Northwestern.”
“So you decided you were going to move back here, no matter what it took. What about your husband? He a Lake Bluffer in exile who made his way back?”
“Clayton came from Toledo. Eudora Grain brought him here when he was twenty-five. He rented an apartment in Park Forest and we met there.”
“And you thought he had possibilities, that he might go all the way for you. When did you find out that wasn’t going to happen?”
“When Terri was born. We were still living in that crappy three-bedroom house.” She was screaming now. “Terri and Ann had to share a room. I was buying all my clothes at Wieboldt’s. I couldn’t stand it! I couldn’t stand it anymore. And there was Paige. She was only eighteen, but she already knew-knew-”
“Knew what, Jeannine?”
She recovered some of her control. “Knew how to get people to help her out,” she said quietly.
“Okay. You didn’t want Paige outdressing you. So you put pressure on your husband to come up with more money. He knew he was never going to have enough if he just struggled along on his salary. So he decided to skim something off the top before it ever hit Eudora’s books. Did he fiddle with anything besides the invoices?”
“No, it was just the invoices. He could make-make-about a hundred thousand extra a year from them. He-he didn’t do it with all the orders, only about ten percent. And he paid taxes on them.”
“Paid taxes on them?” I echoed incredulously.
“Yes. We didn’t want to run-run a risk with the IRS auditing us. We called it commission income. They don’t know what his job’s supposed to be like. They don’t know whether he should be earning commissions or not.”
“And then my cousin found out. He was going through the papers, trying to see what a regional manager does to run an office like that, and he ended up comparing some invoices with the original contract orders.”
“It was terrible,” she gulped. “He threatened to tell David Argus. It would have meant the end of-of Clayton’s career. He would have been fired. We would have had to sell the house. It would have been-”
“Spare me,” I said harshly. A pulse throbbed in my right temple. “It was a choice between the Maritime Club and my cousin’s life.”
She didn’t say anything. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Answer me, damn you! You decided my cousin had to die to keep you in your Massandrea dresses. Is that what happened? Is it?”
In my rage I had lifted her from her wing chair and was shaking her. Mrs. Carrington came bustling into the room.
“What is going on here?” she fussed behind me. I was still screaming at Jeannine. Mrs. Carrington grabbed my arm. “I think you’d better go now. My daughter cannot afford any more upsets. If you don’t leave, I will call the police.”
Somehow her scratchy voice penetrated and I forced my anger back. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mrs. Carrington. I’m afraid I got carried away by my work.” I turned to Jeannine. “Just one more question before I leave you to your mourning. What was Paige’s role in all this?”
“Paige?” she whispered, rubbing her shoulders where I had grabbed them. She gave the sly smile I’d seen earlier. “Oh, Paige was supposed to keep track of what Boom Boom was up to. But you’d better talk to her. She hasn’t given away my secrets. I won’t give away hers.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Carrington said. “You girls should be loyal to each other. After all, you’re all that you have.”
“Besides a boat and a condo on Astor Place,” I said.
24 A Question of Policy
I was sick by the side of the road as soon as I got to the end of the drive. Terri rode up on her bicycle, a Peugeot ten-speed, I noticed as I wiped my mouth with a Kleenex. Boom Boom, you did not die in vain if you preserved a French racing bicycle for that girl.
I walked slowly down the road to the Omega and sat in it for a long time without starting the engine. My shoulder ached from grabbing Jeannine and lifting her up.
I had found out about Boom Boom’s death. Or proved to myself what I had suspected for several days, at any rate. I felt a sharp pain across my diaphragm, as though someone had inserted a little needle behind it which jabbed me every time I breathed. That’s what people mean when they say their hearts ache. They really mean their diaphragms. My face felt wet. I passed a hand across my eyes, expecting to find blood. I was crying.
After a while I looked at my watch. It was one o’clock. I looked at my face in the rearview mirror. It had gone very pale and my gray eyes stood out darkly in contrast. There were days when I’d looked better, but that couldn’t be helped. I switched on the engine and slowly turned the car around on the narrow pavement. My arms felt leaden, so heavy I could scarcely lift them to the steering wheel. It would be nice to follow Bobby’s advice and go someplace warm for a few weeks. Instead I drove up the road past the Phillips house to the Grafalks’.
The garage was behind the house to the left; I couldn’t see the cars to tell if anyone was home. I climbed up the shallow wide step to the front porch and rang the bell. A minute or two passed; I was going to ring again when the thickset maid, Karen, answered. She looked at me grudgingly. She remembered my vulgar interest in Mr. Grafalk’s movements last week.
I gave her my card. “Is Mrs. Grafalk in, please?”
“Is she expecting you?”
“No. I’m a detective. I want to talk to her about Clayton Phillips.”
She seemed undecided about whether or not she was going to take my card back. I was too worn out from my encounter with Jeannine to put up much of a fight. As we stood there at an impasse, a high, clipped voice demanded of Karen who it was.
The maid turned around. “It’s a detective, Mrs. Grafalk. She says she wants to talk to you about Mr. Phillips.”
Mrs. Grafalk came into the hall. Her graying black hair was styled to emphasize her high cheekbones, which she had further accentuated with a dark rouge. She was dressed to go out, in a salmon silk suit with a ballet skirt and a flared, ruched jacket. Her eyes were sharp but not unfriendly. She took the card from Karen, who positioned herself protectively between us.
“Miss Warshawski? I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I’m on my way to a Ravinia planning meeting. What did you want to talk about?”
“Clayton and Jeannine Phillips.”
An expression of distaste crossed her face. “There’s not a lot I can tell you about them. Clayton is-was, I should say-a business associate of my husband’s. For reasons I have never understood, Niels insisted we entertain them, even sponsor them at the Maritime Club. I tried to interest Jeannine in some of the work that I do, particularly with the poor immigrant community in Waukegan. I’m afraid it’s hard to get her to think of anything but her clothes.”
She spoke rapidly, scarcely pausing for breath between sentences.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Grafalk, but Mr. Grafalk implied that Jeannine was a protegee of yours and that you wanted to get her into the Maritime Club.”
She raised her black, painted eyebrows and opened her eyes very wide. “Why did Niels say that? I wonder. Clayton obliged him on some business deal and Niels sponsored him in the club to show his appreciation. I’m perfectly sure that was the way it happened. Niels keeps what he does with Grafalk Steamship to himself, so I’ve never known what the arrangement was-in fact I can’t imagine being interested in it. I’m sorry Clayton’s dead, but he was an insufferable climber and Jeannine is no better… Does that answer your questions? I’m afraid I must go now.” She started for the door, buttoning on a pair of pale salmon gloves. I didn’t know anyone wore gloves anymore. She walked outside the door with me, moving at a good clip on needle-pointed shoes. A woman with less force of personality would have looked absurd in that outfit. Mrs. Grafalk seemed elegant.
As I got into the Omega, someone drove the Bentley up for her. A thin, sandy-haired man got out, helped her into the car, and headed back to the garage behind the house.
