The Drowning Tree (32 page)

I notice Regula Howell standing on the deck talking to a man and a woman—both wearing identical square-rimmed eyeglasses—but looking over their shoulders in our direction. As soon as I make eye contact with her she waves and heads down the steps toward us.

“I guess I’d better get back,” Neil says. “Reg went to a lot of trouble to put this thing together.”

I nod, unable to speak. For all that we’ve said in the last half hour neither of us has said one word about seeing each other again.
Is this it?
I wonder, watching Regula Howell stop to take off her high-heeled sandals because they’re sinking into the damp ground.
Do I want more than this? Does he?

“Juno,” Neil says when Regula is less than twenty feet away, “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see any more of me. I wouldn’t blame you for hating me.”

“That’s not how I feel. I’ve never hated you.” I speak quickly, trying to cram fourteen years of ambiguity and confusion into the seconds we have left. “I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I still dream about you.”

“Really?” he asks, grinning. “I dream about you all the time.” Then his smile abruptly fades and I know he’s remembered that last dream he told me about—the one in which I slashed his paintings. I see the color drain from his face and—with Regula Howell ten feet away—I come to a quick decision.

“Why don’t you call me next week and we’ll get together.” I say it like we’re old friends making a lunch date. “You could come over and see the studio and the factory—”

Neil breaks in just before Regula reaches us, “I’d love that, Juno.” He squeezes my hand, which I’d forgotten he was still holding, and then lets it go. “I’ll call you next week—Dr. Horace gave me your number.”

“Congratulations, Neil,” Regula says when she reaches the bench. I move over so she can sit down but she leans against the willow trunk instead, bending one knee and resting her bare foot against the smooth bark. The blue satin sandals dangle from one finger like expensive Christmas ornaments. “The show’s quite a success. The curators from Dia: Beacon
want to meet you. They’d like to run your show in a gallery in Beacon near the museum when it opens next May.”

“That would be incredible, Neil. Dia: Beacon’s going to be a major museum.”

Regula Howell gives me a little condescending smile and I suddenly remember where I’ve seen her name before—in an article in the
Penrose Alumnae Magazine
. She’d started out in the early eighties working at a gallery in SoHo that handled artists as renowned as Basquiat and Haring. She has her own gallery now and it’s rumored that she supports young fledgling artists out of her sizable private income.
What an amazing connection for Neil to make
, I think, trying not to be jealous.

“So, if you can spare him for a minute, June—”

“Juno,” Neil corrects her, “like the goddess.”

“Of course.” Regula smiles,
queen to goddess
. “It’s just that I’ve got a party to get to across the river. Perhaps you’re going there as well, Juno, it’s at Forest Hall.”

I shake my head. “I’m not all that involved in the college outside of the window restoration.”

“Oh, I just thought since you knew Gavin Penrose.” Regula gives the sandals a little swing and the jeweled dragonflies wink in the pale watery light. “It’s his engagement party. Didn’t you know? He’s marrying one of my classmates, Joan Shelley.”

D
RIVING BACK ACROSS THE RIVER
I
THINK ABOUT
AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY
. WHEN
Detective Falco first brought up the scenario from the Dreiser novel I thought it sounded too melodramatic to have anything to do with what happened to Christine. Handsome rake seduces poor, working-class girl and then tosses her over for rich heiress. And then what? Drowns her when she shows up pregnant demanding that he marry her? I can see Gavin Penrose in the role—he even has a good name for a rake—but I have trouble fitting Christine into the role of damsel in distress. As much as her looks suited her to her study of nineteenth-century painting—hadn’t I noticed during her lecture how much she resembled the lady in the window?—her character didn’t. She’d never marry for propriety or convenience; she’d raise the baby on her own.

But what if there was something wrong with the baby? What if she needed money badly? Would she have gone to Gavin Penrose? Could he have been so worried about saving face in front of his new—wealthy—fiancée that he took Christine out on a little prenuptial kayaking trip, fed her her own pills in a thermos of coffee, and then swamped her boat? As preposterous as it seems, I can’t dismiss the odd coincidence that Gavin Penrose is suddenly announcing his engagement one week after Christine’s funeral—an engagement no one knew about. Or maybe I’m the only one who didn’t know about it and I’m just piqued that I wasn’t invited to the party.

I don’t have much time to pout Cinderella-like in my sooty old factory, though. When I get home I find a faxed invitation along with a copy of an envelope addressed to me with
UNDELIVERABLE
stamped across the address. There’s also a message on my answering machine from Fay Morgan explaining that my invitation came back to her just today and that when she showed it to him, Mr. Penrose insisted she call me right away and tell me he
especially
hoped I would be able to
come share in his joy in this time of grief
.

Fay pronounces the last words like someone reading from a script. Her own natural inflections return with her parting comments, “You really ought to talk to your mail carrier and clear up the confusion regarding your mail delivery.”

The fact that she’s right (it’s not the first time my mail has gone astray) doesn’t stop me from feeling peevish as I rush into the shower and pull out the same blue linen dress I wore four weeks ago to Christine’s lecture—the only thing I own good enough for a reception at the president’s house.
I’ll add it to the list, Fay
, I say to my reflection in the mirror,
after cell phone purchase. You’ve already gotten me to a geneticist and given me three weeks of hell waiting for the results of that blood test
.

As if she heard me the phone rings and when I let the machine pick up it actually is Fay again—reminding me that the invitation includes a
plus one
. “Perhaps you’d like to bring that nice man who works down at the kayaking shop if you’re still seeing him.”

Jesus
, I think,
as soon as Bea graduates I’m out of this little town. How in the world did she know about Kyle? We barely even went out
.

But even my ranting can’t disguise the real source of my annoyance. Who
can
I call for my
plus one
?

Then I know exactly who to call.

“H
ONESTLY
, M
ISS
M
C
K
AY
, I
’D HAVE TAKEN YOU OUT FOR DINNER WITHOUT THE
cloak and dagger pretext,” Detective Falco says when I meet him half an hour later in front of the factory.

I don’t say anything for a moment because I’m so taken aback by the transformation wrought by his well-fitting tux. He couldn’t have gotten a rental so soon. I wonder what kind of social life he leads that requires a more extensive dress-up wardrobe than my closet’s meager offerings.

“You’re certainly dressed up,” I say.

“You look lovely yourself,” he says, turning my grudging comment into an exchange of compliments.

I adjust my shawl over my shoulders. At the last minute I traded the dress’s matching linen jacket for a velvet devore shawl that Bea bought for me from the Metropolitan Museum gift shop last year. Although it’s hardly a designer item, the iridescent wisteria blossoms complement the blue in my dress, and the silk and velvet against my bare shoulders feels luxurious. I just wish I had Regula Howell’s blue satin dragonfly shoes instead of my scuffed black sandals, but then I’d probably be taller than the detective … I stop this train of thought by reminding myself that this isn’t a date and to remind him I say: “I just thought you’d be interested in knowing that Gavin Penrose is engaged. You’re the one who brought up the whole
American Tragedy
scenario.”

“Actually, I already know about his engagement to Joan Shelley. He told me about it in our first interview when I asked him what he was doing the night Christine died. He said he was driving Miss Shelley back to her apartment on East End Avenue in Manhattan—an alibi she confirms. Besides that, there are a couple of reasons why I don’t think Gavin Penrose is the father of Christine’s child—”

“Any you’d care to share with me?”

Detective Falco smiles and tugs at his black silk bow tie. “Not at the moment—but thanks for the lead to the geneticist.” He holds the car door open for me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely,” I say, putting on my seat belt.

He gets in the driver’s side but doesn’t start the car. “You don’t have to tell me what you went there for,” he says. “I know we don’t know each other very well.”

We don’t know each other at all
, I think, surprised that he should be so … what?… 
concerned
. And why did he accept my invitation if he had already ruled out Gavin Penrose as a suspect? Maybe it’s just that he’s in the habit of ferreting out missing information or maybe he really is worried about me.

“It’s to check for the breast cancer gene,” I tell him when he’s given up waiting and started the car. “My mother had it. Fay Morgan suggested I do it. She tested positive for the gene last year and had a prophylactic mastectomy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She said Gavin Penrose went to bat for her with the insurance company.”

“Huh. No wonder she’s so loyal to him.”

“Yeah.”

Detective Falco shifts the car into reverse, then back into park, and then half turns in his seat to face me. “Just your mother?”

“Maybe a great-aunt as well.”

“That’s not a lot. You probably don’t have it.”

“Probably not.”

He puts the car back in reverse and pulls out of his parking spot and heads up College Avenue. Neither of us speak until we’ve pulled up in front of Forest Hall. A uniformed valet approaches the car, but Falco puts up his hand and signals for him to wait. He takes off his seat belt and turns around in his seat to face me, seemingly unconcerned about the Jaguar and two Mercedes waiting behind us.

“Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this and you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself—okay?”

I nod.
Who am I going to tell
, I think.

“Christine went to the genetic counseling office because her unborn child had tested positive for Tay-Sachs.”

“Tay-Sachs? Jesus—that’s fatal, isn’t it?”

“It’s a nightmare. The child usually dies within its first three years.”

I close my eyes and picture Christine standing in front of the Lady window, her neck bent down under the weight of her own hair. Overlaid on that image is a picture of her standing on the train platform asking me whether I thought if you loved someone well enough they would return that love. Was she thinking of the baby? Or of the baby’s father?

“Poor Christine,” I say, “It must have killed her—it might really be what killed her … but wait, aren’t most people who get Tay-Sachs Jewish?”

“Yeah. According to Dr. Pearlman you’re a hundred times more likely to be a carrier if you’re of Eastern European Jewish descent. Christine might have been the rare exception of a non-Jew with the gene or she may have had a Jewish ancestor she didn’t know about.”

“The Webbs? That family has interbred up there on Webb Road for the last two hundred years. It doesn’t seem all that likely.”

“No, it doesn’t, and the other thing is that both parents have to have the gene for their child to contract the disease.”

“So the father would most likely be Jewish. Is that why you don’t think it’s Gavin Penrose?”

“Well, that and the fact that he has an alibi for the night Christine died. Of course he could be the father and not have killed Christine. Maybe she came to him and told him about the baby and he responded so harshly that Christine decided to kill herself. He wouldn’t have committed any crime, but I’d sure like to know if that’s what happened.”

“So would I.”

“But, it’s a pretty big stretch to imagine that both carriers would be individuals without any known Jewish background. Especially when there are possibilities who are Jewish …”

“You mean Nathan Bell.”

“Yes, there’s Nathan Bell. And at least one other. Your ex—Neil Buchwald.”

T
HE COLUMNS OF THE CENTRAL COURTYARD HAVE BEEN WRAPPED WITH HUNDREDS
of tiny white lights, and white gardenias are floating in the fountain. Four marble urns, one in each corner of the courtyard, are filled with lilies,
white lilacs, and white roses. The drinks table has been set up in the dining hall near the glass doors leading to the terrace so I head there because I really need a drink. Detective Falco follows close on my heels.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he whispers in my ear as I try to decide between a White Russian, a white wine, or a White Mojito. Apparently Joan and Gavin have opted for a white theme to celebrate their impending nuptials. The dining room chairs have been slipcovered in white muslin (which to my mind makes them look as if they’d been straitjacketed) and the painting frames have all been festooned with white tulle—some of which has slipped over the frames onto the paintings themselves.

“It probably has no bearing on this case,” he goes on in a low voice—but not low enough for me to ignore. “As you yourself said, the news itself might have pushed Christine to suicide. It might not matter who the father was.”

“But you’re still going to find out, Detective Falco.”

Falco shrugs. “Well, yeah, if I can.”

“Will you tell me if you do?”

“Okay, on two conditions. First you tell me when you get back your test results. And you start calling me Daniel.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, clinking my White Mojito against his White Russian. “I guess it was pretty useless for you to come here.”

“Oh, you never know what you might pick up at a thing like this. Why don’t we just relax and have fun.”