Punish Me with Kisses (15 page)

They were running hard, pounding the path, nearly sprinting, and Penny looked at him and was scared. It was as if every time one of his feet hit the ground he was imagining he was stabbing Suzie, too.

W
hy doesn't he pay attention anymore? After everything, everything—why now so cool? Doesn't he know that forgiveness isn't necessary? That we operate on another level? That we're special people? Lawless people? That when you're gods the rules don't apply?

I
t was strange the way his story, his imagined tale of how Suzie had been killed, stuck with her over the next few days. He seemed to understand it so well, as if the emotions were part of him, as if he'd felt them himself. There was something chilling about that, as if, living with the crime all these years, he'd solved it in his imagination, and now only lacked the killer's name. If she hadn't seen that figure, seen the flashlight beam and then the person who'd paused at the
poolhouse
door, she might think he understood the murder too clearly, had solved it all too well.

But that was impossible. She knew he hadn't done it. She'd
seen
the other man. Their stories were perfectly matched. It was all so strange as she tried to play the moments back. She'd tried so many times, and always the action had been the same: that rapidly moving light, that stranger pausing outside the door. Thinking of it was like watching a movie, fascinated by a horrible thing that was happening to someone else. She'd seen replays of boxing matches on TV when they'd played the knockout punch over and over in slow motion so the viewers could see the fist smash against the face, the mouth twist back in agony, the legs wobble, the body begin to slump. Over and over, slower and slower, until sometimes they froze the frame at the moment of supreme impact. What if Robinson was right and she had in fact blinked at a crucial instant—and had lost something, a definitive frame, a moment that could have told her who he was? Jared had to be right. It had to have been one of Suzie's lovers. But which one?
Which one
?

She could barely remember their faces, let alone their names. When she tried to recall them, she could only come up with a composite, someone whose first name was Ashton or Carter or Prescott, who went to Princeton or Dartmouth or Yale, whose hair was dirty-blond and whose body was tanned and sleek and lean, unlike the paunchier, hairier Bar Harbor townies who pumped the gas and mowed the lawns. She tried to list them, even wrote down several names as they came to mind but she knew the task was hopeless, that they'd been interchangeable even then.

What would Lillian Ryan's imaginary reporter friend do now, she wondered, if he were going to write a nonfiction book about the case? How would he go about it? How would he scrounge up their names? Lillian said he was looking for an inside source; she was supposed to play that role. But she didn't know anything beyond what she'd seen that night—that unrecognizable figure, that intruder, whom she'd barely glimpsed and could never identify.

It was then one morning later that week, riding to work on the subway, that it suddenly struck her that there was someone who knew them, someone who'd known them very well. She was standing near the door swaying back and forth, squeezed from six different directions by fellow strap-hangers as the train hurtled its way to midtown when, for no particular reason, she thought of Cynthia French. Cynthia had been Suzie's closest friend that summer, had known all the boys, had probably slept with most of them, had even taken part in orgies with Suzie several times. No question—she'd be the perfect source. What had happened to her? Where could she be found?

She'd left Bar Harbor right after the murder. Her family had a place up there, but she hadn't stuck around. There was talk at one point of calling her as a witness, but the prosecution hadn't bothered, and Schrader said it wouldn't be worth the time and expense to dig her up and interview her since she hadn't been there that night and couldn't contribute positively to Jared's defense. Penny doubted she'd thought about Cynthia two or three times in the intervening years. Where was she from anyway—Philadelphia? Wilmington? She'd done some modeling at college; maybe she'd taken that up as a career.

When the subway reached her stop, she fought her way out, then let herself be pushed toward the exit by the mob. She started right in at work when she reached the office, and it wasn't until she took a break at eleven that she thought of Cynthia again. On a hunch she opened the Manhattan directory. There was a C. French at a Greenwich Village address.

"C. French"—that meant a woman listing herself ambiguously to avoid the
sickies
who get off making obscene calls. It could just be Cynthia, though there was no particular reason to think she was living in New York. Penny wrote down the number on a B&A message slip, and stuffed it in her purse.

The whole day she contemplated the possibilities: what would happen if she called and it did turn out to be Cynthia after all? Suppose they arranged a meeting, got together, talked. How was she going to explain what she wanted without appearing foolish, sounding like an amateur sleuth?

She waited until five, and then, after the office was deserted, she took the slip out of her purse, dialed the number and let it ring. No answer, which wasn't surprising—"C. French" probably had a job like everybody else, in which case she was probably still en route home from work. Penny waited fifteen minutes then dialed again. This time someone answered.

"Hello?" It was a girl's voice, but not Cynthia's—she was sure of that.

"Yes, hello," said Penny. "I'm trying to reach Cynthia French."

"Uh-huh—"

"Is this her number?"

"She lives here—yeah."

The girl sounded petulant. Penny wasn't sure, but she thought she might be black.

"Could I speak with her please?"

"Not just now, sweetie. Leave your name and number. She'll buzz you when she gets in."

"When would it be convenient to call her?"

"So—we're playing those kinds of games."

She was trying to think of what to say to that when the girl suddenly giggled. "OK, honey. Have it your way. Cindy ought to be back and available for personal calls let's say after eight." She clicked off.

Later at the apartment, after dinner when Penny and Jared were lying on the floor watching the evening news, she turned to him and asked if he remembered Cynthia French.

"Who?"

The news was a gory story about a hillside strangler in L.A.

"The blonde one—Suzie's friend."

"Oh yeah, that one—sure."

"She's living in New York now."

"Big deal for her." He turned to her, smiled. "OK, babe, let's hear it. What's up with Cynthia French?"

"She knew all Suzie's boyfriends. I thought of calling her, getting her to help me make a list."

"Forget it," he said. "You won't get anywhere with that."

"Maybe not. But I thought I'd try anyway."

He shrugged, turned back to the TV. A little after eight she went into the bedroom, closed the door, and dialed Cynthia again.

"Penny
Berring
—I don't
believe
it." It was Cynthia all right, the same snooty Main Line accent, the same hard emphasis that reminded Penny of corridor talk at a college dorm.

"I've changed my name now."

"Yeah, heard about that. Just read something about you, too—the other day. Well, well, when Fiona said some cutie called, I sure didn't expect her to turn out to be you."

"Fiona?"

"My roommate. She thought you were some kind of trick."

Cynthia must have turned away from the phone; Penny could hear her talking to someone else. "Yeah," she was saying, presumably to Fiona, "a girl I used to know. A voice out of the past." She came back on the line. "Sorry," she said, "Fiona's a little paranoid. Thinks I hang out at the Sahara picking up models, or something." Penny could hear giggling in the background. "So—it's really been a long time. What's on your mind? Don't be shy, Child. Speak up."

She called her "Child," as only Suzie had used to do. Was there something about herself, she wondered, something diminutive and cuddly that made people call her "babe" and "Child" and "kiddo", an aura perhaps that inspired the kind of affection people normally lavished on children and little dogs?

She said she wanted to get together, discuss something she couldn't talk about on the phone. Cynthia paused, then leapt for the bait. "Come on down tomorrow after work," she said. "We'll sip some wine, talk about old times."

When Penny returned to the living room Jared was lying on his back watching a game show in which second-rate celebrities, seated in boxes, made jokes and squirmed while colored lights flashed on and off.

"Ever hear of the Sahara, some sort of pickup spot?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "It's a fancy lesbian joint."

T
hat fucking pussy-eater Cynthia—she really ticked me off today. Couldn't keep her cotton-
pickin
' hands off me, couldn't keep her
dykey
tongue inside her mouth. "Love you so much,
Suze
. Love you so much. Just want to kiss you all over. Just want to lap you up." Pig! Caught her staring when I was playing tennis with Paul. Turned around suddenly and there she was sprawled out on her
sunchair
, legs spread, hand resting on her yucky crotch. When our eyes met she wagged her tongue around, slurped it over her lips. I could have killed her. It was a hell of a big mistake letting her get off on me all those times. Now she's panting after me like all the other assholes around here. Tried to sic Carol T on her but it didn't take. Shit! Thing is I got to stay cool, not let that creep mess up my plans—

T
he building was an old West Village tenement on Bank Street near Abingdon Square. The place looked run-down, and though it didn't exude an odor of cats like the lobby of her brownstone, there was a certain essence present in the hall that spoke of unfinished novels and unsold paintings, films that would never be shot and music that would never be performed. It was the smell of Greenwich Village: stagnant pot smoke, decayed plumbing, lasagna casseroles. Penny was surprised to find Cynthia living in such a place, a long way from Bar Harbor, she thought, a long way from the Main Line.

Cynthia greeted her from behind a
chainlock
. "My God—it's really
you
." She unlocked the door, took Penny in her arms. She was braless in a boy's white T-shirt, tight faded jeans and battered Wellington boots.

The apartment was humbly furnished. There were a few throwaway pieces, the sort of stuff people in the Village pick up off the streets, and big
blowup
posters of butch-looking women in leather jackets astride huge motorcycles. There was a board-and-bricks bookcase stuffed with the usual books on acupuncture and vegetarian diets, ecology, Carlos
Castenada
, and novels by Erica
Jong
and Gael Greene.

"Come in, Child. Let's have a look at you. Take off your sweater and turn around." She stood back while Penny did a turn. "I can't
believe
it. You look so
grown-up
."

Cynthia flicked on a stereo. Disco music flooded the room. Then she led Penny to some cushions where they sat down side by side.

"Just to clear the air, Child, let me say it up front. Lots of changes over the past three years. I'm gay. Fiona and I are lovers, and we both play around a little, too." Penny nodded. "I guess you figured that. I'm not trying to lay a trip on you. Just want you to know where I stand. Don't worry—I won't make a play for you. Ever make it with a chick?" Penny shook her head. "Not a bad experience even if it doesn't turn you on. You ought to try it once at least. Not with me necessarily—I mean just to get a taste." She paused. "Well, now that we've gotten through that, let me open up some wine. Or would you rather blow some weed?"

Penny said wine would be OK. She waited on the cushions while Cynthia went to the kitchen to get their drinks. She could hardly believe the way Cynthia had changed. She'd been this very snooty upper-class blonde, silly and manipulative, full of inanities and guile. Now she was completely different, a tough, direct young woman who seemed to know exactly who she was.

"Really
got
to my parents," she said handing Penny a glass. "I brought Fiona home last Christmas, and that
really
freaked them out. My mother took one look, then took to her bed. My brother Tom—remember him? That asshole finally ordered us out of the house. Couple of weeks later I get this typed letter from daddy on his law firm stationery the essence of which was that unless I went to some shrink in Philly and started cleaning up my act I wasn't going to get another cent from him. Fiona said 'screw it,' so now I'm kind of broke. Waitressing at the
Trattoria
around the corner, taking dance class to stay in shape, and working a gay hot line four nights a week."