Painted Ladies

“I don’t believe in magic,” Susan said. “Although there are moments in a therapy session . . . No. No more so than I can speak Hebrew. The irony about Jewishness, I’ve always thought, is that it has been intensified by repression.”

“Containment enhances the power of explosion,” I said.

“Something like that,” Susan said.

Our earlier rambunctiousness had pretty well done away with the bedcovers. Susan made a weak effort at modesty by pulling one edge of the comforter over her thighs. She had been doing power yoga for some time now, and was pleased with her strength and flexibility. As she talked, she raised one naked leg and pointed it toward the ceiling, which pretty well took care of the modesty issue.

“Flexible,” I said.

“And strong,” she said.

“Good traits in a woman,” I said.

She smiled and raised the other leg. Pearl eyed the space that had been created but stayed put. I eyed her both legs pointing at the ceiling.

“Also comely,” I said.

“Jewesses are frequently comely,” Susan said.

“None as comely as you,” I said.

Susan flexed her elevated ankles.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“This thing with the paintings has been the most Jewish thing I’ve ever dealt with.”

“Except me,” Susan said.

“As always,” I said. “There’s you, and there’s everybody else.”

“All the bad guys appear to be Jewish,” Susan said.

“I’m beginning to feel like an anti-Semite,” I said.

Susan, with both legs still sticking up in the air, turned from admiring them to look at me.

“You’re not,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “Now, if I could just find Ariel Herzberg.”

Susan put her legs down, which was good news and bad news. The good news was I could think of something else. It was also the bad news.

“What is he like?” Susan said.

“I don’t know. I have no handle on him. I thought I could lure him into trying to kill me, and instead I lured him into disappearing.”

“Disappearing may be a bit solipsistic,” Susan said. “He’s not disappeared. He’s someplace. You just don’t know where.”

“My God,” I said. “I’m in bed with Noah Webster.”

“Think about it,” Susan said. “Worst case. He’s on the run. He’s alone. He has to go somewhere. If you were at the end of your rope and in his situation, where would you go?”

“To you,” I said.

Susan nodded.

“Does he have a me?”

“No one does,” I said.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “There’s an ex-wife. There’s a daughter.”

“Ex-wife doesn’t hold him in high esteem,” I said.

“ ‘Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in,’ ” Susan said.

“It’s not Noah Webster,” I said. “It’s Robert Frost.”

“When people run,” Susan said, “they run home.”

“And the daughter thinks he’s heroic,” I said.

“It’ll be the wife,” Susan said.

“How do you know?”

“Shrink, woman, and comely Jewess,” Susan said.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s how.”

64

Bright and early, while the coffee was brewing in my office pot, I called Crosby at Walford.

“Can you see if you can locate Missy Minor?” I said.

“You want me to hold her?”

“I don’t even want her to know you located her. Just let me know.”

“I’ll be surreptitious,” he said.

“You don’t sound like a cop,” I said. “You got to stop hanging around the faculty lounge.”

“Oh, okay,” Crosby said. “I’ll be fucking surreptitious.”

“Better,” I said.

I hung up and dialed Shawmut Insurance and asked for Winifred Minor. She was not in today. I asked if she was ill. That information was not available. Of course it wasn’t. I hung up and checked the coffee. It was ready, so I poured some and added milk and sugar and sat down with it. I was on my second cup when Crosby called back.

“She don’t answer the bell at her dorm,” he said when I picked up the phone. “And she isn’t at the gym or anywhere like that.”

“And what were you going to say if she did answer the door?” I said.

“I told my guy to say, ‘There’s been a burglary in one of the dorms and we’re just warning all the members of the Walford community.’”

“Slick,” I said. “Might she be in class?”

“Only class today is twelve to three,” he said. “We’ll check when the time comes, let you know.”

“You know any of her friends?” I said.

“Don’t know any,” Crosby said. “Can find out. But I’d have to start asking around, and that’s not surreptitious.”

“True,” I said.

“Something cooking?” he said.

“If only I knew,” I said.

“Happy to help,” he said. “If I can. It’s almost like police work.”

“Thanks, Crosby,” I said.

“No problem, pal.”

“Anyone ever call you Bing?”

“No,” he said.

After we hung up, I sat and drank coffee and thought. Several doughnuts would have helped that process, but Susan had convinced me they were not nourishing, and I was trying to be loyal to her. Love is not always a simple thing.

He was there. I was convinced of that. What I was thinking about was what to do about it. I didn’t know if he was there holding them hostage, or if he was there being clasped to the bosom of his family. I didn’t want the cops, at least until I knew what the arrangement was. Once the cops are in, you no longer control anything. I wanted to keep Winifred and Missy out of it, if I could.