G is for Gumshoe (26 page)

Irene rose to her feet, her eyes enormous. She was hyperventilating: rapid, shallow breathing that couldn't possibly
be delivering enough oxygen to her system. I could see her begin to topple, eyes focused on my face. She clawed at me as she fell, pitching forward in a convulsion that rocked her from head to toe. Clyde grabbed her as she went down, moving faster than I thought possible. He eased her back onto the couch and elevated her feet.

Jermaine thundered into the living room, a dish towel in her hand. Her eyes were wide with alarm. “What's the matter? What's happening? Oh my God . . .”

Irene's eyes had rolled back in her head and she jerked repeatedly, wracked by some personal earthquake that sent shock waves through her small frame. The acrid scent of urine permeated the air. Clyde peeled his jacket off and went down on his knees beside her, trying to restrain her so she wouldn't hurt herself. Jermaine stood by spellbound, twisting the dish towel in her big dark hands, making anxious sounds at the back of her throat.

Gradually, the spasm passed. Irene began to cough, a tight unproductive sound that made me ache in response. The cough was followed by a high-pitched wheeze that helped to mobilize me again. I put a supporting hand under Irene's right arm and shot Clyde a look. “Let's sit her upright. It'll make her breathing easier.”

We hefted her into a sitting position, a surprisingly awkward maneuver given how light she was. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she was limp and dazed, her eyes moving from face to face without comprehension. It was clear she had no idea where she was or what was going on.

“You want I should call emergency, Mr. Clyde?” Jermaine asked.

“Not yet. Let's hold off on that. She seems to be coming around,” he said.

A fine layer of perspiration broke out on Irene's face. She reached for me blindly. Her hands had that clammy feel to them, like a still-animated fish in the bottom of a boat.

Jermaine disappeared and returned moments later with a cold, damp rag that she passed wordlessly to Clyde. He wiped Irene's face. She'd begun to make small sounds, a weeping, hopeless and childlike, as if she were waking from a nightmare of devastating impact. “There were spiders. I could smell the dust . . .”

Clyde looked at me. “She's always been phobic about spiders . . .”

I picked up the two halves of the teacup automatically, wondering if she'd seen something in the bottom. I halfexpected one of those old dead spiders lying on its back, legs curled in against its belly like a blossom closing up at twilight. There was nothing. Meanwhile, Irene was inconsolable. “The paint ran down the wall in horrible streaks. The violets were ruined and I was so scared . . . I didn't mean to be bad . . .”

Clyde made soothing noises while he patted her hand. “Irene, you're okay. It's fine now. I'm right here.”

The look in her eyes was pleading, her voice reduced to a plaintive whisper. “It was Mother's tea set from when she was little . . . I wasn't supposed to play with it. I hid so I wouldn't get spanked and spanked. Why did she keep it?”

“I'm putting her to bed,” he said. He eased one arm under her bent knees, put the other behind her, and lifted, not without some effort. He inched away from the coffee table, walking sideways till he was clear, and then he
headed toward the stairs. Jermaine accompanied him, hovering close by to help steady the load.

I sank down on the couch and put my head in my hands. My heart rate was beginning to return to normal, no mean feat given the rush of adrenaline I'd experienced. Other people's fear is contagious, a phenomenon magnified by proximity, which is why horror movies are so potent in a crowded theater. I smelled death, some terrifying experience neither Irene nor Agnes could deal with all these years afterward. I could only guess at the dimensions of the event. Now that Agnes was dead, I doubted the reality would ever be resurrected.

I stirred restlessly, glancing at my watch. I'd been here only thirty minutes. Surely Dietz would return soon and get me the hell out of here. I leafed through a magazine that was sitting on the coffee table. At the back of the issue there was a whole month's worth of dinner menus laid out, totally nutritious, well-balanced meals for mere pennies a serving. The recipes sounded awful: lots of Tuna Surprise and Tofu Stir-Fry with Sweet 'n' Sour Sauce. I set the magazine aside. Idly, I picked up the halves of the teacup, rewrapped them in newspaper, and tucked them back in the box. I got up and crossed the room, setting the box by the door. No point in having Irene face that again. Later, if she was interested, I could always bring it back. I looked up to find Clyde coming wearily down the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He looked like a zombie. I followed as he crossed to one of two matching wing chairs and took a seat. He rubbed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the tiny blue pinstripe stained with sweat at the armpits. “I gave her a Valium. Jermaine said she'd stay with her until she goes to sleep.”

I stayed on my feet, clinging to whatever psychological advantage I had in towering over him. “What's going on, Clyde? I've never seen anyone react like that.”

“Irene's a sick cookie. She has been ever since we met.” He snorted to himself. “God . . . I used to think there was something charming about her helplessness . . .”

“This goes way beyond helpless. That woman's terrified. So was Agnes.”

“It's always been like that. She's phobic about everything—closed spaces, spiders, dust. You know what she's afraid of? The hook and eye on a door. She's afraid of African violets. Jesus,
violets.
And it just gets worse. She
suffers from allergies, depression, hypochondria. She's half dead from fear and probably hooked on all the prescription drugs she takes. I've taken her to every kind of doctor you can name and they all throw up their hands. The shrinks love to see her coming, but then they lose interest when the old voodoo doesn't work. She doesn't want to get better. Trust me. She's hanging on to her symptoms for dear life. I try to have compassion, but all I feel is despair. My life is a nightmare, but what am I supposed to do? Divorce her? I can't do it. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. She's like a little kid. I thought when her mother died . . . I thought once Agnes was gone, she'd . . . improve. Like a curse being lifted. But it won't happen that way.”

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

He shook his head. He had the hopeless air of a rat being badgered by a cat.

“What about her father? Could this be connected to him? She says he died in the war . . .”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, smiling wistfully. “Irene probably married me because of him . . .”

“Wanting a father?”

“Oh sure. Wanting everything—comfort, protection, security. You know what I want? I want to live one week without drama . . . seven days without tears and uproar and dependency and neediness, without all the juice being drained right out of me.” He shook his head again. “Not going to happen in my lifetime. It's not going to happen in hers either. I might as well blow my brains out and be done with it.”

“She must have suffered some kind of childhood trauma—”

“Oh, who gives a damn? Forty years ago? You're never going to get to the bottom of it and if you did, what difference would it make? She is who she is and I'm stuck.”

“Why don't you bail out?”

“Leave Irene? How am I supposed to do that? Every time I think of leaving, she ends up flat on her back. I can't kick her when she's down . . .”

I heard a tap at the front window. Dietz was peering in. I let out a deep breath. I was never so relieved to see anyone.

“I'll get that,” I said and moved to the front door. Dietz came in, his gaze straying to Clyde, who had leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, playing dead. Dietz's mere presence caused the tension in the air to dissipate, but he could tell at a glance that all was not well. I lifted my brows slightly, conveying with a look that I'd fill him in once we were alone. “How'd it go?” I asked.

“Tell you about it in a minute. Let's get out of here.”

I said, “Clyde . . .”

“I heard. Go ahead. We can talk later. Irene will sleep for hours. Maybe I'd be smart to get a little shuteye myself.”

I hesitated. “One question. Yesterday, when we were scouring the neighborhood for Agnes . . . do you remember anyone with a toolshed or a greenhouse on the property?”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “No. Why?”

“The pathologist mentioned it. I said I'd get back to her.”

He shook his head. “I was bumping front doors. There might have been a shed in somebody's backyard.”

“If you remember something of the sort, will you let me know?”

He gestured a yes both dismissive and resigned.

I picked up the box and we walked out to the car. Dietz tucked me in the passenger seat.

“What's the matter, she didn't like the tea set?” he said. He shut the door on the passenger side and I was forced to hold my reply until he'd rounded the car and gotten in himself. He fired up the engine and pulled out. I gave him a quick rendition of Irene's collapse.

“What do you think she's sitting on?” he asked when I was done.

“Beats me. I can think of a few possibilities. Abuse of some kind, for one,” I said. “She might have been a witness to an act of violence, or maybe
she
did something she feels guilty about.”

“A little kid?”

“Hey, kids sometimes do things without meaning to. You never know. Whatever it is, if she has any conscious recollection, she's never mentioned it. And Clyde doesn't seem to have a clue.”

“You think Agnes knew about it?”

“Oh sure. I think Agnes even tried to tell me, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. I sat with her late one night down in a Brawley convalescent home and she told me this long, garbled tale that I'm almost sure now had the truth embedded in it someplace. I'll tell you one thing. I'm not interested in driving back down to the desert to investigate. Forget that.”

“Be pointless anyway after all these years.”

“That's what Clyde says. What's the deal on Rochelle Messinger?”

Dietz pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “I got her number in North Hollywood. Dolan didn't want to
give it to me, but I finally talked him into it. He says if we get a line on the guy, we're to stay strictly the hell away.”

“Of course,” I said. “What now?”

He looked over at me with his lopsided smile. “How about a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?”

I laughed. “Done.”

We got back to the apartment at one o'clock, fully carbed up, our fat tanks on overload. I could feel my arteries hardening, plaques piling up in my veins like a logjam in a river, blood pressure going up from all the sodium.

Dietz tried calling Rochelle Messinger. When he got no answer after fifteen rings, he turned the phone over to me. I was aching for a nap, but I thought I'd better find out if Dr. Palchak had seen the slides yet. I didn't like the idea of cruising the neighborhood around the nursing home, bumping all those doors again. With luck, I wouldn't have to.

I put a call through to the pathology department at St. Terry's and had Laura Palchak paged. I had Irene's cardboard box on my lap, using it as an armrest. For ten cents, I would have put my head down and gone to sleep right there. Sometimes I long for the simplicity of kindergarten, which is where I learned to nap on command.

She picked up the phone on her end.

“Hi, Laura. Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was wondering if you'd had a chance to examine the tissue slides.”

“You bet,” she said. There was a grim satisfaction in her voice.

“I take it your hunch turned out to be right on the money.”

“Sure did. This is one I've never run across myself, but I remembered an abstract on the subject from a few years
back. The hospital librarian tracked down the journal, which is on my desk somewhere. Hang on.”

“What subject?”

“I'm getting to that. This is an article on ‘Human stress cardiomyopathy' written by a couple of doctors in Ohio. Here we go. Catch this,” she said. “Mrs. Grey suffered a characteristic damage to her heart—a cell death called myofibrillar degeneration brought on by fear-generated stress.”

“Can you translate?”

“Sure, it's simple. When the body gets flooded with intolerable levels of adrenaline, heart cells are killed. The pockets of dead cells interfere with the normal electrical network that regulates the heart. When the nerve fibers are disrupted, the heart starts beating erratically and, in this case, that led to cardiac failure.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously. I had the feeling there was more. “So what's the punch line here?”

“This little old lady was quite literally scared to death.”

“What?”

“It's just what it sounds like. Whatever happened to her in those hours she was gone, she was so badly frightened it killed her.”

“Are you talking about her being lost or something more than that?”

“I suspect something more. The theory is that, under certain circumstances, the cumulative burden of psychological stress and pain can generate lethal charges in cardiac tissue.”

“Like what?”

“Well, take a little kid. Her father beats her with a belt, ties her up, and leaves her bound in a vacant room
overnight. Next morning, she's dead. The actual physical injuries aren't sufficient to cause death. I'm not talking about the stress levels most of us experience in the ordinary course of events. Without getting graphic about it, it's analogous to certain animal experiments relating focal myocardial necrosis to stress.”