Cobalt (16 page)

Clarisse fished a snood from the shelf above the toilet and shoved her hair into it. She pushed away from the sink and stepped through the door into her bedroom. She snapped on the bedside lamp, sat on the edge of her bed, crossed her legs, and began to file her nails. Looking up, she could see Valentine suffering in the bathtub. The last light of day filtered weakly through the window at her side. The blades of the window fan whirred slowly and cast a fluttering shadow across her face.

“It's a lesson,” she said.

“A lesson in
what
?”

“Social snobbery. It wouldn't hurt you to sit and chat with the Prince once in a while.” She pointed her file at Valentine. “You might learn something.”

“Oh, yeah,” replied Valentine, holding up his hands and grimacing at the water and oil and pink lotion that dripped from them. “Like why Noah skipped town an hour after Jeff King was killed? Or what Noah and Jeff's relationship
really
was? Or what Noah was
really
doing in Boston? Or—”

“Exactly,” said Clarisse. “The White Prince thinks women have the intelligence of doorknobs. He tolerates me, of course, but he would never trust me with any real dirt.”

“If you want to know all those things…” Valentine trailed off with a smile.

“I do!” cried Clarisse.

“Then ask Noah.” Valentine shrugged, and gasped, for the smallest stretching of the burned skin was painful.

“I haven't had time to talk to him lately.”

“Too busy consorting with a uniform.”

“It hasn't been all play,” said Clarisse defensively. “I've been pumping him too.”

Valentine snickered, and Clarisse kicked the door shut.

A few moments later she opened the door again, and said, “Don't you want to know what I've gotten out of Matteo?”

“About Jeff King?” asked Valentine, eschewing the obvious sarcastic remark.

“Yes.”

“You didn't learn anything. If you had, I'd know it by now. Besides, Officer Montalvo doesn't seem the type to relay office gossip to the curious public.”

Clarisse dropped the nail file onto her night table and moved back into the bathroom. She sat on the closed toilet seat, took her Lady Norelco from its case, plugged in the cord, and began to run the shaver over her calves.

“Must you do that in front of me?”

“You're sitting there naked, fifteen shades of red, covered in oil and pink lotion, and you're talking to me about
appearances
?”

Valentine took another swallow from the bottle of Perrier. “So,” he said finally, “what has Matteo told you?”

“Nothing we didn't already know.”

“I thought as much. The question is, is he holding back?”

Clarisse considered this, then shook her head. “I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Did you tell him about finding Jeff King's shirt at Maggie Duck's Duds?”

“No,” she replied emphatically. “How do you think that the police would react to your wearing material evidence in the bars? They already have a low enough opinion of this household, when a woman drowns in our pool in the middle of the night and nobody hears anything. Besides,” Clarisse went on with a grimace, “I don't think the local constabulary is very upset that one of the most notorious pushers in the community has been recalled.”

“How are they doing on locating Margaret?”

“Well, they got the photographs that Ann took at the Garden of Evil party, so they know what she looks like. I suppose they're combing the streets of Toronto looking for a woman dressed as Clara Petacci. When they give that up, Matteo said he'd try to get the pictures that were taken of us.”

“A souvenir of a night I don't particularly care to remember.”

“Val, don't you think it's strange that
nobody
knew Margaret's last name, and
nobody
had her address?”

“I can think of about seventy-five million men who don't know my last name, address, or telephone number. And I'd like to keep it that way. In this town, what difference does your last name make? There're so many more important questions to ask when you first meet somebody.”

“Like?”

“Like, ‘Do you get tied up on the first date?'”

“All I can say is,” said Clarisse, “is that it was very convenient for Margaret to make her exit the very night her lover died.”

“Think, Lovelace. Maybe it was like the policeman said—they had a fight, and Margaret skipped out. She had no idea that Ann would commit suicide.”

“But what if it didn't happen that way?”

“What else could have happened?” Valentine went on. “All right, say it was an accidental drowning. Say Margaret walks out the door with a trayful of drinks, and there's Ann floating belly-up like a goldfish—”

“Disgusting!”

“—and Margaret says, ‘Oh, my God, she's dead!' She panics, drops the tray, packs, and drives away.”

“It couldn't have happened that way—we didn't find any broken glass. Besides, she didn't have a car. They both came here on the ferry.”

“So she went over to the pier and waited for the seven-thirty bus.”

“Why didn't she call the police?”

“She didn't want to be involved. She'd have to answer all sorts of questions. Ann's lover would come down from Boston and there'd be a bad scene. Her own lover in Toronto might find out about it and there'd be an even worse scene. Who knows what she was thinking?”

“That's irresponsible, though. Margaret didn't seem the irresponsible type.”

“No, she didn't,” agreed Valentine. “But you've got to remember that this is a resort. The only scruples in town are the ones you pay three ninety-five for at the bookstore.”

“I don't know what to think,” sighed Clarisse.

Valentine looked down at his chest. “Maybe Ann was badly sunburned, and that's why she committed suicide.”

“I think you're overreacting to that burn. Men make terrible patients. They can never see the bright side of physical infirmity.” She snapped the shaver off, took out a jar of cream and smoothed it over her legs. “You should get out of that tub now. We have to be at the theater in half an hour.”

“I'm not going.”

“No arguments. You'll sit for three hours in air-conditioned comfort and never move a muscle. Diana Dors will make you forget your pain. Tonight it's
Lady Godiva Rides Again
and
Confessions of a Driving Instructor
—two minor items of her repertoire.”

“Am I ready for this?” groaned Valentine. “Where's the boy in blue tonight? Why can't he take you?”

“I told you. He's on night duty.”

“Maybe a dark theater is better. And afterward we'll go to a restaurant where I can turn my burned side to the wall. But listen, you know what I could use right now?”

“What?”

“A couple of joints. A little grass would wipe away a lot of pain. Do you have any?”

“As a matter of fact…” She went into her bedroom, rummaged in a drawer, then held up a thick plastic envelope.

“Did you get that from Richard?” asked Valentine, referring to a man who worked in Clarisse's real estate office in Boston.

Clarisse's face clouded. “No. Actually I…”

“Where did you get it?” asked Valentine curiously.

Clarisse's smile was a little grimace. “From the boy in blue.”

“Jesus!” Valentine laughed, and pulled the plug.

“Well,” said Clarisse, “he just gave it to me so we'd have it to smoke when he came over here. I was flattered. I mean, this is good stuff—and he can't make
that
much money if he's always moonlighting.”

Valentine shook his head. “You don't think he
paid
for that grass, do you?”

Clarisse was puzzled. “Well, how else—”

“Dummy. It was confiscated in a raid. The cops pull in a pound and a half of grass, hold on to a couple of ounces as evidence, and the rest gets divvied out. Same thing happens in Key West.”

“Oh,” said Clarisse, sheepishly admitting her naïveté.

“Well, as long as you've got it,” said Valentine, “roll a couple of joints. Mine always come out looking like party favors.” He stood in the empty tub. “God, I am
covered
with pink scum.”

A
FTER THE DIANA DORS films Valentine and Clarisse returned to Kiley Court, and talked idly at the poolside until Valentine's itching and scratching drove Clarisse out of her mind. She took him inside, and while he stood in front of the window fan in his room, she changed the sheets on his bed so that he might sleep more comfortably. After he had climbed into bed, she turned out the light, kissed him good-night, and then went downstairs to find out who murdered
Laura
.

Fresh sheets didn't help Valentine's discomfort very much, and the fan only blew hot air over him. He quietly got up and without turning on the lamp sprinkled talc generously over his body, pulled on light clothing, and sneaked out of the house through the kitchen. It was half past twelve and Valentine made directly for the meat rack in the center of town.

When Valentine reached the courthouse, that vast white wooden Victorian structure from which all directions and all distances are measured in Provincetown, he found the benches before it lined with men waiting patiently for the one A.M. bar closings. He lingered near the curb under a street-lamp smoking and watching no one in particular but catching bits of gossip and rumor about people he had never heard of. Two young women, no more than nineteen Valentine estimated, appeared several feet away from him, exhausting their repertoire of sultry looks and sundry winks in a futile effort to catch his eye. Nor was he the only man who thus withstood their charms.

Valentine crushed his cigarette beneath his sandal and wandered through the crowd checking out the new arrivals until he found himself at the end of the sidewalk that led to the wooden steps of the courthouse. He stopped short when he saw Clarisse sitting on the bench nearest the building at the end of a row of four men in high denim. She had one leg drawn up onto the edge of the bench and was examining a piece of paper with the aid of a tiny flashlight held in one hand. Her face bore an irritated scowl. A bright melon-colored envelope lay crumpled next to her other foot. Valentine ambled over and stood quietly before her until she became aware of his presence and looked up sharply.

“I've been swindled,” she growled. “Fraud has been committed and I am the victim.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I couldn't sleep and I want to see Matteo.”

“I thought Matteo
patrolled
the meat rack, not
cruised
it.”

Clarisse stabbed an outstretched thumb toward the courthouse. “He'll be in the station, but not until one.” She thrust the paper up at Valentine, angrily snapping the flashlight off and sliding it into her back pocket. “Look what Beatrice has done to me, and I haven't missed a day of work yet!”

The man next to Clarisse looked quizzically at them both.

“It's all right,” Valentine said to him, “she's my ex-wife.”

The man got up and Valentine took his place. The oblong of paper was Clarisse's first biweekly paycheck from the Provincetown Crafts Boutique. The amount of the check was even less than what Valentine had given her to understand was to be her salary.

Clarisse flicked a finger at the check. “When I went by the shop, Beatrice was just closing up, so I stopped in to speak. She handed it over, without a blush. I could have made more money hawking needlepoint swastika kits on Miami Beach. How am I supposed to live in Provincetown on
that
?”

“I don't understand why it should be so low,” said Valentine, handing back the check. “You should talk to Beatrice about it.”

Clarisse grimaced as she looked at her paycheck once more before folding it and slipping it into the pocket with the flashlight. She kicked the crushed envelope with the toe of her shoe and then bent to retrieve it. She unwadded the envelope and poked inside—and discovered a slip of paper she had not seen before. She read it, groaned, and handed it to Valentine.

On the page, neatly typed, was a more or less accurate record of all the items that Clarisse had destroyed during the period she had worked in the shop so far, their wholesale price, and the total of the breakage. This sum, along with federal withholding tax, Social Security, state withholding tax, unemployment insurance, and Blue Cross/Blue Shield, had been deducted from her check. Beatrice had appended a little note in her crabbed script that Clarisse was of course responsible for “all the little accidents” within the shop.

Valentine laughed, then caught himself when he saw Clarisse's irate expression. He sheepishly handed the paper back and she ripped it into shreds. He lighted cigarettes for them both and they smoked in silence.

When Clarisse had calmed down a bit she asked, “What are you doing out, by the way? I thought I had tucked you away for a long midsummer night's dreaming.”

“I'm looking for a hot man with an air conditioner.” He craned his neck. “The second shift is arriving so I'd better get to work.” He stood, but lingered before the bench. “I hate myself for even thinking this, Lovelace, but are you falling in love with your cop? I've never seen you wait on a bench for anybody. I'm not sure I've ever even seen you on time before.”

“No,” she said seriously, “I'm not in love, but I do have a good reason to want to see Matteo now.”

“Level with me, but make it quick. I'm starting to itch again.”

“Don't get angry, promise?” She leaned forward earnestly. “I was sitting downstairs reading and suddenly it hit me.”

“What?”

“That Ann's death was…was a sort of
diversionary
tactic. To take people's minds off Jeff King.” A clock down the street struck one, and she sat back heavily. “You think I'm a fool, don't you?”