"Nah, Ma, you're all wrong." Magda picked up one of the sweets and took a bite. Powdered sugar dropped over her hand and fell like snow onto the floor. "Birds are always jumping up and flying away 'cause they're scared of everything. Nothing scared Pauline. If she was curious, she'd charge it like a rhino. She wasn't any bird."
They had given me permission to tape what they said. Not having to take notes enabled me to sit back and watch them interact. Sometimes they agreed, sometimes not. Once in a while they would compare notes about a shared Pauline experience. It gave me the feeling they had been going over these things for years. What else did they possess of the dead girl? What other things could they point to or remember and say that's who she was, that's what she did. Who else cared about their dead love? Worse, who else even remembered? I understood why they would cherish her notebooks.
I told them the story of the day Pauline ran over our dog and came to the house to report it. They were delighted and asked many questions.
"She never told me she hit a dog!" Jitka said crossly, as if preparing to have a word about it with her eldest daughter when she came in. "When I was little girl in Prague, my mother got bottle of perfume for her birthday. She never wore it because she thought it is too nice to use. Typical mother, hah? But I would go into my parents' room all the time and smell it. If Mother caught me, ooh! She would get so angry, but she could not stop me from doing it. I had to breathe that smell at least twice a week. It said there were so many exotic and wonderful things in the world and one day I would go and know them. Adventure! Romance! Gary Grant! I didn't need to read Arabian Nights books – I just take the top out of her bottle and pop! – there was the dzin . . . the genie for me.
"But I grew up and married Milan and come to America. That was a little interesting, but my whole life wouldn't have filled up that bottle. I think, I really do think if Pavlina was alive, her life would have been everything I dreamed of when I smelled the perfume. She got into trouble and made me crazy, but she could have done anything."
"Who do you think killed her?" I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster.
Mother and daughter glanced at each other. Jitka nodded for Magda to speak.
"From everything we know? Gordon Cadmus. I mean, Frannie's been showing us all this stuff over the years, telling us things, and if I had to bet my life on it, I'd say it was him.
"It's getting cold in here! Hah, Ma? Isn't it cold in here?" Rubbing her shoulders, Magda stood up and left the room. No one said anything. Pauline's death was suddenly as fresh again as a just-dropped glass.
After asking if I could visit again, we thanked the Ostrovas and left. On the way to the car, Frannie's pocket phone rang. He was needed down at the station. It was a five-minute walk from there so we said goodbye and he strode off.
Veronica was taking the train back to the city, but asked if I would show her Crane's View before she left. I'd done the tour first with Cass, then Frannie, and now Veronica. It had been different each time because it was always through another pair of eyes. Cass knew the town through my stories, Frannie because he had lived there his whole life, Veronica because of the death of Pauline. She made it plain she wasn't interested in Al Salvato's store or the spot where fifteen-year-old McCabe set a car on fire: She wanted to see Pauline's town.
We drove past the school, the pizza place, the movie theater. The tour ended down at the river/railroad station. I parked near the water and we walked to where we'd found the body. I described again what it had been like. We stood there silently looking around. The sun was going down and its gold set the water on fire. Her train was due to arrive in a few minutes. This companionable silence would have been a nice way to end the visit, but then the big bats flew out of the Veronica cave.
The first one, a small and innocuous question, gave no hint of what was to come. "Whatever happened to Edward Durant's father?"
"I'm interviewing him next week. He's retired. Lives across the river in Tappan. Sounded nice on the phone."
"Sam, you shouldn't have asked the Ostrovas who they thought killed Pauline. I was surprised at you."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to have to tell them about the videotape and the notes you've gotten. All of it's going to upset them. It's taken thirty years to get over her death and now you come in and exhume her. I think the less you upset them, the better. The less you tell them –"
"Don't lecture me, Veronica. I don't agree with you. When we find the real killer it'll give them some peace. The only way I can do that is to ask a lot of questions of everyone."
"Do you think you can trust Frannie?" Her voice was calm enough, but the look on her face wasn't.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"I don't know. Just the way he is. He obviously has his own agenda and maybe it's not the same as yours. Anyway, you don't need his help on this, Sam. I can do it with you. I'll do whatever you want. I'm great at interviewing and researching. That's my job! I make documentary films. Forget Frannie and that boy Ivan. I'll help you with everything. You can't imagine the connections I have!" She stepped in close. I could smell the hot tang of her breath. She put her cheek to mine and whispered, "You don't need anyone but me. I'm your harbor."
The tone of her voice and its absolute conviction gave me the creeps.
Thank God her train was due any moment. I reminded her of this and started toward the station. She took my arm. I didn't want her to touch me.
Pauline Ostrova and Edward Durant Jr. were made for each other and never should have met. He was practical and thorough, she was not. The first time he ever insulted her, he said she was as complicated and bustling as a beehive. It became his nickname for her. She laughed in his face and said she'd rather be that than a key or a pencil, like him, which served exactly one boring purpose and thus was constantly forgotten or lost.
Both kids were brilliant and moody. Durant had lived his life in the shadow of his important and powerful father. Pauline's dad was a mechanic.
That's how they met, one afternoon when Edward's car wouldn't start. He had the hood up and was futzing around with the hoses and whatever else he could turn with his fingers. He knew squat about car engines but all men pop the hood and fiddle helplessly when their cars don't start; it's in the genes.
Pauline had just finished a freshman philosophy class where once again college proved to be a disappointment. Her peers were mostly interested in doing things she considered old hat: screwing and drinking, staying up all night cramming for tests because of all the classes they'd missed screwing and drinking.
There were things Pauline needed to know, but no one was teaching them to her. Classes were hard, but not in a good way. She felt like a Strasbourg goose with a funnel jammed down her throat. Instead of food, Swarthmore force-fed her ontology and Ludwig Boltzmann, the Potsdam Treaty and other ho-hum. Sure they filled her, but to what purpose?
She had argued with the philosophy instructor until both of them were ready to go for each other's throats. She argued with everyone in those days; it was getting bad. Her frustration was bubbling over.
A beige VW bug was parked in front of the building. Its back hood was up and a guy was looking at the exposed engine with suspicion and despair. Pauline stomped over, all fury and competence, and fixed it in fifteen minutes. Edward Durant invited her for lunch in an upscale restaurant that did not cater to students. They sat in a booth and talked a long time.