In a Heartbeat (15 page)

34

They were on the flight to Charleston. The leg-room was almost nonexistent and Mel sat with her knees practically under her chin, her eyes tight shut, her face pink with fever. The few times she spoke, in response to Camelia’s questions about how she felt, her voice was a hoarse whisper.

So much for romance, Camelia told himself with a grin. You might say it was God’s punishment to a would-be errant husband. Only it seemed to him that she was the one suffering.

He asked the attendant for some hot tea and insisted that she drink it, and also that she take the Tylenol Flu tablets he had bought at the airport.

“Thanks,” she whispered throatily.

“A magical sound,” he replied dryly.

“What is?”

“Your voice. Kinda like sandpaper on rusty iron.”

She giggled, then took a sip of the tea. It was
almost
hot, airline-style. “I was just beginning to hate you, y’know that?”

He caught her sideways, glossy brown-eyed glance. “For what?” he asked innocently. “For taking you to Stepfordville, treating you to the best they had to offer? Buying you as many cosmopolitans as you liked? Treating you like a lady?”

“Thank you for that,” she whispered in that hoarse voice that only made her seem sexier, in that oddball kind of way that appealed to men like him and Ed Vincent.

“For which one?”

“The lady part.”

Her eyes met his again, then he looked away uncomfortably. “You’re welcome,” he said, but he guessed she knew how he had been feeling. He crossed his fingers and thought of Claudia, the love of his life, the mother of his children, the woman who meant everything in the world to him. What was he doing, thirty thousand feet up in a plane with another woman? What was he thinking? He had never understood infidelity, particularly the casual sort. Never believed that the momentary physical pleasure it brought could ever equal the terrible pain it might bring to the one who had loved and trusted him. He still didn’t understand. All he knew was what he felt.

The sun was shining when they got to Charleston. There was a tang of the sea in the air, a blueness to the sky, and a softness to the breeze that lifted both their spirits, and Camelia went completely mad and rented a Chrysler Sebring convertible. Then, top down, hair whipping in the wind, and feeling like a couple of teenagers, they drove through the outskirts of the city.

The Fairland Nursing Home was a residential unit for the elderly and infirm, expensive and a class act. It sat regally atop a hill, a pleasant stone-faced building with magnificent views over the countryside and a gravel driveway that swept in a circle to an imposing portico. The tall double doors stood open to the sunshine, revealing a polished hallway flooded with light from the long windows on either side.

Camelia sat for a moment, contemplating it. “You don’t get this on Medicare,” he observed. “This costs. Our Mamzelle Dorothea must be rolling in it.”

They went inside, walked to the end of the hall, and tapped on a glossy blue door marked OFFICE.

“Come on in,” a pleasant southern voice sang out.

The pleasant voice belonged to a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, with a cloud of gray hair held back by a blue velvet headband. She was small and comfortably stout, wore no makeup, had pink apple cheeks and smiling greenish eyes behind little wire glasses.

“Definitely not a Stepford wife,” Mel whispered.

“That’s because you’re in Realville, not Hainsville,” he whispered back. “Hi, how are ya, ma’am. I’m Detective Marco Camelia, of the New York Police Department.” He flashed his badge and she took it in her stride, with a little gasp of recognition.

“Oh, but of course. You men are so wonderful, so brave, and what exciting jobs. Always putting your lives on the line for others.”

Camelia heard Mel’s choked laugh and he coughed, embarrassed. “That’s only on TV, ma’am. In fact, we live pretty quiet lives.” It wasn’t exactly true, but he wasn’t a man to take credit where it wasn’t due. He heard Mel giggle again and said quickly, “This is my assistant, Ms. Melba Merrydew.”

Remembering her new role, Mel stuck her hands in her pockets and assumed what she hoped was a detective’s-assistant stance: back straight, chin up, eyes steely, expression stern.

This time Camelia laughed. With her short skirt and long legs, she looked more like a show-girl than a worthy member of the force.

“Merrydew?” the woman said thoughtfully. “I remember a Merrydew Oaks, from when I was a girl, in Georgia. A wonderful place it was. I don’t suppose you’re from the south, my dear?”

Mel’s eyes widened. “I certainly am,” she said, astonished at what a small world it was. “And Merrydew Oaks was my family’s old place. Until the hard times came upon us.”

She sounded so like Scarlett that Camelia cracked another grin, and she shot him a glare.

“Well, my dear, how lovely to meet you. And I’m sorry to hear about your hard times. But didn’t that happen to all of us? The good Confederate families from the old days? Now, better introduce myself.” She bustled from behind her elegant antique desk. “Rhianna Fairland.” She shook hands warmly and offered them a seat. “How can little old me possibly be of any help to the New York Police Department?”

She beamed expectantly at them, and Mel found herself automatically beaming back. She
knew
this woman. She was exactly like her mother, southern to the core and smart as all get-out under that sugary smile.

“You run a lovely place here, Ms. Fairland,” Camelia said, laying on the compliments before getting down to business, softening her up so she would be more forthcoming. “And that’s quite a view. It must cost families quite a bit to place their loved ones here.”

“Of course it does.” She smiled back at him, fluffing her cloud of gray hair and adjusting her sixties’–John Lennon round wire-rimmed glasses. “There are some families who have managed to hang on to their money, y’know. And quite a few more who’ve made recent fortunes.” Her sugary laugh tinkled merrily through the sun-lit, Persian-carpeted office. “We welcome them all here, of course, old money or new. Can’t afford to be snobbish. After all, I am running a business.”

Her face softened and her eyes had a faraway look as she said, “It wasn’t always like this, y’know. Who would have thought that I, Rhianna Fairland, born to genteel southerners, and a true flower child of the sixties, would have ended up running a home for the aged. I was at Woodstock, y’know,” she added proudly. “Body-painted, free love, Acapulco Gold, and all. Ooops, maybe I shouldn’t be admitting this to the police, but it was all so long ago. Everybody was doing it then. Anyhow”—her smile was bright again—“how can I help you, Detective?”

“Mamzelle Dorothea Jefferson Duval is one of your guests?”

“Mamzelle D? Well, of course she is.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “But what can Dorothea possibly have been up to that could involve the NYPD Blue?”

Mel stifled a giggle, and Camelia ignored her. “She telephoned my department, Miss Fairland. In homicide,” he added quietly, and heard her little gasp.

“Homicide? Oh,
no . . .
How can that
possibly
be? I mean, Dorothea didn’t
kill
anyone. She hasn’t left the place in
years
.”

“No one is accusing her of anything, ma’am.” He soothed her down quickly. “But Mamzelle Dorothea did telephone my department.”

“She
telephoned
? But how could she? None of the guests—we call them all guests here, though, strictly speaking, many are patients and under medical care. None of our guests has access to a telephone without supervision.” She tapped her head with a knowing look. “Some are a bit what I used to call ‘wigged out.’ You never know who they might get on the phone. My guess is that Dorothea must have been watching too much TV, though how she got to the phone I can’t imagine. She’s one of our oldest residents, you know. Been with us almost twenty-five years now.”

Hand over her mouth, she added in a whisper, “The poor dear came here with a severe alcohol problem, though we managed to straighten it out. But she’s old now, very old. Ninety-three, y’know. Never thought she would last that long, but she confounded all the doctors.”

She paused to take a breath, and Camelia took advantage of the moment to get a word in.

“Is Mamzelle Dorothea . . .” He hesitated, not wanting to say
sane
. “Is she of sound mind?”

“She most certainly is. Well, she’s a bit, you know, doddery. Her mind’s here one minute, gone the next. You can’t take everything she says as gospel, I’m afraid. Hence my skepticism over the mysterious phone call.”

“She claims to know a man called Ed Vincent.”

“Of course she knows him. He pays her bills here, he often visits her.” Her smile faded and she added, “Until recently, of course.”

Mel stared at her, stunned. Ed took care of this old lady? He had never mentioned her. But then, Ed was a charitable man, he took care of a lot of people. People she knew nothing about. And how much did she really know about Ed after all? she wondered, bewildered.

Camelia’s face was cop-impassive as he waited for Rhianna Fairland to continue.

Realization grew on Rhianna. “Dorothea called because she wanted to talk to the police about
Ed
? I guess she wanted to know who did it. Poor Dorothea. She missed him last weekend, she so looked forward to his visits, and he never skipped them. Oh no, he was always here, every Sunday, except for the weekend of the hurricane. And now, of course.”

Her eyes met Mel’s. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “Mr. Vincent was a very nice, very generous man. We shall all miss him.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Mel shot back, alarm bells ringing.
She had been away too long, anythingcould have happened, people were already
talking as though he had gone. . . .

“Of course, I didn’t tell Dorothea about it. Far too upsetting. And I don’t know how she found out what happened. The television viewing is strictly supervised, and I understand she doesn’t see well enough to read the newspapers. And anyhow, all her bills are paid via a private trust.”

She flipped back her long hair. Like a sixties’ teenager, Camelia thought. He guessed that some people just got stuck in a comfortable time warp, when they were their happiest.

“Ms. Fairland, I need to question Mamzelle Dorothea. I believe she has information about Ed Vincent that might help in our search for his attacker.”

“
Dorothea
does? Well, I’ll be darned!” She flopped back in her chair as though the stuffing had gone out of her, limp with shock. “But how can Dorothea possibly know who tried to kill Mr. Vincent?”

“She claimed in her message to have information we would be interested in.” Camelia shrugged. “I’m afraid I must insist on seeing her, Ms. Fairland.”

“Well, I don’t know. . . .” She hesitated.

“It’s official police business, ma’am,” Camelia warned.

“Oh. Official police business. Well, yes, then I suppose it’s all right. But she’s a very frail old lady, I’m warning you to take care.”

35

Mamzelle Dorothea’s room was spacious, with double French windows leading to a flowered terrace. The scent of gardenias drifted in on the breeze, along with the trickling sound of a fountain, reminding Mel of a hundred such lazy, sunny days in the south, when she was a child.

It had been a long time since Mamzelle Dorothea had been a child, though, and every day of her life seemed written on her corroded face. Sharply jutting cheekbones propped up the withered flesh, and eyes of the palest winter blue, brimming with intelligence, stared inquisitively at them as they entered. Her sparse hair was pulled back so tightly that Mel thought it could have acted as a face-lift, but at ninety-three, Mamzelle Dorothea seemed beyond vanity. As proven by the fact that she was wearing a ratty fur coat from some indistinguishable animal that might easily have been prehistoric.

She waved a scrawny arm at them, urging them inside. “Come into my lair,” she called in a voice as thin as cracked glass, following it with a throaty chortle that made Mel jump.

And it was indeed a lair: overstuffed floral chintz sofas with lacy antimacassars; ornate vases; porcelain statues of brightly colored parakeets and toucans; crystal knickknacks; embroidered footstools and carved whatnots. Mamzelle Dorothea had brought her past with her to the Fairland Nursing Home.

There was only one photograph, though, in a large, simple silver frame on the nightstand. It was of Ed, looking so handsome, so alive, so
vital
that Mel cried out in shock.

Ms. Fairland introduced them, and Mamzelle Dorothea sank back against the huge leopard cushions propping her up in the chair that looked way too big for her fragile frame. She took a long look at Mel. “You’re the one Ed’s in love with,” she said at last.

Mel crouched by Dorothea’s side. She took her sparrow-boned hand eagerly in hers. “You know?”

“Ed tells me everything.
Everything,
” she added with a wicked twinkle. “Always has. Ever since we met.”

She glared beyond Mel at Rhianna Fairland hovering in the background. “You may leave now,” she said haughtily. “My conversation with Miss Merrydew and Detective Camelia will be private.”

Ms. Fairland hesitated and glanced at Camelia. He nodded, and with a regretful sigh she exited, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

Long shadows reached across the room, leaving Mamzelle in the half-light, a waxworks figure, frozen in time.

“It took you long enough to get here,” she said sharply to Camelia.

“I’m sorry, Mamzelle, but I only received your message last night. We were in Hainsville.”

“Huh. Hainsville.” She made a little face of distaste.

“You’ve been there?”

“Never. Thank God. But from what Ed told me, it didn’t sound like the kind of place where anybody should live.”

“And what exactly did Ed tell you, Mamzelle Dorothea?” Mel was perched on a little round needlepoint stool, next to the old lady. She took her hand again, anxious for contact with this woman who obviously cared deeply for Ed. And who, in return, was obviously loved by Ed.

“Y’don’t look like the kind of gal I would have expected him to fall for.” Mamzelle inspected her sharply; and looking into her water-blue eyes, unclouded by the cataracts of age, Mel knew that, at least today, she wasn’t missing a trick. “I would have thought he’d go for the southern belle. Landed gentry, just the opposite of where he came from himself. That’s what usually happens when a man is on the way up.”

“I don’t think Ed is on the way up anymore, Mamzelle,” Mel said. “He is already there.”

“Ahh. Then he has no need of the trophy wife.” She looked shrewdly at Camelia. “Trophy wives come in all shapes and configurations, Detective. The blonde bombshell, the nubile teenager, the star. The southern girl next door.”

Camelia nodded uncomfortably. He had the feeling that this old woman could read minds.

“I suppose I had better introduce myself. I am Mademoiselle Dorothea Jefferson Duval. Kin to the famous president on my mother’s side of the family. And to the Creole Duvals on my father’s side. And a resident of Charleston for my entire life.”

“Nice place to live,” Camelia murmured, wondering why he was here. Was she just going to ramble on, tell them her life story, and explain that Ed Vincent was her hero because he paid her bills as an act of charity?

“Mamzelle Dorothea, tell me about Ed, please,” Mel begged. She needed to know the truth so badly, she would have sat all night at this old woman’s feet. She would have bathed her in tears and kisses, given her soul, to know what she had to say.

But instead, Mamzelle Dorothea fished a bottle of bourbon from behind the leopard cushion. They watched, stunned, as she took a water glass from the little crinkle-edged, round oak antique table, which was liberally stained with white rings, and poured herself a stiff shot. Mamzelle tipped back her head, took a slug, then sighed with satisfaction.

“They’ve been trying for years to wean me from this. Ed too. I told him he might as well try to take away a mother’s milk.” Her wicked laughter was not a cackle now but the gentle, refined tinkle of the southern belle, a sound Mel knew well. “They tell me I’ve been dying of drink for fifty years now. Hah, and here I am, outliving all the doctors. And there’s always someone who can be bribed to break the law, get you what you need. But then I suppose you already know that,” she added to Camelia.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” He guessed that by her age the bourbon could do her no harm. Good luck to her, he thought.

“I called you here,” she said, looking contemplatively at them, “because I thought you needed to know about the real Ed Vincent. And to know that his true name is Theo Rogan.”

Mel’s sigh of relief echoed through the shadowy room. Thank God, she thought. He is not Mitch. He’s not the killer. . . .

“But wasn’t Theo Rogan killed in the fire?” Camelia asked.

Mamzelle waved an imperious hand at him. “Now, now, don’t get impatient. I’ve known Ed for thirty years and I will tell you the whole story, but I must begin at the very beginning.” And she took another long slug from the tumbler, thinking about what she was going to say.