When I got inside I called her name. My house was dark and quiet, and although nothing appeared altered I felt that something had happened since I’d left for the museum’s summer gala. There was a note on the kitchen table. I scanned it and it made no sense. I stuffed it into my pocket, took back a shot of whiskey, and walked the narrow hallway into the living room. I thought of the note; the words were going to make sense in a moment. I was sure of it, and felt so much like a balloon steadily expanding that I held my breath and winced at the inevitable explosion.
One month prior, in a storage room below the Virginia Historical Society, I sat before an empty glass cabinet preparing the lamps I would mount on the shelves. There were to be six items of Edgar Allan Poe memorabilia here, among them a lock of dark hair taken off the poet’s head after his death; the key to the trunk that accompanied Poe to Baltimore, where he spent the final few days of his life; and a walking stick, which Poe left here in Richmond ten days before his death. The items were on loan from the Poe Museum across town for the city’s celebration of the poet’s bicentennial, as yet seven months away.
I took a pull from the small metal flask I kept in my utility belt. When I noticed I wasn’t alone, it was too late to hide it. It was the new intern, a dark-haired girl with a small scar across her lower lip.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, and took another swig before recapping the flask.
She’d started at the museum on Monday, but I’d seen her the weekend before in my neighbors’ backyard. The Hamlins had installed a six-foot privacy fence years ago, but by the unobstructed view from an upstairs window I’d watched the young woman standing like the very portrait of boredom, hand on the flare of her hip, as Barb Hamlin pointed out the trained wisteria and the touch-me-nots in her garden. She’d had one leg stretched into a band of sunlight when she glanced up and noticed me.
I went back to work on the lamps. “They give you something to do in here?”
“Rebecca,” she said, strolling through the makeshift aisles of cases and boxes. Her dark hair fell in angles around her face and she wore a white summer dress unsuitable for an intern’s duties. “And I wish they would. This room is why I’m here.”
“Poe fan, huh?”
“You too,” she said. “Or so Uncle Lou tells me.”
I chuckled softly but did not look up. I was well acquainted with “Uncle Lou,” former captain of the Third Precinct, famous for his supposed paternal brand of policing. Really, he’d never been more than a squat old tyrant. We’d been neighbors for a decade and the only thing that kept our peace was that six-foot fence. Now I was humbled to learn that “Uncle” was not a total misnomer; Lou, who’d sired no offspring, had a pretty young niece from Cincinnati.
“Maybe you could ask them to give me an assignment back here,” Rebecca said.
I told her I was just a lighting technician, contracted, not even staff.
“But you know John,” she said. John was the head curator. “You two are friends.”
I thought she ought to ask Lou, a patron of the museum whose connections had likely procured her the internship in the first place. But I agreed to put in a word, if only to end the conversation: nothing good could come from associating with Hamlin kin—much less from upsetting one with a refusal. Yet it excited me too, the thought of Lou’s scowling displeasure were he to discover Rebecca and I chumming around at the museum. Displeasure was a euphemism; he’d put his wife’s garden shears through my skull.
Still, when she asked for a drink, I handed her the flask.
At sunset she was at my front door. I glanced toward Lou and Barb’s house. Rebecca told me not to worry, they’d gone to play bridge with friends.
“So,” she said, wandering into my living room, “do you have any first editions?”
“What?”
“Of Poe,” she said.
“Did your uncle tell you that too?”
Glancing into corners, trailing her fingers along window-sills, she smiled. “I was hoping that a Poe aficionado—who works in a museum, no less—would have an artifact lying around.”
“What,” I said, “just lying around like junk mail?”
“Don’t be nasty,” she said, then picked up a green glass ashtray. “Like this,” she said, holding it to the light. “It’d be great if you could say, ‘And this is Poe’s ashtray, recovered from his writing desk at his last residence at Fordham.'”
“That was my grandfather’s.”
She set it down. “Lou would like that. History buff.”
Yeah, I thought. He had a hard time letting go of it.
“All sorts of Civil War memorabilia everywhere. Ever been inside?”
This was beginning to feel like a game. “What do you think?”
“How should I know where you’ve been?”
I told her she’d better not let Lou see us together.
“Together?” she said, hiding a smile.
“You know what I mean.”
“Why, doesn’t he like you?”
Now I just sat back and looked at her
“Oh, I know,” she said, grinning. “He told me to stay away from you.”
Then she asked for a drink, even though, by the way she’d cringed earlier, I could tell she’d hated it. I was disappointed. She was only there with me for a little rebellion against the stuffy uncle and aunt.
So be it. I went to get the whiskey.
I spoke with John. I owed my job at the VHS—my very livelihood in this city—solely to him. By the end of the week Rebecca was putting in shifts assisting me in preparing the illumination of over 1,500 objects for the bicentennial exhibits. John and the staff unpacked items every day and created layout plans. It was my job to determine how best to light those books, paintings, and curios they wanted in cases, mounted upon walls, or perched on podiums. Rebecca was happy the hour or two a day she worked with me—rather, with the objects, to which her full attention was devoted. She was ecstatic watching the items emerge from their boxes, or gazing into the cases once the lighting was complete, all the pieces illuminated perfectly before they went back into their boxes for safekeeping. The lights from the displays would strike her face full on, or under her chin like a flashlight beam, or sidelong as in a Rembrandt painting. I wanted to pose her and arrange the light so as to expose every molecule of her simple beauty.
On my back, my head inside a case, I heard Rebecca gasp.
“Wow,” she called, “have you seen this?”
When I stood up Rebecca was crouched by a case that John and I’d worked on that morning and had yet to finalize. She moved aside and looked at me, leaving one finger pressed to the glass.
“The perfume?” I said.
It was a small red vial, chipped along the lip—like Rebecca, with that nick running the width of her own. The original cork stopper, disintegrated long ago, had been replaced by a plastic facsimile.
Rebecca read from the placard: “The essence of rose, believed given by Poe to Virginia the year of their marriage, 1836.” She looked to me again, this time with a lusty sort of gaze. “Can you open the case?”
Although I was technically disallowed, as I was not a member of staff, I did have a key. John gave it to me for the sake of convenience—and because he trusted me. But I couldn’t shake her eyes and thought, What the hell, the museum had better let her touch anything she wanted if they liked her uncle’s money. I opened the case, then cradled the vial in my palms.
“If this breaks,” I told her solemnly, “that’s it. The end of us both.”
I felt her warm fingers coax the vial free from my hold, and noted the light that shone from the case upon her thin nose and lean cheeks, a cool, sterile light that was all wrong. Then, with a move of her thumb, off came the stopper and my heart kicked like a horse.
“Rose,” she said ecstatically, the vial beneath her nose.
I took a whiff. “Yup—now be care—”
She flipped the vial over upon her finger, then dragged the scent across her neck desperately, back and forth. I paled, took the bottle as forcefully as I dared, replaced the stopper, and put it away. She was grinning, her fingers down her dress top.
“Jesus, Rebecca!”
“Emery,” she said softly, almost pityingly, “you knew I was going to do that.”
I heard her call me in the parking lot behind the Historical Society. I didn’t stop, but slowed. We walked together into a long, thin park of magnolia trees that bordered Sheppard Street. The humidity was palpable and a damp wind was gathering strength. I turned into an alley and Rebecca followed, eyeing the flask when I took it from my belt.
“You don’t even like it,” I snapped.
The evening light on her face reminded me of the light that shines upon generals or angels in classic paintings: the exultant yellows and oranges bleeding through churning clouds. I reminded her how quickly I’d be fired if anyone discovered what had happened, then plopped the flask into her hand.
To avoid being seen together, we stuck to the alleys, hopping over streets—Stuart, Patterson, Park—and cutting through the neighborhood diagonally. Below our feet the cobblestones were mashed together like crooked teeth, and on either side crowded slim garages, wooden fences, bushes and woody shrubs, and walls of ancient brick. Green plumes of foliage, heavy with flowers and fruit, alive with the frenetic song of mockingbirds, spilled over everything like lush curtains; and the ivy-draped limbs of mammoth tulip trees wound intricately overhead like the soft arms of giants. It awed me how wild and vivacious the wilderness could be on these nameless roads. It was hard to imagine that a city existed beyond the houses we walked behind.
“Here once, through an alley Titanic,” intoned Rebecca, “Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.”
She watched me for a reaction.
“That’s Poe,” she said, as if to a very slow child.
The trees were loud in the wind and I caught the distinct scent of rose.
“You’ve got to wash it off as soon as you get home.”
“No one’s going to know, Emery.”
I glowered at her. A large, bulbous rain began to fall and rattle the magnolia leaves.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal. I’ll wash it off tonight.” Then she threw her arm around my neck and pulled me down to her. “But just smell. Isn’t it nice?”
I tensed, restrained for a moment, then drew in the scents—the deep rose, the sticky warm skin of her neck, the rain—and shivered. She leapt away and screamed with delight at the storm, and ran the length of the alley for her house. I didn’t hurry. When I reached my back gate, I saw the blurry shape of Lou in his kitchen window, looking out.
That night I dreamed Rebecca was breaking into my house through a loose window. It was dark but there was a spotlight on her and she was naked. I spent the following morning distracted, preparing for work and wanting to see Rebecca. Wanting to see her in a particular light.
On my way to the museum, I found Lou in the alley breaking fallen tree branches for the trash. He was a stout, wiry man, white-haired and mustachioed, with a thick, soggy cigar between his teeth and sweet blue smoke clinging to his face. He cracked a limb under his knee and I imagined my bones making a similar sound. I felt sure that he’d seen me in the alley the previous night, that he already suspected something. But he said nothing, and did nothing more than nod curtly.
At the museum Rebecca and another intern were sanding walls in an empty exhibit room. When our paths crossed—Rebecca sweaty, covered in white dust, looking unhappy—I smelled the rose perfume. I eyed her, but said nothing. Lou’s lack of reaction had me on guard, probably more so than if he’d clocked me. That, at least, would’ve been in character.
Once alone, I asked if she’d showered, and caught the image of her slick body in steam.
She played indignant, then laughed. “Maybe it’s my natural scent.”
I smelled rose the next day too. It lingered in the replica wood cabin where she’d worked. I followed it through the Story of Virginia exhibit, down thousands of years of history, from the Early Hunters of 14,000 BC to the Powhatan Indians to the Belmont Street Car. Was it a game? Had she bought some cheap spray from the drugstore to irk me? But the odor of an imitation would be like a candy apple compared to the earthy fruit I’d smelled upon her in the rain. I went into the storage room. I found the box where the perfume had been repacked, but it wasn’t inside. Even its placard had vanished. I took a swig from my flask and found that I wasn’t much surprised.
On Saturday evening Rebecca knocked on my door. She’d told her uncle she would be at Trina’s, an intern she ate lunch with sometimes.
“What will you and Trina do?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Paint our nails. Talk about boys.”
“Try on perfume?”
She spun around, swore the stuff simply hadn’t washed off, that she had on a different perfume, that I was imagining things. I hadn’t alerted John about the theft because I needed to get the perfume back myself. As much as I wanted to know how she’d done it, I’d already decided confronting her would get me nowhere. But now she was blinking. Big-eyed, disarming blinks. It infuriated me, this show of innocence while the scent of rose was so potent my eyes were practically watering.
“Perfumed from an unseen censer,” she said, raising a brow.
“Poe,” I said. “I know.” Then I took her arm and pulled her up the stairs. She played nonchalant but I could feel her legs resisting. I moved her into the bathroom and sat her on the edge of the bathtub.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
I turned on the hot water in the sink and lathered a washcloth with soap. If she was having so much trouble ridding her neck of the scent, I told her, I was going to help. Rebecca’s angry eyes grew challenging, playful. I kneeled, brought the cloth to her skin, and started scrubbing.
“That’s hot,” she said, but she acquiesced, tilting her head.
I wrung the washcloth, soaped it again, and resumed on the other side, taking hold of the back of her neck to steady her. This was a task, this was work—or so I told myself as I watched the soapy rivulets streak her skin. I felt her gaze on me, cool and calm now, and I didn’t look up before kissing her. I tasted rose and chalky soap, and saw red behind my eyelids, pulsing in time with my chest.
Rebecca was curled on one end of the couch and asleep. The whiskey had knocked her out. I put a blanket over her and sat on the opposite end, staring into shadows. A breeze moved my hair and disturbed Rebecca’s purse. I saw her keys in the purse. I took them, went barefoot into the Hamlins’ yard, and let myself in.
I did this all as though in one unthinking movement, and only when I heard snoring did I note my own thrashing heart. For Lou, shooting intruders was dinner conversation. I found Rebecca’s bedroom. Clothing was scattered in piles, and the tangled covers upon her bed made a fossilized impression of her body. On a dresser I fingered through a few trinkets, some cash and letters, then opened the top drawer. Here I found the girl’s undergarments, which, perhaps for posterity, were the only items she’d stowed out of sight. I ran my hands through the silky contents, inhaled the scent of fabric soap and rose. Feeling into the corners I came upon a small, smooth object: the red vial with the chipped lip. I crept out of the house, flooded with excitement and pleasure.
That was Saturday; I didn’t see Rebecca again until Monday afternoon, when I came in for a half-day shift. She was reading a magazine in the break room, a mug of tea below her chin.
“Rose hips?” I said, a sparkle in my voice.
“Chamomile.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It doesn’t smell like rose.”
She gave a small smile but didn’t look up. I left and headed toward the storage room. The glass vial bulged in my pocket. When I arrived, the door was already open and John was inside with several other staff members. They were unpacking boxes. The room was a disaster.
“Ah,” John said. “Just the fellow I was waiting for.”
My stomach dropped. John explained: he’d been working in storage with Rebecca that morning when she noticed a loose placard; when they tried to return it to the item it described—a red perfume bottle, of course—they discovered it missing. Did I remember it? Did I know anything about it? I made a series of noncommittal noises, difficult as it was to think straight, much less be clever. Rebecca’s little smile danced vividly to mind.
“We’re ass-deep in here the rest of the day making sure it’s really missing, not just misplaced.” I offered to help; I could produce the vial from the first box I unpacked and voila! Case closed. But John refused. Staff only for now. “You know,” he said, “to avoid any confusion.”
“Why would you do that?” I said, nearly shouting.
“Why would you creep into my room and steal it?”
I scoffed. “You’re accusing me of stealing!”
We stood facing each other under the magnolias. Rebecca stared off petulantly.
I took a few long breaths. “Do you want to know why ‘Uncle Lou’ doesn’t like me?”
Rebecca’s lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. She wanted to see what I’d say first, the crafty girl. I didn’t care at that point, so I told her.
“He thinks I stole a painting.” I laughed. “From a museum, no less.”
“Francis Keeling Valentine Allan,” Rebecca replied. “The portrait by Thomas Sully. Stolen in 2000 from the Valentine Museum. I know.”
I watched her fixedly. By the end of this revelation, her eyes had drifted down the row of magnolias, her gaze light and airy.
She continued: “Poe said she loved him like her own child. It’s a beautiful painting too, not that I’ve seen it in person.”
“Did Lou also happen to tell you he and a squadron of police burst through my door and tore apart my house eight years ago? That if it wasn’t for John choosing to trust me I’d have been blacklisted from working in any museum in this city again?”
Rebecca returned my stare; she looked ready to play rough. “He told me he saw you with a painting—covered by a sheet. He saw it in your hands the night of the burglary. You were trying to get it from your car to your back door. He saw you, Emery.”
I shook my head and laughed. “So, you’re Lou’s little spy? Looking for lost treasure?”
“Lou is a horse’s ass,” she said. “Anyway, would I find it?”
“It was a storm window, for Christ’s sake. Kid put a baseball through the old one a few days before. Once the cops were done demolishing my house, they were kind enough to look into it. Your uncle hates me because he made a fool of himself at the end of his career. He went out a laughingstock.”
Rebecca shrugged. “He thinks you have it. Still.”
“Do you think I have it?”
“You have my perfume,” she said. “And I want it back.”
Rebecca avoided me the next few days, which was fine, as the restrictions placed upon the non-staff made my job difficult enough. Gone was my key to the storage rooms and cases; gone the days I could work without staff watching over my shoulder. Rebecca had sealed her own fate too; she was back sanding walls all day. John hadn’t ruled it theft, but neither did he believe the missing perfume an inventory list blunder. He simply called it “Missing.” I could feel the growing weight in his eyes when he looked at me.
Lou found out about the perfume through his museum connections. That’s what Rebecca told me a week later, when she appeared at my door again. She’d heard Lou speaking of it on the phone, invoking my name more than once to John and others she didn’t know. I listened to her, weighing the veracity of what she said. I doubted Rebecca would tell Lou or John about my having the perfume; she wanted it for herself, and ratting me out wouldn’t accomplish that. No, given the opportunity, she would steal back the perfume. Probably it was the only reason she was here now. I told her as much.
“I won’t have to resort to that,” she said, stepping close. “I think you’ll give it back.”
“Why, because John and your uncle are hot on my heels?” I said, cockily.
She considered it. “Maybe because you like me?”
I watched her eyes for sarcasm, but she closed them and burrowed her face into my neck, running me through with chills.
“And because I like you,” she added.
One thing nagged me: if Lou had spoken with John and learned of the perfume, wasn’t it likely he’d also heard of Rebecca working with me in the storage room? Uncle Lou knew plenty of the staff—hadn’t anyone put his niece with me? We were careful, but there’s only so much one can do. It’s a small city. By Rebecca’s account, though, Lou was clueless about us.
In bed we made love. She pressed herself close and said, “Smell. Not as nice, is it?”
I smelled rose, but it was sugary and cheap. She wanted the real stuff, just a drop—a molecule.
When I took the perfume from my dresser drawer, she said, “Not much of a hiding spot.”
“That’s what I thought of yours.”
Then she grabbed for it. I held tight and we crashed back onto the bed. She was giving me a good fight, biting my ribs, pulling my hair. When exhaustion wore us down, I tipped the vial onto my finger and applied it to her neck. We lay in bed deep into the night, the perfume high upon the dresser. She was in my arms, and I knew I had to hide the vial before I fell asleep. Then I heard her voice, low and hypnotic.
“I’m going to turn you in.”
I roused, tightened my embrace as though it was lovers’ talk.
“You can’t. I didn’t steal it.”
“But you have it.”
“Darling,” I said, “if you turn me in, I’ll tell them the real story. Then John knows you’re a thief, and your kindly uncle knows you’ve been cavorting with the likes of me. You lose both ways—and you don’t get the perfume.”
“If I turn you in, your life becomes a living hell.”
I pinned her, gripped her neck with my hands. “I could kill you now,” I said. “And that would be the end of this nonsense.”
There was a flash of real fear in her eyes, but only a flash—something had come to her. “I’m at Trina’s tonight,” she said. “When I don’t come home, Lou calls Trina.”
“And?”
“And then Trina tells him about you.”
I was suddenly so pleased with her, with her cunning and forethought, her tenacity. I lowered my head to kiss her, all the while feeling that I was losing myself to her, about to give her something she hadn’t even asked for. I snatched the perfume and took her to the basement, where I pulled boxes away from the wall. When I removed a section of the fake wood paneling with a screwdriver, she laughed and said, “So, you’re going to brick me up back there. I should have figured.”
Then she saw the vault. She stood wide-eyed, the sheets in which she’d wrapped herself slinking down her shoulders. The dial spun swiftly under my fingers, right-left, left-right, and then there was the clean, cold click of the lock giving way. The massive door opened noiselessly. I reached into the darkness and drew out what was inside.
“I knew it!” she screamed. “You sneaky bastard!” She hurled a string of delightful profanity at me, then reached out to touch the painting. She held it while I flicked on a series of mounted spotlights that came together on the opposite wall. I hung the portrait in that pool of radiance—it was alive now, the woman who raised Edgar Allan Poe. She was depicted young, and had a small nose and mouth, large dark eyes and roseate cheeks; her black hair was pulled up, and long strands of it curled past the edges of her eyes down to her jaw. There was a ghostly light about her long neck and her gauzy white dress.
I lost track of how long we stared into it.
Eventually, Rebecca asked, “What’s the point? I mean, it just sits in there. In the dark.”
“What should I do,” I said, “put it up in the living room? Rebecca, having this painting in the vault is dangerous enough. But it’s worth it. It does something to me. Every morning I wake up and remember what’s here, in my house. I’m sitting upon a great secret, and it makes everything … vibrate. But it’s a crime.” I brought my fingers to her neck. “And you don’t wear your crime.”
I put the painting back and the perfume in with it—now she couldn’t rat me out without exposing herself as an accomplice who knew where the secret vault was. I swung the door shut and met Rebecca’s contemptuous gaze. She apparently got the point.
“I want to trust you, Rebecca. And you to trust me. This assures that trust.”
“That’s not trust,” she said. “That’s mutually assured destruction.”
The longer the perfume stayed missing, the more my hours diminished. The museum’s auxiliary technicians were increasingly around, assigned to projects that ordinarily would have gone to me. I was not outright expelled, but more like a child faced into the corner. The cloud of suspicion that had loomed over me eight years before was above me again, and it was dark.
When I confronted John, he said, “Emery, there’s just a lot of talk.”
“Since when do you believe talk?”
“Let’s give it some time,” he said, “let it blow over.”
“Is it Hamlin? Are you listening to Lou Hamlin now?”
“Emery,” he said sharply, “you were the last one with the … People are suspicious.”
Christ, I thought, he defends me when I’m guilty, and condemns me when I’m not—not completely, anyway.
The only bright thing in my life was the source of my troubles. I found it strange that Rebecca’s uncle didn’t try leashing her. Was he duped so easily, believing she spent all her nights at Trina’s? In the basement I’d retrieve the perfume from the safe and trace the oil along her curves. We’d sleep upon the daybed with rose and sweat in the air. Rebecca was surprisingly agreeable to the situation, washing off the perfume dutifully before she left my house each morning, not arguing when I put it back in the safe. If we didn’t make love, or study the painting, Rebecca would pose and I’d manipulate the lights so that I’d swear she floated in them, my treasure.
Rebecca’s internship was nearly complete; she’d be leaving for Cincinnati in a matter of days. It struck me hard, and maybe her too, but neither of us spoke about it. Following my first day of work in four days, Rebecca, walking home beside me in the alleys, presented me with an idea.
“Would things be better for you if they found the perfume?”
I supposed they would, but the small red vial had been so long in our possession, and become so important to us, that I couldn’t imagine being without it.
“I want you to give me the perfume,” she said evenly. “I’ll plant it in a box in one of the storage rooms.”
Her face was confident and serene, and I wanted to kiss the little notch upon her lip for her offer. But it was too dangerous—besides, neither of us had access to the rooms. Then she handed me an envelope. Inside was a key she’d stolen, copied, and returned the day before.
I held onto the key. “It’s too dangerous, Rebecca. If they catch you …”
“Then what? They send me home?”
“Or prison.”
There was the Summer Celebration gala the next night, a fund-raising party for members, staff, and interns. I could do it then, slip in and out amidst the crowd.
“Why do you suddenly want to get rid of it?”
“For you.”
I looked all around at the alley we were in, one of a thousand veins through which coursed the blood of our city to its heart, where a great and mysterious history seemed preserved for us.
“Poe should have died here,” I said, “in these alleys. Not on some bench in Baltimore.”
That night was our last with the perfume.
We took my car. At the museum, Memorial Hall was bustling with ritzy summer gowns and tuxedoed bartenders, colorful spreads of hors d’oeuvres, live jazz. Rebecca and I spent only a few minutes together—the Hamlins were expected shortly—and gulped down our wine in a corner. She was especially striking, having spent so long with her compact mirror as we dressed in the basement, painting on her dark eyes, making her face radiant.
“Rebecca …”
“You have to,” she said. “You can’t lose everything because of me.”
“No, I mean, will you still…”
I was conflicted, afraid that returning the perfume was tossing away the only card I had, tossing away Rebecca herself. I couldn’t finish, but she seemed to know what I meant, because she pulled me to her by my waist and gave me a slow, full-hearted kiss.
“Do it soon,” she said. “I’ll meet you later. Goodbye.” And she disappeared into the crowd.
I waited, put crackers into my dry mouth, said quick hellos, then made my move. I was fueled with wine, sliding through back hallways, full of love for Rebecca. It wasn’t fair that we couldn’t keep it—I hadn’t been fair, keeping it from her. Wouldn’t it all blow over sooner or later? The old case of the missing perfume, just like the painting, which was by now a tired page on an FBI website. In the storage room I stood still, feeling the weight of the vial in my jacket pocket, and Rebecca’s hands still around my waist. I had my treasure—not the painting anymore, but Rebecca. And she, such the devoted student of Poe, deserved to have the perfume. If it was time to return anything, it was the painting. With a wild surge of clarity and elation I rejoined the throngs of people, who had begun dancing as if to emulate my joy. I couldn’t wait to tell Rebecca, to see her face; I’d have liked to see her uncle’s too, just to show him my pleasure and confidence. But I found neither. Someone tugged at my elbow. It was Trina.
“You looking for Rebecca, Mr. Vance? She left a little while ago.”
I stared at her, baffled, then said, “No, Trina. I’m not looking for Rebecca.”
The row of magnolias was empty so I circled back to the parking ramp. She’d be waiting for me, my getaway driver. At my parking spot I discovered three things almost simultaneously: Rebecca wasn’t there, my car was gone, and my keys were no longer in my jacket pocket. I ran home through the alleys trying to keep my mind blank, trying not to remember that last embrace with Rebecca, her hands snaking around my waist. Lou’s house was dark, as was mine. My door was unlocked. Inside I called her name.
Then I read the note:
Please forgive me. But you must see the bright
side. The cloud of suspicion above you is
lifted—evermore.
R.
I had my shot of whiskey, felt my body shudder, and then it came, the mean bang of fists against my door and the wave of blue uniforms through the halls. I heard my name from the lips of one officer, a young sergeant, who explained his warrant for search and seizure. I saw John in his suit, straight from the gala, and Lou Hamlin dressed in black like some prowler.
The young sergeant said solemnly, “Mr. Vance, is there a safe in your basement?”
I managed to ask if that was illegal.
“What you’ve got in it is,” said Lou, sneering.
They ushered me into my basement and Lou coughed with laughter when he saw the safe in plain view. The sergeant tried the handle.
“Open it up, shitbird,” said Lou.
The sergeant raised a finger to quiet Lou—this pleased me—and said, “You’ll have to open the safe, Mr. Vance. That, or it’ll be opened in the lab.”
I felt my cold body rise and fall with my breath; I waited, but nothing came to me: no idea, no plan of escape. I was done.
“No need for that,” I said, and went to open it.
“No,” said the sergeant, blocking me. “Just recite the combination.”
It was an unoriginal set of numbers, the poet’s birthday: 01-19-18-09. As I recited them I remembered spinning the dial earlier in the evening to retrieve the perfume, Rebecca behind me on the bed doing her makeup, mirror in hand. The click of the lock woke me. The flashlights came out like swords and the beams ferreted through the dark, but where the light should have by now found the black hair, the thin nose, the quiet eyes, there was nothing but more dark, and more light chasing in until the beams struck the rear wall of the safe.
All eyes—and the beams of flashlights—turned upon me.
“Where is the painting, Mr. Vance?” asked the sergeant.
I looked at Lou’s face, white and fishy, and kept my eyes on him when I said, “What painting?” It came out weak, unconvincing, but what did it matter? The empty safe was proof—the empty safe would hide my crime. Only John was touching the brackets on the opposite wall, and looking at the spotlights.
Lou erupted, snatching me by the collar and heaving me into the wall for some of his paternal policing. He got in one blow to my face before he was restrained by the officers. He fought at them too, and when he was finally subdued and handcuffed on the floor he was nearly foaming at his white mustache.
“She said!” Lou spat. “She said the painting was here! She saw it!”
Rebecca. His spy all along. I let this sit on my thoughts for a moment, as if seeing how long I could hold an ember.
The sergeant looked beat. He shook his head at Lou. Then his face brightened. “Mr. Hamlin, where is your niece?”
“She doesn’t have it,” he said. “She made this happen!”
Oh, treacherous Rebecca! But her note was coming into focus. She’d duped me good, but she’d gone to great lengths to dupe her uncle too, and leave me protected.
The sergeant peered at me. “Where is Rebecca? Does she have the painting?”
I said nothing.
That’s when I heard John: “Rose. I smell rose.”
Suddenly, I could smell it too, as if it had exploded in my pocket; it was all over me, all over the bed and the walls and the safe. I looked away from John.
“Mr. Vance,” the sergeant continued, “if you can help us, it’ll be good for you.”
John leveled his gaze at me. “The perfume is here. I smell it. I smell the rose perfume!”
The sergeant patted me down and found the vial. He took a disinterested sniff, handed it to John, and turned back to me.
“Now there’s this,” he said, like a tired parent. “We could forget this altogether if you cooperate.”
I looked at the sergeant and at Lou and I savored it, my chance to turn the tables on her, to beat her at her own game. And then I let it go. “Sergeant,” I said, “Mr. Hamlin. Respectfully, I don’t know where Rebecca is and I have no idea what painting you’re talking about.”
“Arrest him,” Lou barked, sandwiched between officers. “Arrest him for the perfume!”
And they might have. But there was John again, the vial in his hand. “This isn’t it.”
“What?” I shouted, unable to stop myself.
John held up the vial and pointed to an unblemished lip. “No chip,” he said. “Anyway, smell it. Putrid!” He placed the vial on a cabinet and made sure I saw the great disappointment in his eyes.
I was berated for another hour by the officers. What kind of game are you playing with us? Do you think you’ve gotten away with it? Don’t you know it’s just a matter of time? Do you really think this is going to end here, tonight? I just stared into a corner, hardly listening. I was thinking of Rebecca on westbound 64, driving fast with my car into the night. The questions weren’t for me; they were for her. And when I found her, I would make sure she heard them.
When I was at last alone, I found the forged bottle where John had set it. Rebecca must’ve made the switch during our final night together. The vial rolled around on my palm. I was so disappointed that she’d forgotten to add the chip, I didn’t have the heart to remove the cork and smell the candy spray she’d put inside.