Philly Stakes (8 page)

She shook her head. “Who’s that?”

I did some calculations. Mackenzie’s investigations at Philly Prep had been eight months ago, in April, before Laura enrolled. Longer ago than I realized until this moment. A long time to tread water with a man. I shelved that thought for another, more appropriate, time. “A good friend. He could advise you how to proceed. Okay? Promise?”

She nodded. Not because of my persuasiveness, I was sure. Not because of her own common sense or natural self-protectiveness. She was simply too tired to do anything but agree and go retrieve her mother.

I hadn’t gotten a single thing on this expedition except Laura’s dubious promise, but I had no energy left to find anything beyond my way home.

* * *

I listened to my messages while I heated soup, and Macavity, not sure if something he considered delicious might be brewing, hugged my ankles like fur leg warmers. First I heard Laura’s retraction, the one she’d mentioned.

Then Mackenzie. “Doesn’t look good for tonight,” he said. “There’s a new lead.” He did not sound thrilled. “Probably as useless as the last few thousand.” He’d been working on a particularly revolting homicide involving a John Doe found, bit by bit, in several dumpsters in Oak Lane. I heard him sigh slowly, with feeling. Well, a night alone avoided further ethical dilemmas. I didn’t want to talk about whether Laura was an arsonist, whether her compositions meant anything, what she had told me today. By tomorrow, it would all be over, declared an unfortunate accident, and we’d all live happily ever after.

“And a postscript,” he said. “An update for your ears only. We are trying to keep it out of the news for a while.” I wished I hadn’t learned to work the machine, because I was suddenly sure I didn’t want to hear what came next. “There’s no ash in Clausen’s throat.”

I turned off the burner and left my soup. Macavity stalked back to his own dinner.

“Which means he wasn’t breathin’ by the time of the fire. So it wasn’t a cigarette killed him, which is good news for the tobacco lobby.” He took a deep breath and then continued. “Unfortunately, not so good for us. Tests bein’ as slow as they are, compounded by holiday schedules, and such, we’re gonna have a while to ponder the little but nagging question of what, and who, did in Santa.”

Five

SATURDAY WAS THE SORT OF MORNING THAT MAKES ME WISH I COULD PAINT, or at least be in a better mood. Knife-edged winter light slanted across the living room and lit it from within. I tried to warm myself in a beam, but I still felt chilly and gray.

Alexander Clausen had probably been murdered. Unless he had a conveniently timed heart attack while smoking, pulled down the Christmas tree, ran to the sofa and died before the cigarette ignited the boughs—he was murdered.

Laura Clausen insisted she had murdered him.

I was pretty sure that I alone knew both these things. What I didn’t know was what to do about them.

So I took up residence in that shaft of sunlight and drank coffee, giving inspiration time to reach me. Three cups later, I was wired, but the caffeine connections sputtered and failed before reaching my brain. I had no idea what to do. I needed a second opinion. More accurately, I needed a first.

Sasha’s answering-machine message was infuriating. “I’m off doing something so marvelous,” she said, “it would make you sick with jealousy to hear about it, so don’t even ask. Instead, leave your—”

I hung up. Just as well. Sasha is empathetic, quirky and bright, but apt to sacrifice discretion for the sake of a good story.

I didn’t have anyone to tell. I was alone with my questions and caffeinated bloodstream.

So I housecleaned. Cleanliness is not next to godliness in my book. It is, in fact, way down below world peace and brotherhood, lagging behind courtesy and compassion. And trailing even small civilities. But while cleaning was not an inspired option, it was virtuous and full of motion and purpose. I could fool myself that I was getting somewhere as I pulled furniture away from walls, books off shelves, cans out of kitchen cabinets and impressive mold growths off refrigerator containers.

But disposing of sprouted carrots and dust bunnies couldn’t help Laura. I needed to talk to her.

I looked up Aunt Alma. There were enough Learys to populate a hamlet, but none were Alma. No initial A, either, that feminine disguise which is about as protective and as transparent as the emperor’s new clothes. I wondered if C.K. Mackenzie got lots of phone calls from heavy breathers and peddlers of obscene dreams.

I was determined to find Laura, so I began Leary-dialing. One after another. Alphabetically. The Learys, I learned, were a mixed group. There were cordial Learys, snarling Learys, Learys who were out promptly on this last Saturday before Christmas and slugabed Learys who were not overjoyed by my wake-up call.

Midway through the alphabet, I found an amused Leary. “Alma?” Kevin Leary asked. “She’s Zack’s wife, not mine. Who’s this?”

“Amanda Pepper, and I’m trying to reach—”

“Amanda. Amanda. Slips my mind where we met.”

“Actually, you—” My finger ran down the list of Learys until it found Zachary.

“But how could you confuse us? Zack’s hair is much thinner, didn’t you notice?” He chuckled again. “After all,” he said, with the pacing of a man fondling a favorite threadbare joke, “I’m the baby. Zack’s three minutes older, and it shows.”

My turn to laugh politely. I wasn’t sure how many other twin jokes he had in waiting. I spoke quickly, confirming the number I saw in the directory, thanked him profusely and sincerely, because getting to the Z’s on my own would have meant another hour and lots more snarls.

Alma Leary sounded both protective and suspicious when she told me that Laura was out, taking one of her walks. “You’re her teacher?” she said. It provoked a rush of words in the background, a “just a second,” from Alma and the transfer of the receiver.

“Miss Pepper?” She was out of breath. “This is Alice Clausen. Laura said she—I guess she told you where we were—she isn’t here now. Is there a problem?”

Her husband was dead. Her daughter was convinced she herself had done him in. Alice and her daughter were homeless.

Was there a problem?

Before I could respond, she heard the echo of her own words. “I mean,” she said, still sounding like someone who’d just finished a marathon, “besides the…the problem.”

“I wanted to offer condolences and to see how you and Laura are doing. This is such a terrible time for you both.” I was afraid to say much, unsure whether Alice Clausen knew of her daughter’s homicidal claims.

“Yes,” she agreed, panting. Either she was jogging in place or dangerously anxious. “I’m sorry she isn’t…I…” She left an auditory parenthesis that needed filling.

“Mrs. Clausen, is there anything I could—”

“Alice,” she said.

I wasn’t interested in the nuances of social address at the moment. However, I started over. “Alice, I’m concerned. Can I be of any—”

“Would it be out of line—could I possibly…”

“Ummmm?”

“Could we—could we talk? In person? Would it be too much of a—you were so kind Parents’ Night, at school.” All that I remembered of her visit were her repeated apologies for her husband’s being out of town. “Is that—would that be—am I being—”

“That’d be fine. Is today good for you?”

We settled not only on today, but immediately. She was five blocks away.

I pushed cans back into cabinets and the sofa back against the wall, flicking dust rags and racing in circles with the vacuum, making fun of myself all the while. Alice Clausen was not arriving with white gloves to inspect the premises. She was not a woman who saw clearly half the time, anyway. Still and all, I tidied and made nice. My mother would be proud.

My mother! I had to return her call. But as I remembered that, my own caller arrived.

Alice Clausen was so glazed, my furniture could have been upside down and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. I was surprised she’d found the house. I helped her in, took her mink coat, scarf, hat and gloves, one by one as she remembered and located them, led her to the sofa, poured coffee for both of us and settled across from her in the suede chair. She had classic good looks—fine, quiet features, a delicate frame and straight pale blond hair. Still, as she sat facing me, she looked like a life-sized sculpture. Almost human. Almost alive.

I put on a tape of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons because I believe that baroque music induces sanity.

I cleared my throat. Recrossed my legs. Asked if she wanted another cup of coffee, then realized she hadn’t touched the one in front of her.

“How about a fire?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Nonetheless, they represented action, a project and more heat, so even though she didn’t visibly react, I fixed the logs and lit them.

Then I waited for a lead. Eventually, I began to fear that we would sit silently through the new year. “You wanted to talk,” I reminded her gently.

She blinked, inhaled, then slowly deflated as the air escaped.

I smiled encouragingly.

“Laura told you,” she finally said. Her eyes filled. She clenched her hands. “I know she did.”

I admitted nothing. I didn’t know what the mother-daughter relationship was, aside from the sorry scene at the Christmas party. Perhaps this was the person who had convinced Laura that she was innately bad. I waited for the point.

“Have you told anyone else?” she gasped out, and when I shook my head, her relief was overwhelming. “Because she—she gets confused.” Her breathing eased, some anxiety dissipating. “Sometimes she isn’t sure if she dreamed something or imagined it or did it.” Her eyes were large and dark gold, the color of good Scotch whisky, but rimmed in red. “I thought she needed help about that, somebody to talk to, a professional, but Alexander…” She slumped into silence.

Her brief burst of energy seemed over. “She’s never seen anyone?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I thought when she ran away, or after the fire—the first one… But he wouldn’t, he—it was an accident. She didn’t mean to, but she was so upset, all the time…” The first fire. I had tried to forget Laura’s history as a suspected arsonist.

I went in search of tissues.

“And I was…” She still faced my chair as if unaware that I had vacated it. “I didn’t… I knew something wasn’t right. She was such a bright, happy child and then…” She accepted a tissue and blew her nose. I settled back in.

“Prying quacks, he called them. Thought it was shameful, getting that kind of help. He’d even get angry at television shows if they had psychiatrists helping people. Turned them right off.”

The doctor’s appointment the day before had probably been Alice’s first session with a psychiatrist. Alexander had to die before she could start to heal. Maybe she’d come calling for both my silence about Laura and validation of her seeking therapy. “Your husband was wrong,” I said. “It’s smart and important to get help.”

Who was I to put the stamp of approval on anything, and who was she to look so grateful and surprised when I did so? It was becoming obvious that Santa Claus had preferred to walk all over his family instead of his lush carpets. Both Laura and Alice were almost mashed flat.

“To be honest…I have a…little problem,” she said.

I nodded, not agreeing, not implying that I was aware of her problem and that it didn’t seem little to me. Obviously, she had no memory of the night of the “lorvely parny,” or of pitching into me. Nor had she been in any condition to notice, as I had, how unsurprised Laura was to see her mother pass out.

“I have…bursitis,” she said.

I had never heard it called that before.

“And it hurts, so sometimes—even the doctor said a drink could help. But sometimes it doesn’t, it takes more, and I…” She studied her hands. She had long fingers and beautifully manicured nails. “Bad nerves, too. I can’t get steady. It isn’t all my fault. I wanted to be a good mother.”

I was trying hard to fill in the gaps between her visit, Laura’s confession, bursitis and her effectiveness as a parent.

“Sometimes I wasn’t…”

I settled back, hands folded across my midriff as if I were Dr. Freud until I remembered that my turf was dangling participles, not exposed ids and mangled egos. Even if I figured out what she was saying, I had no idea what to do with her revelations.

“I didn’t listen,” Alice Clausen said. “I didn’t—”

I interrupted. “Nobody can listen all the time. Every mother thinks she could have done more. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I turned away. My shoulder hurt. I didn’t listen.”

“You know, that idea of talking to a trained professional is a good one. I think somebody like that could be very helpful.” I left my shoes on the floor and curled my bare feet under me as a reminder that I was very untrained and barely professional.

“Should I tell him, then?” she asked.

“Tell who?”

“Because if I don’t, maybe it’ll be listed as an accident. Why not? Why shouldn’t it be? Would it matter?”

I tilted my head, hoping for a clearer view of what was going on.

“If I told him, would he keep it secret? Is that how that works? I’m afraid to ask him.”

My neck would only stretch so far, and even sideways, she wasn’t making sense.

“But if Laura rushes to the police, even to your friend, I’d have to do something.”

“Mrs. Clausen?”

“Alice.”

I took a deep breath. “Alice, what are you saying?”

“I have to do something!” She was suddenly agitated. Her expensively kept hands flapped like rags in a strong wind. “I never do anything! I never listen!” She stood up, a reedy woman trembling in the winter light. “She protects me!”

I, too, stood up, at the ready, even though I wasn’t sure what was coming. What would I do if the woman had a psychotic break? My only medical knowledge was first aid and whatever was the residuum of a long-lost summer fling with a medical student. My pulse accelerated as I followed her. She looped around the room, bumping into furniture, hands flailing. I moved a pot of dried flowers to the center of the coffee table, put our coffee cups out of danger in the sink, and picked up the still-unread sections of last Sunday’s New York Times, which she’d bumped onto the floor. She paced and I followed. “I have to!” she said abruptly.