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Also Friday, September 13th
“Hello? Ma’am, are you there? Hello?”
Charlotte started at the dispatcher’s voice, and realized she had spaced out for a moment, staring at Olivia’s unconscious body, her permed steel gray hair, baggy brown polyester pants, a man’s oversized bright green sweatshirt, and skinny ankles sticking out of scruffy gray walking shoes, quite possibly the same outfit she wore when Charlotte met her the other day.
“Yes! I’m here.” Charlotte’s voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat.
“Ma’am, are you alone in the house? Is there any chance the person who did this is still in the house?”
“Um, I’m alone, yes, and um—oh dear, I see what you mean—”
“Ma’am, please leave the house and stay on the line. Wait outside for the officers to arrive.”
Charlotte’s heart started fluttering again, and she staggered back onto her feet, feeling dizzy and short of breath. Of course! Whoever did this to Olivia could still be here, armed and dangerous, even! She picked up her bag and started to make her way out, but stopped cold when the front door opened and a tall man walked in, his features blacked out by the brightness of the light behind him.
She felt herself make a weird squeak as she gasped and clutched her bag even tighter, prepared to use it as a weapon. Oh my god, oh my god—
The tall man stopped upon seeing her, and then stepped further into the room, which made his face visible. He looked down at her with eyebrows raised in either surprise or anger, she couldn’t tell which in her fraught state of mind.
“Charlotte?” he asked.
How’d he know my name? Did he force it out of Olivia? She nodded, ever so slightly.
The dark eyebrows relaxed. “I’m Simon, Helene’s neighbor. She’s on her way over and sent me ahead to help. Where’s Olivia?”
Charlotte began to breathe again, if just a little bit, and cautiously moved to the side so that he could see Olivia. She heard the dispatcher still on the cell phone again. “Ma’am, are you alright? Do you hear me?” She stepped back more as this Simon fellow moved past her to check on Olivia for himself.
Her wits returned with her breath. “Yes! A friend of Olivia’s sister is here now, and I’m—I’m going outside now.” She clicked the phone off. But instead of leaving she watched Simon, who was moving around carefully, taking pictures of Olivia, the bat, the books, and the bloodstain on the bat with his cell phone.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Getting the scene of the crime before the cops get here. If they’re good cops, it won’t matter. If they’re bad cops, these might help prove we didn’t do the deed ourselves, or at least didn’t mess with the scene.”
“That’s awfully cold.”
Charlotte looked more closely at him and realized they were roughly the same age, making him much older than the impression she first got from his thick hair, black leather jacket, long-legged jeans and energetic movements.
He didn’t even turn to look at her. “Not really. You’ll see.” He continued with pictures of the table and lamp, and even the chair, from several different angles.
This man has an impossible level of self-possession, she thought.
She also realized he had an English accent. Interesting. Didn’t the villains in movies and crime shows always have English accents? Snap out of it, she thought, this isn’t the time to be silly.
“Careful around the bloodstain.”
He nodded. “Spotted that. I wonder who it was she whacked. Was the door open when you got here?”
“It was closed, but unlocked. I was just about to clear out when you came in. The dispatcher said whoever did this might still be in here.”
Simon nodded as he looked around carefully, taking more pictures here and there. “Let’s check the other rooms,” he said, moving toward the doorways to the hall and the dining room. He stopped abruptly and Charlotte almost walked into him.
“Bloody hell! This is like an antique shop,” he said, trying to look around without knocking over anything.
Here the scent was decidedly floral, and emanated from two crystal bowls with potpourri on the lace-covered Duncan Phyfe table. It was a small dining room, yet still packed with the table and six chairs, a large sideboard, and two more glass-front curio cabinets. The top of the sideboard was covered with three tarnished silver tea sets, around a dozen large silver candlesticks and several tiered petit-fours stands. In addition to the bowls of potpourri, the table was laden with crystal candlesticks, candy bowls, footed bowls, and colorful McCoy and Roseville pottery vases. The curio cabinets were crammed with porcelain boxes, delicate Capodimonte floral baskets, and salt and pepper shakers.
They continued carefully to the kitchen, where there were stacks of mismatched dishes and crockery on the counters, cook books stacked four feet high on the chrome dinette table in the corner, and on the floor stacks of old margarine and whipped topping tubs, cardboard boxes full of empty glass pickle and jelly jars, and cardboard boxes of more glass jars, each filled with a single kind of item, such as buttons, screws, tiny toys, and marbles. Another box held several large rubber band balls. Shelves ran across an entire wall from floor to ceiling, filled with cookie jars, banks, collector liquor bottles, and what had to be a hundred souvenir models of the Eiffel Tower in various sizes and material from wrought iron to embroidered fabric stuffed like doorstops. There were also brightly-colored Fiesta Ware teapots, pitchers, and cup and saucer sets. Yellow vinyl dinette chairs sat against the wall on either side of the table and supported stacks of folded rag rugs and tablecloths in every imaginable color. Under the table were stacks of picture puzzle boxes, some of which looked quite old. The only semblance of the room being used as a kitchen was immediately around the sink, which had a plate and mug on the drain rack, and around the stove, which held a tea kettle. A chrome and vinyl high step stool was situated in front of the drain rack. A bottle of home fragrance stood open on the windowsill above the sink, and smelled of apples and cinnamon.
The kitchen door to the basement was locked, as was the door to the back porch; Charlotte peered out the curtained window and saw stacks of newspapers and more plastic containers, and plastic bags full of more plastic bags. A clothesline stretched across the length of the porch, and hung low with the weight of drying towels and nightgowns. She turned to Simon, who was still taking pictures.
“Just more of the same out here.”
He turned to look at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes wide, and shook his head in amazement. “Good lord!”
Charlotte felt better for knowing that someone else found this house as overwhelming as she did, and just nodded.
They moved back out of the kitchen into the dining room, where they turned into a dark hall with several doors.
The first door was for the bathroom, an old-fashioned one with its original claw-foot tub, mosaic tiled floor, and heavy white pedestal sink, all of which had seen better days. Shelves over the old toilet were crammed with perfume bottles and containers of products that Charlotte hadn’t seen since childhood. The next room had bedroom furniture in it, but every inch of floor space was filled with garment racks, each of which was crammed with clothes on hangers. More floral potpourri was in a bowl on the nightstand.
The second bedroom was much the same, except the bed and dresser drawers were more accessible, and there was a small television set atop a chest of drawers opposite the bed. As in the rest of the house, the scent was as pervasive as the clutter.
I wonder if I would have been able to work in this house? She then realized that there would now be some doubt as to when, or even if, the transcription and editing project would happen. She could just make out the whine of approaching sirens as they moved back into the living room, where Olivia remained unconscious.
“I’ll go meet Helene,” she said, turning to leave, but gasped as she felt the floor soften under her feet. Simon moved quickly to grab her around the waist and nearly lifted her out the room and out to the swing on the porch.
“Hey there, now. You okay?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. The fresh air helps.” It wasn’t just the fresh air, she thought. It was the ease with which he was able to steady her five-foot ten frame, and how it reassured her. Strange how certain things were noticed even when under stress.
Helene was approaching from her condo at the other end of the block, her white swept-back hair glowing like a halo in the sun. She was elegant and dignified, wearing a slim gray skirt, cream knit tunic, and gray and blue wool challis shawl; Charlotte thought that Helene could not look less like Olivia’s sister. Simon helped Helene up the steps and went with her inside the house for a few moments until the ambulance and EMTs arrived. When she came out, she sat on the swing next to Charlotte and sighed. “Poor Olivia! Who could have done this?”
Charlotte’s heart went out to her dear friend. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Helene so distraught, even when her husband died. But the circumstances were of course so different. He had been ill for a long time, whereas Olivia was still going strong and had been assaulted.
The police arrived, to ask their questions and make their reports. It was going to be a long morning.
Tea was the only thing that would help, strong and black. Making tea was as soothing as drinking it, Charlotte thought as she sliced lemons and placed cups and spoons and a plate of cinnamon palmier cookies on a tray. The morning had indeed been long and stretched into mid-afternoon, full of questions from the police, and getting Olivia situated in the hospital, where she remained unconscious and under observation. Charlotte leaned against the countertop as she waited for the electric kettle to boil, enjoying the serenity and simplicity of Helene’s kitchen. It could not have been more different than Olivia’s: the surfaces were nearly bare, there were no boxes on the floor, the cooking things were contained within cabinets and drawers, and the space was suffused with natural light. Charlotte recalled that the kitchen in Helene’s former house at Lake Parkerton, while much grander in scale and rich with granite, mahogany, and high-end appliances, had been equally serene.
Here in the white and birch galley kitchen, Helene still had her striking Belle Époque poster of Loie Fuller in swirls of reds, oranges, and yellows against a black background. And on the bistro-style table there was the same clear green-tinted longneck bud vase with a white orchid that had always graced her breakfast bar at Lake Parkerton. The simple white plates and tea pot were the same. And the zen-like simplicity and airiness—they were the same. Completely different house and location, completely different scale, and yet nothing, really, was lost.
Charlotte brought the tea tray into the sitting area, which, like the kitchen, overlooked the courtyard garden through a series of French doors. The doors led out to a small veranda, making the room seem part of the garden.
Helene was propped up sideways on a white slipcovered sofa, her legs stretched out and covered with a soft throw. She was exhausted, but still too shook up to nap, and Charlotte wanted to be sure she was going to be okay. Simon had taken off his jacket and was slouched in the dark brown leather club chair. He, too, looked exhausted.
From what she could gather of their conversation, Simon had just returned from a week in Japan, and the jet lag was catching up with him. He eyed the tea tray but didn’t look happy. Charlotte wondered what was wrong.
“A problem?” she asked.
He hesitated, but Helene looked over and smiled, which only emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. “Would you be a dear and bring a little milk? Simon always takes his tea with milk and sugar instead of lemon.”
Charlotte resisted the temptation to tell him to get it himself, since Helene actually made the request. “No problem.” Simon has jet lag, Helene is old and worried, and my nerves are shot, she thought. The sooner we all have our tea, the better.
As she returned with the milk and sugar, she heard Helene talking about Ellis.
“Charlotte is Ellis Anthony’s mother.”
Simon’s face lit up, making him look friendly for the first time that day. “Ellie’s mom? That girl is talented!”
“You know Ellis?” Charlotte felt the pang of the joint-custody parent at the reminder of just how much of her child’s life was a mystery to her. And it was only going to get more so. Ellis had never mentioned this tall man with the abrupt manner. And she let him call her “Ellie?” As she listened to Helene’s account of how Simon had met Ellis when he stopped by on an errand for Helene, Charlotte took in his black boots, the broken-in jeans stretching up long legs, the black long-sleeved tee with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows, the broad shoulders, the slightly craggy face, blue-green eyes and shaggy, grey-streaked dark blond hair that had only receded a small amount.
“So you’re from England, I assume?”
“London.” He poured milk into his cup, topped it with tea, then stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “But I go all over. Got a stint with the university here for a bit, thought I’d get to know this part of the States.”
“Simon’s a photographer, Charlotte,” said Helene. She took her own cup of tea, and squeezed in a bit of fresh lemon. “He’s been in all kinds of publications and galleries and he’s written quite a few books. He was a guest lecturer at Corton last year and they asked him to continue for another. I’m lucky to have him as a neighbor. He lives in the upstairs unit next door.” Helene beamed at Simon. Charlotte kept a neutral expression; if she didn’t know better, she would have thought Helene had a crush on him.
“Well, I’d like to see your work some time,” she said. A photographer. Perhaps that would explain his almost compulsive picture-taking at Olivia’s house?
Helene pointed to the shelf under the large coffee table. “You have, actually. There’s his big book, right there.” Charlotte drew it out, and was stunned. He was Simon Norwich? She’d admired this book during many of Ellis’ lessons and visits with Helene, and said so. She opened the cover and read Simon’s inscription: “For Helene—your example of the beauty of the essential is with me wherever I go. Warmest regards, Simon.”
“So you’re that guy,” Charlotte smiled. “Given all the places you’ve gone to and photographed, I’m surprised you’d want another year here in the boring Midwest.”
“Oh, it’s not bad, you know. It’s comfortable, and makes a nice base of operations. Cheaper than home, too, and know the language and all. Or enough of it,” he laughed, and Charlotte thought his baritone was in scale with his physique. “Sometimes—sometimes it’s good to just do some art for art’s sake and not have to worry about basic survival and money, weather, shelter, military coups, epidemics,” he made a wide gesture with his hands that encompassed all the world’s many ills. “The older I get, the more I appreciate home comforts.”
Helene sighed. “Is anyplace really safe? Poor Olivia.”
They returned to the present problem. Charlotte replaced the book under the table and poured more tea for everyone.
Simon helped himself to another palmier, holding the dessert plate close to his chin to catch any crumbs of pastry.
“Poor dead guy is the other possibility,” he mumbled, then swallowed and licked his lips.
Helene shook her head in exasperation. “I told her that baseball bat was ridiculous! Who did she think she was going to scare? She’s had it by the front door for years.”
Charlotte tried to imagine the scenario, and came to a realization.
“It had to have been someone she knew and let in, even invited. That was no break-in. Why would she take a bat to someone she let in herself?”
“Or maybe he found the key under the mat and thought she wasn’t there?” said Simon. He turned to Helene. “Maybe she was getting an appraisal and was insulted by the offer?”
“Not impossible,” said Helene. “I think she’s had appraisals before, and she was interested in talking to the fellow who has been in the news for the past week, the one who found the Seamus O’Dair book. It’s not unlikely that she had something along those lines and thought she could get a good price.”
“That still blows my mind,” said Charlotte, shaking her head. “Least Objects isn’t on your typical high school or even college sophomore reading list, and, well, I’m sure I’m being a real snob here, but if Bosley Warren is anything like how he looks on TV or that billboard he has up, he would have Cliff-noted his way through every English lit class. Would he have even known it was a rare book? But of course it might just be an act.”
Simon was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have had to know anything about literature if he kept up with the trade news. Not long ago someone donated a Samuel Beckett novel to a charity fundraiser in England, and it brought something like 12,000 pounds—made headlines. If you follow auction reports, which I’m sure Warren Brothers would do, it’s a matter of keeping an eye out for what’s hot.” He seemed to smile to himself as he looked straight at Charlotte. “It’s a university town, so it’s not impossible someone had a first edition of it.”
Charlotte found herself drawn in to share in his speculation. “Maybe they knew Olivia from appraising her pottery vases, then remembered seeing a lot of old books in the house, too?”
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the possibilities.
“Whatever it was,” said Simon, “it went pear-shaped.”
Well, Charlotte thought, there’s a phrase you don’t hear every day on this side of “the pond.” She spoke to Helene.
“I think you said Olivia has a son?”
“Yes,” said Helene, nodding. “Donovan. I haven’t seen him in years. He would be a few years older than you, about fifty-five, fifty-six, I think. Olivia didn’t talk much about Donnie. There was a rift many years ago and they just kept their distance. She could get hold of him, I think, and every so often he’d check in with her, especially after Ronson died. As you saw yourself, she isn’t easy to get along with. But she seemed to be mellowing these past two years. She really seemed to want to connect again, at least with me.” Helene let out a deep, regretful sigh.
Charlotte looked around the room, the uncluttered elegance of a few loved things brought together with good comfortable furniture.
“One thing that struck me,” Charlotte said, picking her words carefully, “was the remarkable contrast between your home and your sister’s.”
“Yes. Well. Olivia’s a collector gone haywire. Hoarder.” Helene shrugged, as if to say, there it is.
“And the fragrance was over the top,” added Charlotte. “It was like being in an incense shop.”
“Oh, I know. She always did go too heavy with the potpourri and air fresheners. I couldn’t stand being in her house for long, I’d get asthma. So when we did meet up, it would usually be here or at a restaurant. It was a sore point with her, but if I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe. I haven’t been in that house for longer than five minutes since before Ronson died. In fact I sometimes have to air this place out after she’s been here, it just gets into everything!”
Simon smiled at Helene wrinkling her nose. “I think I still have it up my nose, can’t stop smelling it.” He made a small shiver of horror. “I’ve come across hoarders before, but Olivia is a different sort. The front room is over-furnished and has all these curio cabinets and bookcases and whatnot, but you can still sit down in there. So she is somewhat aware of what she’s doing, and puts on a good front. But the rest of the place was packed to the ceiling! And we didn’t go in the basement or look in the closets, either.”
“So it is even worse than I thought,” said Helene. “And now there is an injured missing person and Olivia is in the hospital. I hope the police have reached Donovan. He’s going to have a huge job on his hands if she doesn’t recover.”
The sun was setting and the last of the afternoon light turned the white walls to gold. Simon set down his cup and stretched his arms and slowly tilted his head from side to side to stretch his neck.
“I’m going to have to take leave of you ladies before I fall asleep in this chair. Been a long day.”
“Oh Simon, of course, and I’m so sorry everything turned out like this, especially the moment you came back,” said Helene, as she tried to get up from the sofa.
“I should be going, too,” said Charlotte, helping her up, “I need to stop by my accountant’s. But are you going to be alright? Would you want me to come back and stay over?”
Helene shook her head. “No, no, I’m quite alright, really, just very tired. If you could help me tidy up that would be perfect, then I will spend the rest of the evening reading in bed. Jeanette, my cleaning lady, comes in the morning, and she’s bringing homemade pain au chocolat.” Helene’s eyes twinkled in anticipation.
Thus reassured, Simon took the tea things into the kitchen and did the washing up while Charlotte put away the remaining milk, sugar, and lemons. Then she suddenly realized he wasn’t there. Helene came into the kitchen.
“Where’s Simon?” Charlotte asked.
“He’s gone home.”
“Oh. He can be a bit abrupt.”
“He’s not one to wax sentimental, certainly, but he’s a lovely soul. You’ll get used to him.”
“Is that an English thing?”
“It’s a Simon thing.”