Death in a Funhouse Mirror (26 page)

When I came back, Sarah was on the phone. She pointed to the blinking light. I went into my office and picked up the phone. It was Roscoe. "All right. You win. We'll honor the reservation."

"Great news, Mr. Roscoe," I said. "I hope the service won't be as grudging as your capitulation. You're doing the right thing, you know." He hung up without answering. I got my papers and ran, pausing at Magda's desk. "You can call the bride and tell her the little mix-up is all straightened out."

"She's lucky to have a friend like you," Magda called after me. My shoes seemed amazingly noisy in the hall as I rushed out to my meeting with Martha Coffey.

 

 

 

Chapter 16

 

Martha Coffey's house had the static look of a place decorated by the book because someone doesn't trust her own taste. Martha Coffey's physical appearance matched. Fiftyish, her hair was frosted blond to cover the gray, but it was neither a shade nor style that particular suited her. She wore makeup that had a sort of built-in glitter designed to give her skin a fresh, dewy look, but that didn't suit her either, nor did her shiny purple, teal and black warm-up suit, or the purple-framed glasses she wore. She would have looked better with gradually graying dark hair, little makeup on her nice ivory skin, and simple, tailored clothes. I think she knew it, and was uncomfortable in the costume she thought she was supposed to wear.

Although she'd initiated the meeting, she was shy and uncertain, seeming as uncomfortable with her ideas as she was with her house and appearance. I wondered why she'd bothered to inflict what was obviously an unpleasant experience on herself, and as soon as we were seated in her tidy living room, I asked.

"I see you're very perceptive," she said. "Eve said you would be. She said I should feel free to tell you everything." She hesitated, picking nervously at her hair. "I don't think she realized what I might tell you."

"It sounds like you have quite an extensive relationship with Eve. Is that right?"

She plucked at the hair again. "I guess you could say that. I've always been very fond of Eve. She was a little younger than my daughter, Amanda, and being an only child, she'd get lonely. She was always appearing on the doorstep and asking if Mandy could play." She laughed nervously. "Mandy didn't really like Eve. She found her annoying and she said Eve was a terrible liar, but I felt sorry for the child, so I encouraged Mandy to play with her sometimes, and sometimes I'd just let Eve hang around in the kitchen with me. She was good company. She'd just sit on the stool and chatter away about school, or ask what I was cooking, or tell me things."

She glanced across the table at me, her troubled brown eyes magnified by the glasses. "I'm afraid sometimes she told me things I really didn't want to know."

"How long did that relationship continue? Did she still come around when she was a teenager?"

Martha Coffey studied the ceiling, trying to remember. "Not so often, but sometimes. Especially when she had boy trouble. It's kind of ironic when I look back on it. My children never wanted to confide in me. They thought I was a complete fuddy-duddy. Just not with it. Or so they told me all the time. And there was that girl, both her parents professionals in the field of listening to people's troubles, and they couldn't hear a word she said and whenever they gave advice, it was totally wrong." She plucked at her hair once again, then blurted, "I was the one who went with her when she had the abortion. Not Helene. That's pretty sad, don't you think? I don't claim to be any kind of great mother, but imagine a girl having to go to her neighbor under those circumstances."

"It sounds like she was lucky to have you."

Her rather severe face brightened. "It's nice of you to say that. Oh, and here I am forgetting my manners, I was so nervous about talking to you. You're probably wondering if I'm ever going to get around to serving lunch. I'll just be a minute. Everything is ready." She got up and rushed into the kitchen.

I followed, pausing in the doorway. This room, at least, reflected Martha Coffey's true self, the generous woman who had opened her house to a lonely little girl. The rest of the house was rigid and restrained, but not the kitchen. The floor was gleaming natural wood, the walls up to the chair rail a light, slightly grayish green, and above that white wallpaper with green trailing ivy. The cupboards were white, with glass doors, the appliances also white, and the countertops some marblelike stuff in green to match the walls. The backsplash was shiny white tile, with occasional tiles handpainted with ivy to match the wallpaper. There were lots of vibrantly healthy flowering plants in a greenhouse window over the sink, and a green bowl full of lemons on the counter. "I really like your kitchen," I said.

She smiled again, the smile of someone who would like to smile more often, but wasn't sure how it would be received. "I always wanted to redo it, but my husband thought the old one was perfectly functional. He's a real 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' type. But it was terribly dark and uninviting. When my mother died and left me some money I just threw caution to the wind and redid it. And every day, I'm glad I did."

In the middle of the room was an old bleached pine table set for two. As I watched, she lifted the lid on a big pot and stirred, filling the air with the delicious scent of curry and apples. "This is really a winter soup, I think," she said, "but I was in the mood to make it today." She ladled it into two bowls, took a napkin-lined basket out of the oven, and put it all on the table. "I'm afraid this is all there is," she said. "I hope you won't be disappointed."

"If it tastes as good as it smells, I'll be disappointed if you don't give me the recipe."

We ate in silence for a few minutes, and it took all my willpower not to gobble my food. The soup, which she called Mulligatawny, was a delicious combination of chicken, corn, apples, raisins and curry, and she'd set out little pots of coconut and chopped peanuts to sprinkle on top. Finally she broke the silence.

"I'm not, by nature, a gossip, but what I have to tell you is exactly that. Gossip. And I don't know what good it will do, either. I know that many people feel you should say only good things about the dead, but what I have to say about Helene isn't very flattering. I hope you don't mind."

I wasn't sure how to respond. I didn't want to know bad things about Helene. I'd always admired her enormously for what she did, for her outspokenness and her sense of mission, and for having the courage of her convictions, even if I didn't always agree with her. She might not have been a great mother, but as the women who'd spoken at her funeral had recognized, she'd been a great role model, and also a dedicated champion of women afraid to speak for themselves. She'd also been beautiful, organized and gracious.

It was probably closest to the truth to say I'd been in awe of her and wildly jealous of her, both at the same time. I'd sat at her table, awkward and uncertain, admired her perfect clothes, her perfect house, and her wonderful food, and despaired of ever being able to be a competent grown-up. Helene had seen that, reassured me, complimented me, and eagerly solicited my opinions. But I wasn't here to reminisce about Helene. I'd promised Eve I'd listen, and I hoped Mrs. Coffey was going to tell me something that would help me persuade Eve to abandon her vendetta against Cliff. "Not at all, Mrs. Coffey. Sometimes it's hard to know what's important."

"That's what the policeman said, too."

"Which policeman was it, Mrs. Coffey? Was it Detective Florio?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think he had an Italian name. Nice looking fellow. Youngish. A bit pushy. He had this odd haircut." She moved her hand around her head, mimicking short on top and long in the back. "Rather a thick neck. From working out with weights, I guess. My son does that. I suppose it may be good for their bodies, I really don't know, but it makes it impossible to get clothes that fit." She stopped abruptly and put her hands over her mouth. "James, that's my husband, says I run on at the mouth like a brook in the spring."

"Not at all, Mrs. Coffey," I said. It looked like living with James wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. No wonder she was nervous. She'd been told that everything she did was wrong. "Sounds like Detective Meagher to me."

"Exactly," she said, "that's him. Well, if you've met him, maybe you can understand why I wasn't comfortable talking to him."

I understood perfectly. What I didn't understand was why Dom hadn't interviewed her. She would have been comfortable talking to him. I supposed they'd just divided up the neighbors to be interviewed and each done their share. "I do understand, Mrs. Coffey. There is something about his manner, isn't there? But I believe he's a very good detective."

She just shrugged and then said something astonishing. "Helene Streeter was a slut." She watched me with satisfaction. "I've shocked you, haven't I? Well, I'm sorry if I have, but it's true."

"What do you mean?" I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.

"I mean she had a succession of men in and out of that house. Ever since Eve started school. I don't know what she did before that. Went to their houses, maybe. It was like something from a bad TV movie. Helene would come out with Eve and wait for the bus. Eve would leave on the bus. Helene would open the garage, get in her car and drive away. Cliff would come out right behind her, get in his car and drive away. Sometimes they'd wait with Eve together, share a kiss in the driveway, and then leave. A few minutes later, Helene would arrive back and open both garage doors. A man in a car would drive into the garage and the doors would shut behind them. Then, about forty-five minutes later, the man would leave, and then Helene would leave."

"How do you know they weren't patients she was seeing at home?"

She gave me a sharp look, as if she suspected I might be stupid.

"Helene treated women," she said. "And therapy appointments usually last more than forty-five minutes."

This was shocking news. "There were different men?" She nodded. "Did you recognize any of them?"

"One or two. Not by name. Just from having seen them around town. One was a fireman. Another worked in the pharmacy. And they were all ages. Gray, blond, brunette, red. She had very catholic tastes."

"How often did you notice this?"

"It varied. Sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month. Then there would be long periods when it wouldn't happen at all."

"What about in the months before she died?"

"Sometimes she'd have men at the house, but usually she went elsewhere, I think. Her behavior had changed." She got up and cleared our dishes onto the counter. "I hope you're not one of those young girls who are always on a diet, like Eve. I've made us a lovely dessert." She set out clean plates and forks and took a picture-perfect fruit tart out of the refrigerator. She seemed completely oblivious to the discontinuity between what we were discussing and the normal rhythm of a ladies' lunch.

It was a struggle not to let her see how shocked I was, but I tried to behave like an unflappable female detective. "I have a terrible sweet tooth," I said, "and this looks delicious. What did you mean when you said her behavior had changed?"

"I'd see her come home from work, and then an hour later she'd come out and get in her car and leave. Sometimes she wouldn't come back until the next morning."

"How do you know she stayed out all night?"

"She was wearing the same clothes."

I thought about Helene's clothes, wondering if Martha Coffey might be mistaken. Helene had always worn wonderful clothes. Expensive, simple and elegant. I'd sometimes thought I'd dress just like her as soon as I could afford it. But they tended to look much the same. Dark, subdued shades. Delicate blouses. Fitted jackets. One outfit might easily be confused with another, especially at a distance. "How can you be sure?"

"I can be sure," she said, "because they were unmistakable. You're thinking about Helene's professional clothes. But these were what I called—to myself only, of course, James would be shocked to hear me talk like this—her whoring clothes."

"I just can't picture it, I'm sorry. Can you describe what you mean."

"Of course," she said. "I understand your confusion. I was pretty shocked myself. She'd go inside in one of those demure suits the color of an overcooked vegetable, and come out an hour later in red suede shoes with four-inch heels and a skintight red leather dress that stopped about five inches above the knee. Black stockings. Her hair teased out to here." She held her hands about six inches from her ears. "And the next morning she'd come back around six, hair uncombed and with runs in her stockings, still in the same red dress." There was the trace of a smile on her face, but I didn't think it was malice. It was because she'd found the courage to say "whoring" aloud. She probably read detective novels and assumed you could say anything to a detective, at least, to a woman detective.

"Do you have any idea where she went?"

"None. I'm not sure I'd want to know. Eve might, though. She was watching. She doesn't know that I saw her, but this is a pretty quiet neighborhood. Anything unusual tends to stand out. A couple times I saw Eve sitting in her car, just around the corner, watching the house. She might have followed her mother. Or she might have been watching her father—she's been very angry at him lately—or she might have just been being nostalgic. I wouldn't ask. Eve always wanted so much for them to be a normal family. She used to tell me that, you know. How much she wished for regular parents like me and James. Parents she could call Mom and Dad instead of Cliff and Helene."