I picked up the empty yeast packet lying on the counter. “I’ve got news for you. ‘Her’ is dead. You know the expiration date on this packet of yeast? June of 1984.”
“Well, no wonder! I had to hunt all over and finally found that at the back of the pantry.” She humped her way over to the counter and peered into the bowl. “That don’t look good at all. Guess I better start me another batch.”
“Why don’t you wait until Henry gets home and have him demonstrate?”
“Why can’t you do that?”
“I don’t know how to make bread.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. That’s the best incentive I ever heard. Conquer this and I’ll have me a way to lord it over you instead of the other way around.”
? ? ?
I let myself into the studio, took a shower, and then dressed. When I came down the spiral stairs, I sat down at my desk and tried Poppy’s number again. I really didn’t expect her to pick up, so when she answered after four rings, my instinct was to hang up. I didn’t want to put her on notice that I wanted to talk to her and I didn’t want to go through the awkward process of explaining my purpose on the phone. I depressed the plunger while she was still saying, “Hello? Hello?”
I got in my car and went around the block, coming out at Cabana Boulevard, where I took a right. She was only four blocks away, which I could have walked in the time it took. The eight cottages that formed her courtyard showed various degrees of domestication—potted plants on one porch, wicker furniture on another. One patch of yard sported a birdbath and another had a weed whacker lying on its side. I imagined a small insular group of folks who minded each other’s pets when someone went out of town.
I knocked and when she came to the door, I said, “Poppy?”
“Yes?”
Her response was so guarded, I thought she was lying through her teeth. She didn’t look much older than twelve, with pale blue eyes, lank blond hair, and pale cheeks overlaid with sunburn. She was so thin the knobs of her elbows stuck out like the wooden couplers in a set of Tinker Toys. The blue cotton dress she wore had cap sleeves and a sash that appeared to tie in back like garments I’d worn in fifth grade. It wasn’t even stylish at the time.
“If you’re selling something, I don’t buy from you door-to-door types,” she said.
“Sorry.” I reached in my shoulder bag and took out a business card that I handed to her. I don’t think I look anything like a door-to-door salesperson, but what do I know? “I chatted with Troy Rademaker and he suggested I talk to you. That’s me,” I said, pointing to my name like she couldn’t read it for herself. “Your stepmother was kind enough to give me your address.”
“A private investigator? What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”
“I’d like to talk about Sloan. I understand you were best friends.”
“Troy told you that?”
“A couple of other classmates as well. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Not until you tell me what this is about.”
“Fritz McCabe was recently released from CYA. You probably read about it in the paper.”
“I don’t read the paper. It’s depressing.”
“Has he been in touch?”
“What business is that of yours?”
This was going to be my punishment for the ease with which I’d extracted her stepmother’s poor opinion of her. I said, “He served his time and now he’s home again. A question’s come up about a videotape he was in.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did he hire you to come around here asking about that?”
“Not Fritz. I work for someone else.”
“What’s this have to do with me?”
“I was told the tape was in Sloan’s possession shortly before she died. I guess there’s still a chance it’s hidden in her room. The other thought was she entrusted it to you.”
As I said this, it dawned on me (belatedly, I grant you) that it didn’t matter who’d been entrusted with the tape. Maybe Sloan had given it to someone or maybe it was still in her room when her mother closed and locked the door. The tape’s whereabouts for the past ten years wasn’t the point. The point was, who had reason to do Fritz McCabe harm? Who wished him ill and who wanted to turn his newfound freedom into misery?
“Sorry, but she didn’t ‘entrust’ anything to me. I knew she had the tape and I told her I wanted to see it, but she said she’d left it somewhere. She was supposed to let me know when she got it back. She never got a chance. Anyway, right now I’m in the middle of something and I don’t want to take a break.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I picked up movement in her next-door neighbor’s window and I caught sight of the woman I’d encountered briefly on my initial visit. I realized Poppy had offered a response and I hadn’t heard a word.
I said, “I’d rather not go into it standing on your front porch. Your neighbor’s been listening to every word we’ve said.”
She glanced at her neighbor’s window. She and the woman exchanged a look that Poppy held, unblinking, until the woman withdrew.
She stepped back then, allowing me to enter her living room.
She’d filled her small house with an odd assortment of 1940s furniture: heavy blond pieces inlaid with dark laminate. The wooden arms of the chairs had rounded edges and the upholstery was dark plush. The fabric reminded me of the seats in movie theaters when I was a child: short, scratchy nap of some indeterminate color. Usually there were old boogers plastered on the undersides. The area rug was green, tone-on-tone, with a pattern of overlapping leaves.
She went into her small kitchen to the breakfast nook, and I followed like Mary’s little lamb. On the kitchen table, she’d set up a cutting mat, an X-acto knife, a pile of postcards, and a container of a milky substance I assumed was glue.
She’d dissected six or eight postcards, creating strands of color that she affixed to heavy-duty poster board. The design seemed to be abstract except for the occasional reference to one of the fifty states. It was interesting how decorative the word “Ohio” became when it was intermingled with “Wyoming.” Nearby, she had a photograph of Sloan propped up against a cereal box.
I picked up the photo of Sloan and studied it briefly.
“How much have you heard about the tape?” she asked.
“Just Fritz’s claim Sloan stole it from him. I’m wondering where it ended up.”
“Why don’t you ask Bayard Montgomery? They were big old buddies back then. I was just at a pool party at his house.”
She seemed to be loosening up and I wondered if I could press her for more. She was preoccupied with her project and it seemed to temper her initial hostility.
I said, “I’m not clear about the sequence of events. I remember reading about it in the paper, but that was ten years ago. As I recall, Austin Brown invited her to a pool party at his parents’ cabin up on the pass and things got out of hand. Were you there?”