The Polka Dot Nude (12 page)

“There’s a box that didn’t quite make it to Mount St. Helens,” Brad said, and rolled a brown carton over with his metal rod. It flew open, and one of Rosalie’s diaries tumbled out on the ground.

We looked at each other in delighted disbelief; then, laughing, we scrabbled in the box to make sure we weren’t hallucinating.

“It’s here! Everything’s here!” I squealed, incredulous. “Look, he even stuffed my manuscript into the box. All covered with oil or something where it fell out. Isn’t it wonderful!”

I held the mangled pages out for his examination, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was smiling fatuously at my dirty face, and the egg yolk rapidly congealing in my hair.

I was overcome with gratitude and remorse. “How can I ever thank you, Brad?”

His eyes steamed softly into mine. “I’ll think of something,” he warned.

We stuffed the papers back into the box and Brad carried it to the trunk of his car, where he deposited it right beside his carton from Belton, which we both chose to ignore, at least verbally, though we exchanged a meaningful look.

“Why would anybody have stolen it, only to throw it all away again?” I wondered.

Brad shook his head in confusion. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of. Worst thing I ever smelled too. I don’t envy you, having to work with this.”

“I’ll have to retype the whole thing.”

“Put a sheet of glass over it, or you’ll be asphyxiated.”

“Maybe I could photocopy it.”

“I’m going home to soak for about ten days, and burn every stitch I have on.” We rolled down the car windows and were off.

“I may never eat again. This gives me a whole new perspective on food,” I declared.

“We got everything back but the picture,” Brad said as we sped down the bumpy road. “I was sure that was the first thing we’d find. It should have stuck out a mile.”

“He may have ripped off the
frame,
but even the picture would be highly visible. It wasn’t there, or we’d have seen it. I wonder if that wino . . ."

“No, I asked him. He was sober enough to understand. If he’d seen it, he’d have been willing to sell it back for another ten bucks. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he meant to come back and have a look for it himself. It begins to look as though somebody staged the whole robbery just to get the picture,” he added pensively. “I didn’t think it was that hot myself.”

“You prefer your nudes with staples in their belly buttons?”

“You’re out of date—they overcame that months ago. It was an interesting picture, but hardly a masterpiece. An original Pissarro would be worth a fortune, but a Rosalie Hart copy of a Pissarro—I wonder what that’s worth, now that she’s dead.”

“A thousand or so I guess, for sentimental value.”

“Some demented fan may have stolen it. You read about lunatics pestering the stars.”

“Not usually such faded stars as Rosalie, and besides, hardly anybody knew I was here. Why wouldn’t he keep the diaries too, if he was that infatuated with her?”

“So we’re back to your original question. Who’d steal your stuff, just to take it to the city dump? And why did he keep the picture?”

“I don’t know, unless he’s so ignorant he thought it was a valuable masterpiece."

“In which case he was no art thief. An ordinary, garden-variety thief would have stolen your wallet while he was at it.”

“What we have here is a mystery wrapped in an enigma,” I decided. But I was too relieved to be despondent.

When we reached the cottage, Brad left the box on my porch to allow the stench to dissipate before taking it inside. I examined it thoroughly; everything was there. Across the yard, Mrs. Simcoe’s curtain twitched busily.

She was getting an eyeful this time. “I wonder what she thinks of this,” I said, and laughed. Brad’s once-beautiful shirt looked like an artist’s rag. There was a smear of some red goo down one sleeve, ketchup or spaghetti sauce. Various brown, black, and green stains were splattered at random across it, and down the trouser legs. The Guccis no longer shone like new pennies, but were sodden and caked in grime. His hair was disheveled, and his face was streaked where he’d wiped the sweat away with dirty hands.

I knew I looked as bad, but then I’d never aspired to his heights of fashion. Some few images in life are indelibly etched in memory: our mothers, the bedrooms we grew up in, our first lovers. I knew I’d added one of these precious pictures to my mental album. I would never forget the sight of the impeccable Brad O’Malley falling on his keister in the garbage dump, surrounded by the smoke of putrefying refuse.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, watching me watch him. A little smile lifted his lips, and creased the corners of his eyes.

“This one’s not for sale.”

“She probably thinks we were mud wrestling.”

“What?”

“You wondered what the missus thought of our condition,” he reminded me.

“Oh—yes, if she can’t think of some worse construction to put on it.”

“I want you to know, Audrey Dane, I wouldn’t have done this for just anyone.” His eyes were steaming again as he gazed at me.

“I know,” I said, over the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Brad.”

“It was a pleasure. No, I’ll rephrase that: I was happy to do it for you.”

The words were trite, but the moment seemed tinged with a fairy-tale quality reminiscent of heroes slaying dragons for the princess. And at that instant, Brad, filthy clothes and all, looked like a perfect Prince Charming. This wasn’t the arrogant professor who read me lectures on poetry or word meanings. It wasn’t the macho male seducer who occasionally lunged at me. It was a thoroughly nice man. The lump in my throat grew, and before I could stop it, I felt a rush of hot tears.

He lifted a gentle finger and brushed one away. “I must be dowsed in onions,” he said. There was a hoarse edge to his voice. He was feeling it also, then, this wave of tenderness.

“Ketchup too,” I said, wiping at the smear on his shirt. His arm felt strong and warm beneath the cloth. I felt it tense at my touch. “All the fixings for a hamburger.”

I expected some clever, bantering answer. Brad looked suddenly serious—more than serious. He looked sober. “Audrey, I’m sorry!”

I was not only surprised but confused. “For what?”

“Ah, I’ve been acting like a jerk,” he said. “Lying to you about the diaries I borrowed, and that crack about reporting you for breaking into my cottage. Pretending I cooked those dinners.”

“I haven’t exactly been Pollyanna myself. I’m not usually so—”

“Hostile?” he suggested helpfully.

“Have I been hostile? I was going to say temperamental.”

“Close enough. So, are we friends?”

“Friends.”

We shook hands. But there are handshakes, and handshakes. This one was a very warm handshake. Our fingers clung lovingly while we gazed into each other’s eyes. If Simcoe hadn’t come out to rake the mud patch in front of his house, I think it might have escalated to something more.

“I’m going to have a marathon shower, then we’re going out for dinner,” he said.

“It’s my treat. I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

His sober mood faded and a mischievous grin peeped out. “Don’t feel obliged to do the
least
that courtesy demands.”

“You can’t be nice to some people,” I groused, and pretended to be annoyed. In fact, my hormones began twitching, as he went on gazing at me.

“You can be nice to me anytime you want.”

CHAPTER 9

Between finding my research all intact and being on speaking terms with my neighbor again, it felt like Christmas in June. Of course a few stray questions still bothered me. Like, was he or wasn’t he Hume Mason? If he was, why had he helped me find the research, and if he wasn’t, what was he doing with that box from Belton in the trunk of his car, to say nothing of the letter in his desk urging him to complete his manuscript? If he wasn’t Hume Mason, what was that pile of literary rubbish doing beside his typewriter? You wouldn’t think a professor with a fine reputation would write that kind of junk. Then I remembered the advance mentioned, and Brad’s expensive life-style.

He certainly wrote something unbecoming to a professor of literature, and he wrote it for Belton. Belton seemed to have cornered the market on best-sellers recently. They had not only Hume Mason, but Rosalie Wildewood and Madison Gantry and . . .
Madison Gantry!

My God, that was it! He was Madison Gantry! I laughed out loud for relief and joy. All his modest praise of this writer came back to me. “Gantry isn’t quite as illiterate as most of the escape writers.” I dropped my filthy clothes and moccasins in a garbage bag and tied the top in a knot so I wouldn’t have to touch any of it after my shower. Or better, a long soak in the tub, with a copy of Madison Gantry’s
Pavane for a Polish Princess
to keep me company. All his titles used alliteration and some musical term. Brad was interested in music, and alliteration would come naturally to a poetry critic.

It was a very enjoyable soak. I knew who had written the book as soon as Max Gerter, the hero, who happened to be an ex-professor of literature, began preparing spaghetti Caruso in chapter three. Before long, bosoms were flowing all over the place, hearts were throbbing, pulses were quivering, and loins were shuddering. There was no doubt in my mind who had written it. The only question now was why Brad had wanted my copies of Rosalie’s diaries, and what that one had been doing on his desk, when he said he was writing an essay on her. Maybe he really was an innocent fan—he had her picture on his bedside table. But was he so keen a fan that he went to her funeral? It must have been Cary Grant’s younger brother. There was one other question too, but I had an inkling of the answer to it. Why hide that he was Madison Gantry? Stupid pride, which boasted of that sedative of a book on Eliot, made him ashamed of these detective stories.

I was in an expansive mood. I wouldn’t admit I’d discovered his secret, but I’d tell him I’d read
Pavane for a Polish Princess
and loved it. I’d praise the literary touches of Max Gerter, the detective hero. I wondered why he’d made him of German extraction, instead of Irish. Maybe he wanted the cool, assessing Teutonic mind in his hero, and not the amiable sort of romantic Celt associated with Ireland. The hero’s mind may have been cool and assessing, but the book was wildly romantic, in the true sense of the word. It was a work of passion rather than reason. It was funny and witty and very cleverly done. Madison Gantry gained a fan; I planned to borrow every one of Brad’s books. In fact, I’d pay the ultimate compliment, and actually buy them.

As the shadows grew long and the water grew tepid, I took a quick shower to wash my hair, and bundled myself into a towel. The evening nip in the air made it feasible to wear the one good outfit I’d brought with me. Carefully hung in the back of the closet in a plastic cleaner’s bag was a white shantung suit with a designer label, which I’d planned to wear when I took my manuscript to New York, sealed and ready for acceptance. I fully expected a first-rate lunch with Eileen to celebrate the occasion.

Aware of the high standards of Max Getter’s ladies, I surveyed myself closely in the mirror. The sleek lines of the jacket suited my lean body. It clung to my meager curves, and the slit in the skirt showed a generous length of leg. While my hair was still damp, I took advantage of its tractability and pulled it into a swirl on the back of my head. Gold hoop earrings and the gold chains were added to ears and neck respectively. A frivolous scarlet handkerchief stuck into the jacket pocket added a touch of color. We all know what red stands for.

A few sessions in the sun had removed the slug-like pallor from my skin, and anticipation of a wonderful evening brightened my eyes. Didn’t I wish Garth could see me like this! I decided, with an unaccustomed fit of confidence, that I looked a suitable date for Brad O’Malley.

Just why he chose that particular evening to appear in a cambric shirt, blue cords, and brown hippie sandals was not yet clear. I’d told him the best dinner money could buy.

“Did you think I was going to take you out for a hamburger?” I asked.

“A class act, Audrey,” be approved, looking me up and down. “I’ll run home and pick up a jacket.”

A jean jacket wouldn’t add much to his outfit, and anything else would look silly. “No hurry.”

“Right, I’ll put on a tie and get out of these sandals.”

I waited for him at his car. He was back in minutes, much better dressed for the evening I had in mind. The Mercedes had been not only aired but taken to a car wash while I soaked in the tub. It shone dully in the glow of twilight.

“There’s a good restaurant down at the bay, where we can dance on an outdoor patio,” Brad said. “Do you want to give it a try?”

“It sounds fine. I haven’t done much scouting since I’ve been here.”

The dining room looked over the river, across the dance patio, where potted plants and flowers lent an exotic air. The maitre d’ greeted Brad by name. “They have rooms to rent. I stayed here one night,” Brad explained.

Our table had a choice view. The cocktail waitress wore a brief outfit that showed fire-engine-red briefs beneath a short ruffle of black skirt. A busty redhead, she said, “Good evening, Mr. O’Malley,” and gave him a big smile when she came to take our order. “The usual?”

“The usual for me, Marnie. What’ll you have, Audrey?”

“I’ll try your ‘usual’ too.” I was expecting a glass of Château de, but got a double martini. “Marnie has a good memory. How long ago did you stay here?”

“Just a week ago, before I went to Simcoe’s place. I stayed a couple of nights actually, while I looked around for a quiet spot to spend the summer. It’s nice here. They have tennis courts, a pool, a boat tour of the Thousand Islands. It was Marnie who put me on to Simcoe. She lives near there, and commutes to work here.”

Brad smiled an intimate smile across the table. “Little did I know at the time that it would all work out so beautifully. You look fantastic in that getup, Audrey. I thought you liked a more casual style. I was trying to suit myself to you.” I was flattered by his thoughtfulness, and admitted I had been trying to match him.