Philly Stakes (18 page)

Nick didn’t even pretend to be interested in my speculations. He was still determined to write the definitive Clausen article. “You hear anything more about the case from your friend on the force?”

“Not really. Like what?” I tried to concentrate on Nick, not the pastries.

“Like if they’ve found the weapon, or arrested anybody, or have a theory of what happened. For my article. So it makes sense.”

“Couldn’t you write it as a mystery, instead?”

I heard clicking and turned. A woman who looked like a cannoli herself—white fluffy filling-like hair topping a brown-wrapped solid cylinder—tapped impatiently on the display case, waiting for me to order and be gone. “One of each flavor, please,” I said. “But twice.” She frowned. “Two boxes, each with one of each flavor,” I said.

“Wait—” Why not bring cannoli for the Tuesday group, too? Something to add to their dessert table. “Make it three boxes,” I told the woman. “Two boxes, like I said, and a third with a dozen assorted in it.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed. Fear of cannoli hips would deter most women.”

“They aren’t for me!”

“That’s what they all say. For a friend, right?”

“Not even that, really. A former student of mine, a friend of my mother’s, it turns out, a poor woman who’s pretty lonely, and blind and crippled. And a cannoli lover. And for some other old people, up where she lives. My one gesture of seasonal goodwill—or is it already too late for that?”

“Eight dollars even,” the woman behind the counter said. She looked like her feet hurt and she was trying not to notice it. I counted out the exact change.

“Where?” Nick asked me.

“Excuse me,” I said to the cannoli woman. I pointed at the triangular pastries, tingling with the pleasure of making an anthropological breakthrough. This was how Margaret Mead felt before comprehending whole societies. “What do you call these pastries?” I tilted my head, ready to catch hold of the unfamiliar Italian. “Listen to this, Nick,” I said.

“Hamantaschen,” the woman answered.

I darted a sideways look, but Nick hadn’t listened to her or to me, so he wasn’t snickering. He seemed distant, in a scowling and isolated place. “You ordering?” I asked him, since the woman was tapping again.

He looked startled. “One, with chips,” he said. Once she handed it to him, he turned to me. “You don’t sound happy about your cannoli run,” he said. “How far ‘up’ is the ‘up’ you have to go to?”

“All the way. A place called Silverwood. The Northeast.”

He nodded. “Way out there. But I’m going to be near that area today. I could drop the boxes off for you. Save you a trip.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But the visit, not the pastries, is the point.”

“And this is a friend of your mother’s?”

“Yes. From years ago.” We worked our way toward the door.

“Your mother lays lots of these things on you?”

I shook my head. “But not for lack of trying,” I added.

“Why go now?” he asked. I remembered how he’d pestered the guests at the Christmas party, and how he’d finally given up when they didn’t answer, so I chose the same tactic.

My mind hovered around the party still, back to Sasha’s photos, into Nick’s notepad.

“Nick, when you did your interviews at the party, did you write down the people’s names? The guests?”

“Only their first names. I’m not using much of them directly. It’s really about Clausen. Why? They can’t find out who was there?”

I nodded. Little questions, scraps floating around the case blew into sight. “Did you take a taxi to the party?” I asked,

“I drove my car. Why? What are you getting at?”

“Somebody came in a taxi. Odd, isn’t it, for homeless people? Do you know who it was?”

“Why would I?”

“Your research?”

“Mandy, I wasn’t asking those kind of questions.”

“Sorry.” I felt stupid. But Nick didn’t seem stuck on the topic. In fact, he returned to my trip to the old-age home. This time he suggested that I skip it and spend the afternoon with him instead.

We stood outside the little shop, stamping our feet and puffing clouds into the air. And then I saw Laura, smiling triumphantly and waving a tiny brown paper bag. She had gone out into the jungle and captured a garlic, and she was so visibly proud I suspected that it was one of the few uncomplicated and absolute triumphs adults had allowed her so far. I would try and think of other do-able tests of competence while she was with me.

Nick registered her presence with open surprise. Back and forth he looked from Laura to me as if we were the least likely pair imaginable.

Surely now that the papers called Alexander Clausen’s death murder, and spoke of a head wound, Nick couldn’t still think this frail child was responsible, could he?

As for Laura, the nearer she came, the more her smile dwindled, as if Nick were some sort of drizzle, dampening her flame. She knit her brows and looked at him with puzzlement. Then she looked at me, unconsciously copycatting Nick’s emotions.

“You’ve met before, I believe,” I said, as all three of us winced in the stinging chill outdoors. “Laura Clausen, Nick Riley. Laura’s staying with me a while.” I stamped my feet and tried to huddle further inside my coat.

Laura’s breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, each punctuated with a little steam cloud. “When?” she asked, anxiously. “Where did we meet?”

“The night your…the night of the Christmas party at your house,” Nick said. “I was writing a story about your father. But you were probably too busy to notice me.”

“No. I remember you. But I’m confused.” She sighed deeply, then shook her head, as if to clear it.

“That turned out to be a pretty confusing night,” I said. “It’s a wonder anybody can remember anything. Listen, Nick, we have to get moving. It was great seeing you again.”

“You choose cannoli instead of me, right? What will you talk about with a blind old woman?”

“Whatever she likes. Probably about my mother and the old days. Or she’s gotten into creative writing, so we can talk about that. Who knows? We’ll wing it.”

“Taking Laura?”

I nodded. “Good seeing you.” My nose was freezing into a brittle red point.

Before I had gone more than a few feet, he called out. “Mandy!” he said, waving. “One minute.” He came up to me. Laura was near the car. “Since you canceled your vacation, your trip, could I—could we see each other?”

“Laura’s with me for a while. I don’t feel really good about leaving her just now.”

“Then all three of us. I promised I’d cook you dinner, didn’t I? I’ll cook for you both.”

“Well, that sounds…”

“How about tonight?”

“I don’t know, I…”

“Or have you already been booked by your friend, the constable?”

I shook my head. “He’ll be way down yonder in New Orleans.”

Nick rightly took that as a go-ahead.

“Except—you won’t bother Laura, will you?” I asked him.

He looked startled, and offended, and I realized how awful I’d made it seem. “I mean, ask her questions for your article. Things like that.”

He shook his head. “All I’ll do is keep matches away from her.”

“This isn’t a good idea, if you’re going to be like that.”

“It was a joke.”

“It stunk.”

“Listen, everybody knows she started the fire.”

“Let’s forget dinner, okay? It’d be too awkward.”

“Give me a chance. I was only relating public opinion. And anyway, what they think has nothing to do with what you’ll think of my cooking. Give me a chance, okay?”

“Give her one, would you?”

He looked abashed and charged full of energy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.”

“Now I’ll ask her if it’s all right.” Which I did. She okayed the idea.

“But you seemed upset by him,” I said. “Don’t feel any obligation.”

“No, I was just…confused. It’s okay. Really.”

“Hold on to all those vegetables, though. You and I retain salad-making rights,” I said. “And our grand production will reek of garlic.” She came close to a grin on that one.

So we were on. Nick would give her a chance and I’d give him one. And he’d see that Laura was not capable of murder, or arson or anything like it.

All the same, I’d keep my fireplace matches under surveillance.

Eleven

“THIS WILL BE UNBELIEVABLY BORING FOR BOTH OF US, BUT I PROMISE I WON’T be long.”

“It’s all right. Honest.” Laura looked as if she actually meant it. Perhaps any normal domestic activity intrigued her because of its unfamiliarity. Or perhaps she was so used to accommodating adult wishes, no matter how unpleasant, that her smile and earnest enthusiasm were reflex actions.

Silverwood was enormous, a complex into which able-bodied seniors moved and around which they were rotated, as the bodies became less able, until they were in a maximum-care custodial unit.

There were energetic folk off to sales on a bus that said Shopper’s Circle on its destination window. There were hearty stay-at-homes braving the cold as they walked the strip of hard December earth encircling the red brick buildings. And somewhere inside, unseen, I knew, were the people who were finished with after-season sales and promenades and who would never, no matter what the sign said, convalesce.

I wasn’t sure where the party room was, so Laura and I trotted behind a woman whose silver Volunteer ribbon fluttered on her chest as she led us, giving a tour as we walked. “And this is our dayroom,” she said when we’d arrived.

I don’t know why they called it that. I would have guessed I was in their twilight room, or their extremely dark plaid room. The floor, the chairs and the love seats were tiled and upholstered in so many subdued tartans it seemed they’d been bought by lot from a Scottish Sofa Outlet. Furthermore, glen plaid drapes were pulled shut, making the atmosphere dusky and the TV picture clearer for antisocial, nonpartying folks. There was no visible day in that room.

Jenny waved at me from the middle of a noisy group, so I thanked the volunteer and walked over with Laura.

We faced a terrifying assortment of temptations, including Sarah and Jenny’s irresistible cookies. “A completely unbalanced diet is permitted during the holidays,” I told Laura. “Forget the four food groups and have fun.” I added our dozen cannoli to the buffet and tried to keep my chomping to a minimum by occupying my mouth with words—compliments for the contributors to Mining Silver, and to those sporting new Christmas finery. I inspected and oohed over hammered silver earrings, a soft rose shawl, a necklace of seed pearls, a silk blouse, a tie patterned with tiny fish and a handbag made of wool carpeting. I talked about writing in general with Maggie Towne, the Tuesday teacher, and with those party-goers who didn’t have gifts to show off. After half an hour of this, I spied Minna White slowly crossing the room in her wheelchair.

“I brought you a treat,” I told her, “but it’s really from my mother.”

She clapped her hands. “I didn’t think you’d do it! No, I didn’t think it at all! What a wonderful Christmas gift!”

So my mother had not bamboozled me, at least not by pretending she’d made me a date. I was still peeved with her machinations, but relieved that I’d honored the commitment, especially since I got the sense that Minna hadn’t been otherwise showered with presents.

The wheelchair swiveled around and Laura and I were scanned by Minna, a diminutive woman with blue-white hair and spectacles so thick as to make her eyes blurred enlargements. “And who are you?” she said, squinting. “I’m blind, you know. Legally, at least. When there’s no party, I come in here to hear the TV and the people. Can’t see much at all. What’s your name?”

“Laura. I’m with Miss Pepper.”

“Well, welcome, both of you. It’s so good to have company. Come, let’s talk over there.” The Tuesday people’s party was progressing nicely, and I excused myself. Laura and I sank into a yellow, brown and black tartan love seat facing Minna.” Shall I ask those people to turn off the TV?” she asked. “Nobody pays attention to it, anyway.”

“No, please,” I said, although it was true that Laura and my ratings were way ahead of whatever soap opera was on. Thirty faces aimed in our direction, and I nodded, feeling vaguely royal. “I hope your taste buds are in good working order,” I said, ignoring our audience, “because I brought cannoli.”

Minna clapped her hands again. Her tiny size and choice of gestures gave her a childlike quality that contrasted with the wheelchair and thick slabs of spectacles. “Thank you! So kind of you! Your mother said you might, but I didn’t let myself count on it. They smell like heaven. Help yourself—eat some—take some!”

“We bought our own,” I said. “At that little store at the Italian Market. These are all yours.”

She sighed, and looked wistful, and I could almost see through those impenetrable glasses into her mind, where memories ran like home movies of times when she, too, was mobile and could decide to visit the best cannoli baker in Philadelphia. “Is the market the same?” she asked.

“Pretty much. There are some Asian vendors now, and it feels like there’re more geegaws—barrettes and ruffly socks—what my Aunt Flo calls ‘chotchkes,’ but otherwise, it’s still noisy and crazy and wonderful.”

“Well, I can’t wait. It’s been years. I’m having one right now,” she said, carefully undoing the string and finding one of the crisp cylinders. “Tell me,” she said before biting in, “do you ever see anybody from Brooke Street?”

I shook my head, then remembered she could probably not see me. “I was about seven when we moved. I don’t really remember a whole lot about it.”

“I keep thinking you and Junior are the same age, but I remember now, my Dom, my first husband, died the year you moved and Junior was fifteen, so he’s much older than you.”

“And how is Junior?” It wasn’t hard making conversation, as long as you didn’t mind discussing things or people that held no interest.

Minna took me seriously. She put her cannoli down on the pastry box and considered. “He’s…taking a long time to—how do they call it now?—find himself. He had a bad marriage, a lot of jobs that didn’t work out. Not an easy time of it, you understand? Born with that wine stain on his face, kids making fun of him and all. Then his father dying early, and our losing the house, that was the real thing. And then my second husband, well, the two of them weren’t the best combination, maybe. So…” She stared down in silence for a moment.