Further Tales of the City (22 page)

A
T MARY ANN’S SUGGESTION, DEDE’S INITIAL MEETING
with her mother was private. Mary Ann spent the time catnapping in her room at the Potlatch House, secretly relieved that she had escaped the anguish of the confrontation.

An hour later, DeDe returned to the room and collapsed into a chair next to Mary Ann’s bed.

Mary Ann rubbed her eyes as she sat up. “Rough, huh?”

DeDe nodded.

“Is she O.K.?”

“Better,” sighed DeDe. “I gave her a Quaalude.”

“Poor thing,” said Mary Ann.

DeDe rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “She knows less than we do. I can’t believe how out of it she is sometimes.”

“What about Prue?”

DeDe picked distractedly at the arm of the chair. “She’s next. I didn’t want to question her with Mother around. I figured she’d be intimidated. It’s gonna be hard enough as it is to get the truth.”

“How well do you know her?” asked Mary Ann.

“Not very.” DeDe laughed bitterly. “I made a confession to her once, but that’s about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She has these luncheons,” explained DeDe. “She calls it The Forum—very grand. Everyone sits around with a visiting celebrity and bares their souls. Consciousness-raising for social climbers. Pretentious and awful. I went to the one she did on rape. ‘A rap about rape,’ she called it.” DeDe shook her head in disgust. “Jesus.”

“But … you said you confessed.”

“I told her I’d been raped.”

“When was this?”

“Oh … five years ago.”

“I didn’t know you’d been raped
before
Jonestown.”

“I hadn’t been,” said DeDe. “I just told her that.”

“Why?”

DeDe shrugged. “Social pressure, I guess. I’d also just been to bed with Lionel, and I needed somebody to blame it on. Pretty revolting, huh?”

“Was Lionel …?”

“You got it. The twins’ father.”

“The grocery boy,” said Mary Ann.

“Not anymore. He
owns
the store now, according to Mother. In the meantime, I got raped for real in Guyana by Prue Giroux’s goddamn boyfriend.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Mary Ann. She had already decided that somebody had to play devil’s advocate in this crisis.

“C’mon,” said DeDe, “I need your help on this one.”

They found out less than they had hoped.

“I told you,” insisted Prue, “all he said was that he was an American stockbroker living in London. We were on a cruise, for heaven’s sake. You don’t really ask much more than that.”

“Sean Starr,” repeated DeDe.

The columnist nodded but avoided DeDe’s eyes. “He appeared to be crazy about the children, and
everyone
liked him, and I think it was perfectly natural for your mother to entrust
the children to him. He was quite polished … good-looking … an
elegant
man.” She shook her head woefully, her eyes still red from crying. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

Mary Ann sat down next to Prue. “Look,” she said gently, “it isn’t that we don’t believe you.” (Not entirely true, of course; DeDe appeared extremely distrusting.) “It’s just that it would help us a lot if you could remember details …
any
details.”

“Well … he was in his late forties, I guess. He dressed nicely.”

“How nicely?” asked DeDe.

“You know. Blazers, silk ties … that sort of thing. Understated.”

“Do you have any pictures of him?” asked Mary Ann.

“The ship’s photographer took one or two.”

Mary Ann glanced excitedly at DeDe, then turned back to Prue. “Can we see them?”

“I didn’t buy any,” said Prue. “They’re on the ship.”

DeDe looked as if she might slap the columnist at any moment. “And you noticed nothing unusual in his behavior? Nothing at all?”

Prue shook her head. “He didn’t start acting funny, really, until we reached Juneau.”

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know … moody, distracted. We took a float plane trip over the glaciers, and he didn’t talk to me once. He spent the whole time mumbling to the pilot.”

“About what?” asked DeDe, almost ferociously.

“He kept saying dire needs,” said Prue.

Mary Ann’s eyes widened. “Maybe they left by plane!”

“Dire needs,” repeated DeDe, ignoring her colleague’s brainstorm. “Plural?”

Prue frowned. “What?”

“He said dire needs, not dire
need?
That’s the usual expression. In dire need.”

Prue looked confused. “I think so. I heard the pilot repeat it. There was lots of plane noise, though.”

“And that was it?” asked DeDe.

“What?”

“Nothing else peculiar?”

“Not until Sitka,” said Prue, her face contorting to a look of naked terror. “Not until … he took them … and …” She clamped her hand against her mouth, choking on her sobs.

“And
what?”
demanded DeDe.

“The … rabbits.”

DeDe exploded.
“The rabbits?”

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” Prue stared at her aghast.

“No.”

“Oh, God,” said the columnist.

W
   
HAT
RABBITS?” ASKED DEDE.

Prue looked away, her lower lip trembling violently. “When he took the children we were in a restaurant not far from here. I went to the little girls’ room and … when I came out, he was gone.”

DeDe nodded impatiently. “Mother told us that already.”

“Anyway,” continued the columnist, “I looked up and down the street …”

“And you found Anna in an alleyway.” This was Mary Ann, trying to move the story along. DeDe’s annoyance with Prue was obviously escalating.

Prue nodded funereally. “After I saw him drag her off, I sat down in this vacant lot …”

“What?”
thundered DeDe.

“I was
hurt.
I ran after him, but I cut my ankle.” She lifted her foot as evidence. “This man came along and started yelling at me, because he thought I was with Lu … Mr. Starr. I told him I …”

“Wait just a goddamn minute! What did you just say?”

Prue blinked at her balefully. “Nothing.”

“Yes you did, goddamnit! You started to call him something else!”

Mary Ann caught DeDe’s eye and said quietly: “Why don’t we let her finish?”

Prue took that as her cue to continue. “So he dragged me over to his backyard …”

“Who?”

“This man … the one who …”

“O.K., O.K.”

“He had these rabbit cages … hutches … and there was blood all over the place … and he made me …” Something seemed to catch in her throat. She pressed her hand against her mouth and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was almost whimpering. “He made me look at these two little rabbits that had been … skinned.”

“Jesus,” murmured Mary Ann.

DeDe remained cool. “Your friend did that?”

Prue nodded, fighting back the tears. “It’s so awful. I’ve never known anyone who could …”

“Were the skins still there?” asked DeDe. Mary Ann shuddered. What on earth was she getting at?

Prue thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. There was so much blood that I …”

“And you know nothing about this
elegant
man, as you call him, except that he was an American stockbroker living in London? What was he doing on
that
cruise, anyway?”

“I don’t understand,” said Prue.

“Doesn’t it strike you as just a teensy bit out of his way?”

The columnist shook her head slowly. “No. I mean … he seemed to have enough money to …”

“Was he your lover?”

Prue’s mouth dropped open.

“Was
he?”

“I don’t see what business that is of …”

“I have a reason for asking. Did you ever see him with his clothes off?”

Prue’s indignation was monumental. “Look here, I’m sorry about your children, but you have no right to …”

“You’ll be even sorrier when we talk to the police. Not to mention the press.”

Prue began sniffling. “I had no way of knowing he would do a thing like that …”

“I know.” DeDe’s tone was kinder now. She reached over and took the columnist’s hand. “No one ever does.”

Prue continued to weep until DeDe’s message sank in. “You
know
him?” she asked dumbfoundedly.

“I think so,” said DeDe softly. She turned to Mary Ann. “This is kind of delicate. Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Mary Ann shot to her feet. “Of course … I … what time shall we …?”

“I’ll meet you in our room,” said DeDe. “Half-an-hour?”

“Fine,” said Mary Ann.

It was more like an hour.

When DeDe appeared, she looked thoroughly exhausted. “Think we could get a drink somewhere?”

“Sure. Are you O.K.?”

“Sure.”

“Could you find out if …”

“It’s him,” said DeDe.

“How do you know?”

DeDe moved to the window and stared out at the blackness. “Does it matter?”

Mary Ann hesitated. “Sooner or later it will.”

“Then … could we make it later?”

An awkward silence followed. Then Mary Ann said: “I’ve been thinking about those rabbits.”

“Yeah?”

“That nursery rhyme he used to sing. ‘Bye baby bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting …’ ”

DeDe finished it. “ ‘Gone to get a rabbit skin to wrap the baby bunting in.’ ”

“You thought of that,” said Mary Ann.

“Yeah,” DeDe replied listlessly. “I thought of it.”

M
ARY ANN’S PHONE WAS RINGING OFF THE HOOK.

Brian stood on the landing outside her doorway and debated his responsibility. She hadn’t
asked
him to tend to her affairs in her absence. What’s more, she hadn’t even told him where she was going, and he resented that more than he would admit to anyone.

The caller, however, was persistent.

So it was curiosity, more than anything, that sent him up the stairs to his tiny studio, where he conducted a frantic search for his keys to Mary Ann’s apartment.

Finding them, he bounded downstairs again, opened the door and lunged for the wall phone in Mary Ann’s kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Who is this?” asked a male voice.

“This is Sid Vicious. Who is
this?”
It really pissed him off when people didn’t identify themselves on the telephone.

A long silence and then: “Is this Mary Ann Singleton’s apartment?” The guy was annoyed, Brian noted with some degree of pleasure.

“She’s out of town right now. I suggest you try again in a few days.”

“Do you know where she went?”

That did it. “Look … who the hell is this?”

“Larry Kenan,” replied the caller. “Ms. Singleton’s boss.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh … I see. Mary Ann’s mentioned you. The news director, right?”

“Right.”

“This is Brian Hawkins. Her fiancé.” It was the first time he had ever used that word to describe himself. It had a curiously old-fashioned sound, but he enjoyed the hell out of it. Things were official now, he realized.

“Good,” said the news director. “Then you can tell her she’s in deep shit.”

“What’s the problem?” asked Brian, trying to change his tone to one of responsible concern.

“The problem,” snapped Larry, “is that she skipped out on us yesterday—twenty minutes before the show. That’s the problem, Mr. Hawkins.”

Brian thought fast. “She didn’t tell you?”

“What?”

“Her grandmother died. Unexpectedly. In Cleveland.” Brian winced at this hackneyed alibi. There was practically nothing that hadn’t been blamed on a dead grandmother.

“Well … I’m sorry about that … but she didn’t say a word to anybody … not a goddamn word. There’s such a thing as professionalism, after all. We were stuck. We had to get Father Paddy to announce the movie.”

“I saw that,” said Brian. “I thought he was rather good.”

“Well, you tell your friend that she’d better report to me on Friday or she’s out on her ass. Got that?”

Brian longed to tell him to shove it. Instead, he said: “I’m sure she’ll be back by then. She should be checking in with me, so I’ll be glad to tell her. I’m sorry. I know she wouldn’t intentionally …”

“Friday,” said Larry Kenan. “After that,
finito.”

Brian’s face was hot with rage when he hung up. While most of his anger was directed towards the news director, he was also upset with Mary Ann for not giving him enough information to cover for her properly.

What could have prompted such an abrupt exit, anyway? He presumed it involved her story about DeDe Day’s return from Guyana. That could even mean she was still in town—in Hillsborough, perhaps, putting the finishing touches on the piece.

“I’m going away,” was all she had told him. “I’ll probably be gone a few days, so please don’t worry about me. I’ll call as soon as I get a chance. I’m so glad we’re getting married.”

Swell. But where was she?

He found her address book and looked up the number of the Halcyon residence in Hillsborough. When he dialed it, he reached a maid who was straight out of
Gone With the Wind.
There was no one there, she said.

As soon as he had hung up, the phone rang again. He answered it, trying to sound a little nicer this time.

“Is Mary Ann there?” came a woman’s voice that sounded strangely familiar.

“She’s in Cleveland,” he replied, opting for consistency. “She should be back by Friday.”

“Will you give her a message for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell her I found the notes she left behind at the station. It’s vitally important that I talk to her.”

“Right. Who is this, please?”

“Bambi Kanetaka. Shall I spell it?”

“No,” said Brian. “I know it. You’re the anchorperson, right? You’re famous.”

“Tell her I can’t sit on this.”

Brian suppressed a laugh. To hear Mary Ann tell it, this must be the
only
thing that Bambi Kanetaka couldn’t sit on.

“Tell her that I won’t tell Larry until she calls me … but she
must
call me as soon as possible. From Cleveland, if necessary. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Brian.

Now what? he thought.
Now what?