Seven Kinds of Death (4 page)

FOUR

By Friday afternoon
Constance was wishing she had stayed home with Charlie. At first she thought she could never admit that to him, but then she knew she would.
You were right, darling
, she would say as airily as she could manage.
Tootles is a basket case, and Ba Ba is a kook.
Babar was wrong, though. She was more like a great sleek seal, with dark, almost black hair beautifully styled; she was expensively gowned, manicured, painted and powdered, bedecked with jewelry, but still a nut.

“It is you!” she had exclaimed, when Constance arrived. “I always said there was something fey about you. You have the gift and you tried to tame it by studying science, but the gift is there, I can see it in your eyes.” She said over her shoulder to the room in general, “She’s clairvoyant, you know. You can see the aura, feel the power of her gift coiled, ready to spring. You don’t change, that’s the other side of the gift, you know,” Ba Ba was going on, and would continue to run on as long as anyone was in range, Constance had remembered belatedly. She had passed her to find the living room filled with people.

She had kissed Tootles and met Max Buell and his son Johnny, and the two young women students, and two male students who were taken away by a man called Claud Palance, an art teacher, she gathered, but it was difficult to be certain because too many people were talking at once, and most of them were Ba Ba.

Claud Palance was on his way out with the young men. “We’ll come back Monday to finish up the crating. Have a good party.” They left.

“Well,” Tootles said, “that does relieve the bedroom pressure, I guess. Men hate parties,” she added to no one in particular. She was in black sweatpants and black T-shirt, and sandals that revealed dirty feet. “God, I need a drink or three. Constance, have you had any dinner? I can get you a sandwich or something.”

And from that moment until after lunch the next day Constance had not had a second alone with Tootles, who, in fact, was apparently avoiding her. On the very few occasions that they might have talked for just a moment. Tootles remembered something that had to be done instantly and dashed off. Ba Ba, on the other hand, was everywhere all the time. Constance had escaped her by taking walks; Ba Ba did not walk much, she had said positively. It was easier to imagine her sliding through water with hardly a motion of her hands or feet than to see her in walking shoes making her way through woods. Constance roamed through the back of the property where an unkempt garden seemed extraordinarily productive, through a grove of massive oak trees, down to a tiny brook. Across the dirt road in front of the house, she wandered into the barn where the show pieces were being crated. There were still a few things to be boxed up, but many crates were already secured with screws. The big barn doors had been closed, making it dark and airless inside. In the gloom she could see that people had been working in here with very big pieces of stone and wood. She already had gone through the studio in the house; it did not surprise her to find another bigger one here.

But eventually she always had to return to the main house, where chaos was developing rapidly. Caterers were unloading equipment and food; kitchen help had appeared; someone was going upstairs with an armload of fresh towels, and Tootles was running around barefoot, giving orders, getting in the way. Constance retreated to the living room where she regarded the work called
Seven Kinds of Death
, and she was struck by a very vivid memory of the evening when she and Charlie had seen it together, when it was first installed in the National Gallery seventeen years ago. They had overheard a group of people walking around it, pointing. “I can see at least five kinds of death in it,” a narrow-faced young man had been saying. “There’s death of a forest, obviously, and death of innocence, and death by war, and death by starvation, and this could be death…”

At that moment Charlie had whispered in her ear, “Death by boredom.”

She was still there when Johnny Buell arrived and asked Ba Ba, “Has he come yet? Paul Volte?”

They entered the living room together, Ba Ba talking about Paul Volte; Tootles, close behind them, said to Constance, “He and Max made me invite him. Paul, I mean. You remember Paul, don’t you? That’s all Johnny is thinking about. Paul Volte. Maybe he’ll do an article about the condos. Not bloody likely. They made me ask him.”

The two girls followed her into the room. Constance thought of them as Toni-sad-eyes, and Janet-the-manic, who bounced a lot. They reminded her of her own daughter, and that made her think again of Charlie and how much she would rather be home with him than here with these people.

Moments later Paul Volte and Victoria Leeds arrived. Each carried a small overnight bag; she had a book and a sweater, and her purse. They put everything down in the foyer and entered the living room to be introduced. Johnny Buell turned shy and left, muttering he’d meet them later. And Paul made it clear almost instantly that not only were he and Victoria not sleeping together, they were hardly even speaking. He called her Ms. Leeds, and did not look directly at her, but thanked Tootles for permitting him to bring a friend. Victoria Leeds did not look at him, and also thanked Tootles. But the most interesting thing, Constance thought, watching, was how the expression on Toni’s face changed. From a deep-seated sadness, or even fear, or a clinical depressive withdrawal, she became almost as manic as Janet. She hugged and kissed Victoria and Paul both, and smiled broadly even as Tootles groaned and cursed.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about beds? I thought it was all fixed!”

Victoria said she would go to a motel in the village, and Paul said they would both go to a motel, and Toni said Victoria could have her bed and she would sleep in the studio in her sleeping bag, and Janet said no, she would do that. Since Victoria was Toni’s friend they should share the room…

Ba Ba said maybe one of the twin beds from her room could be moved somewhere. Then Tootles was shaking Paul’s arm and saying he did this on purpose, and he was a son of a bitch for not calling to explain the situation. By now Victoria had drawn apart and was merely watching with a trace of a smile on her lips. Constance moved forward and took Tootles’s hand.

“Calm down,” she said. “Janet can have the second bed in my room. Toni and Victoria can share a room, and Paul can have the room you meant him to have.”

“Victoria, do you mind?” Toni asked anxiously. “I can sleep in the studio if you want a private room.”

“I think it’s all been arranged very nicely,” Victoria said. She smiled at Constance.

“Well, I’ll just move some things off the other bed,” Constance said to Janet who was watching it all, very bright-eyed, apparently breathless. “And you can move in whenever you like.”

Toni led the way upstairs to show them the rooms, and Constance followed. At the top of the steps when she turned one way, and Paul, Victoria and Toni went the other, she heard Victoria murmur, “You didn’t warn me that it was a madhouse, Paul.” Constance laughed softly to herself.

Charlie always said people were either coaster-carrying types, or wet-glass-and-hardly-a-second-look types. He put his wet glass down where it was convenient, sometimes remembering a napkin or even a coaster under it, but not usually. From what little she had seen of Victoria, Constance decided, she was another wet-glass type, while Paul without a doubt was a coaster carrier. She imagined that his house, apartment, wherever he lived, would be like a museum. First impressions, she knew, could be misleading, but there they were. Victoria found the world interesting, the people in it more interesting; her bright eyes and little smile of acceptance said as much. And Paul was a sufferer who suffered most especially at Victoria’s hands. Why? Constance wondered. And why did it amuse Victoria, as she felt certain it did, to see him in pain? She shrugged and began to move her things in the bedroom to make space for Janet.

A little later Constance was saying to Max, “I saw your fence when I drove in. An impressive fence.”

He laughed delightedly. “Isn’t it, though? And tomorrow you get a tour behind the fence—the first building is ready for a grand unveiling.” He raised his voice a bit. “Paul, Victoria, you want to see inside the condo tomorrow? A grand tour.”

Paul and Victoria had been trailing after Janet who was putting names to the various pieces of art in the living room. It appeared that most students who ever had passed through here had left pieces behind. When Constance glanced in their direction she saw that Johnny Buell was at the doorway and had come to a complete stop with the question.

“I’d love to see inside the fence,” Victoria said, and Paul shrugged.

Johnny Buell entered the room and joined Victoria and Paul; Janet introduced him, and soon they were all laughing as they drifted into the hall, out of sight. It was not yet four thirty; Toni and Ba Ba had taken Tootles upstairs to get ready for the party. Toni was good with hair. Tootles had said vaguely. Victoria had not changed yet from her jeans, nor had Paul, and Johnny was in tan slacks and a matching shirt, his working clothes. Constance assumed they would all drift apart now and adorn themselves properly. The cocktail party was scheduled from five to seven, and then, Tootles had said emphatically, she intended to vanish until eight, or else the guests would never leave, and they had to eat a real dinner, didn’t they?

Constance had decided to go up to change when Max said, “I suppose you shouldn’t ask an art critic to write up something, should you? Her show, I mean. Or the condos either, far as that goes.”

“Let me tell you about a client who consulted with me once,” Constance said. “He was a poet, and quite good, according to his reviews. The problem was his lover. This was what brought him to me for advice. He said that every time he became really involved with a woman, it ended when he asked for an honest opinion about his work. He was afraid to ask the current lover, and he couldn’t stand not knowing exactly what she thought. He respected her opinion, of course.”

Max laughed. “Old rock and hard place choice. What did you tell him to do?”

Constance said gravely, “I told him that when the current affair ended, to find himself a woman who was illiterate in English.” She left Max chuckling.

Cocktail parties, Charlie always grumbled, meant funny food that you never would make for yourself or order in a restaurant, and standing up too much being polite to people you didn’t know or give a damn about. If numbers meant anything this was a smashing success of a party. There was a crush of people in every room. Now and then Constance glimpsed Janet bopping around explaining the art pieces; apparently that was her role. And Toni appeared looking anxious, casting an eye at the tables, the drinks left on tables, just checking on things; her role was to be responsible.

Constance found herself standing next to Max once. He was beaming, to all appearances having a remarkably good time. He looked past her and his face changed subtly; the pleasure was still there, but he looked softer, and very proud. Constance glanced in the direction he was looking to see Tootles arm in arm with two men, holding a drink in one hand, laughing. Apparently she was teaching them a dance step. Toni had done her hair in a chignon that was very flattering; she was wearing a long green skirt and a gold top tied at the shoulders, leaving her arms bare. Although she was more muscular than most women, she looked very handsome that night.

“Isn’t she wonderful,” Max Buell said in a soft voice.

“Yes,” Constance said. “She really is.”

He smiled at her then. “I’m glad you came. Have you met Spence Dwyers?”

A man had joined them. “Hello, Spence,” Constance said.

“My God! It is you! I thought I recognized you. Constance Leidl, isn’t it?”

A long time ago, when Tootles’s first husband died suddenly in a car wreck, Spence had rallied about, as he put it. He had married her and they had stayed together for several years before the slow drift apart started, or fast split, or whatever it had been. Constance never had been told, but whatever had happened, it had not changed one important aspect of their relationship. Spence Dwyers owned the gallery where Tootles had shown her work then, and he had arranged the tour they were celebrating now. Throughout the years he had been her most steadfast patron.

He looked like a boxer, which he had been in his youth, with a thick chest and heavily muscled arms. His nose had been broken and retained a crook, and he wore heavy, thick glasses, almost bottle-glass lenses. When he smiled it was like looking into a gold mine.

Max left them chatting about the old days; the party shifted this way and that; groups formed, broke up, reformed. Constance looked at her watch often, counting the minutes until seven. Once she saw Toni whispering urgently to Max, and they left together heading toward the porch. Champagne running short, Constance assumed, and smiled at a woman whose name she had not learned. She met Johnny’s fiancée, Debra Saltzman, and was not surprised that she turned out to be a most expensively casual young woman, a bit bland and pretty with long, blond, permed hair that looked windblown, and would always look windblown. She said, wasn’t it
exciting
that Marion’s work was going on tour; it was so
exciting
to know a famous artist.

Constance drifted over to Paul Volte and congratulated him on the success of his latest book. He nodded in an abstracted way, and she realized that he was searching the room. He held a highball glass that was nearly full, twisted it around and around as he studied the shifting patterns the guests made.

“Have you seen Victoria?” he asked, refocusing his eyes on her. It was obvious that he had heard nothing of what she had been saying.

She thought a moment and realized that she had not seen Victoria a single time that evening. She had meant to speak with her, in fact, because she had been so attracted to her. She told him no and abruptly he walked away. It was five minutes before seven.

Then it was over. Tootles was gone, and Johnny and Debra were telling Max goodbye, Johnny speaking in a voice loud enough to carry. They left with another young couple. Right on cue, Constance thought with amusement.