while I got my second wind, which was long in coming. She smiled back, displaying a near perfect set of teeth. Was there nothing wrong with the woman?
“There was no reason you should have recognized me, Ms Courtney,” I said. “I believe we saw each other only fleetingly the other day, when Binky rented number 1170.”
“Please, my name is Bianca. Won’t you sit a moment? I was just going to make a pot of coffee. Will you join me?”
I sat, gratefully, in a good reproduction of a classic Windsor chair, which, along with one other, went with a table of matching pine. There were cafe curtains on the little kitchen window, and by stealing what I hoped was a subtle glance into the parlor I got the impression of chintz and pastels and sugar and spice and everything nice. I felt like the big, bad wolf, but not strongly enough to call off my expedition. I was, after all, here to help.
“I haven’t had my second cup pa this morning, so I don’t mind if I do,”
I accepted.
“Good. Regular or decaf?”
“Regular. I need the jolt.”
She laughed as she filled a Mr. Coffee with water. “So do I. You said the microwave was for Binky, Mr. McNally?”
“How can I call you Bianca if you insist on Mr. McNally? It makes me feel like an old man. Friends call me Archy and I hope you’ll join the throng.”
I watched her hesitantly measure the amount of coffee, which told me she was new at the task. Today, she wore Capri pants in a a black toile pattern, a crisp white sleeveless blouse, and neat little flats.
Her brown hair was combed back and held from her face with a simple clip above each ear. If I had to guess her age I would say early twenties, give or take.
“Yes,” I told her, ‘the microwave is for Binky and perhaps I should explain. It’s a housewarming gift.. ”
“How kind of you,” she interrupted.
I gave her a modest shrug. “As a matter of fact, it was me who rallied the office into contributing to Binky’s rather spartan digs.”
“He told me you were best of friends,” she said, setting out cups and saucers. There was even a sugar bowl and a creamer, which she filled with half-and-half.
I enjoyed watching her move about and estimated her waist at a waspish twenty-two inches. This reminded me to refuse any sweets should they be offered with the coffee. “I brought the microwave here thinking I might catch Binky before he left for the office but I was too late. He told me about his friendly neighbor, so I thought I might impose upon you to store the gift, saving me the trouble of carting it to the office and back here again.”
“You’re not imposing at all, Archy!” Our coffee ready, she played hostess.
“You had Binky in for dinner last night?” I helped myself to the half-and-half but refused the sugar. Cutting back on smoking had sparked my appetite, which was never wanting to begin with.
“Chinese takeout,” she said, avoiding the sugar and the half-and-half.
“We both had the chicken and snow peas with extra fried rice. Wicked, but delicious.” I knew I wasn’t going to be offered anything with the coffee, and just as well.
Here, as happens with new acquaintances who have exhausted the few topics of conversation they have in common, the mindless chatter petered out. We smiled at each other like two actors in search of a script. I had gotten in the front door and now had come the time to establish a beachhead. “Your neighbor on the other side, Sergeant Al Rogoff, is also a friend of mine,” I said.
“So Binky told me,” she answered, unimpressed. “He interviewed me when I went to the police with a particular problem, but he wasn’t much help. Did Binky say anything to you about my former employer?”
“He did, and, to be truthful, so did Al. Would you like to tell me your version?”
It seemed she would like nothing better. Bianca was a native Floridian, from Coral Gables, where her mother taught at the local high school and her father was a CPA with an expertise in restaurants, which, in southern Florida, made for a flourishing practice. She had a younger brother who was in New York in search of an acting career. She told me he had met another young man from out west who was in the Big Apple on a similar calling and the two were now sharing digs in Chelsea. Wasn’t that nice?
Was she ingenuous or was Archy too quick to assume? I would reserve judgment.
It was all very middle class and ho-hum until tragedy struck when her parents were killed in an auto crash two years ago. Mr. Courtney, it seemed, had spent a little faster than he had made. Even their home was mortgaged to the hilt. Bianca, who was finishing at the University of Miami in her hometown, was forced to leave and go to work. Enter Lilian Ashman.
Lilian was a distant, distant relative of Mrs. Courtney’s, who had married a widower twenty years her senior. Mr. Ashman had dabbled in Manhattan real estate, buying up blocks of Third Avenue before the El came down. When it did, Mr. Ashman became a multimillionaire and, a few short months later, a corpse. The grieving widow came south to take the sun and the waters. She was sixty, admitted to fifty, and dressed as if she were thirty.
“It was embarrassing,” Bianca said. “Having married a man twenty years older, I think she was compensating by looking for one twenty years younger. But she was kind. When she heard of my situation she offered me a job as companion, which was little more than accompanying her on shopping sprees and attending countless cocktail parties and charity balls.”
And, I thought, attracting young men into her company. Bianca had obviously never read Tennessee Williams’s Garden District.
“Then she met Tony. Antony, without an h, Gilbert. He claimed to be forty but I think he was nearer fifty,” she said with more honesty than rancor.
“How did they meet,” I cut in.
Her cheeks took on that flush that began at her throat and worked its way up. “Through the Personals in a magazine. But it was a very literary magazine, Archy.”
Why do people think that the more upscale the periodical, the more credible those who peruse their Personals? It’s a myth on par with lightning not striking twice in the same place. It does, and more often than you think.
Lilian went public in her quest for a mate by stating in print that she was looking for a man who appreciated the classics as well as the comics a prudent romantic who enjoyed long walks. She got Antony who was a devotee of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Charles Spenser Chaplin a hiker who had been on a walking tour of Provence.
“But he was handsome,” Bianca admitted, ‘with a body to match. Lilian couldn’t take her eyes off him when he pranced around the pool.”
And, I guessed, neither could you, you little minx. Things were looking up.
Antony said he hailed from Texas, spoke with a drawl, and hinted at links with oil barons. Eyeing Lilian’s house, cars, help, and, lifestyle, he popped the question after a relationship of one month.
The foolish woman accepted. Six months later she was dead. Drowned in her pool.
“I told you how vain she was,” Bianca said, stressing the point. “She had a personal trainer and a room filled with exercise machines which were used, not for show. She had the figure of a woman thirty years younger and she was an expert swimmer. She did fifty laps every day, including Sunday, and dove like a professional. So how did she drown?”
“You tell me?”
Distressed, Bianca said it was believed that when diving, Lilian had hit her head on the bottom of the pool’s Gunite surface and was knocked unconscious. Only Tony was present. He was seated, having breakfast, and saw her dive. When she failed to surface immediately he was not concerned, because she often swam the length of the pool and back again, underwater.
“Is that true?” I asked.
Reluctantly, Bianca nodded. “When Tony finally realized that something was wrong he went in after her, but it was too late. He sounded the alarm and I called the police. In ten minutes the place was crawling with uniforms, ambulance crew, and even Lilian’s doctor. Tony had to be given a sedative to calm him. After a cursory inquest the police declared it an accident.
“The next day, when things had more or less settled down, I saw Tony going into the exercise room, carrying one of the small barbells. What had he been doing with it? Tony never exercised, and in the two years I lived with
