The Adventures of Isabel, page 1
The Adventures of Isabel
A Postmodern Mystery by the Numbers
An Epitome Apartments Mystery by
Candas Jane Dorsey
Contents
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel didn’t care.
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear’s big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I’ll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self-reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forehead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I’ll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry, Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She nibbled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant’s head off.
Once in a night as black as pitch Isabel met a wicked old witch.
The witch’s face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch’s gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed, I’ll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry, Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor’s talk was of coughs and chills, and the doctor’s satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel, Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry, Isabel didn’t scream or scurry. She took those pills from the pill concocter, and Isabel calmly cured the doctor.
Acknowledgements
The Adventures of Isabel
About the Author
Copyright
Isabel met an enormous bear,
1. Postmodern dilemmas
I hate show tunes.
Las Vegas show tunes, that is, crooner stuff, the kind of thing one associates with Frank Sinatra and Carol Channing. The neighbour was playing them: one of those big-band-pop-singer recordings where the linguistic distinction between po-tay-to and po-tah-to is deconstructed in detail by a hard-voiced pop-mezzo with platinum-bleached Attitude. Sun and hot wind had us all with opened windows for a last-gasp September summer moment, and I couldn’t avoid the experience of hearing paean after paean to the dysfunctional love affairs of stupid heterosexual people.
I live in a suite on the fourth floor of something called the Epitome Apartments. The landlord and locals call it “The EP-ee-tome”, with a silent final e and no irony at all. My balcony, where I have a few straggly window boxes, my feeble tribute to the Earth Goddess, is a three-foot-square iron grillwork cage, the landing of the fire escape, really, floating above a grimy urban alley that leads to the best — in my opinion — Chinese restaurant in town. But for months the budget hadn’t allowed eating out even at the rock-bottom prices to be had there, and depression and unemployment had me trapped in the epitome of epitombs, with someone canned asking me what you get when you fall in love.
If the cat and I could have borne the stifling air, I’d have closed the apartment against the racket. As it was, Bunnywit sat out on the fire escape, and I had Ian Tamblyn’s Antarctica on, hoping if not to drown out the brassy voice, at least to turn it into some kind of postmodern sound collage. That was mostly working.
I wasn’t.
Finances had gone beyond desperate and into hopeless, and even blue sky after weeks of rain and Bun purring like a motorised bread pudding couldn’t cheer me up. What I needed was a dysfunctional love affair of my own, one that lasted for two nights of hilarity and imported beer and ended with drunken protestations of eternal love just before the other party passed out and I slunk away without leaving my telephone number — or even my real name. No, what I needed was a lottery win.
I realised as I sat there that I could do two things well and I couldn’t get a job doing one of them: hadn’t gotten a job after the government “downsized” grants to social agencies and I was “transitioned” from six years perfectly happy as a helping professional onto unemployment insurance, which had run out nine weeks earlier. Job search being what it is in a land of twelve percent unemployment, I hadn’t found anything but frustration yet.
I was seriously considering making a business of the other thing I do well — not that I’ve done any of that for a while either. Tomorrow, when the classified ads office opened at the local tabloid rag, I’d be there. Aaaandrea. Hot bisexual. In and out calls. No Greek. Party girl. Says to-may-to.
I was revising the ad — AAAAbelard. Post-surgery, loves teddy bears, silk, and fur, threesomes. Will Come to you — when the phone rang.
“Yeah, what?”
“Munchkin, what are you doing home on a day like this?”
“Transitioning my career into the private sector. What are you doing phoning me on a day like this?”
“You now accept that transitioning’s a verb?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Since the bright Titian cellophane job last week, my friend Denis was the guy the term flaming faggot was invented to describe. Why he wasn’t out cruising the park on possibly the last day of summer sunbathing I didn’t know, but it had to be important.
It was.
“Honey, you busy?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Sorry. It’s Hep.” That’s what we called his next-door neighbour out in the suburban crescent where he’d inherited his parents’ house and turned it into a monument to gay kitsch. Her real name was Maddy Pritchard, and she was a woman in her sixties who looked like a five-foot-tall duplicate of Katharine Hepburn and had been an activist for everything long before either of us was born.
“What’s the matter?”
“You know the body on the riverbank?”
“What body? What?”
“I thought you watched the news every night?”
“Cat broke the TV. Can’t afford to get it fixed.”
“A body was found on the riverbank yesterday. When they started sorting out all the stuff in the pockets, they called Hep. They think it’s her granddaughter, Maddy. I’m stuck at work, and —”
“Wait, wait.” Denis was the best crisis worker I’d ever met, and at work he was solid and serious, but he was used to the lightning reporting style of emotional triage, and after a year away from it, I wasn’t. The most exciting thing in my month had been Bun throwing up into a stone age TV, and the subsequent tiny implosions. Perhaps he wanted me to buy a twenty-first-century one, but tough luck on that.
“For Judy’s sake, what’s wrong with you, girlfriend? Concentrate! I can’t go, so can you meet Hep and keep her company?”
“Where?”
“At the morgue.”
2. Changes in attitudes, changes in latitudes
That changed the tenor of the day.
I was wearing a silk camisole and tap shorts. I swiped a Thai stone across my underpits, put on some overwear undemanding, neutral, and appropriate for hot weather, put the last of yesterday’s fish sticks in the cat’s bowl, and left for the suburbs.
3. Underwear my baby is tonight?
This is something my granny used to say. I remembered it as I stood on the subway platform, hoping it wasn’t the day for Canada’s second-worst subway disaster, and trying surreptitiously to tug down my underwear, which had climbed the crack in my butt on the short, sweaty walk to the subway. What can I say: they were cheap, and there was a reason I only wore them when I needed to do laundry. I was to meet Hep (we always called her that: she herself had a thing for her doppelganger) and drive her in her own car to identify her granddaughter.
There was a homeless Asian woman (hey, not racializing — her accent when she asked for a quarter was Hong Kong, if I had to guess) rummaging through the garbage. We talked a little about what food was safe to eat out of the garbage. I gave her all that was left in my pocket: a bus ticket, a dime, and a penny. She gave me a piece of paper with the sign language alphabet on it, which she had rescued from the street — muddy Gucci-loafer prints all over it, and one corner was torn off so A wasn’t very clear — so we were both satisfied that we had shared commerce, not charity.
The train pulled in just in time. The salvaged fries she was eating were starting to look good.
4. With the Bentfin Boomer Boys . . .
I stopped being hungry, possibly for the rest of my life, at the morgue.
I also decided that I want to die before everybody I know, so I will never ever have to do that again.
I had picked up Hep and her car at her house. She was doing a pretty good Hepburn that day, hat and all, but her hands were shaking. The photos of her granddaughter that were usually propped up on the fireplace were lying on the kitchen table, and beside them a couple of crushed, wet handkerchiefs (Hep used the linen kind) added to the evidence of her reddened eyes. I took a closer look at the pictures than I ever had, and was disturbed to feel, from the image of the waif who stared defiantly out at me, strong echoes of my teen years. The kid even looked a little like I had.
Hep looked over my shoulder. “I just saw her last week. I gave her some money for her birthday. Here are the car keys . . .”
Hep’s granddaughter looked even worse on the slab than in her photos. This is not a corpse joke. You could kind of get past the post-mortem lividity and the blotches of settled blood showing that the body had lain on its side, to see that the kid had had horrible skin, makeup up the kazoo, broken fingernails, tracks, bruises, and bad hair.
She was not mutilated around the face, upper chest, or arms, which was all they showed us. They also showed Hep the cheque with her signature on it that she’d given the kid, which had been tucked in the inside secret pocket of her leather jacket.
“Yes, that’s my granddaughter. Madeline Pritchard. Yes, Madeline Pritchard. Yes, she was named after me.”
5. Getting tight with Katharine Hepburn
I let Hep off at the front, then parked the car. When I came around the house, she had already shed her hat and scarf, kicked off her shoes, and was coming out the back door with two tall glasses of iced tea gathering condensation and tinking with ice cubes.
“Madeline Pritchard,” she said thoughtfully. “Same as mine. Maddy’s mother never bothered to get married. Just as well. The guy was a bum. We found out after he took off that even his name was fake, and certainly the story of his life was made of whole cloth. Why they say that, I don’t know. Whole cloth is solid. You could spit through that guy’s reputation. We never found out who he was.”
“But she was named after you?”
“Her mother loved me. After she died, the kid lived with me for a while. We had to figure out what to call each other to avoid confusion. We used to invent new ones. Names . . .”
“Artemisia Gentileschi is mine,” I said, taking a glass and then shaking her outstretched hand. She laughed.
“That’s a new one.”
“I’m practising for the paid personals. Artemisia sounds like a wellspring of delights, don’t you think?”
You can talk that way with Hep, and she talks this way: “Too erudite. They want Angela, all tits, French and Greek, available for parties.”
“So I guess you were pretty hip to what your granddaughter was doing.”
“‘Hip’? Yes, she and I were . . . tight.”
I looked at this woman in her sixties, slim, trim, and self-disciplined, and I looked around the suburban, well-mowed lawn on which we stood. “Tight?”
“As in, we were fond of each other. As in, we could talk, though Lord knows I wasn’t always pleased with what I heard —” She turned abruptly and led the way into the shade. “You know, I don’t think I was ready for the change in the personals. ‘Likes dogs, hiking, and romantic dinners’ was about my speed. Now ‘likes dogs’ means something else.”
She set her glass carefully on a white-painted wrought-iron table and sat down in one of the matching chairs.
“Stir it — I didn’t.”
As I sat, she suddenly leaned forward, snapped up her glass of tea, drained it in several gulps, then very precisely threw it against the glass-embedded stucco on the side of the house. The pieces fell into the perfect English garden beside the walk.
I had just started to take a sip myself. I almost dropped my own glass when I tasted it. If there was any actual tea in it, I was a suburban housewife. Hep had just chugalugged a Long Island iced tea, four ounces of dynamite in a glass. Instant indeed.
It didn’t take me long to follow suit. When Denis came by after work, he found us still there, and Hep still had enough presence of foot to mix him one of the dogs which by then had bitten us several times.
6. Delirium tremendous
Denis and I slipped into our triage mode and did vaudeville all afternoon to try to distract Hep. “Hey, Denis, you think I’d make a good call girl?”
“You’re too old. Phone sex your only option, girlfriend.” And so on. It was hard work.
Finally Hep stopped us. “Enough of that bullshit. Pay attention. Somebody killed Maddy, and I want to know who. And I want you to find out.” And she pointed at me.
“Me?”
“Don’t squeak like that, you hurt my ears,” said Denis.
“I love Madeline very much,” Hep said precisely, “and I speak in the present tense on purpose. She is dead. I am not. I have spent the day in a melancholic state of self-pity, grief, and fury. With the onset of drunkenness, fury has won. I am determined that Maddy’s killer be found.”
Hep always talked like my high school English teacher. He had been a little, elegant guy with the same great green eyes and white hair. Come to think of it, I’d had a crush on him too.
“The police . . .” I said, knowing I was being the perfect Canadian, and knowing too from my days working with difficult people that the police have certain, shall we say, limitations.
“I believe in the police. I believe in law and order, all that shit. But the police see a dead hooker, probably killed by a trick.” Coming from her classy lips, the words sounded properly epithetic. “I am not content to leave a busy policeman with too many similar cases, and too many preconceptions, to solve this. And I am not capable of doing it myself.”
She was, as she often joked, a hale old bird. She saw my sceptical look and correctly read it. “Not because I am infirm,” she said tartly. “Because I am too angry. I would bully and badger witnesses. I would try to kill whomever I found guilty. I would not be successful in either endeavour. And besides, look at me. You must know something about what Maddy’s world was like. Do you think they would pay attention to me?”
“And you think they would to me?”
She laughed. “The ring in your nose, and the one in your nipple, should convince them.”
“I don’t have one in my nipple,” I said involuntarily.
“You’re blushing,” she said. I looked away. The liquour loosened the self-discipline which so far had prevented me from vamping her, and even drunk I could not tell whether she in her dignified way — though how she stayed dignified after matching me drink for drink my fuddled brain could not imagine — was vamping me or not. Besides, these days, I was so deprived that I didn’t trust my impulses. Anyone warmblooded, intelligent, and healthy interested me. Even some people who weren’t. So I acted on nothing, which made the situation worse. Is life sensible? Mine certainly doesn’t prove such a premise.
“This is silly,” I said. “I am an involuntarily retired social worker. To be blunt, a downsized social worker. A transitioned social worker who hasn’t said an empathic thing for over a year, except to my cat. Not even to my cat, the little creep. So what qualifies me to be Sam Spade or whoever?”
“Your sexism is showing. What happened to Miss Marple —”
“You’re Miss Marple . . .”
“— or Kate Henry, or Victoria Warshawski, or Kinsey Millhone, or Joanne Kilbourn, or Aud Torvingen, or —?”
“Oh, put a sock in it,” I said, forgetting I was talking to The Madwoman of Chaillot.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.
7. Prozac tomorrow?
“No we’re not,” I said. “You may as well hear the truth. I spend my days staring at the wall and fantasising about disembowelling my cat as an offering to whatever bitch goddess has been organising my life lately. I am so depressed that if I could motivate myself to it I’d commit suicide, but it’s too proactive for me. Furthermore, I know nothing about the real world of crime. I read Dick Francis mysteries, which are too damned nice, and for that matter, they are set in another country.”
“And besides, the wench is dead,” Hep said, quietly.
We all fell silent.
8. Love of money is the root of all evil
