A Novel Death (25 page)

"I doubt it's a hundred days old. It hasn't cured."

"Then Helen Bannerman didn't paint it."

"Not unless she's also the world's oldest Scotswoman."

"Then who painted it?" But of course it was a question that he could not answer.

"We could test the inscription to see if it's real," he suggested.

"No!" I was terrified he would try it before I could stop him. "I mean, why smear that too?"

He brought the book close to his face, moved it away, turned it slightly. Then he looked at me. "I'd say that it is and it isn't."

"Meaning?"

"'The tiger's pounce' and her initials look contemporaneous with the book's age. I'd put money on it that the first initials are more recent."

"You mean the JRK was added?"

"I'm afraid so."

Good-bye, Rudyard. "'Things fall apart."'

"'The center will not hold."' He completed the quotation for me with a wry smile.

Things fall apart.

What else is there to say? I left Bruce with promises to cook him a down-home dinner, fried chicken and whipped sweet potatoes, which he said were his favorite American foods, then drove back to my house. I thought about what would have happened if I hadn't blurred the painting. The book could have gotten all the way to auction or into the hands of a private collector. Would that have been so terrible? I couldn't decide. I just knew I was not ready to give up the image of Helen Bannerman creating the charming little picture for Rudyard Kipling.

But when I pulled the van into the driveway, the memory of the Barbie doll cut through the haze of exquisite food and wine like the moon knifing through clouds. What was I doing? Perhaps the sender was right now sitting at my kitchen table, patiently holding a knife, ready to threaten me into giving up the book. Going into the house could be the stupidest thing I had ever done. I would call Frank Marselli-but not from my home phone.

I backed out of the driveway and drove downtown into Port Lewis, parking illegally over some white cautionary stripes. With tourists crisscrossing the street in front of me, I felt safe enough to check my answering machine for any threats.

There was one message

"Delhi? I guess you're out, but I have to see you. I need the book as soon as possible. Can you bring it tomorrow morning or as soon as you get it back? I'm sorry to involve you, but you're the only one I trust. I'm in Montauk." She gave me the name of a motel and a room number.

I was so startled that I had to play the message again to write down the information. Then I sat staring at my cell phone.

I knew what I had to do. I had been given an order that even a five-year-old child could not misinterpret. "You will call me."

Reaching into my woven bag, I found the wallet which held Frank Marselli's card, and then stopped. I had promised to call him when I knew where Margaret was. And I would. But that did not mean I had to call him from Port Lewis. All I needed was a few minutes with Margaret, a chance to give her the book and see how she was. There would be chaos once the police arrived.

I couldn't go back to my house anyway, not with the mutilated doll. And I couldn't call Frank Marselli about it without telling him about Margaret. He hadn't told me I couldn't talk to her; he just told me to tell him where she was. I'd be in and out before he even arrived.

In the end, I was my parents' daughter. I could no more disobey a police order than smuggle flowers out of a botanical garden or speed away after causing an accident. Or smuggle rare books out of a library.

I stopped and bought the largest size coffee possible at Qwikj ava, and then worked my way to Nicolls Road, keeping to the speed limit until I reached the road to the south fork, Sunrise Highway, and turned east. This Sunday night most of the traffic was going in the opposite direction, a slow slog of cars returning to Manhattan after the weekend. I exited at Bellport and found a convenience store. Then I extracted Frank Marselli's card and dialed.

"Homicide."

"Detective Marselli?"

"No. What's it in reference to?"

"The murder in Port Lewis? He wanted to know when I heard from Margaret Weller."

"Right, I'll patch you through."

I squeezed the little telephone in my hand. With the glow of the wine gone, I felt a jittery dread. Terrible things were being set in motion, even worse things than receiving a mutilated doll. Across the parking lot three young men in muscle shirts and head kerchiefs leaned on the hood of a Jeep, smoking and watching me. They did not look menacing, but any approach from them would have shoved me over the edge.

Several clicks on the line. "Marselli."

"Hi. It's Delhi Laine."

"You heard from Ms. Weller?"

"Yes. She left a message on my answering machine. She's still on the Island."

"Where?"

"Montauk Point. At someplace called the Captain's Comfort Motel. Room 16."

"Montauk? Sheesh! Why didn't she just swim to Block Island? Where are you?"

"In Bellport."

"Bellport?"

"I was having dinner with a friend." A non sequitur, though he did not know it.

"Go back to Port Lewis. I'll call you later."

"But-"

And then my finger slipped onto the END button, cutting us off.

To conserve the battery, I turned off the phone.

To stay alert I tuned into an oldies station and listened to Frank, Ella, and Bing. But even with the music on I obsessed about what I would say to Margaret. How could I tell her that the book she was counting on was a forgery-and that I had ruined even that? If I hadn't sent it to Colin, if it had still been in my bag when she came for it, this never would have happened. The book would be as pristine as when she had mailed it to me.

But if she's an artist, she can just repair it, my inner cynic pointed out.

That was ridiculous; there was no point in repairing a fake.

I kept to the various speed limits and braked whenever traffic lights turned yellow. In Southampton the road changed from a treelined parkway to one lane of restaurants, plant nurseries, and inns. The brief glitter of Bridgehampton gave way to a quieter stretch before the placid village of East Hampton with its canal. After that, the road wound through pools of darkness, broken only occasionally by house lights. Amagansett came next, and then the emptiest stretch of all before the lights of Montauk pointed the way into the Atlantic.

I was wondering if I would have to drive into the village itself when I saw the sign for Captain's Comfort-a painted board with the usual grizzled face in a yellow slicker. It was illuminated by a spotlight and the neon word NO was lit up next to VACANCY.

As it was, I almost missed the turnoff into the parking lot. Thankfully there was no one on the road behind me; I braked quickly and slipped in, bouncing over broken clam shells. The white stucco building had been built in an arc so that every room faced the ocean. But this was no resort. Beside the office door, a painted wooden Dutch boy and girl leaned together, bottoms out, engaged in the world's most boring kiss. A large plastic swordfish was mounted to the door's right and I guessed the motel had been built in the 1950s for sport fishermen.

The parking lot was full. It was after eleven P.M. and most of the cars looked snugged in for the night. Pulling into the only available space, farthest away in the shadows by the road, I climbed down from the van, shocked to find that my first steps were a cramped stagger. The ride had taken two tense hours. I was heading for the cement walk that led past the front doors of the units when I saw an East Hampton Town police car angled in front of the path. Had they already approached Margaret? Or had Frank Marselli contacted them to make sure no one left the motel room-or went in-before he got there?

Fishing in my bag as if looking for a room key, I turned and walked in the opposite direction. At the edge of the highway, the shoulder was paved with more clam shells that crunched loudly under my black sandals. Unaccustomed to high heels, I felt as if I were walking on stilts. But I kept my shoes on until I reached the property where another motel, The Montauk Light Inn, began. Then, stepping out of the sandals, I crossed the grass that divided the two buildings. I moved steadily ahead until I reached the beach and stepped onto the sand.

Instinctively, I jerked my foot back. The sand felt cold, even clammy. Although the beach was unlit, I could see from the glow of the full moon that it was deserted. An empty lifeguard's chair tilted like an abandoned toy. As if the ocean had been given a reprieve from performing, the waves barely rose and fell, making a soft plash. A wrinkled reflection of the moon bobbed near the horizon like a deflated beach ball. Only the crisp sea salt smell was strong.

As I trudged past windows with closed Venetian blinds, I could hear snatches of TV, a baby crying, a couple arguing in sharp, staccato bursts. You're the one who had the bright idea to come. But most of the rooms were silent, and some were already dark. Margaret's door, identified by tarnished brass numbers, was louvered with whitepainted slats. A small life preserver hung to one side. It was not a place I would have imagined her staying.

Although room 16 was dark, I rapped on the louvers. "Margaret?" I called softly.

Nothing.

I knocked a little more urgently. "Margaret!"

Still nothing, and then the door was jerked back.

"Delhi? I didn't think you'd come tonight." Her forehead crinkled as if it wasn't the correct thing to do, as if she wasn't sure she should even let me in. She was still dressed, in white slacks and a pink striped shirt, and her rich brown hair was clasped back as usual. "Why are you here now?"

I couldn't tell her why I hadn't waited. Glancing to where the police car was still parked, I said, "Margaret, we have to talk. Now."

Looking dubious, she pulled back the door further and I stepped inside. "Lock the door," I commanded.

She picked up on my alarm. "Why-what?" But she moved very quickly.

Instead of answering, I started to cough. The air was like a storm cloud, heavy with cigarette smoke. I knew Margaret still smoked, though never around the books. But we might as well have been in a Turkish bar. Only a back bathroom light cast a glow out onto a cheap wooden wardrobe. In the remaining dimness, I could just make out two double beds and a round white plastic table near the door. Margaret must have been sitting in the dark, smoking.

I pulled out a yellow canvas director's chair and sat down, putting my purse on the table, the bag's opening facing into the room. Imagining Sambo leaping out, I pressed the yarn edge down. It sprang back up like a willful child.

Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed opposite me; I could barely see her face in the half-light. "Things seem so different at night." Her speckled eyes, framed by lashes that seemed darker than usual, were wide with unhappy wonder. She looked as if she had just seen something that she had thought was a myth. "In the daytime, anything's possible. But by nighttime-"

We didn't have time for a philosophical discussion. "Margaret, who are you afraid of? If you talk to the police, tell them the whole story, and they can arrest him and you can go home."

She didn't answer. In the dimness I saw that she was patting the plaid bedspread for her pack of Dorals. When her hand found the cigarettes, though, she didn't pull one out. Instead, she began to squeeze the cellophane package open and shut as if it were an exercise grip.

"Someone double-crossed you. It was supposed to look like a burglary, I guess, you and Amil on the floor and the cash drawer emptywas it for the insurance? But after he knocked you out, he switched everything around."

She put her hands to her ears to shut me out. "Don't! I can't think."

I leaned toward her. "I'm telling you that someone put Amil in the basement and the money back in the register. And dragged you over to the ladder to make it look like you fell."

"Why are you saying this? I thought you were my friend!"

"I am your friend. I'm trying to help you sort it out."

"But you're saying I planned it!"

"Even if you did, what he did was worse"

"You have no idea what happened." This time she did shake out a cigarette, but started rolling it between her palms instead of lighting it. "You show up here in the middle of the night with all kinds of ... accusations. Did you bring the book? Just give it to me and leave."

I blinked at the loathing in her voice. Perhaps because we were sitting in the dark, our voices were low, almost whispering. But I wasn't imagining the scorn.

"Where did you get Sambo?"

"I don't think that's any of your business." She looked at the white cylinder, as if thinking about what she would have to do to light it. "You think life's a treasure hunt, with everybody else supplying the clues."

This wasn't Margaret, Margaret my friend. But I already knew that.

"I know who you really are."

"What?" She imprisoned my wrist with her fingers. "What are you talking about?"

"You're Rebecca Pym. You escaped from California before you could go to jail."

Her grip was strong. Why was I telling her this, regurgitating everything I'd learned online? But I couldn't stop. "You were going to be put on trial for killing your husband and you disappeared." In the news photographs she'd looked younger, wilder, different. But if you were looking for similarities, you found them.

"You've been in my house! Who said you could go in my house? Anyway, it's all a lie!"

"Do the police know? Is that why they're trying to find you?"

And then, as if this were a bad play, there was a scraping on the cement stoop outside and the click of the door handle being tried. I looked quickly at Margaret to see if she had heard the sound.

She had.

Two quick knocks on the door. "Police! Open up!"

With an incredulous look at me, Margaret leaped up, jarring the mattress. Still holding my arm, she yanked me off the chair, drawing me further into the room. I was too surprised at first to resist.

The police must have had a master key. Margaret had just pulled us into the bathroom and clicked the lock when they were outside that door too, pounding on the fragile wood.