prep school. A dancing class but not the right dancing class. Invitations to the big deb balls but not to the really important little ones. I remember wondering at the time if Paul was marrying Jacqueline for love or for position or for simple obsession. I don’t think I ever reached an answer in my own mind.”
“Why did she marry him ?” Sid asked curiously.
Fred laughed. “Because she was a thoroughly ridiculous woman, that’s why. Jacqueline was the sort of rich woman who has love affairs with projects. The recovery movement was her project. Or maybe Paul’s career in the recovery movement was her project. I don’t know.”
“Whatever,” Sid said. “They’re always saying in the papers that you know who really did it. They’re always saying you’re the only one who knows.”
“The only way I could be the only one who knows is if I’d done it myself,” Fred said, “and I didn’t. I’m glad to be able to say I was in Gstaad at the time. You shouldn’t read the tabloids, Sid, they’re bad for you.”
“You read them,” Sid said.
“The Bickerson jury will be returning to the courtroom in three minutes,” a woman’s low voice said pleasantly through the loudspeakers hanging above their heads. “Will all principals please return to the courtroom. The Bickerson jury will be returning to the courtroom in three minutes…”
Fred checked his watch. “Hour and a half. Maybe they sent out for Chinese.”
“Maybe Chuckie will throw another fit when the verdict is read.” Sid got to his feet. “Is he really that dumb, or is he putting on an act? I keep thinking nobody could be really that dumb.”
“He’s really that dumb.” Fred got to his feet himself. “But she isn’t. I wonder what it is she thinks she’s up to.”
“Who?” Sid demanded.
“Candida DeWitt,” Fred said, leading the way back out into the corridor. “She really isn’t a stupid woman, you know, and this memoir thing is damn near terminal idiocy. So she’s got to be doing it on purpose.”
“Right.” Sid sounded dubious.
“I wonder what she’s up to,” Fred said again. “I wonder if I paid her a visit if she’d tell me.”
8
G REGOR DEMARKIAN WAS OUT to dinner with a friend who had been with him in the FBI, but that was all right. Lida Arkmanian had a key to his apartment. She had a key to old George Tekemanian’s apartment on the first floor of this same building and a key to Hannah Krekorian’s place up the street, but for some reason Lida had keys to neither Bennis Hannaford’s apartment nor Donna Moradanyan’s. There was no significance in this. Keys got passed around on Cavanaugh Street the way baseball trading cards had before they got valuable enough to collect. Keys came and went too, until somehow they mysteriously disappeared, and then somebody had to ask Gregor to jimmy a lock.
Since Gregor’s key was the only one she needed for the moment, and since it hadn’t disappeared, Lida was thinking about keys in only the most desultory way, because she was tired and drifty-headed and really in need of an early night. She had spent the past several hours making pastries of various kinds, for no good reason at all. God only knew she didn’t need to eat more desserts than she already did, and Gregor needed it even less. God only knew she had better things to do with her time than cook—or did she? That was a very hard question to answer. Lida didn’t know what a fifty-eight-year-old woman was supposed to do with her time. She just knew that she’d been feeling restless all evening, and wondered if she ought to take a vacation. She was much too jumpy to sit still, and so it had seemed the perfect solution to do some serious cooking and let her nerves do some good for somebody while she couldn’t make them calm down. Now it was eight-thirty and she was coming empty-handed out of Gregor Demarkian’s third-floor apartment, having left a pile of halvah in his refrigerator tall enough to qualify as
“Why did she marry him ?” Sid asked curiously.
Fred laughed. “Because she was a thoroughly ridiculous woman, that’s why. Jacqueline was the sort of rich woman who has love affairs with projects. The recovery movement was her project. Or maybe Paul’s career in the recovery movement was her project. I don’t know.”
“Whatever,” Sid said. “They’re always saying in the papers that you know who really did it. They’re always saying you’re the only one who knows.”
“The only way I could be the only one who knows is if I’d done it myself,” Fred said, “and I didn’t. I’m glad to be able to say I was in Gstaad at the time. You shouldn’t read the tabloids, Sid, they’re bad for you.”
“You read them,” Sid said.
“The Bickerson jury will be returning to the courtroom in three minutes,” a woman’s low voice said pleasantly through the loudspeakers hanging above their heads. “Will all principals please return to the courtroom. The Bickerson jury will be returning to the courtroom in three minutes…”
Fred checked his watch. “Hour and a half. Maybe they sent out for Chinese.”
“Maybe Chuckie will throw another fit when the verdict is read.” Sid got to his feet. “Is he really that dumb, or is he putting on an act? I keep thinking nobody could be really that dumb.”
“He’s really that dumb.” Fred got to his feet himself. “But she isn’t. I wonder what it is she thinks she’s up to.”
“Who?” Sid demanded.
“Candida DeWitt,” Fred said, leading the way back out into the corridor. “She really isn’t a stupid woman, you know, and this memoir thing is damn near terminal idiocy. So she’s got to be doing it on purpose.”
“Right.” Sid sounded dubious.
“I wonder what she’s up to,” Fred said again. “I wonder if I paid her a visit if she’d tell me.”
8
G REGOR DEMARKIAN WAS OUT to dinner with a friend who had been with him in the FBI, but that was all right. Lida Arkmanian had a key to his apartment. She had a key to old George Tekemanian’s apartment on the first floor of this same building and a key to Hannah Krekorian’s place up the street, but for some reason Lida had keys to neither Bennis Hannaford’s apartment nor Donna Moradanyan’s. There was no significance in this. Keys got passed around on Cavanaugh Street the way baseball trading cards had before they got valuable enough to collect. Keys came and went too, until somehow they mysteriously disappeared, and then somebody had to ask Gregor to jimmy a lock.
Since Gregor’s key was the only one she needed for the moment, and since it hadn’t disappeared, Lida was thinking about keys in only the most desultory way, because she was tired and drifty-headed and really in need of an early night. She had spent the past several hours making pastries of various kinds, for no good reason at all. God only knew she didn’t need to eat more desserts than she already did, and Gregor needed it even less. God only knew she had better things to do with her time than cook—or did she? That was a very hard question to answer. Lida didn’t know what a fifty-eight-year-old woman was supposed to do with her time. She just knew that she’d been feeling restless all evening, and wondered if she ought to take a vacation. She was much too jumpy to sit still, and so it had seemed the perfect solution to do some serious cooking and let her nerves do some good for somebody while she couldn’t make them calm down. Now it was eight-thirty and she was coming empty-handed out of Gregor Demarkian’s third-floor apartment, having left a pile of halvah in his refrigerator tall enough to qualify as
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