Pressure Drop (41 page)

“I'm Nina Kitchener,” Nina said.

The deep-set eyes met hers. “Do I know you?” Mrs. Standish asked. “I don't think I do.”

“You don't,” Nina said. “But I've come from New York. I'm hoping you can help me.”

“How is that?”

“It's about the Human Fertility Institute.”

“The Human Fertility Institute?”

“It's owned by the Standish Foundation, isn't it?”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Standish. “I'm afraid you're too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe we sold it recently. I can't remember quite to whom.”

“Standard Foods. A straight swap for shares.”

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Standish. “You know more about my affairs than I do.”

“I hope not,” Nina told her.

Mrs. Standish smiled. Her teeth were small, white, perfect; the smile complex. “You've cut your face,” she said.

“I know.”

“Come in. I've got Band-Aids in the kitchen.”

Nina stepped into the house. The dog growled and blocked her way.

“Zulu,” said Mrs. Standish. “Be nice.”

Zulu stopped growling. He let Nina pass, but rubbed his hard muzzle against her hip as she went by. She followed Mrs. Standish through a hall with a pink and white marble floor. A martyrdom of Saint Sebastian hung on the opposite wall. The saint, much larger than life, was suffering horribly, beseeching eyes on the heavens. Nina didn't need to read the signature to know it was an El Greco.

Many doors opened off the corridor. Nina glimpsed Persian rugs, plush furniture, paintings, tapestries, sculptures. The corridor made a ninety-degree turn into one of the wings of the house and they entered the kitchen. It had a freezer, two refrigerators, two big ovens and a microwave, and a wall hung with copper pots and pans, but nothing was cooking. There was no smell of food, no bowl of fruit, no dishes in the sink, no sign that anything ever had been cooking. Mrs. Standish opened a cupboard and took out a brown bottle and a box of bandages.

“Come into the light,” she said.

Nina moved to a window. It looked out on the hills at the back of the house. At their base stood a stone cottage. A wheelbarrow full of snow rested by the door and smoke rose from the chimney.

“Let's have a look,” Mrs. Standish said, taking Nina's chin in one hand and peering at the cut on her cheek. Mrs. Standish's hand was cold; she smelled of some perfume that reminded Nina of roses, but mixed with the roses, faintly but unmistakably, was the smell of fresh sweat.

“Quite shallow,” Mrs. Standish said. “I shouldn't think you'll need stitches.” She let go of Nina's chin, uncapped the brown bottle and dipped a Q-tip into it. “This might sting a bit,” she said, taking Nina's chin in one hand again and dabbing at her cheek with the Q-tip.

Perhaps because she was unprepared for more than a little sting, Nina was unable to stifle her cry of pain, or stop her head from snapping back: it felt as though Mrs. Standish had sunk a hot needle into her face. The deep-set eyes watched impassively.

“What the hell was that?” Nina said.

“Just some iodine,” Mrs. Standish replied. “You don't want an infection, do you?”

“Iodine? No one uses iodine anymore.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Standish. “My husband was a doctor and he swore by it.”

“That must have been some time ago,” Nina said, a remark she began to regret not long after it was voiced.

Mrs. Standish smiled. “Oh, it most certainly was.” She took a small butterfly bandage from the box and stripped off the protective seal. “Shall we get this on?”

Nina moved forward. Mrs. Standish stuck the bandage on Nina's face in one efficient motion, not gentle, not rough, eyes intent on the task. Nina looked directly into them. They were like works of art, but from a culture Nina didn't know; she could interpret nothing. She smelled the roses and the sweat, but no longer just the sweat of Mrs. Standish. Now she was sweating too.

“All fixed,” said Mrs. Standish, capping the brown bottle and returning it to the cupboard. “Now then, Miss—or is it Mrs.—?”

“I use Ms.”

“Do you? Well, Ms. Kitchen, why don't we—”

“It's Kitchener.”

“How inexcusable of me—first the honorific and now the name,” said Mrs. Standish. “Not a descendant of Lord Kitchener, by any chance? My father met him on several occasions, if I'm not mistaken.”

“No,” Nina said. “The connection is one-sided.”

“Connection?”

“We took his name, that's all.”

Mrs. Standish blinked. “I don't quite follow.”

“Some relative on my father's side. Before World War One, I think.”

“Are you saying he changed his name?”

“Exactly. It's not that unusual, is it?”

Mrs. Standish's eyes shifted toward the window. “Of course not, Ms. Kitchener.” She looked at Nina and smiled. The deep-set eyes didn't participate. “Shall we sit down?” Mrs. Standish picked up her knitting and led Nina out of the kitchen, along the corridor and into another corridor. “Let's try the little sitting room,” Mrs. Standish said, opening a door. “It's quiet. We can talk.”

The whole house is quiet as a tomb, Nina thought. And the little sitting room was bigger than her apartment. “Please sit,” Mrs. Standish said, gesturing to a chair covered in gold silk. Nina sat, aware as she did of the tear in her pants and the scratch, possibly still bloody, on her leg.

The gold chair had a twin. Mrs. Standish sat in it. Both chairs faced a pink marble fireplace piled with unlit birch logs. Over the fireplace hung another El Greco, this one a crucifixion. It wasn't the only crucifixion in the room: another hung in a corner. It dated from an earlier period: Christ and one or two onlookers wore halos of beaten gold.

“It's real, I take it,” said Nina, meaning the El Greco.

Mrs. Standish misinterpreted her. “Oh yes,” she replied. “From a quarry near Siena. We had rather a lot of it after—at one point.”

“I mean the painting.”

“The crucifixion?”

“Yes.”

“Real?”

“A real El Greco.”

“I see. Why, yes, it is. Not one of his best, but not without its charms either.” Nina gazed at the five bloody wounds, thought of the four on Saint Sebastian, and realized that Mrs. Standish hadn't asked how she had cut her face.

Mrs. Standish crossed her legs—long, elegant legs, still finely muscled, and reached for her knitting. “You wanted to talk to me about the foundation, I believe? I trust it's not about a grant. That's not my department at all.”

All at once, there was something familiar about Mrs. Standish's voice. A memory stirred in Nina's brain, but didn't come into view. “It's not about a grant, Mrs. Standish.”

“Good. It's nice to have visitors here in the country. If it's not about grants and getting money and that sort of thing.”

“It's not about grants or money,” Nina said. “It's about the Human Fertility Institute, as I mentioned.”

“So you did,” said Mrs. Standish, smiling. There was nothing simple about her smile: it had a language all its own.

“Do you know where Dr. Crossman is?” Nina asked.

“Dr. Crossman?” Mrs. Standish took up her knitting. She wore several big rings, but they didn't get in her way. The needles hooked and thrust with quick, sure movements and the sleeve began taking shape: it was a nice sweater with a white anchor on the chest.

“The director of the institute. At least he was.”

“I'm not familiar with the name.”

“But Mr. Percival said you hired him.”

“Percival is misinformed,” said Mrs. Standish, reacting not at all to the introduction of his name.

“The foundation, then. He said the foundation hired Dr. Crossman.”

“That is not impossible. I had no dealings with the fertility people.”

“Then who did?”

“May I ask what your interest is in this doctor?”

“I was a client of the institute. Dr. Crossman handled the impregnation procedure. My baby was kidnapped out of the hospital. And now Dr. Crossman has disappeared and the institute is defunct. Is that good enough?”

Mrs. Standish laid down her knitting. “How awful for you,” she said. Her jeweled hands fell limply on the little sweater. “But I'm still not sure what it is you want with the doctor. Is he a suspect in the kidnapping?”

“No. But he probably knows the identity of the sperm donor, and I want that name.”

“Is the sperm donor a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I'm surprised I haven't been contacted by the authorities.”

“The authorities haven't been very helpful.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Standish, taking up her knitting. The needles jabbed and darted their way past the elbow.

“The problem is that I can't find Crossman and no one seems to know where the institute's records are.”

“That is a dilemma.”

“It's more than that to me,” Nina said.

“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Standish, halfway to the wrist.

“Do you have the records, Mrs. Standish?”

“I?” she said, looking up.

“The foundation, then.”

“I really have no idea. Is that what you want? My help in finding the records?”

“Yes.” Nina said. “Someone at the foundation must know. Who handled dealings with the institute?”

Mrs. Standish sighed. “There is a board.”

“And who's on it?”

“I am. Percival. And Happy.”

“Happy?”

“My son.”

“Can we talk to him, then?”

“Talk to Happy?”

“Since you and Mr. Percival don't know. That leaves your son, unless there are other members of the board.”

“There are no other members,” said Mrs. Standish. She hooked the last stitch, cut the yarn with scissors she took from her jacket pocket, held up the sweater and examined it. “We can talk to Happy,” she said. “The problem is he can't talk back.”

“I don't understand.”

Mrs. Standish folded the sweater neatly and placed it in her lap. “Have you heard of the locked-in syndrome?”

“No.”

Mrs. Standish looked into Nina's eyes. “It's a type of coma where the victim is totally paralyzed but aware of everything. The difficulty is finding a way to determine from the outside that awareness exists. In my son's case, we are fairly sure that this has been done. But not one hundred percent. That may be asking too much, I'm told.”

“He's in a coma?”

“Has been for a year and a half. Will be for the rest of his life. Which may not be of normal duration. He's very susceptible to illness now.”

Nina looked away. No words came to mind. The ground had tilted beneath them, raising her up, dragging Mrs. Standish down, changing the balance. Mrs. Standish felt it too. She glanced down at the sweater and said: “So you can see why I sympathize with you.” She was quiet for half a minute, perhaps more, staring into space and stroking the sweater with her fingers. Then she said: “I'll do what I can to help.”

“You will?”

“I'll talk to Percival in the morning. But you'll have to give me a day or two. Percival will get in touch with you.” She rose.

Nina rose too. “Thank you, Mrs. Standish.”

Mrs. Standish smiled.

Nina saw that she had left a red streak on the gold silk.

Mrs. Standish took her to the front door. Zulu was lying in front of it. He sprang up and flexed. “Be nice, Zulu,” Mrs. Standish said. Zulu remained flexed. Mrs. Standish opened the door.

Clouds of snow blew into the hall. Outside the wind was blasting, hurling snow through the sky in sheets and twisters, piling it up on the threshold. The storm was playing the third movement in its score, and it was a wild one. “Gracious,” said Mrs. Standish, raising her voice over the wind. “You can't go out in that.” She slammed the door.

36

Night fell. Nature demonstrated its power, closing Route 7, then the Merritt, then 95, socking in all the little towns in the hills of western Connecticut.

“Call me Inge,” said Mrs. Standish.

In the dining room, she and Nina ate tuna fish sandwiches on white bread and drank water. A birch-log fire burned in the grate, although Nina had seen no one light it. “Do you live here alone?” she asked.

Mrs. Standish finished chewing. “It's the servants' day off,” she said. “And we're not as big as we look, especially since the south wing was closed.”

They sat at one end of a long, dark table, Mrs. Standish at the head, Nina at the side, facing the fire. Candles burned in the center of the table, but they seemed far away and did little to lighten the room. It might have been a re-creation of a medieval refectory; perhaps it was a real one, shipped across the ocean and reassembled. Dark wood encrusted with rosettes paneled the walls and ceiling; ornate, heavy buffets and armoires stood in the corners; over the fireplace hung an oil painting of a pale man in a dark suit. Nina had seen his weak chin before.

“Who is that?” she asked.

Mrs. Standish glanced up. The light from the candles and the fire flickered on her fine face but left her deep-set eyes in shadow. “Hiram Standish. My husband.” She stared at the man in the portrait. “Long dead of course. A lifetime, it seems.” She looked away from the painting, picked up her glass, sipped. “I've had three lives, really, like so many women—before marriage, marriage, after marriage.”

Times had changed. Nina, and a lot of women she knew, were still in life one, or had passed so quickly and unhappily through life two that it didn't count. “There's another portrait of him at the institute. Or there was.”

Mrs. Standish nodded. “We founded the institute in his honor.”

Nina waited for Mrs. Standish to continue. When she didn't, Nina said: “What kind of a doctor was he?”