The Polka Dot Nude (2 page)

“I’m Audrey Dane,” I reminded him. The smile began to dwindle. He thought maybe I was Susan Sontag, Rosalie Wildewood?

“I mean what name do you write under?”

“My own. I’m a spook.”

“A what?”

“A ghost-writer. You read
The Bunnie Winters Legend?”

“I’m afraid I missed that one. Did you write any others?”

“Nothing you’d be familiar with.” He wouldn’t have read
The Mystery at the Old Mill,
or
The Secret of Meadowvale,
my two preteen mysteries. I had failed to impress him. But in a flash I slipped another arrow into my bow. “I’m working on the life of Rosalie Hart at the moment,” I said casually.

Another spasm of delighted shock possessed his face. “Rosalie Hart! No kidding! That should be a good one. I’ll be looking forward to that. Have you actually met her?”

“Oh yes, I spent a week at Hartland. That’s her home in California.”

“I know. I’m a Hart fan.”

“What do
you
do, Brad?” I asked. What I hoped to learn was why he said it was a marvelous break for him that I was a writer.

“I teach literature at a little college not too far from here. A private college.”

“Oh.” This came as a surprise. His appearance didn’t suggest a little anything. Big-city doctor, lawyer, businessman—even actor—seemed more his style. My writer’s eye garnered up jarring details. The few lecturers I knew didn’t drive new Mercedes cars. Plastic surgeons like Garth Schuyler drove Mercedes cars. What was a lecturer doing in a hand-stitched shirt and Gucci loafers? Why did the watch on his wrist say Rolex, instead of Timex? Looking up suddenly from my examination of his watch, I noticed his eyes were narrowed, looking at me warily, as if suspicious, or afraid . . . of what? What threat could I possibly pose to Brad O’Malley?

“I do a bit of writing myself, on the side,” he said quickly. “Publish or perish, you know. Nothing you’d have read,” he added, a hint of condescension creeping into his tone. “I do academic writing. Modern poetry is my field.”

When you’re a writer, you’re sensitive to people’s actions and reactions as well as appearance. Brad was on the defense, and I hadn’t attacked yet. “I love modern poetry,” I said encouragingly.

“By modern poetry, I don’t mean contemporary poetry,” he pointed out. “The modern era in poetry begins at the time of World War I.”

“I know. Yeats, Eliot, Auden—I love them all. Much better than the contemporary poets. Of course Hopkins precedes the usual date given. The father of them all, in my opinion,” I added firmly. An inner wince stabbed me. I was doing it again, as if I were back in college, staking my claim to intellectual equality, and depressing any hope of romantic involvement in the process. Why couldn’t I gush, like other women?

“Right. Naturally.” He drained the bottle of beer and rose to that glorious height of six feet, two or three inches. In my moccasins, I hardly came to his neck. It wasn’t often I could physically look up to a man. “It was nice to meet you, Audrey. We’ll be bumping into each other from time to time, being neighbors.”

I had a sinking feeling any meetings would be purely accidental. Gush, dammit! You don’t learn to gush in two minutes. The voice that came out of my mouth was as cold as frost. “I’ll be hunched over my typewriter most of the time.” I could feel my damned eyebrow lift in that way that makes me look haughty.

He smiled easily—almost intimately. “I’ll know where to find you then.” It must be wonderful to be so full of yourself you didn’t recognize a putdown when you heard one.

I made another stab at gushing. “Great. If you want to borrow anything, feel free to call. A cup of sugar, typewriter, dictionary . . ."

“I brought all those things with me. Bye.” He smiled again and ducked his head out of the door.

Idiot! How long has it been since you met a man taller than you, with a job, and a clean shave and a car newer than 1970? A man who speaks real English, and gets his butt off the chair when you come into the room? Not since last June, when you met Garth Schuyler. But do you know enough to smile? No, you meet him at the door in dirty jeans and falling-apart slippers, and can’t let him patronize you a little. You have to go dragging in Gerard Manley Hopkins. You couldn’t name one poem Hopkins wrote. You hated Hopkins worse than Eliot. Helen was right: You shouldn’t let your brains go to your head. You should detour them to your hormones; big sister knows best.

I went to the window and stood behind the curtains to watch him unpack his car. Beautiful matching bags. Vuitton luggage, for God’s sake. A case of wine, more cartons than you’d think that little trunk could hold. A hi-fl, no TV. Records—probably Beethoven. The trunk of my own rusty Ford had come full of research, typewriter, TV, and one plaid soft-walled suitcase of clothes. I hadn’t even brought a coffeepot, and I planned to survive largely on coffee. Luckily Simcoe’s cottage came equipped with an antique aluminum pot, with a little glass bubble on top.

These feelings of inadequacy weren’t good for me. I went back to the table and started to read over the five pages of
Queen of Hearts
written so far. That was the working title of Rosalie’s book. I had about umpteen compound sentences in a row, and marked them for revision. When I looked at my watch, it was five o’clock. I had intended to call Bell about getting a phone installed, but Brad’s visit put it out of my mind. An editor (or a handsome neighbor for that matter) couldn’t call me if he wanted to. Nobody else would. The family were the only other ones who knew where I was.

The next thing to consider was food—whether to fry a couple of eggs here or drive into town for a hamburger. While I stood staring at the carton of eggs, there was a wrap at the door, and Brad peeked his head in.

“Me again. Have you eaten?”

I was startled that he’d come back, and so soon. “No.”

“Good—don’t. I’m simmering a boeuf bourguignon. It should be ready in a couple of hours. Why don’t you come over around six-thirty and we’ll have a drink first?”

“A boeuf bourguignon?” I asked, bewildered.

“It’s fast and easy.” An egg was fast and easy. A steak was possible; boeuf bourguignon was for restaurants. “I just want to put a few things away and take a shower. I look forward to seeing you at six-thirty.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks.”

The black head vanished, and I put the eggs back in the fridge. Boeuf bourguignon! He hadn’t even unpacked
yet and he was simmering a French dish. Was this man real, or was I dreaming him? “I bet he even does windows,” I muttered to myself, and grabbed an apple to sustain me till dinnertime.

I decided to pop over and use Simcoe’s phone to call Bell. For some as-yet-undetermined reason, he was always reluctant to let me inside his house. I thought maybe his wife was a bit strange. She sat behind the curtains at the window all day, peeking out. At the door, Simcoe said he’d make the call for me, and let me know when Bell could come.

“Thanks, Mr. Simcoe.”

“You’re very welcome. I guess you were pretty surprised to see young O’Malley land in on you, eh, Miss Dane?” His merry blue eyes danced behind a pair of glasses. Simcoe was best described by what was missing. His glasses were rimless, his head was hairless, and his mouth partially toothless. He was a short, stocky man, who had worn the same blue shirt and trousers and suspenders since the first time I saw him.

“I certainly was. You didn’t mention renting the other cottage.”

"I wanted to surprise you,” he said, and laughed.

Simcoe was definitely not the kind of person to plan delightful surprises for his tenants, but I just said, “You succeeded.”

“Oh I can keep a secret.” He laughed again, and closed the door.

I went back to my own cottage, puzzling over that cryptic conversation. For some reason, it reminded me of the fleeting moment when I’d looked up and seen Brad narrowing his eyes at me. I shook the thought away. Neurotic, that’s what I was. A silver cloud had chanced my way, and I wouldn’t spoil it by looking for a lead lining. Ah, “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo”! Hopkins had written that one. Lousy poem.

CHAPTER 2

You could hardly wear jeans and moccasins to a dinner whose main course didn’t even speak English. Sorting through my clothes, I decided unwrinkled white slacks were better than a rumpled skirt. The navy silk shirt was okay; the boring old gold chains worn with everything went with it as well. What bliss to slide into high-heeled sandals, knowing you wouldn’t have to either buckle your knees or stoop, or else soar above your date’s head. I have this theory that short men and tall women share a similar complex—like Napoleon’s being an overachiever to compensate for being a little runt. There were lots of others too—Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade came to mind. And since women are supposed to be small, maybe we have to over-compensate if we’re tall. If I could only think of a few tall female achievers . . .

The mirror in the bathroom was designed for Napoleon. I kicked off the sandals to consider renovations to my face. Some vestige of my mother’s Slavic origins were still visible in my high, wide cheekbones and full lips, but the strain was diluted by her Anglo-Saxon spouse. I credit my straight nose and green eyes to Dad. People who didn’t have to contend with it admired my ruler-straight hair. I wouldn’t mind a wave or two myself, but the roller hasn’t been invented that can accomplish that miracle. At the moment, a tawny mane hung in straight shocks down either side of my face. I brushed it back and twirled it into a figure eight on the back of my head.

I carefully applied a blusher and lipstick, then picked up the eyebrow pencil. In an uncharacteristic fit of gullibility, I had listened to a salesclerk who assured me this stick of kohl would transform me into a beauty. Used by Cleopatra, she said. I wondered how tall Cleopatra had been. Cleo had obviously known something I didn’t. The kohl crumbled and smudged, and made me look as if I’d caught my head in a chimney. I wiped till only a suggestion of smoke clung to the base of my lashes. After the red from rubbing had faded, I stuffed a fresh pack of cigarettes into my purse, put my sandals on, and was off.

“I’m glad you decided to come casual. I meant to tell you to,” Brad said at his front door, where he met me a minute later. He was done up in a white shirt and striped tie, navy blazer and fawn trousers himself, and looked about as casual as an engraved invitation to the White House.

My senses were assaulted on all sides as I went into the dimly lit cottage. Strange discordant music issued from the stereo. There was a wail of violins carrying the melody, enriched below by breathy woodwinds, and the throb of drums. It was an insinuating rhythm that obtruded on the ear. An infernal racket might be a clearer description. The spicy aroma of meat simmering in herbs and wine wafted on the air, mingling with the music, but the greatest assault was on the eyes.

I had seen this cottage myself two days ago. It had been a dump, like my own. What had he done to it, to make it look like a seraglio? The embroidered throw covering the sofa vaguely suggested India. On it were tossed a dozen or so gold-tasseled cushions, reeking of Persia. Candlelight hid the atrocities of chipped, cheap furniture, and glowed on a table that belonged in Maxim’s. Across the room, candlelight twinkled on crystal and silver and a floral centerpiece. All nice and casual.

Brad politely ignored my gawking. “Sit down and make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. I sat, and looked at a coffee table covered with a lace cloth, on which rested a lovely crystal ashtray, a silver box holding cigarettes, and a matching silver table lighter. There were also a bottle of wine and two footed glasses.

"I’ve opened the wine to breathe,” he mentioned.

‘We wouldn’t want it to suffocate.”

He displayed his flashing smile in appreciation of this humor and settled on the sofa beside me to pour the wine.

“Go ahead and smoke if you want,” he offered. “It dulls the palate, but when I invite company, I try to make them comfortable. I noticed you smoke, so I put out the accoutrements.”

“Thank you.” He kindly averted his eyes when I opened my purse to rummage amidst the welter of wallet, keys, comb, and Kleenex for my cigarettes, but as soon as I got one out, he had the lighter flaming under my nose.

This done, he turned his attention to the wine. “Pineau des Charentes,” he said, lifting the bottle. “An interesting aperitif wine. This one is Château de Beaulon.” He poured the ruby liquid into glasses and handed me one.

I repeated, “Thank you,” and sipped, while my mind ran over clever things to say. “Very nice,” I said cleverly. Nice! The word had been condemned for its dullness since the nineteenth century.

“Fruitier than the white Pineau des Charentes. I thought you might like it before dinner. Supple, aromatic,” he added, sniffing the bouquet before drinking.

“The rascal of the vineyard. It’s quite sweet.” I understood a dry wine was more sophisticated.

“The fermentation is muted by the brandy that’s added, so it keeps its sweetness. Accidentally discovered in the fifteen hundreds in France, when a worker added brandy to the wine by mistake and hid the cask. Years later it was discovered, and this fortified wine was born. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but accident is the sire. Wonderful clarity,” he informed me, holding his glass to the candle.

What I knew about wine would fit in a shot glass. I could only retaliate with words. “I guess you’re an oenophile, are you not?”

“As the man said, I don’t know much about wine, but I know what I like.”

The ensuing monologue revealed that he did, in fact, know a great deal about wine—more than I cared to hear—but there was no stopping him. He was a veritable torrent of words. When he stopped for a breath, I derailed him.

“Will you be doing some writing while you’re here, Brad?” I asked swiftly. “A treatise on modern poetry?”

“Possibly, but I’m really here to relax. I plan to do some fishing, reading, get the old body back in shape after a year at my desk,” he said, thumping his lean, firm stomach. “Are you ready to eat? This dish should be served
cuit au point—of
course that applies to all cooking.”