Death in a Funhouse Mirror (6 page)

"I guess I've never really understood about consultants," he said. "How does it work? What is it, exactly, that you do?" He finished his wine, grabbed the bottle, and emptied it into his glass, staring sadly at the golden inch which was all that was left.

"If I tried to answer that question we'd be here all night. Let me just give you an example. Say a girls' school comes to us and says that they are having trouble attracting applicants. The number of applications and the number of acceptances are both falling, and the school can't figure out why, or what to do about it. Suzanne and I go in and talk to the administration about what they want. We talk to faculty, administrators, current students and alumnae about the school, and get an overview of the curriculum, the campus community, of how the members of that community perceive it. Then we look at two other groups—students who applied and were admitted, but chose not to attend, and students who are current or potential applicants—and find out how they perceive the school, and in the case of the students who chose not to attend, why they decided not to. We write up our findings and recommendations in a report and give it to the client."

"What's in your report?" Cliff said. He didn't seem to be merely making conversation, he seemed genuinely curious.

"You really want to know?" I was sure the others were bored to tears. I circled the table with my eyes. Except for Eve, who was chewing her lip and playing with the silverware, their expressions were politely interested. Yeah, right, I thought, nothing interests homicide cops like the details of a consultant's life. But Cliff wanted to hear more.

"Yes, Thea, I do."

"Okay. We describe the project, and how we conducted our research. Then we write up the results, depending on what we found. If the curriculum seems outdated or has the wrong focus, we might suggest changes in that. Or it might be that the school is actually a very dynamic, exciting place educationally, but it is perceived in the community as staid, dull and old-fashioned. Then we might recommend a PR campaign to change the school's image. Or we might find that the school is targeting the wrong applicant pool and suggest a new group to aim their marketing at. There are similarities, but each situation is also very different. Each school has its own character."

"Fascinating," he said. "Sounds like you enjoy your work. From the few headmasters that I've met, I have the impression that they'd be too hidebound, too traditional to try such a modern, sensible approach. You and your partner must be very good." He was charming me again, treating me to the full benefit of his attention. Once he got me going, I could have talked about my work all night, but Eve was playing with her cake, and the detectives' eyes were glazing over.

"Even the tweediest of them have to keep their beady eyes on the bottom line. Does anyone want more cake?" Florio shoved his plate my way. Meagher shook his head. He was probably watching his figure. I didn't even wait for Andre's response, I just reached for his plate.

The doorbell rang. Cliff got up and went to answer. I guess that meant the stalwart blue guardian of the front steps had left for the day. There were voices in the foyer and then Cliff came back in. "I hope you'll excuse me," he said. "A friend has stopped by and asked if I'd like to take a little walk. And I would like to do that." He didn't wait for a response, but turned to go.

"It's Rowan, isn't it?" Eve said. "I don't think you should go. I don't see how you can go out there at night anyway, after what happened."

"I'll be all right," he said.

"That's what Helene thought, too. But of course, you'll have Rowan to protect you, won't you."

"Don't be tiresome, Eve," he said. "I haven't complained about your friend being here. I don't see why you have to complain about mine."

"They aren't exactly comparable situations, are they?"

"I'm not going to argue about it," he said. He shrugged and turned away. There was a murmur of voices, and then the door shut behind them.

Eve glared at Meagher and Florio. "Bet you think we're a real fun family, don't you. I'm a bitch, and he doesn't give a damn. Isn't it time you went home? You do have homes, don't you? I mean, you've had all day. You must have finished going through her papers by now. I wish you would leave." She shoved her chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the hardwood floor, and stood up. "Shall we retire, Thea, and leave the men to their cigars?" I got up and followed her into the kitchen.

Eve was leaning against the counter, trying to stifle her sobs with a dirty dishtowel. "I'm sorry, Thea. I know I'm being a bitch but I can't seem to stop myself. They must think I'm awful!"

"Don't worry about them," I said. "They're used to people acting strange when they're upset. It goes with the territory. Being upset with the nosy strangers in your house I can understand, but what's this business between you and Cliff? I should think you'd be comforting each other."

"I wish," she said, "but he doesn't need me. He has Rowan."

"That's the third time he's come up. Who is this Rowan?"

She screwed up her face like she'd just tasted something bitter and nasty. "Rowan is Dr. Rowan Ansel, one of the up-and-coming residents my father is supervising. Though it's a toss-up which one is supervising the other. Cliff is supervising Rowan in the clinical setting, and Rowan is teaching Cliff the joys of manly love."

"You don't mean..." I began, feeling foolish for asking, and embarrassed about what I understood.

"Don't be naive, Thea. Cliff was experiencing a midlife crisis of sorts," she said. "Feeling very sad and depressed because his life was so settled and boring. He was so established, so married. He'd never climb mountains, or run the marathon, or drive across the country in a convertible sports car. Never be more than just one of the leading lights in the Boston psychiatric community. Not asked to be head of the society. You know, the whole midlife thing. He'd come as close to the pinnacle as he ever would and someone else was standing on top. He managed to maintain his public facade, but around us—me and Helene—he was irascible, depressed and sour. Then bang, along came Rowan, and led him down the primrose path. You probably saw him this afternoon. He was here—the effeminate blond in the purple sweater?"

"Helene knew about Rowan?"

"Of course. Cliff wasn't secretive about it. You know how they were, discussing everything to death. He was very open about the importance of exploring what he called the bisexual side of his nature. He was getting into all that male-bonding stuff. Went to a weekend retreat where they sat around in a sweat lodge and chanted, and beat on drums and danced, and worked themselves into a frenzy and then shared all their most intimate secrets. Such a lot of garbage. Women can do that over lunch."

"How did she react?"

"She didn't like it, but she thought he needed to get it out of his system. Pretty generous of her. They would never let me get anything out of my system, but then, neither of them was the product of the other, as I was their product. They were just a couple. She prided herself on her tolerance. But she didn't like it. Even though women's issues were very important to her, and she spent endless hours with her women friends thrashing out their precious theories, she was a rock-bottom heterosexual. She tried to be understanding, but deep down, she thought his male-bonding stuff was ridiculous and the bisexual stuff disgusting."

She shook her head. "Sometimes I wish I'd stayed in Arizona. I came back here thinking I was ready to be honest and open and truthful with them. At first I thought we were making some progress. But they'd changed. They were less accessible than ever. They were both too busy with their personal agendas to bother with me. Helene holding endless meetings with her colleagues, debating whether they should split away from Bartlett Hill and open their own clinic, staffed by women and treating only women, and in the next room, Cliff and his men's group, clutching their copies of
Iron John."

"Iron John?"

"The bible of the men's movement."

"Well, at least they were concerned with issues, Eve. They could have been freebasing cocaine and listening to rap music."

"I'd almost have preferred that," she said. "They'd stopped being connected with regular life... things like friends and food and vacations and movies and fun. Especially fun. They'd both become so serious about their issues they couldn't think of anything else. They weren't even having sex anymore, as they both told me. Helene because she wouldn't sleep with a bisexual man. Too risky. Cliff because, as he put it, women had ceased to interest him. Can you imagine wanting to know that about your parents?"

"I know what you mean. I'm quite sure my parents have never had sex."

She threw the dishtowel onto the counter. "Let's clean this place up and get out of here. You don't mind dropping me at home, do you?"

"Not at all. You don't have your car?"

She glanced down at her funny clothes. "You don't seriously think I got up this morning and dressed like this? I came back here with Cliff last night. We came from the hospital in his car."

Together we loaded the dishwasher, put food away, and returned the kitchen to its pristine state. Eve started to put the cake in the refrigerator, hesitated, and then wrapped it in plastic. "You should take this, Thea. I don't want it, and Cliff doesn't do dessert. Bad for his figure."

"I don't usually do dessert either."

"No, but that gorgeous man of yours does."

"He's not mine, Eve."

"Oh, come on. I see how he looks at you," she said. I nodded. "You could do worse."

"Thanks. I know that."

"Right. Let's take the cake and run." We found Andre half-asleep in the living room, slumped in a corner of the couch. Meagher and Florio had left without saying good-bye.

There's something about a vulnerable man that brings out all my protective instincts. Andre certainly doesn't need protecting, but as he sometimes reminds me, everyone can use a little caring. I sat down beside him and nuzzled his neck. "Come on, sleepyhead, time to go home." He grabbed me in a bear hug and held me there, muttering something incomprehensible, but he's too well schooled in the necessity of instant response to linger in sleep, even on his days off. It didn't take him long to get to his feet.

The night was soft and damp, perfumed by drifts of scent from the flowers blooming everywhere. A perfect night. A night that invited a moonlight walk. And only a few hundred feet away, last night—which had been another night just like this—someone had stepped out of the shadows clutching a knife and slaughtered Helene. That thought, and the shadows all around me, gave me goose bumps. I practically ran down the walk to the car, shoved the key into the lock, and jumped in. Eve was right behind me, slamming her door and locking it behind her. Andre came more slowly, compelled by the policeman in him to survey the scene. The instant he was in the car, I started the engine and got out of there as fast as I could.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Once again, it was Andre who made the coffee. He brought a cup in to me where I was huddled in the bed, refusing to wake up. Or, more accurately, still trying to get to sleep. Awake, aware and alive, I'm great at handling difficult situations. Thea the calm and competent. I can handle the whole gamut, from tweedy, testy admissions directors who resent my presence to the shocked, emotionally labile children of recent murder victims who want to unload onto my shoulders. I can take it all in and still stay calm and wise. But every experience, every vivid, horrible image gets filed away, and the creative director in charge of my dreams uses it to full effect.

So while Andre had slept beside me, lost in leaden sleep, I had spent a miserable night watching intraskull slasher movies where the victims were people I knew. Grisly, full-color visions of Helene Streeter, her face dead white, eyes glazed with pain, trying to hold herself together as she crawled toward help. An androgynous, faceless figure with a dripping knife stood behind her, watching. A flash of white teeth in the darkness. A smile of satisfaction. Above her, floating against the blue-black sky, Eve perched on a stool, her small, black-capped head tipped sideways, watching curiously. Then the crunch of shoes on gravel, the murmur of voices in animated conversation as Cliff and Rowan strolled into the picture, arm in arm, and stayed to watch Helene's pathetic progress.

Helene, staring at Cliff and Rowan, speaking with an effort, pleading with them to help, and Cliff, smiling his irresistible smile, speaking in that warm, inviting voice. "It wouldn't be good for you, Helene. If you truly want to be a strong, independent woman, you have to help yourself. Anyway, I have my own personal agenda to pursue." He patted Rowan on the arm. "I really don't have the energy for your issues right now."

And Helene, propped up on the sidewalk, her body ripped open and her insides spilling out over her arm, trying to smile. "I know, Cliff. I understand. I just wish this once you could find some time for me." Footsteps as Cliff and Rowan walk off into the night. A thin snatch of laughter floating back.