Compromising Positions (13 page)

So, once in the door, we scurried into Nancy’s office, the only room in the house that had escaped Larry’s pristine vision. Her desk, strewn with copies of
Foreign Affairs
and
Economist
and
Cosmopolitan
, was a giant affair of tortuously carved oak. On the wall opposite the door was a large, wood-framed Victorian couch, covered in a dull-looking fabric that had probably once been a shiny red, white, and green chintz, but now had the dry, faded appearance of flowers long forgotten in a vase. The only other furniture was a pair of ladderback chairs, with needlepoint cushions sewn by Nancy’s cousin Betty—with the invitation “Set right down” in a sturdy continental stitch. Nancy kept the room as a reminder of her roots, a once-gracious way of life now grown musty and obsolete. Also, she knew its existence within the house disturbed Larry. When he took clients on the grand tour, he’d whisk them by her office door, mumbling that it led to the air conditioning equipment. He couldn’t laugh at it; it was worse than having a lunatic old aunt hidden away in the attic.

“Could you open a window in here?” I asked Nancy.

“Why? Does it smell?”

“It’s a little stuffy.”

“Are you here to criticize or to hear about the murder?”

“I’m here to criticize,” I said and opened a window. The air was damp and icy cold, but preferable to the stale atmosphere of the office. Nancy embraced the spectrum of old southern bugaboos: handling frogs will give you warts, drafts are immediately followed by influenza, eating capon makes men lose their potency. “Don’t panic,” I reassured her, “I’ll close it in a minute.”

“In a minute I could catch a chill and die.”

“So talk fast.” I closed the window and sat on the couch.

“Well, all Cupcake is hearing is the gossip. The precinct isn’t directly involved in the case. I gather that whenever there’s a murder, there’s a special homicide unit that does all the investigating. But they rely on the precinct to fill them in on local color. Of which there is an abundance in this case. Anyhow, he says that everyone in the entire world is a suspect. The Mafia, Brucie-boy’s entire family, every woman he ever laid a hand on. And your neighbor, the Great American Mother. That redheaded little flower, who’s always cheerful.”

“You mean Marilyn Tuccio?” I asked, trying to sound astonished.

“Yes. Seems that she made some kind of a threat against Brucie to his nurse. They think she might be some kind of religious fanatic who wants to cleanse the world.”

“That is the most asinine thing I have ever heard in my entire life. She’s not a religious fanatic. She’s a practicing Catholic.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing,” I insisted. “And she didn’t threaten him, for God’s sake. She just made some offhand remark to his nurse that he’d get into trouble if he kept coming on to every creature he met who had a vagina. Well, you know, Marilyn didn’t say it quite that way, but that’s what she meant.”

Nancy lit a Chesterfield and picked a shred of tobacco off her tongue with long white fingers. Of all the people I know, only she still smokes unfiltered cigarettes. If you’re going to kill yourself, she announced, at least do it with taste and dignity. “You spoke to Marilyn Tuccio about the murder?” she asked.

“Yes. Just briefly. A detective came around asking questions, so I mentioned it to her.”

“I see. Well, getting back to the list of suspects, the nurse is also in the top ten. It seems Bruce was filling one of her cavities and she was pressuring him to get a divorce.”

“Okay. Now let me get this straight. There’s no one particular person who’s a suspect?”

“Well, as I said, Cupcake is not exactly at the center of the investigation. But apparently the boys at the precinct are just tickled about this case. I mean, what do they have around here? A couple of robberies, a few kids getting high and smashing up their daddies’ cars? This is the juiciest thing that’s happened in years. And they just love the idea that Bruce was sticking it to all the local ladies. But Cupcake says that the case is wide open. Bruce made so many enemies that almost anything is a possibility.”

“What do you mean by enemies? Real enemies?”

“Well, he didn’t do anything blatantly terrible. But Jim—Cupcake—spoke to one of the homicide men who was interviewing people at Bruce’s club, and this fellow said that old Bruce made everyone nervous. I mean, each of the members knew a few of the ladies Bruce was sleeping with, and they were all awed by his success. Also, the homicide man said they were all afraid of Bruce’s fatal charm, that he could have been zapping
anyone
, even their own wives. Also, he was involved in some strange business deals.”

“Like the pornography thing?”

“That, yes, and some franchise operation that wasn’t on the up and up and a deal with buying and selling gold that was beyond Cupcake’s ability to comprehend.”

“So, in other words, what they have is that Fleckstein was a runaround and a wheeler-dealer and he made a lot of people uncomfortable. Right?” Nancy nodded. “What else did you get?” She lifted her hands, ran them over her auburn hair, and smiled. “Come on,” I urged, “be serious.”

“Okay, but it will take great effort. There were no fingerprints in Fleckstein’s office, no fingerprints that didn’t belong. But Jim says any self-respecting killer has enough sense to wear gloves. But they did find something interesting. You’ll love this.”

“What? What?”

“Pictures. Some of Brucie’s pretty pictures. Cupcake says the boys at the precinct are almost delirious with joy. The captain finally got disgusted and put them in his safe, but then the homicide guys told him they wanted everyone to have a look—that maybe they’d recognize one of the subjects.”

“God!”

“Now here’s the interesting part. They only found about seven or eight pictures, and they were sort of stuck behind one of his drawers. You know, those skinny little drawers dentists use to keep their tools in. Jesus, Brucie should have kept his tool in a drawer. Maybe he wouldn’t be dead now.”

“Is it really so strange that they found only a few pictures?”

“Sure was. Because the drawer itself was completely empty. The pictures they found were kind of wedged in back. And they found a piece of paper, like the corner of a picture, stuck to the back part of the drawer. They think the murderer might have gone through the office, found the pictures, and taken them.”

I eased off my shoes and put my feet up on the couch, trying to find a way to let my back muscles relax. “But Bruce could have decided to take the pictures. I mean, he might have wanted to get rid of them.”

“Listen, Sherlock, I’m a step ahead of you. Jim says that a few of the drawers weren’t completely closed, including the one with the pictures. And they were broken into.”

“So they think the murderer was after the pictures?”

“Well, they’re leaning toward that, but they’re not really certain. Listen, it could have been a completely casual killing and the murderer just happened to find them. Maybe he took them home to get his rocks off. Or maybe your neighbor took them away to burn them so they couldn’t corrupt any more souls.”

“Nancy, she’s not a religious nut. Look, I go to temple sometimes. Does that make me a religious fanatic?”

“No, but it certainly detracts from your claim that you’re a rational human being. I mean, the chopped liver and the Yiddish expressions are charming, but you don’t have to drag God into it.”

I sighed, knowing how futile an argument would be. “All right. You’re wrong, but I’m not going to pursue it. What else did Little Cupcake have to say?”

“That was it,” she said. I believed her. Nancy’s memory is excellent. She can interview a celebrity for an article and recall the entire conversation without referring to her notes. Slowly, stretching, talking casually, we left the office and walked downstairs, the sparkling white rooms more glaring than bright sunlight after a movie matinee.

“I wish,” I said, as I sat in a plexiglass kitchen chair, “that I could have asked Cupcake a few questions.”

“Why not? Give him a call, a little sweet talk. He likes tits.” She stood at the refrigerator, holding a bottle of Chablis. Expertly, she extracted the cork.

“Before noon?” I asked, eyeing the wine.

She put the cork on the white formica counter and turned to me. “When are you going to stop trying to reform me?”

“It’s just that it bothers me to see you drinking so much. It can’t be doing you any good.”

“How do you know? Do I seem miserable? Sick? Deranged?”

“No. But have you ever wondered why you drink so much?”

“No. I know why. I enjoy it. And I enjoy writing and fucking and nice clothes. Just accept it. Accept me. As I am. As I accept you. Do I ask you why you’re in such a twit over this murder?”

“No, but I’ll be glad to talk about it. I mean, if you really want to hear...”

“But I don’t. I accept the fact that you find this murder very interesting. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Why don’t you just pay a call on some of the people involved. Ask questions. If you want to be a detective, be a detective.”

“Come on, Nancy. How could I? What excuse could I give?”

“Are you smart, Judith?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Then you’ll think of something.”

I needed time. I had to concentrate on the murder, determine how to reach the principals in the Fleckstein case. There had to be a way for me, me, who had spent the four weeks preceding my qualifying exams in French and German reading a bookcase full of whodunits. Me, who devoured mounds of Dorothy Sayers and John Dickson Carrs, piles of Christies, mountains of Stouts. But the weekend was too hectic. Saturday morning, Joey climbed into our bed at six-thirty, cuddled in the crook of my arm, and threw up on the quilt. He said: “I don’t think I feel so good.” A mere stomach virus, but I spent the day trailing after him with a glass of ginger ale and peering closely to look for blotches or pustules or rashes. By evening, he was well. I was enervated. But at Bob’s insistence, we kept a date with his newest client.

We met them at a local seafood restaurant. Walking from the parking lot, I noticed Bob’s head lowered, as if to protect his face from the wind—but there wasn’t even a breeze.

“I know how you feel,” I said warmly. “It’s no fun giving up a perfectly good Saturday night for strangers.”

Bob stopped between a Seville and a BMW. “He’s not a stranger. He’s a client and a damned good one too.” He sniffed and strode toward the entrance, with me two lengths behind, teetering on too-high heels that Bob claimed made my legs look better. I hadn’t asked better than what. Or whose.

The latest superstar in the Singer Associates firmament was a buck-toothed toy manufacturer. His wife was a large-boned, matronly child psychologist. Bob had told me she worked with disturbed children. She looked as if she could cure autism by merely clutching a child to her shelf of a bosom. She and I smiled over drinks, beamed over menus, proclaiming that we had heard wonderful things about the other. The men discussed a survey on consumer trust and faith in the toy industry, shaking their heads at the cynicism of the American consumer. As we reached the end of our clam bisque, I excused myself to call and check on Joey.

“He’s okay, darling,” Bob hissed. “Stop worrying.”

“That’s all right,” Sylvia the psychologist said. “I think her concern is very touching.”

“Listen to my Sylvia, Bob,” ordered Lou the Toy Tycoon. “She’s a real pro when it comes to mamas and kiddies.”

Bob obeyed. Lou was good for a fifty thousand dollar a year retainer; he needed all the favorable publicity Bob could get him. His overadvertised leading line, a doll called Saucy Suzette and her black soul sister Lovely Laverne, was in frantic demand. But their limbs tended to break easily when youngsters took off their Naughty-Nighty Negligee to change them into their Peachy-Beachy Bikini, leaving the kids with ten-inch, ten-dollar amputee dolls. The Federal Trade Commission was not amused.

“He’s fine,” I said, returning from the telephone booth. At my place was a two-pound lobster and a small mountain of French fries.

“I told you he was all right,” Bob said. I smiled sweetly at Lou and Sylvia. They smiled back. We plunged into our seafood with an intensity bred from the realization that all small talk had been exhausted.

“Mmmm,” we said. “Delicious.” “Would you like to try one of my mussels?” “No thanks, but how about a clam?”

Sylvia looked up. “What a nice community this is. I mean, to support such a good restaurant.” I began to feel a real empathy for her; she was finding the evening as painful as I was.

“Shorehaven is a nice town,” I agreed.

“Didn’t you have a murder here recently?” Lou chimed in. He had refused a bib and had two blotches of butter on his tie.

“Yes,” I enthused. “It’s caused quite a stir around here.”

“Judith, dear, let’s skip the gory details,” Bob said, his mouth finding its way into a pleasant smile.

“You’re a psychologist,” I said to Sylvia, looking past him. “Let me ask you a question. It seems that the murdered man was a real Don Juan type, spreading joy to quite a few of the local ladies. What makes a man do that?”

“I’ll tell you what makes a man do that, little girl,” Lou chuckled, his heavy lips shiny from the butter.

“Well,” Sylvia said slowly, “that’s not really my field. I deal with children, and I’m not a Freudian, but...”

“Judith...” Bob began.

“But,” Sylvia continued, and Bob snapped shut his mouth, “from what I recall, a Don Juan type would have an unresolved Oedipus complex. He’d be seeking his mother in all women, but of course he’d never find her.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“You know what an Oedipus complex means, Judith,” Bob said.

“I mean,” I continued, looking at Sylvia, “how does that manifest itself?”

“I see what you’re getting at. Well, even though a Don Juan seem to be hypersexual, he’s not really looking for genital sex. He’s looking for self-esteem, which no one can really give him. So he’s doomed to disappointment with every woman he has relations with.”