knew New York, its traffic dangers included, but that didn’t mean that one couldn’t be killed by a truck. Probably Nellie’s fall under the truck’s wheels was as unintended as the truck driver’s crushing her. Your detective whiskers are quivering, Kate told herself, and they are picking up nothing, because nothing is in the wind.
She turned out the light, allowed the door to slam behind her, and headed for home. She hadtaken the picture with her, still in its frame that matched the blotter and letter holder, promising Nellie to return it to the storeroom if it proved to lead nowhere.
Once home, she called Blair’s apartment; he had not yet returned; she left a message asking him to call her, and wondered if this was wise. Wise or not, she had to decide either to forget Nellie or to follow up the man in this picture, if Blair knew who he was.
It was some hours later that Blair returned her call. She had wondered how much to tell him about how she had acquired the picture, and ended, as she usually did end, with the truth. He listened to her account of the storage room and its disappointing contents with some amusement, conveyed by the intermittent chuckle.
“It was a characteristic Schuyler cleanup,” Blair said. “As it happens, I was there at my own insistence when the cleaning staff cleared out her office. I was still angry about her death, and in pain. They dumped her belongings into boxes—the ones you found, no doubt—and left everything else that belonged to the school right there—the furniture, the computer, the bookshelves. She had a picture on the wall, and I offered to call her parents to ask if they wanted it. They didn’t; it was a reproduction of Mary Cassatt’s
The Boating Party
.”
“It’s in your office now,” Kate said. “I noticed it.”
“Yes. I’ve pondered it a good deal. It says a great deal about family life, that picture—Nellie mentionedit to me. The baby’s eyes are on the man, the woman’s eyes are on the man and the baby, the man’s eyes are on his rowing, or perhaps the shore. Nellie was also impressed with the composition; anyway, I kept it as a memento from her.”
“There was a picture on her desk,” Kate said, not mentioning that she had borrowed it. “At least, I assume it was; the frame matches her desk blotter. It’s a picture of her with a man. Do you know who he is, or was?”
“He is, or was, her brother. They were incredibly close all their lives, or so I gathered from Nellie. It quite amazed me, because I have a sister and we are distantly polite with wholly different interests. Why?”
“I’d like to talk to him. Do you know where he lives?”
“Hold on. I have to think. He’s a poet, and gives courses in various universities—that’s how he supports himself. But I seem to remember he had a more or less permanent position teaching somewhere in the Midwest. Damn.”
“Was his name Rosenbusch, too?”
“Yes. And I can’t come up with his first name either. I’ll ask myself tonight when going to sleep, and the answer may be there when I wake up. That sometimes happens. I’ll let you know when it comes to me, but if you know any poets, they may be more help than I can be.”
“Thanks, Blair.”
“You know, Kate, she may not have been morethan distracted when she went under that truck. I don’t think the brother ought to be—”
“Trust me for that,” Kate said. If I ever find him, she reminded herself, hanging up the phone.
Blair’s nighttime directions to his unconscious proved disappointing. Kate had been to graduate school with a couple of male poets, men who had persevered in their craft, not trying to mount the academic ladder but picking up what teaching jobs they could here and there. She called them in the hope that one of them might have heard of poet Rosenbusch. It was, of course, not easy to locate her poet friends, whose lives were peripatetic by definition, and it was some days before she tracked one of them
She turned out the light, allowed the door to slam behind her, and headed for home. She hadtaken the picture with her, still in its frame that matched the blotter and letter holder, promising Nellie to return it to the storeroom if it proved to lead nowhere.
Once home, she called Blair’s apartment; he had not yet returned; she left a message asking him to call her, and wondered if this was wise. Wise or not, she had to decide either to forget Nellie or to follow up the man in this picture, if Blair knew who he was.
It was some hours later that Blair returned her call. She had wondered how much to tell him about how she had acquired the picture, and ended, as she usually did end, with the truth. He listened to her account of the storage room and its disappointing contents with some amusement, conveyed by the intermittent chuckle.
“It was a characteristic Schuyler cleanup,” Blair said. “As it happens, I was there at my own insistence when the cleaning staff cleared out her office. I was still angry about her death, and in pain. They dumped her belongings into boxes—the ones you found, no doubt—and left everything else that belonged to the school right there—the furniture, the computer, the bookshelves. She had a picture on the wall, and I offered to call her parents to ask if they wanted it. They didn’t; it was a reproduction of Mary Cassatt’s
The Boating Party
.”
“It’s in your office now,” Kate said. “I noticed it.”
“Yes. I’ve pondered it a good deal. It says a great deal about family life, that picture—Nellie mentionedit to me. The baby’s eyes are on the man, the woman’s eyes are on the man and the baby, the man’s eyes are on his rowing, or perhaps the shore. Nellie was also impressed with the composition; anyway, I kept it as a memento from her.”
“There was a picture on her desk,” Kate said, not mentioning that she had borrowed it. “At least, I assume it was; the frame matches her desk blotter. It’s a picture of her with a man. Do you know who he is, or was?”
“He is, or was, her brother. They were incredibly close all their lives, or so I gathered from Nellie. It quite amazed me, because I have a sister and we are distantly polite with wholly different interests. Why?”
“I’d like to talk to him. Do you know where he lives?”
“Hold on. I have to think. He’s a poet, and gives courses in various universities—that’s how he supports himself. But I seem to remember he had a more or less permanent position teaching somewhere in the Midwest. Damn.”
“Was his name Rosenbusch, too?”
“Yes. And I can’t come up with his first name either. I’ll ask myself tonight when going to sleep, and the answer may be there when I wake up. That sometimes happens. I’ll let you know when it comes to me, but if you know any poets, they may be more help than I can be.”
“Thanks, Blair.”
“You know, Kate, she may not have been morethan distracted when she went under that truck. I don’t think the brother ought to be—”
“Trust me for that,” Kate said. If I ever find him, she reminded herself, hanging up the phone.
Blair’s nighttime directions to his unconscious proved disappointing. Kate had been to graduate school with a couple of male poets, men who had persevered in their craft, not trying to mount the academic ladder but picking up what teaching jobs they could here and there. She called them in the hope that one of them might have heard of poet Rosenbusch. It was, of course, not easy to locate her poet friends, whose lives were peripatetic by definition, and it was some days before she tracked one of them
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