Following Polly Page 6

  “Chérie.”

  It was the deep voice of Maurice Fantin, the celebrated Corsican parfumier. The two embraced in the street, their attraction for each other charged not by a sexual force but rather the natural exhilaration experienced by purchaser and purchasee. Once I realized that Polly had not been looking at me but rather through me, I was interested only in removing myself from the scene. I tasted, for only a second, the humiliation of being found out. I didn’t like it. This will end.

  In five days, we’ll be starting the New Year. And I’m making my resolution early. I’m going to stop following. Today will be the last time.

  I go to the bagel shop right around the corner from me before I head over to Dr. Moses’s office on the East Side. There is nothing to eat or drink in the house. And I remember that I haven’t eaten for days. My intense Polly excursions coupled with my recent Charlie sighting have made me feel crazy.

  The bagel place is almost empty. An old man is sucking on his bagel at the other end of the shop. I eat my bagel and drink two coffees. I feel invigorated. Off I go to Dr. Dawn Moses.

  I think I know my lifelong dream.

  It’s Charlie. It always has been.

  And then, just before I walk out, I see her! Polly’s here. In my bagel store. If I didn’t know any better, I would think she was following me. It’s a sign. But of what? To keep following her? No. I know it’s wrong, and I’m committed to stopping. I have to stop. I have to move on. Maybe she’s here so that I can come clean. No—not fully clean. Not, “Hey, Polly, remember me? I helped you break into your dorm room at Harvard, and now here I am trailing you for weeks on end for no particular reason.”

  I couldn’t admit to that.

  But maybe there is some other way to stop following Polly. I could act as if our dual presence at the bagel shop is serendipitous. I could ask if she remembers me from Thayer South. I could be casual about it. After all, I’m a Harvard graduate. For all she knows, I’m a private investor looking to sink my funds into a lingerie company. This is perfect.

  This is the closure I need. After I’m done with her, I’ll figure out a way to meet Charlie, really meet him. And if my dream isn’t realized, I’ll at least know that I had one. I look in a mirror for a second to fix my hair. I wish I didn’t look quite so shabby. I jump into the restroom to finger comb my hair. I step out, and Polly is gone.

  She’s next door at the tailor. I wait outside, pretending to look at the junk shop window next door. It’s only eleven-thirty. She emerges and immediately sticks out her hand and hails a cab. Without much ado, I stand behind her with my hand sticking out. The first cab stops for Polly. I get another within seconds. The driver asks where we are going. I tell him to follow the cab in front of me. He’s confused but I explain that the person in the cab has bronchitis and that I’m pregnant and don’t wish to catch her ailment by sitting so close to her, but that we are attending an important meeting, and she was coughing so hard when she gave me the address that I couldn’t hear her, but I didn’t want to ask her again because she kept coughing on me. The driver has no idea what I’m talking about, but is moved by the fact that I’m pregnant, and he tails Polly’s driver like a pro.

  It turns out our “business meeting” is at Otto & LuLu’s, a clothing emporium in NoLita, a once-gritty, now-trendy area south of NoHo and east of SoHo. The place looks like a brothel. There are rugs and scarves and Tiffany lamps everywhere. Necklaces and gloves and masks hang from lighting fixtures. There’s a ficus tree in the middle of the store, and two spider monkeys roam around. A sign explains that the larger monkey is Otto and the smaller one is LuLu. There are armoires all over the place filled with clothing, and chests of sweaters. I look for Polly, but I can’t find her, as the armoires and chests create a labyrinthine atmosphere. The décor does not inspire me to shop. In fact, despite the small customer turnout, I feel claustrophobic. There are also about twelve different flavors of incense and candles vying for aroma-dominance. Suddenly, I hear music. I will find Polly, say my hello, and leave.

  I realize she must be in the back of the store. I see no salespeople, but I keep looking. There’s a large space in the back cordoned off; it must be the dressing area. I grab a dress from the armoire behind me. I’m eager to leave this strange store and try to start my life. I climb over the ropes. There are three small rooms, with curtains for doors. The first one is completely empty. The second one is filled with clothes. The curtains to the third one are mostly open, so I go inside and look. It takes a second to sink in. Polly is in here, but she is on the ground.

  “Hello,” I say softly.

  She doesn’t answer.

  It suddenly registers: Polly is covered in blood. I’m afraid to touch her. I’ve never seen a dead person, but she certainly does not look alive.

  “Hello,” I say, and I look at her face. Her complexion is off. Her eyes are open, facing me, but she doesn’t blink and the parts of her skin that aren’t covered in blood have an eerie quality to them. I touch her. I expect her to feel cold and stiff, but she’s warm and pliable. Maybe she’s alive.

  “Hello,” I call out. But no one is there.

  I hear something. Someone’s coming back here. I am still looking at Polly’s bleeding body.

  “You should call an ambulance,” I say.

  No response. I look around and realize that I’m talking to either Otto or LuLu. This freaks me out completely. I vomit. I must get out of here. I find my way out of the store, and I run.

  One thing is for sure: Polly Dawson finally got hers.

  TWO

  ON THE RUN

  I don’t want to leave my house. I am, to borrow a phrase from Jean, freaked out. I turn on the television to see if Oprah has any suggestions about my spirit, but the show has been interrupted by a breaking news story: Polly Dawson, wife of critically acclaimed director Humphrey Dawson, has been stabbed in cold blood in NoLita, a perky journalist reports.

  I can’t believe that Polly’s death has bumped Oprah.

  The perky journalist starts to list Humphrey’s film credits. I turn off the television.

  I realize I haven’t removed my suede jacket even though it is sweltering in my apartment. There is a dried splotch of blood on my sleeve. Polly’s blood. The blood of the wife of critically acclaimed director Humphrey Dawson.

  The phone rings. It’s Mother. I let the machine pick it up. Mother talks very quickly when she’s excited. She wants to know if I heard that Polly Dawson was dead. She remembers that I had reunited with her. Did I know her husband? She then switches gears a little to congratulate me on leaving the casting office before this whole thing happened. It can be very “toxic,” she explains, to “work in that kind of environment.” Not casting in general. Just in an office with such close ties to a homicide.

  I don’t pick up the phone during this long message. Mother can be a little exhausting. She was always very curious about the daily goings-on at Mona Hawkins Casting, and she’ll be impossible to get off the phone now.

  Jean also leaves me several messages. She’s less concerned with Polly Dawson than she is with me. She says things like “How are you?” and “I just want to know how you are.” A few times in a very long-winded message she also manages to tell me that her twenty-three-year-old paralegal dumped her rather abruptly and that she’d been depressed but that this whole thing with Polly Dawson has put everything into perspective. She finishes the phone call with another “Just wanted to know how you are doing.” I’ll call Jean later.

  There are some more messages. Everyone is concerned but excited by the news: Clare Ransom comes right out and asks if the director husband did it. Bram calls from an airport in Africa and leaves me a message. “It’s a gay thing, I bet you.”

  Dr. Moses calls me to tell me that she is worried that I missed my appointment. Would I like to make it up?

  But I don’t.

  Dr. Moses calls again. She says that it might be beneficial to see her and that of course there is the matter of—<
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  The matter of what? The machine has cut her off. Whatever curiosity I may have about her message is outdone by my limitless inertia. No need to erase all the messages. Any new ones that come in are bound to sound like the others.

  The phone rings every now and then. Usually the caller gives up after five rings or so, but there’s obviously one caller out there who is willing to give me ten rings. This is clearly someone who has never been to my teeny-tiny apartment. I’m only vaguely curious about the identity of this persistent individual. I don’t have caller ID on my phone. Jean romanticizes this and tells me that ultimately I’m a fan of mystery and suspense and caller ID kind of ruins that.

  The phone continues to ring. I continue to ignore it.

  I think it has been a full two days since I have eaten. There’s nothing in my fridge other than capers and some moo shu chicken from last week. I don’t feel hunger.

  I don’t feel anything.

  I don’t turn on the TV. I’m sure that there will be more information about the murder, but the gossipy tone of the news reporters is sickening.

  I finally take the phone off the hook. I’m no longer interested in the identity of the caller. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep.

  There’s a knock at my door. I look in the peephole. It doesn’t show much, but it shows enough.

  Kovitz.

  A police badge with the name Kovitz.

  Charlie ate lunch with a policeman named Kovitz in Chinatown the day I saw Polly with her young lover.

  More knocking.

  “Ms. Teakle, are you in there?”

  I don’t even answer; I open the door.

  “Ms. Teakle, my name is Phil Kovitz. This is my partner, Ray Seminara, and Officer Donnell Bristol. We have some questions for you. Would you mind coming to the station house?” Donnell, chocolate-skinned and burly, looks like Mr. T would have had he gone into a more conventional line of crime fighting. Kovitz is shorter than I am, pasty in the face, and balding with a crew cut. Seminara, mustachioed and tall, has an acne problem.

  Now, I know what you are thinking. I should say, “Yes, Detective Kovitz, I would mind going to the station house.” But the truth is I am sort of looking forward to it. A change of scenery would do me a world of good at this moment. I haven’t left my house in close to three days; I’m hot and bored. I smell something unpleasant. It’s me. I haven’t showered in three days, and I’ve been sweating through the same outfit.

  I ask if I could freshen up a bit, but Officer Bristol tells me that freshening up isn’t necessary. He’s only lightly touching my arm, but I’m in no position to test his physique.

  I go outside. My block is unrecognizable. The air is thick with snow. I can’t see anything. I walk with my hands outstretched like I’m in a zombie movie. I hit an object covered with snow. It’s a parked car. A parked police car.

  Officer Bristol tells me that this is his vehicle and encourages me, with his hand on my arm, to get in as quickly as possible. I do, but I take a second to grab a handful of snow and wash my face.

  Kovitz sits next to me in the backseat of the car. I’m eager to ask him about Charlie but I know that would be inappropriate.

  We drive with the siren on.

  It occurs to me that this isn’t a friendly encounter. So I do what I do best: I keep silent.

  We stop in front of the fifth precinct station house. Kovitz opens the door and leads me inside.

  Should I ask for a lawyer? I was, after all, a paralegal at Pennington & Litt, and they have hundreds of them.

  I doubt they remember me.

  I could call Jean, but she does mergers and acquisitions. Whenever I watch Law & Order, I call her to ask if that episode’s legal maneuvers would really happen. She always tells me she doesn’t know.

  Then there’s Charlie; he knows Kovitz.

  The problem is, of course, he doesn’t know me.

  I wonder if I should call Mother. But she would get all dramatic and turn what promises to be a short and simple interview into a Sally Field feature film. And Barnes? Well. No. I’ll do this alone. I’m good at alone.

  Kovitz and Seminara take me into a room. They ask me if I know Polly Dawson.

  “Not well,” I tell them.

  “You were aware that she was murdered three days ago,” Seminara instructs me.

  “Yes.”

  “What was your relationship with her?”

  Relationship?

  “I didn’t have a relationship with her?”

  “But you knew her.”

  “Yes.”

  Kovitz interrupts us and remarks that I look cold and asks if I would like a coffee. I’m not cold, but I’m famished and tired. I tell him to add a lot of cream and sugar. Usually I like milk and no sugar, but I imagine the station house fare needs a little help.

  “What was your relationship with the deceased?”

  The deceased.

  I tell Seminara that I worked at Mona Hawkins and that we did the casting for her husband’s film Only at Sunrise.

  “How would you characterize your relationship with her?”

  This is the third time Seminara has alluded to a relationship between me and Polly Dawson.

  “I had no relationship with her. I don’t know that we ever spoke since our first day in college.”

  “Ms. Teakle, we have reason to believe that you were on the premises of a store called Otto and LuLu’s at or around the time Polly Dawson was murdered.”

  Kovitz puts the coffee in front of me. It smells like old milk, but I’m dying to take a sip. I grab the cup and put it near my lips when I see the only thing that, at this point, ties me to Polly’s body.

  I decline to drink the coffee. As I told you, I watch Law & Order, and the police always tempt suspects with beverages and cigarettes so they can get DNA from their saliva.

  I don’t fall for it.

  “Ms. Teakle.” Seminara has raised his voice and his left cheek bulges a bit. “We have an eyewitness who claims to have seen you enter the premises of Otto and LuLu’s at or around the time of Polly Dawson’s murder.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Better yet”—Seminara is louder still—“our eyewitness has firsthand knowledge of you tailing Polly Dawson from a location at or around Midtown Manhattan to the premises of Otto and LuLu’s. In fact, Ms. Teakle, our eyewitness tells us that you ordered him to follow the decedent and that you utilized a ploy involving a story of Polly Dawson being pregnant and of you having bronchitis.”

  Actually, I said that it was Polly who had bronchitis. I was the pregnant one.

  I still don’t say anything.

  “Ms. Teakle. We also found a fuchsia button looking an awful lot like the buttons visitors to the Metropolitan Museum of Art get once they have paid their admission to the museum. We just happened to check your credit-card records and we learned that you were at the museum several Thursdays ago. And we happened to check with the Metropolitan Museum admissions office, who told us that they were dispensing fuchsia buttons to museum visitors several Thursdays ago when Polly Dawson was there.”

  But I returned my button to the museum recycle bin.

  I still don’t say anything.

  “Ms. Teakle, we also found at the crime scene matchbooks from the Four Seasons, Lever House, and other restaurants Polly Dawson frequented. You were at those restaurants at the exact time she was. You left credit-card records. Also at the crime scene, we found a sample of Denis G. hair wax. And our records also happen to show that you received beauty treatments at an establishment known as Denis G. at or about the same time Polly received those treatments. And Ms. Teakle, our records happen to show multiple incidents of trespass at Silvercup Studios and in the mayor’s mansion during an exclusive party Polly Dawson attended. We have it all on videotape.”

  Their records happen to show a lot.

  I don’t say anything.

  “We are in the process of confirming with your psychiatrist that you missed your appointment during
the precise time that Ms. Dawson was attacked.”

  “Psychologist,” is all I can say.

  “Excuse me?” Kovitz turns on his tape recorder.

  “Psychologist. You said I missed my appointment with my psychiatrist; she doesn’t have an M.D. She can’t dispense medication. She’s a psychologist.”

  “Don’t be smart with me. Not all of us went to Harvard,” Kovitz says.

  “That isn’t…” I try to defend myself.

  “You may think you have the upper hand now because of your Harvard education, but you aren’t going to get out of this. Ms. Teakle, the police are at your house searching for the weapon that was used to kill Polly Dawson.”

  The police are at my house!

  “They won’t find any—”

  I lift up my hand and I see the blood on my sleeve.

  But Kovitz doesn’t notice.

  “I’d like to call a lawyer,” I tell him.

  He pauses.

  “Okay.”

  Someone knocks on the door. Kovitz goes to answer and the two whisper. I’m curious to know the content of the conversation because I know it’s about me.

  “We have to go to another room,” Kovitz informs me.

  We leave our room. I grab the coffee cup. I guess they don’t need my saliva if they’re at my house right now. I left loads of DNA behind.

  Kovitz directs me to a chair outside. He tells me that he has to take care of something and that I should “sit tight.” Seminara and Bristol are nowhere in sight.

  I sit tight per Kovitz’s instructions. The station house is busy and loud. My eavesdropping skills have improved over the last months, so I’m able to pick up significant portions of conversations.

  There’s a baby-faced woman a few feet from me begging an officer to seek an order of protection and press charges against her abusive husband. The officer looks through his notes.