Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  Moon smiled, “Don’t you and Michael ever say ‘just because’ to your kids?”

  “Because,” I persisted, “even if Michael and I aren’t real suspects, you can pump us for information.”

  He sighed again, “The British have a nicer way of describing this. They say ‘someone is helping the police with inquiries.’”

  “Too bad we’re here and not there,” I snapped, quickly placing the contents of the blue box back inside.

  He nodded.

  Half an hour later I was in my car, heading home, still feeling as if I’d been measured and found wanting after the conversation with Inspector Moon.

  “Smart-ass detective,” I muttered. “Thinks he’s got the whole picture. I’m sure he’s got a perfect, unsullied marriage, unlike the rest of us weak-willed lowlifes.”

  I smacked the steering wheel hard and gunned the motor, waiting for the light to turn on Broadway.

  I thought of the inspector’s face as he opened my diaphragm case and I felt my own cheeks turn hot. “Dammit, Maggie, you are a weak-willed lowlife, you deserve this,” I grumbled.

  But what? What did I deserve? And, even if I did deserve this—this shock, suspicion, Michael’s anger—and, okay, I did, did Quentin deserve what happened to him?

  And what did happen? It now seemed very important to find out who had spilled the beans about Quentin and me to Moon. I pulled over at the next corner and called Moon on the cell phone. I didn’t want to be changing lanes for this conversation.

  Moon answered on the second ring.

  “Inspector Moon? It’s Maggie Fiori.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fiori?”

  “I need to know. Who told you about my relationship with Quentin?”

  He was silent.

  “Please.”

  “Actually, I believe it was Mr. Morris, your magazine’s music critic. And, he didn’t exactly tell. I made an educated guess.”

  “How?”

  “During questioning, he made it clear how very upsetting it must have been for you, in particular, to find Mr. Hart. I said, why, yes, for anyone it’s a shock. Then, Mr. Morris—well, he blushed. And suddenly, it seemed quite obvious.”

  “I see,” I said grimly, watching the traffic slow on Broadway.

  “Well, thanks for your candor.”

  “A pleasure,” he said. “Please call me if you find anything in those letters.”

  I agreed immediately. Then, after I hung up, I remembered how foolish I felt in Quentin’s bedroom under Moon’s neutral gaze.

  “Maybe I will,” I said petulantly. “And maybe I won’t.” And drove home.

  12

  The Heart of a Jealous Man

  It was Friday night at Ratto’s.

  Ratto’s is an Oakland institution, an Italian grocery that carried a dozen kinds of olive oil before the yups ever discovered the difference between virgin and extra virgin.

  Adjoining the grocery, there’s a cavernous room where the fortunate eat dinner on Friday nights. Serve-it-yourself salad, pasta, dessert, wine and coffee. Then, when everyone’s full and the children begin to get sleepy, the entertainment starts. There’s usually a slightly manic accompanist and three or four singers. Opera, glorious, glorious opera. Old favorites, so the singers clink wine glasses with the patrons and bellow the drinking song from La Traviata, and some surprises, especially with young singers trying an ambitious aria out in front of a friendly crowd.

  When the singing started at eight o’clock, Zach was in my lap, drowsing. Josh seemed wonderfully relaxed, leaning against Michael, mesmerized by the soprano’s bosom, heaving up and down to Musetta’s Waltz.

  “Dad,” he whispered, “what do you call that line on her chest?”

  “Cleavage,” Michael whispered back.

  The mezzo, dressed in black with a scarlet chiffon scarf wound ’round her throat, announced Dalila’s passionate aria from Samson et Dalila, “Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix.” It is Dalila’s most wicked moment. “My heart opens at thy sweet voice,” she sings to Samson, luring him to his ruin.

  Josh tugged at Michael’s sleeve, “What’s it about, Dad?”

  Michael caught my eye. “It’s about the perfidy of women.” Josh was puzzled. “Mom’s the writer. Ask her what perfidy means.”

  The children were both asleep by the time we got home. Michael carried them from the car, one at a time. I tucked them in their cocoons of stuffed creatures and blankets. Then I poured two brandies and brought them into the living room. Michael sat in the dark. I turned on a lamp and handed him a glass.

  “Perfidy’s a pretty big word,” I said. Silence.

  “Michael, I hate it that you’d use Josh like that.” More silence.

  “Michael, why won’t you talk to me about this?”

  “I don’t need to talk to you,” he said bitterly. “John Moon’s already invited me down to headquarters. I had a chance to talk to him. Imagine how interested he was to know when I’d figured out you and that pretentious asshole were having an affair.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Michael stared at me. “I didn’t do it, Maggie. I didn’t kill him. I could have, but I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t, Michael.” When I closed my eyes to keep the tears back, I could see Michael sitting at Ratto’s, pulling Josh close and whispering the lyrics in his ear so he could shout “Libiamo, libiamo” with the singers. “Does Moon think you killed him?”

  “I don’t know. He was very polite, told me they might have more questions for me later. I was on the road at the time Quent was killed, so I don’t have much of an alibi. And, I’m right-handed.”

  “Where were you going? Can’t somebody vouch for when you arrived?”

  “That would be awkward.”

  Michael put his glass down. “Want to know where I was going?”

  “Yes.”

  “I went to the city—for a blood test.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  I waited.

  “However, since I’m married to a woman stupid enough to have an affair with somebody who sleeps with boys and girls, lots and lots of boys and girls—after stewing about it for several months, I thought I should have the AIDS test.”

  The brandy turned to acid in my mouth. I had done the exact same thing, after Quentin began his affair with Stuart, and after I realized what a dangerous game I had been playing. Gone to the public health office in the Castro, sat in the waiting room with a half dozen terrified looking young men, and browsed through the safe sex propaganda. The week-long wait had been excruciating. Just for good measure, I prayed to every Catholic saint I’d ever heard Michael’s mother mention. I paid particular attention to St. Rita da Cascia, the patron saint of incurable diseases and impossible causes. Rita had been listening. I was HIV-negative.

  I looked at Michael, stricken.

  He made a gesture of impatience. “I’m fine.” Michael sprang up, came and knelt at my side. “God, Maggie! What were you thinking of? It’s not bad enough you fucked around. You had to go fuck around with someone who could’ve killed you, or me? Jesus, you’re supposed to be so smart. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Then I cried. I hadn’t cried since that day in the shower. Not at the funeral, not at Quent’s office, not while the mezzo sang her wicked love song.

  Michael watched me as if I were a not particularly pleasant specimen under a microscope.

  “I can’t explain what was wrong with me. It’s as if there are two different versions of my life. There’s the version with you and the boys—I love you, I love them, I love our life. But sometimes I feel like such an amateur. I don’t do anything very, very well any more. I can’t even keep house without Anya.”

  Michael snorted. “You’re not supposed to keep house. That’s why Anya’s here. You’re supposed to write. This is not Ozzie and Harriet—I don’t earn all the money and you don’t wait for me in the goddamn window.”

  “I
know. But.…”

  “But what? What’s the other version?”

  “I don’t know. Fast cars and passports and calling stories in from weird places. I know I sound like a spoiled brat, but I hear some young reporter on National Public Radio reporting from Beirut and I want to be there.”

  “I knew it.” Michael shook his head in disgust. “You want to be in the middle of a drama, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I just feel like such a dilettante.”

  “A dilettante? Maggie, we cooked up this life we have together. You never said you wanted to work full time, nevermind calling in stories from places where people get blown up every day.”

  “I know,” I said feebly.

  “And then you go and take this job at Small Town without so much as a discussion with me. You’d have killed me if I took a new job without talking to you.”

  “I screwed up,” I started.

  “Yeah, well… and there may be some nut out there ready to get another notch in his gun by knocking off the new editor.”

  “Walking stick,” I faltered, “not a gun.”

  Michael shook my shoulders. “Look at me!”

  He got up, picked up our glasses and walked into the kitchen. I heard a cupboard open, and then slam shut. He came back into the living room, refilled glasses in hand.

  “Thank you,” I sniffled.

  “We’re going to talk about this now,” said Michael. “And then I don’t want to talk about it again. Ever. And I want you to know how furious I am at you. I feel like this is the worst in a long line of feminist propaganda crap—and what makes me really angry is that I bought into all of it. I did! Goddamnit, I’ve tried to out-Alan Alda all of them. I married you because you were the smartest, funniest woman I knew. I’m not trying to get in your way, but we agreed together to all this—this house, these kids, the dog, the cats, everything! Now it’s not dangerous enough for you. Now it bores you. Maybe I bore you.”

  “Michael, you can’t bore me! You don’t bore me. I meant it—I do love our life together. But this isn’t feminist propaganda. People ask you what you do—you tell them you’re a lawyer. It’s a real job, you’ve got a title and an office.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this. Is that what you want? A title and an office?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe I need all the trappings so I know how to structure my time. As it is, I’m always scrambling for my deadlines, daydreaming half the morning, and then making excuses.”

  “That’s bullshit. You always make your deadlines.”

  “Just barely.”

  Michael looked exasperated. “I can’t believe we’re fighting over your deadlines. You’d just barely make deadlines if you had a suite of offices, six titles and a battery of secretaries. You like that rush of brinkmanship—which is, I think, why I’m so pissed at you. I don’t think you fell in love with Quentin. I think you liked the goddamn adventure of juggling him and your work and still being little Miss Semi-Perfect Homemaker.”

  I shivered. Something told me Michael had come perilously close to the truth.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I mean, you may be right. I mean, I do care about Quentin, I did. And I did feel something sexual for him.”

  Michael looked grim. “If you did, you can kindly shut the fuck up about it.”

  “But you were right about the main thing. It felt like an adventure.”

  Michael moved over to the hassock at my feet. He took my hand and put it on his chest. “Let me tell you about adventures, about danger, cara. You feel this?” I felt his heart, a little fast, pounding in his chest. “That’s the heart of a jealous, possessive man. If there’s another adventure, it will be your last.”

  I looked in his eyes. “Are you threatening me, Michael?”

  He nodded. “I won’t hurt you. I don’t think I could. But I will want to—so I will leave.” He let go of my hand. “Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  “But I want to keep the job, at least for now.”

  “Title and an office?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little. At least,” I touched his face, “it’ll keep me out of worse trouble.”

  Late that night, after we’d made fierce and not particularly affectionate love, I wrapped up in my robe and came downstairs. I felt as if I’d been underwater for too long, had struggled to the surface, and wondered if I could still breathe on my own. Had my wicked ways turned my wife-and-mother self into another person? Had I really strayed for reasons that sounded so self-centered and frivolous in the telling? I made a cup of chamomile tea and carried it into the living room. With just one lamp lit, the light fell soft and golden in a pool around my chair and the side table where my tea rested. Next to the tea lay the bundle of Quentin’s letters.

  I picked up the letters. They sat in my lap for a moment while I half heartedly wrestled with my conscience. Curiosity won out over a reluctance to invade Quentin’s privacy. Rationalizations leaked into my mind. I would figure this out! I would restore order! I’d gone back to the straight and narrow, and I would stay there. No more mysteries, no more lies, no more fantasy alternative lives—and solving Quentin’s murder would be a terrific start. For one guilty moment, it occurred to me that this could be yet another adventure, one other way to rebel against my sweet suburban life.

  I sipped the tea and thought about Inspector Moon, how cranky this would make him, but how, somehow, I would feel less embarrassed about my straying if the murder were wrapped up and we could put it all behind us. I sighed. Somehow, Nancy Drew’s motivations seemed purer than mine. But then, with Hannah the housekeeper watching her like a hawk, poor Nancy never had time for inappropriate love affairs.

  I slipped the ribbon off the letters and shuffled through, looking at return addresses. Quentin’s acquaintance was wide and international. And old-fashioned—paper instead of electronics.

  Fortified with another sip of tea, I began reading. Letters from writers, from friends in Nice, Barcelona, and Greenwich, Connecticut. Many were from women, and the unfamiliar handwriting and distant intimacy they suggested gave me a little frisson of jealousy again.

  “Oh, Maggie,” I said aloud, “Cut it out.” With that, the Riddler, the youngest and wildest of the cats, stirred from his drowse on the couch. He stretched, spied company, and made the trip to my lap in two leaps.

  “One more letter, Riddler,” I said. “And then it’s off to bed for us.”

  The last letter was postmarked London and dated two weeks ago.

  Dear Quent,

  How odd to hear from you after so many years. I’m a bit of a grudge holder, so it had never occurred to me to “bury the hatchet” as you Yanks say. But I’m glad you and Giovanni have hooked up, and that life is good to you. He’s a talented fellow, and the misfortunes that came his way never seemed quite deserved to me. Times have changed, I daresay, and all that bloody fuss might not have happened if we were young today—instead of thirty years ago.

  In fact, I find myself quite cheery thinking of you paying us a call next spring. Do let us know when you’ll be here and we’ll have you round to the flat. Leslie’s health is a little fragile these days. So we stay quiet and try to cram our fun in the good days. It actually suits me to live quietly—that may surprise you! But I treasure my students—even the misguided ones who read all those faddish American writers—and the life Leslie and I have together.

  Stay well, dear fellow. Now that I’ve put pen to paper, I find myself thinking of you with great affection.

  Best,

  Douglas

  PS Thanks for your kind words about the new biography. Until it was out at the booksellers, I wasn’t, as the old lady said to Gully himself, “fit for the gypsies.”

  The Riddler snuggled close and swished his tail under my nose. I sneezed and felt in my robe pocket for tissues. No luck.

  With a sigh, I tucked Riddler under my arm and headed fo
r the stairs. Who was Giovanni? Who was Douglas? And what hatchet did they have to bury? Surely, just a little investigation wouldn’t hurt. “It’s the kind of adventure to have without a diaphragm,” I said to Riddler. But he was already busy with his own adventures in feline dreamdom.

  13

  Transatlantic Detection

  Things seemed better at breakfast than they’d been since Quentin was killed.

  Michael read the funnies aloud to all of us, teased Anya about her newest beau, and cajoled Josh into finishing his orange juice.

  “Come on, boys,” he said.

  “Hustle those plates into the kitchen and I’ll drop you off at school. Mom’s got a title now and she’s got to get to her office.”

  “It’s temporary,” I muttered.

  “Cheer up,” he said, helping Zach with his jacket. “Maybe you’ll take to organizational life. You can have your people get back to my people about what’s for dinner. Very post-feminist.”

  The boys raced out the door. I caught Michael by the arm. “Do you hate me?” I asked and held my breath waiting for the answer.

  He kissed me lightly on the lips. “No. I don’t hold grudges.”

  I whispered, “Thank you.”

  “And I don’t forget.”

  I stiffened. “That sounds like a life sentence, Michael.”

  He shrugged my arm off. “Good. That’s how it’s supposed to sound.”

  “Michael,” I started to protest.

  He held up his hand. “Of course, maybe our friend John Moon will decide I really did kill Quentin. Life sentence for me, and lifetime freedom for you to screw around.”

  I was speechless.

  He grinned. “Just kidding, cara. Lighten up. Besides, the hockey team would have to go out and find a new center.”

  Then they were gone.

  Michael wasn’t really a suspect. At least, it didn’t seem that way from my conversation with Moon. Of course, I could call Moon and just ask him. Well, not just ask right out, but maybe… inquire.

  I poured another cup of coffee and pulled Douglas’s letter from last night out of my pocket. Then I reached for the phone, thinking about calling Inspector Moon. It seemed as if I might have useful information, which perhaps he’d be willing to trade me for the reassurance that Michael wasn’t remotely a suspect.