You Might As Well Die (9 page)

Dorothy took a different tack. “And has he said why he took his own life?”

“Not that I know of. But you can ask him yourself.”

“Right now?”

“No.” The woman chuckled good-naturedly. “Halloween night. Just a five-dollar deposit each.”

Benchley took out his nearly empty wallet and handed her two fives.

Viola produced a clipboard. “Your names?”

“Mrs. Becky Sharp,” Dorothy said.

Viola scribbled it down, then turned to Benchley.

“Fred”—Benchley gazed around for inspiration, his eyes settling on Woody—“Wilson. Fred Wilson.”

Viola wrote down the names. “We’ll see you at midnight on Thursday.”

“One last thing,” Dorothy asked. “What does this
donation
go toward?”

The woman spoke with sincerity. “To further the search for a better connection to the spirit world.”

To further the search for a better peroxide dye job,
Dorothy thought. Instead, she said, “Can you tell us anything else about what MacGuffin says?”

“You’ll have to come see for yourself. Bye.” She began to close the door.

Dorothy spoke impatiently, desperately. “I think you know more about Ernie MacGuffin than you’re telling us.”

Viola paused. Her smoky eyes now glittered with resentment.

Dorothy continued. “I think you knew him. I think you knew him quite well.”

For the first time, Viola didn’t speak so sweetly. “Mr. MacGuffin was a married man,
Mrs.
Sharp.” Her eyes darted accusingly between Dorothy and Benchley. “If you want to know more about him, go ask his wife.”

She slammed the door.

“
H
arold Ross is going to have to reimburse us in shoe leather,” Dorothy said to Benchley. Woodrow Wilson had tired, so Dorothy now carried the dog in her arms. They trudged across busy Fourth Avenue on their way to pay Midge MacGuffin another visit. They walked in shadow. Overhead, the elevated train rumbled by.

She and Benchley hadn’t spoken about what Viola had said to them—that taunt about Ernie being a married man, implying by association that Dorothy and Benchley themselves were involved in an illicit affair. As they walked together in silence, Dorothy wondered if she should say something about it to Benchley to clear the air. Perhaps she should make some joke about it in an effort to deflate it—to nullify it.

She glanced up at Benchley. He smiled back and took Woody out of her arms. “Let me help. The poor creature must be getting heavy for you.”

The moment was gone. Benchley had cleared the air on his own, although the question remained unresolved.

“Thank you,” Dorothy sighed. “So, do you believe Ernie’s spirit can speak through Mistress Viola?”

“Not a ghost of a chance. Not even the ghost of Ernie.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, come on, now.” Benchley smiled warmly, his merry eyes creasing. “She’s a nude model and self-proclaimed paranormal clairvoyant. Her head is clearly full of stuffing. I’m surprised she can even speak for herself, much less MacGuffin.”

Dorothy shook her head. “I disagree. She had a good head on her shoulders—to match the rest of that body of hers. But I wonder, is she sharp because she has the clarity of a true believer? Or because she’s a conniving opportunist?”

Benchley’s face clouded. “She did say that Ernie’s spirit spoke about that dead cat posed as a mountain lion. We know that’s for real. Ernie mentioned it several times. How could Viola know about it? To be honest, it spooked me a little.”

Dorothy wouldn’t believe it. “Ernie told that tidbit to anyone who’d listen. Viola could have picked it up anywhere, especially through artistic circles. Hell, Neysa and Frank Adams went there for the séance the other night. Neysa could have let that information slip, and now Mistress Viola is using it in her act.”

“Maybe. But if Viola does have a connection to the spirit world—”

“Which she doesn’t,” Dorothy said emphatically.

“But supposing she does, why would Ernie’s spirit choose her?”

“Why not her? She’s gorgeous. Any man would like to be inside her. Even a dead one. It’s the only way MacGuffin ever could.” Dorothy stopped. They were within sight of Midge MacGuffin’s house. Two people stood by the doorway. “Look, there’s Clay. He’s leaving.”

Bert Clay was on the stoop, a childlike grin on the bulky man’s face. Dorothy couldn’t hear what Clay was saying, but he was apparently taking his sweet time saying good-bye. Midge, standing at the door, looked equally reluctant to see him go.

“Here, give me Woodrow Wilson,” Dorothy said, grabbing the dog from Benchley. “You follow Clay and talk to him. I’ll question Midge.”

Benchley looked doubtful. “Won’t he be suspicious?”

“You’ll figure something out. Now, go.”

He shrugged, smiling. “Go I shall.”

As Clay finally walked away from the house, Benchley nonchalantly followed several paces behind him.

Dorothy, carrying the dog in her arms, strolled to the bottom steps of Midge’s house. The tall woman lingered in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Bert Clay.

Dorothy recalled something unusual that Clay had said the last time she had seen him on Midge’s doorstep. “Hello there, Harriet—oh, I’m sorry,” Dorothy said. “I mean, hello there,
Midge
.”

The woman froze. Her expression was guarded, though her face showed neither surprise nor alarm. “Hello? Yes?”

“It’s Mrs. Parker.” Dorothy ascended the stone steps. “Do you remember me? I stopped by a few days ago? Last Wednesday, to be exact. I’ve also called you on the telephone several times. And I sent you two letters and a telegram.”

Midge now looked a little nervous. She took a half step backward.

Why should she be nervous?
Dorothy thought, looking up at the tall woman, who towered over her like a marble statue.
She’s a titan compared to me.

“Oh yes,” Midge said warily. “Of course.”

Dorothy moved closer. “Would you have time to talk now?”

Midge backed away. “Actually, now is not a good time—”

Dorothy smiled knowingly. “I understand, Harriet.” Her hand flew to her lips. “Sorry. I mean
Midge
, of course. Perhaps tomorrow—”

Midge’s wary expression became one of puzzlement. “How did you know my name is—was Harriet?”

Dorothy moved back down the steps. “Oh, silly old me. Don’t let me bother you one bit. If you don’t have time to talk now—”

Midge reconsidered, glancing up the street. Clay was long gone. She held the door open. “Actually, now’s as good a time as any. Won’t you come in?”

 

Benchley couldn’t lose sight of such a large, broad-shouldered, athletic man as Bert Clay. On the busy sidewalk, Clay stuck out like a big brown bull amid a herd of docile dairy cows.

But Clay walked fast. Benchley realized Clay was outpacing him. Eventually, Benchley would lose Clay in the crowd.

Benchley looked down at his shoes, willing them to move faster. His shoes were still caked with dark mud from the morning’s trek through the garbage dump on Rikers Island. He hadn’t yet had a chance to get them cleaned up.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He stopped a moment to think as he watched Clay move farther away.

Yes, it could work, if only—

He was shocked out of his reverie by a messenger boy on a bicycle who nearly knocked him down.
That’s what I get for standing on a crowded sidewalk staring at my shoes,
Benchley thought. He watched the messenger boy hop off the bike, lean it against a lamppost and then disappear inside a candy shop. Ignoring his conscience, Benchley grabbed the bike, got on, turned it around and raced down the busy sidewalk in the direction that Bert Clay was headed.

 

Dorothy Parker followed Midge MacGuffin into her small sitting room. Dorothy was surprised—this wasn’t at all the type of fleabag apartment typically kept by a third-rate artist such as Ernie. The room was decorated with sleek, new, expensive-looking art deco furniture—all curves and angles and zigzag designs.

“Please sit down,” Midge said.

Dorothy sat in a plush, angular armchair and found that it was surprisingly comfortable. Woodrow Wilson plopped down on the thick rug by her feet and fell asleep immediately. It was a good thing the dog had relieved himself earlier at Snath’s office, Dorothy thought, because she didn’t want him peeing here.

Because Midge was home on a Tuesday afternoon, Dorothy figured that she did not hold a job. Without an income and without Ernie to provide for her, how would Midge continue to live this kind of lifestyle? In a strange way, Dorothy felt sorry for her.

To add to the lavishness, the room smelled and looked as wonderful as a florist’s shop—every flat surface held bouquets and vases of brilliant flowers. Many of these were roses, in every tint and variety.

“Wonderful flowers,” Dorothy said with sincerity.

“Oh yes.” Midge smiled, though it seemed as if she had forgotten about them or taken them for granted. “Thank you.”

Roses,
Dorothy thought. Clearly they weren’t funeral flowers given in memory of Ernie. Could they all be from Clay?

Midge stared directly at Dorothy, though her expression was blank. If she was suspicious or angry, she didn’t show it.

“So how did you know my name was Harriet?” she asked. “Have we met?”

“No,” Dorothy said weakly. “I suppose you just look like a Harriet.”

“Really? I do?” She turned and looked into a gilt-framed mirror.

“I confess you don’t.” Dorothy took a stab in the dark. “Perhaps Ernie had said it once—by accident.”

“That wouldn’t be like him. He preferred to call me Midge.”

“Midge. Now, that’s a cute nickname. Is it short for Harriet?”

“No.”

“Margaret? Is that your middle name?”

“Oh no. It’s short for
midget
. In our hometown, where Ernie and I are from, I was teased all the time for my height. So they called me midget. I suppose they were trying to be funny. But I didn’t think it was funny. But still, I prefer Midge to Harriet.”

“Young people can be so cruel,” Dorothy clucked. “So you and Ernie came here together from the same town?”

“Yes.”

“What town?”

“Elmira. Upstate.”

Dorothy pictured a provincial, working-class town. Not a great place for a beautiful but tall woman. Or, for that matter, a budding artist whose ambition exceeded his talent.

“I suppose you and Ernie were high school sweethearts?”

Midge’s expression, which had been as blank as the face of a statue, now clouded over. She turned and gazed at the flowers and was quiet for a long moment.

 

Benchley pedaled quickly, urging the bicycle as fast as he could make it go. He weaved his way dangerously through the pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk, leaving their shouts and curses in his wake. He pressed on and rounded the next corner. He was circling the block, racing to get ahead of Bert Clay.

Benchley’s favorite shoe-shine stand was dead ahead. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Clay coming toward him. When Benchley reached the shoe-shine stand, he braked hard and hopped off the bike, leaned it against a fire hydrant and jumped up into one of the stand’s two empty seats.

“Hi, Rudy,” Benchley panted, out of breath. “Can I ask a favor?”

Rudy, a middle-aged black man in a tweed cap, looked up from the sports page of the afternoon newspaper. He scrunched up his weathered face. “Do I know you?”

“Rudy, you remember me,” Benchley gasped. “I stop by every week.”

“I don’t look at faces. I look at shoes,” Rudy said, carefully folding up his newspaper and evaluating Benchley’s oxfords. “Oh, I know these shoes. Man almighty, what have you done to them?” Rudy scowled as though Benchley had kicked his kitten.

“No time for that now,” Benchley leaned down and whispered quickly. “Look behind you. No, don’t look. Do you see that big man in the light brown suit? I said don’t look! I need you to stop him. Give him a free shoe shine.”

“Are you out of your mind? I don’t give out free shoe shines.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll pay. But you stop him. Get him up here. Give him a shine. Say it’s for free. Then I’ll pay you later.”

“Doesn’t sound right.” He frowned, still eyeing Benchley’s muddy shoes. “Is this some kind of con job?”

“Rudy, it’s me. It’s sweet old Benchley.”

“I said I don’t know you. I only know your shoes. And I don’t like the way you’ve been treating them.”

“Please, I’m begging you. Here he comes,” Benchley begged. “Please, if not for me, do it for my shoes. They need your help.”

This seemed to make sense to Rudy. “All right,” he agreed. “For your shoes.”

Rudy turned and stepped right in front of Bert Clay, whose eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me, sir,” Rudy said with a winning smile, a master salesman now. “You look like you need a shoe shine.”

“Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?” Clay growled, trying to sidestep. “I don’t have time for a shine.”

“Always time for a quick shine,” Rudy said, not letting the big man pass. “Come on. It’s on the house.”

Clay paused. “On the house?”

“Sure. If you like it, you come back. If you don’t like it, what have you lost?”

Clay looked down at his shoes. “All right.” He climbed up and plopped down into the other chair. He didn’t even glance at Benchley.

Rudy handed Clay the sports page; then he grabbed his brush and a can of Shinola and went to work on the man’s big shoes.

Benchley sized up Clay. The man was a few inches taller and was built much larger—probably a good forty or fifty pounds heavier. Benchley, who was just under six foot and built rather slender, couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the larger man.

Now Clay was looking back at him out of the corner of his eye. “What are you looking at?” he snarled.