THE MADISON PLACE was in mansion country, miniature estates carved out of the land adjacent to the shoreline of Lake Michigan. Easily commutable to the Loop for the wealthy businessmen who made their fortunes there, but a world away from the city, with a mix of lawns, patches of woods, and sandy beach. And gargantuan houses.
He parked outside the property, worried that arriving in Stacey’s car might give her mother a Lazarus-like moment. He walked through the entrance gates, an elaborate iron pair as high as those at Stagg Field, then moved along an asphalt track, which first wound through a thin stand of birch, then suddenly opened up to reveal the house.
It was a mock-Georgian pile of orange brick, with white Doric columns the height of the roof on either side of the front door. Ivy covered the front facade, creeping over the large sash windows of the two upper floors.
He was about to push the doorbell when he saw that the front door was just ajar. He knocked and pushed simultaneously, then stepped into a big hall, with a curved staircase to one side that had more banister than stairs. A small Negro woman in a maid’s uniform was dusting a side table in the hall as he came in. She didn’t seem surprised by his arrival.
‘Excuse me,’ said Nessheim. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Madison.’
‘Are you the funeral man?’
In his suit and tie, Nessheim understood the confusion. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘You selling something? She won’t see no salesman. Her daughter’s passed two days ago.’
‘That’s what I’m here about. I knew Stacey.’
The woman gave out a noise that went hmmpphh. ‘You’ll find her mother in the conservatory. Go down the hall and turn right. It’s on the far side of the living room and the first person you’ll find will be Mrs M – there ain’t nobody else here to see. If she offers you coffee, please say no – I ain’t got time to make it. She wants the wake here and I got too much to do readying the house.’
He walked along a hall and turned into a vast living room full of chintz chairs and padded sofas with views of the shoreline several hundred yards away. He could see a big freighter a few miles out, chugging towards Gary. A pair of open French doors led into the conservatory, where he stepped into a bath-like fug of heat and potted plants. At the far end enough space had been carved out for a recliner seat, and standing next to it, staring out through the glass windows towards Lake Michigan, was Mrs Madison.
She was taller than her daughter had been, blonder with her hair swept back in a big leonine wave, and slightly heavier. There was a housecoat on the recliner which Nessheim sensed was her usual costume here, but now she wore a black wool dress. It was a little tight on her.
‘Yes?’ she said as he walked towards her. She had a large high-cheekboned face, with a strong jaw and set-apart hazel eyes. Like Stacey she wore little make-up. This was a woman confident of her appeal – though in a beauty contest, her daughter would have won, and Nessheim somehow sensed this would have rankled the older woman. ‘Are you here about the flowers or the coffin?’ From her voice and the glass in her hand he could tell she had already started on the sauce.
‘Neither, Mrs Madison. I was at law school with your daughter.’
‘What’s your name?’
He hesitated because he was supposed to be in Wisconsin, but he couldn’t see any reason why the police would hear about his visit. ‘James Nessheim,’ he said.
She shook her head; clearly it didn’t mean anything to her. He said, ‘I just wanted to pay my respects.’
‘Were you friends with my daughter?’
‘Yes. Good friends.’
‘Did you know Tweedy?’ Her voice hardened.
‘Her husband? No, I didn’t.’
The woman gave a derisory laugh. ‘I’m not surprised. I called Tweedy last night to tell him Stacey had died. His houseboy said he was in a meeting. He hasn’t called back.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘The funeral’s a week from Thursday – you might tell her friends. Eleven o’clock at Saint Barnabas church, here in Highland Park.’
‘Do you need any help with the arrangements?’
‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you.’ She said this as if by rote, and Nessheim could see she was already stinko. She added abruptly, ‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘Nessheim. Stacey called me Jim. I used to know her years ago when she was in college at the U of C. It was a big surprise for me to have her turn up in Chicago again.’
‘You weren’t the only one who was surprised.’
‘Why did she come back to Chicago? I mean, California’s full of law schools.’
‘Well, it wasn’t to see me, that’s for sure. She was happy for my help getting in, but was she grateful enough to visit? Not on your life.’
‘Well, law students are pretty busy.’
‘If you say so. Anyway, she probably did it out of love.’
‘For Tweedy?’ he asked, confused.
‘You kidding me? She never loved that schmo.’
‘But she married him.’
She took a slug of her gin, tilting the upheld glass so the liquid got past the ice cubes faster. She held the glass by her side, her lipstick glistening. ‘You’re old enough to know not many people marry for love.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Maybe that’s why.’ She lifted her head and viewed him appraisingly. ‘Anyway, she changed.’
‘How so?’
‘Because of LA,’ she said flatly. ‘And the schmo. He was rich … and dumb … and liked to hang out with the Hollywood bunch. From the sound of it, half the people in pictures are Reds. So Stacey went to Mexico – I think she hoped he’d grow up a bit while she was gone. But of course he didn’t, so she came out here.’
‘She used to be interested in politics.’
‘That went sour. Or south,’ she added with a titter that ended in a slur of consonants. Sobering, she said, ‘If you ask me, I think she had another guy going. In her head, anyway.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Stacey stopped confiding in me when she was about twelve.’ She shook her head; her great lion’s mane of hair didn’t move an inch. ‘You see that pitcher over there? Top me up, will you? And help yourself.’
He went to the drinks trolley and picked up the pitcher. It had a lily painted on one side, and smelled of straight gin. As he refilled her glass she said, ‘You sure you won’t join me?’
‘No, thanks.’
He stepped back and set the pitcher down on the tray, while she took a long pull on her drink. Then she said, ‘You’ve got very fine hands for such a good-looking guy.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You know what they say?’
‘No, ma’am,’ he replied, hoping to be spared the disclosure.
‘Never mind,’ she said.
‘I think I’d better be going,’ he said quietly. Stacey’s mother gripped her glass so hard that the veins on her hand stood out.
‘Forget about the funeral,’ she hissed as he turned to go. ‘It’s family only.’
As he crossed into the living room he heard her start to cry, and then he heard the words she was saying in between her sobs. My baby, my baby.