing she wouldn’t call but not wanting to slam the door on that option. She knew she did that kind of thing at times, clinging to choices as if they were life preservers on a storm-tossed ship. It was a trait she couldn’t change. Sometimes finality terrified her.

Glad now that Verlane hadn’t been able to come to his phone, she went into the kitchen, where she poked a fresh filter into Mr. Coffee and spooned in grounds, then poured in water to the four-cup level. A cup for her, three for Jake whenever he got up and ate breakfast.

Jake was a man of unpredictable movements and appetites. Mary idly wondered where he’d been the past year during the times he’d been away from her. Had he stayed in the city? His job seniority allowed him to take vacation or sick days almost at will. He’d probably never mention where he’d stayed, and she wouldn’t ask. He might consider it prying, and there might be consequences.

She examined her left wrist, hoping the marks would fade before she left for work. Then she glanced at the clock and hurried to the bathroom, where she showered and dressed quietly. So she wouldn’t disturb Jake.

O
N THE WAY
to work, Mary stopped at a corner lineup of newspaper vending machines and bought a
Post-Dispatch
and a
USA Today.
On page six of the
Post
she found the news item she was searching for, and the photograph of Martha Roundner that had been shown on TV last night. She folded the paper in quarters so the photo showed, then drove the rest of the way to Angie’s apartment to check on her before going to the office.

“The woman looks a little like you, maybe,” Angie said, after prompting. She held the paper at arm’s length and peered blearily at the photo, as if it were something that might cause her trouble. “Around the mouth mostly. She and you ain’t dead ringers, but I can see what you mean.” Her voice was still flat, an instrument badly out of tune.

Mary gave up trying to convince her. “You feeling any better this morning?”

“Sure. Some.”

The apartment smelled stale and musty, and there was dust thick as peach-fuzz over everything. It was getting uncomfortably warm, too, and Angie hadn’t switched on the air-conditioner. The potted plant from her hospital room was on the windowsill and had a parched, brownish look to it, and there was an ashtray on the carpet, littered with the snubbed-out butts that were making the place smell stale. Mary looked at the two glasses on the coffee table. There was an amber residue in each of them, layers of bright color in motionless liquid. Morning-after melted ice made the stillest water in the world.

“That’s Pepsi-Cola,” Angie said defensively, pulling her terry-cloth robe tighter around her thin body.

“Two glasses?”

“Yeah. Fred and me sat around and talked last night. Straightened out some things.”

“Such as?”

“Who and what we are to each other. It was that kinda conversation. You’ve had them, I’m sure.”

“You know more now?”

Angie shrugged. “No, not really, but talking it out till my throat was sore helped somehow.” Her mouth still had that withered look above the upper lip, and the faint tracing of a mustache. Time to apply a depilatory, Angie. Time to push your age back where it isn’t a worry, for either of us.

“Where’s Fred now?” Mary asked.

Her mother gestured weakly with a limp hand that still bore a purple-red bruise from the IV needle. “Other room.”

“Bedroom, you mean?”

Angie sighed. “Don’t interrogate your old mom, Mary. You ain’t the police and you ain’t got the right.”

Mary thought about last night with Jake. She laughed coldly. “Yeah, I guess I see your point. Anyway, I gotta get to work. You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Oh yeah. One day at a time, like the AA people say. I can make it through this. I have before, you know.”

“Yeah, you have.” Mary started toward the door.

“If you’re done with them papers,” Angie said, “leave ’em here. I could use something to read.”

“Sure,” Mary said, surprised and glad her mother was interested enough in the world to want to find out more about it. Age and alcohol hadn’t quite won yet. Angie continued the struggle, probably not in any real hope of victory, but more out of the realization that all there was to life, ultimately, was a losing battle.

“I heard on the news them murdered women was violated after they were dead,” Angie said. “It’s awful, but that’s better’n if they was raped and then killed.”

There was no arguing that. “I guess so,” Mary said.

“There’s a lotta sick and evil people out there in the world, Mary. Best you remember that, what with your own dancing and all.”

“I never forget it, Angie.”

“You been bothered again, after what happened to your door?” Angie asked. Mary still hadn’t told her about the dead bird incident.

“Whoever did it isn’t likely to come back. The police were right, it was just a fluke thing. Kids, maybe.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Mary tore out the photograph of Martha Roundner and slipped it into her purse. She laid the folded newspaper on the arm of the sofa before walking out.

In the interest of fair play and employee moral, Hal Bauer, Summers Realty sales manager, had given Victor another day of floor time at Suncrest. At least Mary wouldn’t have to cope with Victor today.

It was, in fact, a slow day at Summers Realty. Gordon Summers was still in Chicago. Most of the salespeople were out showing property, and Hal and the administrative help were cubbyholed in the conference room with a CPA. Something about new tax legislation. There were no closings scheduled for the day, so she spent her time readying the paperwork for two residential closings to be made later in the week.

In one of the offices was a cabinet containing telephone directories for most major cities. Mary watched the intermittent traffic roll past, glittering in the sunlight, for a while, then glanced at her watch and saw she had forty-five minutes till lunch time. She stood up, walked into the back office, and found a Seattle directory.

She had nothing important to do at the moment, so why not do this?

She didn’t examine the question too closely.

Back at her desk, she opened the yellow pages to the listings for hotels, then dragged the phone closer. She began with the large chains, calling them one by one and asking if there was a Rene Verlane registered.

It was well past noon, and she hadn’t eaten lunch or even left the phone, when she reached the
M’
s and was told by a desk clerk at a Seattle Marriott hotel that Rene Verlane had checked in yesterday. The clerk asked if Mary wanted him to ring Mr. Verlane’s room, but Mary said she’d call back, then hung up.

Her face felt flushed and her knees were rubbery. She left her hand resting on the receiver, running her fingertips lightly over the warm plastic. The phone had suddenly become something intimate and dangerous.

“Mary?”

She withdrew the hand and jerked her head around.

Victor was standing in front of the desk, smiling down at her. He was wearing gray slacks, blue blazer, white shirt, red tie. Original. If he were a car he’d be a station wagon.

She said, “I thought you were out at Suncrest.”

“I was.” He tapped his brown vinyl Samsonite attaché case with an air of extreme importance, as if it contained the code for nuclear war, and his grin widened. “I need to get a contract okayed, then I’m driving back out.” He peered at her through his round glasses; sunlight shot off the lenses as if they were cubic zirconia. “Listen, you okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You had a funny look on your face when I looked in your office.”

She put on a nonchalant expression and shrugged. “Just daydreaming, I guess.”

“About what?”

Wouldn’t
you
be surprised? “Personal.” Her voice was clipped and angry, surprising
her.

Victor backed up a step, his smile wavering. “All right. Sorry. Sure didn’t mean to pry.”

Mary knew she’d gone too far, for Victor and for herself. Victor was such a wimp, but at times he could elicit a primitive kind of pity. That was the fulcrum of his life, manipulating and surviving by getting others to feel sorry for him. Even though people knew this, it was effective. She made herself smile. “Sorry, Victor. I snapped, didn’t I?”

He immediately appeared reassured. “Well, I understand. What with the problems with your mother and all. By the way, how is she?”

“Much better.”

“That’s good.” He advanced on the desk, and for a moment she thought he was going to lean forward and pat her hand. But he stopped and said, “Well, I better see if I can clear this deal with Hal.” He opened his attaché case and straightened some papers. Mary noticed a red-handled pocket knife tucked in a compartment next to his calculator. He saw her staring. “It’s a Swiss Army knife,” he said. “I carry it ’cause it’s got a screwdriver, leather punch, even a scissors on it. Comes in handy for everything from opening packages to fastening ‘sold’ signs.” He quickly closed the case. “Speaking of ‘sold’ signs . . .”

“Hal’s in a meeting with the CPA right now.”

“I know. We talked this morning and he told me to call him out of it if this contract was signed. It’s for one of the display houses, and there’s a lotta extras involved.” He took a stride toward the back offices.

“Wait a minute,” Mary was surprised to hear herself say. She reached into her purse and drew out the photograph of Martha Roundner, then spread it flat on her desk. “Who’s this look like?”

Victor rested his palms on the desk, leaned close, and studied the photo for a long time. His face took on a strained expression Mary had never seen before.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, standing up straight and using a forefinger to tap his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “She looks a lot like my sister in Phoenix. You wouldn’t believe how much. Who is she?”

“Never mind,” Mary said, returning the photo to her purse. “I don’t think you know her.”

Victor looked puzzled for a moment, then gave her another of his tentative smiles and walked away to drag Hal out of conference as instructed.

Long ago Mary had read a story about a man who thought his double was maliciously ruining his life, and followed and killed the man. At the story’s end, it was revealed that there was no resemblance at all, except in the mind of the killer. Mary wondered for a moment if she might be reversing the story, projecting her own image on the photographs of victims because she identified with them so strongly. Because she wanted—

She decided that was absurd. Cast it from her mind with an internal violence that tightened her stomach.

She didn’t have a lesson scheduled for that evening, and Angie had said she was going out with Fred. So after work Mary spent half an hour cleaning up the mess Jake had left in the apartment: dirty dishes from his late breakfast, wadded underwear and socks on the floor, a glut of dark hair in the shower drain. He could leave a bathroom looking as if a freshman track team had used it after a meet. She lowered the seat and flushed the toilet, trying not to inhale. What, if anything, did your mother teach you, Jake?