Maggie Dove (19 page)

“So was there poison in that bread pudding?” Frank Bowman asked. “Was Agnes trying to kill you?” Maggie had called him as soon as she got home. She needed to vent and could think of no better candidate.

Maggie settled onto her couch in the living room. She looked at her desk, and the rock she kept on top of it, as a reminder. She didn't want to wind up like Agnes.

“I don't know whether there was real poison in it or not, but there was certainly a lot of hatred,” she said.

“Don't have anything more to do with her,” Frank said. “I don't like her, Maggie. She's dangerous.”

Maggie looked over at her oak tree, which appeared different after the poison attempt. The leaves were still starting to come out, but some of the buds had hardened. They'd turned into little rocks.

Suddenly Maggie felt so tired. Agnes could have killed her, or hit her over the head, or shot her. She'd known that, hadn't she, when she went there, to her house.

“I'll tell you the truth,” she said. “There was a moment when I looked at that bread pudding and I wanted to taste it. I think I wanted it to be poisoned. I figured I'd probably go quickly. It would all be over. Is there such a thing as killing yourself because you didn't have the energy for protection?”

“You've suffered,” Frank said. She liked the way he didn't offer reassurance, didn't say everything was going to be okay. She always found that ridiculous when things were so obviously not going to be okay, and yet everyone seemed to feel obliged to say it.

“But for all that, I don't think there was poison in the bread pudding. Agnes had no reason to kill Winifred. If anything, she would have been happier having Winifred live. She wanted her to suffer. She took enjoyment out of it, and God bless her, I can't even blame her. The hatred she felt was born out of the teasing that we gave her. It just seems like hatred twists everything around. Me going after Bender, and Agnes going after Winifred, and Peter going after Walter Campbell.”

“Why don't I come over?” Frank said. “Let me keep you company.”

“No, thank you. I'm not good for much right now, but I'll see you Friday night. At the Dining Out Club.”

He laughed softly at that. “Of course. My debut.”

“They'll love you,” she said.

“I will be on my best behavior.”

Maggie had a vision of all the ladies of the church circling him, the way women did at the Castle.

“But after that,” he said, “after the dinner, perhaps we could spend some time together. Alone.”

She heard something in his voice she hadn't heard before, something that ran like a hot current underneath the gentility.

“Yes,” she said, remembering the press of her lips against his. “Yes.”

She felt so strange. So excited. So odd. And when the phone rang again, she grabbed it, thinking it was Frank Bowman, but it was Helen Blake's distinctive Kansas twang on the other end.

“Do you remember how you said you'd be willing to watch Edgar for an hour or two?” she asked. Her voice was always unnaturally high, as though someone was stepping on her foot, a likely scenario.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “I think so.”

“Do you suppose, would it be an imposition, if I were to bring him over now?”

“Now!” Maggie looked at the clock. It was almost 3:00. Two hours until dinner and six hours until bed. Not that she was regimented.

“It's too much, isn't it? I knew I shouldn't ask.”

“Hold on,” Maggie said. “It's just I was surprised.”

“You'll do it, then,” Helen Blake gushed. “Would you really? That would be such a help. I would owe you for the rest of my life.”

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

“Thank you, thank you, dear Ms. Dove. And please, don't worry about that mark he has on his arm. I took him to the pediatrician and she assured me Edgar doesn't have rabies.”

Within seconds of putting down her phone, Maggie's doorbell rang, and there was Helen Blake with Edgar in tow. He seemed to be frothing, though perhaps that was the lollipop.

“Thank you so much,” Helen said. Edgar hesitated, but she lifted him up off the ground and deposited him on the other side of the door, and then she squeezed him tight and said, “You are my heart. And now I must go.”

And she did, leaving Edgar blinking in Maggie's direction.

“I have to pee,” he said. Tufts of downy blond curls made him look like an angel.

“All rightie,” she said, and she brought him inside and showed him to the bathroom. Then he emerged and she showed him the hole under the staircase that used to be a hideout for runaway slaves. She told him about how there used to be slaves in Westchester, but how her ancestors, the Leighs, had been involved in helping them escape.

“They hid in here.”

“Can I hide in there?” Edgar asked. He was fierce, this boy. His eyes gleamed.

“Yes,” she said, and so he did, for an hour, and when he came out she asked him if he knew how to play chess, which he didn't, and so she showed him some moves and they did that for an hour, and then she thought perhaps he'd like to walk around Main Street. So they popped into Iphigenia's and said hello and then stopped by D'Amici's, and she got him a bagel. Then she remembered how she'd been wanting to stop by the nail salon and ask about Marcus Bender's hands, which for some reason had stayed vividly in her mind.

There were four nail salons in Darby, and she and Edgar stopped by each one, until finally they got to the one owned by Billy Kim's mother, which Maggie recognized because the woman had a picture of Billy on the wall. She was an elegant woman, dark hair pulled back into a bun. Even Edgar seemed impressed by her. Or perhaps he was just tired. But he clutched on to Maggie's hand and didn't move.

“Your son helped me out the other night,” Maggie said.

“Yes,” she said, eyes crinkling. “He tell me you like dirt bikes.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Matter of fact, I do. More than I would have expected.”

Edgar began to gnaw on his knuckles and Maggie knew she only had so much time before he started to gnaw on her knuckles.

“I wonder if I might ask you a question, Ms. Kim…and I know this is nosy, but did Marcus Bender come here?”

Immediately Ms. Kim scowled. So Bender had worked his magic here too, Maggie thought.

“Not a nice man.” Ms. Kim grimaced and shook her head. “Scared to die.”

Maggie wasn't sure she heard her right. “He was worried about dying? But he wasn't that old.”

“Worried about his heart. Always asking for secret medicine. I'm not a witch doctor. I give manicures. Always waving money in front of my face.”

“Did he wind up buying anything?”

“I don't have anything,” she cried out. “Nothing.”

After that, Maggie and Edgar returned to her house. She remembered that Noelle too had said something about Bender being afraid to die young. He was vulnerable in ways he hadn't seemed. She felt certain then that she knew how the poison had been given to him. Someone had played on his fears. Someone knowing he was afraid to die had given him a potion, which he had taken, because his fear blinded him. Maybe the poisoner told him it was a vitamin supplement. Or a special smoothie.

Again she had the sense of a malicious mind at work, playing with her, playing with his victims.

When she got back to the house, Edgar began sucking his thumb. Poor chick was tired, she realized, and so was she, although it was only early evening. She sat him down on the couch and brought out one of her husband's old books. She opened to a map of Tsarist Russia, and began showing him where the cities were, and what the various Cyrillic letters were, and they hadn't gone too far when he leaned his head against her shoulder and fell asleep. She closed her eyes, for just a moment, and she woke up to find Helen Blake sitting across from her, eating a sandwich stuffed with roast beef and provolone cheese and lettuce and tomatoes.

“I brought food,” she said, holding out a sandwich to Maggie, who grabbed it, hoping she wouldn't gnaw it to shreds like a wolf. But Edgar hurled himself at his mother, showing her the book.

“Look at this, Mommy. Look at this, Mommy. Look at this, Mommy.”

“I see,” Helen said, running her fingers over the page, turning the book to see it better. “Stuart Dove,” she read. Then looked over to Maggie. “Maggie Dove,” she said. “Did you know Professor Dove?”

“He was my husband,” she said.

Helen jumped to her feet, which caused her sandwich to fall toward the carpet, though she dove quickly and recovered it. Then she flung herself down next to Maggie and grabbed her hands. “You are Margaret Dove. I didn't make the connection. I studied with your husband. His work was genius. He taught me everything I know. I got my Ph.D. in Russian studies thanks to him.”

“I had no idea,” Maggie said. She actually did have no idea. She'd never even stopped to think about what sort of job this girl might have; she figured it was enough of a job keeping track of Edgar.

“You had a daughter, didn't you? He used to talk about her all the time. He said she was a genius. What's she doing now? Running the State Department?”

Maggie looked at her dumbstruck. It seemed to her that Helen's eyes were moving on her face, that they were actually rotating around like a Picasso painting. Maggie assumed everyone knew. Everyone did know, in her little town, but Helen was new and clearly she didn't gossip.

“What happened?” she whispered, and Maggie told her, and Helen started to cry and Edgar started to cry and then Helen jumped up and said they should have some vodka, which she just happened to have in her bag. They put on a movie for Edgar and then they drank and talked and reminisced and Maggie felt a little like she was back in her past, with her husband and daughter, and as she looked at this crazy drunk girl in front of her, she thought how odd it was that blessings could come in the most unlikely ways.

When it was way later than Maggie had been awake in a very long time, Helen swooped up Edgar and tiptoed out of the house. She hugged Maggie goodbye and Edgar opened his eyes briefly and said, “I love you, Maggie Dove.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, surprised to realize she meant it.

“Hey,” Helen said, as Maggie leaned against the door, thinking if she didn't go to bed soon she'd collapse, “are you going to the Dining Out Club on Friday? Why don't I drive you?”

“It's not necessary,” Maggie said.

“Nonsense,” Helen replied. “It will be a pleasure.”

“No, thank you,” Maggie said. “The fact is, a gentleman is going to drive me.”

How foolish did that sound, she wondered. Next he'd be a gentleman caller. But Helen was all smiles.

“Fabulous,” she said. “Can't wait to meet him.”

Frank Bowman showed up Friday night looking surprisingly nervous, Maggie thought. He was dressed flawlessly. He wore gray pants, a checked shirt and a pale blue sweater. His gray hair was neatly brushed. He smelled of aftershave.

“You look like you're applying for a job,” she said, feeling touched that he'd gone to so much effort for her. She was finally feeling better. It took three days to cleanse all the vodka out of her system. She swore she would not have one drop of alcohol at dinner.

“I hope you'd hire me,” he said, a gentle grin returning to his face. Her own Inspector Benet, but a little courtlier than her imagined version.

“Absolutely.”

He drove carefully, north on Broadway, north of Tarrytown, to the restaurant in question, which was tucked away in a spot that used to belong to General Motors. All the factories had been torn down, and lots of new apartments had sprung up, and with them little restaurants, among them this Thai one. He found a parking spot, looked at his watch.

“Right on time.”

“They're going to love you,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “They're very nice people. They really are.”

He leaned over, kissed her softly, and then pulled away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's do this.”

They were exactly on time, and yet the entire Dining Out Club was already there. Walter Campbell sat in the middle of the table, somewhat like Jesus at the Last Supper, assuming Jesus had a hyperactive growth hormone. He loomed over everyone. To his left sat Noelle, a woman, Maggie suspected, who would always attach herself to the nearest alpha male. Then there were the three Faraday sisters, the core of the Dining Out Club, the core of the church. Faradays had been attending the Darby Presbyterian Church since it was first built, back in the days when Darby-on-Hudson had been a summer home for railway tycoons and financiers and philanthropists. They lived on Faraday Street in the Faraday compound.

Sybil the real estate agent sat next to the Faradays. She'd been trying to get them to sell the compound for years. On the other side of Sybil were Doc Steinberg, wearing a Spanish cape and red shoes, and Agnes and Mr. Cavanaugh, his eyes slightly closed. Listening to whatever music played in his mind. Next to him was the minister, who also had her eyes slightly closed. She too always seemed to be listening to another world. Quite often Maggie would find her walking around the village, lost in prayer. She had what Maggie thought of as liquid eyes. Whenever anything bad happened to one of the congregation, it was as though she could actually feel their pain. She'd not been working at the church when Juliet died, and yet she remembered the anniversary of her death and was faithful about sending Maggie a card on that date. Maggie loved her.

Then there was Peter, gazing at her warily, and three empty seats by his side, and then Helen Blake, dear Helen Blake and Edgar, who at the sight of her ran forward and grabbed her by the hand. “Come on, Ms. Dove. Sit down.”

Immediately the Faraday hearing aids clicked on. Three high-pitched squeals burst into the room and Maggie suspected dogs in the vicinity had collapsed.

“Am I late?” she said, looking at her watch.

In fact she was five minutes early, but she realized they'd all gathered to position themselves because they were curious about Frank. She was surprised at how quiet Frank was, but she could see that it would be overwhelming. She'd only ever seen him surrounded by a circle of women; she'd never stopped to think he might be shy.

“This is my friend Frank Bowman,” she said.

“Why, hello, Frank Bowman,” Helen sang out.

“Why, hello, Frank Bowman,” Agnes said. She tittered. Maggie'd heard that word a hundred times and never knew what it meant until she heard Agnes do it. She wondered if she had misheard what Agnes said about having a wife.

“Drink order?” the waitress said, a tall young woman with legs like stilts and hair turned up into a complicated style.

“Why don't we get some wine?” Walter Campbell said, the first agreeable words he'd ever said in Maggie's hearing. She immediately abandoned her plan to give up drinking.

“Why don't we order a bottle?” the minister asked.

“One bottle?” Walter said.

“Haven't you ever heard of the story of the loaves and fishes?” Agnes said. She seemed to be boiling over with excitement. Her face was dark red.

“I don't drink,” Noelle said.

“Of course you don't,” Agnes said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Peter said, and Maggie's heart sunk at the tone in his voice, that aggressive bullheaded tone he got whenever he was about to make a complete ass of himself. “What are you implying, Agnes? If you have something to say to this woman, say it.”

Noelle eyed him appreciatively, Maggie noticed. She had such long lashes.

Walter took out his gold American Express card. “Bring out five bottles.”

“Oh my,” the eldest Faraday sister said. “Who is he?”

“He's very big,” the middle sister said.

“He's the police chief.”

“The one who has it in for Peter?”

“Ssh,” Maggie said. “He's right here and his hearing's quite good.”

“Maggie's looking well. Her new hairstyle suits her. I hear she has a boyfriend.”

“So,” Walter said, looking at Peter, “Mrs. Dove tells me you were one of the first responders at 9/11.”

“That's right,” Peter said. Maggie noticed he hadn't waited for the wine to arrive. He'd already had a beer. Probably two.

“You must have been right out of Police Academy.”

“That's right,” Peter said. “That's right. I'd never even handled a crime. Only wrote traffic tickets, but when we heard the news, we all got into the car and went down there. Had to help.”

“He went inside,” Maggie said.

“Couldn't do anything much. But I had to help.”

His whole face changed at the memory of it. It was, she believed, the finest moment of his life. On that day he'd been tested and not found wanting, but the reverberations from that day had shaken him. Between that and Juliet's death, he'd never quite recovered. Sometimes she wondered what sort of man he'd be had his life not taken such turns.

“You must be very brave,” Noelle said.

Peter blushed furiously. “I…I…I just had a job to do.”

“You have courage,” Noelle said, her baby doll voice turning huskier.

Maggie thought she saw something gold flash under the table, thought of Noelle's toe ring, and wondered if she was rubbing her bare foot against Peter's leg. Whatever was happening, Peter looked like he was going to explode, and he turned to Walter and all but yelled, “Where were you on that day?”

Walter Campbell didn't respond right away. He pressed his lips together, seemed to be weighing his options.

“I was on the 87th floor of the North Tower. I was sitting at my desk, talking to a trader in Japan, when the plane hit. The time was 8:46:30. The impact blew me off my seat. I thought it was a bomb. Next thing I knew I was covered in ceiling tiles. I could feel the building bend. I thought it would snap right then. But eventually it recoiled back to center. We didn't know what to do. We started to head down, they said the way was closed. We had been fire marshals. My best friend, Stan McGuire, he wanted to check on some people one floor up. The way was blocked, but he had a crowbar and so we went up, and we cleared the way.”

“You were those guys,” Peter said. “I heard about you.”

Walter nodded. “There were five people on that floor. Then we went up another flight. A woman there was pregnant. Her water broke. She needed help going down the stairs. We were so sure the towers would be fine. We thought there would be rescue teams. We thought a helicopter would come. Stan told me to take her out. You talk about moments when your life changes,” he said to Maggie. “Decisions that define your life. I knew what Stan was giving me, and I took it. Often I've regretted not insisting that he go.

“I was one of the last people out of the towers.”

“Shit,” Peter said. “Pardon my French.”

Peter began grilling Walter Campbell with questions. He was hypnotized. He loved nothing more than a tale of bravery. He didn't care that he'd hated Walter Campbell all these months; now Campbell was a hero to him. Maggie could see what would happen. He would devote himself to Campbell now. He was like a dog, Maggie thought, always looking for a master to love. She felt touched, and a little frightened, and she jumped when Frank's hand brushed against hers. She'd been so absorbed she forgot he was there.

“My world had changed in an instant,” Walter said. “It took me a while to recognize it, though. I had to help build the firm back up. Made my money, and then one day I was standing on Fifth Avenue and a plane went overhead and I quit my job, went to the Police Academy and here I am. In Darby-on-Hudson. Among you good folks.”

Maggie had the sensation of being off balance. She thought of something her jujitsu teacher used to say, that jujitsu was the art of manipulating an opponent's force against himself rather than confronting it with your own force.

“I wonder if his wife is big too,” the oldest Faraday sister said.

“What about you?” Walter asked Frank, gaze friendly. “Where were you on that day?”

“Nowhere nearby,” he said. “I was in Mexico at the time. Doing some business.”

And then the conversation moved on to the Faraday sisters and the stories they had to tell, and then Noelle told a story about some traders she had known that had nothing to do with the World Trade Center but involved a large cake.

“I don't understand what she just said,” Leona Faraday said. “Did she jump out of a cake?”

Agnes started to laugh so hard she began to choke. And the minister, Walter and Peter all jumped up to help her. Then the waitress came over, looking slightly aggrieved; Maggie suspected that they'd been sitting for too long without ordering. The Faraday sisters wanted to know if they could get something that wasn't spicy and Agnes said, “Oh no. We're at a Thai restaurant. We have to have spices.” Sybil began talking about a Thai banker who was buying a house on Main Street and Agnes said she wanted a pupu platter, which made Noelle start to laugh and Maggie thought how much she loved all these people, even Noelle, after a fashion, and at that moment Walter's phone buzzed and he answered it.

“Campbell here.”

The whole restaurant seemed to quiet. Walter pressed the phone against his ear, grunted and then looked at Peter.

“Arthur Malone's body was just recovered.”

“Who?”

“Winifred's assistant?” Maggie said, remembering the man who'd massaged Winifred's arms, the gentle man she assumed had helped Winifred get her blackmailing information. The man who everyone said skipped town, but he must not have. She remembered how he wept after Winifred's funeral.

“He seems to have been poisoned,” Walter said.

“I tried to see him just the other day,” Maggie said. “But they told me he was gone.”

“No, he was in the Castle, on the grounds. Covered up with dirt and leaves. He might not have been found for years except that one of the residents got lost and everyone was out looking for her. Why did you want to see him?”

Maggie felt as if a spotlight was shining on her. “I called you,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about this. But not at this moment.”

“You and he were friends, weren't you?” he asked, and she thought Walter was talking to her, but then realized he was speaking to Peter. Who had said nothing. Who sat there gripping the table as though he might float away.

“It's not possible,” he said. “I thought Arthur…”

“Yes?” Walter Campbell said, but then Peter seemed to come to his senses. He looked around wildly and then jumped to his feet, and before Maggie could stop him he went tearing out of the restaurant.