Death of a Washington Madame (19 page)

"Miss Carpenter committed suicide this morning,"
Gail said suddenly, obviously wanting to shock the man.

The ruddiness faded from Mr. Macintosh's face and his lean
body seemed to fold up in the chair. His throat made a gasping sound.

"Apparently not long after she spoke to you,"
Gail pressed.

"It wasn't your fault, Macintosh," Fiona said
with a hard look at Gail. "You were only the messenger."

"I ... I don't know what to say," he said.
"I wanted to do the right thing. I hope there will be no consequences to
the bank. We ... we did everything we could. Actually, we took no commission on
this account. It was all a favor to Mrs. Shipley by Mr. Farnsworth's
instructions, rest his soul. You see, Mr. Farnsworth was Chairman of the Board
and these old ties are honored.... "He cleared his throat. "Even the
examiners were lenient on this." Fiona suspected that his mention of the
bank examiners was inadvertent. Obviously, he was concerned about the Bank and
the sudden spotlight thrown on the finances of Mrs. Shipley.

"We're just here for information, Mr. Macintosh,"
Fiona said. is HisH

"Do you know how long these people worked for Mrs.
Shipley?" Gail asked with a touch of indignation.

"I assume a long time," Mr. Macintosh said
haltingly.

"Nearly a hundred years.... cumulatively," Gail
said in what Fiona saw as a futile expression of sarcasm. "And for that,
their combined legacy is apparently ten thousand dollars, if that. How
wonderfully generous."

Macintosh looked at them and shook his head, obviously
hoping to achieve a gesture of sadness and concern. Fiona suspected that his
emotions were less skewered toward Gloria and Roy than to any consequences to
the bank and, what mattered most, his job.

"Was Mrs. Shipley aware of the catastrophic condition
of her financial affairs?" Fiona asked hoping to clearly imply that the
bank might share some of the blame.

"Very much so," he answered nervously.

"I assume you were in charge of her account,"
Fiona said.

He nodded but his gestures indicated his nervousness. His
bow tie seemed to ride up and down a prominent Adam's apple and a nerve
palpitated in his cheek.

"I ... I kept her fully informed. As a matter of fact,
she received statements regularly when her man collected her weekly cash
allotments."

"That would be Roy," Gail said.

"She promised these people that they would be cared
for financially in her will. Yet she knew there wouldn't be much left to
share," Fiona said. It was, she knew, an irrelevant comment, but she
couldn't resist.

"I'm not privy to what she told them." Macintosh
said. "She always seemed an honorable and forthright woman."

"You think so?" Fiona asked.

He grew thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged and ignored
the question.

"Apparently," Gail interjected. "She
promised what she knew she couldn't deliver. In other words..."

"She lied to them," Fiona snapped.

Again Macintosh, ever the prudent banker, made no comment.

"How long will it be before they have to vacate the
house?" Gail asked, then quickly correcting herself. "I mean Roy."

"I'm not sure," Macintosh said. "There are
expenses to operating a house which could further dissipate...."

"Spare us," Fiona sighed. She felt depression
breaking over her like a powerful wave. She hesitated a moment then asked:
"Did you inform Gloria Carpenter of the amount she would inherit."

Macintosh flushed a deep red, deeper in color than his
bowtie. He bit his lip and his cheeks seemed to sag. He swallowed deeply and
his adam's apple danced in his neck.

"I ... I was indiscreet. Do you think.... that was the
cause of her.... "he whispered, unable to finish the thought, closing his
eyes as if he was in physical pain.

Fiona and Gail exchanged glances. Reaching into a pocket,
Fiona pulled out her card and gave it to Macintosh. Turning, without another
word, they headed for the door.

"I could use a drink," she said to Gail when they
had gotten out of earshot. They went into a cafe a few doors from the bank.

"Scotch, soda," Fiona told the waitress, as they
seated themselves at a table in a far corner.

"White wine," Gail said shooting a glance at
Fiona, who had rarely seen Gail take a drink during the day.

"Now I know what Brewer meant when he called her a
rascal," Fiona said.

"Poor Gloria," Gail sighed.

"I wonder what went through Gloria's mind when she
discovered the truth," Fiona said. The waitress brought their drinks and
Fiona quickly drained off half. Gail took a lady-like sip of her white wine and
pulled a face.

"Obviously very dark thoughts," Gail said.
"She must have felt used and abused. Betrayed."

"Screwed might be the operative word."

"I guess you can measure the power of the blow by the
result."

Fiona finished her drink and signaled the waitress for
another. Gail looked at her askance.

"You have to be Irish to understand the special
relationship with booze," Fiona said, reacting to her look of rebuke.
"And black Irish at that. No, not race black. Black meaning dark,
mean-minded, depression prone. But don't worry. I know you'll protect me from
getting too smashed. And drive me home. In the meantime let me be true to my
heritage."

"Who'll report to the Captain?"

"You will."

They sat in silence for a while. It was getting near the
end of the working day and the first wave of Government workers organizing a
quickie drink before heading for home were scrambling into the cafe.

"Are we being too hard on the old bitch?" Fiona
said over the increasing noise level. "She was getting up there, scared,
facing the prospect of being alone. Broke to boot. Hating her son's wife. All
she had was Gloria and Roy."

"Like darkies on the old plantation," Gail said.

"Christ Gail. No race crap please. Not now." She
paused and shook her head. "Roy, if you hadn't noticed, was white."

"I was referring to the psychological state of
dependency. Gloria and Roy were, in a real sense, slaves."

"They didn't think so. You heard them. They fawned
over Madame. Loved her. Madame was the center of their lives."

"I stand by my characterization."

The waitress came and put Fiona's second drink in front of
her. Fiona sipped a few swallows. Gail, more for sociability than need, took
another swallow of her white wine but without pulling a face this time.

"Beware. You could get to like it," Fiona
giggled.

"I hate it. But I'm the beard for your social
drinking."

"If only..." Fiona said, raising her glass and
taking a deep sip.

"If only what?"

"If only I could interest you in the joys of drinking
and getting laid ." It was, she supposed, her way of lashing out, aiming a
barb at Gail's sometimes prissy moral code.

"Could you please keep your voice down," Gail
said, looking about her, offering a thin smile, amused but embarrassed.

"I was merely prescribing a panacea to your
pain."

"I'll admit to the pain, but I prefer a less drastic
prescription."

"Certainly not as drastic as Gloria's. Betrayed by the
one person she trusted for half a century."

"That was my point earlier."

Fiona shook her head.

"No, Gail. Your subliminal point was that Gloria was
gullible, believing her white Boss' promise of future emancipation. But that
doesn't explain Roy."

"His skin was white, but he was just another nigger to
Madame."

"Can't you close that damned spigot Gail." Fiona
sighed. "Betrayal is race neutral." She raised her glass. "It is
a universal affliction. Hence my need of succor." She sipped deeply. Gail
pouted, then became suddenly animated.

"Was it possible that Roy knew?" she snapped.
"Gloria might have told him the truth about their future reward."

"He showed no sign of knowing," Fiona muttered.
"No sense of betrayal. No outrage."

"Not like Gloria."

Fiona upended her drink and signaled for another. Gail cut
her a look of disapproval.

"More there than meets the eye," Fiona said,
sensing the first signs of alcoholic euphoria. "Says something when a man
devotes fifty years to a woman not his wife."

"Are you suggesting love unrequited?" Gail said,
unable to control a sneering undercurrent of ridicule. "Hard to picture
that old buzzard as a closet swain."

"Something like that," Fiona said, pausing, then
looking directly into Gail's eyes. "What do you know about that?"

"I read."

"Do I detect a secret romantic?"

"I've got enough problems without your analysis."

She was beginning to sound like the old Gail. Or was it the
drinks? The waitress came again and put another honey-colored glass of scotch
and soda on the table.

"Powerful stuff ... love," Fiona sighed, the
effects of the previous drinks crashing into her thought processes.

"Just ask little Billy," Gail said.

"As Roy pointed out. She's captured him. He's not the
man he was before the onslaught of amour."

"You really think it has that power, Fi?"

They exchanged glances. Fiona could tell that this was a
serious question for Gail.

"I know it."

Fiona picked up her drink and took a small swallow. Their
discussion recalled her personal dilemma. Would Hal capture her, transform her?
Would she be a willing captive?

For a few moments both women were lost in thought. The
rising crescendo of background noises seemed to fade from Fiona's mind. The
alcohol was turning her inward, making her consider alternatives to a life with
Hal Perry. Would a man better than Hal come along? Surely, if she declined to
marry him, that would be the end of that relationship.

She had had her share of endings. Her beloved father. Her
mother. But to them there had been continuity, a memorial of the mind. Breaking
with men, on the other hand, was finality. Sooner or later, at least in her
vast experience, the embers died as if they needed the full heat of the
interaction to keep the fires burning. A sexual fantasy began to slip into her
mind, Hal in full erection, she lying on her back, her head tilted backward
over the side of the bed, her lips and tongue...

"Oh my God..."

"What?" Gail asked.

"Lost in thought, sorry."

She felt the familiar body reactions, the hot flush rising
on her cheeks and Gail's curious inspecting glance.

"In a practical sense," Gail said, revealing that
her thoughts still were exploring Mrs. Shipley's betrayal, "She was not really
broke. She still had her son who would have gladly subsidized her life style
and back up his mother's promise to Gloria and Roy."

"I think she would have died first before she asked
her son for money," Fiona said.

"She did."

Another idea emerged in Fiona's mind. She lifted her glass
and took a deep swallow.

"What about Gloria? Couldn't she expect William to
help her when it was apparent that Mrs. Shipley had left her nothing? She might
have jumped the gun."

Gail shook her head vehemently.

"If you're investing Mrs. Shipley with pride, then why
not Gloria? The three of them seemed to be bonded together and that includes
their distrust of Madeline Newton who, at least in their mind, controlled
William. No. She would never ask. Never."

"How can you be so sure Gail?"

"Pride is stronger than desperation."

"You really think so?"

"Yes," Gail replied.

"Then it follows that Gloria must have felt that death
is better than life."

"That was the choice she made."

Fiona clapped her hands. The action caught the waitress's
attention and Fiona signaled for another.

"Good girl. I applaud your farewell to guilt. Of
course it was her choice."

"I'm not discounting the Lionel thing," Gail
said. "It was certainly contributory, but not the straw that broke the
camel's back."

"It's still a good bet," Fiona said, taking
another deep sip. She felt her tongue start to trip over her words.

"This work does give one an insight into the dark side
of human nature."

"I'll drink to that cliche," Fiona said, taking
the glass being proffered by the waitress.

"I think I will, too," Gail said.

They clinked glasses.

"A good start," Fiona mumbled, winking at her
partner.

The church was filled to bursting. At first, it seemed
incongruous to Fiona to observe such a turnout for the funeral of a domestic
worker. Even Fiona knew it was an assumption borne of class prejudice and she
was glad she hadn't couched it in those terms to Gail. It was, however, obvious
that Gloria Carpenter had also devoted a lifetime of service to this church and
had become one of its most beloved devotees.

"Large turnout," Fiona whispered. "Gloria
must have been quite a supporter."

"Gives you some idea of the power of community and the
level of respect for one of their own."

"Very impressive," Fiona agreed.

"In this part of the world," Gail explained.
"People are connected, not isolated. Much of life is lived on the outside,
in the streets, where people interact. The things that separate people aren't
apparent in this community. Like money. Like education. Like occupation. Like,
forgive me, class. When someone dies, it feels like it happened to the whole
community."

There was something obviously pedantic in her explanation,
but it wasn't without its inherent truth. People were dressed in their best
clothes. The women and girls wore hats and gloves, the men and boys wore dark
suits and white shirts with appropriate ties.

Flowers decked the podium. To one side a golden-gowned
choir group stood ready to render their spirituals praising the heavenly world
beyond one's life span. In this place, the ritual of mourning was definitely a
community event.

Most of those present, of course, were black, although
there was a sprinkling of white faces. In the front row were the immediate
family, conspicuous in the blackest of deep mourning clothes, the men
comforting, the women grieving under dark veils, lifted periodically so that
handkerchiefs could be conveniently dabbed to eyes and noses.

Fiona picked out Loreen from her resemblance to Gloria
during a brief veil lifting. Beside her was a thin young man, who she assumed
was Ben and next to him various women and children who she reckoned were
Loreen's daughters and their progeny.

In a wheelchair up front was Lionel, alone and
unobtrusively guarded. Fiona noted that two black plainclothesman sat nearby.
Not far from where Lionel sat in his wheelchair was Haskell Fremont, a towering
distinguished figure, impeccably dressed, in a charcoal striped suit with a
shirt collar that stood high on his neck. His hair was slate gray, his complexion
tanned. In this atmosphere he had the look of walking prosperity. There was
nothing off the rack in his dress, demeanor or appearance. Poor fellow, Fiona
thought with both sarcasm and glee; he had no idea that the financial pool from
which he was going to extract his fee no longer existed.

Roy sat at the end of the family
mourner's row, looking haggard and uncomfortable, his head bowed and his body
hunched over as if he wanted to be invisible. On the podium beside the pastor,
a large gray-haired man wearing a black robe, sat Governor Shipley and his
wife, she looking astonishingly beautiful and radiant in her mourning
"rags" with her trademark décolletage very much in evidence, a magnet
for all eyes, male and female. The ubiquitous Clayton, also dressed in mourning
black, stood not far from the Governor and his wife, half hidden by a floral
display, but unmistakably alert and wary. Roy, his gaunt face, gray and
unsmiling, sat in the rear row.

All here, Fiona thought, meaning the cast of characters and
suspects. She was strangely surprised when she noted that the alleged
perpetrator of Madame's murder, Martine, was incongruously missing from the
assemblage. Fiona had attended many black funeral services in her lifetime,
most of them connected with her work or her colleagues, but this event seemed
somehow uncommonly grand as if the act of suicide was a dignified and
appropriate exit of choice.

She noted, too, that from the moment the ritual began,
Gail's eyes welled and remained so. Perhaps, Fiona decided, she was moved, not
only by the service, but by the kinship she felt with her "brothers"
and "sisters" and the guilt generated by her perceived abandonment of
the real ghetto for the high style and prosperous ghetto of the gold coast.

Indeed, in this atmosphere, Fiona could better understand
what had set Gail off on her racial hegira. It was not easy to contemplate the
distance of the flowering leaf of the dark tree from the root, Fiona thought in
a burst of philosophical epiphany.

The choir was spirited, melodic and obviously heartfelt and
sincere as if sounding the note loud enough to be heard in that other, more
heavenly world, where these church people seemed to believe they would achieve
release from the perceived intolerance and hostility of this one.

But beyond the ritual, the singing, the mood and the
atmosphere, Fiona could see Madeline Newton's well-honed public relation's
instincts at work. They had entered the church through a wall of cameras and
the interior of the church was lit by hot lights with more cameras in the rear
of the vestry.

There on the podium was the Governor and his magnificent
wife, white faces in a sea of black ones, somber and, above all, illustrating
their human connection through grief. Gloria had known William Shipley from
birth and one could easily assume unbreakable bonds of love, forged in infancy
and childhood, between him and the deceased.

The picture ops in this situation and the connotation of
sympathy and solidarity with the black community of a southern state, the
Capital of the Old Dominion no less, were beyond a politician's wildest dreams,
with the power, almost, to dispel any cynicism about the process.

To Fiona what she was observing was seductive but only to a
point. This was an obvious orchestration by Madeline Newton to move the PR agenda to a higher plane, to seize it from the tabloids and rescue her husband's reputation
from the sleaze factor surrounding his mother's death and foreclose on any
strategy Haskell Fremont might devise, if he stayed with the case.

William's eulogy of Gloria was a masterpiece of dramatic
and, undoubtedly heartfelt eloquence. There wasn't a dry eye in the place,
including her own. One could see in him the true merger of the Thespian and the
Politician.

"I loved this woman," he told the rapt audience
in an accent more Southern with a near perfect black inflection than he had
exhibited in his ordinary conversations. "She was my rock and my
inspiration, a life-long friend, yes a mentor. To my mother she was a loving
companion, and their love, loyalty and respect for each other was the bridge
over all the artificial chasms of separation. Between them was God's heaven
sent equality not man's poor imitations of that state."

He quoted from the bible, both the old testament and the
new and told stories of his early life with Gloria, her loving strictness, her
demand for excellence in all things, her sense of humor, her earth mother
warmth. His anecdotes elicited laughter through tears. The man was a born
actor.

At one point, his voice rose as he looked toward the
heavens and invoked what was unmistakably a heartrending plea for mercy in the
street language of the ghetto.

"Man," he cried, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Stop mah black brothahs and sistahs pain in yoh domain, mah Lawd
Jesus."

Fiona held her breath, suddenly chilled to the marrow.
Surely, she thought, they would see these words from a white man as
patronizing, grossly imitative and phony, which is the way she interpreted them
at first.

For a long moment, not a sound came from the audience. Then
suddenly with one voice it broke out in the traditional responses that hit her
ear as "amens," "praise the Lawd" and "Yes
Jesus."

Fiona was stunned. He had, apparently, hit the gong of
truth for this audience and they fell into lock step, their comments a rising
crescendo.

Indeed, there were moments when the Governor became so
overcome with emotion, he had to reach for his handkerchief and wipe his tears.

Throughout the eulogy, Fiona waited for the moment when the
words would ring hollow and inert, at least to her. It came finally when he
brought his wife into the content, putting her deftly into the eloquent basket
of grief and restoring Fiona's inherent cynicism. He told of his wife's loving
friendship and understanding, her sensitivity to Gloria's needs, citing the
confidences they shared and the commonality of their womanly concerns.

Turning she glanced at Roy. On his face was an expression
of profound disgust.

On cue, Madeline dabbed her eyes. Real tears flowed down
her cheeks. Perfectly timed, she bowed her head, clasped her hands, looked
upward to the heavens. It was a magnificent performance, equal in power to her
husbands and Fiona could see that the audience loved it. This was star quality
at its emotional apogee.

She turned to Gail who sat next to her. Knowing Gail's
antipathy to the Governor and his wife, she was surprised by her reaction. Like
the rest of the congregation, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She turned
away from Fiona's gaze, sniffled, wiped her eyes, and when she had recovered,
she whispered to Fiona.

"I know its all bull, but look at me," she said,
sucking in a deep breath, and shrugging helplessly.

When Gloria's funeral service was over, the mourners
followed the coffin out to the front of the church, where it was put into the
back of the hearse and the cars behind it loaded up with close relatives. The
media scrambled for the best shots of the Governor and Madeline.

Under the sharp eyes of the plainclothesman, Lionel with
his wheelchair was assisted to the first car behind the hearse. He looked up
and caught Fiona's eye. Despite the sickly muddy complexion, she noted an air
of familiarity, as if he wanted to share something with her. It could have been
her imagination, she acknowledged. He was holding something back. She was sure
of it.

With Gail driving, they followed the funeral procession.

"I know you think it was hypocritical of me to go all
soft when Shipley spoke," Gail said.

"I made no comment to that effect," Fiona said.

"I could see it in your eyes."

"I was a little teary-eyed myself. Unless your heart
is made of stone you're reminded of the loss of your own loved ones."

That, Fiona knew would get her off the hook.

"You're right. I thought of my Daddy."

"And I thought of mine and how much I loved him and
miss him."

They were silent for a long time as they drove. Fiona was
being ingenuous. She hadn't thought of her father at that moment, although he
occupied her thoughts and memories often and she did miss him and had loved him
deeply.

"But when it got to the part about Madeline. What I
really wanted to do was throw up," Fiona said.

"Amen," Gail muttered. "I lost my ... my
fortitude."

They drove through the cemetery entrance. It was located in
a broken down area on the border of the District of Columbia and Prince Georges County. The graves were well cared for and studded with flowers and the open
grave awaiting Gloria's coffin was neatly prepared with a green canopy over it.

They huddled at the edge of the circle of mourners. Fiona
scanned their faces searching for any sign that might provide a clue to the
real reason for Mrs. Shipley's death. The Governor and his wife were
appropriately somber; Clayton was, as ever, watchful, his eyes scanning the
crowd. Gloria's sister and her progeny, Lionel in his wheel chair; all appeared
to be sincere mourners witnessing the ritual of farewell to the beloved sister
and aunt.

At one point, Fiona and the Governor exchanged glances. His
eyes were glazed with tears and he looked genuinely grieved. Perhaps she had
been too hard on him in her thoughts. Even if he had stretched the truth about
his wife's relationship with Gloria, he might have been sincere about his own.
He had, after all, been a loved presence in that house, little Billy, the
golden boy. His marriage to Madeline Newton could hardly have erased completely
that feeling in Gloria and Roy.

After the graveside service, the mourners straggled slowly
back to their cars. One of them, a young man came up behind her. She felt his
eyes on her back and turned.

"I'm Ben," he said. "Gloria's nephew."

"Yes, Ben," Fiona said, introducing Gail.

"I have to talk to you," he said quickly,
furtively. "About Uncle Lionel." Up close, he looked sickly, his eyes
badly bloodshot. His hands, Fiona noted, were trembling and his voice was
reedy. Having invoked the name of his uncle, Fiona could see the resemblance,
complete with the haunted look she had observed in the hospital.

"When?" Gail asked.

"I'm taking Mom home." He looked at his
wristwatch. "Say an hour at the MacDonald's on East Capital Street."

They nodded their consent and he moved quickly back to his
mother's side.

From a corner booth at MacDonald's they checked in with the
Eggplant.

"Quite a showing," Fiona said. She described the
funeral in general terms and told them about Ben wanting to see them. "He
said it was about Lionel."

The Eggplant groaned.

"Tough to back away from," he said. "The boy
sticks to his story and the Juvie people are into the victim garbage, child
abuse by family members, male and female. How's our Governor and the star?"

"Professional to the eyeballs. He was awesome and she
was magnificent."

"They were," Gail said when Fiona had signed off.
"We all bought it."

Neither of them was hungry, ignoring their Big Macs, but
picking sporadically at their fries while sipping their coffee. Ben was late
and when he arrived he seemed out of breath and his expression could best be
described as hangdog. He had the round face of the family, but his cheeks;
instead of fleshy like his mother's and his aunt's were sunken. His eyes, as they
were earlier, were bloodshot and twitchy and his lips were cracked and parched.