Naked Cruelty Read online

  “Have you left Holloman during September?”

  “Not after we returned from Alaska on Labor Day. We decided to stay in Connecticut for the fall colors.”

  “In Connecticut, try October for those.”

  “We are now aware of that, thank you.”

  “Why Yosemite? You don’t look outdoorsy, sirs.”

  “You can’t tell a book by its cover,” Gordie piped up.

  Robert glared at him.

  “Do you like books?” Delia asked.

  “Easy come, easy go,” said Robert.

  “Novels?”

  “If there’s a film of the book in the offing,” Robert said.

  “If you saw a wall of shelves containing a thousand books of all sorts, sirs,” Delia persisted, “what would you look for?”

  “A thousand books? That’s a library. There’d be indicators. I’d go straight to movies.”

  “That rapist in Carew is heavily into books,” Carmine said.

  The inevitable As One reaction: horror mingled with terror.

  “Captain, you cannot possibly think of us as rapists!” cried Robert, gasping in perfect unison with his twin.

  “Seriously, sirs, no, I don’t. What I do want to know is how much of the simultaneous everythings is real. You may be as homozygous as homozygous gets, but you’re not inside the exact-same skin.” Carmine’s voice became menacing. “There must be all kinds of differences between you, but you’ve turned eliminating them into an art form. You’re actors by trade, and actors by nature. I’ll grant you some invisible connections, even a minor ability to read each other’s minds, but you are not the same person. How about dropping the identical role for a moment and letting me see the quintessential Robert versus the quintessential Gordon? I can tell you this much—Robert is the one thinks before he speaks, and Gordon is the one speaks before he thinks.”

  They smirked—identically.

  “Captain Delmonico! Is that a valid observation?” Robert asked. “Perhaps the speak-think is a function of our clothing? Perhaps the one in pale clothing, no matter whether it be Robbie or Gordie, is the twin speaks before he thinks? Colors have such strong vibes, you must know that! Who knows what the City of Holloman did when it forbade us to balance the exterior of our house between the forces of Dark and Light?”

  “Oh, piss off! Get out of here!” Carmine said, tried beyond endurance. “You may not be the Dodo, but you’re sure cuckoo.”

  Amanda returned to the Glass Teddy Bear limping a little from a sore hip, but basically unharmed. She had insisted on driving herself in and had Frankie and Winston with her; Hank was waiting at her named parking place to help her out, make a fuss of the animals, and bring her upstairs.

  “Luckily I have another Björn Wiinblad original in stock—not a bowl, but a vase,” she said, pointing to a stack of big cardboard cartons against the back wall of her office. “If you can get it for me and unpack it, I’d be grateful.”

  So by the time Hank left Amanda had settled down, the new original was in place, she had adjusted the Kosta Boda pussycat to her satisfaction, and the dog and cat were ensconced in the window. Hank had put the partition up that prevented any customer reaching in to pat them and disappeared through the front door with a wave. He was bringing Chinese over for dinner in her apartment, and she didn’t expect to see him until it was time to go. Why couldn’t she learn to love him? Marcia was right, he was ideal for a lonely woman. Yet she couldn’t seem to love him as more than a friend, and wished there was some way she could at least demonstrate that much to him.

  The morning passed fairly quietly; she sold several lots of wine glasses to customers with very different ideas—one was after the impossibly thin blown crystal of utter plainness, the other after Waterford hobnail, and a third after Murano edged in gold. Wonderful, how tastes varied.

  When her stomach rumbled she realized that she hadn’t brought any lunch with her—well, she hadn’t had the energy yet to shop. Never mind, it wouldn’t hurt her figure to skip lunch.

  At which moment the door gave its glassy tune; she looked up in time to see a tall, very beautiful young woman clad in a business pantsuit of burgundy gaberdine erupt into the shop with both hands full.

  “Is there a space on the counter?” she demanded, steering a skillful path around pedestals and tables.

  “Yes,” said Amanda, startled.

  “Good,” said the young woman, whose striking mass of apricot hair seemed likely to snap her slender neck off, it looked so heavy. Down went brown paper bags and a thermos. “I suppose there’s a place in the Mall where I could have gotten us lunch, but not knowing, I brought everything in from Malvolio’s, including coffee. Have you any plates, or do I have to pirate some glass ones, wash them, and use them?”

  By this Amanda didn’t know whether to laugh or back away in horror, but the pets decided for her by effortlessly leaping the partition and crowding around the visitor begging for attention.

  “I’m Helen MacIntosh from Holloman Detectives, and I’m here to grill you. I hope you like hot roast beef sandwiches.”

  “Indeed I do, and I’m hungry, and I forgot to pack lunch.” Amanda got up from her chair. “I’ll get plates, mugs, and whatever you recommend in cutlery.”

  The lunch was delicious, Helen MacIntosh such good company that Amanda hated the thought that, as soon as she had answered some questions, this feminine sun would vanish to shine elsewhere.

  But it was a very leisurely interrogation that lasted for several hours and through a dozen customers, during which intervals Helen pretended to be a staff member.

  “I have a message from Captain Delmonico,” Helen said after the lunch things were cleared away and the shop deserted.

  “He’s very different from Sergeant Jones,” Amanda said.

  “Try comparing Veuve Clicquot to rubbing alcohol. Anyway, he said to tell you that your nephews, Robert and Gordon, have been living in Carew for over eight months.”

  She was shocked: “I don’t believe it!”

  “True.”

  “Why haven’t they told me? Visited me?”

  “The Captain thinks it’s the way they’re made—pranksters. Every day you live in ignorance of their proximity, they have a giggle at your expense. It’s no more malignant than that, he says. They’re not the Vandal—the wrong kind of prank.”

  “Have you their number?”

  “Sure. I’ll give it to you before I leave.” Helen gazed around. “This is the most gorgeous shop, I love it. It’s solved all my Christmas shopping problems. That glorious massive urn over there with the peacock feathers actually incorporated in the glass—it’s so hard to get glass to assume those iridescent, metallic colors. My father will adore it, he’s got a vacant pedestal in his office.”

  Amanda went pink. “Um—it’s very expensive, Helen—a one-off Antonio Glauber,” she said in a small voice; here was a blossoming friendship going west before it really got started.

  “What’s expensive?” Helen asked.

  “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to say a hundred thousand. Put a red sticker on it.”

  Amanda’s eyes had gone as round as the glass teddy bear’s. “I—are you—can you honestly afford it, Helen?”

  “The income from my trust fund is a million dollars a year,” she said, as if it meant little. “I don’t spend wildly, but it’s so hard finding things for parents who can also afford to buy whatever they fancy, price no consideration. And that urn is really a beautiful piece—Dad will love it.”

  “It’s for sale, of course, but I never expected to see it go,” Amanda said huskily. “One gets so attached to the original pieces. Still, I’ve done so well since being in Busquash Mall that I’ll have to take a buying trip next summer.”

  “I can understand why there’s a NOT FOR
SALE notice beside the glass teddy bear. It’s a museum piece.”

  “Yes. I’d never sell him.”

  “No one could afford it. What have you got it insured for?”

  “A quarter-million.”

  Helen’s vivid blue eyes glazed. “Uh—that’s crazy! You must know what it’s really worth.”

  “He’s worth whatever value I care to put on him, Helen. If I insured him for more than that, he’d have to go into a vault and never be seen. That’s not why Lorenzo made him. Lorenzo made him for me, my own one-off, never for sale.”

  There was iron in the voice; Helen desisted, choosing to sit on the floor and play with the dog and cat. She had begun her work, but it was far from over. Here was her best source about the twins. Twice a week, lunch. That should do it. And what a change, to find she really liked the person under the detective’s microscope.

  “Do you believe all that?” Amanda asked Hank over Chinese in her apartment that night. “Eight months, and never a word! I phoned Robert up and gave him such a chewing out! Oh, they’ll never change! Narcissistic, self-centered—the tragedy, Hank, is that they’re so clever. I mean really, really clever. Robert plays with words the way a cat does with a ball of twine, and Gordon is a brilliant artist. They’re both artistic, they should do something with their talents, but do they? Never! All they do is hang around movie studios grabbing work here and work there, silly projects—Oh, I am mad!” Amanda’s voice changed, dropped to a growl. “They murdered their parents.”

  The noodles fell off Hank’s chopsticks; he put them down and stared at her, astonished. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me! They pushed their father down the stairs when they were eight, and put arsenic in their mother’s food as soon as they didn’t need her anymore.”

  “Wow!” Hank fished for more noodles; he was hungry. “I take it they escaped retribution?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “What do I do with my estate?”

  His laugh sounded zany. “My mind’s spinning in circles, Amanda. You mean your will?”

  “Yes. The only blood kin I have are a pair of crazy twins. But if I disinherit them, who is there? The ASPCA? The Humane Society? A farm for broken down donkeys?”

  “Or an indigent mall manager,” he said with a grin.

  She gasped, clapped her hands together. “Yes, that’s it! I’ve had a funny feeling—are you really indigent, Hank? Trust me! I’d like an honest answer.”

  He looked hunted, swallowed convulsively. “For what it’s worth, I’d trust you with my life, Amanda. My ex-wife is permanently institutionalized, and I’m permanently broke keeping her there. The fees are astronomical. Funny, your health insurance will pay for anything except a mind, just as if something that can’t be seen can’t be broken.”

  “Oh, Hank! That’s terrible! What happened?”

  “The divorce was through—acrimonious on her side, not on mine. Her moods—well, they frightened me. Then she came back on some pretext—a forgotten picture, I think it was.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  His hunted look grew worse. “According to the psychiatrists, human beings have a tendency to forget just what they ought to remember. Anyway, it was a pretext. She went for me with a knife, and I defended myself. We were both wounded, and there was nothing in it between our stories. That the cops tended to take my word over hers wasn’t popular with her friends—she had some very important ones. In the end it never came to trial because her mental condition deteriorated terribly. But I got the hint. Unless I paid to keep her in a private asylum, there might be a trial—mine. I knew it was the easy way out. I’m pretty sure I would be acquitted at trial, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, and she’s way past seeming dangerous. Any jury looking at her now would see a shriveled up scrap of scarcely human flesh. So I keep on paying.”

  “Hank, Hank!” She rocked back and forth. “I knew there was a big trouble there, I knew it! Go to trial, Hank, please. You would have to be acquitted. Besides, there was no murder, just an attempted murder.”

  His shoulders hunched. “I can’t bear to open that can of worms, Amanda, I just can’t!”

  He’s a lovely man, she was thinking, watching him, but he’s timid, and I suppose that side of him will show at a trial. If indeed there is a case to answer—he won’t even find that out. Her friends are having a kind of revenge in keeping him poor …

  “I wish there was something I could do,” she said, sighing.

  “There isn’t. One day Lisa will die, and my troubles will be over. She’s developing kidney failure.”

  “Would you consider a loan?” she asked. “I could afford to help you keep her institutionalized.”

  His hand went out, clasped hers, and his gentle brown eyes sparkled with tears. “Oh, Amanda, thanks, but no thanks. I’m not much of a man, but I won’t let you do that.”

  “I have a good cash income and over two million dollars in assets,” she said warmly. “I’m not in love with you, but you’re my very dear friend. Leave it for the moment if you prefer, but let me ask again six months from now. And if she does go into kidney failure, you’ll have huge medical bills as well. Please don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

  There had been a subtle alteration: Hank Murray looked more cheerful, stronger. He squeezed her hand. “Okay,” he said, lips turned up in a smile. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15

  to

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4

  1968

  CHAPTER III

  Prunella Balducci was in her late twenties, slim, fashionably dressed, and very pretty. Since she arrived at two in the afternoon, Carmine wasn’t there to take the edge off Desdemona’s awe: how could someone who looked like this earn a successful living managing emotionally crippled families?

  A little tongue-tied, she took Prunella to see her quarters, the high square tower with its widow’s walk.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” cried Prunella. “Are you sure your daughter doesn’t mind not being able to come home until Christmas?”

  “She’s a freshman pre-med at Paracelsus and doesn’t want it known that she’s a local,” Desdemona explained.

  “And of course she’s busy making the adjustment from high school to college. Wise girl. Who’s her room-mate?”

  “A black girl from Chicago, there on scholarship, poor as a church mouse. Another inhibition for Sophia, whose stepfather has dowered her with an enormous amount of money. Our girl is super-sensitive about appearing privileged, but she’s not allowed to give her money away. This is the first year that Paracelsus has taken women, and there are fifty of them—you must know that Chubb is finally admitting women?”

  “Oh, sure. Go on, Mrs. Delmonico.”

  “Desdemona, please. Half the freshman intake at Paracelsus has been women. I think Sophia’s glad she has Martina for a roomie. They like the same music—the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Elvis, a whole lot more I don’t know or remember. Music seems to be a great bond. They both want to be surgeons, and you must know how impossible a dream that is for women. I suspect we’ll get Martina for Christmas—air fares are a problem.”

  Desdemona put the suitcase she was carrying in a corner and smiled at her new colleague. “Coffee before I wake my monsters? For once in his life, Julian felt like a nap today, but I warn you! The moment Julian wakes, peace vanishes.”

  In Prunella, Desdemona soon saw, Julian had met his match. Smart enough to know the effect of his eyes and his smile, he turned them and the charm on as soon as he woke.

  “Oh, great!” he exclaimed. “I don’t have to go rowing.”

  “Rowing?”

  “Yes,” said Desdemona, who had forgotten all about the rowing and now came down with a gasp, a look of desperation. “I must explain to you, Prunella, that Julian hoped to sleep his way out of rowing, a
nd that in turn would have meant Julian awake tonight.” She glared at her elder son, who seemed as innocent as any cherub Raphael ever painted. “Last year,” she went on, “things happened that made me realize I’d lost my physical fitness, but getting it back through a pregnancy and another baby proved impossible until Carmine came home with a two-man kayak. I used to hike, but shepherding Julian is beyond me—I’m too tall for toddlers, they kill my back. Carmine thought rowing would be feasible, and he was right. I sit in the back space, and both kids sit in the front space in special harnesses. Julian swims like a fish anyway, and I make him use a paddle, it’s good for developing his arms and shoulders. Alex lies in a weeny cradle. The trouble is that I’ve not had the energy or the enthusiasm to do it regularly. I did tell Julian this morning that if he wasn’t a good boy, we were going for a paddle.”

  “Does this mean, Julian, that you haven’t been good?” asked Prunella in bored tones.

  “I’m never good,” he said solemnly.

  “Then you go rowing, Desdemona. I know you don’t feel like it, but you need the fresh air and the exercise,” said Prunella.

  “Yes, Mommy, go rowing,” Julian said, voice like honey. “I can stay here with Prunella and do things I like.”

  “No, you’re rowing with Mommy. Alex gets to stay behind.”

  The huge feet planted themselves firmly apart on the floor. “I don’t want to go, so I won’t go!”

  “That’s not good enough,” said Prunella. She seized Julian by one hand and looked at Desdemona, who was on the verge of tears. “Lead on, Mommy, to the kayak. No one’s getting out of this.”

  Digging his heels in didn’t work, nor did much roaring and yelling; relieved of the authority but hugely comforted by the fact that it had not passed to Julian, Desdemona led the way down the path to the boatshed and unearthed the kayak. At sight of it Julian decided to get physical, and kicked out at Prunella’s shins: the next thing he was sitting on the hard ground with a thump, and Prunella was laughing at him!