Strangled Prose (6 page)

“I am!” I said, bearing down on Douglas. “I think all the lawyers in Farberville are going to make a lot of money before this mess is settled. How could she do such a thing, Douglas? All this drivel about how I'm such a valued friend is a bunch of—of drivel!”

I realized I still had the book in my hand. I restrained myself from beating him with it, since he was not the guilty party. But Mildred Twiller
was,
I reminded myself with surprising virulence, and she deserved whatever she got from her petty little trick. Poor Britton and Maggie would have to fight for their careers. Carlton was unavailable to defend himself, but I carried his name. I realized I could have cheerfully murdered Mildred at that time. To my regret, I later discovered that I was not the only one with that idea.

FOUR

Douglas and I were busy staring at each other when my aged hippie tapped me on the shoulder.

“Where do I get this autographed, Claire? I think I'd like to buy it,” he said apologetically. It was his normal raspy voice, but his eyes were as opaque as jelly beans. He was the only person present who had missed Maggie's performance, which indicated the extensiveness of his befogged condition. The man was an ambulatory vegetable.

“It's hardly your genre!” I snapped. “Go drink a big glass of champagne and reconsider.” I glared until he shuffled away, then swung back to Douglas. “There'd better be a good explanation for this.”

“I'm sure there is. Mildred would never do anything to hurt you; she thinks the world of you. Why, just this morning she was telling me how much she admires—”

“Can it, Douglas.” I was not in the mood for hearing how divine I was, especially when half of the Farber faculty was poring over the lesser known but nevertheless fascinating details of Carlton's death. I anticipated a titter of amusement at any moment.

Maggie muscled me aside. “I am going home now to call my lawyer. Tell that nasty, foulmouthed bitch that she's going to hear from him in about fifteen minutes.” She thudded out, and seconds later I heard her screeching orders to the FWO demonstrators.

“Claire,” Douglas began plaintively, “you've got to be—”

“I do not.” I didn't.

Douglas was clever enough to read the signals. He coughed and murmured, “Perhaps I ought to call Mildred and make sure she arrived home safely. She was so upset that I'm afraid she might have driven off the railroad overpass.”

I took a deep breath. “In that you are a guest in the Book Depot, I will refrain from further comments. You may use my office to call, but then the reception will be over. Understand?”

He gave me a weak smile and disappeared down the aisle to hide in my office. I went back to the bar for a hefty slug of scotch, then plastered a bright look on my face and commenced to mingle with determined gaiety. If I were lucky, only a small percentage of the people would make the connection. Those who did would not be given a free show—from me, anyway. There were plenty of other juicy bits to amuse them. Mildred had not been overly coy with her characters' names. Margaret Hollburn, Blane Brittom, Martin Carlow—for God's sake!

I had misjudged the acumen of those present. After being given at least fifty omniscient smirks, I could no longer stand it. I told Mr. Pierre that it was all his, slipped on a sweater, and went out to see what had happened to the FWO. If there had been an extra sign, I would have snatched it up and let out a few chants myself.

Leaderless, they had dispersed. The street and sidewalk were relatively unpopulated for a Sunday afternoon. A few couples strolled down the hill from the campus, contented with clear sky and shop windows filled with the latest preppie fashions. I snorted to myself and took off down the railroad tracks, my heels leaving crescents in the dirt between the ties.

Eight years ago, when the highway patrolman had knocked on the door, his hat in his hands and his expression tactfully sympathetic, I had heard all the details. The girl in question, although by no means the next Aristotle, had had enough sense to wear a seat belt. Carlton had flown through the windshield; she had at least kept her seat. She was mangled but not terminally so. Her father arranged to keep her existence out of the newspaper and even hushed up her name in the police report. I did not ask. The vision of bloodied chicken feathers had more than dampened my curiosity.

So I had naïvely presumed that no one knew about her presence in the car. I had seen no reason to offer the information to anyone and had donned my mourning clothes like the brave little widow that I was. But now …

“How could you do it?” I bawled at the embankment. “Azalea Twilight, I hope you—I hope you—” I sputtered to a halt, embarrassed by my ferocity.

Well, I hoped she was prepared to take the consequences. I was not the only one with a grievance in the community, for that matter. I had never asked Britton questions about his past, preferring not to be bored with lost love, disillusioned irony, or even cherished sexual conquests. I caught myself speculating about the reference in the sordid book and gave myself a pinch. If only the entire population of Farberville would behave with equal self-restraint, we might all survive the scandal. And Peter Pan would appear on my windowsill to search for his shadow.

I realized I was below the Twiller house. The path snaked invitingly up the steep slope; I could see the top of the roofline. Mildred was there, sobbing into a lace handkerchief or reclining on a chaise lounge with a damp cloth over her eyes. How had she found out about Carlton's little passenger? I considered confronting her to demand an explanation. Outraged indignation battled with an ingrained distaste of scenes. Indecision sent me forward and back, as if I were propelled by a piston in my back.

In the midst of all this inner turmoil, I heard Caron's voice above my head. “Mother, what are you doing? Is that some kind of old-fashioned dance?”

She and Inez were hanging over the overpass, Punch and Judy with pimples. I took a second to compose a reasonable explanation, which was not as easy as it sounded, then yelled, “Taking a walk. What are you doing?”

The girls looked at each other. After a hushed conference, Caron giggled and said, “Taking a walk. I thought you were supposed to be having a reception at the Book Depot, Mother.”

Inez sighed grandly. “For Azalea Twilight, Mrs. Malloy.”

“I know where I am supposed to be,” I yelled. What a silly way to have a conversation, I thought. I pointed at the embankment. “Come down and walk back with me. I need some help putting the Book Depot back into its original state. If you'll help, I'll give each of you a paperback.”

They scrambled down the path to join me. Caron said, “Can we have
Professor of Passion
for our Twilight collections? Will Azalea autograph it in person?”

“Oh, yes,” Inez added with another sigh, clearly on the edge of a literary orgasm. “Her thirteenth book, you know. It must be divine…” More sighs. “I just adored the last one; it was so utterly sensitive. The hero had jade eyes and a mysterious scar on his cheek that he would not explain. His name was Jared.”

I gave them a nudge and we started for the store. “I was thinking of something more educational, such as
Pride and Prejudice.
You have no business reading things you don't understand—either of you.”

“Mother, I happen to understand everything I read,” Caron huffed. “After I read
Professor of Passion,
would you like me to explain any of it to you?”

If we hadn't been ten feet from the store, I might have marched her off to the nearest closet until the speculation faded to a dull murmur. I hadn't considered her potential reaction earlier, when all my ranting was addressed to my personal affront.

Caron and Inez would zero in on
Professor of Passion,
whether they got it from me or from the bookstore in the mall. Caron is not a dolt; she would hardly fail to miss the bit about her father. “Martin Carlow” was not a devious anagram.

Waving Inez ahead, I caught my daughter's arm. “I cannot stop now to talk to you, but I want you to promise me something. Before you read that book, we need to have a long talk. I can't explain here. Will you promise me that?”

Caron toyed with the jutting lip, but finally pulled it in and nodded. A theatrical sigh punctuated the facial display. “I won't read it until we talk,” she said, “but I can assure you that I will not be shocked by explicit sex. I know all that stuff already.”

She probably did, but she didn't know that her departed father was on the way to a sleazy motel with an undergraduate student when he departed the world in a blizzard of chicken feathers. I wanted to gather her in my arms and make all the maternal noises, as if she were a toddler again, but I knew that the gesture would only offend her. I settled for a sober look and we caught up with Inez.

The Book Depot had nearly emptied in my absence. The hippie was sitting on the floor in front of the champagne fountain, humming tunelessly as he read
Professor of Passion.
I hauled him up and sent him out the door, the book clutched to his chest as if it were a Dune novel. His pockets bulged with canapés, but I overlooked his transgressions and wished him a lovely dinner.

The last few guests made polite farewells and left to read the book aloud over martinis. The Farberville telephone system would be taxed that evening, I suspected as I watched Mr. Pierre's staff scurry about with crumpled cups and napkins. Damn Azalea Twilight, I muttered to myself. I showed the girls what to do, then hunted up Mr. Pierre himself to finalize the cleaning detail.

Mr. Pierre seemed a bit unraveled. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Twiller, Mrs. Malloy? We have not as yet”—discreet cough—“settled the account. I must pay my staff immediately.”

I resisted the urge to tweak his goatee, which looked as if it were made of horse hairs and attached with spirit gum. “Mrs. Twiller is at her home. I have no idea where you might find Mr. Twiller, and I don't believe that I care. Give your staff the remaining crab bites so that they will survive long enough to get their checks in the morning.”

Mr. Pierre gave me a decidedly un-Gaulish glare. “Listen, lady, I have bills—just the same as everybody else. Crabmeat isn't dogfood, and I'm not leaving until—”

“There you are!” Douglas boomed, coming down the aisle from the office. He took Mr. Pierre aside, and they haggled over a sheaf of bills until both were satisfied. I caught Caron and Inez eavesdropping and sent them to the office for a broom.

When the last silver-plated tray had been wrapped in tissue paper, Mr. Pierre and his minions disappeared toward the vans parked beside the store. Douglas came over to pat my shoulder. “I spoke to Mildred, Claire. She's appalled that you thought she would ever cast aspersions on Carlton's reputation. Carlton was one of her dearest friends, and she—”

“If I hear one more word about ‘dearest friends,' I am going to forget my resolution to behave in a civilized fashion and rip your beard off your chin,” I swore in an undertone, smiling for Caron and Inez's benefit. No spirit gum there.

“You may have a point,” Douglas acknowledged graciously, as if I were an unruly but promising freshman. “But I know Mildred would like to have the opportunity to explain, so will you please come by the house for a drink later this afternoon?”

“No.”

The professorial pose evaporated. Douglas glanced over his shoulder to see if the girls were occupied, and then said, “There is an explanation, Claire. I implore you to give Mildred a chance. She is totally distraught. I don't know what she might do if you don't listen to her.”

“All right,” I said, unable to resist the same old sympathy for Mildred that had instigated the whole disaster. “I'll listen, but not over a martini. I don't feel quite that civilized.”

“Claire, my darling, I've always known there was a heart of gold under that cold demeanor. We'll see you about five.” Douglas hurried out the door before I could react to the cold-demeanor comment.

Caron and Inez had dragged all the paperback racks into place and were busy making their selections. I heard Inez pleading for
Professor of Passion,
but Caron came up with some firm comment that squelched the pleas. They did not, however, choose a children's classic. Not a day for miracles, clearly.

I was extolling the virtues of Joseph Conrad when the telephone rang. As I went to the office, I wondered if it might be Britton. I was stunned to hear a vaguely familiar voice. Sheila Belinski, the FWO sergeant-at-arms, was no longer in contol of anybody, including herself.

“Oh, Mrs. Malloy! You've got to come here right away! The most dreadful thing has happened, and I didn't know what to do, so I thought I ought to call you to see if you could—”

“Hold on, Sheila. I have no idea what you're babbling about, but I'm not at all sure that I want to know.” I looked down at the copy of Azalea's book lying on my desk. “Is it about Maggie?”

“Noooooo…” The sound evoked images of a coyote silhouetted on a distant mountain peak.

“Well, I don't think I know you well enough to offer advice about your personal affairs,” I said tartly. I had enough of my own personal affairs to last for months.

“It's about Mrs. Twiller…” she continued. A hesitation, followed by a low, rumbling moan.

“Are you in the book, too?”

“Noooooo … Mrs. Twiller is dead! I just found her, and I don't know what to doooooo…”

That did get my attention. I gaped at the cover of the damned book, searching for a hint of explanation. Derek and Stephanie had none to offer. “Mrs. Twiller dead, Sheila? Are you sure? I think you'd better call an ambulance immediately, in case you're mistaken.”

“I'm not mistaken. She's dead, Mrs. Malloy! Her face is all blue and her eyes are open and bulgy. Her tongue is—oooooh, awful! I can't tell you how awful it—” Sheila broke off in a string of arrhythmic hiccups that gradually faded to sobs.