Fadeaway Girl (33 page)

Mrs. Davidow wanted to know every detail and was about to offer me a Bloody Mary until she remembered I was twelve. “Who shot him? Did Morris Slade shoot him?”

“Oh, my God! my God!” wailed Ree-Jane.

My mother was tying on her kitchen apron and said that if I didn't feel like waiting tables, Walter could help. “Maybe it was suicide,” she said in a puzzled way.

“It definitely wasn't,” I said. She shrugged and told Mrs. Davidow she'd run out of spice for her pumpkin chiffon pie.

Here I had just found a dead body, and one belonging to someone they knew, and it might as well have been a dead beetle for all the effect it had: they were just exaggerated versions of their same selves.

My mother turned to the stove; Mrs. Davidow smoked and talked six to the dozen, probably rehearsing for the reporters sure to come; Ree-Jane walked and wailed.

I asked Mrs. Davidow if she'd make one of her Bloody Marys for Great-Aunt Aurora, and she said she'd be happy to. She was always happy to make a drink, no matter whose.

 

Here we were at 11:00 A.M. on the front porch with two reporters. Or rather here
I
was, but Mrs. Davidow and Ree-Jane and my mother couldn't yet get the hang of it, me being famous.

When Ree-Jane had heard reporters were coming from Cloverly and even Pittsburgh, she right away changed out of her walking shorts into a Heather Gay Struther dress, this one a cheery Good Morning Yellow, which might not have been good for a death in the family, but was certainly good for photographers.

I pointed out to her that any pictures, if taken and if used, would be black-and-white. She was undeterred in the arranging of a peachy-orange-colored scarf and said that, given everything that had happened around here, this story would wind up in
Vogue
.

She arranged herself on the porch rail, the skirt spread out, a hankie at her eyes, and asked when the photographer would come. She had known “Rafe”—and pointed out the English pronunciation to the two reporters—better than anyone.

But the two reporters knew me better than anyone, for they were the same ones who had been here after I had been shoved into a rowboat without oars and shot at. There was also the attraction of Lola's Bloody Marys and my mother's coffee and pastry. It was as close to a party as they'd get, in the circumstances.

They found out what the crime scene had looked like.

I found out the police had arrested Morris Slade.

 

“They arrested Morris Slade,” I told Aurora as I handed her a Bloody Mary at noon.

“That don't surprise me. He was found with a dead body, after all.”

“No he wasn't. He wasn't there.”

She paid no attention; she was too busy with her own theories. Smacking her lips over the drink, she recited a verse:

She set down her drink for a moment to hold up her thumbs.

“What? If you're talking about Ralph Diggs, he wasn't wicked, I don't think.” I don't know why I felt the need to defend him now. Yes, I did. Because he'd been murdered.

“That boy”—her voice squeaked upward—“was a sneaky one. And he was too much in love with hisself, for one thing. I don't think I ever did see anyone so self-satisfied.”

I was puzzled. “How do you know? You never met him.”

“Of course I did, miss. That day you was so busy messin' around in what was none of your business, he brought me lunch and dinner. Well, don't think I didn't hide my bearer bonds and my jewels right after lunch. No, ma'am—!”

“Bearer bonds? Jewels? You don't have any of that.”

“That's as much as you know. I can tell a good-for-nothin' sly boots of a thief when I see one. The way his eyes hit on every object in this room, just looking for something to rob me of, or maybe somebody to murder. Remember
Night Must Fall
?” She shivered and drank the tail end of her Bloody Mary.

Since I was the main rememberer of that movie, I didn't comment except to remind her I was only twelve.

“So how do you know,” she slyly said, “that movie's older than twelve years?”

She should work for Perry Mason. What bothered me was how it clicked: she had recognized, just as I had, the similarity between Ralph Diggs and the sinister bellhop. As a matter of fact, she could be the old lady who had almost become his victim.

“It certainly looks as if Morris Slade shot him.” I didn't want to believe this.

Aurora rattled ice that had melted to slivers, holding the glass toward me. “They trace that gun back to its owner, they'll know. Just like in the movies.”

I sighed and took her glass.

 

But halfway down the stairs, I reimagined the scene at Brokedown House: the Sheriff down on one knee; Dr. McComb hanging over the body; Donny Mooma walking about like king of the hill, saying something about shooting a granny gun.

I ran down the rest of the stairs and into the back office, where the phone was. I plunked down Aurora's glass and grabbed up the metal phone pad, pushed the pointer to “M,” and clicked it open. There was Dr. McComb's number.

“Be there, be there,”
I said to myself, and danced around like I had to pee.

“Dr. McComb, this is Emma.”

He was surprised. “Emma, you should be—”

“What did Deputy Mooma mean about a ‘granny gun'?” I hadn't time for my roundabout ways.

“ ‘Granny'?”

I pinched my eyes shut. “He was talking about the gun, I think, that was lying on the floor.”

“Oh yeah, I recall. It's a small one. Now listen Emma—”

“What about it? What. A. Bout. It?” I said this through gritted teeth so he would know I wasn't fooling around and that I meant business.

He knew. He told me.

 

I ran all the way back up the stairs. Aurora had her cards out and was playing her version of solitaire.

“About time! Well, where's my drink?”

“Where's your gun?”

“Your crazy brother wanted it for some theatrical extravaganza.”

“You let Will have a
gun
?”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic, miss!” She slapped a jack of clubs down on a queen of spades. “All you Grahams are. You all act like you was auditioning for every play on Broadway. Now, we Paradises, we come from solid, no-nonsense stock. You wouldn't catch us running down some fool story about murder or going crazy out in the garage, putting on some fool play—”
Slap
went the jack of hearts on the queen of diamonds. She even cheated at solitaire.

“So you let Will have your gun. Well, that's a real example of Paradise no-nonsense stock, that really is.”

She raised a bony hand like one of
Macbeth
's witches (which I was familiar with only because Will and Mill talked about putting it on). “Now you mind how you speak to your elders, miss! I said the gun wasn't loaded. I ain't going to loan some kid a loaded gun.”

“You shouldn't be giving him any gun—” Aurora not being the soul of generosity, I added: “Wait a minute, why did you?”

She sniffed. “We made a trade.”

“Trade?”

She put down the cards and wheeled over to her steamer trunk, which always stood open. She fussed around in the bottom, underneath the hems of dresses, and pulled out a bottle of Myers's rum.

I could scarcely believe my eyes.

“I can't say where he got it.” She sniffed self-righteously.

“Will? He's got a still out back.”

 

My feet took wing. I was up at the Big Garage inside of two minutes. I felt like kicking in the door, but if the gun was still in Will's possession he'd probably shoot me.

I knocked.

“Yeah?”

“Open this door right now, Will!”

There was, of course, no rush to open the door. I just stood there, furious. After another half minute, I yelled: “I'm not going away!”

The door opened fractionally. “What?”

He had on one of those vaselike hats with a tassel that they wore in Morocco. “What are you wearing?”

“A fez.”

Despite everything that had happened, I was still fascinated by Will's craziness. “Why? Does the plane refuel in Morocco or Cairo?”

“Is that why you're here? To ask about my fez?”

“No. Let me in.”

Will threw back the door and I walked into a strange land of lights and shadows. Pale shades of green, blue, and pink washed back and forth across the floor, accented by a couple of spotlights. The garage roof had been converted into a night sky, a pattern of stars cut from something shiny tossed across it, a small sliver of neon bright moon. Back in the dark corner was Chuck, the one who did all this, the lighting genius.

I had to admit it was great.

“So what do you want? We're busy.”

“The gun. Aurora's gun that she traded you for a bottle of rum.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, we were just looking for it. We think maybe Paul took it.”

“Hello, Missus!”

Paul was up in the rafters.

“Paul? Then why isn't he down here—”

“He was. He never took it.” Will had his fez off, looking into it as if the gun might be in there. “Anyway, it was out of ammunition; it wasn't loaded.”

“No? It is
now
. Ralph Diggs was in here yesterday, wasn't he?”

Will and Mill exchanged a look. “Yeah. Why?”

Of course they hadn't heard the news. Stuck here in the Big Garage, beneath the fake stars and shaved-off moon, how could they have? “Because the gun the police found by his body could be that one.”

“Body?” Will said.

“Body?” Mill said.

They stared at me and then at each other.

For once they actually went slightly green. Or maybe that was just Chuck's light playing over their surprised-for-once faces.

I
called the Sheriff's office and got Maureen. The Sheriff was at the crime scene and Donny was at the Rainbow getting doughnuts. She would get hold of the Sheriff by the car radio immediately. Of course, he'd want the gun identified. “Ab-si-tive-ly!”

Twenty minutes later, a police car came roaring up the drive, spitting gravel when it braked. Given it was Donny, I was surprised he didn't have the siren blaring and his own gun drawn.

He got out, slammed the door as hard as he could, and pounded up the porch steps and into the lobby. He was carrying a small black satchel and wearing a menacing look, a look that he probably practiced in front of a mirror.

“Where's this Paradise woman? We need an ID on this old revolver.” He held up the black bag. “Murder bag.”

I wasn't the only one watching
Perry Mason.

I directed him up the stairs, pointing the way to the fourth floor, but stayed on the third floor myself. I wanted to hear the yelling, not necessarily the words. I was pretty sure I knew the words. I was not disappointed in the yelling.

Donny Mooma was no match for Aurora Paradise.

I ran back down to the lobby when I heard him leave her room. He hurried down the stairs, stopping only at the head of the last flight to make it appear a casual descent.

In the meantime, Mrs. Davidow and my mother had come to the lobby, seen the police car, watched him come down.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

Donny touched his cap in a respectful way, pretty good for him. “Police business, ma'am. You'll be hearing about it, I imagine.”

I followed him out onto the porch. “It never happened the way you all thought, did it? It was Ralph Diggs that tried to kill Morris Slade, wasn't it? And there was some kind of—”

To me, he didn't have to be respectful. “Now why don't you just go mind your own beeswax, girl?” He got into his car and slammed the door.

I smiled. It
was
my beeswax. I went back in to the office and phoned Axel's Taxis.

 

“Well, I couldn't hardly believe you was the one found that guy shot!” Delbert said this over his shoulder.

“I couldn't hardly believe it either.” I said this to the hill outside of Britten's as we drove past. “And I didn't. Mr. Butternut found him.”

At the top of the rise Ulub stood with his book, waving his arm, and Mr. Root sat, listening. I took out my change purse to make sure the bit of poetry I'd written down was still there. Why wouldn't it be? Because things are always disappearing. I also checked to see if I had enough money for both an ice-cream soda and to tip Delbert.

“Well, that fella worked at the
ho
-tel. He got shot over there near the Silver Pear . . . well, hell, girl! That's where I took
you
!”

As if I didn't know. I thought maybe Delbert would twist the steering wheel off its stem and we'd go crashing into Walter's house (which we were now passing) if I didn't say more. “Well, it's too bad.”

“Bad?
Bad
?” Delbert was really enjoying handing me this news, something he knew for a change that he thought I didn't. “Killed
dead's
how bad!”

I guess one or the other wasn't enough for Delbert. “Poor Ralph Diggs.”

“Well, goodness' sake, girl, I'd think you'd feel worse'n that. You knew him!”

I slid in my seat. “Not much. He'd only worked for us for a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He bumped his hand against the wheel, trying to think up some other reason I should feel bad.