Banshee

Chapter Nine

Mr. Cassandra had finished work for the day. He left his tambourine and robe in his hotel room and went down to the bar on the ground floor where he held court nearly every evening. It wasn’t much of a court, eight stools and a young bartender who went to school during the day and yawned a great deal at night.

Mr. Cassandra drank only on special occasions. But using both his prolific memory and his imagination, he could think of special occasions at the drop of a hat: Presidents’ birthdays, the ends of wars, the completion of dams, bridges and tall buildings, the first Mardi Gras, the invention of the wheel, the Bill of Rights and Fridays, all of these deserved to be celebrated, and were.

The clientele of the bar was mixed, but they all had one thing in common: None of them could shut Mr. Cassandra up.

“Many, many times throughout my life I could have made me a fortune. And every time I blew it. I blew it again this week. I had something valuable to sell and instead of selling it I gave it away. And what is this something? you ask.”

“I didn’t ask,” said the man sitting beside him. “Nobody asked. Nobody wants to—”

“A name. Simply a name, that’s all. Randy. Know whose name that is? A chicken’s.”

“Where the hell you coming from, man? You ain’t got no chickens. The hotel don’t allow pets.”

Mr. Cassandra continued, unruffled. “At a certain time on a certain day this man Cunningham was at a certain place calling for Randy. He told the police he was calling his cat. Cat, my ass. He was calling one of his chickens who’d flown the coop. What I should have done is gone to Cunningham and told him I was willing to forget the whole incident in return for a nice sum of money. And why didn’t I? you ask.”

“I didn’t ask. I don’t give a shit.”

“Because I’m an honest man, that’s why. Honesty is the family curse. I had an uncle who forgot to pay his income taxes for a few years and when the IRS caught up with him they asked him point-blank if he’d paid his taxes during that time and he said no. They sent him to the slammer for two years.”

“Man, he must of got up front of some mean dude of a judge.”

“He should have pleaded not guilty but the family curse was on him. A lie would have caught in his throat like a fishbone, would have clutched his stomach like an iron claw.”

“Then how come he cheat on his taxes?”

“He didn’t cheat. It was an honest mistake.”

Such honesty deserved to be commemorated. A round of drinks was paid for by Mr. Cassandra who suddenly remembered that that very day was the anniversary of his uncle’s release from the slammer.

The curiosity of the young bartender, ordinarily dulled by fatigue, was roused at the idea of a chicken called Randy who was worth a fortune.

“He had no feathers,” Mr. Cassandra explained.

“I got a friend who owned a real old canary that hardly had any feathers left. No feathers, couldn’t sing, couldn’t fly… If this guy Cunningham is so rich, how come he keeps chickens?”

“To keep the kind of chickens he keeps and stay clear of the police, you have to be rich. Real rich.”

“How’d he get that rich?”

“He had a mother,” Mr. Cassandra said.

As soon as she opened the door Michael recognized her as the overweight overdressed woman he’d noticed at Annamay’s funeral services. She had sat in the back row between Ben York and a handsome middle-aged man with bronze skin and silvery hair. The strangers were later identified to him as Mrs. Cunningham and her son, Peter.

She wore the same kind of costume she’d worn at the funeral services, layers of a gauzy material that drew attention to her weight instead of camouflaging it, just as the heavy makeup drew attention to her wrinkles instead of hiding them. She was, Michael guessed, about seventy. In the police file Cunningham was listed as fifty-one. His mother had not revealed her age.

Michael said, “Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Yes.” She peered up at him, blinking her eyes rapidly to clarify his image and her memory. “Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met formally. I’m Michael Dunlop.”

“Oh dear me. The minister?”

“Yes.”

“How odd.” She leaned heavily against one side of the doorframe as if she needed help in supporting the weight of heaven as well as her own. “Unless of course you’re collecting for something?”

“No. At least not money. Let’s consider this a social call.”

“I can’t imagine why a minister would pay a social call on me. Unless Peter put you up to it. He has quite a nasty sense of humor like his father.”

“I’m not acquainted with your son.”

“Oh.”

“May I come in?”

“I suppose. If you’re quite sure you’re not an impostor.”

“I’m quite sure.” Not entirely, he thought, and wondered if Mrs. Cunningham was especially perceptive or a good guesser.

Everything in the massive old house seemed to be made of wood, paneled walls, beamed ceiling, parquet floor. In the living room where she led him, the most imposing piece of furniture was a concert-sized grand piano made of rosewood which was no longer used for pianos, and bearing the name of a manufacturer who had gone out of business years ago. The lid was open and the keyboard exposed as if someone might have been interrupted while playing it. But the bench and keys were dusty and there was no music in sight.

She saw him looking at the piano and said with a sigh, “My son, Peter, is the musician of the family. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. He plays extra loudly to cover his mistakes but somehow one hears them anyway. The house is what Peter’s friends call live.”

“Because of all the wood.”

“Yes. Sounds travel to every nook and cranny. There’s no escaping Peter’s mistakes.” She let out a small snort of amusement but suppressed it so quickly Michael wasn’t positive he’d heard it. “When Peter played Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavichord my late husband used to call it the Ill-Tempered Clavichord… Will you sit down?”

“Thanks.”

“Now what’s the protocol? Do I offer you a drink or something like that?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I intend to have a drop or two myself so perhaps you will join me.”

She produced a bottle of cheap scotch and a yellow plastic tumbler from behind a boxed set of Shakespeare’s comedies. The set still wore the publisher’s transparent wrapping but the bottle was more than half empty.

“There’s only one glass so we shall have to take turns. Peter keeps all the good booze and crystal locked up when he’s away.”

Half a dozen questions rose to the surface of Michael’s mind: How far away is he? Out of town? Out of state? When did he leave? When will he be back? Who is Randy? But he said only, “Taking turns will be fine.”

“I could ring for another glass but the maid is watching television while she irons and even if she heard the bell she’d be terribly annoyed and pretend she doesn’t speak English. According to Peter, I don’t know how to handle the Mexican servants. His method is to use nouns and act out the verbs. What method do you use?”

“I speak Spanish.” It beats acting out the verbs. “I had a parish in East L.A. for a while. It’s now part of a shopping mall.”

“I have no trouble communicating with our houseboy. He’s an Indian, the kind from India who meditates. His English is perfect. He’s on vacation right now.” She poured a liberal amount of scotch into the plastic tumbler and handed it to him. “Here. You first.”

The liquid had the smell and sting of carbolic acid and the first mouthful was hard to swallow. The second was only a little easier.

Her snort this time was unmistakable. “Not very good, is it? But then one doesn’t drink the stuff for taste. One drinks it for anxiety, insomnia, high blood pressure, fibrillation, despair. Do you have any of those?”

“Not regularly.”

“But sometimes?”

“Yes.”

“Which one? I mean, which one do you have the often-est?”

“Despair, I suppose.”

“And you’re a minister?”

“Yes.”

“How odd.” She poured the rest of the bottle of scotch into the plastic tumbler. “One doesn’t expect ministers to suffer from despair. After all, they have a nice safe forever in store for them.”

“Do they?”

“If they don’t, who does?”

“That’s a question I can’t answer.”

She didn’t say, “How odd,” again but she looked as if she were thinking it. “I’m disappointed. I always thought if I managed to get through this life, something better was waiting for me. If there’s not, then this is all, this is it?”

“Perhaps.”

“What a dreadful prospect.”

“Sorry.”

“In fact I find the whole conversation extremely depressing.”

“Sorry about that too.”

“Ministers should say encouraging things like how everybody will get their reward in heaven. Don’t you believe that?”

“No.”

“You must have believed it once or you wouldn’t have become a minister.”

“I believed it once.”

“What happened?”

“A little girl died.”

“Is that all?”

“There were other things as well but that was the main one.”

The liquor was already having its effect. Mrs. Cunningham’s face seemed to be coming apart, melting like gelatin and held together only by the thick crust of makeup. One of her eyes had gone slightly out of focus, making her look a little like Annamay’s doll, Marietta, with her permanent strabismus.

“There must be a heaven,” she said. “There must be. Otherwise how could I endure all this… all this—”

She stared around the room with a kind of desperation, and Michael wondered what it was she couldn’t endure: the house? the furnishings? Peter’s mistakes on the piano?

“All this what, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Sometimes it’s not nice living here,” she said vaguely. “But I have no other place to go. Peter says I wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere else. So he lets me stay here and he has promised never to leave me because then I would be alone. I couldn’t bear being alone. So like it or not, I must put up with his friends, smile at their stupid antics, pretend not to mind when they leave their smelly clothes all over the house, yes, sometimes even draped on my piano, my beloved piano.”

“It’s an antique, I see.”

“It belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to me when I was in my teens and studying music quite seriously. I don’t play anymore except at Christmas a few carols when I think no one is listening. ‘Silent Night,’ ‘Come, All Ye Faithful,’ ‘Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.’ ” She reached out suddenly and grabbed his coat sleeve. “There must be angels. Surely there must be angels.”

“If you want to believe—”

“No no. Tell me. Tell me there are angels.”

“All right,” he said heavily. “There are angels.”

“Who are looking out for me.”

“Who are looking out for you.”

“I can’t live without angels.”

She sat down on the piano bench and played the opening bars of “The First Noel,” singing the words in a thin sweet soprano. Listening to her Michael thought, She’s right, of course. There must be angels. People had to have them.

She played badly and she knew it. “I’ve lost my touch. Grandfather would be disappointed at hearing such sounds coming from his cherished piano. Thank God he can’t hear the way Peter’s friends bang on it. ‘Chopsticks.’ Isn’t it funny, children are still playing ‘Chopsticks’ the way they did in my youth.”

“You speak of Peter’s friends as children,” Michael said. “How old are they?”

“I don’t ask. In this house nobody dares to refer to age. Peter can’t stand the idea of growing old. When he started getting bald at an early age I often heard him sobbing in his room at night. You look surprised. Didn’t you know he is bald?”

“No.”

“Bald as an egg. All that lovely silvery hair, not a strand of it is real. He began buying wigs before he was thirty, brown at first, then each succeeding one a little grayer until they were entirely gray like those he wears now. He kept every one of them. They’re on wig stands in his bedroom. It’s spooky, all those rows of heads staring at you without eyes. Poor Peter, he likes to think his little friends don’t know he wears a wig. How silly. It’s almost impossible to fool a child. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

Yet someone had fooled Annamay. She and Dru had left the Hyatt house together and gone down to the creek in search of polliwogs. When they didn’t find any, Dru lost interest and went on home. What then? Where were the dogs?

“We left them at home,” Dru had told the coroner’s jury, “because they always waded in the water and scared creatures away.”

If the dogs had been present, what creatures might they have scared away? A con man with a tambourine? A mad old madam on one of her escapades? A chicken hawk looking for one of his chickens? Someone nobody had even thought of?

“Peter’s friends,” Michael said, “Who are they?”

“Nobody. Riffraff. He picks them up off the street and after they’ve eaten our food and drunk our booze and stolen whatever they can get their hands on, they return to the street.”

“Are any of them girls?”

“Girls?” She stood up, swaying slightly as if the floor had begun crumbling under her feet. “Of course not. Peter isn’t interested in girls. He promised me when he was in his early teens that he would never marry, never leave me alone.”

“I meant little girls.” He wondered how far he could go without pushing her over the brink. “Like Annamay Hyatt.”

“Are you implying—? Yes, I see you are. Well, you couldn’t be more mistaken. Peter hadn’t the faintest interest in little girls, especially the Hyatt child.”

“Why especially, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“She was a sneaky devil, always creeping up on him and spying. She and that friend of hers spied on nearly everyone in the neighborhood, peering over walls and through fences.” She had begun swaying again, rhythmically, like a distraught mother rocking a sick child. “My son was not interested in girls. Any girls, of any age. He promised me he would never get married and leave me here alone.”

“I’m sure he never will.”

“I— You’re very kind.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. They were as tearless as the wig stands in Peter’s bedroom. “Oh, I’m glad Peter isn’t here. He hates me to become emotional like this.”

“Where is he, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“San Francisco. He took Randy along to look after his clothes and things.”

“Randy is his special friend?”

“Oh no. He’s our houseboy. He’s an Indian. From India, I mean. He meditates.”

“The servants of all the families in the neighborhood were questioned by the police. No one by the name of Randy appears in the files.”

“His real name is Maharandhi Rau. He was questioned by the police several times but of course he didn’t know anything. On the afternoon the Hyatt girl disappeared Randy was down in the citrus grove meditating, and when he meditates he can’t see or hear anything at all. He’s on a different plane, in another dimension.” She sounded wistful, as if other places, other times were more appealing than here and now. “I wonder if meditation would do me any good.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try it.”

“I suppose one has to select a subject to meditate about.”

“Probably.”

“Very well, I choose angels.”

“That’s an interesting choice.”

“I shall start immediately… That is, as soon as you leave.”

“I was on the point of leaving.”

“How nice of you to suggest meditating. When Randy gets home he’ll be terribly surprised to find he’s not the only one who can reach a different plane in another dimension. There I’ll be, waiting for him.”

“He’ll be surprised, all right.”

“What a joke on him. Ho ho ho.”

Santa Claus couldn’t have said it better.

Her mood had taken a sharp upswing and pulled her body along with it. She held herself erect and steady and the hand she offered him was firm, her smile gracious.

“I’ve enjoyed our little visit, Mr. Dunlop. Do come again.”

“I’ll try.” Ho ho ho.

Howard, who started his working hours at six in the morning when the New York Stock Exchange opened, left the office at two and was back at the guest cottage by two-thirty. He found Michael waiting for him.

“We can scratch Randy’s name off the list,” Michael said.

“Why?”

“He was questioned by the police several times under his real name, Maharandhi Rau. I’ve just finished going over the report. Here, read the conclusion of the last tape for yourself.”

“All right.”

“All right,” Howard said, putting the typed page back on the table. “Scratch Randy. Who’s next?”

“Nobody. His was the last name on the list.”

“So where do we go from here? Dozens of questions remain unanswered For instance, why wasn’t she found sooner?”

“That question has been raised by a number of people, in newspaper editorials, letters to the editor, interviews with elected officials. A variety of reasons have been given, some conjectural, some scientific. First, there were too many volunteers in the field. Most of them genuinely wanted to help, some simply wanted to be heroes, a few had their eyes on the reward money. But they all had one thing in common: They were untrained, didn’t know what to look for or how to look for it. Their presence also disturbed the tracking dogs who were brought in, though there were also other factors involving the dogs. Many species of wildlife still roam the area, especially nocturnal ones who are attracted by the avocado and citrus groves — possums, raccoons, wood rats, skunks. One spray of a skunk can cover all other odors for some time.”

“I know.” Howard recalled the occasion when Newf decided to challenge a skunk. The battle was lost before it even began. A hurried call to a veterinarian revealed the fact that no progress had been made in dealing with the problem and the solution was the same as it was in Howard’s childhood. The dog had to be soaked in tomato juice and then shampooed. Newf’s hundred and seventy pounds were covered by thick hair from two to four inches long and the treatment was slow and difficult. But eventually, after the application of a dozen giant cans of tomato juice, all of Kay’s shampoo, Howard’s aftershave lotion, Chizzy’s perfume and two blow dryers, Newf was anxious to resume his role of family dog instead of skunk-fighter. The winner’s scent remained on Newf’s nose and forehead where he had refused to accept treatment, but Annamay didn’t mind. He spent the night in her bedroom.

Chizzy was rather bitter about the perfume. “My brother-in-law gave it to me for Christmas. White Shoulders. He probably paid a fortune for it. He’s an electrician.”

“I’ll buy you a quart of the stuff,” Howard said.

Only now did he realize that he’d forgotten to buy it. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow as soon as the stores open.

“…Are you listening, Howard?”

“Certainly. Go on.”

“Another possible reason why the tracking dogs failed was suggested by a botanist. Anise, a perennial weed growing throughout the canyon, was in full bloom at the time. Its odor is short-range but powerful. So much for the dogs, who might simply have been inadequately trained, and back to the people who were not trained at all. Aside from the fact that there were too many amateurs in the field, the nature of another factor must be considered. Annamay was found under a large oak tree whose base was overgrown with poison oak. Now the police are reluctant to admit that their men might have taken pains to avoid or skim over such areas, but they obviously did. It’s understandable. Clean-up crews employed by the city and county demand extra pay and protective clothing when they have to work with poison oak. So the police have their answers, the tracking dogs have theirs, and we’re left with the questions. Sorry, Howard. It looks like a dead end.”

Howard pressed his hands against his temples, moving his head from side to side in agonized denial. “God. God almighty. There must be something we can do.”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry.”

“Sorry. Yes, everyone’s sorry… Leave me alone now, will you, Mike? I want to… have to… don’t know, scream, curse, roll on the floor, bang my head against the wall.”

“Go easy on yourself, Howard. We did the best we could.”

“Which was nothing, absolutely nothing. Now beat it. Please.”

Michael hesitated at the door. “God forbid I should interfere with some good old-fashioned head banging but I hate to leave you in a depressed mood. Kay’s home. She waved at the window when I drove past the house. Why don’t you go over and talk to her?”

“I have nothing to say and neither has she. Put it this way: A volcano erupted in our life and the crater it left is too wide to shout across. So don’t try playing marriage counselor or psychiatrist. Don’t even try playing minister.”

“If you’re telling me I’m no good at it, I agree.”

“I’m telling you, butt out.”

“I’m on my way,” Michael said. “And thanks.”

“For what?”

“The advice.”

“I didn’t give you any advice.”

“I think you did.” Don’t try playing minister. All right, I won’t. Now how do I break the news to Lorna? — “Hey Lorna, me and God have split.” No, make it serious… “After years of doubt I have decided to quit a profession the basic premise of which I can no longer accept.”

As he closed the door behind him he felt no guilt or regret. That would come later, in dreams, on dark winter mornings, sunny afternoons, behind the eyes and inside his stomach, anytime, anyplace. Right now his mind and body were immune. He was free, buoyant and, for a minute or two, happy.

Outside, the late afternoon wind had started blowing in from the sea, cold and wet and timeless. It smelled of the past, flotsam left stranded on the beach at low tide, yet it seemed to promise a future and he felt like breaking into a run, running all the way home.

There was no chance to run. His ancient Buick was waiting at the curb and Howard’s father was sitting in the front seat. Mr. Hyatt looked chilled and his voice had a trace of irritability. “Did you know this seat has a broken spring?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to have it fixed or repaired?”

“Probably not.”

“I see. You feel the car is too old to merit further attention.”

“Not at all. Mr. Hyatt, did you wait for me out here in order to discuss car seats?”

“Oh, no.”

“What then?”

“I’m worried. Kay had a phone call and she’s crying. Kay doesn’t cry anymore, ever. Someone is coming to the house to see her, someone with bad news, someone she’s afraid of.”

“How do you know this?”

“I was in the upstairs hall when the phone rang in her bedroom and I heard her answer. I don’t approve of eavesdropping but it’s the only way I get information anymore. I heard her say the name Ben. But it can’t be Ben who’s coming. She wouldn’t cry about that. She likes Ben, he’s like a little brother to her. So it can’t be Ben who’s coming, can it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you going to do about it, Michael?”

“Nothing.”

“But… but Kay is crying.”

“That’s her privilege.” I’m no longer in the ministering business, old man. I was no good at it anyway. Ask my friend Howard, my wife, Lorna.

The old man’s head had sunk down into the collar of his sweater as if the muscles that held it erect had lost their strength. His face had a bluish tinge and his voice shook. “I regret having bothered you.”

“You didn’t,” Michael said. “I’ll drive you back to the house.”

“No, thank you. I can walk.”

He got out of the car, bracing himself against the wind. His trousers twitched and flapped around his legs, outlining his bony knees and sharp shins.

“Mr. Hyatt.”

“You go along now, Michael.”

“You’re forcing me to think you’re a stubborn old man.”

Mr. Hyatt looked a little startled, then he turned and without another word got back into the car, and sat with his hands folded quietly in his lap.

Michael put the key in the ignition. After a few coughs and wheezes the engine turned over, making the smooth powerful sound of its heyday. Mr. Hyatt listened to it with obvious pleasure, as if he felt the smooth powerful sounds of his own heyday stirring inside him.

“They don’t make cars like this anymore.”

“No, sir.”

“You should really have this seat replaced, Michael.”

“I don’t have time to scout the junkyards.”

“Junkyards? No, no. You must buy a new seat.”

“They don’t make seats like this anymore either, Mr. Hyatt.”

“A pity. The design is good and it’s actually quite comfortable except for the broken spring.”

“I’ll see what I can do about it.”

He stopped the car under the portico at the front door of the main house and the old man got out again.

“It would be nice if you came in and talked to Kay, Michael.”

“Many things would be nice if.” It would be nice if he didn’t have to tell Lorna he was leaving the ministry. It would be nice if she didn’t scream, didn’t remind him what a failure he’d been as a husband, provider, partner, comforter. It would be nice if he could just walk away without saying or hearing anything.

“Kay will be grateful for your interest, Michael,” the old man said. “Very grateful.”

If Kay was grateful she managed to conceal it nicely. She gave Mr. Hyatt a frown that sent him scurrying off down the hall. Then she turned the frown on Michael.

“I’d ask you to come in but I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“I’ll come in anyway if I may. It’s cold out here.”

“It won’t be much warmer in here, I assure you. But all right. I can’t very well turn away a shivering minister, can I?”

“On behalf of my fellow shiverers, thanks.”

He followed her into what Kay called her tea room, a small area between the dining room and the kitchen. There was an ornate silver tea service on the teakwood table but the air smelled of coffee.

Her frown had faded somewhat but her voice was still unfriendly. “Did Howard send you?”

“No.”

“You simply dropped in on the spur of the moment? I’m not buying that.”

“I’m not selling. The reason I’m here is that Mr. Hyatt told me you received a phone call which upset you.”

“Upset me? Do I look upset? I’m not one bloody bit upset. And I wish my father-in-law and Chizzy would stop listening in on conversations that are none of their business.”

“Everything about you is their business, Kay,” Michael said bluntly. “So what happened and who’s coming here?”

Instead of answering immediately she sat down at the teakwood table with the silver tea service in front of her like a shield. This was her place and taking it seemed to restore her poise.

“It was a woman,” she said. “I’ve never met her but I know her name, Quinn, and her position in life.”

“And what’s her position?”

“Horizontal.”

“I see.”

“Rumor has it she’s not a professional, but a very gifted amateur.”

“Mr. Hyatt overheard the name Ben. How does Ben fit into this?”

“Snugly. She’s his current live-in. I don’t know her first name. Ben calls her Quinn and that’s how she identified herself on the phone.”

“Why does she want to see you, Kay?”

“I’m not sure. She sounded, not drunk exactly, but under the influence of something. She insisted on coming here to see me in person.”

“Why?”

“She has something to tell me about Ben.” Kay stared out the window with its view of the lily pond and the marble dolphins that kept the water fresh. “I think it concerns Annamay.”

“Did she actually say so?”

“She hinted at a close connection between them. Too close.”

“She wouldn’t be more explicit?”

“Not over the phone… Annamay and Ben. The two names together always seemed so natural and wholesome. Now there’s this doubt in my mind. I keep thinking of incidents, trying to remember details, wondering if they were as innocent as they appeared.”

“Quinn probably intends you to do just that. So don’t do it. Don’t speculate. Wait until you hear some facts if she has any. She may simply be a troubled woman, jealous of Ben’s friends and trying to alienate them.”

“Not them,” Kay said. “Me. She thinks I’m the Other Woman in her love life.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No.”

“I’ll be at home. Call me there if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

They shook hands formally and briefly. She had regained control of herself and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be hearing from her.