Blue Heaven (24 page)

"And how were you planning to get out of Mummy coming to the wedding? What were you going to do, bump her off?"

"What else? Both Mummy and the duke will be having a little car accident three weeks from now. Mummy's first motor jaunt after her convalescence!
Très tragique!
A little close to the wedding, of course, but I'll be ever so brave, and, if you ask me, the sympathy should be worth a fortune in added revenue."

"But Gilbert thought your mother was a rich woman. What were you planning to tell
him
about your inheritance?"

"The duke's nasty cousin gets it all and won't give me a dime." "Why not the goddamned truth for a change?" asked Gilbert. "I didn't want our marriage to be unpleasant." "My God, Moira," I said, "you're amazing!" "Nice of you to say so, Philip, but it was
all far
from perfect. Take the business of the duchess reimbursing us for what Tony spent. It never occurred to me that Gilbert would decide we had to go try and get Tony to spend as much as possible because we were getting it back. I mean, I knew we weren't getting a dime back but how could I tell you, Gilley? Then
that
meant firing poor Pina, since who's going to pay thousands for
her
name? And, my gawd, all that messiness with you people trying to tip off Mummy because you guessed the family was full of wise guys and you were too wimpy to just go
through
with it anyway! I
had
to tell you about the letter and someone being on to us, but how come Mummy never
saw
it? So, I had to invent Murcheson! Then I thought Pina and Gunther sent the letter and you didn't dare tell me it was really you, so I took it out on
those
two! Like I said," she concluded, lighting a cigarette, "it wasn't perfect but I still think on the whole it was very well executed."

"Yes, Moira," said Claire, "and so will you be if Freddy finds out." "I'm trembling, Claire."

"Moira, love, Gilbert tells me your mother, the one in England, not jail, just had herself a birthday and that Freddy sent her an expensive brooch. Mummy even called to thank him. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I think if Freddy found out he sent that jewel to a woman who doesn't exist and received his thanks from a two-hundred-pound homosexual gentleman he would not appreciate this. He would feel you had played him for a fool, had
been
playing him for a fool as long as you'd known him. What do you suppose he'd do about that?"

"I'm not scared of you, Claire," said Moira shifting her weight in her chair. "You couldn't tell Freddy a thing without implicating these two!"

"Same goes, Moira. You try to pin anything on these fools and Freddy will get an earful from me,
or,
if you have any dark thoughts about removing me from the scene, from a friend of mine who's been given a letter to mail if I die, so you had better just pray I'm not hit by a bus."

"You have an evil mind, Claire. I'd never dream of hurting my friends! If I threaten them sometimes, well, that's just my way! I have to tinkle," she said and, with great dignity, left the room.

You'll notice that Gilbert and I didn't say much during all of these revelations and accusations. So mixed and jumbled were our thoughts that we were unable to find words to express them. Claire had had a few days to ferret out and assimilate the magnitude of Moira's deception, but Gilbert and I had gotten it in one massive dose and the effect left us reeling.

How had she done it! How had she dared
try,
for she had known
since Steffie's wedding
that her intended embezzlees were mafiosi! What enzyme was either lacking or superabundant in her brain that she could pit herself against such people, casually enlisting accomplices and deliberately failing to inform them of the risk they were taking? And the final mind-boggling absurdity was the cause for which these crimes had been perpetrated.

She wanted to invest in a new
cologne.

"Don't scream at me, Gilbert! It's more than just a cologne!"

"Oh! A dusting powder too, is it!"

"If you'll stop ranting I'll explain. Winslow is a brilliant chemist! I mean, really brilliant. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa and went right to work for some pharmaceutical company working on one of those telethon diseases. Anyway, while he was there he had a sideline in creative chemistry. He did some very seminal work without which we wouldn't have Ecstasy today-"

"Oh, my," said Claire. "Put him on a stamp!"

"Anyway, he cut that out after a while because he couldn't stand the fear of getting busted. He's high-strung."

"
No
!"

"Then diseases started to depress him, so he got into cosmetics.

He worked for years-Chanel, Estée Lauder, everyone, and he was behind all their hottest scents. But people kept ripping him off. He never got the credit. So when he hit upon something really big he decided to quit for fear his idea would get stolen and someone else would make the billions and billions it's sure to bring in." "What's so special about a cologne?" I asked. "Well! For one thing, it's the world's first cologne in
pill
form!" "What?"

"It's a pill. And it doesn't cover up the way you smell. It
changes
it. It actually chemically alters your perspiration so it smells like something else! Perfume, or citrus or nothing at all! Can you believe it? It's going to revolutionize the industry!" "You're joking!" said Claire.

"I'm not! I've seen it! I've smelled it. It's wonderful! He just needs time and money so he can work the bugs out. I have an agreement where if I give him forty grand by a certain date I have fifteen percent of the patent. Do you know how much
money
I'll make!" "None, Moira," I said. "You never do."

"Fuck you, Charlie! You shits can make fun of me the way you always do! I don't care! Scentinels are going to be the biggest thing ever and this time next year I will be spitting down at you from my penthouse!"

"Moira," said Claire. "You're free to invest in what you want to and to raise money for it any way you want to-except by risking these two jackass's lives. You see this?" she said, producing a slip of paper. "This is your mother's current address. How would you like it if she were sent Gilbert's number and advised to call him? What if she did and Gilbert ran to Freddy, crushed because the girl he loved had been deceiving him and his family? Because that's just what will happen if you don't go to Freddy and tell him you've changed your mind about the marriage. You're too young, or anything you want, so long as you don't blame these two." "That's telling her!" said Gilbert. Moira yawned contemptuously.

"Amateurs! Go ahead! Call Mom. Call Freddy! You know what I'll say? 'Oh, Freddy, I'm so ashamed! Yes, I lied about my parents! Gilbert is such a
snob
I was afraid he'd reject me if he knew Momma was a jail bird. So in a moment of madness I told him she was a
duchess and he's such a
snob
he bragged to everyone and I've had to go on pretending 'cause I didn't know how to get out of it and, oh
Freddy,
it's been
awful?
"

"Moira," said Claire, "how can you tell Freddy you lied for Gilbert's sake when you've been telling duchess stories for years."

"Oh, right. Well, I'll just think of something else then! I
always
do."

"We'll refute it."

"Go ahead, dear. You spill your beans, I spill mine. And I'll lie. I'll say Gilbert's fucking boys again. My word against yours. You really want that?"

Silence fell. We all gazed imploringly at Moira who just stared back implacably.

"Moira," said Gilbert, "please don't take this personally, but I don't want to marry you."

"Tough titty."

She puffed haughtily at her cigarette while we of the Allies exchanged troubled glances. It was a stalemate. Moira couldn't betray us without betraying herself and we couldn't force her out of the engagement without her wreaking havoc on us.

I looked to Claire who sat back on the sofa, her lips resting lightly on her fingers which were pressed together and pointed up, as if in prayer. I could almost hear that mighty brain of hers whirring away. After a moment she spoke.

"Moira," she said, "seeing as you can't stop lovin' dat man of yours, let me propose this. You go ahead with your plans. Kill off Mummy on schedule, mourn her convincingly, marry Gilbert, divvy up the loot and invest it with your customary shrewdness. But from now on, I'm in on it."

"You're not getting a cent from my half."

"I don't want any money. I just want the opportunity to do what I can to see these two fatheads don't get themselves killed. A few days ago I'd never have imagined you could get as far as the wedding without the whole thing falling apart. However, that was when I believed your success depended on the duchess and Tony never figuring out they were both paying for the same wedding. Now that I see this isn't and never was a problem, I think you have a chance of getting out alive so long as you can dispose of the duchess credibly.

Since you refuse to abandon the plan you give me no choice but to offer my assistance-my
reluctant
assistance-in helping you pull it
off."

"Well in that case," gushed Moira, "welcome aboard!"

Claire naturally insisted that her aid was contingent on a policy of absolute openness on the part of all syndicate members. Nothing was ever again to be held back. Moira assured us she'd never lie to us again which was, of course, just too soothing for words, but what
could we do?

Gilbert was understandably stung by the scope of Moira's treachery and the thought of actual marriage to her was one he viewed with mounting trepidation. The result of this was a concurrent increase in his affection toward me. I was his hope, his salvation, the only thing standing between him and insanity. The flattery was not without its effect on my great thirsty sponge of an ego, but even as I became tempted to reciprocate these sentiments and say, What the hell, let's call it Love, something held me back. Namely a vivid recurring image of Freddy Bombelli merrily igniting the fuses on row upon row of pyrotechnic gayboys.

We all met over the next week to plan the duchess's demise. We agreed the primary problem in eliminating her was documentation. Fortunately, Claire had access through her greeting card concern to printing machinery, and, though newspaper stock might prove difficult to obtain, we could at least fake Xeroxes of British obituaries and newspaper accounts of the tragedy. That left the problem of keeping Gilbert's family away from the funeral. If this couldn't be managed a funeral would actually have to be staged, a prospect which offered innumerable perils.

We were doing our little best to work it out speedily when one night Moira and Claire showed up at Paradise just as we were leaving. We all climbed into a cab and Moira said, "We have a little problem,
kids!"

"Oh?" said we.

"I read to Freddy tonight. He told me he's going away next week on a business trip to England and Switzerland and since he won't be far from Little Chipperton he plans to take Mummy up on her invitation to visit."

"Oh
no
!"

"Sticky, huh? Well, I
knew
we could never have the accident ready by then and even if we did he'd be there in time for the funeral. How could we possibly throw a whole funeral together over
there
in a week? So what could I say?"

"What
did
you say?" I asked, dread coursing through my veins.

"I said, 'Freddy you can't visit her there! She's going to be
here
a week from today. She's done recuperating and she's coming over!' And he was all excited and I said we'd have a little party the Monday before he leaves so he could meet her. So kids! Looks like we have to find ourselves a duchess! Any ideas?"

Twenty-one

C
laire stared at us as if we had all completely lost our minds.

"But surely a
woman
would be preferable!"

We readily conceded that in the best of all possible worlds a competent self-assured actress in middle life would be a much better choice to play the duchess than a neurasthenic male perfumer, but this, alas, was not such a world and we had no choice but to go with Winslow.

"It's the
voice,
Claire. You've never heard it but we have-and so have Tony and Maddie and Freddy. Trust us, it's completely unique. If we used anyone else they'd know in a second."

"Can't we find a woman who can
imitate
the voice?"

"Claire!" said Moira. "We have a week! Where are we going to find a middle-aged woman who can talk like Hermione Gingold and who won't mind risking her life to help us swindle the Mafia?"

We agreed sullenly that even the most widely disseminated classified would yield few serious responses. It was Winslow or nothing.

"But can he
do
it?" said Claire. "It's one thing to do a vocal impersonation but it's quite another to pull it off in person with drag and everything. On top of which, there's the man's nerves to consider. I mean, this will take
enormous
poise and-"

"I know," said Moira, "I worried about that, too, when I had him do it on the phone. He
really
didn't want to. I mean, he was a basket case over it. But he came through right on schedule and he was brilliant! Not frightened at all."

"But he didn't know who they
were
then. Now he does."

"And whose fault is that, dear?"

"Look," said Gilbert, who'd kept more or less quiet till now since
it's difficult to air one's views while swallowing pecans whole, "this whole discussion is pointless till we find out how Winnie looks in a prom gown."

We agreed there was no sense debating whether he was up to it emotionally till we knew if he could pull it off physically. We agreed to drop by on him the next afternoon with makeup, wigs and whatever assortment of frocks we could scrape together.

"Oh, dear," said Moira. "I haven't a thing that would fit him. Claire, darling, would you mind taking something of yours out? Just a tad?"

The next day Claire came by at noon. She had, to her chagrin, found several items in her wardrobe that seemed like they might fit Winslow, unaltered. They were relics from a year ago when, in the aftermath of a soured romance, she swiftly gained and torturously lost twenty-five pounds. She also brought a blond wig and a small supply of makeup.

Moira had no clothing to offer but donated a virtual steamer trunk of cosmetics with every shade of base, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, rouge, blush, lipstick, lip gloss and Georgette Klinger Gooke de Femme ever to be foisted upon a glamour-starved populace. Armed with this formidable array of feminine necessities, we marched the few blocks to Winslow's, noting, as we did, that this would be the first time anyone had ever come to transvestism via conscription.

"My! . . . what's all this?" asked Winslow.

He received the news with his usual sangfroid, and after we'd detached him from the ceiling we forced a Valium down his throat.

"I'm, I, I can't
poss
-I mean, I, I couldn't! I just, I'm, I, I, I
won't
!"

"Please, Mr. Potts! Try to control yourself!" said Claire. "We're merely here to investigate the possibility! No one's
forcing
you to do anything!"

"Speak for yourself, Claire," said Moira. "Winslow, we are all in deep shit and you put us there with your entirely too unusual rendition of my mother! You're the only one who can get us out of this, and you're going to-or, trust me, Freddy's pals are going to take you to New Jersey, tie you to a pole, and
peel
the skin right off you!"

"Moira! That's hardly-"

"Shut up, Claire! Winnie, you're nearly fifty years old and it's time
you grew up a little! You are going to stop this blubbering, dry your eyes, and put on this fucking dress!
Now!"

This strategy had far from the intended effect. He did not rise to his full height and inform her, chins quivering with dignity, that he would show
her.
He just sobbed convulsively and threw his arms around Gilbert, begging for reassurance that, whatever came to pass, he would not be peeled. Gilbert soothed him while the rest of us glared at Moira, wordlessly conveying our opinion that such tactics were not again to be used on a man who possessed all the fortitude of a souffle.

Claire again assured Winslow that we merely wanted to examine our options and that impersonation was but
one
of these. She neglected, of course, to say that emigration and suicide were the others.

"These three told me how dazzling you were on the phone!"

"He was!"

"Amazing!"

"Took me in completely."

"Did I, really?" asked Winslow, daubing an eye.

"Absolutely. Were you ever an actor?"

"No."

"Go on! Never?"

"Only once."

"Broadway?"

"Grammar school. I brought corn to the Pilgrims."

"Well, you've come a long way! Your portrayal was a masterpiece!"

"Stunning!"

"Can't you just see him as the duchess? With the right wig?"

"He'd be perfect! A little dusting powder and penciled-in eyebrows and a beautiful high-necked pea-green gown-"

"Actually," said Winslow, "red is my color."

It didn't take long for us to see that, as regarded the proposed masquerade, Winslow was torn between warring instincts. On the one hand, there was his extraordinary cowardice. The mere thought of matching wits with the Mafia left him all but liquefied with terror. Balanced against this, however, was his sincere desire to be a duchess. Success depended on bringing this second tendency to the fore.

Moira and Claire shooed Gilbert and me out to buy lunch so they could get to work on Winslow.

"You understand," he said, as we were leaving, "I'm not agreeing to go
through
with anything. This is just ..."

"Experimental."

"Right. No dear, that's hideous, what's the beige thing?"

We deliberately dawdled so that Moira and Claire would have more time to effect the transformation, and the results, when we returned, exceeded our most optimistic forecasts. Even dressed in a drab, unbecomingly snug red evening dress Winslow exuded a frowsy poise that was, if not exactly feminine, still utterly
female.
With his heavy eyebrows and hairy arms plainly visible he still looked more like a mannish woman than a womanish man. It was in the attitude, the way he shaped his mouth and slumped comfortably in the chair. Often when you see transvestites (anyway, when
I
see transvestites-you may have led a cleaner life) there's something
too
feminine about them. They share a tendency to equate womanliness with an exaggerated elegance of gesture; most of us need only think of our mothers to realize that womanhood and elegance are not inextricably linked. Winslow had grasped this.

"At lahst!" he wheezed, regally. "I wondered where you boys had gotten to. I was about to send Murcheson out to the park to poke all the shrubs with a sharp stick!"

"Winnie!"

"My God!"

"You're fantastic!" said Gilbert, kissing his cheek. "My folks are gonna adore you!"

"Hold on!"
cried Winslow, leaping up and tearing the wig off. "Who said anything about doing this for your folks? Not me! Did I say that?
I
didn't say that! I've agreed to nothing, you hear me?
Nothing!"

"Mr. Potts, you have nothing to worry about! You're very convincing. Really, you are. All you have to do is conquer these nerves of yours!"

"I can't!"

"Of course you can!" said Moira. "What are drugs
for?"

"Moira," said Claire, "Winslow will need all his wits about him, so I hardly think it prudent to resort to-"

"Claire," said Moira wearily, "the man is a chemist. He'll
know
what he's doing."

By the time we left, Winslow had reluctantly agreed to impersonate the duchess, but only under strict limitations.

He would appear at the party for exactly one hour. We would see to it that the party was crowded since this would reduce the time he'd have to spend with any one person. His entire conversation could be confined to introductions and apologies for not having had more time to chat. After an hour of this Moira would remind him that the doctors had prescribed heavy bed rest. The duchess would then bid all a good night and retire. The following day, she'd suffer a mild relapse and be forced to spend the weeks until the wedding recuperating in bed.

Visitors would be allowed in no more than twice in this period. The duchess could terminate any visit at will by falling into a peaceful doze, leaving her daughter to see the visitors out.

The question remained of just where the duke was through all this. We decided to put the old boy in Africa where he was desperately trying to sell the family's only asset besides Trebleclef, a run-down coffee plantation. Perhaps, if he refurbished it a bit, the meager few pounds it would bring in would help offset the duchess's medical expenses. At least we could comfort ourselves with the thought that, while Freddy's illicit business seemed to take him to many locales, we could be reasonably sure he did not operate casinos in Equatorial Guinea.

With less than a week to organize the duchess's coming-out bash we were kept pretty busy. There were invitations to extend, food to plan and prepare, wardrobe and makeup to select, and, most taxing of all, daily Winslow duty. Not a day passed without him phoning and declaring hysterically that he'd changed his mind. He could not possibly go through with it; he just wasn't good enough. No legendary star or diva could possibly have had half the thirst for snake oil that Winslow possessed. He had to be constantly soothed, flattered and assured that his duchess was a dramatic tour de force that put the paltry efforts of Dame Judith Anderson entirely to shame.

Wardrobing the duchess turned out to be far less troublesome than we'd feared. Searching for suitable accesories in a walk-in closet of Gloria Conkridge's things at God's country, Moira discovered a trunk full of old dresses. Gloria, even as a young woman, had cherished her carbohydrates, and most of the dresses were actually too big for
Winslow and had to be taken in by Claire, who spent the better part of the week sewing. Moira was unable to help, having always lived by the theory that sewing is a pointless skill, needed only by those who lack the ability to befriend designers.

Shoes, luckily, were not a problem, either. Sometimes female impersonators, regardless of their dramatic gifts, are given away by the sheer immensity of their feet arid the incongruous spectacle of size twelve EE's wedged into mauve pumps. But Winnie's feet were quite small for
a
man of his size and he discovered, to our glee, that all Moira's shoes fit him perfectly.

Winslow shopped for costume jewelry and complained that the depilatories were giving him rashes. He experimented with wigs and finally settled on a rather grandiose gray one which set us back nearly three hundred dollars (my share coming from the money I'd sworn would go to repay Aggie).

It was decided that the duchess would walk with the aid of a cane, a vestige of her riding accident. A suitable stick was purchased and Winslow practiced hobbling about on it. He became adept at making tiny winces which suggested great pain, stoically endured.

One afternoon, in the middle of these preparations, Gilbert called and asked if I could meet him in front of the building. I agreed and arrived to find him standing under the canopy wearing a boyish smile and clutching, in one red-mittened hand, a large manila envelope. He asked me to walk with him in Central Park and we strolled toward the Ramble.

The Ramble is one of the loveliest areas in the park, a charming tangle of twisty overgrown paths and cul-de-sacs, offering an endless series of scenic little vistas. It's also among the park's more notorious sections, well known, especially in the warmer months, as a place where gentlemen go to meet other gentlemen with similar interests; i.e., a high esteem for physical fitness and a love of movie trivia. On this afternoon, though, the place couldn't have looked less carnal. A fresh snow had fallen overnight, the sun shone brightly, and even the few cruisers strolling about, glancing over their shoulders at you, had a quaint Currier and Ives sort of quality.

Gilbert and I chatted of this and that till we reached a fairly tranquil little spot. He asked me to sit and, like a boy giving flowers to the teacher, handed me the envelope.

"I want you to read this, Philip." "You wrote it?"

"Yes, it's the start of my novel."

I opened the envelope and removed thirty typed pages. "I've been writing almost every night, Philip. I sit at my typewriter till three or four and sometimes nothing comes at all. But I always try. I know you'll never respect me till I stop talking about being a writer and start actually doing it."