06.01.2008 / EP. 14
Home Again Jiggedy-Jig
Kerry piloted his black sedan through Marlborough, Albany’s sleepy suburb of cul-de-sacs and ivy covered manors. “Here’s dad in his easy chair,” Milly gestured, “falling asleep after supper. He thinks he’s special because he has a two-car garage. Mom pops uppers to lose weight, while their 12 year-old daughter calculates to the day when she’ll accidentally have unprotected sex with the school quarterback. I don’t collect dolls. That’s a lie and you know it. But if you think there’s something odd about collecting dolls, look around you.”
“Can’t argue with that. World’s a mess.”
Milly got out. Kerry beckoned her to the driver’s window. “You’ll work with Carrie, won’t you? The fewer people who know I’m alive the better.”
She shrugged. “You’re sure of yourself.”
“I’ll take that as yes.”
“If I help out, nobody will know, right?”
“Not a soul.” Kerry put his car in gear and sped off. Right, Milly thought. She stood at the curb. She cast an eye up where the sleet and hail were coming down as hard as before. She looked at the windows of the Georgian three-storey inherited from her parents, which she loved so well. Fred, the unwanted bridegroom, was contaminating it with his loathsome presence. She thought of her office with the dead body in it. Another contamination. She had no energy, no desire, nowhere safe to go. She was tired, wet and cold. I look and feel like a drowned rat, she thought. Water dripped from the portico down her back. May as well go inside.
Once inside, Milly’s analytical mind revived.
She feared Fred as an intruder. Why? Milly had always lived alone. In fairness, however, she’d invited Fred to stay. He hadn’t imposed himself. The fault was Milly’s. And if Fred now disgusted her like a worm in an apple, he wasn’t to blame for that either. The wedding was her idea. She hadn’t always felt this way about him. She’d felt the strongest attraction… What had possessed her to make the arrangement permanent? She began to pull herself together. The house is big enough for two, she told herself. We can build separate entrances. We won’t have to see each other. It would be wrong to force him into the street. At least for the moment. Let him catch his breath. And enough self-pity, she scolded herself. Shivering, Milly charged through her foyer. The tapestries mocked her. The lady and the unicorn seemed content: we know our place in the world, they announced. You haven’t a clue. True, Milly thought. She avoided the bedroom, where Fred was likely still asleep, and sought out the dim, temperature-controlled room that housed her doll collection. It existed. More than that, it was her favourite room. Milly hated to lie, but she didn’t want everyone to know her weakness. Dolls were a craving she couldn’t resist. No amount of rational dialogue would oust their allure. They were a consuming passion, a weakness. As long as there was doubt in people’s minds, Milly was safe. She hated being known. Once the world was sure she loved these inanimate creatures, it could act against her. Provided it was her secret, she remained safe.
To avoid bringing water into the room, Milly stripped off her clothes. She left them on the floor and pressed the code that opened the door. Milly contemplated the empty pedestal designed for her prize exhibit, a Triste Bebe, size nine, made by Jumeau in 1885. A cutie, dressed Parisian style in raw silk with a bow under the chin, like a desultory matron turning over hats in the Rue Passy.
Milly bit her hand till the blood flowed. She closed the door and leaned against it. The last time she’d seen the doll was in the photo Kerry had showed her. The doll found in the Dennis Quall was hers. Only a handful existed in mint condition; this was one of them. Milly had no idea how it had got to her office. Kerry was telling the truth about the doll, which meant he probably also was telling the truth about the corpse. Someone had been found dead in her office. Another somebody had involved her in the burglary and she had no choice but to see the business through. She’d find out the who and why. Not to protect the Governor’s reputation, though that might be the result, but to stop whoever it was from further implicating her. If the finger of guilt pointed in her direction, it was too easy for the police to make her the scapegoat. Or for the person behind all this to complete the plan, then plant more evidence and kill Milly. The police would welcome the opportunity to declare the perpetrator deceased. The public would heave a sigh and turn to the sports page. Justice would seem to be done. Only Milly would lament, if beyond the grave that action could take place, which she doubted. Carrie and Kerry had done her a favour by inviting her into the investigation. If Milly cooperated, she could stay a step ahead of everyone else and deal with the perpetrator her own way and in her own time.
Milly took a scalding shower in the guest bathroom. She scrubbed herself with a brush till her skin hurt. And more. When she drew blood, she stared at it, sober at once. Red, or was it mortality, held that fascination for her. She dropped the brush and closed her eyes. All the heat and scraping she could bear wouldn’t erase the last 24 hours. Nor fill the gaps in her memory. She didn’t understand any of it, neither the events that had occurred, nor the sudden appearance of missing moments, like black patches in a field of vision. Her life was normally so well ordered. Something had escaped, was running free, that she intended to recapture. For that purpose, she needed peace. She locked herself in her doll’s room, where she knew everything and was, herself, utterly unknown, curled up on the floor, and was instantly asleep.
