All's Well That Ends Read online

  I’d liked her, the poor deluded woman, and I hoped against hope that even at this very moment, she was walking down the aisle with a man in a fake, red ball of a nose and oversized clown shoes.

  Four

  * * *

  * * *

  I tried to get out of school quickly, not out of any urgency to get to the job with Sasha, but so as to beat the traffic over the bridge into New Jersey. Bordentown was about thirty miles away, and could be a quick enough trip or a nightmare commute.

  I hit gridlock at the front door, with students hellbent on getting out of the building, and I once again was jostled by parkas and mufflers and lined leather gloves.

  “Sorry!” a young male voice said. That same word, that same voice—time-delayed echoes in these hallowed halls?

  “Jonesy?” It was indeed. He looked horrified by the sight of me. And frightened, too. “We have to stop meeting this way,” I said.

  Not only did he not find my remark witty in the least, but the boy next to him looked perturbed. Almost angry. “Meeting?” he said. “Why?” His eyes flicked over me dismissively and fixed on Jonesy. “Why would you?”

  I disliked his rudeness—why would he be that incredulous about somebody meeting with me?—but wasn’t surprised by it, or by his stupidity. I disliked him. “It was a joke, Griffith,” I said. “An old joke.”

  I knew he didn’t like having his entire first name used, and that he wanted to be called “Griff.” Otherwise, people thought of his father, Griffith Ward, host of a popular local TV talk show, occasional guest reporter on the evening news, and former movie actor. His movies had been dreadful, and his talk show was nothing if not ordinary, but he was a man of great charm and that seemed enough to draw in interesting, or at least famous, celebrity guests. As for his string of forgettable films—Philadelphians forgot about them.

  I liked him, too, or whatever I knew of his public persona. But his son was another matter. He had charm, but only a thin veneer that barely covered a smug, arrogant, and slow-witted personality.

  I felt wretched admitting that I did not like Griffith Ward the Younger. I entered teaching intending to and believing that I would respect and fully appreciate each child’s individuality. If asked back then, I would have reacted with sincere horror at the idea of a teacher’s disliking a student. I might even react with the same horror now.

  And yet, here we were.

  It didn’t happen often. Not that negative emotions were never in play. I was often-enough annoyed, also vexed, irritated, miffed, put out, riled, and chafed by students’ behavior. But that was different. That was justified, at least to me, and transient.

  My feelings about Griffith Ward the Younger and his ilk were deep-set. He didn’t like being confused with or compared to his father, but he didn’t mind trading on his father’s popularity. The faculty considered it a laughable prank when he declared himself a candidate for Junior Class president, a position that held little responsibility, but a strong promise of reelection as Senior Class president. That, too, meant little in the grand scheme of real power, but it was a test of popularity, and participation in student government looked great on college applications.

  Eventually it didn’t matter if he was taken seriously or not. He became the candidate of choice when his father, with superb political timing, presented the school with two summer internships on his show, and invited his son’s entire eleventh grade classmates to a special day’s taping at the studio. A day that featured a rock star, plus the chance for many in the audience to speak on air.

  That was it. The new and future class or school president was a shoo-in. How could you not like that vacant, happy, glad-handing jock? I wouldn’t mind the complete lack of intellectual interest, not as much as I do, if he were not so arrogant. If he didn’t strut around the school with a smirk on his face. If he weren’t always surrounded by a group of toadies. Jonesy, I could see, was one of them.

  “A joke,” Griffith said with a typical sneer. “Yeah. An old joke. Got it. Sorry. I should have known.”

  He made it sound like an insult. Or maybe it was.

  “We’ll be late,” he told Jonesy. “Hurry up.”

  And they were gone, and so was I, none of us up for long farewells or even civilities. Good thing that neither Jonesy nor Griffith was particularly verbose or glib, because that meant they left me with time to get over the bridge without a single snarl. I pulled up outside Phoebe’s house in little more than a half hour, and felt as if I’d done a good thing.

  The neighborhood she’d shared with her fifth husband was unprepossessing but pleasant: small vintage homes from before one of our wars, each with a bay window in the living room, almost all with tieback drapes and sheer curtains, and all with a square of green lawn neatly divided by a path to the front door. A few owners had tinkered with the symmetry, turning garages into rooms that almost looked as if they’d always served that function, but the look of the street was settled, comfortable, and unpretentious. It was not the sort of neighborhood I’d have expected Phoebe to wind up in, given her dreams of grandeur. I wondered if she’d been surprised to find herself here.

  I pulled into the driveway behind Sasha’s car, and as I slammed my door shut, I sensed movement to my left. A woman stood framed in the front window of the house next door. She held back a sheer curtain, and as I caught her eye, she nodded at me. I nodded in return, happy to know she was there. A solidly nosey neighbor is always a good thing and makes my job easier.

  I knew Sasha was waiting for me inside Phoebe’s house for cleaning and tossing detail. But she also wanted me to find out more about Phoebe’s death, so why delay when a friendly face snooped? I went toward the neighbor’s house. “Hi,” I said when she answered the bell. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

  “Not at all. Saw you drive up. It’s always good to keep an eye out, I say. You selling something?”

  “No, I’m with Bright Investigations, and I wonder if—”

  “Hah!” she interrupted. “That’s a good one all right. Don’t suppose anybody’s going to come to the door and say they’re from Stupid Investigations. Or Dim Investigations.”

  I nodded. “It is a silly-sounding name. Only it’s the actual name of the owner. Ozzie Bright.” I didn’t add that his I.Q. didn’t fit his surname, either.

  She looked somewhat abashed.

  “I was wondering if you had some time.”

  “You sure you want me? You’re parked in my neighbor’s driveway, not mine.” She had the throaty tones of a devoted smoker. “Not that I watch all the time, or anything—don’t want you thinking I’m that kind of person. But I happened to see you pull up.”

  “I’d love the chance to speak with you,” I said. “And I’m parked next door because I need to visit that house, too. I’m—”

  “Investigating. Brightly.”

  I chuckled, and she looked pleased. “My name’s Amanda Pepper,” I said.

  She nodded sagaciously as if she’d suspected that name all along and I’d just confirmed her hunch. “What is it? Problems with the will?”

  “Umm.” I tried not to lie in these situations, and most of the time, being noncommittal prompts people to provide the information I’m withholding.

  “Bequests?” She looked interested and a bit hopeful.

  Once again, not lying but not answering, either, had worked. “Umm,” I said again.

  “Oh. Right. You can’t talk about it, probably. Client privilege, whatever. Right?”

  I hoped I looked as if I secretly agreed, but was unfortunately sworn to silence. Then I sighed and cleared my throat. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions, the kind a neighbor might know. I’d only take a few minutes of your time.”

  The word “bequest” was probably still playing in waltz-time in her mind, and she opened the door wide, and invited me in, first putting out a hand. “Ramona Fulgham here.”

  I handed her a business card and she ushered me into her house, which was tidy, orga
nized, and devoid of personality. It could have been a display in a furniture showroom for the surface-phobic. Nothing was allowed to remain uncovered. Bits of a dark blue sofa peeked out from under a ribbed white bedspread. The TV screen it faced was almost as large as the wall behind it, except it had a long runner atop it, making it look as if it were wearing a headscarf. The dark wooden coffee table was covered with glass, and the carpet beneath my feet had a plastic runner over it. Ramona Fulgham gestured me to an uncomfortable-looking chair with doilies protecting its already plasticized arms and back.

  I hadn’t seen crocheted doilies since my great-grandmother was still alive and carefully protecting every hard-won thing she owned against human stains. The net result then and now was to make me feel as if I were a dirty wild thing trespassing on the premises.

  I sat down gently on the side chair, which was as uncomfortable as its contours had suggested, and Ms. Fulgham seated herself in a corner of the sofa. It was a perfect vantage point to see the comings and goings of the neighborhood, should the TV provide inadequate entertainment. The glass-covered end table next to her was carefully arranged for her convenience with a copy of TV Guide, a large ashtray, a waiting pack of cigarettes, and a teacup and saucer. This one corner of the room reflected its owner, after all. “Mind?” she asked as she lit up.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t found a way to cover the air, and the stale cigarette smell of the house was so overpowering, there’d been a danger of secondhand smoke even before she lit up. “No, of course not,” I said. “It’s your house.”

  “Well, thank you kindly. I like your attitude, but some people are so damned self-righteous, and I was raised to try to be polite.” She exhaled a plume of smoke, then eyed me. “So,” she said. “I don’t know what’s under dispute, but let me make something perfectly clear. Phoebe gave me the eagle. I admired it, it being the American symbol and all, and she gave it to me. Flat out, no strings, and for keeps. She had so many beautiful things.”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “that isn’t…there isn’t a question about your eagle.”

  By now, she’d gone to a corner shelf and retrieved a porcelain bird five or six inches tall. “See?” she said. “It’s got this little flag in its talons. I thought it was cute, but I didn’t mean for her to give it to me. She did, though. The next day, walked over here and gave it to me. Could have knocked me over with a feather, you could have.” She considered her remark, and laughed. “Funny, that, isn’t it? Feathers when I’m talking about an eagle.”

  I smiled and nodded, then assured her there was no problem with the bird. Meantime, I wondered when the gift had been bestowed and whether Phoebe had given other things away. Wasn’t that supposedly a sign of suicidal plans?

  “Well, if not that,” Ramona Fulgham said, settling into her sofa corner, the eagle in one hand, and a cigarette laden with ash in the other. “If not that, then what is it about Phoebe Ennis?”

  “I’m not at liberty to be precise, but there’s some question about identifying a recent visitor to her home, so if—”

  “Hah!” she said with no mirth. “No surprise. Which one?” Her laugh produced a brief coughing spell, after which she laughed again. Despite the chortling, Ramona did not seem to be expressing joy or approval.

  “I take it there were many visitors?”

  “Many? Many? Lord help us all! It was…well, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, or to imply anything bad about the poor soul, but I was surprised to hear she was depressed enough to kill herself. Unless all those people were psychiatrists making house calls!” She laughed and coughed again. “Otherwise, it looked to me as if she was having quite a good time, going out or having company in, nearly every night. But I’m not saying anything was wrong; they might have been relatives. Or people paying their condolences.” This last was said with eyebrows raised, to make sure I understood that she in no way believed what she was saying.

  “So these—these visitors—were a fairly recent occurence?”

  She shook her head. “Not while she was married, of course. Not the men, at least. I’m not implying anything of the sort. At least, not that I know of. But I am a widow myself, and I know how terrible it is to lose a husband, so I was surprised by how quickly she, um, bounced back, shall we say, from her state of grief.”

  “She’s been a widow for a while now,” I murmured. “Didn’t Mr. Ennis die last January?”

  Ramona looked stern. “Not even a full year yet. She’s been going out and having visitors for months now, too. But far be it from me to criticize anybody’s method of handling grief. We all have to find our own ways, so I’d never say having all those people over and going out so much was improper and unseemly behavior.”

  Of course she was saying precisely that. She was apophasing—mentioning something by saying it wouldn’t be mentioned. I knew that thanks to Opal Codd. Sometimes her ridiculous words were actually useful.

  “You must understand,” Ramona said with great earnestness, “losing a husband and being on her own wasn’t exactly a new experience for her, the way it was for me, so maybe…”

  I let the idea of Phoebe’s suddenly-single-again expertise pass me by. Then I said, “About how many people would you say visited her in the past month?”

  Ramona slowly shook her head and looked thoughtful. “Men and women? Because women visited, too. Don’t mean to imply only men. Women friends. I’d see them arrive, all fixed up, and Phoebe would be in her finery—she really knew how to dress, although she gave up on wearing black real quick, at least in the daytime. I mean she wore black, but she wore it the way women dressing up always wear black, not as a widow. But when the women came, they’d go out together, mostly. On the town, you know?”

  “Any idea of how many?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’m not the type to spy on a neighbor or keep track. The houses are close together, but I’m not always where I would know if somebody came. But I’d say a person every day, just about. As far as I could tell. But I don’t know if there were repeats. Who is this person you’re looking for? An heir? Maybe if you described him or her, I could think back and remember something. I believe she had a son.”

  I sighed. “Do you know where Phoebe and her callers went when they left here? Women or men? Any special place or places?”

  “How would…?” She shook her head. “I only meant they were all dressed up and I never saw her in church, so I assumed…I surely didn’t mean anything else. Probably just cheering her up. A widow needs her friends, I can tell you that, and I know from bitter experience. Trust me. The world of couples certainly forgets all about you.”

  I murmured sympathetically. “Would you consider yourself one of Mrs. Ennis’s friends, then?” I asked gently. “Did the two of you ever go out on the town?”

  She set her mouth in a tight, small circle and shook her head. “I tried. Tried to be a good neighbor. After all, I felt like somebody who could understand her trials, being in the same situation and all. I tried, and she was polite enough, but not close, do you understand what I’m saying?” She stubbed out the remnant of her cigarette. “Some might call her uppity, or a snob, too good for the rest of us here. All her talk about her ancestors and such, even though she admitted she wasn’t one thousand percent positive. If you aren’t, then why mention it, is what I wondered. Napoleon, did you ever hear such a thing? Her family was from Ireland! She told me that herself, so where would they come to Napoleon, even if her imagination wasn’t running wild? I was too polite to note the inconsistency there, mind you, and in any case, who really cares—besides her, I mean? I’m not a name-caller, mind you, and all that talk—who did it hurt, is what I say. She thinks of herself as something special, well…who does it hurt?”

  “When was this that she talked about her ancestors?” Ramona had said they didn’t go out together socially, and I couldn’t envision even Phoebe seeing this woman in the driveway and abruptly spouting her mishmosh of genealogical theories.

  “One ti
me, a few months ago, her husband had passed and maybe she was lonely. But in any case, she invited me and two other neighbors in for tea. You know she didn’t live here that long before he died, so nobody really knew her, and I thought this was her effort to finally really move into the neighborhood, you know? I thought a cup of tea—” She flicked a finger against the teacup on the end table. “In fact, would you like one? Where are my manners?”

  I demurred, thanking her, reminding her that I’d barged in on her and that, in any case, I wasn’t staying long. I hoped that would speed up her memories and get us to the night Phoebe died, but not all hopes are realized.

  “Tea, I thought. A cup. How would I know different? But she meant the whole shebang. Like the Queen of England might have in the afternoon, with the little sandwiches and cookies. And pretty china, I have to admit. And she talked about having inherited the set, which was quite grand, but it wasn’t clear if that was from the mister who just died, or an earlier husband, or her own family. And afterward, when we talked, we all had noticed that the silver service was monogrammed, but it wasn’t clear whose initials they were, unless the big ‘B’ in the middle of a lot of curlicues was one of her husbands’ initial and it was a souvenir from that marriage. Of course, you know she was married more than once, don’t you?”

  I nodded. I also knew who the “B” in the alphabet of mates had been, although I would have said that Charlie Berg, Sasha’s father, would be more likely to want plastic implements. Disposability was high on his list of priorites, certainly when it came to wives.

  “So one of those marriages, maybe. It seemed rude and insensitive, given her recent widowhood, to ask why I knew her as Phoebe Ennis, and her silver had the wrong monogram. I mean what if she bought it secondhand somewhere?” She paused to light another cigarette, this time not bothering to ask if I minded.

  “The thing was,” she continued after a deep drag, “she suggested that she was descended from royalty. That was the very way she put it. Royal blood flowing in the veins, the whole thing. She said it as if it was a joke: Haha, look what it’s all come down to. And she said it was something her grandmother—who wasn’t all the way right in the head by then—had told her, but you know, she also sounded like she wanted us to believe it. Like she did, anyway, and like it mattered. I mean this is the United States of America. We don’t have royals here and we don’t want them, either, so what was that all about? That’s when I noticed the eagle with the flag, and commented on it, kind of a small reminder of what makes this country great. It was almost a relief, seeing something patriotic in her house after that la-di-dah talk.”