Mrs. Million (28 page)

“I saw him kill this guy,” Bobby said.

Phlox said nothing, considering the implications.

Bobby said, “He beat a guy to death with a club in his basement.”

“I saw the blood. I was afraid it was yours.”

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.

Phlox said, “No offense, Pook, but this is one funky trunk you been living in. Is all that smell you?”

“It’s not just me,” he said. “The dead guy was in here, too.”

Phlox took several shallow breaths. “Thanks for telling me that, Puddin. If I could kick you I would.”

She would smile and nod at the advertisements, bring her cigarette to her lips and take a tiny sip of smoke, inhale, let it trickle brown from her lips, the ashtray near her elbow mounded high with butts. André stood in the doorway, the barrel of the gun pressing into his groin. He had almost shot the woman and maybe he should have.

His mother lifted her coffee mug, moistened her lips. She sipped her cigarette and smiled at a Burger King ad. Now that the sun had set, the house felt brighter inside. The smoke and dust seemed to melt away. It was a better place at night. Even the shabby old furniture took on a comfortable glow. André found himself wishing that he could stay.

His mother rotated her head and smiled at him. He imagined that she had read his thoughts and was inviting him to stay. He smiled back; she returned her eyes to the TV. Back in Cold Rock he had grown used to thinking of her as an old woman, but she was not really that old. She had given birth to him at the age of seventeen. He watched her extinguish her cigarette by drilling it deep into the overflowing pile of butts, pushing it below the surface with the tip of her little finger. When all of this was over he would hire a maid for her, a woman to come in and empty the ashtrays and clean the top of the refrigerator and make her fresh coffee. He wished he could stay with her tonight, but it was not safe. The woman had found him, which meant that others might also show up.

He had to keep moving.

He said, “Mother?”

“Yes dear?”

“The Reinke place, you said it’s vacant?”

“Yes, dear. It’s state property now. Up for sale, I believe. They’ll auction it off. I just hope they don’t sell it to someone doesn’t belong here.”

André smiled, thinking that the only people who really belonged in Diamond Bluff were already here.

The Reinke place was south of town, a mile off the highway on a twisting road that led up the bluff. A notice on the front door proclaimed the property to be under the jurisdiction of the State of Wisconsin. A second notice stated that the property would be auctioned on May 14. The house was dark. André drove around the house to the barn where, according to his mother, the Reinke boys had been caught manufacturing amphetamines. The doors were locked, still sealed with police tape. He pulled the car up to the doors until he felt the front bumper make contact, then kept going. The hasp gave way with a ripping sound. He backed up, got out, and pulled the doors open. The headlights lit up a pair of old electric stoves, some stockpots, a few wooden chairs, and a folding table. The barn otherwise appeared to be empty. André backed the car inside and closed the doors. He tried a light switch by the door. A single bulb hanging from the rafters came on, producing a ragged sphere of yellow light that turned the walls from black to umber. Good enough—he had feared that the electricity would be disconnected. André turned off the headlights, pulled the revolver from his waistband, and opened the trunk.

The first thing he saw was the woman’s eyes, staring at him with such ferocity that he took a startled step back, raising the gun to ward off the intense emotion. The moment the gun came into her line of sight, her face changed. She became afraid. André relaxed.

“Are you sorry now?” he asked.

She said nothing. Bobby, half underneath her with his face against the spare tire, said something André could not quite hear.

“What did he say?”

The woman licked her lips. “He wants to get out.”

André gestured with the gun. “Get out then.”

“Don’t shoot us.”

“I will not shoot you.”

Hampered by the handcuffs, it took them a while to climb out, and once they did they had to stand in an odd position. Bobby’s arms were taped to his sides, and the woman’s right hand was shackled to his right wrist. Only one of them could easily face him at a time and they ended up facing each other with their heads turned toward him like a pair of bedraggled, confused tango, dancers.

“I will not shoot you if you cooperate,” he said. “Now please tell me who you are and what you were doing.”

“People call me Phlox.”

André took a moment to process that. He asked, “As in the flower, or gatherings of fowl?”

“The flower, Andrew.”

“My name is not Andrew. You must call me Adam. Adam Grappelli.” It would help him get used to his new name.

“Adam Grappelli,” Phlox repeated.

“Yes. Now, would you please tell me why you are here?”

“You brought me here!”

“I mean to say, what were you doing? How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t so hard. You made a lot of phone calls to your mother.”

André said, “Ah!” This business of being a wanted criminal was more complex than he had thought. “Are you a policewoman?”

“No.”

“Then what is your involvement?”

“Bobby’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh? I understood him to be married.”

Bobby said, “I’m married, but it’s to Barbaraannette.”

André said, “I see.”

“It’s sort of complicated,” Bobby said.

“Relationships between people often are,” said André. Keeping the gun pointed in their general direction, he dragged one of the wooden chairs to a point directly beneath the light bulb and sat down. “It is this very complexity which lends meaning to the lives of those who care to embrace it. For instance, you and I are now involved in an extraordinarily complex social interaction.”

Bobby said, “No shit.”

“In the end, I will have a new name and a new home in Italy, and you will perhaps be back with your wife.” He regarded Phlox with a frown. “As for you, my dear, I cannot say. It is quite interesting, this little adventure we are having, is it not?”

Phlox said, “It’s less interesting in that trunk than you maybe think.”

André inclined his head, not conceding her point, but acknowledging its theoretical validity. “The social dynamic is not always clear to the individuals involved. In fact, many famous relationships were not entirely appreciated by those who were involved in them and, in fact, were frequently denied altogether. The affair between Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earhart, for instance.” André crossed his legs and rested the revolver on his lap.

“In fact, I have studied many such relationships in great depth, using analytical tools developed by Saussure and Levi-Strauss to shed new light on certain literary alliances.” He chuckled, because he always chuckled when making this joke in class. “Or rather, certain
dalliances.”
He smiled, waiting for an appreciative laugh from his audience, but the shackled couple stared back at him, as uncomprehending as any pair of sophomores. André shrugged, taking it in his stride. Clearly, he had his work cut out for him.

When she closed the door behind her the echo of its slam persisted. Barbaraannette shrugged off her windbreaker, dropped it on the side chair by the front door. A faint voice in her head said, “Hang up your clothes, dear,” but Barbaraannette chose to ignore it. Her body ached from the collision with Art and the house had never felt so empty. She was empty, too. She needed something. Another piece of nicotine gum? Her stomach churned at the remembered flavor. She needed something else. She raised a hand to her mouth. Was that his smell? She touched her fingers to her lips, sensing molecules of Art, letting her thoughts float free for a moment.

Abruptly, her reflections became concrete. What did he expect her to do? She was a married woman, only hours from being reunited with her husband. Why was he doing this now? For years the man doesn’t say boo and now, at the most inconvenient imaginable time, he steps into her life.

Time to get serious, Barbaraannette decided. She took a pint of chocolate Haagen-Dazs from the freezer and put an Aretha Franklin album on the stereo. Bobby had never liked Aretha. What kind of music did Art like? She pushed the thought aside and listened to Aretha bemoan and celebrate the men in her life. All the no good heartbreakers and Dr. Feelgoods, two sides of the same cursed coin. She would get through this thing. The money was not important. The money was nothing. She had done the one incredibly stupid thing and she had done it on television and it was going to cost her a few lousy bills but what of it? She had plenty more. Even with the loan payments she would have plenty of money coming in every year. She could still make sure that Hilde was taken care of, and she could help Toagie keep up her house payments. She could travel or stay put or get a job or do nothing. She could support a man. She could have a child.

Barbaraannette set the ice cream aside. Aretha was howling in joy or pain—Barbaraannette had lost track. She let her head fall back, stared up at the ceiling and watched it blur as her eyes filled with tears, thinking about what might have been. How long had it been since she had permitted herself to think about having a child? Was she thinking about it now, or was she only thinking about thinking about it? The album side ended, leaving only a faint hum from the speakers. Barbaraannette closed her eyes, squeezing out the tears. She remained still, letting her thoughts skitter over the surfaces. In time, she found a comfortable place. She turned off the stereo, put the ice cream away, and rinsed the coffee cup in the sink. She hung up her windbreaker. She brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown and got into bed and turned out the light and within minutes she was asleep because that was what she had decided to do.

A
T SIX O’CLOCK IN THE
morning André ordered a glassy-eyed Bobby and Phlox back into the trunk. They made no objections and, after a bit of experimenting, found a position that suited them both. André closed the trunk. He drove north in the general direction of Cold Rock, feeling melancholy. Over the past few hours he had shared a great deal with his two captives. Much of the philosophy and literary analysis had, of course, flown high over their heads. Nevertheless, his presentation was such that they would doubtless retain certain key concepts—and it was that which saddened him, for he had come to the realization, regrettably, that the man and the woman in his trunk would have to die. He had told them his new identity, and his plans for leaving the country. If they lived to tell, he might be arrested and imprisoned. He should have said nothing of his plans. He had been foolish.

Or perhaps it had not been so foolish after all. Perhaps he had been forcing his own hand, putting himself in a position where he had no choice but to do what must be done. His subconscious had created a path, and it was up to his conscious mind, now, to follow it.

André considered this new idea, and found it to be both intelligent and intriguing. He ordered breakfast at a Burger King drive-thru in Cottage Grove; bought gasoline in Forest Lake. At seven o’clock he pulled into a rest stop near Cold Rock and backed the car up to a pay phone.

“Mrs. Quinn?”

“Yes…um, Mr. Gideon?”

“Do you have the money?”

“I’ll have it. At nine-thirty, like I told you before.”

“Good. And let me be clear about one thing, Mrs. Quinn. If the police are involved in any way, the consequences will be grave indeed.”

“You won’t get the money if you hurt him.”

“That is up to you. I will repeat what I have said: There must be no police. This is a simple, straightforward arrangement between two rational adults. I will be returning your husband to you, and you will be paying me one million dollars. Is this not what you wanted? I will call you at your home at ten o’clock precisely: Goodbye.”

“Wait. I want to talk to him. I have to know that he’s okay.”

“He is fine. You may take my word for that.”

Barbaraannette squeezed the phone. “If I don’t talk to him now I won’t get the cash. It stays in the bank until I hear Bobby’s voice.” She could hear air whistling through nostrils. His or hers? She could not be sure.

“You are a most vexing woman. Fortunately, I have anticipated your request. Hold the line, please.”

Barbaraannette heard the sound of a trunk being opened, then Gideon’s voice in the background.

“Say hello to your wife.”

“Barbie?” Bobby’s voice, sounding hoarse.

She heard another voice, this one female. “Let me talk to her.”

Gideon came back on. “Are you satisfied?”

“No. Who was that?”

“That was your husband.”

“I heard someone else. Who was it? Put her on the phone.”

“She is none of your concern. I will call you again at ten o’clock.”

“You hang up and you won’t see a nickel. I want to talk to the woman.”

More nostril whistling. “You are trying my patience, Mrs. Quinn.”

“I’ll try more than that if you don’t let me talk to that woman. Who is she? Is she your partner?”

“Hardly.”

“Put her on the phone. Do it now or I swear to God I won’t pay.” Barbaraannette listened, holding her breath. A few seconds later Phlox’s twangy voice came over the wire.

“That you sweetie pie?” The cheerfulness had a strained sound to it.

“Phlox?”

“You got it, honey. I found him!”

André snatched the phone and banged it back onto its cradle.

Phlox said, “Hey!”

“Shut up.” He pulled out the gun and pointed it at her face until he saw the fear, then slammed the trunk closed.

What should have been a simple, straightforward transaction had taken on a hostile character. First the police had become involved, then this Phlox woman had appeared, and now Mrs. Quinn was making demands. She would want to see her husband before turning over the cash, which complicated things considerably.

Nevertheless, he could see no reason not to proceed with his plan. He would have to be firm with her.