Right. The car. Oh, hell. It felt pretty late. There went all hope of a ride. Where was this garage, anyway? She got out of bed and scrutinized the note. Kew Gardens. Up on Queens Boulevard. That would be the Q37 bus. She looked in the mirror. Why did the corners of her mouth hang down like that? Final, inevitable gravity, that was why. So this was it, eh? Or had the alcohol done it? The lot had done it. She might as well accept it. No mirror round the world had ever treated her so bluntly. All right, fine, she’d jog up there. There was no shame in aging. Or she’d walk. Yes, walking would be far more sensible. She could just see herself having a heart attack if she overdid it. An aspirin wasn’t a bad idea, either. Her face would go on her just when she needed it. Just when she was falling in—oh, rubbish! She wasn’t falling in anything. More likely she just wished she was in love to justify accepting the camera. Well, she wasn’t going to let her panic go turning her into a prostitute, for God’s sake. If she had been going to prostitute herself she could have done it long ago and over a lot more than a frigging camera. She blew her nose. She had to do something about her hair. She twirled one strand around her finger and held it up to the milky light. Old Iris still remembered her as a redhead. At least someone did. But really, if you held it a certain way it did still have sort of a glint. Sort of. Hmm. Maybe a rinse? Tch. American television! It made you want to be glamorous. She must stop watching it.
The geranium on the sill caught her interest. She loved them like this, with no real flowers to speak of but the blossoms ready to open. The color was wonderful then, very rich and true. All of it yet to come. Of course, it was possible that Iris hadn’t been referring to her own hair at all … couldn’t she have meant someone else? Someone else watching the house? A redheaded murderer? Why not? Claire regarded herself in the mirror and lit a cigarette. Christ. That fellow over at Holy Child, the one who’d been outside when they’d brought out the white casket, he’d had red hair. Even Freddy’s lover, that bartender, was a redhead. What would he be doing snooping around here? Jealous of Zinnie? Good Lord. And that kid in front of the church, couldn’t he have been the one to go after her cameras? Wouldn’t he have reason to think she’d taken his picture? He’d certainly walked right into her frame. Only he had no way of knowing that she hadn’t taken any shots. That would explain why he couldn’t find the picture of himself … because there’d never been one. Oh, she should call someone. She must do that right away. Really, it was astonishing that they’d left her all alone here! If this were a film, the murderer would be under the porch already. Or in the closet. He might very well be in the closet. Or she. Claire felt the droplets of sweat breaking out on her scalp. Perhaps she really was over the deep end, as Johnny had suggested. Maybe she was the murderer herself? A true schizophrenic. Like The Three Faces of Eve! She sucked in her breath. She must be mad. What she needed was an English muffin. Cautiously, she left the room. There, on the landing, stretched puppy style with arms and legs flat out alongside himself, the Mayor stuck out his pink tongue in glad tidings. He had only just come out here in hopes of a draft.
“Well, hello there, cookie,” her breathing relaxed. “Good to see you.”
Down the stairs they shuffled, as close as they could get without tripping over each other. “On the other hand,” Claire continued her train of thought out loud, “just because he had red hair doesn’t make him a murderer. And just because he happened to be at church that time could have been mere coincidence.” The redhead Iris referred to could have been an old woman’s poor vision. Or suspicion thrown on someone else on purpose. Really, it was a nightmare. Halfway down, the doorbell chimed. “Now who,” demanded Claire, “Is that?”
The Mayor bellowed roundly and tripped his reassuring, if no longer graceful, mazurka. The six alerted spiders on the mildewed walls adjusted their positions, and there was, just as she’d feared, nobody at the door.
Electrified, she stood stock still. There was no sound besides the Mayor’s wheezing pant. The back door! She had to get to it before whoever was out there did. With breakneck speed she hurled herself across the hallway, through the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the gourmet countertop block of six along the way and onto the door she flew. It was locked. She stood there, her spine pressed against the wood, her kitchen knife one calla lily in her whitened hand. The Mayor watched with patent leather eyes. She was having, he presumed, what was known as a nervous breakdown.
“Hullo!” came a voice from the driveway through the creepers. “Anybody home?”
It was Mrs. Dixon.
“Hi,” Claire answered back as cheerfully as she could.
“You all right in there?”
“Yes! Yes, fine. Just having breakfast.” Even in her dither she knew enough not to add a “care to join me.” The woman, once in, would never leave. She didn’t mind feeling silly as much as she minded being bored out of her mind.
“Your mom asked me to look in on you,” Mrs. Dixon explained. “They’ve got their bowling meet today, you know. The big one.”
“Ah!”
“The end of summer tournament.”
“Right. How could I have forgotten?”
“And you know your mom. She didn’t like to go off and leave you, what with all the shenanigans going on …”
“Gee, you shouldn’t have bothered. I’m fine.”
Mrs. Dixon looked hurt.
“I really do appreciate your stopping off, though.”
Mrs. Dixon shielded her eyes from the sun. “Perhaps you’re not alone?”
Nosy old biddy, thought Claire. “Well, I do have the Mayor here. Ha, ha.” They laughed together through the screen.
“Well then. I’ll be on my way …”
“I’m just leaving, too,” Claire assured her.
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Claire watched her sturdy frame in sturdy summer shoes retreat through the yard and past the rabbits. “Five minutes with a woman like that,” Claire said to the Mayor, “reinforces one’s belief in making hay while the sun shines.”