The Weekend Visitor

by Jessica Thomas

  Maureen covered the hand with her own and continued. "My ex-roommates and I don't get together very often, what with us workin' different places and all." The Irish surfaced now and then. "So Sunday night we were to meet at eight. I walked over to the Bitter End and they already had a table in back and were drinking their wine. I sat down and ordered a glass for myself." She lifted her glass of tea and looked at it as if she wished it were wine.

  Maureen's account of her evening with les girls was deadly dull and sounded rehearsed. Well, she'd had almost a week to go over it again and again in her mind, so no wonder. But it was unhelpful. Finally, her friends had remarked that they all had to be at work early in the morning and had left around 9:30. Maureen had an almost-full glass of wine and had elected to finish it at the bar rather than alone at the table. She thought she might have spoken briefly to a young man in passing, but wasn't sure.

  There her memory stopped. She basically remembered nothing until standing in the back doorway of Mary's house at approximately, according to Mary, 1:15.

  Maureen did not remember spending time with anyone at the bar or recall leaving the building at all. She vaguely remembered a car, possibly dark in color. "I think it had gotten foggy," she added. "I'm not sure. And there was a man driving, a white man, but he seemed dark to me . . . tanned, I guess." She put her hands up to her face. "I remember wind. It was windy in the car."

  "You mean your window was rolled down? Or maybe it was a convertible?" I asked.

  "Convertible, yes! Oh, yes, sure and it was a convertible! I felt cold." She grabbed Mary's hand. "Is it coming back to me, darlin'? Am I going to remember? Must I remember it? Oh, God."

  Mary held both her hands. "Shush. It's all right. The more you remember, the better. We'll get through this, don't you worry. Now, keep thinking. Is there more you can dredge up? Try, dear, try! Alex is going to help you."

  I felt like some sort of brutal voyeur. This was terrible for both of them. Obviously Mary was deeply involved here, and I was making both of them recall a night of hell. "Maureen, about the car, can you remember anything more? What color was the upholstery? What color was the top? Did it have a hood ornament?" I lit a cigarette, and Maureen leaned over and took it from me with a shaky hand. I lit another and noticed I wasn't so steady myself. Perhaps when rape happens to one woman, it happens to us all.

  She blew out a cloud of smoke. "The . . . top, the top was . . . down. I don't know the color. The upholstery was light. . . white or gray. Or light blue. I don't know about hoods, what kind of ornament? Where?"

  Mary answered and I didn't stop her. "On the very front of the hood—the bonnet—some cars have a little decoration. Cadillacs have a sort of shield. Lincolns have a kind of silver rectangle with a line across it."

  I sipped my tea as Maureen thought. Finally she answered. "It was silver, yes. A circle with a sort of upside down Y in it, I think."

  "Mercedes!" Mary triumphed. "A Mercedes convertible! Alex, surely that's a big help!"

  I nodded with more enthusiasm than I felt. It would have been more help last Sunday night. By now the car could be back home in Indiana or halfway to Phoenix.

  "Yes, it's a great help." I smiled at Maureen. "Does the car lead you to visualize the man a little clearer?"

  She shrugged. "Tanned." She shook her head. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. It was difficult to hear her, and I finally moved and knelt beside her. "He was young," she whispered. "Young and gorgeous ... with a face like a b-b-beautiful pirate. Curly black hair all blowing in the wind. But I was so afraid, I knew I must make him stop the car. I must get out! But I couldn't say it. I tried and tried. B-b-but I couldn't. I couldn't—speak! She cried as if her heart were broken. Mary looked as if she'd like to kill.

  I patted Maureen's shoulder as I rose. "All right, that's all a help, too. I'm sorry to drag you through this. I really am. Let's give it a rest for today. If you remember anything else, though, please write it down and tell Mary. I'll give you a call tomorrow."

  Mary disengaged herself from the couch and walked me to the back door. She looked drained. "Is any of it really a help, Alex?"

  "Some. There can't be too many Mercedes convertibles in town. The question is, is it still in town? The description of the man can be helpful later, hopefully."

  Mary nodded tiredly and I turned to leave. "Oh," I recalled. "Mary, I need a favor. Trish Woodward bought a little boat down in Eastham or somewhere. Sonny wants to help her move it up here this Saturday morning, but has no trailer. Would it be possible for them to use yours?"

  "I guess so. I may not be here, but I'll unlock the garage." She didn't sound thrilled. "Tell them that when they bring it back, they should be sure to hose it down and dry it off. I'll leave my hose out ... and some drying rags. And when they put it back in the garage, make certain they close the door and turn the handle to lock it. I guess that will be okay." She sounded far from sure. I thanked her and walked toward my car before she could recant.

  As I backed out of the driveway, I remembered something else. The only time in my life I'd been offered refreshments in Mary's home ... and I forgot the lemon petit fours!

  Chapter 6

  Turning out of Mary's street, I realized I had to go right past the place where Maureen's three ex-roommates lived, and decided to chance it that one or more of them might be home. I parked and climbed the stairs to the garage apartment and felt the sun beat warmly on my back. Were we headed for a hot summer? The main door was open, so I rapped on the screen doorframe and called out, "Hello, anybody home?"

  A young woman in a short robe, toweling her hair, arrived. I introduced myself and asked, "Are you Ruth or Nadine or Clare?"

  She smiled. "I'm Nadine." I explained my errand, and she held the door open.

  "That's terrible! God, I hate to hear of rape! Come on in."

  I walked in and immediately felt stifled. The ceilings were low and probably uninsulated. The windows were few, small and faced the wrong direction to catch the prevailing breeze. The apartment smelled of steam from a recent hot shower, shampoo, deodorant and an elusive scent of cucumbers.

  Two kitty-cornered single beds doubled as couches in the living room, and pretty well filled it except for a small coffee table and a bureau, its top crowded with a TV, a small CD player and a lamp. A tiny kitchenette huddled in a corner, jammed with a cube refrigerator, micro, toaster and coffeemaker. I could see into the bedroom, which held two single beds separated by a small table with lamp. I assumed another bureau might be beyond my sight. A tiny bathroom showed a stall shower, steam-coated mirror and a sink about the size of a cereal bowl. The edge of the toilet peeked coyly around the half-open door.

  Nadine kicked the bathroom door closed and pointed toward a figure reclined on one of the couches. The figure wore shorts, a halter and what looked to be a plaster mask, covering her entire face except for a round mouth-circle and two green circles where I hoped her eyes were. "This is Clare."

  "Hi, Clare. I'm Alex."

  "Hi," Clare responded. She tried to smile, but the plaster cracked alarmingly and sent a shower of small fragments onto the pillow. She removed two thick slices of cucumber from her eyes, thereby solving that little mystery, and sat up. "Did somebody really get raped?"

  I said yes, but did not identify Maureen as the victim. I merely said I was interviewing people who had been at the Bitter End and might have seen something helpful. Clare and Nadine tried to be obliging, but had little to offer. No one had tried to join their table. No one showed special interest in any of them. No one had acted strangely. "At least, no stranger than always," Nadine had laughed.

  They more or less confirmed the timeline Maureen had given me, and that was that. By that point, I felt pretty steamy myself and was glad to leave them.

  In the car I put down all the windows and took deep breaths. The thought of three people living in that warren was claustrophobic. If you factored in Maureen, it took on the characteristics of a string quartet
performing in an upper berth.

  Now running late, I picked up Fargo and headed for the cottage. Once there, we went about our chores. He checked out every square inch, looking for Cindy and/or Wells, her young cat, a little black beauty with three white socks and one white spot that looked as if she'd dipped her chin in the milk. According to orders, I took the package of chicken breasts out of the freezer. In a burst of domesticity, I removed the packaging, put the meat in a shallow bowl and splashed some marinade on it.

  I called Sonny and delivered Mary's message regarding the boat trailer. He said "Yeah, yeah, yeah" at the end of it, which irritated me somewhat.

  "Look, Sonny, you begged me to do your dirty work and I did it. Now please at least do what she asks. If you don't, I'm the one who'll pay for it. Wash and dry that damn trailer or don't use it at all!"

  "Oh, hell, Alex, you know I'd wash off the salt water and either dry it or park it in the sun, anyway. I don't need to be lectured like a twelve-year-old. Does she want rental for it, too?"

  "Of course she doesn't, but if you're smart, you'll take her a lovely pot of spring flowers."

  "Oh. Yeah. Okay. Thanks for calling." He rang off and I smiled a very sisterly smile. Sonny prided himself on good manners. It was a real blow when he had to be reminded of something. Fargo and I moved to the backyard, where I dumped some briquettes in the grill and lit it, and Fargo surveyed the scene and then looked at me questioningly. I answered his question. "Cindy will be here soon, and I imagine Wells is up at Aunt Mae's being spoiled." At the mention of Aunt Mae, Fargo looked thoughtfully up the slope toward her house, apparently decided the walk was not worth it and lay down on the grass.

  I sat down in one of the lawn chairs, propped my feet on another and had that first bitingly cold bitter swallow of freshly opened beer, lit cigarette number four and decided life was good.

  It got better shortly. Cindy arrived in a smiling TGIF mood. We made dinner and ate it in the kitchen. A breeze had come up, and it held a leftover spring chill somewhere around the edges. We lingered over coffee and swapped accounts of our day. Cindy was, of course, horrified at the tale of Maureen's rape. I cautioned her to silence and she nodded.

  "I understand. She still needs privacy around this. Although she'd better be prepared for lots of publicity when you catch him."

  I was touched by her faith. "That may not be tonight," I said lightly. "She really hasn't yet come up with much to go on." I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. "Cindy, let me ask you. If you knew you had in some way been drugged and were in the car with a woman who frightened you, and who you were sure had thoughts of raping you or harming you in some manner, would you say later, that with the wind blowing through her hair, she looked like a beautiful pirate?"

  "No." Her answer was quick and firm. "I would not. In an effort to describe her, I would mention the hair color. And I would maybe say she had an attractive face. Or maybe—yes, I'd more likely say she looked like a movie actress, something like that. The beautiful pirate bit sounds too romantic, like she found him thrilling . .. maybe a little scary, but thrilling."

  She stood up and took a small melon from the refrigerator. She cut two slices and turned back to the table. "And there's something else. Who'd be driving this fancy, expensive car with the top down, on a windy and cold, wet night?"

  I stared at her, fork in hand. It made no sense. And Super Sleuth here hadn't thought of it. Then she gave me further reason to wonder which of us was the detective.

  "The two things," she explained, "almost sound as if Maureen is remembering a previous time with him, when she wasn't afraid. When it was a lovely night with the wind in his hair, and his pirate profile didn't frighten her. Maybe the drugs and the trauma have got her mixed up."

  I blew out a deep breath. It made sense. Maybe Maureen really knew the guy and couldn't bring herself to realize it. I'd have to figure out a way to get around that with her.

  Cindy scraped an errant seed off the side of her melon. "Have you any idea where he took her?"

  "Not really. Maureen remembered some steps and a light colored building. Trish thought it might be the old icehouse condos. And it has to be someplace near Ptown or just possibly North Truro. He wouldn't want to be carting her around passed out or have the drug wearing off. There's a big motel over near Pilgrim Heights. And there are plenty of big white houses in town. But motels or B&B's have people around. It sounds as if she could barely walk . . . if that."

  I finished my melon and Cindy picked up the plates. "Most people would probably assume Maureen and her boyfriend were just drunk, if they paid any attention at all. But, Alex, I keep going back to John Frost. Why did they go to him instead of the police? No offense to Sonny, but is there any reason to think the cops would mishandle it?"

  "I can't think of any. They've all had various types of sensitivity training. If there was reason to think Maureen was especially vulnerable, I'm sure Sonny would have had Jeanine handle at least the opening phase of it. She's a good cop and a very warm, caring woman. No, they wouldn't screw up." I got up, too, and poured us some coffee. We both went back to the table and I lit cigarette number .. . could it be six? For shame! Naughty!

  "Uh-huh." Cindy still wasn't happy. "So they probably went to Frost, thinking of suing for some kind of damages?"

  "I assume so."

  "But, Alex, how do they know the rapist has any money to give them?"

  I had no answer for that one. "Just hoping, I guess." It sounded weak.

  Cindy smiled. Then she changed course. "What's your schedule for tomorrow?"

  "Busy, I'm afraid. I need to talk to the bartender at the Bitter End and the doctor who treated her, if he's available."

  She nodded, amicably enough. "I figured something like that.

  Just remember, Lainey and Cassie and Trish and Sonny plus Peter and the Wolf are coming to dinner."

  I silently blessed her for not going into some diatribe about my working on a weekend. "I'm sorry. I'll get finished as fast as I can. What do you need me to do?"

  "Just make sure we have whatever forms of alcohol we may need, plus mixers and ice. I can handle the rest of it. Oh, check the charcoal. Sonny's bringing steaks to go with the lobster."

  "Going first-class, huh? Oh ..." I had a sudden thought. "Uh, where are we eating?"

  She laughed. "The house." I liked this woman. It was never your house or my cottage. It was just the house or the cottage, a quiet statement that we were both at home in both dwellings. "They're due at seven, so please be home in time to sit down and have a quiet drink with me before they get there." She gave me a kiss that promised nice things later.

  And Cindy did not break promises.

  Chapter 7

  By 9:30 Saturday morning, I was underway. I left Cindy, Wells and Fargo comfortably propped up in bed, one of them with a mug of coffee and a rare cigarette. I paused at the bedroom door. "What a lovely, heart-warming scene," I said enviously. "If you'll all stay there while I get my camera, we can make it our Christmas card."

  "It's not our fault you don't know a weekend when you see one," Cindy gushed sweetly. "Go make the town safe for American womanhood." She put her arms around the animals in a Madonnalike pose that totally distracted me from my planned duties. Seeing my expression, Cindy laughed. "Get out. I have to get moving, too, in a minute."

  I got. But I fixed them. On the way to the house, I stopped at the bakery and picked up a walnut and cranberry croissant and a French cruller. Working Pi's need sustenance.

  Pulling in the driveway at the house, I was totally surprised to see Maureen sitting on the back steps, sipping coffee from a paper cup.

  "Well, hello there. Everything all right?"

  "Oh, yes. You see, Mary decided to go along with Trish and Sonny. You know, just to be an extra hand."

  I burst out laughing. Mary's reformation only went so far! Obviously she couldn't bear the thought of someone using her trailer without her presence. She'd be telling Trish and Sonny every move to make all m
orning long. They must be thrilled along about now, and it would only get better.

  Maureen gave me a knowing grin but remained neutral. "Your brother seems very nice," she said. "And so is Trish. They brought Mary a lovely pot of dahlias. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, so I took a chance and came over."

  "You walked all the way over here?" I was surprised. They lived way down in the East End. It would have been quite a hike for her.

  Maureen stood and stretched. She had quite a body. "No." She grinned again, and again I noticed what a pretty young woman she was. "I stole Mary's lorry." She nodded toward the street and I saw the shiny SUV parked under my neighbor's shade tree.

  "I don't imagine she'll mind." I smiled back. Maureen seemed to warrant smiles. "But that reminds me of something I need to ask you. You see, the man who attacked you may have just been an opportunist. What I mean is, let's say he had the drug, and he hung around bars looking for possibilities. There you were ... alone. He dropped it in your drink, and that was it." I propped my foot on the step and leaned my arm across my thigh.

  "On the other hand, he may have known you at least slightly... had sometime previously chatted with you, maybe had danced with you or bought you a drink. He had thought he was making progress. Then he finds out you and Mary are lovers, and he's pissed. He raped you sort of in revenge." I tilted my headed to look at her more closely. "You are lovers aren't you? I know that's technically none of my business, but when a crime is committed, privacy doesn't count for much."

  She dropped her eyes away from mine. "Oh, I don't mind your asking." She looked back up with a tremulous smile. "I can't tell you when I've been so happy. Until this dreadful thing! Mary is awfully good to me, and . . . and she needs a bit of looking after, too, you know." Unsurprisingly, she was blushing. Well, I'd heard of worse reasons for relationships.