by Kate Flora
I padded naked into the bedroom, grabbed my nightgown, and then went into the shower. I covered myself with an astringent lavender, salt, and oil scrub, rubbing my skin like I could wash away the singed smell if I worked hard enough, even though I knew it was in my lungs and my sinuses. Andre said it could take days for some smells to go away. I washed my hair, which also smelled of the morning, and bundled it, still damp, into a loose braid.
Lavender is supposed to be soothing, but I didn't feel soothed. I felt like the little kid who knows there is a monster under the bed and another in the closet.
I spent some time making notes about how to approach the Stafford Academy situation, including phone numbers of people I needed to call as soon as it was a civilized hour. That meant from the road, so I wrote them on a yellow sticky that I could put on my dashboard. Hands-free dialing is great, but it's only hands-free if you don't have to look up the number first.
I smiled as I contemplated the first person I'd call. Glen Stryker. Ex-marine. Retired DEA. And big as Godzilla. He was the best person in the world to scare a bunch of high school students straight. And, though the students should never know it, a big pussycat. Glen was one of the good guys. He did what he did to save kids from their own stupidity. Or youthful sense of immortality. His talk would be very effective in giving a wake-up call to the student body while helping Stafford put a good face on their handling of the situation.
I sighed and stretched and wondered if I was a good guy or a weasel. If my white hat was getting gray. No energy tonight to contemplate the question. I needed sleep if I was going to be useful to anyone in the morning. I took a swipe at my teeth, skipped anything resembling a beauty ritual, and crawled into bed. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that had me listening carefully for suspicious sounds. Thinking maybe reading would help, I picked up the nice, improving book my mother had given me for Christmas—my mother believes I am badly in need of improving—and started to read. It instantly improved me into a state of lassitude.
I was on the cusp of sleep, and on the cusp of remembering something important that Ginger had said—I do a lot of my best thinking on the way to sleep and in the process of coming awake—when my phone rang.
Expecting the worst—Andre had been shot or the police were raiding the dorms at Stafford, I turned on the light and snatched it up. "Hey," a familiar voice said, "this is your husband. Remember me?"
Andre's call sent sleep, and whatever I was about to remember, skittering away, but I was glad he'd called. He can get so immersed in his cases that it gets too late to call when he's working through the night. It was a stupid question, though. Who can forget a handsome, hunky cop with rock-hard abs, deep brown eyes and testosterone-driven five o'clock shadow on his firm jaw? A guy who may complain about the chances I take, but always has my back? Not me, that's for sure.
"I miss you," I said.
He made a confirming sound, and the barriers I'd erected against my awful day came tumbling down. "That was our dream house," I said, "and now it's tainted. And Lt. Scafaro was so awful. And I don't think I'll ever be able to eat meat again. Never mind going to any barbeques."
Another sound. It was enough. I could have stayed on the phone and listened to him breathe, and it would have been enough. The sound of him breathing in the dark was one of the mainstays of my life.
"I'm afraid to go to sleep without you," I said.
"This sucks," he agreed.
"You making any progress? Roland seemed pretty discouraged."
"This case makes no sense, Thea. Fourteen years ago, she uses a dead child's information to get a social security number. But there's no sign of income, employment, tax returns, credit reports or a driver's license using that number. Nothing. Until six years ago. Then she starts working as a realtor in Florida, and she uses it there. Roland's going down tomorrow to see what he can learn, but if it's anything like her life here, he's going to draw a great big blank. Then she comes here, works for a couple years, and yet no one knows anything about her. But why did she come here? And where was she for the eight years she was off the grid?"
"Using a different social security number?" I suggested.
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "How was your day?"
"Not too bad. If Suzanne being put on bed rest, a client making us miss a deadline on a big report because they won't furnish essential data, and a potential drug issue at a client school isn't bad. I guess you'd say it's normal for my business."
"Is Suzanne okay?"
"If she doesn't explode with frustration. Or disobey her doctor's orders and bring on a premature delivery."
The sound he made was sympathy for Suzanne and an acknowledgment that we didn't talk about pregnancy at our house.
"I have to go to Connecticut in the morning. Got all the usual stuff to do, and picking up Suzanne's workload, and three other clients yelling at me for things they need. Not to mention Suzanne saying I should stay away from danger and dead bodies. Like I go looking for them."
"I'm sorry," he said. "You didn't need this morning on top of..."
"Nobody needed this morning. It got thrust upon us."
"We could say no."
I was stunned. Our refrain has always been the same. Our lives are crazy, we need a break and more time together, but we love what we do. He didn't mean no to house hunting. Was he suggesting he was falling out of love with detective work? That I should find a safer line of work? Or was he just feeling protective toward me?
"Could you say no?"
He was silent. Then he said, "We can talk about that when we're together. It's too big for a late-night phone call. It's for face-to-face. I'm on my way home, but tonight... uh... this morning, is not the time."
"What have you been doing all day?" I asked.
"Talking to people," he said. "Going through her apartment. Looking for something we might have missed. Figuring out where to go tomorrow. Looking at fingerprints. The ones from the crime scene. From her car. From the house. Whoever did this was careful, though. I'm betting any prints we find on those heaters will belong to someone in a store. And that they were bought over time, in multiple venues. A clerk would remember someone buying eight space heaters and extension cords. Even that many extension cords. Everything about this says planned, right down to the phone call to postpone your appointment."
"Which suggests someone who knew her schedule."
"It does," he agreed. "If we could only find that person."
I tried to remember where the call had come from. I didn't know. Either way it would have said Ginger Stevens or the name of her company. I hadn't looked at the number. "Was the call from Ginger's office?"
"From her cell phone."
"Do you have her cell phone?"
"Yeah. Wiped clean. Of course. Or he wore gloves. We're looking at cell tower pings. Call probably came from the house."
I imagined Ginger tied to that chair for hours. Helpless, maybe struggling to get free at she watched her killer setting up. Would the autopsy show signs of that struggle? "But wouldn't the neighbors have seen someone carrying in those space heaters?"
"No one saw anything. We're thinking he must have done it during the night."
"He?"
"Someone big enough to overpower her."
"And he wasn't noticed on a residential street?"
"Boggles the mind, doesn't it," he said. "A murderer sets up the scene and then kills a woman in broad daylight and no one notices."
"How did he get into the house?"
"Another thing we're looking into. But a million realtors, or former realtors, have keys or combinations for those lockboxes."
I didn't want to play detective. I wanted to leave it in his capable hands. I am so given to wishful thinking. "I've left the light on for you," I said.
"I should be home soon."
I hoped his 'soon' was real and that nothing else called him away. The monsters in the closet and under my bed were usually afraid of Andre. I put down the pho
ne, turned out the light, and tried, once again, for sleep.
* * *
In my dream I was being burned alive while a swarm of people dressed like witches circled around me, chanting. They had human bodies and human faces but their eyes were dead and blank and horrible. I kept looking for a truly human face, someone I could make a connection with who might help me, and found not a single one. The smoke was choking me and I was having trouble breathing. I could feel the heat singeing my skin. Feel the agony as it blistered and split. I could hear the little sparks crackle as my clothes and hair caught fire.
Terror seized me. I threw off the covers and sat up, staring into the darkness.
I've woken to a real fire before, a deliberately set "get Thea" fire. I didn't trust that this was just a dream. I got up, turned on the light, and checked the room and the bathroom carefully. Then I checked the rest of the apartment. Everything was clear and still and quiet. I didn't smell any smoke. There was no sign of Andre.
Then I heard a door shut downstairs. I looked out the window and saw his car beside mine in the driveway.
"Take that, monsters," I said. "Daddy's home."
I went to open the door.
"Shower," he said, trying to disengage me, but I was wrapped firmly around him and wouldn't let go.
Finally I relented. I figured that there was room in the shower for two, and a person could never be too clean. That led to the obvious result and cut our time for sleep even shorter, but it was worth it. I had no more bad dreams and slept all the way to morning without interruption.
Chapter 9
I yawned as I checked my phone. On the retro analogue clock on the wall, the little hand was almost at five, the big hand at nine. We'd done The Glass Menagerie in high school, and the line, "I'll rise but I won't shine," had stuck in my head. I looked across at Andre. Sitting on his side of the bed, already on the phone. We were such a modern couple—Andre on his phone on one side, scribbling notes, me on my phone on the other. Someone should have painted our portraits. Loving Couple. New American Gothic. Looking at him, I wanted to pull the shades, shut off our phones, and get back in bed.
Outside it was very dark, but in the streetlight's glow, I saw that yesterday's fog hadn't dissipated but was thicker. The night's wintery mix had left a few inches of snow. Now, rising temperatures would turn the whole world into a mushy, slushy mess. It was a day to be depressed and think about taking to drink. We both had places to be, but we lingered, a time measured in moments, not really saying anything, just putting off the time when we would spring into action.
But criminals and clients were waiting.
I threw a handful of clean clothes into a shopping bag to replenish the supply in my car, and dragged my raincoat and boots out of the closet. Then I dressed one-handed as I called Reeve Barrows, muttering a litany of ouches as I bent and flexed my burned hands. It was never too early to call an assistant head when a school was in crisis.
He answered, a crisp, slightly frazzled "Reeve Barrows," as I was hopping on one foot, trying to pull on my tights. Tights invariably get caught on my toes when I'm in a hurry.
Reeve was usually a phlegmatic fellow. A worker bee content to trail in the wake of the dynamic younger headmaster, Joel Phelps. Today, though, he barely let me say hello before he was off and running. "It's gotten worse. Much worse. Because of Joel."
I got the tights on and pulled on a warm forest green cashmere dress and an ombre green scarf, juggling the phone from hand to hand as I dressed. There had better not be any fires or other catastrophes today. I was about down to my last good outfit and who knew when I might have time to shop?
"What's up with Joel?"
I could hear him sputtering, so incensed at the predicament Phelps had landed him in that he could barely control himself. "You haven't heard?"
I zipped my boots, and zipped my lip so I wouldn't retort, "How could I have heard?" or mention the psychic hotline.
Across the room, Andre, who'd been grinning at my gyrations while struggling into my clothes, was putting on his coat. I covered the receiver. "You be careful out there," I said.
"Always careful," he said.
"So be more careful. And call me and let me know when you're coming home."
"Likewise," he said, and walked out the door.
I felt a pang every time I watched him leave. The dilemma of the cop's wife. What if he never walked in again?
I brought my attention back to Reeve, who was already off and running. "You know about the new fund-raising campaign to modernize the science buildings, right?" he said. "Well, it's been going great guns. But yesterday, when this whole drug thing was exploding, Joel put the whole thing at risk."
"He put the whole drug thing at risk?"
"Of course not. The fund-raising campaign."
Pretty soon I was going to have to back him up and get an explanation about "the whole drug thing", which was the business that had me up and dressed at this ungodly hour. I was woefully short on information. I figured I'd let him get Joel Phelps off his chest first. I stuck my notes in my briefcase, and the yellow sticky on the outside, ready to be transferred to my dashboard. Grabbed my coat and tried to get downstairs without falling or dropping anything while paying attention to what Reeve was saying.
This was a bad season for anything to go wrong at a private school. Admissions letters were about to go out and anything controversial could jeopardize getting a good incoming class. Some of the premier independent schools still belonged to the age when a person's name appeared in print only when they were born, married, and died, or at least their major donors did. It was no wonder Reeve was in a state.
"Reeve," I said, as I unlocked the Jeep and tossed my spare clothes in the back, "take a breath and then explain to me. What did Joel do?"
I stuck my yellow sticky on the dash, started the engine, flipped on the wipers and backed slowly down the driveway. I'm constantly trying to multitask, but convinced that no one can do it well, including myself. Especially on a foggy morning when the road is covered with slush.
"Oh. Right," he said. "While we were dealing with the crisis involving that student who nearly died, Joel was nowhere to be found."
"But he was eventually found?"
I flipped on the front and rear defrosters to get some visibility. My car fishtailed through a slush ridge, then dove into a puddle that sent a wave of mush onto my windshield. I turned my wipers on high and tried to listen to Reeve, who was now blasting at me from my dashboard. Another technological wonder that enabled me to do two things at once. I turned up the volume to hear him over the defroster and the wipers.
"Oh, we found him all right. Only after his secretary decided covering for him was no longer in her best interest."
This was like pulling teeth. "Where was he?"
"In bed at a local hotel with our chief fundraiser. With his phone off. Both of them married to other people, of course. While a student nearly died. Once it gets out, his stupidity is going to put the whole campaign at risk."
"Why should it come out?"
In front of me, a car pulled out from a side street without looking. At this time in the morning, they were probably used to being the only car on the road. I blasted my horn as I braked. Through the gloom, I thought I saw the usual polite driver's acknowledgment of wrongdoing, a raised middle finger.
I couldn't do this. "Reeve, the driving is awful. I'll be on the highway in five minutes. I'll call you back then."
"But Thea..."
But Thea was gone. Trying to reach the highway alive.
Once I'd merged onto the turnpike, I called him back and tried to get the details of their drug crisis. We'd helped them write a crisis management plan and he said he was using it, but one of the members of the team he was supposed to assemble was a crisis consultant. That would be me. I was undertaking this journey mostly in response to expressions of desperation and need. Now I needed to gather some facts. I listened to a flood of complaints, questions, and jumble
d information, including the fact that Alyce, the VC's daughter who'd actually sold the drug to the girl who'd nearly died, claimed they weren't doing anything illegal because the friend who'd made the pills had used his own formula.
"Believe it or not," he said, "she actually quoted the Synthetic Drug Abuse Prevention Act." Kids today. They might not have heard of the Civil War or read the Constitution, but they were good at keeping current on stuff like this.
When he paused for breath, I jumped in. "I can do a lot more when I get there, but for now, take a deep breath, and write this down."
Ignoring me, he started another litany of complaint and despair. It wasn't getting us anywhere and I needed my attention for driving. Even though there were few cars on the road, the fog, slush ridges, and muck thrown up by everyone's tires meant it was like bumper cars out here, or one of those monster trucks in the mud things. I raised my voice. "Stop," I said. "Take a deep breath. Listen carefully, and write this down."
"I don't know what..."
I was on the verge of yelling 'shut up,' but Suzanne was always on my case about handling clients more gently, so I saved it for later. I was sure I'd need it. "And you won't know what, unless you listen to me. Okay?"
A few blustering words. Finally, he sputtered to a stop and said, "Okay," so I launched into my preliminary advice.
"Now, we have an independent expert who can test those drugs and see if they really are illegal. As I'm sure you know, there's a ton of stuff around that's sold as Molly, or MDMA, that really isn't. And while your student's claim that it isn't illegal because it's a new designer drug is offensive, and she's absolutely broken your rules and put a fellow student at risk, it may be a genuine defense to a criminal charge. So I'll put in a call to our expert. Being able to say you're bringing in an expert will enhance your credibility and help you manage the parents."
I got a sigh, a slightly tremulous "Okay," and then, "Go on."
