The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (11 page)

"On," he said.

"Boy, that wasn't how you felt when we were at
the depot."

"That was before I had the facts I now have.
Based on them, I can say, I have to say, there's a killer at work
here, and the people have got to know that. We owe it to them. Just
handle it with care . . ."
 
 

CHAPTER 7

MISSY TOOK the winding curves of boathouse row on
East River Drive like a five-time winner at Le Mans. Normally the
drive up the Parkway, decorated with its flags of all nations, past
the majesty of the art museum and onto the tree-lined drive along the
river relaxed her. But not tonight. Tonight all she wanted was to get
to Chestnut Hill and her mother as quickly as possible, have it out
with her and get out.

Trees and shrubs carefully tended by an array of
gardeners concealed the large stone house from the view of nosy
passersby. Which was standard for houses in Chestnut Hill, all very
large and all very private.

The family had lived in this house for as long as
Missy could remember. She had learned to swim in the pool in the back
near the croquet court and to ride at the nearby Hillsgate Stables,
where she still kept a horse.

As she pulled into the driveway, her lights
illuminated the shape of the house with its two stories of stone,
shutters and carved masonry. It seemed, as always, a somber house.
She parked and walked to the kitchen entrance at the back. With its
six bedrooms and servants' quarters the place was really too large
for the three of them, plus Edgar, her father's major domo, who, as
the lone live-in servant functioned with the hats of butler, cook,
and valet. The only light in the kitchen was the small fluorescent
one over the stove. As she passed through the kitchen and into the
hallway that led to the dining room on one side and the living room
and her father's study on the other, she encountered Edgar. Edgar
Kirby, tall, thin, white-haired, who had been with the family almost
as long as they'd been in this house. Missy had no love for him,
though at one time she had called him "uncle." "Your
mother's in the living room; she's expecting you," was all this
ex-"uncle" had to say.

Her mother was sitting at one end of a green velvet
sofa. Missy kissed her on an offered cheek, then flopped down in one
of the armchairs and threw her feet onto the coffee table covered
with a stack of art and travel books.

"When did you get back?"

"Last night."

Helen looked directly at her. Meaning she knew
better. Both mother and daughter were tall and lean with erect
posture. Their faces were similar, except Helen's was heavily lined
from age, too much sun and too many cigarettes and martinis. The
essential resemblance always made Missy uncomfortable, looking at her
mother was seeing herself old, gray and on the downside.

Edgar, unbidden, arrived with drinks, a martini
straight up for Helen, gin and tonic for Missy.

Missy took hers without looking at him. For some
fifteen years she had known that her mother was having an affair with
Edgar. She'd sensed it for a long while, and then she knew it. Of the
two, she blamed Edgar more. At least at the time. He was her father's
friend and he had betrayed him. There was no forgiveness for that. As
for her mother, in a sense, and secretly, it pleased her because, she
felt, it strengthened her own bond with her father. Little girls
believe what they choose to believe . . .

Her mother took a sip of her martini and got down to
business. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"I think you know. Why did you sell out to
Nathan? Without even consulting me?"

"Why would I want to consult you?"

"Because you know damn well Dad and I built that
practice. We slaved to make it what it is today, and then as soon as
he's gone and my back's turned you sell out—"

"It wasn't quite like that."

"What was it like?"

"As you doubtless know . . . you were, after
all, closer to your father than I . . . Nathan and your father had a
buy-out agreement, with an insurance policy on each of their lives.
It was your fathers idea. Nathan simply executed it. He got my stock;
I got the proceeds of the policy."

"So I understand. And where does that leave me?"

"You mean, why aren't you running the practice."

"That would make sense, considering that Dad and
I—"

"Don't be naive. No one is going to work for
you. You aren't even a doctor. Don't you remember, your father wanted
you to be a doctor but you refused. You wanted to be a nurse and
serve by his side, I think that's how you put it. Like a lady in one
of those frightfully romantic Hemingway novels. Well, you served, and
you have your reward, nurse."

Missy couldn't handle that part of her feelings just
now, especially with her mother. She returned to the matter of the
practice and her consignment to the lab and Beverly having been given
her job. "They cut my salary by over fifty percent."

"You have your house and your car. I have the
title to both of them and I'm not going to charge you rent. And if
it's not enough, I suggest you find yourself another job."

That almost stopped her. "You . . . don't
understand. I can't find another job, not like this one . . ."

"You're saying that a comparable job wouldn't
pay what you're accustomed to? Or that for some reason you can't get
another job?"

"I can but they don't pay. You know how cheap
doctors are."

"Then from what you're saying, Nathan only
brought your salary in line with what the job is really worth on the
market."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"No, I'm just trying to point out the realities
all around—"

"Screw all that. You and your toady are—"

"Don't use that kind of language to me. Your
father may have thought it was cute that you have a mouth like a
sailor. I don't."

Missy backed off slightly; tactics indicated it.

"I'm sorry . . ."

Helen ignored it. "Your father had an odd sense
of humor, if humor is the word for it, where you were concerned. I
remember how pleased he was when he learned about you chewing tobacco
at camp."

It was true, Missy and her father had laughed
together many times over the incident. That was before the fishing
trip . . . Helen took another sip of her martini. "Enough of
happy family reminiscences. I want you to understand that I am not
going to support you. You are twenty-eight years old, smart and quite
beautiful. You can take care of yourself."

"You don't understand, my salary's not enough to
live on—"

"Then you'll simply have to make other
arrangements, won't you?"

"That's not what Dad wanted—"

"It's exactly what he wanted. He understood that
you were too unstable to trust with money. You have no discipline.
You drink too much. I suspect you take drugs. Also, you have the
worst taste in men. To give you an income would be inviting folly."

"That's crazy—"

"I don't think you really understood your father
very well."

"You know we were close." Defensively.

"Oh, I don't blame you for it," she said,
ignoring Missy's response. "I was the same when I married him.
He was a young, handsome doctor, swept me off my feet, as they say.
That, of course, was before I knew the kind of man he really was. He
hated women . . ."

Missy started to rush to his defense, even though she
knew her mother was right. Hadn't he meant her to be a boy, turned on
her, away from her, after that one time he saw her acting out as a
female. . .

Still, Missy was damned if she'd give her mother the
satisfaction of openly agreeing with her. Besides, his elusiveness,
even rejection, was a challenge to overcome. Even though she'd never
managed it. But ever since, the men she'd chosen to be really close
to, like this new one, Felix Ducroit, were like him . . . attractive,
enticing and yet distant and rejecting. Damn them. God-damn them . .
.

Her mother had paused and was looking at her as if
she expected Missy to interrupt. When she didn't Helen went on,
letting loose feeling she'd bottled up for years. "When I found
out I was pregnant I was incredibly happy. I was giving Cyrus what he
wanted most in life, a child—or rather what I thought he wanted
most. We were so close during my pregnancy . . . He would hold me and
pet me . . . It was when we started talking about names for you that
I had my first clue that everything might not be okay, just peachy,
although I didn't pick up on it at the time. He would only talk about
boy's names, wouldn't even consider the prospect of a girl. Well, I
rationalized, most fathers wanted a male child, but if he got a girl
he'd be happy too. My first real sign of trouble came about the
seventh month because I'd ignored all the earlier ones. That was when
I decided on what your name would be if you were a girl. I waited for
what I thought was the right moment and one night I told him. He'd
been under a lot of strain at the hospital, and he accused me,
incredibly, of trying to turn you into a girl before you were even
born. This from a doctor. Then he hit me in the face. I fell against
the corner of a table and started to hemorrhage . . ."

Missy couldn't believe what she was hearing, except
she could . . . The look in his eyes watching her with that boy was
definitely a look that could kill . . .

"He rushed me to the hospital," her mother
was saying, "and it was touch and go for a while. They thought
they were going to have to do a Caesarian, but in those days, care
being what it was, with me barely in my seventh month, you probably
wouldn't have lived. I said no, wait, and finally it worked out.
"Your father was shaken, was actually contrite. But when I
finally went into labor again and he was driving me to the hospital
he kept saying things like 'Think positive, think boy, everything
will be fine.' Even between pains I thought how absurd that was. Your
father the doctor, the trained medical man who knew perfectly well
that your sex had been determined months before, was carrying on like
someone doing a voodoo rite. In a way it was touching, but it also
scared me. As they wheeled me into the delivery room I actually said
a prayer that you would be a healthy baby and that Cyrus would not be
disappointed, whichever sex you were . . . But when he heard the news
he just walked out of the hospital. At one time he even made noises
about putting you up for adoption—"

"Whut?"

"It's the truth. And who do you think stopped
him? Me. Your terrible mother. He never stopped punishing me—or
you. Even from the grave."

Missy didn't want to believe it. Hated to, hated her
mother for telling it, even as she realized it seemed to be true. Oh
yes, damn him, goddamn him.

Her mother paused, forced herself to go on. "The
one time I had some hope for you was when your father caught you
sleeping with that boy up at the cabin. I was actually proud of you,
for once you were acting like a girl your age should, not like some
tomboy to please your father. You were experimenting with womanhood
instead of trying to figure out a better way to tie a trout fly.
Maybe if he hadn't caught you, or maybe if you'd come to me for help
afterward, you and I might have grown closer. But you didn't. You
just tried even harder to win him over and pushed me further away . .
. I said he was punishing you from the grave. He was, by leaving you
nothing. You never stopped being a girl . . ." She didn't add
that she was sure Cyrus desired his daughter almost as much as he
resented her. That much she would spare Missy , . .

"What happens now?" said Missy, thoroughly
shaken.

"Winter is coming, and tomorrow Edgar and I are
closing the house and leaving for Rio."

"Why Rio?"

"Neither of us has ever seen it. I fancy a
little sun, and Edgar, bless him, has become quite enchanted with
this bathing suit they call the String. He wants to see me wear it
where it originated. I think that's sweet of him, considering my less
than stunning figure and skin these days."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Hard to tell. We've rented a house there and
intend to stay at least six months."

"What if I hadn't called? I wouldn't have even
known you were going—"

"Oh, we would have sent you a postcard . . . By
the way, if you'll take a motherly piece of advice, even though I
know you place little stock in my opinions, I would suggest that if
you can't make it on your own, then you should find yourself a
husband and marry well. It may not be what it's cracked up to be, but
it does have its moments." She said it with a straight face.
 
 

CHAPTER 8

SLOAN GOT up from his desk, put the folders on the
missing girls and the dead one in his file cabinet. Well, at least
they had a body now, a description of Peter, true or false, and lab
tests that at least eliminated twenty percent of the male population.
Nothing conclusive but a beginning. Fire to let the pot heat up. Time
to get out of here.

He pulled on his coat and started for his car. With
each step he seemed to feel worse. This flu bug was killing him. He
decided to stop by Doc Watson's on Eleventh Street for a Scotch and
head home to bed.