Sins of the Flesh Page 8

  In all outward respects Walter lived the life of a never-to-be-released prisoner who is utterly trusted, admired, even loved. So, having ensured that his protectress was safe, her findings hers (and his) alone, and established that all was well within HI, Walter went down one of the shiplike corridors to an anonymous door behind which were his special quarters, there to retire.

  He didn’t really sleep; instead, he retreated to a trancelike state that refreshed, and gave him an advantage over everybody else he knew, in that he was alert in a millisecond, ready for action. Walter Jenkins befuddled? Never happen!

  Jess woke befuddled, and was grateful for it; this drowsy state meant that she had really slept for a change, and could approach a peaceful Sunday in her office with her files clear-minded from genuine rest. Vaguely she remember Walter’s ordering her to bed, and smiled. When was he not there for her? Never, was the answer. It was increasingly hard to conjure up the vision of Walter before treatment had begun: a zombie conjoined to a shrieking maniac? He’d always been in terrible trouble, so much so that from his thirteenth birthday onward, all his offenses had been committed inside some kind of detention center. He hailed from the mountain states, which had tough prisons, but Walter was in a class all his own. After he snatched a guard and two prisoners, barricaded himself in a cell and tortured them to death, the only way men were willing to deal with him was at a distance; less care was taken over feeding tigers or gorillas in a zoo because they were more predictable. During the course of his last furor, he had literally torn a fellow convict into small pieces.

  Having read about him in a journal in 1962, Jess Wainfleet worked indefatigably to have Walter Jenkins transferred to the Asylum. Crossing state and federal jurisdictions was nightmarish, but no prison wanted him, and the Asylum, specially renovated for the Walter Jenkinses of the penitential world in 1960, actually made money for the state by taking inmates, federal and state, from elsewhere in the country. Warden Hanrahan did a deal that saw the Asylum staff increased, and Jess Wainfleet got Walter Jenkins. The chief cause of her excitement lay in two factors: the first, that the neurosurgeons had decided he was not a candidate for prefrontal lobotomy, and the second, that, in order to establish the condition of his brain, he had been fully investigated with every test known during a heavily medicated trip to Montreal. As far as angiograms, pneumoencephalograms, ventriculograms and all the other tests could ascertain, Walter’s brain was normal.

  The story of Dr. Wainfleet’s humanizing of this monster was legendary in certain circles, though it hadn’t happened overnight. It took four years. At the end of those four years, Walter was a reasoning human being who couldn’t be provoked into manic rage; he was highly intelligent, and a capable man who read good books, enjoyed classical music, and was intriguingly articulate. This last, his ability to talk well, was astonishing, for it indicated that, even in his worst furors, some part of his brain had still retained logical thought.

  His “cure” was now almost three years old, and had seen no hiccoughs of any kind. His status as a trusted prisoner had progressed to his becoming an unofficial aide to Dr. Wainfleet, whose methods and techniques he knew even better than her fellow psychiatrists did. She had written a total of nine papers on him over the years and now used him as proof positive of her theories, which were all to do with forcing well-known neuronal pathways into channels far removed from their known functions. Of course she brought to her work on Walter one asset nobody else in the field could hope to match: her knowledge of cerebral anatomy, especially of nuclei and areas below the brain’s neocortex. Jess Wainfleet was more than a psychiatrist. She was also a neuroanatomist and a neurosurgeon.

  In a way, Walter was famous, though his kind of fame was that of a medical “first” and would never be sung to the multitudes. To Jess, Walter was the equivalent of splitting the atom.

  Her safe was closed—bless Walter! If he hadn’t come in, she would have gone to sleep at her desk surrounded by files only she (and Walter) had access to. Anyone might have raided them and used the photocopier ….

  It was no one’s business save hers what, for instance, Walter’s I.Q. was, or how her primate study of rage centers was going—a long, long list of data gathered here in these files alone. Hers was the overall command, and she intended to keep it firmly hers. In which resolution, Walter Jenkins was her most valuable ally.

  Ivy arrived for lunch, though Delia had wondered whether she would, given the direction her confidances seemed to be taking at the salon. Still a little intoxicated by the music and the company, Delia hadn’t gone to much trouble over her luncheon menu—just toasted cheese sandwiches, mineral water, and good coffee.

  “It’s changeover Monday tomorrow,” Ivy said, professing rather grateful pleasure at the menu’s simplicity, “and Rha is still in summer mode for the dresses. Jane Austenish sprigged muslin for the bridesmaids, though of course what Jane Austen called muslin is a far cry from ours. Mabel won’t complain, but Mavis and Margo will whine dreadfully.”

  “Mabel? Mavis and Margo?” Delia asked blankly.

  Ivy laughed. “The window mannequins, dear! Mabel is the bride, Mavis and Margo the bridesmaids. I love weddings!”

  Yesterday’s mood was entirely gone; today’s Ivy was happy and content. That put Delia in a quandary: ought she bring the matter up, or leave it lie? Ivy’s attitude suggested leaving it lie; Delia decided to see where today’s conversation went, now the sandwiches were eaten and they were seated at the window.

  “How long have you been at Rha Tanais Bridal?”

  “Since it opened—fourteen years,” Ivy said, face glowing. “It’s every woman’s big day, and I get to plunge into the middle of the plans, the arguments, the dreams, the impossibilities as well as the possibilities. Rha Tanais Bridal patrons don’t just buy a wedding gown and something for the bridesmaids, you know. We mostly clothe the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom as well, not to mention have a whole department to coordinate color themes, recommend venues, give ball-park figures for cost. You have no idea how much people are prepared to pay to throw a wedding, and I always feel it’s a part of my function to make sure they know what the cost is going to be.”

  “Well, it’s a little like sending a child to college, isn’t it?” Delia asked, fascinated. “There must be heaps of hidden expenses. I’m glad someone tells them what the bill is going to be before they really incur the debt.”

  “The loveliest weddings are often the less expensive ones, as a matter of fact. Big splashes scatter farther, and some of the places the water lands don’t bear being on display.”

  A novel thought had occurred to Delia. “Ivy, do you actually attend the weddings?”

  Ivy looked surprised. “If they’re within reach, always. I keep scrapbooks and albums. The albums can be very useful, since a lot of brides don’t have much idea what they want. I sit them down with a couple of albums of weddings in their price range and tell them to show me the look they like.”

  “And to think all of this originally started so a man could be sure his bride was an untouched virgin!”

  “Well, isn’t that another way of saying, that a man’s children are his? To be sure of it, he must marry a virgin and then make sure she can’t cheat on him,” Ivy said.

  “How depressing!”

  “But a very human conundrum, you must agree, Delia. A man yearns to know his children are his, and tries his hardest to ensure it.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s going to be long before there’s an ironclad test for paternity,” Delia said. “Paul Bachman of our forensics lab says the discovery of DNA and RNA are breakthroughs in all sorts of directions, and won’t prove dead ends.”

  She looked at today’s Ivy with a twinge of regret, for she had made up her mind; yesterday’s subject had to be laid bare. “When I saw you yesterday, Ivy dear, you were very upset, and started to tell me about your father, Ivor. But when you told me that he was both heterosexual and homosexual, I cut you short—it wasn
’t the right place or time for that story. Now here I am today reminding you of your unhappiness for one reason only—I’m convinced you need to share whatever it is with me. Why that is, I don’t know, but I want to hear the story. Tell me!”

  To Delia’s surprise, Ivy’s mood didn’t flatten or plummet; she looked relieved, even eager.

  “Thank you for bringing it up, Delia. I confess that if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found the courage to broach it. Ivor! My terrible father …. The thing I find hardest to fit into my picture of him was our mother. I’ve racked my brains trying to find a reason why he, of all people, should have married an oversized simpleton, but I can’t. He didn’t treat her like a wife, yet he made no secret of the fact that she was his wife.”

  “Did you like her, Ivy? Did you call her Mommy?”

  “Oh, I was so confused, Delia! Children have no parameters beyond their own experiences, and I never saw other children or even other adults than those who lived in Busquash Manor and Little Busquash. I was told this enormous, bumbling woman was my mother, but I called her Marm, which was what the servants called her. As to what I felt—she frightened me. Oh, not in a malignant way! But one couldn’t really have a conversation with her, especially on a child’s level. People think that’s odd, they seem to believe Marm’s own childishness would have made it easier to communicate with children, but it wasn’t so.”

  “You remembered events that happened when Dr. Nell was alive, you said yesterday,” Delia prompted.

  “Oh, I remember events before Antonio the Third died in 1920!” Ivy said, adding years to her age that Delia just couldn’t credit, looking at her. “Ivor was always in command, of Antonio, and then of Dr. Nell, and then, later, of Fenella, who was the second Nell. I told you that he went slightly crazy after Dr. Nell vanished, looking for a will that was never found, but once Fenella was installed, he came into his own again. Looking back, it’s obvious that he had an affair with Dr. Nell, and another with Fenella, but he also had affairs with beautiful young men.”

  Fascinated but bewildered, Delia frowned. “Where did the beautiful young men fit into the scheme of things?” she asked.

  “Ivor drew them to him like moths to a lamp,” Ivy said. “I suppose he went somewhere they congregated and picked one out, then brought him home to Little Busquash. From the time that Dr. Nell inherited, my mother lived in Busquash Manor as a kind of helper or companion—maybe Dr. Nell pitied her, I don’t know. Fenella let her stay, and that meant Little Busquash was always where Ivor conducted his affairs with the young men.”

  “Where did you live, Ivy?”

  “In Little Busquash. I hated Busquash Manor, I think because it was where Marm lived, and to this day I hate that place! The Ivy you met there last night was the Ivy of Dr. Nell and Marm and Fenella. The moment I enter, the memories come back like women at a sale.” Ivy smiled, her cornflower blue eyes tranquil. “Oh, except if I cook,” she added. “Cooking makes the Manor bearable.”

  “Finish your story,” said Delia. “You haven’t, yet.”

  “You won’t let go, will you? And yes, it isn’t finished,” Ivy said. “Marm became pregnant with Rha, who was due toward the end of 1929. About three months before that, Fenella was located, and inherited Dr. Nell’s estate. Fenella was pregnant too—their babies were born about an hour apart on November second. Fenella’s was Rufus. Marm died falling down the grand staircase when Rha was a few months old. Fenella took Rha and raised him with Rufus as a brother, so my contacts with the child Rha were limited. I was stuck in Little Busquash with Ivor and his current beautiful young lover—sometimes a female, more often a male.”

  “Which beautiful young man did you love?” Delia asked. “You may be statuesque, Ivy, but you’re extremely attractive. If Ivor was bisexual, it’s certain some of his young male lovers were too.”

  “Right on!” Ivy cried, striking her hands together. “His name was Lance Goodwin, he was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside—dark hair, dark eyes, an olive skin, a magnificent body. And a gentle, loving soul, Delia, that was what I really fell for! Of course he had aspirations to go on the stage—that was usually how Ivor caught them. People are so naive, especially beautiful ones. Lance’s personality attracted Ivor even more than his looks did—he liked corrupting the innocent, so most of his young men were inexperienced. Perhaps that accounted for Marm as well? Ivor trying to corrupt someone infantile?”

  “Yes, it’s possible,” Delia said, “but not provable.”

  “He succeeded in corrupting Lance, who ended in spurning me in favor of my father. Horrible, isn’t it? I was devastated at the time, and cut my wrists. I was slow to recover.”

  “But eventually you did, except for visits to Busquash Manor.”

  “It helped that Ivor died in 1934.”

  “When did you get to know Rha and Rufus?”

  “After Ivor died, though Fenella never loved me, and didn’t encourage sibling intimacy. Really, I didn’t get to know Rha and Rufus until after Fenella died in 1950. Since then, we’ve more than made up for the lost years.”

  “It must thrill you to be a part of Rha Tanais Inc.,” Delia said, “not to mention the weddings.”

  “I could write a book about weddings,” Ivy said, laughing.

  “Why don’t you?”

  Ivy looked shocked. “No, never! The worst tragedies would make the most interesting reading.”

  “One doesn’t think of weddings as tragedies, Ivy dear.”

  “I’ve seen two girls widowed before they could leave the church. One poor groom died of a heart attack at the altar, and one was shot dead by his wife’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “Brr! The grubby side of life can intrude anywhere.”

  That set Ivy chuckling. “Delia dear, beneath the surface of the glossiest, most gorgeous wedding there simmers God knows what, from the groom’s mother’s resentment of the bride to the maid of honor’s despairing she’ll ever be a bride. For all that, I love my work, I adore my brother and his world, and I pity the grim compulsion in Jess that leads her to flog herself for, I suspect, few thanks.”

  “And how do you feel about Delia the Detective, who winkled your story out of you?”

  “I love her, but I don’t pity her.”

  And that, thought Delia after Ivy left in mid-afternoon, is a compliment. Interesting, that she pities Jess.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 1969

  A wed and astonished, Abe Goldberg stared at the four acrylic portraits on the slanted drawing table. Depicting head, neck and base of the shoulders only, Hank Jones had made them the size of Rha Tanais’s head, more generous than the customary 8 × 10-inch photograph. And how right the quirky young guy was! In color, opaquely rendered by what Abe suspected was a masterly hand, the four Does were dramatically different from each other despite the obvious similarities.

  “James Doe’s natural hair color had enough red in it to hint at freckles,” Hank was saying, “so I gave him a powdering of them—not the awful freckles of a carrot-head, just the fainter ones of auburn hair. John Doe Three and John Doe Four both had a few strands of fair hair embedded in their skulls, which is why in the end I did four portraits—John Three, John Four, James, and Jeb. I did pencil sketches of Jeb as well, to let you see with your own eyes that color is far better.”

  “They’re brilliant, Hank,” Abe said huskily, dazzled by the vistas this Monday morning was opening up. He’d survived the whole weekend without a single cigarette, now here he was gifted with work of this quality—! Even his ears and neck felt great: he’d found time to have a decent haircut. Let the teenyboppers sport the Prince Valiant haircuts! Betty had been told that from now on he was sticking to short-back-and-sides.

  The four Does had been epicenely beautiful, though age would have decreased the feminine in them as full maturity progressed. At twenty, a man was far from physiologically mature; he would be in his early thirties before he “set.”

  Jeb’s hair was a 1969 style and length, mouse-brown str
eaked from the sun, and his skin was lightly tanned, his mouth full and dark reddish-pink; he had a crease in his right cheek and a dent in the middle of his chin, and his nose in the penciled profile Hank had also drawn was ruler-straight, an ideal length. The eyes, fringed with long blackish lashes, were a vivid blue beneath arched dark brows.

  James was the auburn-haired one with the light sprinkling of freckles; his skin was pinker and more luminous, his nose an enviable retroussé, and his brows peaked rather than arched. Hank had given his eyes a touch of green, but they were still blue. He had a dent in his right cheek and a dented chin.

  John Doe Four had blond hair, a darker skin, very blue eyes, a faintly aquiline nose, dimples in both cheeks, and arched brows, but had no dent in his chin. John Doe Three had streaky brown hair, a straight nose, blue eyes, arched brows, and dents in his right cheek and chin.

  “I’ve done another one based on Jeb,” Hank said then, his tone diffident, “but you can burn it if you like, Abe. It’s the person I think the killer is trying to make them over into, if you get what I mean. Black hair, f ’r instance. Seemed to me that he liked a dent in the chin and a dimple in the right cheek, and arched eyebrows ahead of peaked ones. I’ve given it the bluest of blue eyes, and I call it Doe the Desired.”