Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) Page 4

  We drove on in contented silence for a while.

  “I hope you’ll join us for lunch,” Ben said, speaking, obviously, to me. “There’s a fine new Italian place on Main Street.”

  “Sounds terrific,” I said, secretly checking for Roz’s reaction. I could see none.

  Brilliant sunlight was pouring into the car now. It felt warm and renewing on my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes, truly luxuriating in the ride. I felt that I could quite easily fall . . . fast asleep . . . lulled by the happy purr . . . of the engine.

  Then Roz screamed.

  “Ben!” she shrieked. “A dog, Ben! Watch—”

  I heard the awful screech of brakes. Saw a blur of brown fur before my body twisted and the force of the skid sent me hurtling forward. Then the whole world was brown.

  Chapter 5

  It was quiet. So quiet I knew I couldn’t be dead.

  I pushed myself up and back onto the seat. For a minute I just sat there staring foolishly out of the window. The car had executed a wild turn: half on the road and half off, the front end was now facing in the direction from which we had come.

  I feel fine, I told myself. Just fine. And my head is so . . . so tight! I sat waiting happily for the drive to recommence.

  A strangling noise from the front seat jolted me back to reality. Roz was thrashing about, trying to get out of her seatbelt. Ben wasn’t moving at all. His belt had prevented him from smacking into the window, but he seemed to have hit the top of the wheel, and now he was collapsed over it. Roz’s struggle had become crazed by now.

  I opened the back door and climbed out. My legs buckled for just a moment, then they became strong again. I tried Roz’s door. It was still locked from the inside. I banged on her window. She looked at me wild-eyed. I gestured that she should open the door from the inside. But she didn’t understand. I got back into the backseat, reached over and opened the latch in front. Then I slipped out again and pulled her door open. Her thin frame seemed to be wracked with spasms.

  “Be still, Roz—be still!”

  My plea brought her to her senses. She was breathing heavily, gagging, but at last she calmed. I undid the seat belt quickly and helped her out, gingerly leaning her against the side of the car.

  Then I hurried to the other side to see about Ben. He was dazed, bleeding rather badly from the forehead, but conscious. “I’m all right,” he croaked. “I’m . . .”

  “Stay where you are, Ben,” I warned, unbuckling his seat belt. A ridiculous instruction—where was he going to go? “Just stay there. I’ll get help.”

  I ran up the other side of the road, looking for a car to flag down. Two went by without stopping. But then, a minute later, a bread truck braked and the driver climbed out, stared into the Mercedes, and told me he’d call the police from the gas station two miles down the road.

  There were two local police cars and an ambulance. The medics began very carefully to extricate Ben from the car, while Roz and I wearily answered the officers’ questions. These men were a lot less polished, more New England folksy than the state police who were investigating Will Gryder’s murder.

  When the questioning was finished, Roz turned to me in desperation. “Oh, God! That dog! What happened to that poor dog? It’s probably lying somewhere, suffering. We have to find it, Alice. Please.”

  Yes, she was right of course. I couldn’t let the poor thing suffer. I had to find it. So, while Ben was being eased into the ambulance, I started my search—up and down the shoulders of both sides of the road. I could find nothing, though. No dog, living, dying, or dead.

  Then, in growing fear, I began to search for bloodstains. But there weren’t any of those, either. Was it possible the dog had escaped unhurt? I hoped that was the case.

  I looked a while longer and then gave up and started back toward the car. I could see the tracks my boots had made in the slush.

  That’s right! I could see the tracks my boots had made. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? There was a dog in the road and it was crossing in front of the car when Roz cried out—so where were its tracks? It must have left prints in the muddy ground, just as I had. Why couldn’t I find them anywhere?

  I looked up to see the police officers waving me back to the Mercedes. I signaled that I’d be just a few minutes longer.

  I crisscrossed the road again. There were tire tracks in the sludge, and footprints, but no paw prints. None at all. What I did notice were curious, elongated marks. It looked very much as if someone had dragged a sled across the mud.

  I couldn’t understand it. We had all seen the dog flash across the road—or so we thought. But of course it was a dog. It may have all been a blur, but it had been there. It had been what made Ben swerve off the road.

  Still confused, I walked back to the others. Roz went with Ben in the ambulance. One of the officers helped me into his patrol car and drove me back to the Center.

  They were all there waiting for me.

  Obviously on Roz’s instructions, the police had phoned the house to tell everyone there about the accident. Beth and Darcy and Mathew and the cook—yes, and even Miranda—were all so solicitous of my welfare. For which I was grateful, because five minutes after I entered the house the full impact of what had happened hit me. I was weak, trembling. Mrs. Wallace prepared a giant cup of cocoa for me. Darcy wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Miranda took off my boots. And Beth, while chafing my hands, barked out other instructions related to my comfort to Mat Hazan, who kept muttering as he obeyed them, “This place is nothing but a chamber of horrors.”

  A while later, Roz phoned from the hospital. Darcy took the call and relayed the news to us: Both Polikoffs were okay. Ben had to have a few stitches for the head wound, but there had been little damage other than that. They were going to keep him in hospital for a day or two, and Roz would remain with him. But everything was going to be fine.

  Soon Beth was taking me by the arm and leading me up the long staircase. “Time you had a nap, Alice. We’ll put you in Roz and Ben’s room. It’s more comfortable there.”

  We went up together, slowly, and Beth eased me down onto the old four-poster. “No need to undress,” she said, seemingly from a dozen miles away. “Just lie back and I’ll cover you with this quilt.”

  The last thing I remembered was a feeling of shame—shame that I’d been so wiped out by a minor traffic accident, while the sight of Will Gryder’s gruesome corpse, grotesquely impaled by the weapon buried in his chest, had not noticeably fazed me. There was something very strange about that.

  ***

  I awoke to find the last light of afternoon painting the big windows in the Polikoffs’ room. I must not have had any bad dreams, because I felt completely rested, at peace. Staring at me from the armchair cushion were the bright round eyes of Lulu.

  “Well, hi, kiddo!” I called out. “You’re supposed to be downstairs, you know. That’s where the mice are.” The cat blinked a few times, then she hopped off the chair and trotted over to the bed. She situated herself in the crook of my arm and sniffed me amiably.

  My throat was dry, but I was too comfortable to get up for water. The door was cracked open and I could hear voices downstairs. The scent of roasting meat and rosemary soon reached me. How pleasant it all seemed—I was in a lovely old house in New England on a beautiful autumn evening. Downstairs was a group of lively, talented people waiting for me to join them. There was a sensational meal in the oven and probably a great bottle of wine already opened and waiting.

  Nice daydream. Except that every element of it was just a little off. I had been thrown into contact with a group of people who were certainly bright enough, but I wasn’t sure they cared very much for me—and maybe not even for one another. There had been a terrible murder here. And today I’d almost been killed.

  The motor accident came back to
me then in detail. We had been very lucky. It might have been much worse if the car had not skidded in a circle and ended up back on the road. The Mercedes might have gone off the shoulder completely, into an embankment; it might have flipped over. Or suppose there’d been another car on the road! Lucky indeed. We might all have been killed.

  And what about the dog who’d caused the accident? I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I hadn’t been able to find any trace of it. Why not? Trying not to disturb Lulu too much, I propped myself up against the bed pillows. I was trying to remember that moment just before the crash. Roz had screamed out a warning. “A dog, Ben!” she had said. Then I saw that brown blur. I hadn’t questioned that it was a dog. But where were its tracks on the muddy road?

  The cat rose up and stretched expansively. “Well, kiddo?” I flicked at her ears. “Answer me that. What happened to his tracks? Was he hurt or not? Was he there or not?” Lulu climbed off the quilt and thumped out of the room. I chuckled to myself. “What a useless creature,” I said aloud. “No mice, no answers.”

  I reclined again and stared out of the window. Almost full night now. The trees were beginning to appear threatening.

  I finally got myself out of bed and walked over to the old dresser, regarding myself in the mirror. I was a mess. After washing up in Roz and Ben’s little bathroom, I borrowed a barrette for my hair and then used a cotton ball to apply what I took to be Roz’s facial toner. I looked at the label on it and saw that it had come from Kiehl’s, a venerable Lower East Side institution that custom-makes cosmetics and perfumes for its customers.

  The scent of the cologne in the little bottle I’d opened was transporting. I stood there sniffing it, thinking. I had been foolish to put those questions to little Lulu. But the really important question, I hadn’t even asked: why was I obsessed with the brown dog?

  I guess I already knew why, though. Knew it kind of fearfully. It was because the accident might not have been an accident at all. It might have been all too deliberate. Someone, perhaps the same person who had murdered Will Gryder, might have wanted to kill me. Or either of the Polikoffs. Or all three of us. I put the cologne away.

  Clues? Motives? Possible scenarios? I had none to back up my belief, but the belief was there just the same. That’s just how I felt. It was an informed guess, based no doubt on the timing of things—the coincidence of both events. Gryder is murdered about eight o’clock in the evening by person or persons unknown. Sixteen hours later three suspects in the killing—and I knew that Ford Donaldson more or less had to consider us all suspects—are almost killed in an accident.

  I’d done as much repair work on my appearance as I could, but I went on regarding my face in the mirror.

  Mirror mirror on the wall,

  Why get involved in this case at all?

  My image grimaced, then said to me: “And if you wanted to get involved in this case . . . where would you start? You know nothing except what Lieutenant Donaldson told you.”

  “Not true,” I told her, smiling. I knew something that Donaldson himself didn’t know. I knew that Beth and Will had made love in a shed on the premises, and then fought violently. Miranda had told me so. And now I believed her. And I knew that the first thing I should do was take a look at the shed. All this because of a dog who was supposed to be there but wasn’t—not even his paw prints.

  I was overwhelmingly thirsty now. I went down to get a drink and join that glowing house party of the imagination.

  Chapter 6

  Around six thirty the following morning I tiptoed slowly down the stairs, being careful not to wake the others. I wanted to get out of the house without anyone noticing. I didn’t quite know why I was being so secretive—there was really nothing to hide.

  At any rate, all that stealth turned out to be futile, for the kitchen was ablaze with light and Mrs. Wallace was busily at her morning’s work. I was suddenly aware of those universal good-food smells.

  “Aren’t you the little early bird this morning?” she said from the stove, not even turning to look at me.

  I went in to the kitchen and headed directly for the door that opened onto a small storeroom, which in turn led outside. This rear entrance to the house was closer to the creek than the front door was.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wallace,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I thought I’d take a nice long walk this morning because it’s so . . . so lovely.”

  She cast a quick glance out of the kitchen window at the thick gray sky.

  “The grounds are so lovely, I mean. And I haven’t had much of a chance to see the property.”

  “Yes,” she said dully. “Then you’ll want to take some nourishment first, I’m sure.” With one foot she quickly pulled out a kitchen chair and nodded to me that it was my place at the table.

  Obeying, I sat down, and continued to trip over my own words. “Thanks . . . and did I thank you enough for that wonderful meal last night? I don’t think I’ve ever had veal so fragrant and moist. And those potatoes!”

  “Anna,” she grunted.

  “Oh, yes. Potatoes Anna. Superb.”

  Mrs. Wallace then dropped a plate in front of me. “And what,” she said, a sardonic little smile on her face, “did you think of the dessert?”

  I looked down at the neatly cut wedge of an exquisitely turned-out omelet. “The dessert? Superb, also.” And it had been—a rich, underrated slice of cake in a little pool of perfect crême anglaise.

  She placed her own plate on the table then. Her half of the omelet was just as beautiful, cooked precisely the way I like it, folded over but still thin and burnished on the top. She set about removing the plastic wrap from three small bowls on the table. One contained red caviar, one black—leftovers from last Sunday’s brunch—and the last held what I took to be sour cream. No, it wasn’t sour cream, Mrs. Wallace corrected me. It was fromage frais, which she’d served with berries a few nights ago. Hadn’t I ever heard of its American equivalent, “creole cream cheese”? I had to confess my ignorance.

  Last, she brought a plate of piping hot English muffins, fresh from the blackened griddle on which she’d made them, and a battered old percolator full of coffee that was still bubbling up against the glass nipple in the lid.

  I hadn’t been the least bit hungry ten minutes ago, but I tucked into the food lustily. “How does a person get to be such a wonderful cook?” I asked, genuinely interested.

  She sipped her coffee complacently. “Ever hear of Lydie Marshall?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “What about Simone Beck?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know why. I shook my head in answer.

  “But surely you’ve heard of James Beard, Julia Child.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Did you study with them all?”

  “I surely did, my girl. I surely did. Now, wouldn’t you think in most places that would earn a person some kind of respect . . . some kind of . . . ?” Her voice trailed off in irritation.

  Mrs. Wallace barely touched her food. Instead, she watched closely as I consumed mine. “I have plenty more muffins where those came from,” she told me when I’d cleaned my plate. “What about another one with some of my preserves? I can see you’re not one of those weak women that never eat a good meal, always watching their so-called figures.”

  I managed to prevent her from feeding me more than one additional muffin, and while she was at the sink, I seized the opportunity to push away from the table and throw on the old sheepskin coat.

  “Well, thank you for breakfast,” I said quickly. “I think I’ll go on that walk now.”

  “Hmm,” she mumbled. “You’ll probably freeze.”

  It was damned cold! So much for the Indian Summer yesterday had promised. I strode away from the house and then stopped twenty feet away to g
et my bearings.

  ***

  In the distance I could see the big barn—Will Gryder’s studio. I found the path I had taken that night with Beth, the night we’d found his body. Then I took the connecting path, which ran past the back of the studio and meandered into a wooded plot. Through the trees I could make out two small structures. These, I assumed, were the sheds I’d heard mentioned, and the creek must be just beyond. I picked up my pace, eager to leave the forbidding barn behind.

  Just as I reached the woods I heard, once again, a disembodied cello. I was not only enchanted by the beautiful sounds it was making, I was also confused—it couldn’t be Miranda again, not at this hour. It was much too early. I knew the piece well: Bach’s C Major Suite for Unaccompanied Cello. I had owned Casals’ recording of it for years, but then the record was lost in one of my many moves. It could have been a record I was hearing now. But where was it coming from?

  The studio? Was it possible the music was coming from Will’s studio? Yes! I stood listening for another minute. How macabre. I turned back and made for the barn. But I hesitated at the door, frightened to go in. Then, as suddenly as the music had begun, it stopped. I waited a few seconds longer, then opened the door and peered in. The studio was deserted. I stepped back outside and closed the door, thinking that the music would start again any minute. But it never came. There was nothing but country morning silence. Had the traffic accident shaken something loose in my brain? Would I keep hearing music wherever I went?

  I made my way through the woods, the frozen twigs snapping beneath my boots. I found the shed easily—two sheds, actually, within a few feet of each other—about fifty feet from a stream. It must have been a respectable stream once; the sides were steep enough, but now the near-frozen flow was minimal, pretty pathetic. Logs and chunks of metal stuck out of the creek bed, as if it had become a local dumping place.

  The sheds were like old-fashioned beach cabanas, made of wood and metal. A sliding door was at the front of each. They were only about ten feet deep but they were quite long, almost the size of Quonset huts.