Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

Desiree Leigh wasn’t her real name. She was born Daisy Ray Letch, and who could go through life with a surname like Letch? For the past fourteen years she’s been entertaining Alzheimer’s and that was when I began to take an interest in her past. She was always very mysterious about her origins and equally arcane about the identity of my father. She said he was killed in North Africa back in 1943 and that his name was Clarence Kolb. I spent a lot of money tracing Clarence, until one night, in bed watching an old movie, the closing credits rolled and one of the character actors was named Clarence Kolb. I mentioned this to Mother the next morning at breakfast, but she said it was a coincidence and she and my father used to laugh about it.

She had no photos of my father, which I thought was strange. When they married a few months before the war, they settled in Brooklyn, in Coney Island. Surely they must have had their picture taken in one of the Coney Island fun galleries? But no, insisted Mother, they avoided the boardwalk and the amusement parks—they were too poor for such frivolities. How did Father make his living? He was a milkman, she said—his route was in Sheepshead Bay. She said he worked for the Borden Company. Well, let me tell you this: there is no record of a Clarence Kolb ever having been employed by the Borden Milk Company. It cost an ugly penny tracking that down.

Did Mom work, too, perhaps? “Oh, yes,” she told me one night in Cannes where our yacht was berthed for a few days, “I worked right up until the day before you were born.”

“What did you do?” We were on deck playing honeymoon bridge in the blazing sunlight so Mom could keep an eye on the first mate, with whom she was either having an affair or planning to have one.

“I worked in a laboratory.” She said it so matter of factly while collecting a trick she shouldn’t have collected that I didn’t believe her. “You don’t believe me.” (She not only conned, stole, and lied, she was a mind-reader.)

“Sure I believe you.” I sounded as convincing as an East Berlin commissar assuring would-be emigrés they’d have their visas to freedom before sundown.[i]

“It was a privately owned laboratory,” she said, sneaking a look at the first mate, who was sneaking a look at the second mate. “It was a couple of blocks from our apartment.”

“What kind of a laboratory was it?” I asked, mindful that the second mate was sneaking a look at me.

“It was owned by a man named Desmond Tester. He fooled around with all kinds of formulas.”

“Some sort of mad scientist?”

She chuckled as she cheated another trick in her favor. “I guess he was kind of mad in a way. He had a very brilliant mind. I learned a great deal from him.”

“Is that where you originated the Desiree creams and lotions?”

“The seed was planted there.”

“How long were you with this—”

“Desmond Tester. Let me see now. Your daddy went into the Army in February of ‘42. I didn’t know I was pregnant then or he’d never have gone. On the other hand, I suppose if I had known, I would have kept it to myself so your dad could go and prove he was a hero and not just a common everyday milkman.”

“I don’t see anything wrong in delivering milk.”

“There’s nothing heroic about it, either. Where was I?”

“Taking my king of hearts, which you shouldn’t be.”

She ignored me and favored the first mate with a seductive smile, and I blushed when the second mate winked at me. “Anyway, I took time off to give birth to you and then I went right back to work for Professor Tester. A nice lady in the neighborhood looked after you. Let me think, what was her name? Oh, yes—Blanche Yurka.”

“Isn’t that the name of the actress who played Ma Barker in a gangster movie we saw on the late show?”

“I don’t know, is it? That’s my ten of clubs you’re taking,” she said sharply.

“I’ve captured it fair and square with the queen of clubs,” I told her. “How come you never married again?”

“I guess I was too busy being a career woman. I was assisting Professor Tester in marketing some of his creams and lotions by then. I had such a hard time cracking the department stores.”

“When did you come up with your own formulas?”

“That was after the professor met with his unfortunate death.”

Unfortunate, indeed. I saw her kill him.

It was Christmas of 1950—in fact, it was Christmas Day. Mom was preparing to roast a turkey at the professor’s house—our apartment was much too small for entertaining—and I remember almost everyone who was there. It was mostly kids from the neighborhood, the unfortunate ones whose families couldn’t afford a proper Christmas dinner. There must have been about ten of them. Mother and the professor were the only adults, although Mom still insists there was a woman there named Laurette with whom the professor was having an affair. Mom says this woman was jealous of her because she thought Mom and the professor were having a little ding-dong of their own. (I’ve always suspected my mother of doing quite a bit of dinging and donging in the neighborhood when she couldn’t meet a grocery bill or a butcher bill or satisfy the landlord or Mr. Kumbog, who owned the liquor store. )

Mom says it was Laurette who shot the professor in the heart and ran away (and was never heard of again, need I tell you?) —but I’m getting ahead of myself. It happened like this: Mom was in the kitchen stuffing the turkey when Professor Tester appeared in the doorway dressed in the Santa Claus suit. He had stuffed his stomach but still looked no more like Santa Claus than Monty Woolley did in Life Begins at Eight-Thirty.

“Daisy Ray, I have to talk to you,” he said.

“Just let me finish stuffing this turkey and get it in the oven,” she told him. “I’d like to feed the kids by around five o’clock when I’m sure they’ll be tired of playing Post Office and Spin the Bottle and Doctor.” I remember her asking me, “Sonny, have you been playing Doctor?”

“As often as I can,” I replied with a smirk. And I still do. Now I’m a specialist.

“Daisy Ray, come with me to the laboratory,” Tester insisted.

‘Oh, really, Desmond,” Mother said, “I don’t understand your tone of voice.”

“There are a lot of things going on around here that are hard to understand,” the professor said ominously. “Daisy Ray!” He sounded uncannily like Captain Bligh summoning Mr. Christian.

I caught a very strange and very scary look on my mother s face. And then she did something I now realize should have made the professor realize that something unexpected and undesirable was about to befall him. She picked up her handbag, which was hanging by its strap on the back of a chair, and followed him out of the room. “Sonny, you stay here.” Her voice sounded as though it was coming from that echo chamber I heard on the spooky radio show, The Witch s Tale.

“Yes, Mama.”

I watched her follow Professor Tester out of the kitchen. I was frightened. I was terribly frightened. I had a premonition that something awful was going to happen, so I disobeyed her orders and tiptoed after them.

The laboratory was in the basement. I waited in the hall until I heard them reach the bottom of the stairs and head for the main testing room, then I tiptoed downstairs, praying the stairs wouldn’t squeak and betray me. But I had nothing to worry about. They were having a shouting match that would have drowned out the exploding of an atom bomb.

The door to the testing room was slightly ajar and I could hear everything.

“What have you done with the formula?” he raged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mama was quite cool, subtly underplaying him. It was one of those rare occasions when I almost admired her.