Read Online A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lydia Adamson
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felt as though I were a room-service meal going up on a dumbwaiter.
When I had finally reached her door and she had admitted me, I was delighted to see a wonderful fire roaring away in the fireplace, set in a gargantuan wall of exposed brick. It was the SoHo apartment of dreams—her place was marvelous.
No sooner had she shown me to a spot on an exquisite art-deco sofa than she said, “I do not believe for a moment that Lucia killed Peter. Not for a moment. I can’t understand why the police don’t look for the killer among the wretched derelicts he knew. Why, he was probably murdered over a cheap bottle of wine! I mean, really! It’s all quite absurd.”
“I know,” I said. Of course, it would be nice and neat to find the killer among the army of homeless. I chose not to point out to Betty Ann, however, that an argument over a bottle of wine would hardly lead to someone’s taping a gun under Lucia’s desk.
While Betty Ann went on expressing her belief in Lucia’s innocence, I looked around the room. I saw over on the far wall an arresting head-and-shoulders photo portrait of Dobrynin.
“That’s from a portfolio that appeared in
Vogue
,” she said, her gaze having followed mine. “He
was
beautiful, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. The face was aquiline. Dobrynin looked like a proud hawk, his golden hair thick and shining on his skull. It was the face of a man who could have been eighteen or forty, a tunelessly handsome face that hinted at a life of debauchery—like that of many a British actor. Dirk Bogarde sprang to mind.
The few moments we sat there in silence looking at the photograph were enough to change Betty Ann’s mood. Her face clouded over. It was apparent she had not yet recovered from Dobrynin’s death.
“So many dancers,” she said. “So many great ones. Some even technically better. But Peter was unique. You measured all subsequent performances against his. It was impossible to do otherwise. And it didn’t matter who the choreographer was—Petipa or Balanchine or Ashton or . . . In a way Limon penetrated, caught his essence, more than any other—”
She stopped in mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. I’m rattling on, aren’t I? You’re not here to listen to my theories. You’re here because of poor Lucia.” She took a candy out of a dish on the coffee table. “Please, ask whatever you like.”
“When did you last see Peter—prior to the funeral, of course.”
“Well, the last time was a very unhappy one. A pretty ugly situation. I hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but suddenly he showed up here. This was . . . oh, three years ago. He came here unannounced and I suppose he was drunk, or in some other awful state. He didn’t even ring the bell. He’d gotten into the building somehow and just started up on the elevator. He got stuck between floors and started an unholy row—pressing alarms and screaming. One of my neighbors ended up calling the fire department. Lord, it was a mess. Peter attacked one of the firemen with the extinguisher that hangs in the elevator. I didn’t even know who the madman was until I heard his voice. I got downstairs in time to see the police dragging him off. He was bleeding. And when he saw me he started to scream something about my being responsible for everything. Whatever that meant. He said I wanted to destroy him, to kill him. Then they took him away.
“And just to put the final, absurd cap on the story, I had a house guest at the time: my mother. It was all so grotesque!”
“And did you try to locate him after that?”
My inquiry seemed to irritate her, as if I were questioning her loyalty to the dancer; as if I too were accusing her.
She stood up and walked closer to the fire.
“Of course I would have
liked
to locate him. But what could I do? The police had released him. I tried to find him. Many people did. I even filed a Missing Persons report. But the inquiry ended when it was discovered that his mother was getting
When I had finally reached her door and she had admitted me, I was delighted to see a wonderful fire roaring away in the fireplace, set in a gargantuan wall of exposed brick. It was the SoHo apartment of dreams—her place was marvelous.
No sooner had she shown me to a spot on an exquisite art-deco sofa than she said, “I do not believe for a moment that Lucia killed Peter. Not for a moment. I can’t understand why the police don’t look for the killer among the wretched derelicts he knew. Why, he was probably murdered over a cheap bottle of wine! I mean, really! It’s all quite absurd.”
“I know,” I said. Of course, it would be nice and neat to find the killer among the army of homeless. I chose not to point out to Betty Ann, however, that an argument over a bottle of wine would hardly lead to someone’s taping a gun under Lucia’s desk.
While Betty Ann went on expressing her belief in Lucia’s innocence, I looked around the room. I saw over on the far wall an arresting head-and-shoulders photo portrait of Dobrynin.
“That’s from a portfolio that appeared in
Vogue
,” she said, her gaze having followed mine. “He
was
beautiful, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. The face was aquiline. Dobrynin looked like a proud hawk, his golden hair thick and shining on his skull. It was the face of a man who could have been eighteen or forty, a tunelessly handsome face that hinted at a life of debauchery—like that of many a British actor. Dirk Bogarde sprang to mind.
The few moments we sat there in silence looking at the photograph were enough to change Betty Ann’s mood. Her face clouded over. It was apparent she had not yet recovered from Dobrynin’s death.
“So many dancers,” she said. “So many great ones. Some even technically better. But Peter was unique. You measured all subsequent performances against his. It was impossible to do otherwise. And it didn’t matter who the choreographer was—Petipa or Balanchine or Ashton or . . . In a way Limon penetrated, caught his essence, more than any other—”
She stopped in mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. I’m rattling on, aren’t I? You’re not here to listen to my theories. You’re here because of poor Lucia.” She took a candy out of a dish on the coffee table. “Please, ask whatever you like.”
“When did you last see Peter—prior to the funeral, of course.”
“Well, the last time was a very unhappy one. A pretty ugly situation. I hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but suddenly he showed up here. This was . . . oh, three years ago. He came here unannounced and I suppose he was drunk, or in some other awful state. He didn’t even ring the bell. He’d gotten into the building somehow and just started up on the elevator. He got stuck between floors and started an unholy row—pressing alarms and screaming. One of my neighbors ended up calling the fire department. Lord, it was a mess. Peter attacked one of the firemen with the extinguisher that hangs in the elevator. I didn’t even know who the madman was until I heard his voice. I got downstairs in time to see the police dragging him off. He was bleeding. And when he saw me he started to scream something about my being responsible for everything. Whatever that meant. He said I wanted to destroy him, to kill him. Then they took him away.
“And just to put the final, absurd cap on the story, I had a house guest at the time: my mother. It was all so grotesque!”
“And did you try to locate him after that?”
My inquiry seemed to irritate her, as if I were questioning her loyalty to the dancer; as if I too were accusing her.
She stood up and walked closer to the fire.
“Of course I would have
liked
to locate him. But what could I do? The police had released him. I tried to find him. Many people did. I even filed a Missing Persons report. But the inquiry ended when it was discovered that his mother was getting
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