Blue Heaven (18 page)

"Yes," she sighed. "Okay, I guess you didn't do it. I was just
testing you."

The three of us exhaled mightily and slumped back in our chairs. Seizing my glass with a trembling hand, I guzzled the last of my chablis.

"Testing me?"

"Well, if you'd said, 'I didn't do it!' or 'You can't prove it!' before I even said what I was talking about then I'd know you did it."

"Did what?" said Gilbert, with just the right blend of perplexity and pique.

"Well, some absolutely vicious person sent my mother a letter telling her everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, just about. Here, listen-"

Her voice dripping with toxins, she read the letter.

" '. . . Yours regretfully, a
Wellwisher''
!
Have you ever heard anything so hateful in your life!"

"Never! This is all your fault, you stupid bitch!" said Gilbert, brilliantly seizing the offensive.

"My fault!"

"Well, you must have told someone about the trust fund! I certainly haven't breathed a word of it!"

"Neither have I!"

"Then it must have been your stupid Winslow!"

"Winslow! What about Philip?"

"Don't be ridiculous! He's right here, I'll ask him. Philip," he said holding a finger to his lips-if I were to answer she'd know the speaker was on-"have you ever breathed a word about Moira's trust fund to anyone? . . . He says don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, you just have his word for it!"

"Which is good enough for me!"

"Don't shout at me, you beast! You don't have the first idea what I've been through!"

"Oh. Well, sorry," said Gilbert. "Your mom come down hard on you?"

"No, not
her.
Don't worry. She knows
nothing
about.it."

On hearing this happy bit of news I shot forward once more in my seat and poor Claire choked on her trifle. Gilbert paused for the merest instant before bellowing:

"Well, if she doesn't know anything what the hell is the problem?"

"What's the problem? God, you are so dense!"

She proceeded to tell us her tale, and a pretty tale it wasn't.

Not long after her accident the duchess had received a letter from a poacher who'd been shot in the pants by the gamekeeper and was now threatening to sue her for two million pounds. The duchess has extremely high blood pressure and the tantrum induced by this missive had struck the duke as inconducive to her recuperation. So the duke discreetly charged his loyal butler, Murcheson, with the task of screening the duchess's mail. Anything which struck him as potentially upsetting was to be referred to the duke who would deal with it as he saw fit.

But when Murcheson, whose loyalty to the duke was not, it seemed, unwavering, laid eyes on the letter about Moira's trust fund he decided immediately that, although it fell squarely into the category of "potentially upsetting," he would not show it to the Duke. He would, instead, wait a few days and show it to Moira. He felt certain the young lady would be grateful to him for standing between her and a most unfortunate exposure. And Murcheson, who was fifty-seven, had little hair, a bulbous nose, dental problems, and perhaps seventy pounds more on his short frame than medical specialists deemed advisable, had not been on the receiving end of a young woman's gratitude for quite a few years.

And so, shortly after Moira's arrival, Murcheson drew her aside, showed her the damning letter and assured her that neither her mother nor the duke had been apprised of its contents. Moira, in a rare show
of naivete, threw her arms about him and exclaimed, "Oh, Murcheson, how can I ever repay you?" Murcheson replied frankly and Moira, despite her skills as a strategist and many years of stage experience, could not induce him to accept an alternate payment plan.

"You didn't!" gasped Gilbert.

"What else could I do!"

Fortunately, she said, by the night of their second assignation she'd managed, through the time-honored tape-recorder-under-the-bed method, to get the goods on Murcheson. Thus armed with incontest-ible proof of his blackmail, she secured his promise not only never to touch her again but to seek out and destroy any further letters from the author of this one, for, she assured him, her downfall would be his.

"So at least we don't have to worry about anyone tipping off Mummy!"

"Thank God for that!"

"Still, do you believe it? Of all the slimy mean-spirited things to do!"

"But
who
could be on to us? Who could have done it?"

"I don't know, dear, but when I find out I'm going to bury the fucker."

Sixteen

W
as Moira a supernatural force? It was beginning to seem so. How else to explain the frightening ease with which she could juggle countless lies, extract jewels from murderers, suck trust funds dry and thwart all efforts to expose her? A little sober reflection might have led us to see that a real supernatural force would never make stupid investments, read Deirdre Sauvage aloud, or fuck butlers who'd let themselves go, but our reflections that night were anything but sober. We sat in the light of the tree, obsessing about Moira until in our minds she was an ageless indestructible she-thing who'd begun her career in the Eumenides, coached Torquemada, and given Hitler the idea.

By morning cooler, if slightly throbbing, heads prevailed. We talked it through from all angles, even seeing the bright side. Hadn't Moira at least ruled us out as authors of the letter?

We agreed the basic plan should remain unchanged. The duchess had to be informed of the swindle, for only she could discreetly put a stop to it. It was clear even Moira knew this, or why would she have gone to such distasteful lengths to see the duchess was not shown the letter? But if Murcheson was standing guard over the post, we'd have to resort to phoning. It was less desirable than the mail since a voice could be recognized or even, as Moira had demonstrated, recorded. But what was the alternative?

We dialed directory assistance for the appropriate county and found that although the Duke of Dorsetshire was unlisted there was a number for Trebleclef in Little Chipperton.

"So, who should make the call?"

We agreed that since Moira's forced assignations with Murcheson
had left her with a thirst for vengeance even Sweeney Todd might have found immoderate, it was vital to keep suspicion deflected from us. Claire remembered that a co-worker of hers, a fellow named Peter, was moving to Texas in January. His imminent departure made him a safe choice and he could, she promised, be relied upon to do it if she assured him it was for a good cause.

He would simply phone and ask to speak to the duchess, saying that he was a reporter writing a piece about the tragic events at the Medieval Festival and the duchess's brave recuperation. Once he had her on the line he'd ask why she hadn't responded to his letter? What letter she would say, and he'd read it to her. We agreed the danger to Peter would be minimal so long as he made sure to disguise his voice. As extra insurance for
us,
the call could come when Moira, Gilbert and I were all together, so she'd see there was no way either of us could have made it.

Saturday morning Claire called Gilbert and me to tell us Peter had proved willing. He'd join Claire at her place Sunday and the call would be made promptly at one. So the next day around noon I showed up at God's Country for brunch, bearing a gift for Moira. It seemed a good idea to keep her as off guard as possible, and the personal sacrifice involved in offering it was extremely slight.

"Oh, Philip dear, how thoughtful! Tickets to Cats! But I feel just awful, I haven't gotten yours yet-but I will! It's just been so crazy!"

I said Gilbert had told me of her ordeal and I offered my sympathies.

"It really was too dreadful! I mean, I've known Murcheson for years and years and I never dreamed he was capable of such low, disgusting-well, anyway, he's working for us now. He knows Mummy would strangle him with her own two hands if she heard what was on that tape!"

"Can we hear it?" asked Gilbert.

"No," said Moira with great finality.

We retired to the dining room for brunch. Moira insisted on cooking so it was frozen waffles and something vaguely meatzoid called Sizzlean. As we ate we discussed the informer's identity and it became clear to Gilbert and me that, in firing off our little salvo, the Allies (as I'd begun to think of us) had not considered the full ramifications of our actions. Our concern was so focused on deflecting suspicion from us that we'd given no thought at all as to where it might ricochet.

"Vulpina?
Moy, hon, are you
sure?"

"Yes! She's the only one who knows the trust exists at all. Except for Winslow Potts, and he has as much to lose as I do."

"Pina knows about the trust fund?"

"Of course," said Moira. "Don't you remember? The day she brought those revolting designs for my gown and Mummy called and said she'd had the accident and I'd have to use my fund? And I went on and on about how I lived on the income and couldn't it all be paid for some other way? Pina was right here, soaking up every word of it."

"But she wasn't here when you told us you'd spent the money."

"So, she figured it out. I mean, she
knows
I've made some bad investments in the last few years. Pina's very clever in a low vicious sort of way. Then when I fired her the spiteful bitch decided to get back at me by spilling the beans. God, I'm
sure
it's her! You heard her at Holly's! All that nonsense about perspective and how soon everything will be different!"

Of course, we knew these comments had just been Pina being her usual cryptic self, but how could we say so without seeming to know things we couldn't unless we were the responsible party? We agreed Pina's remarks certainly
seemed
to take on new significance in light of the letter, but added that the situation demanded more study.

There was, I suddenly realized, one ray of exonerating sunshine still waiting to beam down on Vulpina, and that was Peter's call to the duchess-which, a glance at my watch confirmed, had taken place only moments ago. It would confirm that the informant had been a man, not a woman, and a man, at that, whose identity would be comfortably ambiguous.

Just then the phone rang. Moira answered, listened a moment and said, "I accept the charges!"

At once a look of distaste came over her.

"Yes, it's me, Murcheson. What do
you
want?"

The full impact of this greeting took a moment to sink in on me. If the call was from Murcheson and not her mother this was probably because he was standing guard not only over the mail but over incoming calls as well. Peter had never gotten through.

"When?"
asked Moira, ruthlessly. ". . . Oh, he
did,
did he? Thank God you answered! What did he say? . . . Oh, Gawd, how positively
lame! . . .
What did the weasel sound like? . . . He
did?
Well, well, we//! . . . Yes,
damned
important! Listen, anyone else calls, she's
got laryngitis! . . . Thank you, Murcheson. Keep up the good work!"

"Well," said Moira, hanging up, "she tried again! Or
they
tried
again, I should say, because she's not working alone."

"She's not?"

"No. She's in cahoots with
Gunther
!"

It was sickening, really, that, the destructive forces of Cause and Effect having already pummeled us half senseless, Coincidence should now rush to get a few lumps in too. But that was just what had
happened.

Peter had shown up at Claire's right on schedule and begun rehearsing his role. She'd told him to disguise his voice both for his own protection and ours. Naturally, she'd recommended a British accent and it was in such an accent that Peter dutifully rehearsed. His wasn't a very good British accent, though. It was tentative and combined improbably the voices of Alistair Cooke and Stanley Holloway. Peter was something of a perfectionist and painfully aware that his characterization lacked the ring of authenticity.

Which was why, the moment Murcheson had answered the phone, some drive deep within Peter told him to abandon the voice and switch to a German accent. He'd performed
Stalag 17 in
high school and his rendition of an overbearing Nazi was a model of the impressionist's art. Peter's artistry, however, was confined to accents and stopped quite a bit short of improvisation. Faced with a barrage of questions regarding his journalistic credentials, Peter had waffled pathetically, going so far at one point as to cite the publication he worked for as
Duchess Monthly.
Murcheson had angrily demanded his name and it was at that point that Claire had reached over and depressed the receiver button.

Claire had seen the episode as no more than another round lost in the battle to break through to the duchess. She couldn't perceive the consequences of Peter's last-minute accent switch. I'd told her about Gunther when I'd first filled her in about the syndicate but I hadn't mentioned his accent. After that I hadn't made too much of him at all, since, in the aftermath of Maddie's party, he'd seemed the least of our problems.

But now, with Moira convinced he and Pina were behind the smear campaign, what horrors might she perpetrate against them? And how
horribly might they retaliate? How could we stop Moira? Indeed, how could we not
assist
her? For with this new evidence, could we really pretend to be unconvinced by her conspiracy theory? It was too damned plausible.

After the way Moira had dressed him down in public, wouldn't Gunther be eager for revenge? Vulpina, too, had been given a motive for vengeance when Moira had rejected her designs. And hadn't we seen them chatting away at Holly's party as though suddenly the best of friends?

Clearly they'd met, compared grievances and, pooling Vulpina's inside information about the trust with Gunther's Aryan wiles, had reached the correct conclusion that Moira had spent the money and was trying to hide this from her mother. Then, in their rush to taste blood, they'd sent the poisonous note to Trebleclef.

"What should we do?" asked Gilbert, dreading her reply.

"Isn't it obvious? We have to fuck them over and let 'em know if they try it again we'll fuck them even worse!"

"Moira," I said, "we're trying to avoid trouble, not get into it!"

"Wimps! Honestly, what I wouldn't give to have a couple of
men
working with me!"

"Eat shit, toots!" said Gilbert. "We just don't want you to do something demented that's going to get them so mad they decide to stop bothering the duchess and squeal to Tony and Mom instead!"

"Gilbert," she said condescendingly, "don't you think I've thought of that? That's why we have to
scare
them! So they won't dare do anything more at all! And if you don't agree with me fine. I'll do it myself."

What could we do but agree? Only by staying involved could we keep her revenge from getting too crazed, or worse still, tipping Pina and Gunther off to damaging information which Moira believed they knew but which they, in fact, did not. Besides, if we showed any reluctance to get back at them, that would only make Moira suspicious of
us.

It was all hideously complicated, but every speculation led back to the same fear: that Moira, the moment she smelled treachery from our side, would sell us out and claim the whole thing was our idea. This fear overrode all other considerations. Placed against it any mild (or not so mild) havoc wreaked against Pina and Gunther seemed
quite inconsequential. My talks with Gilbert regarding their fate went something like this:

"I feel so terrible."

"Me, too. They don't deserve this."

"I know. I feel awful."

"But whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly. Can I freshen that?"

We at least managed to convince Moira that whatever we did should be done surreptitiously. Moira, being an artist of the vindictive gesture, hated to see what would probably be some of her best work go unsigned. But she agreed that since we had no concrete proof of what they'd done, it was best they have nothing to pin on us. We knew who was trashing us and, by the same token, they would know who was retaliating.

Of course, they
wouldn't
know. They wouldn't have the vaguest idea who was threatening them or why. They'd simply be plunged into some Hitchcockian nightmare of mistaken identities, with unknown malefactors meting out unearned retribution for unspecified grievances.

"Poor Pina. I always sort of liked her."

"Me too. She's strange but-"

"Engaging?"

"Yes. Fun to be around."

"She'll be so frightened!"

"And so confused! I'm sick about it."

"Me, too."

"Say when."