An Accidental Corpse Page 11

  “We’ve got milk and root beer in the icebox at the cottage,” Nita told him. “Some fruit as well. Unfortunately the donuts are all gone.”

  “Not surprised,” said Finch with a chuckle. “Good thing, too.” He patted his ample midsection as he headed out of Tillinghast’s parking lot and back to the highway.

  When they reached the Sea Spray, Nita said she’d go with him to the cottage first, in case the guys were still on the beach. But they had returned, and were rinsing off the salt and sand in the outdoor shower, splashing each other playfully and shaking the water out of their hair like wet puppies. They waved as they saw Finch’s car approaching.

  “Havin’ a fine, fun-lovin’ boy like that brings out the kid in you,” he observed. “Me and my dad used to be the same way when I was that age, just a couple o’ pals.” Nita sensed some twenty-five years momentarily fall away as he looked back on happy memories.

  “Well, let’s make sure this boy of mine doesn’t starve to death,” she said, “or I’ll never be an abuela—that’s Spanish for grandma.” He returned her smile, handed her the sandwiches, and went around the car to open the door for her. They walked to the cottage together as Fitz and TJ finished toweling off and slipped into their robes.

  Nita waved the sandwich bag. “Hi, fellas. Look what Officer Finch has brought—lunch!” The news was received with enthusiasm. “It’s cooler outside. We can eat on the porch,” she suggested, and they pulled up chairs while she went to the kitchen and returned with milk, soda, fruit, glasses, and napkins.

  “You guys get started,” she said. “I’m going over to the inn to see if I can reach Ossorio. I’ll explain when I get back. Meanwhile Officer Finch will fill you in.”

  “I think it’s time we got on a first-name basis, don’t you?” said Finch. “After all, TJ gave me permission, so I’d like to return the favor. How about calling me Earl from now on?” TJ beamed, and Fitz said he reckoned that would be fine.

  Nita excused herself and headed for Mr. Bayley’s office, where she got the number for The Creeks from the local phone book, a puny runt of a thing compared to its Manhattan counterpart. The switchboard gave her an outside line, and she dialed EA4-1472. After a few rings, Ossorio answered. Nita was aware that his and hers were not the only ears pressed to a receiver.

  “Buenas tardes, Señor Ossorio,” she began, hoping that her use of his native tongue would help dispel any wariness on his part. “This is Juanita Diaz speaking. We met at the funeral parlor, when you and the Brookses went to see Dr. Cooper.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he replied, a bit vaguely. “I beg your pardon, but I thought your name was Fitzgerald. Am I mistaken? If so, I apologize.”

  His politeness, coupled with his English accent, threatened to disarm Nita, who had forgotten that she’d been introduced as Mrs. Juanita Fitzgerald, with no mention of her being a policewoman, only as a witness to the accident. Momentarily at a loss, she quickly regrouped.

  “Oh, no, you’re not mistaken, sir. It’s I who must apologize for the confusion. Diaz is my maiden name. I use it professionally.”

  “Are you an artist?” he asked. It was common for female artists to keep their birth names, and Ossorio knew several of them. Lee Krasner had done it after she married Jackson Pollock, and so had Charlotte Park, a.k.a. Mrs. James Brooks. Likewise Cile Downs, who was Mrs. Sheridan Lord in private life, and the much-married Grace Hartigan, who was currently between husbands.

  “Nothing so creative, I’m afraid. I can explain, but I’d prefer to do it in person. Would you mind if I came to see you? That is, if you’re not too busy with the arrangements.” Pollock’s funeral was scheduled for the next day.

  Ossorio was graciousness itself. “Not at all, Señorita Diaz, yclept Señora Fitzgerald. And please bring your charming husband. Come for tea this afternoon at four, if that is convenient.”

  “May I bring my son as well? His name is Timothy Juan, TJ for short. He’s eight. I think he would enjoy meeting you and seeing The Creeks. We’ve heard a lot about the place and how beautiful it is.”

  “By all means,” he replied. “It will be my pleasure to give your whole family the grand tour.” Excellent, thought Nita. Now I can observe him informally, and he’ll be off his guard.

  Thirty.

  “Who was that?” asked Ted as Alfonso replaced the receiver. He had come into the central hall—where the telephone sat on an elaborately carved Chinese rosewood table—from the kitchen, where he was preparing a large casserole for the several guests who would be staying with them for the funeral.

  “Juanita Diaz Fitzgerald, the lovely lady I met at Yardley and Williams on Sunday. She and her husband and son witnessed the accident. Their car was heading down Fireplace Road as Jackson’s was going up. They saw the whole thing. I invited them to tea this afternoon.”

  “Why did she call?” Ted wondered.

  “I don’t really know. She was a bit mysterious, said she’d tell me in person. They’re from the city, out here on holiday. Perhaps she’s just curious to know more about Jackson. We shall soon find out.

  “What time are we expecting Charles and Frank?” he asked. Two of Jackson’s brothers were flying in, Frank from California and Charles from Michigan.

  Like an efficient social secretary, Ted had made all the connections. The long-distance telephone lines had been busy for the past two days.

  “They’re going to stay in the city tonight with Jay and Alma, and come out on the train tomorrow morning. Alma isn’t well, so Jay begged off. The Potters will put them up—Jeffrey will pick them up at the station. Sande and ’Loie are driving down from Connecticut today with the kids and mother Stella. They’ll stay here with us tonight and tomorrow night, and go back on Thursday unless there’s some reason for them to stay on.”

  Alfonso was sanguine about Lee’s relations with the Pollock family.

  “I doubt Lee will be wanting them to hang around. She and Stella have their differences, and she’s suspicious of Sande’s motives. According to her, he thinks he’s entitled to some compensation for all the years he babysat Jackson. I daresay he is, but not by her lights. I think she’s being unreasonable, but she’s in no state to be reasoned with. She told me that Jackson’s will leaves everything to her, nothing to any of the brothers. That was certainly her doing—she wants complete control of his estate, just as she had control of his career when he was alive. Even Sidney Janis, one of the shrewdest dealers in New York, has to get her consent before he makes a sale.”

  Ted sniffed his disapproval. “As if Sidney doesn’t know what he’s doing. She has him to thank for Jackson’s prices. Why, he told me Ben Heller is paying eight thousand dollars for a big 1950 canvas. Eight thousand, can you believe! Lee should be kissing Sidney’s ring instead of second-guessing him.”

  “But you know,” Alfonso reflected, “when Jackson boasted about his prices, his artist friends weren’t pleased. In fact, to be blunt, they were envious. Even as they were slapping him on the back and toasting him with the drinks he bought them, you could almost hear them thinking, Why him and not me?”

  Ted agreed. “The art world is so competitive, and such a slave to fashion. You’re all the rage one season and passé the next. At least in the dance world you know where you stand. Either you can do it or you can’t.” His eyes dropped, and he shrugged. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.

  Alfonso understood his sudden change of tone. Five years earlier, just as Ted’s career with George Balanchine’s New York City Ballet was shifting into high gear, he gave it up to move with Ossorio to The Creeks. Once it was decided they had never discussed it again, but they both knew what that sacrifice had entailed. When Ted closed the stage door, it was locked behind him. Now, at thirty-five, he was the male equivalent of a stay-at-home helpmeet, entirely dependent on Alfonso. But with that dependence came mutual devotion, as well as mater
ial comfort and travel.

  A further benefit was a glittering social life among Alfonso’s wide circle of friends that extended well beyond the art world’s narrow confines, including the film and stage luminaries Ruth had touted to Edith, as well as intellectuals, scientists, and religious leaders. When guests crossed the threshold at The Creeks, it was Ted who orchestrated the occasion while staying largely in the background.

  “Oh, they’re not interested in me at all,” he would confide to those few, like Jackson and Lee, who became his intimates. Then, with a mischievous grin and a wink, he’d add, “but when I make myself interesting, they change their minds,” leaving it to his listener’s imagination what “interesting” meant.

  Now, in a chef’s apron over shorts and a T-shirt, he busied himself with preparations for the onslaught of guests, both at The Creeks and at the funeral. After the service at the Springs Chapel and burial in Green River Cemetery, there would be a reception at the Pollock house. With no idea how many people might turn up, but anticipating a crowd, Lee had agreed to leave the catering in Ted’s capable hands. He had ordered plenty of food from Dreesen’s and liquor from Dakers’ to be delivered to the house on Wednesday afternoon. He’d also called Vetault’s to get some flowers for the chapel—nothing ostentatious, just a wreath of daisies like the ones in Jackson’s garden.

  But no matter how efficient he was, there was no way to prepare adequately for the inevitable emotional strain, which he knew would only be increased by the presence of the other mourners. Somehow Lee had managed to erect a seemingly impenetrable barrier that walled in her feelings, but Ted was not so resolute. He didn’t think he’d be up to the service or the interment, so he had volunteered to stay behind at Lee’s house and prepare for the reception.

  Better to grieve alone in private than to risk an embarrassing breakdown in front of witnesses. There’ll be more than enough of that without me adding to it, he reasoned.

  Thirty-one.

  Just shy of four o’clock, the Fitzgerald family pulled into the porte cochère at the entrance to the main house at The Creeks, a Mediterranean-style villa with a cool green tile roof and stucco walls painted a light beige to reflect the summer sun. To get there from the highway, they had driven down a half-mile private road that wound through landscaped grounds, past the carriage house-cum-garage and pergola, and around a circular drive enclosing a fountain surrounded by a lush rose garden, now past its best but still impressive.

  “¡Hala!” exclaimed TJ with characteristic enthusiasm for all things new and different. “This is some place! You say only two guys live here? I bet they have a whole bunch of servants to take care of it, like those fancy houses in the movies.”

  “Let’s go in and find out,” said his father as Ossorio came to the door to greet them. Nita introduced him to her son, whose hand he shook with courtly formality. She noted that his arms, revealed by his short-sleeved sports shirt, showed no evidence of wounds made by a woman’s fingernails. Nor did his face.

  “Welcome to all three Fitzgeralds,” he said with a smile. “You may leave the car right there. We’re not expecting anyone else until later. Some of Jackson’s family will be here this evening.” He ushered the trio inside.

  The entrance foyer led up three steps to a two-story hallway that spanned the living and dining rooms. Glass doors opened onto a brick-paved terrace overlooking Georgica Pond, providing cross ventilation and a spectacular view across the pond to the ocean beach. With a gentle breeze activating bamboo wind chimes hung in the open doorways, and the afternoon sun sparkling on the placid water, the arrangement conjured the world of genteel summertime leisure and pleasure for which the estate had been designed.

  Knowing that the Herters intended to use it only as a seasonal residence, the architect, Grosvenor Atterbury, had capitalized on the site’s proximity to the ocean. Within a symmetrical plan, he placed the living room, dining room, and bedrooms in matching wings on the house’s south side to take maximum advantage of the view, with the service areas, the music room, and the couple’s art studios on the north side, where indirect sunlight was most advantageous. Since everything would be shut down by October and not reopened until May or June, there was no need for storm windows or an extensive heating system.

  At first the lack of winterization was a challenge for Alfonso and Ted, who planned on living at The Creeks full-time. In heavy sweaters and long underwear during the day, and under an eiderdown comforter at night, they shivered through the winter of 1952, their first year in residence. By closing off the upstairs rooms they were able to maximize what heat there was, and the southern exposure helped warm the downstairs on sunny days.

  Gradually they had renovated and insulated to the point where the building was now a cozy year-round home. There was enough space for Alfonso to indulge his penchant for collecting eclectic furniture, exotic artifacts, and modern art—even for him to house the collection of “raw art” by the self-taught and the insane assembled by his friend, the French painter Jean Dubuffet, whose plans for an Art Brut museum in Paris had fallen through. And the spacious barnlike main studio, custom built for Albert Herter, was a great improvement on Alfonso’s small loft in the MacDougal Alley carriage house where he and Ted had lived before moving to The Creeks.

  “Please wait here a moment while I ask Ted to put the kettle on,” said Alfonso. “He’ll make some iced tea while I show you around, then we can all have refreshments on the terrace.” Raising his eyebrows, he turned to Nita. “And you can tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your visit.”

  As soon as he was gone, TJ tugged at his father’s shirtsleeve. “Hey, Dad, look at that!” He pointed to a grimacing African mask staring down menacingly from the wall above them. It reminded Fitz of the mask that had covered the face of Wifredo Lam as he lay dead on the floor of his Greenwich Village studio thirteen years earlier. In spite of himself, it gave him the shivers, though he didn’t let on to TJ.

  “If you wanted to scare away the Fuller Brush man, that would be your guy,” he joked. “I’m glad he’s up there and we’re down here. I hope he’s nailed to the wall.” He glanced at Nita, who was also remembering the photographs of Lam’s body in its “exquisite corpse” costume.

  “I see you’ve met Caddington,” said Ossorio, returning from the kitchen. “I found him at the Marché aux Puces in Paris. He belongs to the Yoruba tribe, so I’m told. He bears a striking resemblance to the headmaster at St. Richard’s School, where I spent my formative years.” He let them guess at the memories that led him to name the fearsome mask after his former boarding school teacher.

  More wonders awaited them in the adjoining rooms, including several African sculptures, intriguing fossils, a rock crystal on a wooden stand, a large decorated whale tooth that Ossorio told them was called scrimshaw, and a shrunken head from Ecuador that TJ silently coveted.

  On the walls were abstract canvases by contemporary artists, including Ossorio himself, and a large one by Pollock—roughly seven feet tall and ten feet wide—that took pride of place in the main salon. The room was sparsely furnished, just a settee and two chairs clustered around a magnificent Persian carpet in front of the fireplace, nothing to block the view of the painting. Ossorio told them it was called simply Number 1, 1950. Pollock didn’t like to title his paintings.

  “I have several of Jackson’s pictures,” he said, “but this is the largest. I bought it from his one-man show the year it was painted—he was in top form then. That show was full of masterpieces. I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it, but it was too big for the place where Ted and I were living, so I had to wait until we moved here before I could claim it from the gallery. Jackson was thrilled to see it on this wall, with the gorgeous reflected light from the pond dancing on it.” He motioned for them to step closer to get the full effect.

  Not sure of what their reaction should be, and with no title to give them a hint, Nita and Fitz limited themselves to n
oncommittal murmurs, but TJ felt no such constraint.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” he asked.

  Instead of dismissing the youngster’s frank curiosity, as most sophisticated adults would have done, Ossorio answered him respectfully.

  “That is an excellent question, Señor TJ, one that Jackson and I often discussed. For both of us, art is a form of visual communication, but while I tend to use figures and symbols that people might recognize, in paintings like this one Jackson went beyond such devices. He opened up a new world of imagination, one that doesn’t depend on familiar landmarks.”

  He stood about six feet back from the painting and beckoned TJ to join him.

  “When you stand here,” he pointed out, “your side vision doesn’t quite extend all the way across the canvas, so the painting draws you in.” Together they studied it in silence for a few moments, while Fitz and Nita were impressed by Ossorio’s solicitude.

  “Jackson once told me,” continued Ossorio, “that people should look at abstract art the way they listen to music. Just enjoy it for what it is without worrying about what it means. But that’s not to say it has no meaning at all. It really depends on you. What do you think?”

  “Golly,” replied TJ, “I’m not sure. The colors are pretty, and I like the way they sorta float on the surface. And it’s all splotchy, like rain on the window.” He turned to look up at Ossorio, who nodded his agreement.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said.

  Encouraged, TJ continued, “So if I think it looks like a rainy day, that’s okay?”

  “Certainly,” said Ossorio. “You’re using your imagination, giving it your own meaning. That’s the important thing. But let’s go closer and I’ll show you something interesting.”