Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (5 page)
Standoff
Sunday, May 5, 2013
After tuning the television to her father’s favorite channel of old movies and making sure he could reach the remote, his pipe, and his walker, Madeleine made her way downstairs to the front parlor, where Kimmie Swartz was preparing to give her a massage, a facial, a leg wax, and an eyebrow shaping. The arrangement suited both women. Madeleine hated going to a salon. Kimmie was grateful to have something remunerative to do on her day off and for the generous amount of cash her friend insisted on paying.
“So how’s your dad, Mattie?” Kimmie asked. “Is he upstairs? I never get to see him.”
“He’s old and sick, that’s why. He doesn’t want anyone to see him in this state. You remember how strong and vigorous he was when we were little.”
Kimmie nodded.
“Is he ashamed of his condition or are you, Mattie?”
Madeleine lay down on the massage table, as irritated by Kimmie’s stubborn use of her childhood nickname as by her insulting question. “I love Daddy. I’m not ashamed of anything. But your stupid question has brought on a terrible headache to add to my hangover, so let’s use the lavender oil today.”
“Why do you have a hangover?”
Madeleine told her about the Derby party at the club owned by her second husband and about meeting the new Mrs. Steve Wright.
“What’s Steve’s wife look like?” Kimmie asked, covering Madeleine with a sheet and adjusting a bumper under her knees.
“Oh, sort of pretty, practically a clone of Katherine Heigl, nothing special. Expensively dressed, sporting a flashy necklace of fake diamonds.”
“How do you know they’re fake?”
“I just know. Besides, no woman, even one as supposedly rich as Alexandra Royce Wright, can afford a real necklace like that. And if she
was
stupid enough to buy something like that, she’d have to keep it in a safe.”
Once the shades were pulled and the facial began, the pair grew silent. Madeleine hated any distraction when she was trying to relax. She just wanted the quietly delicious sensation of endorphins -- the body’s natural opiates -- flooding her body. Gradually, her headache faded away.
Madeleine waited until the leg waxing began to broach the subject uppermost in her mind. “Anthony tells me you’re having flashbacks about Nicole.”
Kimmie stiffened but didn’t take her eyes off her work. “He’s telling my secrets?”
“So you
are
having flashbacks.”
Kimmie shrugged. “I don’t know whether they’re flashbacks or what he calls false memories.”
“He says you think I struck Nicole and that’s why she drowned.”
“Sometimes that’s what I see. I hear her screaming.”
“You hear her screaming? Weren’t you screaming too?”
Kimmie nodded.
“Were you screaming because you were mad at Nicole?”
Kimmie shook her head.
“That’s right. We were screaming with laughter.”
“I guess. The scene is very confused in my mind, all out of sequence. I can’t remember exactly what happened when. But sometimes I see fighting and hear screaming and it doesn’t look like play or sound like laughter.”
Madeleine, who had been lying flat, suddenly sat up. “Have you told anybody else?”
At that, Kimmie looked at her with wide eyes. “Of course not.”
“Because it’s a false memory, you know. I didn’t fight with Nicole. I wasn’t mad at her. I tried to rescue her. In fact, I tried so hard I almost killed myself on whatever I hit in the water and then I got caught in the riptide too. I was terrified.”
“That’s what you said.”
“I didn’t get bruised or scratched by Nicole.”
“Okaay.”
“
Okaay
?” Madeleine asked sharply. “Admit I didn’t get bruised or scratched by Nicole. I want to hear you say that. We didn’t
have
a fight. All three of us were just horsing around near the pier when she was suddenly swept away. Remember?”
“Sort of. . . . But you were fighting about something before we ever went into the water.”
“Fighting about what?”
“That’s what I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember because we weren’t fighting about anything.” Madeleine eyed her friend’s dirty-blond ponytail and blue eye shadow, the little eruption on her cheek, with distaste. The girl was so weak and unattractive. Why couldn’t an esthetician look like what she was selling? “Your memory is crap, Kimmie.”
“My memory is fine . . . except for . . . .”
“Except for the Dunes. So, let’s have a little test. Do you remember having sex with Dr. Beltrami when you were what, thirteen? You told me that, so don’t try to deny it now.”
Kimmie jerked with shock. “I . . . I don’t deny it. It happened. He said that was part of the therapy. . . . I didn’t like any of it. I wish I could forget it happened.”
“Well, sex wasn’t part of my therapy, so it’s hard to believe it was part of yours. Anthony is an honorable man, very professional.”
“You were lucky then. And it only happened a few times.”
“And did he give you cocaine, Kimmie?”
“I told you, he gave me something that
you
said was cocaine. I’m still not sure. It was white and powdery and he made me sniff it.”
“And you didn’t resist, did you?”
“I was afraid to. Besides, it gave me a sensation of eu . . . eu --.”
“Euphoria.”
“Is that the word? It made me feel good, less depressed, more confident. But the feeling didn’t last.”
“Did you think it was something he shouldn’t be giving you?”
Kimmie nodded. “I did.”
“Then why didn’t you ever report him, Kimmie?”
She sighed heavily. “You know why. I wasn’t sure about anything. I didn’t know what the rules were for therapy. Besides, even if I’d told the truth, nobody would have believed me. I was just a girl with emotional problems. He, after all, was an adult, an educated man, a respected psychiatrist. He warned me not to tell because I’d just get into trouble.”
“I don’t believe An -- Dr. Beltrami ever did those things to you.”
“Oh, but he did!” Kimmie protested. “You know why I know the memory is real? His hands. He has the longest, boniest fingers I’ve ever seen. The hands of a pianist. When I told him that, he told me to lay still and pretend I was a piano.”
“Oh, God, Kimmie, that’s disgusting.” Madeleine sighed dramatically. “But for the sake of argument I’ll assume your accusations are true. Did you ever tell your parents about the sex or the powder that made you feel so good?”
Kimmie stopped in mid-pull. “Oh, Mattie, for heaven’s sake, of course not. They’d disown me over the sex, even if it wasn’t my fault. You know that.”
“Ow, Kimmie. Pay attention. Finish what you’re doing.”
Red-faced, Kimmie did as instructed.
“So you see, Kimmie, it’s a standoff, isn’t it?”
Kimmie shook her head. “I don’t know what -- .”
“You
think
you have a secret about me and Nicole. I
know
I have a secret about you and Dr. Beltrami.”
“Okaay.”
“You’re wrong about me, Kimmie, because there was no fight at the Dunes. But I’m not wrong about you because you did have sex with your psychiatrist and took drugs. You kept silent about what was happening because you’re a coward. Right?”
“I’m not a coward.”
“My point is, it would be as unfair of me to tell what I
know
as it would be for you to tell what you
think
you know. So both of us need to keep quiet.”
When Kimmie, looking confused, said nothing, Madeleine raised her voice. “
Agreed
?”
Kimmie nodded her agreement.
Madeleine lay back down. “You did a very bad job today, Kimmie. Put some more of that aloe cream on my legs so I don’t look like I’ve been boiled.”
As she drove home, Kimmie’s head was spinning. Was Mattie her friend or not? Being accused of doing a bad job was unfair. The taunts about Dr. Beltrami dredged up bad memories. Maybe she should stop seeing him as a patient. Or maybe she should report him so no one could accuse her of cowardice.
On the other hand, she’d just been handed five hundred in cash -- far more than her normal fee -- without a word of apology for the taunts or a word of explanation. Was the money intended to keep her quiet about her flashbacks or simply a sign of Mattie’s loyalty and generosity? Mattie, after all, was the only daughter she knew who was so kind as to move back from Indianapolis and disrupt her life simply to take care of her father, a dying old man whom nobody else had ever liked.
Walk-Around
Friday, May 10, 2013
Steve Wright met Madeleine’s handyman and caretaker, Dougie Trubrook, out at the Appledorn farm on Friday morning. He’d had a week to think about his ex-wife’s proposal to do some major renovations on the house, barn, and garage. The list of projects presented in a hand-delivered folder by Dougie at Wright’s Construction’s office was startling. It looked like a half million dollar project taking at least eight months, give or take a few hundred thousand and a few months depending on the details. He rationalized that it was improvident to decline the deal. He wanted to keep his best workers employed and the profit would help pay down his debt to his Dupont Road investors and creditors.
Rationalizing the project to Lexie took a little more time. But she was a reasonable woman and finally said she had no objection when he assured her that he would hardly ever see Mad Madeleine, given her travel schedule. Dougie would be his contact.
The two men walked around the acreage first, then stopped at the old family cemetery, enclosed by a white picket fence in dire need of repainting. In the center was a stone mausoleum, the north side coated with moss, the south side smothered with vines. “This thing looks like the stones were left the way nature made them and set without mortar,” Steve observed.
“Dug right out of the field, according to what old Chester told me once,” Dougie said. “When that vine begins blooming later this month, it’s beautiful, wild pink roses.”
“The whole place needs some work. That willow’s roots are going to grow right into the graves and you’ll have caskets poking out of the ground. The headstones need to be cleaned and reset. Some of them have sunk into the ground, others look like they’re about to fall over.”
“I’d do some work in here if I could, but I’ve been told not to.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
After trying to read a few inscriptions, Steve asked, “What’s the oldest headstone in here?”
“Over here,” Dougie said, leading Steve to the far northeast corner, where a weathered flat piece of limestone had sunk several inches below ground level. He knelt to scrape the dead leaves away. “You can barely read the inscription, but it says, ‘Naomi Bauer Apfeldorf, b. August 25, 1798, d. December 20, 1818, and baby girl, wife and daughter of Heinrich. Among the stars now.’”
“How sad. Naomi probably died in childbirth right before Christmas and the family must have just arrived from the East, probably by flatboat down the Ohio River.”
“That’s what I think,” Dougie said, though in fact he hadn’t known before how the settlers arrived in Indiana. “The last name got changed to Appledorn a few years after Naomi died. Thirteen other headstones here. Then the mausoleum was constructed. Two slots are left, one for Chester and one for Miss Appledorn. Dorothy’s already there, of course, been there twelve-fifteen years. Notice the wrought iron gates on either end. Don’t see workmanship like that anymore.”
“Are the gates locked?”
Dougie shrugged. “I never checked.” He walked to the west side. The gate swung open with a light tug. “What do you know? They’re not locked. I always thought they were.”
“I should bring Lexie out here sometime. She loves old cemeteries. Relishes the old-fashioned names, tries to guess the cause of death and link it up with history. Once, in Savannah, we spent a whole day going through one cemetery after another. Deaths from childbirth, cholera, smallpox, war, yellow fever, malaria, influenza, even duels.”
“Can’t say I like cemeteries that much,” Dougie said, spitting between two headstones, “but I don’t mind this one. Very peaceful, sort of nice so many generations still together.” He eyed Steve quizzically. “Don’t tell me you never seen this cemetery when you were married to Miss Appledorn.”
“Oh, I did, but I didn’t linger out here. I spent more time in the mausoleum.”
“Mouse-o what?”
“Mausoleum. That’s what these big tombs are called.”
“Didn’t know that. You want to see the barn then?”
“Lead the way.”
Once inside the barn, Steve stopped and looked around. “Looks pretty clean, pretty tight except for the roof. So what’s Miss Appledorn want done exactly?”
“For starters, a special temperature-controlled room for a new 3-D printer she’s having installed. The one she’s using now is a couple years old. She uses it a lot. It’s over where the mules used to be stalled.”
“Never heard of such a thing. Sounds like science fiction.”
“It’s real enough. You ever see Jeff Dunham, that comedian with the puppet he calls Achmed the Dead Terrorist?”
“No.”
“Well, you can catch him on YouTube. He’s hilarious.” Dougie laughed, pitched his face forward, frowned threateningly, and screeched in the strangled falsetto of Achmed the Dead Terrorist, “Silence. I kill you.”
When Steve squinted in surprise, Dougie said, “That’s Achmed. You gotta see him. Well, anyway, Dunham made the head of that puppet -- or maybe it was Achmed’s son -- using a 3-D printer. The technology can even be used to make keys that work and plastic guns that fire real bullets.”
“Does Miss Appledorn need that?”
“Apparently it’s the latest thing in forensic reconstruction.”
“How does it work -- if you know?”
“I’d show you if I knew how. All I know is what she told me one time. The machine is programmed by a computer to make a three-dimensional object. Somehow it applies one layer on top of another until the thing is formed. What the layers are, I don’t know. Plastic maybe. Depends on what she’s making. She says her toy company owns a big one, but she’s owned her own private one for the last five years. Apparently the new machine she bought is light-years more sophisticated.”
“So what else does she want?”
“A room for experimenting with mummification.”
“You’re kidding!” Steve exclaimed.
“Not a bit. She’s trying to find the secrets of the Egyptian embalmers. Also a room to display replicas of skulls she’s put a face on. Did you know, she’s reconstructed over a hundred faces and she’s only, what, thirty-something? Well, you’d know that better than me. She wants a room for her awards and book collection. A studio facing north for the huge paintings she still does in her spare time. She’s having an architect draw up the plans. They were supposed to be ready today but I’m told there’s a delay. Anyway, I’ll get them to you soon as they’re ready.”
“So, how’s old Chester? He was over fifty when she was born, so he’s got to be at least 85 by now.”
“I haven’t seen him in years except once in awhile he’s sitting in the window of his bedroom or on the porch swing. He nods and waves at me. Neighbors say they sometimes see him in the pickup when Miss Appledorn takes him for a drive in the evening. Otherwise, the old man stays up in his bedroom 24/7 so far as I know. A neighbor lady comes in to take care of him when Miss Appledorn is gone.”
“What neighbor lady?”
“Nettie Steenhardt, youngest girl of the Steenhardts, never married, must be at least sixty by now. Lives in a little Cape Cod across the road a quarter mile down. Walks here for the exercise. I hardly ever see her either, but I’m glad she’s here. Chester’s the last man I’d want to take care of.”
“Why?”
“Mean old son of a bitch, from what my dad tells me.” Dougie shook his head. “Sorry. Shouldn’t a said that. He was your father-in-law once upon a time, wasn’t he?”
“No apology needed. He
was
a mean old son of a bitch, at least to me. I think the only person he ever loved was his daughter.”
“Quite a prankster, I hear.”
“That he was,” Steve said. “One Halloween, when Madeleine and I were newly married, he showed up at our house dressed like a sheriff. Said he had a warrant for my arrest for car theft. I almost had a heart attack. He thought it was hilarious and told that story every chance he could, how I looked guilty and stuttered about being innocent. Oh, yeah, he really got me.”
“Nettie seems to like him, though. Good thing too, because she has to lift him here, lift him there, do things for him I wouldn’t want a woman to do for me.”
“I take it she’s big and strong.”
“Not all that big, but strong as a bull. Or should I say bulldog? Believe it or not, she retired from the U.S. Marines a few years ago. When you see her, look at the tattoo on her left arm.” Dougie spit again between two headstones. “You do any skeet shooting?”
“No,” Steve said, puzzled.
“Nettie’s a crack shot. She can take a pigeon -- clay or real -- right out of the sky, like that,” Dougie said, snapping his fingers. “Oh, yeah, she’s quite a gal.”
“So, I take it you don’t see Chester a lot.”
“As I said, not all that much. Sometimes, when the weather’s good, I see him on the porch swing. He always waves and nods but never says anything. Miss Appledorn told me not to try to talk to him, so I don’t. Nettie says Chester doesn’t want to see people any more because he’s so ashamed of being -- what’s the word she used? Diminished. Yeah, that’s what she said. He doesn’t want anybody to know how diminished he is.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Steve said. “Let’s keep going with the walk-around.”
