Philadelphia Noir

confession-“So I left the bedroom, my beautiful little cherie untouched on the bed. But I must have killed her. Shook her too hard. Her neck must have snapped, you know?”

But it hadn’t been Lulu on the bed. He had left his beautiful little Carrie there. Not cherie, Carrie. Passed out, or just pretending, teasing him. He shook her, yes, but when Meg had glanced in she was sure she had seen the girl stirring. And while Henri might have been drunk enough to confuse the two beautiful college girls, Meg wasn’t. It was Carrie on the bed, alive and well. And although the police had probably asked Henri repeatedly how the body ended up in the den, Henri would only demur, shrugging, maintaining that he didn’t know. Had no idea. It didn’t matter. They had a confession.

Meg knew that Henri hadn’t done it. But who had?

Standing there watching the family, Meg carefully replayed the evening in her head. It passed before her eyes like stills from a movie. Celia outside a bedroom sobbing, calling her boyfriend’s name. Why? Someone had surely lured the hapless college boy into a dark bedroom. Lulu, smug and tipsy, wiping her mouth, heading downstairs. Had Celia killed her in a drunken, jealous rage? She stared at Celia, mousy and red-eyed. Hard to believe.

She thought of Bess coming out of the darkened den, angry at something or someone. The den. Lulu was killed in the den right where she was found. She had fallen to the floor beside the sofa and lay there until Anise found her and scooped her onto her lap, in a mother’s anguish for her lovely daughter. She had indeed been shaken by someone quite angry. Shaken until her neck snapped.

Meg looked at Bess. She could see how it had happened. Bess, protective of her nieces, furious that Lulu had come on to poor Celia’s handsome, spineless boyfriend, had confronted the drunken college girl in the den. Angry that a gorgeous little interloper would come in to the fabulous Dagger family and hurt even the least of its members, the weakest sister, poor little Celia.

No one spoke for a long time. Finally, Thom roused himself. “I’ll make breakfast,” he announced flatly.

And so, life goes on, Meg thought, reaching up to brush her hair away from her eyes. She wished she could brush away what she knew, which seemed to be pressing, almost physically, on her skull.

Bess threw back her head and downed the champagne, then headed after Thom, slipping her arm through Megan’s on the way, pulling her gently along past the law students cuddling, almost cowering in their armchair.

“We’ll help,” she said brightly, irrelevantly, since Anise and Carrie were still lost in their cocoon of grief, guilt, relief-a girl was dead but it wasn’t Carrie. Gorgeous, glamourous Carrie, full of life and hope, momentarily shattered by the proximity of death, but soon to rally. She was too full of gusto to mourn too long. Joie de vivre. That’s what Carrie had, Megan thought. Joie de vivre. Funny that the perfect phrase to describe her should be French.

Megan squeezed her friend’s arm as they followed Thom to the kitchen. The last silent policeman was leaving with an armload of notebooks and evidence bags. A good start to his new year. Justice had triumphed on New Year’s Day.

Of course, Meg knew that justice had not triumphed. Justice had not triumphed at all.

Bess stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. Thom had already pulled on his chef’s apron and they could see him rummaging in the refrigerator for the casserole of eggs and cheese and ham that had been resting overnight and just needed to be slipped into the oven. Bess touched Megan’s face and met her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she told Meg quietly. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“My secret?” Meg was startled.

Bess looked closely at her. “It wasn’t you?”

Meg shook her head. “I thought it was you.”

Bess stared at her and shook her head.

“Then who?” Meg asked.

Megan and Bess stood and stared at each other as they both silently thought through the suspects. Thom. Anise. Carrie, herself. Michelle, even. Any of the Daggers. Meg was suddenly, strangely proud to have been suspected.

“But I saw you coming out of the den,” Meg blurted out. “You looked so angry.”

Bess just stared at her.

“You looked like you could kill someone. I thought you must have confronted Lulu over poor Celia’s boyfriend.”

“Confronted her?” Bess laughed mordantly. “I wish. No, she wasn’t there. I was angry with her. Very angry. I was talking to Anise. I told Anise.”

“Anise?”

Bess and Megan were standing there outside the kitchen, staring at each other, and they both jumped a little when Anise came up behind them.

“Anise,” Bess murmured.

“Anise,” Meg echoed. And for a moment, Meg flashed back to the old hag on her steps, telling her she wouldn’t be the youngest one. Nor the prettiest. True, but she was one of them, the Daggers. That’s what counted.

Anise hugged them both. Anise, who could never have mistaken another girl for her beloved daughter. Anise, who could never have mistaken the feel of an angora dress for a silk one as she held the dead girl in her arms. The mythology was all wrong. It wasn’t the Pieta at all. It was Penelope among the dead, unwelcome suitors, her knitting all unravelled.

“My sisters,” Anise whispered, hugging them hard, then breaking free to look from one to the other.

“Sisters,” Bess said.

“Sisters,” Meg said firmly.

Anise released them and they entered the kitchen.

“Tell you what, let’s empty the dishwasher and fill it up again. Give Thom some room to work.”

“I’ll do the glasses by hand,” Meg offered.

Thom shot them a smile.

Anise kissed Megan lightly on the cheek. Then she pulled an apron down from the hooks near the door and tied it on, and passed another to Bess, laughing as Bess rummaged through an army of bottles, all empty.

“I’ll open more champagne,” Bess declared, heading for the refrigerator. “We can’t work without champagne.”

They bent to their tasks. Meg looked forward to breakfast on a sunny New Year’s Day morning in a sparkling clean kitchen on Philadelphia’s Main Line. She belonged here. She had arrived. She was home.

YOUR BROTHER,WHO LOVES YOU BY JIM ZERVANOS

Fairmount

Friday night, and Nicky Krios is getting dolled up for Nostradamus of all places. These biker boots are made for ass-kicking, he thinks, and tries the eyeliner he borrowed from Janet the bartender’s purse. He hams it up in the mirror, imagining the two of them in another lazy romp, picking up where they left off after work the other night, before passing out on his couch. The darkened eyes bring out the family face-his brother’s, his father’s. He smirks. A veritable Night of the Living Dead.

Nicky spends most of his days wishing he were anywhere but Nostradamus, or at least doing anything else. Three years experience, and he’s still a busboy, despite his pleas to Victor Gold, who treats him like a fucking retard. Still, Nostradamus is the hottest place in Philly, so where else is he going to go on his night off? Plus, he and his workmates have made a game out of sneaking drinks to spite Victor, who parks his yellow Maserati right outside and cocks around, convinced he’s got the world licked.

Such is life for Nicky at twenty-four, living rent-free, at least for now, in a nearby brownstone, thanks to his older brother Chris Krios, the lawyer, whose face is everywhere in this city-in the subways, on the sides of busses. No recovery, no fee. This week Chris said it’s time for Nicky to pony up, be his own man-this in spite of busboy tips