Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 6
Homeless, and French. The squatter was probably like one of her clients in Harlem, destitute, toothless, and clueless. Of course there was a squatter. But one could always hope for an unscrupulous opportunist with bad intentions. Much easier to toss into the street.
“Monsieur Rancard will find out who the woman is. We pay the tax. We record the property for sale with the real estate company.”
“Can we sell it if the ownership is in question?”
“Technically we wait until we have access to the property. But Monsieur Rancard knows many people.”
“How much is the tax?”
“About two thousand euros.”
More money out the door. “We don’t know anything about the squatter then?”
“The gendarme indicated that she was a known person in the village. The people in the village are likely to take a elderly Frenchwoman’s case over yours, you being a stranger to them and so far away.”
Chapter Nine
1949
The return letter from her aunt is several weeks old by the time Marie-Emilie receives it. The postman must have refused to give it to Weston. By the time she is answering the door again he appears with it.
Her bruises have faded; her face is no longer swollen. Her arm only hurts when she raises it over her head. Several nights after she made her soup he had thrown her drunkenly onto the bed and her head scarf had come loose, revealing her chopped, ugly hair. He was always rough in bed but she supposed all Americans were. She had only one boyfriend in France when she worked in the pharmacy, sweeping floors and washing windows. He was the son of the druggist, a brute himself. Weston is no different, except when he drinks.
He had beaten her then made love. It seemed wrong to her. It is wrong. But she wanted a child so she received him on whatever terms he offered. But she has not been able to go out of the house for two weeks.
According to her aunt’s letter, there is no curse on the house. Marie-Emilie had hoped for a simple cure to her unhappiness, something she could say or do that would break the spell. The letter is long and reassuring, except for one part:
* * *
There was much love in that house, cherie. The pain of war too. So many souls lost. I kept their pictures on the wall, clipped from newspapers, to remember them. How I tried to keep house for your dear uncle so that when he returned he would find flowers blooming in the yard, the grapes ready to pick, the shutters painted and secure. But I was only one, I could not do it. You cannot do it alone either. You must insist that your husband help you with the house. He is young, he can fix the roof, plant a rose bush, build a fire. Make him be a man. You are not a slave to him.
Tante is wrong. Marie-Emilie sits next to the garden wall in a slice of shade. She is so tired. Weston goes out every night and rarely comes to bed before she gets up. He sleeps during the day and goes out again. He no longer even makes a pretense of trying to write. She suspects he sold his typewriter. Her only reprieve from his dis-approval is now, these last days, when he has gone on the train to Paris for business.
She is so hungry. There is no food, no money. If by some chance she carries a child now he would surely die from hunger.
She washes herself under the cistern, the warm water rinsing away her tears. She is fortunate that she no longer owns a mirror to see her butchered hair. Dressing again she finds one of Wes’s handkerchiefs to cover her head and goes to the market.
One of the old widows gives her two eggs; another woman grudgingly offers her some cream. It won’t go far but she is grateful. The men will have nothing to do with her, call her ‘gypsy blood.’ The priest won’t even speak to her. On her walk home she wonders what she’s done to offend them all. And thanks the Lord for kind old ladies with good hearts.
Weston arrives home that evening in a singing mood. He swings into the house, takes her into his arms, and gives her a green scarf and nylon stockings from Paris. He had made a deal with someone abroad. They fronted him money for a big delivery of wine, many cases, he says. She is happy but afraid he’s already spent the money and the businessmen will be angry. He laughs when she tells him that, saying he’s already paid for the wine, and has plenty left over. “Although you’ll never know where, my pretty,” he laughs again, tweaking her still-sore chin.
Just as quickly, he is gone again. American husbands didn’t have to say where they were going, she thinks bitterly. He hasn’t touched her since the beating, much too long for him to be without. She imagines the perfumed whores he’s been with in Paris, the trinkets he bought them, the wine they drank, the beef they ate, until she curls up in her bed and cries.
Chapter Ten
Friday came, like every week. Merle walked into the Legal Aid building, five stories of reassuring brick, utilitarian and unfussy, and ran through the day in her head as always. She’d come in early, hoping to actually take a lunch break today. Then, at ten o’clock her boss, the head of the Harlem Neighborhood Office, called her into his office. She was on her second cup of coffee.
Jeff O’Donald, once a campus radical at Columbia, was now balding and plump with an unruly beard and wire rim glasses. On his window sill white orchids bloomed.
“How are you, Merle? Things okay at home?”
“Sure. The bed’s a little cold, Jeff. You looking for some action?”
He cringed. “Sorry. I said that wrong. Are you coping all right?”
She was sounding more and more like the scary widow. Ready to bite off the head of anyone who dared to be nice. She tried to smile. “Thanks for asking.”
He let her sip her coffee then leaned forward. “I’ve got something on my mind.” He was an intense guy, and this was his intense way of preparing you for his pronouncements. “This Skadden fellow, Cortez. Crackerjack, according to her rec’s. Her proposal is a new intake system that could really shake things up for us. We’re very excited.”
“I’m excited too.”
“Super. I’d like you to train her to take over your job.”
Merle set down her cup and stared at him. He squirmed and explained. “She’ll be full-time, you’re still part-time. She’s fully funded by this fellowship. Then we use you in Development. Get us more fellows, and all that.”
“You want to send me to Development. After all these years. Just what I need right now in my life, Jeff. Because I don’t have enough changes.”
“It’s called a promotion, Merle. They can really use help liaising with the big firms in Development. You know those corporate boys from your Byrne & Loveless days, right? Lillian thinks the world of you.”
She knew ‘those boys’ all too well, and never wanted to break bread with them again. She and her coffee steamed for a full thirty seconds. Lillian Wachowski, who Merle had met once or twice at social events, was rumored to be a bitch-on-wheels.
Jeff blurted, “Can I set up a meeting with Lillian this afternoon? And of course it’ll take at least a week to train Cortez.”
A week to learn what she’d been doing for almost fifteen years. She felt old, useless, unwanted. And tired. She hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in weeks. She didn’t have it in her to fight. What would she say? She couldn’t leave because she had the next two months blocked out in her mind? That she needed to work to stay sane, to conquer the calendar in her head? To deal with financial ruin and the fact that the only man she ever loved turned out to be somebody she didn't love at all? Plus he was dead?
She looked at Jeff, twisting his beard. Calm yourself. He had his own issues, no doubt. He must have gotten the word to trim the budget, to transfer out the high-salary veterans, to get more cheap fellows, to serve more law to the poor for less. Or else.
She sighed. “Sure, Jeff, give the old gal a call.”
* * *
Merle sat on a bench in Central Park and stared at the yellow tulips instead of attending the inter borough brown bag lunch. She should have gone, but Laura would be fine, better no doubt, without her. Tristan had settled down, doing his homework without nagging, and talking about going back to school in a hopeful, even eager voice.
She dreaded this new job. She didn’t want to schmooze corporate lawyers, ask them for pro bono time and fellowship dollars. She hated asking for favors. She disliked most of the lawyers she'd worked with, at least the partners and old-timers she'd be begging for dollars. Most had a rich sense of entitlement, and a nose for where the money was buried. From a personal standpoint she’d have to get new clothes and the thought of shopping made her feet ache. She’d have to start getting manicures and dyeing her hair and wearing makeup. She smiled at a dog who sniffed her. He eyed her suspiciously and moved on. Even stray dogs rejected her.
Who would she be if she changed everything about herself, put on a fancy new face to the world?
A Lawyer, of course. Someone in touch with her emotions but able to totally compartmentalize, to understand the motivations and emotions that are part of being a human yet stand apart from them, use them, use others' emotions to get what you want. Analytical, suspicious, duplicitous, ruthless. The perfect lawyer: your worst nightmare.
Merle sighed. That wasn’t who she was, not any more. She graduated from high school early so she could be a lawyer sooner. Maybe it was just a goal she could see, a clear choice, a set future. It was on her list, Annie would say, something to be checked off, a goal met. Her father was proud, she knew that. Maybe she’d done it for him. Annie, four years older than Merle, graduated law school just a year ahead of her. Merle and Stasia ended up in the same class. Annie, so brilliant, and Stasia, so everything. How could eager, precocious, gung-ho little Merdle be as wonderful as they were? By being a lawyer too, of course.
The lawyer, the attorney, the counselor. The choices we make. She sighed again and pulled at her bangs.
What-what?! Damn. The bugger was back, asking too many questions. It had been silent, she realized now, for weeks. Then, in the the geezer's office, listening to Harry’s will, it flared up like hemorrhoids or a bad enchilada.
The voice was familiar, her old friend after all these years. How had it begun? Maybe a line in a movie, maybe overheard from the noisy reception area at work: What? What?!
She had said it just once out loud, in the car after a tedious dinner party at the home of a partner of Harry’s. The partner's wife had irritated her with nonsense theories about the cause of homelessness (laziness, a taste for narcotics, bad choices, prostitution: take your pick) and the rest of the women had abandoned her to the hyena. The men were no help, sequestered with whiskey and cigars, conspiratorial and secretive, as if letting anyone overhear their strategies would derail their rocket ride to riches. On top of it all she had a headache, a doozy, and the red wine hadn’t helped. So when Harry had asked as they drove home in that mock-meek way he had, what was the matter, she had exploded. “What! What?!”
He had reflexively braked, as if she’d seen a deer or a raccoon in the headlights. She turned to him, almost screaming. “What do you want from me? What? What?!”
He lapsed into silence. His typical reaction to female hysterics, with which he had little experience. She was usually calm, rational, practical, sitting back at these awful business dinners, reflecting on her virtue, her dutiful nature, her patience at putting up with idiots.
After that the What? What?! came back — silently, in her head — when confronted with ridiculous questions or inane people. That happened just a few times, but enough to stick. It began to haunt her thoughts, as if questioning what she was doing, what she wanted, what the hell was going on with her life. She tried not to wonder what it was really asking. Mostly it was just there: the what-what, like a tic she sometimes managed to ignore, but mostly tolerated.
Maybe it had been her subconscious trying to get her to realize she didn’t love Harry and what the hell was she still doing married to him. It was a theory. Then why had it returned after Harry was dead? What did her subconscious want now? She’d had her chance to ask Dr. Murray, the tweedy, soft-spoken counselor who had examined Tristan on Monday. He would have listened, even if he’d looked askance at her. But she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. Like a scary relation never visited, the what-what was best left in the dark, unexamined and un-poked.
She stood up and stretched her arms at the pink tulips. She wouldn’t go back to the office today. No, she had a life of uncertainty to get on with, a meeting with her new people. Her old people could start learning how to cope by themselves.
* * *
The apartment building in Greenwich Village was nothing to get excited about — dark red brick, five floors with the fire escape hanging on the front. Harry had paid a pretty price for his pied-à-terre despite its ugliness, although Merle still couldn’t remember how much. Or how much it'd sold for. His New York real estate adventures had been out of her league. When they moved to Connecticut he bought this second-floor unit lacking anything special besides its location a block or two from the Gotham Bar and Grill, one of his favorite restaurants.
She’d had lunch at the Gotham, a wild indulgence considering the state of her finances, sitting at their elegant bar. Lovely over-priced food and bright, almost sunny interiors bursting with huge flower arrangements. The bartender had been kind and a little flirty. She felt raw in the face of handsome, too-friendly men, something she’d had no trouble with in the past. She had smiled at him, drunk a glass of wine, then a strong cup of coffee. Still she had fifteen minutes before she was to meet her new boss.
So she'd wandered over to the old Twelfth Street building. She had just enough time to get the name of the current owner of Harry’s old apartment. With luck she’d also satisfy her curiosity that Harry had indeed sold it five years before, and if the stars aligned, for how much. Last night in Harry’s home office she’d come up with zero about the apartment. Wouldn’t he have had to claim capital gains the year he sold it? Maybe he lied on his tax return. He’d lied about the trust fund and spent the life insurance on his crazy schemes. At this point everything was on the table.
Pushing into the cramped lobby she eyed the mailboxes. On Harry’s old box was simply the number — 202. Merle pressed the doorbell and was surprised when the buzzer to the door opened without a word. Maybe this would be easy.
The door to the apartment was freshly painted in spring green. A young woman opened the door the width of the chain and peered out. Hanging on her leg was a small girl, dark-haired and barefoot.
“I’m looking for the owner of the apartment,” Merle said, smiling. “Would that be you?”
The woman, with long black hair and heavy eye makeup, brushed crumbs off her fingers onto her tight jeans. She looked to be in her early twenties, chewing gum as she looked over Merle. She undid the chain and opened the door. “I’m the nanny. She’s not here.”
“Oh, well, she bought this apartment from — someone I know. I have some papers for her.” Merle patted her purse where nothing more official than her Metro card was stashed. The room beyond them looked cozy and warm, strewn with toys. The television trilled with the sounds of Sesame Street.
“She’ll be back in a hour. If we’re lucky. Can I take them for her?”
“Uh, it’s one of those legal things.” Merle looked down at the little girl, dressed in pink sweatpants and a t-shirt with spangles, and wondered why she’d lied. She hadn’t planned on lying. She looked over the girl’s head, focusing on the living room. There was Harry’s brown chair that she’d made him replace in his office at home. And the red velvet footstool, with gold fringe, from the family room. The little blue rug from Tristan’s room. And the painting, that small one of sailboats she’d never liked.
Merle swallowed, her throat tight. Maybe Harry sold the woman some things with the place. But it was only last year when she'd gotten rid of the footstool, and Tristan's rug.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked the girl.
The child hid behind the nanny’s leg. The woman patted her head. “This is Sophie. She’s having a bad day.”
Merle felt her heart clattering. She took a deep breath then squatted down to the child’s level. “Hi, Sophie. My name is Merle. Can you shake hands?”
Sophie peeked out from behind the nanny’s leg, then slapped Merle’s hand. “How old are you, Sophie?” She held up four fingers. “Do you go to preschool?”
The nanny said in bored voice, “Normally.”
“Sophie is a pretty name,” Merle said. “Do you have more names?”
The girl stepped forward, holding onto her nanny’s jeans. “Sophie Lou — ” She took a breath. “Sophie Louisa Duncan.”
“Nice to meet you.” Merle stood up. "I’ll stop back later. Thanks.” She headed for the stairs. A woman was making her way up, struggling with grocery sacks. A blonde, in a dark suit with a black briefcase. Merle blinked. She held the handrail and felt the cogs click into place.
“Courtney? Courtney Duncan?”
The woman looked up the stairs. Her mouth dropped open as the grocery bags slipped from her hands, spilling oranges, milk, bagels.
* * *
The weather had turned mild and humid. Merle rushed blindly down the sidewalk, late now to her meeting with Lillian Wachowski. Her mind raced and her blood pressure was probably through the roof.
With a pointed glance at her watch Lillian ushered her into the office. Spare as law offices go, it was sumptuous compared to the windowless cave in Harlem. An exposed brick wall gave it a downtown look, and the fern. Lillian was a small woman with fine features, wearing a turquoise silk suit with a white shell, her gray- blond hair cut severe and short. Her intense blue eyes and dagger-like wit scared the crap out of everyone. Merle found herself trembling.
