“I imagine,” I said. Then, making a show of admiring her incognito outfit, I asked, “How’s the salad oil investigation going?”
She smiled and put on the cover of her sunglasses. “There won’t be anything on it for months.”
“Or maybe for forever?”
Her head didn’t move. Her sunglasses only reflected, nothing more.
“How about those citizens’ committees, unknown to actual citizens, you said have been formed in Rivertown?” I asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but one pair of the faint lines at her mouth was working against a smile.
“I did tell you, did I not, that Elvis just passed by here, walking toward city hall?”
The pair of faint lines at her mouth gave way, just a little more.
It had been no coincidence that Jenny had appeared so soon after Elvis Derbil passed by, sneaking back to city hall. Elvis had become Jenny’s newest source.
She stood up and kissed an uncut part of my cheek. “There’ll be no sharing any of your conjecturing, on any subject, for the time being.”
Her kiss stayed warm on my cheek, long after she’d driven away.
Strange days, indeed.
CHAPTER 65.
I called Plinnit at five o’clock, because I’d gotten nowhere, spending the whole afternoon scratching at something by myself.
“Did you get your DNA results-?”
“My officer is recovering, thank you,” he said, cutting me off.
“That’s a relief. Did you get those DNA results?”
“The damned EMT cleaned your hands. If we get anything at all, it will be tomorrow, at the earliest. Why are you interested?”
“Naturally enough, I want to know who attacked me.”
That wasn’t true; I’d actually called to be certain of who had not attacked me. What had started as an idle theory around lunchtime had spent the afternoon blossoming into a bizarre almost-certainty, but I could tell Plinnit none of that.
“I’ll call you when I hear,” he said.
“You will?”
“Probably not.” He hung up.
I called Leo. “I might need my Jeep.” It was parked at his place.
“Let me look out the window… Nope, it’s still there. I left the doors open, and the engine running. Someone could have taken it, I suppose, but if they did, they returned it.”
He came by in fifteen minutes, but he was in his Porsche. “This way, you’ll only have to drive home,” he said, “and if you’re willing, I can show you the basement and the television.”
“Your basement? Does this have something to do with what you and Amanda were laughing about this morning, about you no longer going near television?”
“Amanda was laughing. Not me.”
He wouldn’t say anything more. Ten minutes later, when I’d gotten down his basement stairs, I understood.
Ma Brumsky’s playroom had undergone more transformation. Plush dark red drapes covered the walls, and black tiles had been installed on the ceiling. Combined with the gold-flecked red floor I’d seen the last time, the basement had been turned into an adolescent boy’s idea of a strip club.
“Exactly what goes on down here, Leo?”
“My, whatever do you mean?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“The curtains, for starters.” I walked over to touch one of the red drapes. It was made of thick velvet. “These go a long way to tart up the place.”
“Ma’s tastes keep evolving.”
He picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The television and DVD player at the far end of the room came to life, and a significantly implanted blond woman, wearing either a black vinyl dress or black paint, appeared on the screen.
“… drive your man crazy.” The blonde winked one heavily lashed eye. “Now, your first move.”
She moved to a silver pole and gently began to sway against it. Soft music grew louder as she began to twirl, ever so slowly.
Leo moved to the wall and reached behind the curtain. Off went the bright yellow ceiling lights, on came a soft red glow that brought out the textures in the folds of the bloodred velvet curtains.
“Yes,” the implanted woman on the video moaned. She reached behind her to undo a clasp. Definitely, it was a dress, and not paint.
“No,” I said, my mind on fire with the image of Ma Brumsky and her friends, clinging to their poles, and heaving in sync with the blonde on TV.
Leo froze the image on the screen before the dress fell away.
I hugged my arms across my chest, palms at my sides. My stitches could not afford a convulsion. “Leo, they’re in their late seventies…”
“Some are in their early eighties,” he corrected.
I sidled up to hold on to a pole, for support. “They’re widows.”
“Not Mrs. Roshiska. Her husband is still breathing. With a tank, granted, but he’s still breathing.” He switched off the trick red lights, brought back the basic yellows.
Order was restored, at least until I noticed something half hidden under the base of the television.
“What’s that?” I asked, of the spangled thing that peeked out.
He saw it, moved his foot quickly to push it all the way out of sight.
“They’ve got outfits, Leo?” My side was starting to pulse, as deep as Ma’s exercise music.
“They quit quilting at the church. Now they make outfits.”
“These outfits? Is that what you were hearing hitting your door the night I called to ask you to find a town with a statue of an Indian chief? I thought you were going nuts, but you were hearing outfits, being cast off?”
“No. I was giving in to my fears. They were merely throwing towels. They sweat. Still, to be sure, I called Bernard-”
“Ma’s friend’s nephew, Bernard, the accountant? The genius that put you onto the idea of pole dancing?” I hugged my side. The stitches had been through enough.
“Bernard told me not to worry. Nothing’s coming off.”
“Because they can’t work the clasps?”
“They use Velcro-” He stopped when he saw my face. It must have been crinkling with the pain.
“Ma says putting on beads is good,” he hurried on. “Close sewing does wonders for finger dexterity, with the arthritis.”
I had to look away, anywhere but at Leo or the torso frozen on the television screen. And was saved by the sight of my watch. It was almost six o’clock.
“Turn the television to Channel 8,” I said, trying not to shout with relief.
He thumbed the remote, replacing the blonde with Channel 8’s logo.
Jennifer Gale led the broadcast. “Vlodek Elstrom, onetime retainer of the missing Sweetie Fairbairn, was savagely beaten in Fairbairn’s penthouse late yesterday. Sources say Elstrom was combing through Ms. Fairbairn’s records in another attempt to determine what happened to the missing philanthropist when he was attacked. Officially, the police have offered no comment on the assault, but sources familiar with the investigation have revealed the possibility that Elstrom’s attacker was caught on a video surveillance tape, and that an arrest may be forthcoming.”
Jenny then dropped the bomb. “In a related development, this station has learned that the woman known as Sweetie Fairbairn was never married to Silas Fairbairn, the well-known industrialist long thought to be her husband. This may be a huge setback for the many recipients of Ms. Fairbairn’s philanthropy, because she might never have had the authority to disburse Mr. Fairbairn’s millions. We’ll have more on this developing story in the days to come.”
Boom. She signed off.
“Holy smokes,” Leo said.
“Jenny told me about it this morning.”
“Sweetie Fairbairn sure wasn’t what she appeared to be.”
“Which leads me to an inspiration I’ve had.” Before I could continue, the front door slammed upstairs, and the sound of heavy footfalls, accompanied by one small set of squeaking walker wheels, began crossing the floor above our heads.