Chapter 4
Phyllis was quite certain she would be unable to sleep but yielded to her friend's seniority and trooped upstairs after her. She vetoed a nightgown, preferring to sleep raw, just as she preferred to swim naked whenever she had the chance. She found a sweet sensual satisfaction in the direct contact of smooth linen with her flesh, as she derived a separate but equal pleasure in the feel of her own body knifing through water unimpeded by even the briefest of bikinis.
She considered reading when she turned in but decided she had too much to think about in the near grotesque events of the past twenty-four hours. It had to be a mistake, of course, since she had never heard of Sal Carini, had never been aware of his existence until Gerry Mann mentioned him by name over the post-copulatory drink he had offered Freddy and herself at the Iron Kettle.
So how could the Mafia Godfather have heard of Phyllis West Barrett, girl widow? How and why should he have been aware of her existence? Why should anyone take such an absurd bequest seriously?
Yet everyone else seemed to be taking it seriously-the press, Beth and her friends, even Major General Commissioner Circuit Judge Lemoyne Pierreford Weldon, ret., A.B., LL.B., D.S.C., Silver Star, Medaille Militaire, Grand Cross of St. Stanislaus et cetera, et cetera, et cetera....
Just as she decided she would never fall asleep, she did, dropping into a deep slumber from which she was returned with horrid violence by something heavy falling on her stomach. By the time Phyllis got herself untangled, turned on the bedside lamp and discovered her belly bomber to be Orangeade, largest of Beth's four felines, it was close on midnight and further sleep was out of the question. She sat up, hugging her knees, smoking a cigarette and wondering what to do with the rest of the night.
She had an uncomfortable feeling that she had forgotten something, but could not remember what. It kept skittering away from the clutches of her memory like a playful puppy that refuses to let itself be caught.
She put out her cigarette, turned off the lamp and lay down to give sleep another chance. In an effort to recapture it, she reran the thought parade of recent events. The weird legacy a mistake-a total stranger like Sal Carini could not possibly know of Phyllis West Barrett's existence-she had never heard of him until the mention of his name at the Iron Kettle the night before by Gerry Mann.
Gerry! That was it! She had promised to meet her boyfriend's former boyfriend at her home after he closed up the restaurant. That would have been around eleven-thirty and it was already ten past twelve. She snapped on the lamp once more, her move causing the big orange cat to glare balefully at her from the foot of the bed.
Phyllis hated standing anyone up almost as much as she hated being stood up herself. With a disproportionate sense of guilt, she scrambled from bed and pulled on the blue flannel bathrobe Beth had lent her for the night, paddled barefoot down the stairs to the telephone. When the restaurant failed to answer, she uttered a short, sharp four-letter word.
If Gerry was not back in his own quarters, he was in all probability waiting outside of hers. There was nothing for Phyllis to do but get dressed and drive over. She simply could not leave anyone hung in such a predicament, not even a mock-male essentially useless to females.
She went back upstairs and got into her clothes, ran a comb through her heavy brown hair and got out of the house without waking Beth, whose gentle snores provided an obbligato to the hurried process. She eased the Karmann Ghia out of the driveway quietly and drove the mile and a half over the dimly lit elm-arcaded streets that separated her house from Beth's.
She passed or was passed by no moving vehicle and was preparing a casual turn into her own dark driveway when a big car, a Cadillac or Continental, came out a rocketing speed that came eyelash-close to crashing both cars. Barely avoiding the beehive of cemented rocks that flanked the entry, Phyllis stalled, weak under her diaphragm and the backs of her knees with shock reaction.
"Son of a bitch! she muttered when her breath returned. She had not even caught a glimpse of the driver, had had no time even to think of noting his license plates, much less of memorizing them. Trembling, she got the little car started and moved on into the driveway.
The familiar rear view of Gerry's Volkswagen mini truck loomed up in her headlights with its gilt iron kettle blazoned across the double doors. Phyllis felt relief that at least she had not come in vain. She tapped her horn gently as she braked to a halt to let him know she was there, to wake him up if he had fallen asleep waiting for her.
When she got out of the Karmann Ghia, she had to hold onto the door with both hands, so weak were her knees. But, slowly, their natural resiliency returned and she was able to stand without support. Walking around the minitruck to arouse her visitor, she wondered what on earth any third person could have been doing in this quiet nocturnal back water of a quiet nocturnal Massachusetts town. She puzzled over the possibilities as she approached the left door of the minitruck.
Gerry sat slumped over the wheel and failed to respond when she thumped on the door beside him. Glory! she thought. He must be drunk. She opened the door to shake him awake, but before she could touch him he fell slowly from the seat and all but knocked her flat in his progress to the graveled surface of the driveway. There he sprawled flat on his face in a position so awkward that it bordered on the absurd.
Phyllis whispered, "Oh, my God!"
Something was obviously wrong with Gerry Mann. She stepped back, looked down at him, wondered what she should do. Sight of the car keys she held in her hand brought inspiration. She unlocked the door of the house and went on inside, to call the operator and ask for help. She
The Kitteridge Police force, while small, was efficient. One of the two night patrol cars pulled into Phyllis's driveway within five minutes of her call. She stood in the doorway, numbly watching while the young officer studied the bloody corpse, using a flashlight to cut the shadows his headlights cast before coming to the house.
He said, "Mrs. Barrett?"
She nodded-she couldn't speak just then-and stood aside to let him pass. He went through the fine little house swiftly and thoroughly, then returned to the car and made a low-voiced call. Then he came back and said, "It will take a little while, ma'am. Captain Murphy was asleep."
He was terrifyingly polite, as were the rest of the policemen who crossed her threshold that night. Since the town lacked facilities for handling a homicide, the state constabulary was called in, which meant she had to tell her switched on the hall light and reached for the instrument, which rested on a small stand just inside the front door.
As she reached, she caught her reflection in the gilt-rimmed old mirror that hung against the side wall ... and froze. From neck to knees, her clothing was bright with blood ... meaningless story four times-although not until after she had been advised of her rights and Lem Weldon had arrived in response to her call.
As each new officer arrived and learned that Phyllis was the "mystery heiress" to a part of the Sal Carini estate, she could see curiosity light up his face. One of them tried to detour her interrogation to this area, but Lem Weldon-coolly blocked them, saying, "Mrs. Barrett is not prepared to discuss the matter at this time."
When at length it was over, he sent her upstairs with orders to bathe and change. Gerry's blood had caked and darkened on her flesh and clothing and she had to scrub briskly to remove the stains from her face, neck and hands. Only then was she able to accept the fact that Gerry Mann was dead, stabbed three times through the chest while talking to a person or persons unknown seated in the minitruck. Phyllis wondered if the Iron Kettle would retain its high quality, was instantly ashamed of herself for harboring such selfish thoughts at such a time.
Poor Gerry! She wondered how many people would actually mourn his loss, pondered the lonely road of the homosexual and shivered. There, but for the grace of God ... she thought, not for the first time.
When she got downstairs, carrying the blood-soaked garments in a plastic bag the police had given her for the purpose, Lem Weldon said, "There are reporters outside."
"Oh, no! she cried. "I can't talk to them now."
"I think you should." The deep, beautifully controlled bass voice bore authority she could not defy. He added, "I'll be right with you, of course."
Somehow, she got through it-although without Lem Weldon's quiet presence at her elbow, she could never have managed. A seemingly endless succession of photographs was taken during and after the interview. The attorney did not permit the newsmen to press her too hard, and the ordeal was over in twenty-two minutes, when she and Lem Weldon went back inside the house.
She asked the question that was troubling her. "Why would anyone want to kill Gerry?"
He said, "Somebody certainly did."
She said, "I suppose they think I did it."
He looked at her thoughtfully, then said, "Did you?"
"My God, no!"
"Then don't worry about that phase of it. We are faced by a more immediate problem-how to get you out of here without the press knowing it."
They managed it while the night was still dark. The attorney talked to the newsmen on the far side of the house while Phyllis slipped into the back of his car and crouched on the floor. Thus, ignominiously, she fled the shattered security of her home.
Weldon took a back road out of Kitteridge, stopped once they were clear to let Phyllis climb into the front seat, then headed for Route Two and drove directly into town-to an unexpectedly luxurious apartment on the third floor of a fine old red brick mansion on Mount Vernon Street, on the west slope of Beacon Hill.
Over a hot buttered rum, he said, "I hope you'll keep quiet about this place. From time to time I find being a Kitteridge landmark rather confining."
Phyllis was surprised to hear herself laugh and warmed to Weldon's responsive chuckle. It was somehow comforting to share with Lem Weldon a secret the attorney had managed to keep from the prying eyes and gossiping tongue of Kitteridge.
The mansion was venerable but the apartment was thoroughly modern in its facilities. Its three rooms (bedroom, kitchen, living room with a well-separated dining area) and bath were men's club comfortable, with teakwood tables and sofa and armchairs upholstered in red morocco with shining gilt nailheads. The lampshades were parchment, decorated with ancient maps, and the mantel was well populated with oddly curved pieces of scrimshaw.
Swinging the copper kitchenware deftly, the attorney made them a breakfast of sausage, thick bacon, and oven-toasted sourdough French rolls, accompanied by some of the finest coffee Phyllis had ever tasted. When the dishes and pans had been scoured and put away, he said, "I should by rights advise you to get some sleep before we see Jim O'Brien."
"I couldn't possibly, Lem."
"I thought not. Very well, let's talk. I have a strong presentiment that the more I know about you, the better for both of us, Phyllis, for better or worse, we're involved together in what promises to be a very sticky business."
Phyllis was only too glad to comply. Lem seemed to do nothing but listen, yet in time she realized that, with his occasional low-keyed comment and questions, he had steered the conversation into an area she failed to connect with the lurid rush of recent events in her life.
In an insidiously effective way, he prodded her about Pres, not merely letting her talk about him, but getting her to do so. Feeling confused, she stopped short and said, "I don't see what the history of my marriage has to do with what's happened just now."
"Sorry, Phyllis-but I might remind you that anything even remotely involved in your lamentably un-lurid past may prove important."
She was forced to accept this statement, even though she knew it to be an evasion, They talked-or rather she talked-until ten-forty, when Lem Weldon, after a quick look at the banjo clock on the south wall, rose abruptly to say, "Time to be on our way. We mustn't keep Jim waiting. He's a very busy man."