Further Tales of the City (25 page)

P
RUE SAT AT HER CORONAMATIC AND WEPT SOFTLY TO
herself. Her maid, her secretary and her chauffeur were all in the house, so a visible (or audible) display of grief was completely out of the question.

She slipped a piece of paper into the typewriter. It hung there listlessly, like a surrender flag, a horrid metaphor for the emptiness she felt now that Luke was gone. What was there to write about, really? What was there to live for?

She yanked the paper out again, just as the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“All right, Prudy Sue, let’s have it.”

“Have what?” Getting right to the point was Victoria Lynch’s annoying device for flaunting her intuitive powers. Prue refused to play along.

“You know. True confessions. What the hell’s been going on? You’ve been in the most morbid funk ever since you got back from Alaska.”

Silence.

“You looked like holy hell last night at the placenta party.”

Prue almost bit her head off. “I don’t
like
placenta parties, all right?”

(The party had been held in the spacious Pacific Heights garden of John and Eugenia Stonecypher. In keeping with a hallowed family tradition, the couple had planted Eugenia’s most recent afterbirth in the same hole as a flowering plum sapling, a ritual intended to insure long life and happiness for the Stonecyphers’ baby girl. Prue had almost thrown up.)

“It isn’t my idea of a fun time,” she added.

“You haven’t even called me,” countered her friend.

“I’m a little blue,” said Prue. “What can I say?”

“You can say you’ll call me. You can lean on your pal, Prudy Sue. Look, I’ve got the most marvelous news. I’ve found a place that sells Rioco!”

“What’s that?”

“You remember. That Brazilian cola Binky told us about last spring.”

“She didn’t tell
me.”

“Well, it’s full of jungle speed or something. Half of Rio is buzzed on it. Guarana. It sounds like bat shit, but it’s fabulous stuff. They’ve got it at the Twin Peaks Grocery. What say we dash out there?”

“I’m on deadline, Vickie.”

“We could go this afternoon.”

“Vickie …”

“All right,
be
in your funk, then.”

“You’re sweet to think of me.”

“I’m not trying to be sweet, Prudy Sue. I want my friend back.”

A long pause, then a sigh from the columnist. “I’m trying, Vickie. Give me a little time, O.K.?”

“You got it. Just don’t mope, Prudy Sue. Get out and get some air, at least. Take Vuitton for a walk.”

That was what did it: a little sisterly advice from an old friend.

Despite repeated warnings from Father Paddy, she had known that this moment would come. How could she have avoided it? How could she not return, however briefly, to the scene of her happiest moments on earth?

Besides, she might find a clue there—something to aid
DeDe in her search for Luke and the twins. She wouldn’t have to tell DeDe everything—just enough to point her in the right direction. That couldn’t hurt, could it?

She also wanted some answers herself. Maybe the truth, however painful, would free her from this crippling melancholy. It was worth a try, anyway.

And Vuitton needed the walk.

T
HE FIRST THING MARY ANN NOTICED ABOUT LITTLE DIOMEDE
was the row of crude wooden boxes perched on the rocks above the village. She asked Andy Omiak about them.

“Coffins,” he replied amiably. “Most of the year the ground’s frozen solid. We have to bury people above ground.” Seeing Mary Ann’s grimace, he added: “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s so dry here that the boxes last longer than … their contents. The dogs scatter whatever’s left.”

The dogs were the next thing she noticed. Dozens of them—thick-coated and yellow-eyed—roaming the island in ominous packs. “We’re glad to have ‘em,” insisted Andy Omiak. “They function as our radar. If anybody comes over from the other island the dogs will let us know.”

DeDe, who had been silent during the trek from the airfield, turned to the Eskimo Scout. “What about the other way around?”

Andy Omiak frowned at her. “You mean …?”

“If somebody tried to cross over to the Russian island, would you have any way of knowing it?”

“Oh … well … there it is. It wouldn’t be too hard to
see
anybody who might try to cross over. This time of year it never gets dark, so … why do you ask, anyway?”

DeDe maintained her stride, looking straight ahead. “We think somebody may be trying to cross over. He may have already, in fact.”

“From the mainland?”

DeDe nodded. “A man about fifty and two four-year-olds, a boy and a girl. They were Eurasian and dressed in parkas, so they might have been mistaken for Eskimos.”

Andy Omiak smiled. “Not around here. Everybody knows everybody. We’d see that for sure.”

Mary Ann asked: “If they came from the mainland, would they have to arrive by airplane?”

The Eskimo Scout shrugged. “Probably. That’s the usual way. I guess he could come in by boat … from Wales or something. There wouldn’t be much point in stopping here, though. Why wouldn’t he go straight to Big Diomede?”

It was a good question—one that cast a shadow on the validity of their search. In light of the roving dogs and Eskimo Scouts, a stopover on Little Diomede would be almost foolhardy. Why not go directly to Big Diomede, if you were going to go at all?

Willie Omiak, Andy’s pilot cousin, parted company with them as soon as they reached Andy’s house, a sturdy wood-and-tarpaper structure near the waterfront. “I’ll be back at the airstrip,” he said. “Give a holler if you need me.”

“Thanks,” said DeDe, looking genuinely grateful. “You’ve been very kind.”

“No sweat. You leaving tomorrow, by the way?”

“I think so,” said DeDe. “Can I let you know later?”

“Sure. Nana will take good care of you.”

Nana was his grandmother, a rotund and wrinkled crone who reminded Mary Ann of the dried apple dolls sold at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Having little command of English, she simply smiled at them toothlessly when she arrived with mugs of steaming cocoa.

Mary Ann made an exaggerated bow to show her appreciation.
“How lovely,” she said, addressing Andy Omiak.

“We don’t get much company,” he grinned. He turned to his grandmother, speaking to her in their common language. The old lady looked at Mary Ann, giggled, and scurried out of the room.

“So,” said Andy Omiak, “maybe you’d better tell me what this is all about.”

An awkward silence followed. Then DeDe said: “Someone has kidnapped my children.”

The Eskimo Scout frowned. “Someone you know?”

“Yes.”

“But … why?”

“He wants them for himself,” she replied. “He’s crazy. We think he plans to take them to Russia.”

“Have you notified the mainland police?”

“No,” said DeDe. “No one.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated,” DeDe replied. “If he knows we’re involved with the police, he might hurt the children.”

“You must be very worried,” said Andy Omiak.

“I’m desperate.”

“And you want to find out if he’s taken them to Big Diomede?”

“Yes.”

The Eskimo started to speak, then stopped, looking away from DeDe. “I could get into a lot of trouble,” he said at last.

“I’m afraid I don’t …”

“If I help you … you can’t tell
anybody.”

“I promise you,” said DeDe.

Andy Omiak leaned closer, speaking in a furtive tone. “I can take you,” he said.

“To …?”

He nodded. “I’ve done it before.”

Mary Ann looked up from her cocoa. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean …?”

“It’s all right,” said the Eskimo. “It can be done.”

“Without being shot at?”

Andy Omiak grinned. “It’s possible.”

M
RS. MADRIGAL WAS PREPARING BAMBI KANETAKA’S
tray when Michael bounced into the kitchen.

“What’s for din-din?” he asked, lifting the lid on a covered dish. “Mmmm … parakeet … my favorite!”

The landlady snapped at him. “It’s five-spice chicken, Michael! And I’ll thank you not to be so flip!”

Michael ducked his head repentantly. “Hey … sorry.” Mrs. Madrigal placed a pink rose in the bud vase on the tray. “I’m worried about her,” she said. “She seems to be getting … desperate. I’ve told her time and again that we mean her no harm, but she just won’t relax.”

“I’m surprised your brownies didn’t do the trick.”

“She wants out,” said the landlady. “Period. She even promised she’d keep quiet about DeDe if I’d set her free.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I can’t afford to,” replied Mrs. Madrigal, “not if there’s the slightest chance of endangering those children. Besides, if I release her before there’s
some
resolution, we’ll only be in
worse trouble. We need proof that we had a good reason to … detain her.”

“Good point,” said Michael.

Mrs. Madrigal lifted the tray. “I suppose things will work themselves out. They always do. I can’t help worrying, though.”

Michael looked at her earnestly. “We’re in this together, you know. Brian and I have talked about it. If they haul you off to jail, then they’re taking us, too. And we’ll insist on the same cell.”

The landlady smiled back at him, then pecked him on the cheek. “I’m sorry I barked at you, dear. This is all a bit new to me. I feel like such an
outlaw.”

Michael winked at her. “But you
are,
Blanche … you
are.”

Somewhat more at peace with herself, Mrs. Madrigal descended the stairs to the basement.

She listened for a moment outside the door, then set the tray down on the floor and undid the padlock. Bambi was sitting in the rumpsprung armchair that the landlady had retired when Mona moved to Seattle.

“Suppertime,” chimed Mrs. Madrigal, trying to sound cheerful without patronizing her. She placed the tray on an ancient laundry hamper that Burke Andrew had left behind.

Bambi didn’t stir.

“I checked the TV listings,” said the landlady.
“The Barretts of Wimpole Street
is on tonight. I thought you might enjoy watching it.”

A low growl from the newscaster.

“I know it isn’t easy,” continued Mrs. Madrigal, “but it won’t be long now. We’re all terribly sorry that it had to come to this, but …”

In a single lightning-swift movement, Bambi sprang to her feet and lunged at her captor, knocking the landlady backwards until she was pinned against the board where the house keys were hung. Mrs. Madrigal screamed in agony as the nails in the key board pressed into her back.

Crumpling to her knees, she looked up to see the newscaster’s triumphant sneer as Bambi kicked her once … twice … three times in the stomach. On the third kick, Mrs. Madrigal seized Bambi’s ankle and twisted it sharply, eliciting a scream of Samurai intensity. Bambi toppled to the concrete floor, then raised herself to her hands and knees and began crawling for the door.

Wheezing in pain, Mrs. Madrigal reached for a loop of garden hose and hoisted herself to a near-standing position. Something warm and wet—presumably blood—was trickling down her spine, pasting her kimono to her back. Her fingers found the handle of a shovel, which she wielded like a mace, bringing it down squarely on Bambi’s backside.

For a moment, and only a moment, the newscaster was splayed against the floor like a swastika. Then she lurched to her feet and made her way through the doorway and up the steps.

Mrs. Madrigal staggered after her, still brandishing the shovel. When Bambi reached the top of the stairs, the landlady swung wildly, clipping her adversary in the back of her knees. Bambi fell forward ingloriously, then slid back down the steps until her ankles were once more within the landlady’s grasp.

Mrs. Madrigal dragged the newscaster back into the basement, wrapped her ankles hastily with a length of electrical cord, and hurried out the door, locking it behind her.

Gasping for breath, she leaned against the door for almost a minute. Inside, Bambi was screaming bloody murder. Upstairs, someone was ringing the door buzzer.

She made her way slowly up the stairs, hoping to God that the visitor hadn’t heard the ruckus.

When she saw the man at the door, she wanted to weep in his arms.

It was Jon Fielding.

T
HE DOCTOR KNELT NEXT TO HIS PATIENT, WHO WAS
lying face down on the red velvet sofa in her parlor. “O.K. now … bite the bullet, Mrs. M. This’ll sting a little.”

Her body tensed as he daubed gently at the puncture in her back. “Good girl,” he said. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looked. How did you do this, anyway?”

“It was silly,” replied Mrs. Madrigal. “I slipped and fell against a nail.”

“Where?”

“Uh … in the basement. Does it need stitches?”

“Not really. A Band-Aid will fix you up just fine. Got any?”

“In the bathroom cabinet,” said the landlady. “Why don’t I just …?”

“Sit tight. You’re indisposed.”

He was back moments later, smoothing the bandage into place. “There,” he said, rising to his feet. “I think you’ll pull through just fine.”

Mrs. Madrigal adjusted the bloodied kimono as she shifted to a sitting position and retied the silken cord around her
waist. “Well,” she said, smiling lovingly at Jon, “what did we ever do without a doctor in the house?”

Jon shrugged. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me.”

Mrs. Madrigal studied him for a moment, reassessing the Arrow Collar blond who had lived with Michael for almost three years. He seemed thinner now, a little haggard even, but his classically Nordic face was more beautiful than ever. “How old are you now?” she asked.

He replied with a smile. “Thirty-three.”

“It suits you,” she said.

“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself. Aside from the wound, that is.”

She bowed graciously. “It’s good to see you, Jon. It really is. Michael’s upstairs, if you want to see him.” She patted her hair to regain some sense of order. “I’m sure you didn’t plan this detour.”

“Actually,” said Jon, “I did. It was your buzzer I rang, remember?”

“Then, I’m honored.”

“I was hoping you could tell me the lay of the land.”

“Oh … I see.” She fussed with a wisp of hair over her ear.

“I haven’t talked to Michael for a long time, and I’m not sure if …” He stopped talking and jerked his head sharply, like an animal picking up a scent. “What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?”

“I’m not sure … somebody yelling, I think. You didn’t hear it?”

“It could be the children,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

“Children?”

“Down on Leavenworth … skateboarding. It’s quite bloodcurdling sometimes.”

“It sounded closer than that.”

“Look, dear … if you want to have a little chat, why don’t we just stroll down to North Beach. It’s such a balmy evening, and we could have a lovely little dinner somewhere.”

“All right,” said Jon, “but on me, O.K.?”

“You’ve got a date,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

After changing clothes, she hurried him through the foyer, chattering as noisily as possible. Bambi’s outburst seemed to have subsided, but Mrs. Madrigal breathed a secret sigh of relief when they were finally out of earshot on the lane.

They dined in a window seat at the Washington Square Bar and Grill.

“So how is he?” asked Jon, after they had placed their orders.

Mrs. Madrigal pursed her lips in thought. “A little restless, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Well, he makes a lot of fuss about his independence, but I don’t think he really enjoys it very much.”

“But he has friends,” said the doctor.

“Plenty,” said the landlady.

“That’s good.”

“Friends,” smiled the landlady, “but no capital F Friend. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

The doctor reddened. “I guess it was.”

“Good.”

“It’s been a long time, though … almost two years.”

“And you think you can pick up where you left off.”

“No,” said Jon, “I just …”

“It’s all right, dear. I think you can, too.”

He smiled at her almost timidly. “I’m not sure either one of us could handle it at this point.”

“Why not?”

The doctor shrugged. “Things change.”

“Do they now? Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you should stop beating around the bush, because you came here to get him back.”

“You do, huh?”

“Uh-huh. And I think I’m going to help you.” Her big blue eyes flowed into his.

Embarrassed, the doctor looked down.

“I’m a cranky old hen,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I like all my eggs in one basket.”