Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  I shook my head. “Thanks, I’m all-caffeine in the morning.”

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s hear it. Michael says you’ve got some more theories.”

  “Not theories, really, just some loose ends.”

  “Such as?”

  I told him about the mix-up at Josh’s school, and our worry that it was a deliberate way to keep me from looking at the file.

  “But you did eventually see the story file?”

  “Yes, Glen Fox brought it over last night.” I shook my head.

  “And there didn’t seem to be anything substantive in it. Either all the good stuff had been removed, or Quentin hadn’t put much in it to begin with.”

  Moon took a notebook out of his duffel bag, flipped to a page and handed it to me. “Look at this inventory of what was in the file. See anything missing?”

  I scanned it. “No.”

  “Tell me everything about the call you got at the restaurant about your son,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  I talked him through the whole incident, including what Michael and I had sorted out the night before—someone who knew our family, who knew where I was having lunch, who knew what I had on, even knew the school would have the answering machine on at lunchtime.

  “And the call came from a man,” I said. “And there’s only one male teacher at the school.” Moon listened carefully.

  “I don’t think that means much. The caller only said he was calling from the school. That doesn’t mean he was actually there, or even on staff. Anything else? An accent? Sound old or young?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t ask about that,” I said. Of course, it’s pretty noisy in the restaurant, so it’s likely the hostess didn’t hear all that clearly.”

  “I’ll have one of my guys talk to the hostess at Cock of the Walk again,” said Moon.

  I handed back his notebook. “So what should I do?” I asked. “Do you think there’s any chance Josh is in danger?”

  He shook his head. “Probably not. It sounds to me like an expedient way to delay your look at the file. But since there’s nothing missing, that doesn’t make much sense. What does concern me, however, is that whoever dreamed up this scheme knows a good deal about you. More confirmation of what we already suspected—whoever murdered Mr. Hart is someone you know.”

  Stated so baldly, this information twisted knots in my stomach.

  “Great,” I muttered. “So what else can I do to help?”

  “Keep thinking. If you get more ideas or information, call me. Other than that, I’d concentrate on your life, if I were you.” He poured a little more tea into the thermos cup. “You should be pretty busy, between the kids and your new job.”

  I looked back at the ice. Michael was doing warm-up sprints. Watching him move, so assured and intense, so physically present, I felt that familiar little flutter inside. I remembered the day Michael and I met, at an ice rink. My do-good college sorority had taken a group of street-tough kids on an outing. When the lights went down for one of those corny “couples only” sessions, Michael had skated over to our little giggling group, gave a mock bow to all the girls, and asked me to waltz. He was such a wonder on the ice, it didn’t matter how mediocre I was. “Just relax and trust me,” he said, and I’d found myself skating backward, swooping across the ice with a grace I didn’t know I had. My sorority sisters and our little charges burst into applause when the tinny recording of The Skater’s Waltz drew to a close. Boy, did that seem like a long time ago.

  “And what with my marriage on thin ice, and all,” I said bleakly, “since we’re here at the rink.” I paused. “You know, we met at an ice skating rink.”

  “Michael told me,” said Moon. “I know he takes your sons skating. But you don’t join them?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s a chance for them to have guy-time, without me hanging around.” I shrugged. “They don’t usually invite me, anyway.”

  Moon cleared his throat. “People’s marriages are always mysteries to outsiders, aren’t they? They’re like those puzzle boxes. You can’t figure out how they open unless you know the right combination of moves. And usually, only the two people inside the relationship know those moves.”

  “How about yours?” I said, “A puzzle box, too?”

  Moon smiled noncommittally. “Does your shamelessness about prying come from being a journalist? You have license to ask anyone anything you want?”

  I sighed. “And my mother raised me to have such lovely manners,” I said. “I used to ask people questions for a living, but now I’m just trying to understand what kind of a mess I’m in—and what part of it is my own making.”

  “Which mess are we discussing?” asked Moon. “Quentin’s murder, or your marriage?”

  “Both, I guess,” I said.

  “Only you can know what you’ve done to the relationship with Michael,” said Moon. “You and Michael have to sort that out. And that’s private. But murder is a public business, and that’s why it’s in the hands of public servants like me and my colleagues. Your job is to keep thinking and keep me informed.” He screwed the top back onto his thermos. “And to stay out of harm’s way.” He packed the thermos into his gym bag. “And now I’ll answer the question you asked me a few minutes ago. My wife and I have been married for twenty-six years, so after all this time, I’m sure our marriage is a puzzle box to the outside world. Most days, it’s a puzzle to us, as well.”

  “In what way?”

  “Who knows why any marriage works? In both my jobs—as a high school counselor and now as a cop—I see domestic lives that look like broken-down wrecks at the junkyard. Parents who can’t talk to their sons or daughters. Daughters and sons who keep secrets. Husbands and wives who let things get to such a terrible place that a marriage is irreparably broken, or worse, becomes violent.” He stood up and slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “And then I go home, determined not to succumb to the pressures that drive people apart.” He looked at me. “Police officers often have very tumultuous—and frequently, not very successful home lives, you know.”

  “I thought that was just in the movies.”

  “Occasionally movies tell the truth.”

  “But you’ve been married for a long time,” I persisted. “Beating the odds?”

  He smiled. “I hope so. I have a few rules for myself. I try to leave the job on the job. And I try to pay attention to what the AA people say—one day at a time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I try not to worry what trouble my son may get into when he becomes a teenager. I just try to teach him every silly card game I know. I try not to worry that my daughter won’t get into the music conservatory she’s got her heart set on. Instead, I just show up at all her concerts and recitals and applaud until she gives me the ‘Okay, Dad, now you’re embarrassing me’ look.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Ah, my wife,” he smiled, “Well, you already know I let her shop for my clothes.”

  “And?”

  “And, same thing as with our kids: one day at a time. I try to concentrate on what will make this evening pleasant, instead of worrying about all the chores we have to do on the weekend, or feeling hurt that her mother doesn’t approve of my profession, or that my mother thinks she isn’t much of a cook because she’s not Korean and can’t make kimchi.”

  I thought about my early-morning parting with Michael, and the goodbye kiss that didn’t happen. If we were being measured on the one-day-at-a-time standard, we’d failed the test before it was even light outside.

  “But you must know these things,” said Moon. “You and Michael have been married a long time as well.”

  “Twelve years,” I said. “And we seem to have hit a bump in the road.”

  “Over, under, or through,” said Moon. “I tried to sleepwalk through my military service, but that’s the one infantry lesson I remember.” He looked down at the rink. “I’m older enough to give you some advice, Maggie. G
et past the bump.” He gestured at the rink. “I’ve got to get out on the ice.”

  I looked up at him. “Thanks for meeting me this morning.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think Michael gave either one of us much of a choice, did he?” He maneuvered down the steep stairs, stopping to exchange shoes for skates, opened the gate, and glided onto the ice. I took a deep breath, picked up my handbag, and went out into the full light of day.

  16

  Gelato and Conversation

  Calvin was waiting in my office when I arrived at work. Waiting? More like ensconced. Feet up on my desk, telephone receiver tucked under his chin, he gestured me in with a mug of coffee. My mug.

  I sat down in the visitor’s chair. “My, my, we look comfortable.”

  “Okay, okay, I got it,” he said into the receiver. “Hold on a sec.” He put his hand over the receiver. “Be with you in a minute, Maggie.”

  “Take your time,” I said.

  “Good, good,” he said, “Catch you later.”

  He beamed at me. “So the plot thickens.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I heard about the screw-up with your kid yesterday.”

  I grimaced. “I don’t like it. And you should have heard Michael on the subject.”

  “Maggie, it’s a warning. We’re onto something.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. We’re in this together. Quentin wanted it that way. The two of us were…” he paused dramatically, “the last date on his Palm before he died.”

  I snorted, “Quentin had a little leather datebook. He thought Palm Pilots were pretentious and inconvenient, and besides, they ruined the line of a man’s jacket. Furthermore,” I added, “I’ve just come from listening to lectures from Michael and Moon. They don’t want me running around being a detective, and I can’t say I blame them. That’s what the cops are supposed to do, blah, blah, blah. Besides, if somebody’s going to go after one of my kids.…”

  “Hey, get serious. If somebody knows you’re snooping around, and they know about your kids, nobody’s safe until we figure this thing out.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” I said. On the one hand, there they were, the voices of reason—Michael, Glen, Inspector Moon. On the other, Calvin and his youthful arrogance that we could figure this out. Plus, my own need to “tidy things up,” and not to do what I was told. And some bastard thought he could get at me through my kid. I felt a flush of anger wash right over what I knew I should do—throw Calvin out and get to work.

  “Over, under or through,” I muttered, conveniently forgetting the context but latching onto the idea. I glanced at my watch. “Okay, maybe we can nose around a little bit more, just to see if we can feed information to Inspector Moon.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” he said, patting his pockets. “Now, last night I reviewed what we know and what we don’t.” He pulled a notepad out of his breast pocket, much like the one Moon carried. He flipped open the cover and re-established his feet on the desk.

  “Here’s what we know: average size killer, could be tallish woman or a medium-height man. Someone Quentin knew, probably, since he let them in. Someone who either knows you—”

  “Don’t remind me.” I shuddered.

  Calvin looked up briefly. “Buck up, Mags. Or knows about you and the kids.”

  “Okay, that narrows it down to fifty of our dearest, most intimate friends.”

  “Come on, Maggie, it does not. There actually can’t be that many people who knew Quentin, know about you and the kids—and have a motive.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But I think we’re on the wrong track here.”

  “Such as?”

  “Remember what Andrea said about mystery stories? About if something disappears and someone gets ‘offed’, I believe, was the term she used, then there’s your murderer.”

  “And so?”

  “Well, Andrea got me reading mysteries again. I haven’t done it for years. Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I started reading one of the Maigret mysteries—you know, Georges Simenon. And Inspector Maigret says, ‘I shall know the murderer when I know the victim well.’”

  “The victim? Quentin?”

  “Right. There’s something about Quentin we need to know, and when we do, we’ll know who killed him.”

  “Like something from his past?”

  “Maybe. I’ve got a friend sleuthing in London for me.”

  Calvin cocked one eyebrow and tapped his pencil on his teeth.

  “London?”

  “Yes. Quentin went to school there. Some old friend of his wrote him recently, and there was peculiar stuff in the letter.”

  “Hey,” said Calvin. “For someone who doesn’t want to detect, you certainly seem to have an international network of investigators at work for you.”

  I grinned. “Just a resourceful little housewife.”

  “Housewife-editor,” said a voice from the door. Gertie was leaning in the doorway, clutching a batch of pink message slips. “Just a housewife-editor who needs to get an issue out.”

  Guiltily, I said, “Gertie, I’m sorry. I’m here! I’m working. Throw this guy out.”

  Calvin stood. “No need to throw me out. I’ve got an assignment out at the Broadway Test Kitchens.”

  “What are you shooting?”

  “Not shooting. Just meeting. There’s a convention of food editors in town and they want to talk with me about doing a coast-to-coast photo essay on harvesting greens.”

  “Greens.”

  “Greens. Mustard. Arugula. Radicchio. That stuff.”

  “Actually, radicchio is red,” I pointed out.

  “Whatever happened to poor old iceberg lettuce? Didn’t it have a renaissance a while ago?” mused Gertie.

  “Don’t ask,” said Calvin. “It’s back in salad purgatory, covered with Thousand Island dressing, waiting to be recalled to service.”

  “Go,” I said.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said. “We’re onto something; I know we are.”

  After Calvin disappeared, Gertie sat down opposite me, clearing a space on her side of the desk.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I know it never looked like this when Quentin was here.”

  “Okay,” she said, “I won’t tell you. You already know. Now here we go, Madame Editor,” she said.

  In half an hour, we covered correspondence, reviewed the editorial, design, and production budget for the next quarter, and scheduled the next staff meeting. Gertie gathered her notes and started to stand. She stopped.

  “Maggie?”

  “What have I forgotten?”

  “It’s not that.” She picked up Quentin’s Rolodex and riffled the pages. “I know you really loved Quentin.”

  “You did, too.”

  “I did, I did. But I didn’t idealize him.” She put the Rolodex down and looked at me. “You know how they say no man is a gentleman to his valet? Well, no man is perfect to his secretary or whatever highfalutin title they’ve given me. Quentin wasn’t an exception.”

  “I knew that.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure you did.” She hesitated. “I knew about the two of you.”

  “You,” I said, “and the rest of the city, apparently.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said dryly. “But I kept pretty close track of Quentin’s schedule. I knew where he was and when—and with whom.”

  “Listen, Gertie—”

  She held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. It was your business and Quentin’s. But you should know, there was a certain ruthlessness about Quent. He knew what he wanted and he went after it. You may think what took place between you two was an accident or something that just happened. But I’m willing to wager Quentin had it in some master plan. I know how he talked about you and what he thought of you. And I think he decided, for better or worse, that some day he’d make his move. Or let you make yours.”

  I remembered Saks. Whos
e move was it?

  “I think,” said Gertie, “that’s why Claire hated him so much. I think she felt as if she’d fallen into, and then out of, some grand scheme Quentin had.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Gertie?”

  “I just want you to know I think you are on to something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I came in, you and Calvin were talking about knowing the victim. That’s right, I somehow feel it. Pay attention to who Quentin really was. And you’ll find out who killed him.”

  “I think that, too,” I began.

  She interrupted, “Of course, a plainspoken midwestern girl like myself can’t help but wonder why you’re so involved in all this.”

  I struggled to explain. “It’s the same question I keep asking myself. I think it’s a whole collection of bad reasons. Maybe because I found his body, and that makes me feel responsible in some weird way. Or because he was waiting for Calvin and me to arrive when it happened. Maybe because I feel so awful about—”

  “Cheating on Michael?”

  “That’s part of it. I feel as if I contributed to some enormous mess in the world, and sooner or later, somebody has to pay for messes.”

  “If that’s so,” observed Gertie, “I’d say that Quentin’s the one who paid the price. And you’re making a big assumption that it had anything to do with you.”

  “I’m not,” I insisted. “I just feel responsible for something.”

  Gertie sighed. “You are. You’re responsible for fixing things up with Michael, but that’s not my business. But who am I to talk? I couldn’t make my marriage work.” She stood up. “Of course, he was a jerk, and I just had to wait ’til the kids were out of the house so I could get on a plane and get out of town. But then, Michael doesn’t seem like a jerk to me.”

  “He’s not,” I began. “But Gertie—”

  She held up her hand. “Uh-uh. You’re my boss now; go confide in a girlfriend about your marriage. But this magazine is my business, so…” she gestured at the message slips, “get to work. You’re in a business with deadlines.” She stopped at the doorway, and I could feel one parting shot coming. “You know, Maggie, you’re the girl who thinks she’s smarter than anybody else. If you ask me, that’s the real reason I think you keep poking your nose into the cops’ business.”