“He didn’t confess to injecting me.”
“It was a plea bargain,” Bill Frothingham said. “His lawyer wasn’t going to let him admit to a potentially capital offense.”
“But there was a witness, and there was evidence,” Lucia said.
“What witness, what evidence?” Babe cried. “You told me the syringe was disallowed.”
“On a sleazy technicality.”
“Then who was the witness?” Babe said. “There’s no mention of any witness in these newspapers.”
“I didn’t give you all the papers.”
“I’m not a child! I want to know and I have a right to know. This is my life, my marriage!”
“Scottie’s admission to the lesser charge,” Bill Frothingham said gently, “was tantamount to a confession of attempted murder. The word knowingly is a diplomatic way of saying he knew there was insulin in your blood.”
“And willfully,” Lucia said, “means he put it there. And if it hadn’t been for that dreadful Ted Morgenstern the syringe would have been admitted into evidence. Anyone Morgenstern defends is guilty. Everybody knows that. Why else do you think Scottie went to him?”
“Who was the witness against Scottie?” Babe said.
In the silence that fell, distant sounds came to Babe distinctly and with remembered meaning: the summer breeze softly rustling the curtains, the wood beams of the house creaking with obscure strain, the hum of the elevator.
“You don’t need another shock,” Lucia said.
“You think one more is going to finish me off? How you’ve changed in seven years, Mama—and you too, Papa, sitting there afraid to say a word without her permission. You weren’t afraid to tell me not to marry Scottie. You weren’t afraid to hire detectives to dig up his past. You weren’t afraid to tell me everything sordid and disagreeable you could unearth about my first husband. Where was all your concern then? Why are you so worried about my feelings now?”
“Because you’re ranting and hysterical,” Lucia said.
“Maybe I’ll stop ranting when you tell me who testified against Scottie.”
In the silence a new voice spoke.
“Why not tell her? It’s not a secret, is it?”
A young woman with blond hair stood in the doorway.
“Cordelia,” Lucia said.
Cordelia was wearing green suede boots and jeans and a lace blouse, and an amethyst necklace. Cordelia crossed to Babe’s wheelchair and kissed her mother on the forehead.
“Hello, Mother, you’re looking well. I was supposed to be part of the welcome home committee but the traffic in from the island was terrible.” Cordelia went to the sideboard and foraged among bottles. “Who drank the mandarine?”
“There’s poire,” Lucia said.
“Poire’s for after dinner.”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“Didn’t have a chance. Marshall Tavistock’s plane broke down. Anyone mind if I finish the Fernet-Branca?”
“I was telling your mother,” Lucia said, “that you don’t live here anymore.”
“Haven’t for years. Are you going to sell the place, Mother? You really should.”
“I like the peace here,” Babe said. “And the view.”
Cordelia dropped into a chair covered in glazed blue chintz and swirled her glass, studying the waves in her aperitif. “The Argentinian ambassador to the U.N. would buy in a minute.”
“I’m not selling.”
“It’s awfully big for one person,” Cordelia said.
“Maybe you’ll want to move back,” Babe said.
“Doubt it.”
There was a silence, and Babe said, “I hear you have a beautiful loft. I’d like to see it.”
“When you graduate to crutches you can. The elevator’s not working.”
“That elevator will be repaired long before your mother’s on crutches,” Lucia said.
“I don’t know. Mother’s moving awfully fast.” Cordelia smiled. “I see you’ve been reading old newspapers. Am I in any of them?”
“No,” Babe said. “You’re not in any of these.”
Cordelia’s glance went coolly around the room. “Who’s going to tell Mother? No one? Bill, is your drink all right? Grandpère, Grandmère, your drinks?”
“We’re fine,” Hadley said.
“The sooner we get it into the open,” Cordelia said, “the sooner we’ll never have to talk about it again.”
“Agreed,” Hadley said.
“Cordelia—” Lucia said, a warning in her voice.
“Really, Grandmère, why should Mother have to get it from the public library? She might as well know what everyone else knows. Sooner or later someone is bound to tell her anyway.”
“Let it be later,” Lucia said.
“No,” Babe said. “Now.”
“I agree with Mother,” Cordelia said. Her eyes met Babe’s. “It was me, Mother. I testified against Scottie at the first trial.”
For a long moment Babe couldn’t react, couldn’t believe it. Refusal welled up in her. “But you were only twelve.”
“I suppose that’s why no one believed me.”
“They believed you,” Lucia said.
“Well, it didn’t stick, did it.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Anyway, now Mother knows and we don’t need to discuss it, do we? Unless Mother wants a discussion.”
“I don’t understand.” Babe’s voice faltered. She made a hacking attempt to grasp this, to understand. “Cordelia … saw Scottie …?”
“I saw him come out of the bedroom with the syringe. That famous syringe. I hope they’ve got it in a museum somewhere.”
“You saw him?” Babe tried to gain some particle of comprehension. “But you were—so young, so little.”
“Being twelve doesn’t mean I was blind—or a dolt.”
Babe shook her head slowly. “I don’t see how … I just don’t see …” She fought for some sense of direction.
“Mother, this could get very boring. Everyone in this room except you has heard this cross-examination nine hundred times before.”
Babe couldn’t move. She needed something to point her feelings at and it wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry, Mother. Truly I am. How did we get onto this subject anyway?”
“It’s all because your mother doesn’t want to sign the divorce petition,” Lucia said.
“Yours and Papa’s divorce petition,” Babe said.
“Is Grandpère divorcing you, Grandmère? How adventurous for you both.”
“Please, Cordelia,” Lucia said. “We’re discussing something serious.”
“Why doesn’t everybody just lighten up,” Cordelia said. “This room is a morgue.”
“If Beatrice would sign the petition,” Lucia said, “she’d certainly lighten up Bill’s workload—only Bill’s too much a gentleman to say so.”
“I can’t sign something I don’t understand,” Babe said.
“You understand perfectly well,” Lucia said. “You just don’t want to admit you made a mistake marrying that man.”
“You’re right,” Babe said. “Because I don’t believe I did make a mistake. And I won’t believe it till I hear it from Scottie’s own lips.”
“Babe,” Hadley said gently, “just what do you expect Scottie to tell you?”
“He can tell me he tried to kill me.”
“He’s not going to tell anyone that,” Lucia said. “Not now when he’s off scot-free.”
“Then at least he can tell me face-to-face he wants a divorce. He can meet me in Bill’s office—and he can bring his attorney if he’s scared of incriminating himself. But unless you produce my husband, and unless he tells me this petition is his doing and his desire, I’ll …”
The air in the room was suddenly a wall of ice.
“You’ll what?” Lucia said.
“I’ll contest this divorce.”
24
MONDAY EVENING CARDOZO DROVE OVER to Beaux Arts Tower. Hector Dominguez was lounging against a pillar in the lobby. His belly was getting big for his green jacket.