Murdering Americans (9 page)

She turned on Constance. ‘Look at you. You’ve got lines on your forehead, your eyelids droop, your lips are thin, your neck’s wrinkled, your teeth need bleaching, your ass is saggy and you’ve boobs the size of walnuts.’ Snorting triumphantly, she thrust her décolletage forward. ‘These are great boobs. They cost a fortune, but that doesn’t matter now money’s no object. Twenty thousand bucks. What do you think of that? And worth every cent,’ she added with emphasis. She gazed down complacently. ‘Not that they weren’t good to begin with, but they’re awesome now.’

‘They look rather like half-melons to me,’ observed the baroness, casting a side-glance at Ana and winking. She received a tiny twitch in recognition. Constance looked at her plate and Traci, her face as contorted with anger as her surgery would allow, rounded on the baroness. ‘As for you, you need an extreme makeover.’

‘Really?’ said the baroness, invigorated by the prospect that the conversation would now be about her. ‘How interesting. What would you suggest?’

‘I’d start with those teeth. You won’t come out under $40,000. They’re a disgrace. I don’t know how you can appear in public with uneven teeth. One of them’s even crooked. You’ll have to have recontouring and implants and veneers….’

‘I quite like crooked teeth,’ said the baroness. ‘I find American teeth very boring. They all look the same so everyone looks the same. When did individuality go out of fashion? You’ll be cloning yourselves next.’

‘You’re sick, you are,’ said Traci. ‘Only trailer-trash have crooked teeth.’

‘You speak of what you know, I expect,’ said the baroness. Traci looked at her uncertainly, wondering vaguely if she’d been insulted, and then returned to her main theme. ‘You need liposuction to get rid of that stomach. If you get any fatter, the only people who’ll fancy you will be blacks….’

‘Sidney Poitier? Condoleezza Rice? Yum yum!’ said the baroness.

‘…and of course rhinoplasty on that nose, a full face-lift, and then….’

‘And then I wouldn’t look like me.’

‘So what’s wrong with that? Why would anyone want to look like you?’

‘I don’t suppose they would,’ said the baroness mildly. ‘But I do. And I daresay Constance is happy enough to look like her. We’re British.’

‘Soon we’ll be in the minority in Britain too,’ said Constance gloomily. ‘Everyone’s thinking of doing it. Half the women I know are using Botox.’

‘And what holds you back?’ enquired the baroness.

Constance managed the closest approximation to a grin that the baroness had ever seen her produce. ‘I’m at the end of my career and I just don’t care enough any more to get on that treadmill. Once you start you can’t ever stop without people thinking you’ve got a terminal disease.’

‘You’ll be like freaks soon if you don’t do something,’ said Traci. She stared at the baroness. ‘You’ve even got some grey hairs.’ With a complacent smile, she pulled at her own ample locks. ‘Hair extensions. Cost a fortune. I’ll only have European. I always go for quality.’ She twisted round in search of the maid. ‘Ana, more champagne. And then get the dessert.’

She turned back to the baroness. ‘As for your voice, it’s too deep to be feminine. You need surgery on your vocal cords. I’ll tell you about that when I’ve had a comfort break.’

***

‘It’s Jack, Mike. So what’s the news?’

‘I talked to a snitch I know on campus and what he told me says you’re dead on about this Gonzales being a dangerous asshole. I need to dig up stuff on his background. Is it OK if I go to Ohio tomorrow to follow up a lead I’ve got?’

‘What’s the lead?’

‘It’s a hunch, Jack. I’d rather not say. But I’m not bullshitting.’

The baroness shrugged. ‘OK. Go for it. But don’t spend more than your retainer without coming back to me.’

Robinson laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. Your retainer’s all I have.’

Chapter Seven

‘Is that typical of an evening with Traci Dickinson, Marjorie? She’s not exactly my kind of gal, though I like the fact that she doesn’t worry about causing offence. Unlike Constance, who was shocked to the bottom of her priggish soul, I found it overall quite entertaining.’

It was the following evening and they were in the baroness’s sitting room having a drink preparatory to the arrival of a dinner she had carefully planned with Stefano Ricciano. Cole Porter was playing softly in the background. Occasionally the baroness sang along for a bar or two.

‘However, she does seem completely bonkers. There was all this extraordinary hugging and crying.’

‘The kids are like that. They’re always gettin’ choked up and then huggin’ each other.’

‘Sometimes I really do feel like a dinosaur.’

Marjorie began to laugh. ‘When I first typed Troutbeck, my spell check didn’t like it and suggested “throwback” instead.’

‘Whatever a spell check is, it is clearly prescient. Anyhow, back to Traci. When she wasn’t crying and snorting, she never ever shut up.’

‘An empty bucket makes the most racket, as my granny always said. I’ve never seen Traci at home. I’m not faculty or society and she wouldn’t entertain anyone she thought was her inferior. All I do know is she spends so much money it makes me think President Dickinson must be as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.’

‘How long have they been married?’

‘Only a few years. She’s his second wife.’

‘Where did he find her?’

‘She says she was a receptionist.’

‘I’d have said tart.’

‘My money’s on pole-dancing. But whatever she did, she sure isn’t cut out for what she’s doing now. I guess she’s bored. This place must be hell after New York. She’s already had nearly five years of it, he’s away a lot and the faculty despise her. It was no surprise once she got money she took to throwin’ it about. Some folks are all right till they get two pairs of britches.’

The baroness fished the bottle out of the ice-bucket. ‘Have some more wine. This Mondavi fumé blanc is really pretty agreeable, don’t you think?’

‘I sure do.’ Marjorie looked around the room. ‘You’ve certainly made yourself comfortable here, Jack. I doubt if any of the other DVPs have private dining facilities like you have.’

The baroness smirked. ‘I like being comfortable. And Stefano has been extremely helpful in providing necessities.’

‘Step down,’ roared Horace, who was swinging on the door of his cage. ‘Step down.’

The baroness sighed but got up and carried him back to sit on her lap, singing, ‘But now, God knows, anything goes’ along with the music as she sat down. ‘Oh, sorry, Marjorie, but it’s Cole Porter taking the name of God in vain, not me.’

Marjorie laughed. ‘It’s OK, Jack. I appreciate you takin’ my feelings into account.’

‘You’re not the only one. I asked Betsy if she’d mind trying to stop saying “like” every third word and she said she’d try if I like stopped saying God. She’s a Christian too.’

‘She’s tougher than she looks, then.’

‘I’m working on toughening her up more.’ She placed Horace on her shoulder. ‘Are there a lot of Christians on campus?’

‘Not many admit to it. The Provost doesn’t approve of Christianity. Can’t use the word “Christian” without sneering and adding “redneck fundamentalist.” Of course by redneck she means anyone who believes in God, who votes Republican, and salutes the flag. That woman’s meaner than a junkyard dog.

‘People like Betsy and me may be fundamentalist in that we believe in God and the Bible. But we’re not fanatics. We don’t expect non-Christians to convert. On this campus it’s the secularists who are fanatical fundamentalists. They hate God. Though of course they’d never say anything rude about the minority religions. If Dubya turned Muslim it’d be different.’

‘Step down, step down,’ said Horace, and the baroness moved him to her lap.

‘You must have a great time with Horace,’ said Marjorie.

‘Yes and no. I bought him on an impulse, probably foolishly. Now I don’t have the St. Martha’s support system to provide a great deal of bird care, I find him very demanding.’

‘Don’t you enjoy having him to look after?’

To his evident pleasure, the baroness stroked Horace’s head. ‘I’m extremely selfish and I don’t want to look after anyone or anything. Even a parrot. However, I have a sense of duty. He has bonded with me so I must lump it.’

‘Isn’t he company for you in the evenings?’

‘He’s diverting. But I don’t really need company.’ She waved at the pile of books on the desk. ‘I’ve plenty to occupy me if the occasion arises. So far, solitude is not exactly one of my problems.’

‘Are you reading up on America?’

‘Yes. But not yet contemporary America. At the moment I’m in 1830s America with Alexis de Tocqueville to remind me why I have a romantic attachment to American ruggedness and individuality and many other qualities I prize which seem to be in short supply here. I defend America at home, but exposure to people like Helen and Traci make me wonder why I do. Next I’m going to read Aristotle and Cardinal Newman to remind me what education is supposed to be about so I can tell Helen. Which reminds me, is it really true she’s having the books removed from the undergraduates’ library?’

‘Sure is. Mind you, that’s happening on a lot of campuses. Kids can’t understand books any more. There was a survey the other day saying only 31 percent of college graduates could read and understand a grown-up book.’

‘It certainly takes vision to decide that the solution to that is to banish books completely.’

There was a knock. ‘That’ll be dinner.’ The baroness got up, put Horace back on her shoulder and opened the door to two men and a serving trolley. ‘Stefano. Emilio. Welcome. Come on, Horace. Back to your perch.’

Ricciano and Marjorie both knew the baroness well enough by now to effect introductions themselves rather than wait vainly for her to think of doing so. Emilio began laying the table.

‘Our dinner,’ explained the baroness, ‘is being cooked downstairs by Stefano’s wife….’

‘…Paola,’ said Ricciano.

‘Paola. Stefano took me home for dinner the other night and the food was.…’ She smacked her lips. ‘…
Bell
a,
bell
a. Paola even has her own kitchen garden. So we came to an arrangement for her to fulfil….’

‘…Some of your special dietary requirements.’

‘Exactly.’

‘All is ready, ladies,’ said Ricciano, and with great ceremony he escorted them to the table and laid their napkins on their laps. He removed the lid from the serving dish and displayed the contents.

‘It’s casarecce with sardines and wild fennel, Marjorie. I hope that’s all right.’

‘What’s casarecce?’

‘Pasta.’

‘Fine.’

‘You can serve it, Stefano. I hope Paola’s put in plenty of anchovies.’

‘She certainly has, Jack. You did remind her several times.’

***

‘Most satisfactory, don’t you think?’ said the baroness, as she cleared her plate.

Marjorie downed her last forkful. ‘It’s not the sort of food I’m used to, but it’s very good.’

The baroness dialled Ricciano’s number. ‘We’re finished….Right.’

She sat down again. ‘Now, I’d like to have stuck to Sicilian cooking this evening, but there was a problem with ingredients. Fresh swordfish is in short supply in the mid-West. So we’re reverting to Roman and having Saltimbocca. Stefano was able to get hold of free-range veal. Is that all right with you?’

‘It’s all the same to me, Jack. You do the fussin’. I’ll do the eatin’.’

***

Much later, Marjorie asked, ‘How did you get on with Warren Godber this afternoon?’

‘Pretty well. It wasn’t a long conversation, but he cut to the chase. He said he’d spent decades building up a history department that was first class—mainly by hiring gifted people who were swimming against the trend of fashion and imposing such high standards that only motivated students took the course. As dean, he did the same, he said, on a larger scale.’

‘He certainly did. The Department of Humanities was respected by anyone who knew anything, until it got sunk by the Axis of Evil.’

‘The President and the Provost?’

‘And the Goon and the Dean they put in place of Warren.’

‘Who is?’

‘Diane Pappas-Lott.’

‘Not another woman with three names. Why do you all do it? It overloads the memory.’

‘It’s kind of hedgin’ bets for some when they get married. For others like me we just like to hang on to our family name. And for others like Helen it’s feminism and they make the husband do the same.’

‘Is there an unfortunate Mr. Provost?’

‘I think there once was but he’s never mentioned.’

‘What interests me is what happens when a girl called Mary Cook-Scrimgeour gets married to Horace Swanson-Scappaticci? Does their daughter end up being called Josephine Cook-Scrimgeour-Swanson-Scappaticci? And what happens in turn to her daughter?’

‘Ours are just called by my husband’s name. A lot of feminists have the kids take theirs.’

The baroness snorted. ‘Why does everything have to be so complicated? If you ask me, it’s just another example of conspicuous American consumption. A sort of surf ’n’ turf variation of nomenclature.’

‘I was telling you about Dean Diane Pappas-Lott.’

‘Another philistine, presumably.’

‘Oh, boy, is she a philistine. And a fundamentalist. And a zealot. She’s worse than the Provost in some ways because she’s stupid and she can never see when she’s gone too far. She’s an ignorant sociologist who understands nothin’ but believes in diversity like Osama believes in Allah. I don’t say she’d kill for diversity but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.’

‘Is she black?’

‘White, but pretending to have the credentials. Pappas is a Greek name, so she describes herself as a ‘woman of colour.’ And she alleges she’s bi-sexual, but who knows?’ She snorted. ‘I’d rather have Horace as dean than her.’

Hearing his name, Horace, who had just finished a piece of cheese, said ‘To be or not to be….Rubbish.’

‘To be or not to be, that is the question,’ shouted the baroness. ‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’

Horace ruminated, shouted ‘Rubbish’ a couple of times, followed it up with an ear-splitting ‘Whoo! Whoo!’ and adjourned to amuse himself on his swing.

‘Standards are dropping everywhere,’ said the baroness. ‘To get back to Godber, he said that since almost everything he’d spent his life building up had been comprehensively destroyed, he’d given up and was in negotiation to take early retirement. He didn’t have the energy to fight any more, and has decided he’d be better off cultivating his garden.

‘I asked him for details, and he told me a bit about how the Provost and the Dean between them had introduced the new courses for imbeciles and idlers, how the honours and pass grades had been compulsorily halved, how there was irresistible pressure on young staff to over-grade coursework, and how the Provost’s revamped kangaroo court as run by the Goon had been used to get rid of some of his best staff through manufactured complaints from intimidated students. It was getting really interesting, but then he had a phone call and said he had to go.’

She refilled their glasses. ‘Before he went, I asked him about the VRC group. He said he’d heard of it because of the
Sentinel
reports, but he was out of things these days. I asked him who’d know and he said you’d be a good source. To be precise, he said something along the lines of “Marjorie always knew what was going on. And even though they exiled her to Siberia, I’ll bet she still keeps her ears open.”’

‘Did he say that?’ Marjorie seemed pleased. ‘I hardly ever see Warren Godber these days, though we were hand in glove when I was Provost Haringey’s secretary.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘But we’ve no call to run across each other these days.’

‘Who is Provost Haringey?’

‘Was. Jim Haringey was Helen Fortier-Pritchardson’s predecessor. He died suddenly more than four years ago and I’m still all choked up about it.’ She paused and looked squarely at the baroness. ‘The inquest said it was an accident. Maybe. Some said it was suicide. If it was, then hogs fly sideways. But Warren and I thought it was probably murder.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was killed by a peanut.’

‘You mean he choked? The way Dubya nearly choked on a pretzel?’

‘No. It was an allergy. It was a funny thing. He never used to be allergic to peanuts, and he didn’t often eat them, but apparently allergies can build up, and one day several years back he had a peanut butter sandwich and went into anaphylactic shock. His throat was all swelled up and he couldn’t hardly breathe by the time the ambulance got to him, but they saved him. This time, he wasn’t so lucky.’

She brooded for a moment. ‘There were two funny things about what happened. How did the peanut get in his sandwich? And why didn’t he have his EpiPen?’ She saw the baroness was looking puzzled. ‘An EpiPen’s a kind of syringe with the antidote—adrenaline. Warren carried one everywhere. But it wasn’t on him when he took bad and it was never found.’

‘How did he come to eat the peanut?’

‘It was in the ham salad sandwich that he’d brought to work that morning. If Jim wasn’t going out to lunch—which he hardly ever did—he’d always buy a ham sandwich on his way to work and put it in the office fridge. He didn’t like the food in the cafeteria.’

‘Sound man,’ grunted the baroness.

‘That day, like most days, I made him coffee round midday and went out to grab a quick lunch. When I got back, he was lying on the floor just about breathin’ and his lips and throat were badly swollen. He couldn’t talk and he seemed nearly out of it.

‘I called the emergency services and then tried to help him. I knew because of how he looked that it was probably an allergic response. We’d discussed it a couple of times and I’d read stories in the press about anaphylactic shock.

‘I could see Jim had been trying to find his EpiPen. He’d turned his pockets inside out while he was lying on the floor. He couldn’t stand up to reach the phone. I searched and searched, but the EpiPen wasn’t there.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t get my head round that. Jim was really careful about it. He knew traces of peanut could come up in food quite unexpectedly and that next time, he could die within a minute or two. So he’d always have an EpiPen in his jacket pocket, a spare in the car, and another at home.