Grief
Bernadette Miller
That fall, a mugger murdered Diana’s husband. Apparently, Paddy had left the university where he was working late on cancer research, and was shot while he walked to his car. The police photographer snapped his slim body sprawled over the pavement, face up, the crumpled suit stained, an arm flung out in the pool of blood.
At first, when the policeman showed her the photograph, Diana rushed to her bathroom and vomited. Her brilliant, handsome Paddy murdered--for no sane reason? Impossible! Trembling, she rinsed her mouth and bent at the sink until she calmed. Then, straightening her dress, she returned to the living room and poured brandy from the buffet decanter.
“That isn’t my husband,” she said, despite the fact that the dark-haired victim resembled Paddy, wore a similar style three-piece business suit, and his open brief case strewn with papers had a wooden handle identical to the one she’d given Paddy as a birthday gift. But he couldn’t have been shot, randomly, this way; it violated all sense of justice.
Officer Kulek looked down at her. “Ma’am, people at the university identified him as Professor Padraic Cavanaugh.”
Diana shook her head and sipped brandy.
“Uh, ma’am, you’ve admitted he’s missing--he hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. You’re probably in shock.” The policeman hesitated. “I think you should consider... a psychiatrist. Just a suggestion--I’m not saying you’re crazy or anything like that.”
“I’m certainly not crazy!” Diana said, trembling again. With long manicured fingers she nervously patted her blonde hair drawn severely behind her ears, restrained with a bow at the nape of her neck. “I know my husband wasn’t murdered, that’s all. It’s a case of mistaken identity.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the policeman said with a sigh, and left.
Diana double-locked the foyer door, and poured another brandy while a Mozart flute concerto played on the stereo. There must be a logical reason why Paddy hadn’t come home. Perhaps he’d suddenly flown off to another medical conference--important to his career. But Diana usually accompanied him. They traveled everywhere together: Paris, Durban, Mexico City... She scanned the comfortable living room with its antique Tiffany lamps, African art, and her mother’s marble coffee table. Though ten years younger, Paddy wouldn’t abandon her and the lovely home they’d furnished during two years of marriage. At their previous party, a professor had confided to Diana that Paddy’s innovative research might lead to a Nobel Prize.
Entering the bedroom, Diana drew aside velvet drapes; the bridge lights far below twinkled across the East River like a string of jewels. Moonlight streaked across the king-sized bed and lit Paddy’s portrait resting on the dresser: his dark curly hair and fine features. His tender brown eyes smiled, as though he were really there before her. Diana smiled back. How could she doubt he would return?
That night she tossed about, unable to sleep without Paddy. Slipping a chenille robe over the silk nightgown, she rose several times to drink juice and gaze at his portrait. Finally, hugging his pillow, she fell asleep.
During the following months, people called to see if she were okay and offered their condolences.
“He’s just away on a trip,” Diana said, irritated that the callers, including her own mother, hinted that Paddy had been murdered. Her mother had even dared to arrange a funeral for that man in the police photograph. Diana refused to attend. Finally, when her mother urged her to contact a psychiatrist friend, Diana exploded. She didn’t need a psychiatrist; she was sick of people’s lies! She immediately regretted hurting Mother who meant well, but simply didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry.” she said. She’d always prided herself on self-control, not crying when her parents divorced during her childhood. “He’s on a long trip--that’s all.”
“Well, people cope with grief in their own way. It probably comforts you to think--”
“Mother, I don’t need comforting.” Diana added hastily, “I must buy groceries for dinner. He might come home tonight, you know.” She hung up.
After awhile she stopped answering the phone and merely listened to messages on the answering machine.
One day Officer Kulek’s message said, “Ma’am, we have a suspect who confessed to killing your husband.”
Diana gripped the bedroom dresser until her knuckles turned white. The suspect was lying--nobody murdered Paddy because he never died. Let them deal with the killer of that other man. Still, she wished he would call, letting her know where he was. His silence made her feel as if he no longer loved her.
To ease the pain of her growing insecurity, she drank more brandy, skipping meals. It was about this time that she joined The Poison Club. It happened suddenly after hearing a Bach orchestral suite. As she stumbled toward the stereo to change the CD, she became aware of people standing in her living room, watching her.
She glanced about, startled. “How did you get in?”
“We’re here because you want us here,” Harriet Lawrence said. Wearing a sable coat, the elegant wife of Diana’s gynecologist motioned toward the two men standing at her side. “Diana, we’ve elected you chairperson of our Poison Club.”
“I don’t understand...” Diana glanced down at her dirty chenille bathrobe. “I...haven’t dressed for days. I’d better change.”
“We can wait,” blue-eyed Mrs. Lawrence said. She smiled, a lovely smile that revealed even white teeth and a flash of dimples. Mrs. Lawrence with her delicate pinkish complexion radiated charm, but her air of self-confidence left no doubt she expected her wishes to be obeyed. Diana had to admire her self-confidence. Why was she so poised when her only child had been killed by muggers last year? Mrs. Lawrence patted her black upsweep with a ruby-ringed finger. “Don’t take too long, dear.”
Nodding, Diana put the brandy on the end table, and staggered to the bedroom. She heard the group shed overcoats and boots at the foyer closet and return to the living room, commenting on the cold January weather. Diana donned a clingy peach-colored dress with cameo brooch at the plunging neckline. It was Paddy’s favorite, worn only when they went out alone, dining and dancing at The Rainbow Room. For university functions or faculty parties, she chose sedate suits with pearls. But tonight was different. The uninvited living room guests were welcome--reminding Diana of dinner parties she and Paddy used to give. Thank heavens the liquor store had delivered plenty of brandy. If only Paddy were back, sipping it with her after the party while gossiping about these guests.
Diana stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Despite circles under her eyes, she felt desirable; Paddy would surely want her again and they’d play their delicious game of “ring around the moon.” His lovemaking was wonderfully imaginative.
Smiling, she brushed her scraggly hair, drawing it behind her ears with a satin bow, and donned earrings and high heels.
“Ooh,” the group responded in appreciation when she appeared.
Diana nodded, satisfied that the Valentino dress was still appreciated.
“Please call the meeting to order,” Mrs. Lawrence told her.
Diana floundered. “What should I do?”
“Whatever you please, dear.”
Diana shrugged and reached for the cloth potpourri doll on the sideboard. She beat the doll against the marble coffee table. “The meeting of The Poison Club is open for suggestions!”
Alex Gerakitis, Greek owner of the corner pub where Diana and her husband had often dropped by for a nightcap, rose near the window. “Let’s kill a mugger,” he said, heavy eyebrows twitching.
Diana trembled and poured brandy until the snifter was full. She took a long swig, and leaned back. Starting to relax, she recalled trying to console poor Alex after he’d lost a nephew to muggers.
Then, tall, slim Gary Monroe smoothed his wavy brown hair and nodded. “Let’s be creative, devise an ingenious plan, not something overdone, like in the movies.”
Diana remembered then that Gary, an attorney and neighbor, had lost his father to muggers several years earlier on Long Island.
“Poison is so civilized,” Mrs. Lawrence reminded them with a smile.
“Excellent!” Gary said. “How shall we do it?”
Alex’s eyebrows twitched rapidly. “We’ll wait at the university and grab the first mugger we see. I’ll offer him a cup of hot cocoa. That should mask the taste of rat poison I usually keep on hand in my restaurant.”
“Hot cocoa? Alex, you’ve become enslaved by television.” Gary poured his own snifter. “We’re striving for originality!”
Diana repressed a smile. They were all so enthusiastic.
“I’d be delighted to help,” Mrs. Lawrence said. “I always try to be useful to the community.”
Gary turned to Diana. “A beautiful woman would make good bait--the chair-person, for example.”
Diana smiled. “Yes, I’m perfectly willing to be the bait--”
Alex jumped up. “It’s settled then. Let’s use Diana to kill the bastard mugger!”
Gary and Mrs. Lawrence agreed at once. “Tonight!” they shouted in unison. “We’ll meet at seven at the university gate!”
Diana beat the potpourri doll. “Order! Order! We must stay calm.” She sipped her brandy. “Is there any other business?”
Nobody answered.
“Very well,” she said, “meeting adjourned.” She glanced past the graceful bell-shaped drapes; it had begun snowing.
While the group rushed to the closet for coats and boots, Diana sauntered to the bedroom, seeking proper clothing to lure a mugger. She chose a wool skirt, Scottish hand knit pullover, and mink jacket.
She arrived at the university on time, but the others weren’t there yet. She greeted the guard and decided to climb the hill to the faculty recreation building. In the cold, crisp air, the sidewalk lamps blurred; tree limbs laden with snow dipped against the whitened lawns. Pausing to admire the fairy tale landscape, she noticed the group straggling up the hill. Gary, ahead of the others, walked leisurely with his Brooks Brothers coat and feathered fedora. Mrs. Lawrence came next, clutching her sable so as not to brush against snow-covered bushes. Alex, dressed sensibly in sturdy blue jeans, fiber-filled jacket, and boots, brought up the rear. They joined Diana on the building steps.
Gary, warming his cupped hands with his breath, asked Alex, “Have you got the poison?”
He produced a packet of d-Con. “One taste of this and the mugger is finished!”
“I’ll take that,” Mrs. Lawrence said, smiling. She took Diana’s thermos of hot asparagus soup, unscrewed the lid, and sprinkled in the green rat poison.
The group chatted as if at a faculty tea. Diana began to feel restless; she wanted to fulfill their mission.
“It’s time we sought the mugger,” she said.
The others nodded.
“This way,” Alex said, taking the lead.
They headed around the recreation building, the fresh snow spongy underfoot. Alex suddenly emitted a grunt of surprise. “Look!”
Diana, stepping around the burly man, spotted someone sprawled near a trash barrel. “Is he dead?”
Gary bent over the man wearing old clothes and no coat. “Frozen to death.”
“The mugger!” Mrs. Lawrence said triumphantly, staring down at the figure. “That will teach him not to kill people for no reason!”
“Oh, yes!” Diana beamed that the club’s first effort had succeeded. Returning home, she poured out the soup and rinsed the thermos while humming an oldie, “Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella.” She could hardly wait for The Poison Club’s next meeting.
After slipping into her silk nightgown and turning down the quilt, she gazed at Paddy’s tender brown eyes in the dresser portrait. The gentle smile widened into a grin. He looked happy that she was seeing friends again, giving parties and broadening her social life rather than brooding over his unexplained absence.
