Lady in the Lake(68)

“Is Mr. Taylor home?”

“He is not.” I know how, in three words, to say everything I need to say. And she’s smart enough to hear what isn’t said: And I wouldn’t call him to the door if he was. We do not do business in this house. If you really need to talk to Ezekiel Taylor, you should know that. No business is transacted here, ever, even of the non-financial kind. Not under my roof. You think I let Shell Gordon come to my house? Never. Ezekiel goes to him.

“My name is Madeline Schwartz,” she repeats. “I work for the Star. I’d like to talk to you about the night Cleo Sherwood disappeared.”

“Who?” I say.

“The young woman whose body was found in the lake.”

“Why?”

“She worked at the Flamingo, a place your husband frequents.”

“Hundreds of people frequent the Flamingo, miss.” This woman has not said she is a “miss,” but what proper married woman would ever be on my doorstep, asking about my husband?

“Still, I thought—”

“This is not my husband’s place of business. It is our home. We believe in—” My words falter and she jumps in:

“A strict separation of church and state?”

I understand the reference. I am a well-educated woman. I was, after all, attending Coppin, studying to be a teacher, when I met Ezekiel. But it hits me wrong, the way she says it, almost as if it’s a joke. There is nothing funny about church. Without church, I don’t know who I’d be, how I would go from day to day. Church, specifically, not Jesus. Of course I love Jesus, he gives my life meaning, but the church, its schedule and rituals—the church gives my life shape. Maybe it sounds funny to some, but I see my days as trees, like in the Tarzan movies. Every morning I get up, grab a vine, and hope it’s long enough, my arms powerful enough, to carry me to the next one. I go to church, I change the altar cloths, the seasons pass, the years pass. Christ is born, Christ dies, Christ rises. Again and again and again.

“This is my home,” I say, well aware that I have shifted from our to my. But it’s true. I have absolute domain here. Here, things are proper. Here is under my control. Cleo Sherwood and her ilk have never crossed my threshold. A thought streaks across my mind—what if I had allowed Claudia and her “husband” into the house? What if there had been a baby in here, after all? Maybe she would have given it to me, let me have it. A baby could have changed everything. EZ wanted babies.

“I came to talk to you. Specifically about what you and your husband did New Year’s Eve. Was he here with you? The whole night?”

But I am shutting my door. Slowly, majestically. I want her to glimpse the world behind me, the beautiful rooms, the fine antiques, some of them French. God did not give me children, so I have made our home—our home, Ezekiel, yours and mine, the place you come back to, eventually, every night or early morning—a blessed place, a beautiful place. I keep a fine house, I set a fine table, I make good meals. I listen to the radio, I am up on the news. I have done everything that a man can ask a woman to do, other than give him children. He has forgiven my body’s shortcomings, so I forgive his.

That bold piece lingers on my doorstep for a minute or so, rings the bell a second time, as if her first conversation with me was a dress rehearsal. It was not. We are done.

It’s not my fault that Cleo Sherwood was a careless young woman who couldn’t stay alive. It’s not my fault. Ezekiel doesn’t even realize that I knew she existed. And if I didn’t know she was alive—and isn’t pretending someone doesn’t exist the same as not knowing they’re alive?—then how can I know anything about how she died?

Maybe I should have let them stay, Douglas and Claudia. Maybe everything would have been different. She could have been a daughter to me. She was country, poor and rough, but I was country, too, once upon a time. Now look at me. I have beautiful clothes and pearls, a house full of satin and brocade and velvet. Maybe if I had been content to let these things happen under my roof, I could have kept everyone safe.

But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. A lady has her limits. That’s part of what makes one a lady, knowing her limits, respecting them. Whatever Cleo Sherwood was to my husband, she was not and never could be a lady. She was never going to be his wife, and I don’t care what she ran around blabbing to people. She was deluded.

And now she’s dead.





You went to her door, rang the bell.




You went to her door, rang the bell. I am almost impressed in spite of myself, Madeline Schwartz. You did the thing I longed to do, the thing I swore I was going to do. Oh, I talked a good game, that’s for sure.

Do you realize that’s why I’m dead, Maddie Schwartz? Because I talked about doing that, nothing more. Said I was going to confront her. Promises had been made and I was ready to call them in. Would I have done it? I don’t know, but others made sure that I never had the chance to make good on my angry boasts.

Oh, Maddie Schwartz, do you have any idea what you have done?





Part III





August 1966





August 1966



“Cleo Sherwood was seeing Ezekiel Taylor. I’m sure of it.”

Bob Bauer, his mouth full, was in no hurry to speak. He had just taken a bite of what appeared to be a Reuben sandwich and he was determined to enjoy it. He was a remarkably neat eater, Maddie noted, and not the type of person to rush his chewing just because someone was waiting for a reply.