“No, of course not,” the woman assured her quickly. “It just hasn’t been the best morning for us, that’s all.” She turned to the girl. “And I don’t think I told her anything that’s a big secret, Laurie. I did promise to take you to the zoo.”
The girl’s face burned with humiliation. “Will you stop treating me like a child?”
“Actually, no she won’t,” Irene said before the girl’s mother could reply. “My mother treated me like a child until the day she died, and I was nearly sixty when that happened. If you think it’s bad now, just wait a few years. She’ll drive you stark raving mad.” Laurie, taken utterly by surprise by the elderly woman’s words, was now gaping at Irene, who winked at her. “It’s what mothers do,” Irene finished in an exaggerated whisper. “I think they don’t feel like they’re doing their job right if their children aren’t regularly made to feel like idiots.” Now the woman was staring at her too. “I’m Irene Delamond,” she said.
“Caroline Evans,” the woman replied. “This is my daughter, Laurie.”
“And this is my neighbor, Anthony Fleming,” Irene said.
“Who must be getting along,” Anthony said promptly, rising to his feet.
Irene glared at him. “Don’t be silly, Anthony. We just got here. Surely you can sit a few minutes?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Fleming replied. He offered Caroline Evans a neutral smile. “Nice to have met you. And be careful of Irene — she’ll run your life for you if you give her half a chance. The best thing to do is get up and walk away, before she really gets started. Just like I’m doing right now,” he added pointedly as Irene started to say something. “Behave yourself, Irene.”
Irene watched him go, then shifted her attention back to Caroline Evans, and sighed in frustration. “I swear, I don’t know what I’m going to do with that man.”
“He seems very nice,” Caroline said.
“He is,” Irene agreed. “But ever since his wife died…” Her voice trailed off, and then she appeared to shift an internal gear. “Well, you don’t need to hear about that, do you? Do tell me all about yourself, Caroline.”
As she left the park an hour later, Irene Delamond’s mind was starting to work, and by the time she was back home, an idea was already taking shape. She made a few phone calls, but none of them were to Anthony Fleming. For the moment, at least, there was no reason for him to know what she was up to.
No reason at all.
CHAPTER 3
Irene Delamond rang Virginia Estherbrook’s bell, rapped sharply on the door, then called out. “Virgie? Virgie, are you there?” She waited impatiently, stabbed at the doorbell once more, and was considering calling Rodney to bring up the master key when she finally heard the deadbolt open, and the chain drop. The door opened a crack, and a rheumy eye peered through the narrow gap.
“Of course I’m here.” The voice was thin and raspy.
“Don’t simply stand there, Virgie,” Irene said. “Let me in. And why on earth are you putting on the chain and using the deadbolt?”
The door swung open far enough for Irene to slip through, then swung closed, and Irene could hear the deadbolt being thrown into place.
“Look at me,” Virginia Estherbrook said so bitterly that Irene reached out and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “Wouldn’t you bolt the door if you looked like this?”
Taking Virginia’s arm, Irene gently guided the frail woman through the dimly lit foyer of her apartment and into a living room that was even larger than Irene’s own, but so dimly lit that its darkly papered walls felt as if they were closing in on her. As Virginia lowered herself gingerly onto a straight-backed chair Irene went to the windows and pulled back the heavy drapes, letting the early afternoon light penetrate the room. Then she moved from lamp to lamp, turning them all on. All of them, at any rate, that worked. Three of the table lamps had burned out, and the three-way bulbs in the floor lamps had been replaced with regular sixty-watt bulbs. Vanity, vanity, Irene said silently to herself, thy name is Virginia Estherbrook. But when she finally gazed on her friend’s face, Irene felt a sharp stab of sympathy.
There was no way of telling precisely how old Virginia Estherbrook was — Virgie had never divulged it, and Irene would certainly never ask — but the ravages of time were starting to show badly, despite Virgie’s best efforts with makeup. Her skin, even under a thick layer of powder, looked paper-thin and was deeply wrinkled, and her eyes seemed to be sinking into her skull. She was wearing a cloche, which told Irene that her hair had gone even thinner, and that alone would have been enough to make Virgie keep the lights down, the draperies closed, and the door locked, since her hair — once a thick and wavy mane of auburn that had flowed nearly to her waist when it wasn’t piled up in a regal French twist that had accentuated not only Virgie’s beauty, but her height as well — had always been her pride and joy. In her prime, Virginia Estherbrook had only to enter a room to capture the attention of everyone in it, and when she stepped from the wings of a theatre into the glow of footlights, you knew you were in for something special. Now, though, Virgie had shrunk to a phantom of her former self, but when Irene peered into the depths of her sunken eyes, it wasn’t fear she saw. It was shame, and even as Irene gazed at her, Virginia Estherbrook turned her face away. “Don’t look at me,” she pleaded. “Wouldn’t you lock the doors, too, if you looked like me? Oh, please, can’t you turn off the lights?”
“It’s going to be all right, Virgie,” Irene replied. “I know it’s going to be all right.”
Virginia seemed not to hear her. “I should be in bed,” she said so softly that Irene wasn’t certain if the other woman was speaking to her or to herself. “I should be conserving my strength.” Her head swung around, and her eyes fixed on Irene. “But for what? For what?” Reaching out with a withered hand, she weakly closed her fingers on Irene’s arm, and began struggling to her feet. Irene offered her free hand to help her, but Virgie shook her head. “I can do it. I’ve never been carried off a stage yet, and I don’t intend to start now!” With what seemed to be the last of her energy, she pulled herself to her feet, clung to Irene for a moment longer while she caught her breath, then let her hand fall to her side. She started toward the door leading to her bedroom. Irene hesitated, uncertain whether her friend wanted her to stay or go, but then Virginia spoke again. “Do you know what I would like?” she asked, and, as always, answered her question before anyone else could. “I would like a martini, with no more than a hint of vermouth, and a single olive. Be a dear, and bring me one.”
“And may I fix one for myself, too, Your Majesty?” Irene retorted, but her sarcasm seemed to be lost on the other woman.
“If you wish.” Virginia Estherbrook moved stiffly through the door to her bedroom.
Irene followed Virginia a few minutes later, balancing the two martinis on a silver tray. She searched for a place to put the tray down, but every surface in the room was covered with silver frames bearing pictures of men — all of them handsome, and all of them looking theatrical.
“Is there anyone here you haven’t slept with?” Irene asked, finally using the tray itself to push enough pictures aside so she could set it down.
“Of course,” Virginia replied, taking no apparent offense whatsoever at the question. She was propped up against a bank of pillows, wearing a peignoir that Irene recognized from a play Virginia had done several decades earlier. She accepted the glass Irene offered her. “Some of them were gay.” Scanning the collection of pictures, she raised the glass shakily. “But for the rest of you, I salute you! You gave me a lot of wonderful memories!” She sipped at the drink, which seemed to lend her a little energy, and patted the empty spot next to her on the bed. “But let’s not talk about me anymore. I’m sick of me, sick to death! So come and tell me all about your day!”