Cat by Any Other Name (9781101597729) (9 page)

Chapter 16

I woke suddenly, not knowing where I was—one of those strange black panics that seem to come with greater frequency as one grows older.

I remembered cleaning up after my garden coworkers had left. And then lying down for a nap. I'd slept for almost five hours—in my clothes.

Okay. I was completely awake now. My name was Alice, and I'd made an ass of myself earlier in the day. The “trap” I'd laid earlier in the day had been a disaster. I had to try to clear my head and formulate another plan.

I threw a couple of things into a bag. No, I wasn't running away from home, from all my problems. I needed a swim. A friend of mine—an actor who'd made it big in daytime television—lived in one of the fancy high-rises on the East River. She'd arranged it that I could use the rooftop pool and sauna any time of the day or night.

As I piled up the laps I won a gold medal, at least in my own imagination.

I left the pool invigorated and hungry—but void of ideas, except about dinner. A few stars were out. I meandered toward the apartment until it occurred to me that the supermarket would be closing momentarily. I quickened my pace, at the same time making a mental shopping list. The cats' larder was pretty well stocked, but I had very little in the kitchen. I needed coffee, sugar, dish soap, paper towels, spinach, potatoes, juice, ground beef—the list grew as I trotted along. Oh yes, and candles.

Now, why did I need candles? Was I expecting a blackout? Did I mean to light one for Barbara? There must be an apt Chinese proverb for this stupid state of affairs. Something about faithless husbands. Light a candle for every woman your husband has slept with . . . and then call the fire department. We couldn't
all
be Tim's lovers, could we? That was absurd—not impossible, just absurd.

The narrow aisles of the market are dangerous at that time of evening. Everyone's in a frantic rush to finish their shopping before closing time, blindly spearing items from the shelves. I'm one of the worst offenders. I behave like an Amazon warrior when I reach the paper goods section. My final catch totaled sixteen items, so I could not use the express line. Needless to say, it took longer to get checked out than to do the actual gathering of the items.

It was a beautiful night—breezy and black and velvety—and the streets had taken on that eight o'clock kind of glamour. I didn't notice him until I was right at my doorstep.

“Tony!”

Basillio greeted me then reached out to help me with my package.

“What happened, Basillio? They fire you because of that smart mouth of yours?”

“Swede,” he said, a little sadly, “ever since I was a kid, I've really deep-down hated
Julius Caesar.
I mean, when I was nine, I memorized Mark Antony's funeral oration. And I was as impressed by Brando as the next guy. But now I find myself in some godforsaken part of
Connecticut
, listening to some awesome hunk from Purdue spieling the same lines. . . . I needed a day off, Swede. Know what I mean?”

“Well, I'm happy to see you, no matter why you're here.” I threw my arms around him and hugged his skinny shoulders with all my strength. “I just spent all my cash on groceries. How are your finances?”

“I'm loaded, babe.”

“Wonderful. Let me go and drop these things off, and then you can take me to a cocktail lounge. I feel expensive.”

“You're showing your age, Swede. They don't have ‘cocktail lounges' anymore.”

“Then how about a greasy hamburger in a dive?”

“I think not, Swede.”

“Oh really? Why not, Basillio? Do you have another date?” I was flirting with him, happily.

He didn't reply for a minute. Then he said, “Sweetheart, sit down here for a minute.”

I didn't like the sound of that. There was no humor or wit or self-mockery in his voice—in other words, he didn't sound like Basillio.

“Tony, what's wrong? Are you in trouble?”

He sat down on the step, placing the bag between his legs. I sat next to him. A neighbor walked past us with her two ancient dogs. The block fell suddenly silent, and a few beams of light from the streetlamps crisscrossed the gutter ten feet in front of us.

“Tony, what is it? What kind of trouble did you get into up there?”

“It's not my trouble, Swede. It's yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called my machine in the City to pick up my messages. There was a call from Detective Rothwax. That's why I'm here. He told me to come and see you.”

“Why?”

“He said you might need a friend.”

“Why don't you just say it, Tony. Just tell me.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'm not handling this very well, am I? I ought to just spit it out.”

“Any vulgar metaphor will do, Tony. Just tell me.”

He reached over and grasped my hand. I shook it off immediately, my anxiety level at the danger point.

“At about ten thirty this morning,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “your friend Barbara's husband left home to take in some dry cleaning. He came back about an hour later, put his key in the lock, and was blown to bits. He's dead.”

Foolishly, I asked, “Tim? You mean Tim?”

“Yes.” He seemed almost embarrassed to repeat it. “He's dead.”

I stared down into the bag of groceries. I could see the top of the small glass jar of Medaglia d'Oro—the brand of instant espresso that I'm so fond of. I remembered being in the market, holding it in my hand, and thinking that every time I buy it the price seems to have gone up.

Chapter 17

They sat there watching me, waiting for me to tear out my hair, or weep hysterically—to exhibit some kind of hard-core grief. But I'd done about as much weeping as I was going to do. The tears were all gone, and whatever was left inside me now was not liquid but hard and cold as ice.

Detective Rothwax and Basillio sat side by side on the sofa, casting uneasy glances at me.

“I am quite all right,” I said finally.

“You don't look all right,” Tony said. “You look pretty devastated, Swede.”

“Believe me,” I said firmly, “I'll be okay.”

“I called Mr. Basillio because . . .” Rothwax muttered, “because . . . well, after our talk, I figured you'd be upset. Seeing as how you were a . . . uh . . . close friend of the . . . deceased.”

“We were lovers for a brief time,” I said.

Both men tensed, and then each for his own reason looked away from me—Rothwax at the notebook in his hand, Tony down at the preening Bushy, who was sure the visitors were here to admire him.

Finally Rothwax broke the tense silence. “I've got to go soon. I'll just tell you what I know. All of it I got from a guy named Riggins in Manhattan South Homicide. It's his case.”

Basillio sat rigidly, not speaking, but meeting my eyes again. It was a mistake, I realized too late, to have mentioned that Tim and I had been lovers. Even if Basillio might eventually have figured that out for himself. It was just the words that hurt him. He still considered me, in some odd way, his. Not oppressively so, but it was there.

Detective Rothwax went on, jabbing the air with his finger for emphasis. “I want to make it clear that I've got nothing to do with this case. And I'm not about to get involved. I shouldn't even really be giving you this, but . . .”

“Can I offer you some coffee, Detective?” I asked.

“Nothing, thanks,” he answered quickly. “Just let me lay out what I got from Riggins. Fill in what you already know from Basillio here. First of all, they say the bomb was a sophisticated device. A pipe bomb, but a real beaut. I mean,
very
powerful. It was triggered by the opening of the door. They haven't determined where on the door—or near it—the bomb was placed. Or when it was placed. There may or may not have been a timer to trigger it.”

“What are you saying?” Basillio interjected. “You mean the bomb could have been put on the door days ago? That Roman could have come in and out a dozen times without setting it off—until the timing device went off?”

“Like I said,” Rothwax replied, a little irritably, “they don't know yet. It's going to take some time to piece together what's left of the scene. Anyway, Riggins is moving on this thing. He's collecting information on Roman. And I told him about the Retro printout I did for you. I figured I'd better—wouldn't want him to find out I'd been digging in Roman's life and tried to keep it from him.

“As it is, I don't know how much he bought of the song and dance I ad-libbed, but so far I kept you out of it.” He looked pointedly at me then. “And I want to
stay
out of it, too. Understand?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Detective.”

“Last bit of trivia,” he said. “Something I missed when I ran Roman's name through the computer.”

I was prepared to hear that Tim had been an ax murderer, a ten-time bigamist, a hit man for the Mafia—anything.

“Several years ago,” Rothwax went on, “he was involved in a legal dispute over some kind of design patent. The suit was long and bitter and nasty. He wound up winning, and the settlement wiped out the owner of a furniture manufacturing business. Homicide thinks it's possible the murder might be tied to that.” Rothwax made as if to stand up then.

“Just a minute,” I said. “Haven't you left something out?”

“Like what?” he asked, suspicious.

“Didn't you tell them that his wife was murdered? That in light of all this, her death couldn't have been suicide?”

“Hell, no, I didn't!” he barked. “They've got the facts on his wife's death. What do you think, I'm gonna pass on that crap about her being a Catholic? I told you, I am not connected with this case. And besides, they'll probably question you sooner or later anyway, since you were more or less a witness. That'll be your chance to give them your brilliant theories about everything. And don't you forget to include your very personal involvement with the gentleman in question.”

Basillio bristled and started to speak. But I cut him off before he got the chance. “All right, Detective Rothwax. Thank you for all your help. I understand your position . . . and mine.”

I knew that Tony had picked up on my fakery. I had delivered those lines in the style of a deceitful film noir siren. Rothwax had helped me in the past and would do so again, I knew, but for now I had to let him withdraw.

I knew that Barbara's death had been planned and executed just as precisely and brutally as Tim's. I knew as well that the setting of my ladylike trap, that crazy trick with the nonexistent letters, had been way off base. It was obvious that I was dealing not with a lovesick matron—we all would have fit that description—but with a cold-blooded murderer. I was now looking for a killer, rather than a crime.

Rothwax was halfway down the stairs when I realized I'd forgotten to ask one important question. I rushed to the landing and shouted down to him: “What happened to Swampy? Was he killed?”

“
Who?
His disembodied voice floated up to me.

“The cat who lived in the apartment. Barbara and Tim's cat.”

“He's okay. A priest took him in.”

“You don't mean . . . Father Baer? Seventy-Second Street?”

“Sounds right,” he yelled. Then I heard the lobby door close.

I walked back into the apartment. Father Baer! But how? If no one was aware that Barbara even knew the priest, how had Swampy wound up there? My train of thought was interrupted when I caught sight of Basillio, who was aggressively pacing the floor.

***

I had improvised a spinach omelet. Tony was a little calmer after we'd eaten and come back into the living room with our brandies. We seated ourselves on the couch.

“I told you,” I said. “It wasn't an ‘affair.'”

“What
do
you call it, then?” He was constantly crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“We went to bed a few times.”

“A few times. What does that mean—twice? thrice? forty-one times?”

“That's right,” I snapped. “Forty-one times. In one day. A real Roman orgy.” I didn't mean to, but I laughed.

“Very funny.”

“Oh, look, Tony. It just happened. The ‘affair,' as you call it, was sudden and short. It was . . . At any rate, it really is no business of yours.”

He just stared at me, defying me to leave it at that, and knowing I wouldn't.

“Tony, the thing with him was very . . . what? Unreal. I got completely engulfed in it, I lost myself in it while it lasted.”

“You mean the sex was great,” he said tonelessly.

“Not that—not
only
that. I mean that, in a strange way, it was just another function of missing Barbara, of trying to retrieve her,
be
her. It was almost another way to mourn her.”

“
Ha!
Sleeping with your dead friend's husband is a way to mourn her? That's one of the most interesting grieving rituals I've ever heard of.”

“All right, Basillio. I can't justify what I did, and I'm not going to try. Just suffice it to say I came to regret it.”

“And what happened? Why did it end?”

“To be honest, I thought I'd discovered that he was sleeping with one of Barbara's other friends—at
least
one other—at the same time.”

“God, this is getting stranger and stranger.” He got up to refill his glass. “You don't seem to be mourning for him now. You recovered pretty quickly from the news of his death.”

“As I said, the whole relationship with him was bizarre, unreal.”

Tony continued to stand over by the stereo, lost in his resentment. He seemed to be very far away from me.

“You're not going back to Connecticut tonight, are you?” I asked after a while. “You don't have to, you know. You could stay. . . .”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “I am going. Soon.” We fell back into silence, until he asked: “You're going to try to show them she was murdered, aren't you? With or without Rothwax. And,” he added, “with or without proof.”

“Proof! Of course I have proof. There are a hundred threads of proof radiating out from her leap off that ledge. I have a murdered widower. I have reason to believe he was having an affair with one or more of her friends—
before
she died. I have her mysterious sessions with a priest. I have a record of Tim's secret apartment in the Village. To my way of thinking, that's enough proof to push twenty-seven wagonloads of cotton uphill.”

He stood there shaking his head. “I have always had great respect for you, Swede,” he said. “For your work and your passions, one of which is solving crimes. It's admirable work, and you're very good at it. And one of the reasons you were so good at it is that you were always able to see past the nonsense—all the extraneous stuff—and cut to the quick. You knew how to think, that's what I'm trying to say. You could look at a fact or a person or an event and see something that no one else did. Including me. Something that was there all along.”

I began to thank him, but he held his hand up, signaling that I should hear him out first.

“But you have changed, my lovely. Ever since Barbara died, you've been different. And you know what you seem like now, since she died?” He timed his pause here very nicely. “Like a loon. Like you could pick up a tennis ball and say it's the sun—and demand that everybody else agree. You run around crazily. You misname everything. You're desperate and jealous and . . . nuts! If you don't watch it, you're going to be doing command performances at the laughing academy.”

I took a few deep breaths before I spoke. I didn't want to say something I might regret forever. What I finally told him was: “I wouldn't want you to miss your train, Tony. You had better leave now.”

“Swede . . .”

I picked up his grip from the floor and went over to open the door for him. I placed his bag on the landing. “Safe trip,” I said, and allowed him to kiss me quickly on the cheek before I came back in and closed the door. Given some time, this would all blow over. It always did.

I took our empty glasses in to the kitchen and tried to rinse out of my mind that ridiculous scene I'd just played with Basillio. There was so much else to focus on now.

So . . . wasn't it sweet? Kindly Father Baer, Barbara's confessor and coconspirator, had got himself a cat.