“Connie,” her grandfather said, rousing her. “Will you please share your story with these two fine ladies?”
“Story?”
“The day Carisa Krausse died.” He paused. “They’ve come just to see you.”
The young girl nodded, stood, wiped her stained hands on a towel, and then sat back down, facing us, hands folded on the table. She smiled.
Vega set glasses of lemonade before us, and I was pleased. I remembered the exquisite drink. I sipped mine, and resisted the temptation to smack my lips.
Connie was a beautiful child, with something of her grandfather’s rich mocha coloration; the high cheekbones, the slender nose, the round black eyes, deep and clear; the long straight black hair, so shiny it looked greased, touched with abundant and rich oils. Aztec girl, I thought. Mexican girl. Oddly, I thought of the statue that had been hurled at Carisa: that grotesque green replica of an Aztec girl, with protruding belly and flattened features. A far cry from this ravishing girl; this untouched girl, so innocent, sitting among avocados and kitchen shadow; yet overwhelmingly exotic, sensual. Handmaiden at some ancient shrine.
“Thank you, Connie.” I stopped, looking at the girl’s moving lips. “What?”
“Have they caught the murderer?”
I realized the girl was afraid, living there in the house. “No, not yet.”
Mercy said, quietly, “Did you like Carisa Krausse?”
The girl shook her head slowly. “Not really. Abuelo,” she pointed to Vega, “doesn’t want me to bother the tenants.” He nodded at her. “But we’d say hello. I always wanted to ask her questions because she’s like an actress, and I wanna be in the movies someday. Only one time I saw her after James Dean left, and I had to say something. She said she was gonna marry him. But after that, well, she didn’t talk to me. She was, you know, strange.”
“Strange?”
“She’d yell at nothing, like a little wild, she’d…” Her voice trailed off.
“You ever see who visited her?”
She nodded. “Sometimes lots of people. Movie people. I figured. Some not so nice.”
“Why?” From Mercy.
“Loud, rough. Scary.”
“But not all.”
“No.” Her face brightened. “I started watching the first time I saw James Dean come in. I couldn’t believe it.”
“How did you know him?”
She shifted in the chair, got up and poured herself lemonade. She was wearing a simple blouse, but she had on a poodle skirt lacking the appliqued poodle at the hem. Instead she had a hot rod car embroidered there. A long skirt, neat and pressed, over saddle shoes with bobby socks. I smiled. I could be looking at a girl in New York City or Tampa or Keokuk, Iowa.
“Maybe he came before but a lot of good looking, you know, guys came to see her. But then I saw East of Eden and he was in the movie magazines and suddenly everybody is talking about him. And then he was here. Here!”
“You talked to him?”
She blushed. “Once. I bumped into him in the hallway, and, and he said, ‘How are you?’ I didn’t say anything except mumble, but he just looked at me, he smiled at me, and I couldn’t move.”
Vega said, from across the room, “Since then, she has his pictures on the walls of her room, and she buys the magazines, and she waits by the window when she’s visiting me…”
“Abuelo!” she blurted out, mortified. “He’s a star. All my friends want to hear my story. They ask me everything…”
“Was he here the day Carisa died?” Mercy asked softly.
For a moment she seemed confused. “What?” I asked.
“I don’t want to get him in trouble. He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No,” I answered. “Just tell us what you know.”
Warming up, excited: “Well, I saw him that afternoon.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember the time. I told Detective Cotton I couldn’t remember the first time but it was late in the day.”
“The first time?” That surprised me.
“Yeah, well, he was here twice that day. He came back.”
I looked at Mercy. “Early? Late?” From Mercy.
“I told you-the first time was late afternoon.”
“Before five?” I asked. The cocktail party, from five to seven. Jimmy’s brief appearance, his leaving at-what time? Six or so?
“No, after. I was watching TV before that. I was talking on the phone with my friend, and she was going to the movies.”
“What did Jimmy do?” I went on.
The girl grinned. “Jimmy. You call him Jimmy?”
I nodded, feeling schoolgirlish: the president of his fan club.
“I’m afraid so.” Mercy caught my eye. She was amused.
“Nothing. I saw him on the sidewalk, coming onto the stoop. So I cracked the door and stared into the hallway. He ran up the stairs.”
Vega grumbled. “Connie, I told you not to intrude.”
“He never saw me.”
“He was alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“In that flashy car of his?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t see a car. The only time I saw him in a car, well, he was in a big, like, station wagon. With wood panels on the side. Brand-new.”
I turned to Mercy. “Jimmy drives a station wagon?”
Mercy grinned. “A Ford station wagon, designed for the modern family of four. Mommy, Daddy, and the kiddies. It’s a side of Jimmy you don’t know.”
“I gather.” I shook my head. “And then what happened?”
“I heard him yelling at her, and she was yelling back. In the hallway. I got scared.”
“What did he say?”
“He was swearing, calling her names. She must’ve done something bad to him.”
“Did he go into the apartment?”
“I dunno. He wasn’t there long. Yelling like crazy. I just stayed by the door and waited.”
“Where was I?” her grandfather interrupted.
“In the garden, I think, out back.”
He frowned.
“So how long was he upstairs?” Mercy asked.
“It was like minutes, I guess. Then I heard him on the stairs, and he comes running down, real fast, and out the door.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Why?”
“Was he angry?”
“He went by too fast. I couldn’t tell. And I jumped back, afraid he’d spot me.”
“But,” I said, “you said you saw him again. He came back. Later?”
“Yeah, I mean, well, I thought he left for the day so I didn’t care. I got ready to go meet my friend, you know, do something. So long’s I’m back early, Abuelo doesn’t mind. So like fifteen minutes later-I don’t know-I left and I waited for the bus on the corner. The bus came and I got on, and, you know, it goes by my house. So I’m staring out the window and then, all of a sudden, there he was again, running out the front door. Like a maniac. But the bus was moving, and I had to crane back my neck. He’s running and all, running, like…”
“And you hadn’t seen him arrive?”
“No, I was dressing in my room. I never expected him back.”
Mercy, her voice dark. “And then he was.”
“Yeah, I was so angry. Here I was on the bus, and he’s running out of my building.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see him get into a car?”
“The bus was moving fast, you know, but, no, but I felt somebody was waiting for him there.” She paused, as though conjuring up a picture in her head.
“What?” From Mercy.
“Well, looking back, I saw this car across the street, and there was this lady sitting there, looking out, at him. She was watching him. I could see her right there, but the bus was turning. And I thought, God, he got some girl waiting for him.”
“He went to the car?”
“I couldn’t tell, but I thought so. Looked like it. He was running in that direction-toward her. Jumping off the stoop, onto the sidewalk.”