The Polka Dot Girl Read online

  Queneau muttered, “Well, of course we all regret this terrible event. Nobody is attempting to prevent you carrying out your…” “Neither one of you has asked me any details yet. Does that strike you as odd?”

  They remained silent. I went on, “I tell you a student was murdered 20 minutes ago within a hundred fucking yards of this building, and I don’t get one question. Like, where exactly? How did it happen? Who called you? You know, the normal things people say in these situations.”

  LaVey said airily, “Is there a normal way to react to something like this, Detective? I would have thought the situation itself was absolutely abnormal.”

  I shrugged and half-agreed with her. “I guess not. Murder’s never normal. Or shouldn’t be, anyway.”

  Queneau picked up a leather clutch-bag and said, “May I go? I’ve had a long day and my daughter is expecting me home hours ago.”

  “No, you may not goddamn go. Sit your ass down, Ms Queneau. I have questions for the pair of you.”

  She began to splutter her objections, all manufactured outrage, but I cut across her by karate-chopping the air and yelling, “Sit down now. Before I put the fucking cuffs on you.”

  She sat next to LaVey on a low couch, an autumnal color, russet-brown, tastefully distressed at the edges. I stood over them, tried to make myself bigger, more imposing, more author- itative. “Did either of you see or hear anything this evening? Any unusual noises, see anyone hanging around?”

  They shook their heads simultaneously. “Where is the campus security guard based?”

  LaVey said, “Oh, we don’t have full-time security, Detective. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t need goons with night-sticks prowling around, creating a bad atmosphere. This is a place of love, not fear or worry. That’s a fundamental tenet of our educational philosophy. And like attracts like. Bring in heavy security and quite soon you’ll need heavy security.”

  “You could have used one tonight, though.” “One what?”

  “A goon with a night-stick.” “Oh. Yes, I see.”

  “So what are you telling me—the LaVey Institute has no on- site security guards?”

  “We have them, certainly. But only a few nights a week. A few hours, two or three nights a week. Just to cover our insurance requirements. There’s really no need…”

  “Okay, fine. Shut up now.”

  For the first time the mask dropped—LaVey was annoyed at my rudeness. She ground her perfect little teeth in tiny movements, then remembered where she was and who she was supposed to be, and the relaxed expression snapped back into place.

  I stubbed out my cigarette in an ashtray on the huge desk and said, “Would I be right in supposing this was security’s night off?”

  LaVey said, “As it happens, yes.” “As it happens.”

  Of course. As it happens. It so happens. Shit happens. Yeah, Azura LaVey was a real happening kind of gal. I decided to change tack, decided to lie, just a little, just enough to raise the temperature: “We’re close to a resolution of the Madeleine Greenhill case.”

  LaVey didn’t blink. Queneau blinked a few times, rapidly.

  I said, “Figured you’d want to know that. What with your concern for former and present students and all.”

  Queneau half-stood and exclaimed, “I’ve had enough of this. Who do you think you’re-”

  Filibustering. Delaying tactics. Blinding me with bluster and bullshit.

  “I told you to sit,” I said. “So you will fucking sit.”

  She sat. I went on, “Five people have already confessed to the crime. What a lucky break for us, huh? ’Course, they’ve since withdrawn their confessions, but that’s how it goes sometimes.”

  Still no reaction from LaVey. No smirk, no reaction.

  “We know who did the deed itself. We’re about half-a-minute from arresting her. And when we get her, we’ll get the woman behind her. The evil old bitch who paid for murder.”

  Cool as a cucumber. Cool as ice. Cold as the grave. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Ms LaVey?” LaVey looked away, looked unperturbed.

  “You could save yourself a world of shit down the line by being honest now.”

  “This is outrageous!” Queneau stood to her full height this

  time and put her hand on LaVey’s shoulder. “Don’t say one word, Azura. Not one word. And as for you, Detective, I will have your badge for this disgusting behavior. This bullying of a wholly innocent woman who has just suffered the worst kind of loss…” So: Queneau was the attack dog, the metaphorical muscle, the bad cop. LaVey was the serene, blissed-out good cop, floating over it all, impervious and imperious. And I was the only actual cop in that room.

  I said, “You act like her lawyer and yet you’re just a friend. It’s, you know, I find that interesting.”

  “If you keep harassing her you will be dealing with a lawyer next time.”

  There wasn’t really anything more to be said. I waved a tired hand and said, “Class dismissed.” They didn’t move, didn’t do anything. I added, “That means we’re done here” and hit for the door.

  Queneau was sitting back down, exhaling heavily, as I exited the room. LaVey took her hand and massaged it with her thumbs. The original odd couple.

  I had returned to my crime scene then. I stood about 15 yards from Bethany Gilbert’s body and smoked and thought for a long time. LaVey and Queneau: what was their relationship, exactly? Old friends? Confidantes? Lovers? No—I didn’t pick up any sort of sexual spark. This was something different, maybe deeper… Comrades, confreres, a clique, a cabal, a cohort…co-conspirators. That’s what they seemed like, goddamn it.

  LaVey was the key. She was the key and the lock, the door, the crocodile-filled moat and drawbridge, the whole freaking castle. So: how to penetrate her defenses? Who was left on my hit-list? Answer: Virginia Newman. LaVey Institute drop-out, Madeleine’s closest friend. Way past time for us to have that little chat. So: hello at last, Virginia.

  I was tidying up the ends of my thread of thought when Chief Etienne arrived, sometime after 12.30. She explained she’d been working late, catching up on admin. The call came through; she felt she should be there in person. I was glad—Etienne offered to break the news to Gilbert’s mother. She told me to go home, get some sleep. She said I looked like “death warmed up.” I gave her a brief rundown of my contretemps with LaVey and Queneau. She nodded and hummed and took it all in without comment. Then I told her about Queneau’s threat to have me fired and Etienne surprised me by saying, “Don’t worry about them, Auf der Maur. Don’t worry, you’re doing a good job. I’ve got you covered. Now go home, for God’s sake.”

  I thanked her; I felt oddly touched. Etienne left. I stayed where I was for a little while longer. I’m not sure why: there was nothing I could add, no value I could bring to this situation. And I couldn’t look upon Bethany Gilbert again. That expression of fright and horror, her eyes open wide in the most absolute and terrible realization… This is the face of death, I thought. It’s not pretty. It’s not pleasant. There is little consolation or meaning to be found.

  Time dragged on and speeded up and slowed to a crawl and speeded up again. I smoked more, thought less, looked up absentmindedly at fat clouds puffing across the night sky like sailing boats on a cartoon sea. Until there I was, after one, dog- tired now, cold in the night air, smoked out, coffee-deprived, walking away from Browne and Mulqueen. Should I stay or should I go? Too late to hit the Newman home; too late for house- calls. I strode out the main gates of the LaVey Institute, nodding to Farrington as she drove in. She nodded back and scooted to her workplace. My own car was parked across the street. I sat in, radioed through to Dispatch and had them source the home address of a Margaret Newman. Five minutes later they returned with three. One in the sprawl and one right in the town center, which left one in a suburb so exclusive it didn’t even have a name. But I knew where it was, and I knew this was my girl.

  I pointed the car towards home and a little sleep, hoping I
wouldn’t dream. Hoping I’d forget for a few hours.

  By 6am I was awake: restless, jittery, my mind racing. By seven I was up and showered, had some food thrown down my neck, against my stomach’s protestations. Coffee and a chocolate chinois pastry—the breakfast of little champions. By eight I was at the Newman homestead, a large, well-kept house in a large, well-tended garden. I could see why Madeleine and this “Ginnie” were pals: they came from the same place.

  I didn’t. I was just about solvent, a working schmuck, with another 30 years of that to look forward to. I drove an old jalopy, wore relatively cheap clothes and did my own hair-dying and bikini-line. I slung the car through the curve of its momentum and slid to a slow halt in front of the house. Red and green ivy crawled up along the walls—magical, more than alive, as though it possessed a mind. It looked like a giant, intricate tattoo on the skin of the building. I rang the bell and after about two minutes a woman answered: deferential, quietly spoken, kept looking at the ground. A live-in maid, I assumed.

  “Hello. My name is Detective Auf der Maur, HCPD. I need to speak with Virginia, please. Tell her it’s about Madeleine Greenhill.”

  The girl whispered, “Just a minute, miss.”

  She went back inside. I enjoyed the view of that ivy while I waited. I remembered reading a magazine article that warned about how ivy ultimately destroyed buildings. It snuck in those little sticky roots and wormed further and further inside, until the plaster and stone cracked and fell apart. “Beautiful but deadly”: that was the headline. I didn’t care how many walls it broke—it was beautiful.

  The girl returned and beckoned me follow her; there may have been verbal communication too, I didn’t hear it. She led me into a drawing-room and pulled the door ajar on her way out. It was stately, spacious, decorated with just the right number of antique furniture pieces, covered in antimacassars: not too few that the room would feel cold and empty, not too many as to be vulgar.

  And something else in that room. No. No, no, no.

  That perfume was unmistakable. It was different to any other I knew and I’d only smelled it twice before: in a drunken haze in a nameless bar, and sitting at a small table in a romantic restaurant. For a moment it seemed so obvious but that was a lie, that was me kidding myself—it wasn’t obvious at all. I would never have put the two together. Not until I came to this house and this room and this perfume. Not until this moment. Jesus Christ.

  The door creaked open again and I turned around to face her. Cassandra smiled wryly and said, “Hello again, Genie. Please, sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Chapter 19

  Virginia

  “FUCK you and your goddamn ‘sit down.’ I’m fine, thanks. I’ll stand.”

  Cassandra/Virginia shrugged and nodded, her hair shaking with the motion. It wasn’t softly waved now, it was curlier. And brown, medium to dark. She was wearing loose clothes—linen trousers, a top of indistinct shape, wooden beads on string around her neck and waist—almost hippie clothes. She also wore spectacles but I could see behind them that her eyes were brown. She looked like a different person. I suppose she was one.

  I said bitterly, “So. Not green eyes. Not red hair. Not a snappy dresser. Tell me, Cassandra—how much of you actually is real?” She said quietly, “Please don’t tell my mother you know me. She’s coming in here in a moment. And please don’t call me that.

  My name is Virginia.”

  “Here,” I said in a vicious whisper. “Your name’s Virginia here. Not everywhere.”

  “If you want to see it like that.”

  She caught my eye and held it: not pleading but asking. There was concern but no panic in her expression. Eventually I nodded and looked away, looked into the grand fireplace, at the ashes crumpled there, cold now, bleached and powdered. A clock ticked somewhere in the room. I sensed Virginia—might as well use her real name now—take a few steps away from me, felt a breeze which presaged the door opening again and someone else entering. I turned back: Virginia was guiding her mother towards me by the elbow, saying, “Mother, this is Detective…Auf der Maur, I think you said?”

  I didn’t respond. She continued, “She wants to talk to me about Madeleine. Madeleine Greenhill, and her murder. Detective, this is my mother Margaret.”

  Newman senior was smaller than her daughter, slimmer, nowhere near as beautiful. But who was, right? Even dressed down like this, Virginia was beautiful. Oh God, Genie, forget it. Don’t think about it. Just stare at the ceiling. Stare at your shoes. Take a mental cold shower. Scour out your mind of all memories.

  I shook the woman’s outstretched hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  She said anxiously, “Is everything alright? I get, you know… A police officer comes to your door early in the morning and… Well. Mothers worry, don’t they?”

  “It’s fine, Mother,” Virginia said. “It’s just a few questions, right?” This was directed to me.

  I gave the older lady my most reassuring smile and said, “Please, madam, there’s no need to be alarmed. Just routine questioning. Your daughter knew the dead girl. We have to talk to everyone. I apologize for the earliness of the hour. I was passing through. And Virginia was on my list.”

  Margaret didn’t notice the edge I’d put into speaking her daughter ’s name. Virginia picked up on it but didn’t outwardly react. Cool as LaVey on a winter ’s day, I thought. And what else did they have in common?

  The girl’s mother looked somewhat pacified. She smiled at Virginia, then me. “Alright. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. You don’t need me for anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “Would you like some tea brought in? Coffee?” “No thanks.”

  She smiled again, gave Virginia a supportive squeeze on the elbow and left. We were alone again.

  Virginia sat on the edge of the settee which faced the fireplace, her knees together, feet splayed, hands joined. She looked larger, slightly cumbersome, like maybe she suffered from some physical awkwardness, a mild dyspraxia. She also looked much younger as herself, without the glamorous clothes and impeccably styled hair; but paradoxically at the same time she seemed older, or more tired, or numbed, or something.

  Virginia gathered her thoughts; I let her do it because I was gathering my own. I only really had two: a ferocious anger and a sense of betrayal. Yeah, I realize how melodramatic it sounds, but there you have it—I felt betrayed. I felt stupid, embarrassed, let- down and fucked-over.

  She said, “Genie, listen. I need to tell you someth…”

  I cut across her. “You didn’t answer my question. How much of you is really real? Or… No. Maybe that was the real you. The redhead with the green eyes. The fitted dresses and expensive jewelry. And this is the fake, here in front of me.”

  “Genie, please.”

  “Don’t call me that name. You don’t have the right to use that name. You did, but you don’t anymore.”

  “Okay. What would you like me to call you?” “Anything you fucking want! Like I care.”

  Virginia sighed heavily. After a long pause she said, “You asked so I’ll tell you. The red hair is me—sometimes. The stylish clothes, they’re me too. Sometimes. The eye color…” She smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve been brown since babyhood. Can’t change that.” “Contact lenses. I should have known. That green was too green. Nobody has eyes like that.” “I suppose not.”

  “But they were green both times. So, what? You must have a good memory. Is it hard, having to remember all that? Who you’re supposed to be at any one time?”

  “Gen… Detective. Please. This isn’t helping.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m real sorry about that, Cassand… And what the hell am I supposed to call you now? Cassandra? Virginia? Cassinia? ‘You fucking asshole’? What!?”

  I realized I was shouting and shut my mouth. Virginia looked upset. Not like she was about to cry, but genuinely upset. It wasn’t an act. I remembered how she’d felt in bed two nights before: so soft and warm, wreathed
in a dream-cloud of sleep and scent. I thought about our conversation in the restaurant earlier that evening, the things I’d told her, how much of myself I’d given up. And to somebody who didn’t even exist, for Christ’s sake. The bitterness was a taste in my mouth, it threatened to choke me.

  Bitterness is like acid, that’s what my mom used to say; bitterness and anger and resentment, they burn away your insides. They make you sick. And they’re so pointless anyway, because the only person getting hurt is you.

  I didn’t want to feel like this anymore. I sat on the settee next to Virginia, shucked off my overcoat and said dryly, “You’re up early. I didn’t think you got out of bed before noon.”

  She laughed a little and I felt a little better. I still wanted to hurt her, part of me wanted to tear her beautiful fucking head off and throw it in the fireplace. But I felt better for deciding to feel better. Simple as that. Fuck her, Genie. Forget her. Just don’t do damage to yourself. She won’t appreciate it. She won’t even notice it.

  “Genie—can I call you Genie?” I nodded.

  “I’m sorry. You can’t know how… I realize this doesn’t change anything. I’m probably just saying it to make myself feel like less of an absolute shit. But it’s true anyway: I’m very sorry.”

  “Mm-hm. Well, I’m sorry, too. Sorry I ever met you. How stupid do I feel now.” “Don’t say that.”

  “Jesus Christ. I almost wish you were a pro. Least that way I’d know where I stood. But I should have known, right? Someone who looks like you doesn’t hit on chicks like me. Just, boom, no way. Not in a million years. Doesn’t happen.”

  Virginia kneeled and reached for a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray resting on the marble front piece of the fireplace. She lit two and handed one back to me. I took it without speaking. She placed the ashtray on the floor between us and stayed kneeling, an appropriately penitential stance.

  “I didn’t expect to see you at that funeral,” she said without turning around.