Up in Honey's Room (16 page)

O
ne o'clock in the morning Bo came out of the driveway in the Chrysler and turned left around the median. Now he was approaching the FBI surveillance car, having a look at it through the line of trees in the median. It was Vera's idea: go left and they would have to turn around in the street to come after him. “If anyone is in it,” Vera said. “I see it as a decoy. Sometime after breakfast an agent is dropped off to sit in the car and pick his teeth.”

Joe Aubrey was a mess, but not a problem in his rumpled suit, his shirttail hanging out. Bo had said, “I'm not sticking his shirt down in his pants.” Vera didn't care. Joe was groggy from the goofball, still drunk but miserable, what was left of him once Vera was through. He opened his eyes to streetlights and neon signs.

“Where we goin'?”

“To Walter's.”

“He's way out'n the country.”

“Yes, he is,” Bo said. “Go seepy-by and let me drive.”

Aubrey reached over to lay his hand on Bo's thigh. “You still wearin' your skirt? I'm gonna stick my hand under it, see what you got.”

Bo said, “Mr. Aubrey, please,” and gave the hand a slap. “Let's not be naughty.” They were driving south on Woodward, only a few miles now from downtown Detroit.

“Man, I am in pain. I think I got laid, but I'm not sure.”

“You did, after a fashion.”

“That's the first hangover I've had in twenty years. I suck oxygen I keep in my airplane and it clears up my head.”

They drove in silence for a while, Joe Aubrey lying back with his eyes closed through the downtown area now, past J.L. Hudson's, Sam's Cut Rate, past the big open square called Campus Martius across from city hall, past the Empress and the Avenue burlesque houses, and turned left on Jefferson Avenue, on their way to the bridge that crossed to Belle Isle in the middle of the river with its recreational areas, baseball diamonds, picnic tables, a zoo, horses to ride, canoes to paddle in the lagoon, and the river to swim in during the summer. Bo could see no sense in driving all the way to Farmington, a good hour from Vera's, when he could drop Mr. Aubrey off in the Detroit River, a popular grave for hundreds of souls during Prohibition, bootleggers bringing whiskey across from Canada, getting waylaid by the murderous Purple Gang if the police didn't stop them. It was a rough town, used to violence. Two years ago, 1943, a Negro sailor was thrown in the river from the Belle Isle bridge and it started a race riot that went on for days, property destroyed, cars turned over, troops called in…He'd drop off Mr. Aubrey, turn around and take Woodward north this time to Dr. Taylor's English-looking home in Palmer Woods, just off Seven Mile Road on Wellesley. He had not mentioned to Vera his plan to see Dr. Taylor tonight. But why not, while he was at
it? He was thinking, Wouldn't it be lovely if Dr. Taylor were here, to join Mr. Aubrey on the bridge?

And immediately thought, Turn it around. Take Mr. Aubrey to Dr. Taylor's.

Bo U-turned on Jefferson beginning to rehearse what he'd do, ring the doorbell and say, Doctor, I'm very sorry to bother you…Mr. Aubrey desperately needs to use the toilet. We're on our way to Walter's. I'm afraid he's just a bit tipsy.

Just a bit—he hoped he could keep sleepyhead on his feet.

 

Dr. Taylor was wearing a maroon smoking jacket with black silk lapels and wide shoulders over his shirt and tie, the doctor still dressed. He stepped back from the door, his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. Bo recited his lines and Dr. Taylor said, “Yes, the powder room's right there.”

Bo got Aubrey inside and closed the door, Aubrey wanting to know, “Where'n the fuck are we?”

Bo told him, “You have to piss, understand? Stand over the toilet and take out your dong and aim it. Wait. Mr. Aubrey, will you please fucking
wait,
you're pissing all over the floor.” There was no way to stop him now; he should have sat him on the toilet. Bo said, “Lean over it with your hands on the wall, so you don't fall and hit your head.” He stepped out of the powder room and closed the door.

Dr. Taylor, waiting for him, his hand still in his pocket, said, “It's a shame you didn't come alone. I have a rare cognac we could sip while we continue our talk.”

The man was of no interest to Bohdan, his thoughts or his inclinations, the way he gave signs of intimacy but then seemed to lose his nerve. Bo said, “Do you have a gun in your hand?”

Dr. Taylor smiled bringing it out.

“You're very observant.”

“A Luger?” Bo said.

“No, a Walther P38,” Dr. Taylor said. “In the thirties it took the place of the Luger as the German military pistol. I do have a pair of Luger 08s that date back to the first war and, if you can believe it, an MP40
Maschinenpistole
.”

Bo said, “A Schmeisser?”

Dr. Taylor smiled at him again. “Where did you get that, from a comic book? Americans can be very ignorant. They call it a Schmeisser, but Hugo Schmeisser had absolutely nothing to do with the design or creation of the weapon, nothing.”

Bo said, “May I see the Walther?”

The doctor extended it holding the barrel.

“Be careful, it's fully loaded. The safety is on the left side of the slide. It's on.”

Bo shifted the P38 to his left hand. He raised the hem of the gray cashmere and brought out his Walther PPK from the band of the girdle he was wearing as sort of a holster and now had a pistol in each hand, his Walther not looking anything like Dr. Taylor's Walther.

“I see we both hold dear the law of self-preservation,” the doctor said. “Do you know how many times my life has been threatened? Do you think I would dare answer the door at night without a pistol in my hand?”

“How many times?” Bo said.

“In letters I receive in the mail. In notes I find, here and at my office. In phone calls—I'm talking about actual threats against my life. Some might be from the same person, it's difficult to tell. One of the recent letters said, ‘I am a little guy in that I am short, but I have a big gun. Quit spouting off about Jews or you will pay with your life.'”

“How interesting,” Bo said, “he tells you he's short.”

“Yes, isn't it strange?” The doctor said, “Oh, I see you're still wearing your skirt. You're so chic, but at the same time you make a delightful Buster Brown.”

Bo said, “Thank you, Doctor,” with a coy smile and bounced his hair.

He had decided how he would do the job.

He slipped the PPK again into the girdle beneath his skirt and could feel it against his tummy, Bo turning to the powder room with the doctor's P38 in his right hand now. He snicked the safety off, opened the door, and shot Joe Aubrey in the back of the head,
bam,
and saw part of the white wall spewed red before he could close the door again.

The doctor stood rigid in his maroon silk smoking jacket, his eyes stuck wide open, his eyes raising then to the sound of a woman's voice calling from upstairs.

“Michael?”

Bo looked toward the staircase. It would be the doctor's wife, though he didn't see her yet, the upstairs dark.

“Answer her,” Bo said. “Aren't you all right?”

The doctor called out, “I'm okay, Rosemary.”

Bo saw her now, a pale nightgown coming out of the dark, her hand sliding along the round banister, Rosemary joining the party, and Bo revised how he'd finish the job. She reached the bottom of the stairs and saw him in the lamplight. Now he turned, extending the pistol, and shot Dr. Taylor in the chest, shot him through the chest, a china lamp behind him shattering as his wife screamed and Bo shot him again.

Now she'll throw herself on his body and wail in anguish, Bo thought, the way the women of Odessa wailed running to the wall, their men lying dead and the fucking Romanians eyeing the
women as they walked away. But this one has not had the experience of people killed by gunfire. She seems unsure if he was alive or dead. Really? A nine-millimeter parabellum slug having torn through his chest? Two of them. What did she expect him to do, sit up? Ah, now she crept to her husband lying on the floor and went to her knees saying his name, crying, confused.

Bo stepped over to hunch down next to her and could see into her nightgown the way she was crouched, so-so breasts hanging limp. He touched her shoulder, then brushed her hair from the side of her face, telling her in a soft tone of voice, “He's dead, Rosemary.” Now he placed the muzzle of the Walther against her temple, turned his face away and shot her through the head.

He used her nightgown to wipe the Walther clean and placed it in Rosemary's right hand, pressing her fingers to the grip. He noticed the diamond on her left hand, an impressive stone he believed he could twist from her finger. It occurred to Bo he could take whatever the doctor had in his billfold. Look in the bedroom for jewelry, cash, objects of value—the doctor must do well in his practice, a house this size.

Except he hadn't planned it to look like a robbery.

As soon as he saw Rosemary coming down the stairs he set the scene. She finds her husband and Mr. Aubrey doing nasty things with each other in the powder room. She has suspected her husband and now catches him going at it with Mr. Aubrey, shoots them both in a blind rage and turns the gun on herself.

He thought about it for several moments.

She's consumed with a feeling of unbearable shame.

Would the police see that?

Or she can't imagine spending the rest of her life in prison. Or she's insane. Or whatever way the police would see it, looking at the evidence.

What was the evidence?

Bo was thinking he'd have to take their clothes off. Dress Mr. Aubrey and now undress him, without getting bloodstains on Vera's skirt. At least unzip their flies. What was Mr. Aubrey doing? He had to piss. Bo hears him saying to Rosemary, “You're being a foolish girl. I'm going to piss and be on my way.”

How did he get here?

He must have come with the doctor.

Yes? The police arrive and they see Rosemary has killed her husband and Mr. Aubrey. The police pose motives to explain why Rosemary, with her drooping dugs, is the killer. Why, why, why. Stuck with looking for her motive. Never seeing this as a robbery. Or even thinking of robbery as a possibility.

What he should do, give Vera a call.

In case he's overlooked something.

He would tell her he changed the plan. He
wanted
to tell her, proud of the way it worked out, improvising as he went along. Call her and get it over with. You changed the plan. Aubrey is not buried in a cornfield. You decided to take care of the doctor too. “Vera, you know he'll fold under FBI pressure. I thought, since I'm out running errands anyway…” Tell her, “The moment I saw Rosemary descending the stairs in her see-through nighty, I was inspired.”

Make it sound easy and Vera will love it.

 

Vera was under the covers, the phone in bed with her.

She said, “Wait. Start over. Bo, I was sound asleep. You're at Dr. Taylor's?”

Listening to him, not once interrupting, she began to push herself higher on the pillows bunched against the headboard. By the time Bo, winding down, was describing his action as inspired,
Vera was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette. Before she said a word she reminded herself,
You need him.

“Bo, I love it.”

“I knew you would.”

“You could be a playwright.”

“You know I've always wanted to write.”

“But you can't leave Aubrey there.”

It stopped Bo in his tracks.

“Why? It doesn't work without Mr. Aubrey. He's the other man.”

“But as soon as he's found dead, the check he gave me is worthless.”

“Yes, but who knows when that will be?”

“Rosemary has a maid who comes every day.”

“Go to the bank early, as soon as it opens.”

“Bo, I'm making it out for fifty thousand. I'm not going to deposit the check of a man who was murdered the day before.”

“What if I move Mr. Aubrey?”

“I don't know,” Vera said.

“He gave you the check and went home to Georgia, as far as anyone knows.”

“I'd still be afraid of it.”

“Even if he's in the river, never to be seen again?”

“I don't know.” She needed to think about it and said, “There's still Dr. Taylor.”

“I could drop him off too.”

“Give me a minute,” Vera said. She slept naked and got out of bed this way, chilled as she went to the tea cart that served as her bedroom bar, poured a slivovitz and drank it down; poured another and brought it to the bed with her.

“If the doctor isn't there, and his wife is found dead—”

“A suicide,” Bo said.

“Yes, but the police will suspect her husband killed her. Where is he? Has he fled? Bo, leave the doctor where he is. It's much simpler if Rosemary killed him and killed herself.” Vera finished the slivovitz and lighted a cigarette. “Have you ever had a conversation with Rosemary?”

“I've asked her what she'd like to drink. She says, ‘Oh,' and acts flustered. ‘Do you have white wine?'”

Vera said, “I doubt if anyone who knows Rosemary will believe she killed Michael. But, I suppose that can be said of most women who kill their husbands. She's a timid soul. I can't imagine her firing a P38 or even knowing how.”

“The doctor also has a couple of Lugers,” Bo said, “and that bullet hose, the MP40 machine pistol.”

There was a silence as Vera smoked her cigarette and imagined the scene in the doctor's house. Finally she said, “Bo, listen. I want only the doctor and Rosemary there. Who knows why she killed him. It will be announced on the front pages of Detroit papers, Wife Murders Her Husband the Doctor. After that, stories will be about the doctor's politics. What is he? An enemy alien born in Canada, a former member of the Bund and alleged member of a German spy ring. We won't know if the police suspect murder. They'll talk to neighbors, the doctor's hospital associates, his nurses, perhaps some of his patients, and before long they'll ask us how we happen to know Dr. Taylor.”