Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  I could feel her drifting away from me, and terror gripped me. Not now, I thought frantically. Not when I’m falling.

  I kissed her mouth, hard and demanding. Then I let our eyes meet. Read what I can’t bring myself to say, I begged her silently. She lifted a hand to my cheek and nodded almost imperceptibly, as if she could hear my thoughts. I moved her hand so that her palm rested on my lips. Her cool, long fingers smelled of exotic spices. I tasted each one. Then all at once, a cry broke from me and, clinging to her like dew to a petal, I disclosed my own painful memory.

  Afterwards, we held each other, crying and drawing warm, moist lips over all the unhealed wounds.

  My insomnia kicked in that night. After two hours of trying to adjust to K.T.’s still-new contour, I snuck out of bed. The soothing scent of burning wood traveled up to the second-floor landing where I stood. I’d rented this place on a dozen occasions, the first time just two months after Carly and Amy moved into Telham. The owners, two elderly women who refer to each as other as “close companions,” had built the cabin in 1984 as a retreat from New York City’s madness. Now that they’d retired, they spent most of the year in Arizona. They’d approached me about buying the place, but I’m not ready for a steady diet of country solitude. At least, not yet.

  The second floor had three bedrooms, each just large enough to contain a double bed, oak quilt rack and dresser, a wicker rocking chair, and two nightstands. The master bedroom also held an antique pine dry sink with a copper basin. The bedrooms, like the whole house, were cozy and efficient. Downstairs was airier, mostly because of the beamed cathedral ceilings. Besides the living room, dining room and oversized country kitchen, the first floor boasted a large den and a screened-in porch that ran the length of the cabin.

  I headed into the den. The room was littered with the laptop computer, portable printer, modem, and manuals I had dragged along with me. Just in case. The latest issue of P.I. Magazine peeked out of my attaché. I started to browse through it, then stopped abruptly. How had Noreen died? And why the hell did she have to die on my so-called vacation?

  Du bist der malekhamoves.

  Maybe my father was right.

  With a shudder, I flopped into the desk chair and ran over the events of the past two days. Why was Helen so sure someone had killed Noreen? While I didn’t trust Sheriffs Crowell’s investigative skills, his assessment of Noreen’s death as being alcohol-related seemed far more feasible than murder. Except that I hadn’t found any empty bottles in the house. And Noreen had been stone sober when we talked.

  I scrambled into the living room, then dug my pad out from my jacket pocket. With a yellow highlighter, I circled Helen’s name and the word “blackout.” I didn’t like the thought of a murderer roaming around a community in which two of my best friends lived. Especially if the murderer was someone I knew.

  By seven o’clock Monday morning, I had started an official case file on Noreen’s case, complete with a list of everyone who had attended Robert and Allan’s party. Lucky for me, my buddy Carly was always the first one to arrive and the last to leave any party she attended. I called her house and caught her just as she was leaving for work. She cursed me twice in English and at least seven times in Italian. Nevertheless, she spent the next twenty minutes recalling the sequence in which guests had arrived and departed.

  The sun was just beginning to burn away the morning fog, but my adrenaline was already pumping. If I had stopped long enough to analyze my sudden obsession with Noreen’s death I might have realized just how eager I was for a distraction from the pressures of my own life. At the time, though, I felt pretty damn heroic.

  Ten minutes after eight, I was out of the house, leaving K.T. asleep. Assuming, at least temporarily, that Sheriff Crowell was right about the estimated time of death and that Carly’s memory was accurate, I was able to whittle down the names of people I wanted to question. Top on the list were the people who owned the adjoining property on Forest.

  Camilla and Fred DeLuca had moved into the pea-green ranch-style just ten months ago after converting an abandoned railroad station house in Mountainhome into a garden shop. Fred also sold fresh vegetables and herbs to members of the community. Amy had started using him as a supplier for her herbalist business last June. I remembered meeting and liking him, but enjoying his wife about as much as a New York subway in August. At night. I rang their doorbell and waited.

  Camilla greeted me in a outfit that was the sartorial equivalent of uncooked Spam. A pink and green florid muumuu strained around her hard, pregnant belly. Her feet were clad in gray thermal socks that had bunched around her ankles. Curlers dangled haphazardly from her straw-colored mane. She wore a ribbon of hair bleach under her nose and stared at me with dull, startled eyes. Somehow managing not to leap backwards, I introduced myself. It took her a second to remember that we had met each other by the artichoke dip on Saturday night, then she was all smiles. “C’mon in,” she said enthusiastically. “Fred’s fixing the back door screen.”

  I followed her in and wrinkled my nose. I may have two cats of my own back in Brooklyn, but I firmly believe the furry darlings should be seen and not smelled. One of the distinct pluses of a vacation here in Telham was the absence of my sweet darlings’ fur showers and ammonia-scented litter pans. The DeLuca house emitted the acrid odor of uncleaned litter leavened with the slightly sour aroma of cheap cat food. Camilla sat at the knotty pine kitchen table mixing up another batch of hair bleach for God-knows-what body part.

  “By the way,” I remarked with studied calmness. “How well did you and your husband know Noreen Finnegan?”

  She practically spat. “That’s the bitch who’s suing us...” She hesitated. “You aren’t a lawyer, are you?”

  “I’m a private detective. You may not have heard yet, but Noreen died yesterday. I was wondering if you knew anything about the circumstances.”

  Exhilaration flitted over her face. She hid it inexpertly. “Suppose I should say I’m sorry to hear the news. But I’d be lying. You know how much she was suing us for? Because of a little tap on her rear bumper? A quarter of a million dollars! Claims she hurt herself so bad she had to quit her business.”

  I remembered now. From what Noreen had described to me at the community’s annual Halloween party, the accident had been no fender bender. The collision had sent her to the hospital for a week. Afterwards, her back pain was so intense she had to abandon her painting business.

  Camilla’s smile reminded me of the way my cat Geeja looks when she’s stolen food from my plate without my knowing it. “Wait till Fred hears.” She double-checked her watch, then shouted, “Fred!” A drop of bleach splashed off her upper lip and landed on the tabletop. I noticed a few pale stains dotting the pine and had no trouble guessing how they got there.

  Somewhere in the back a door slammed, followed by steady footsteps. Finally, Fred entered the room, tugging his torn jeans up over his belly when he realized there was a guest. His dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he had an unlit cigarette tucked behind his right ear.

  “Hi there,” he said, extending a greasy palm. “Good to see you again.” He glanced down at his blackened paw and smiled shyly. “Oops. I’ve been cleaning my bike. Sorry ’bout that.”

  I shrugged and reached for a napkin. “No problem, Fred.”

  Camilla excitedly muttered an explanation of who I was and why I was there, all the time scraping the bleach off her lip. I noticed Fred found the act about as appealing as I did. “Shoot, Camilla,” he whined. Then he nodded me into the living room. The heads of deer and elk stared at me unrelentingly from two of four walls. I tore through a steamy greenhouse and exited onto the back deck.

  “You do a lot of hunting?” I asked.

  He cocked his head at me and said, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those animal rights fanatics. Well, just for your information, I never shoot anything I won’t eat. And I hardly eat anything I didn’t shoot. Or grow.” He pointed proudly at the greenhouse
. I gathered from his proud grin that he had used the line before. “I got a freezer downstairs with enough venison to last two winters. I betcha you taste a little bit of my stew and you’ll be hankering for the hunt yourself.”

  “I don’t think so, Fred. I never could understand how anyone could kill a defenseless —”

  “Now, why do people always say that? I’m not minding your business, so why should you mind mine?” Fred shook his head. “Honey, let me tell you something, I got no interest in what other people do in their own homes or on their own time. I used to live in Bensonhurst. My next door neighbors could open their window shades and watch me take a whiz. I was a mailman back then, and I’d spend all day trekking from one house to another, people stopping me and asking me to check their mail. Then they’d start whining at me. Where was their refund? Why didn’t so-and-so’s mother send a birthday card? Where was their J.C. Penney catalogs?”

  He removed the cigarette from behind his ear and placed it between his lips, still unlit. “Trying to quit,” he explained, chewing on the filter. “Anyways, I had people up to here.” He poked his forehead. “We moved to the country so’s we can have some quiet, alone time. And if some of that time I spend hunting, I don’t see that it’s causing anyone much harm.” He bent over his mountain bike, spun the front wheel, and said, “Perfect,” then he looked up at me. “So tell me, how’d Noreen die? My guess is she just drank herself to death.” The gleam in his eyes undermined the tone of solemnity he was obviously striving for.

  I evaded his question. Fred didn’t seem to mind. He tut-tutted in the appropriate fashion, but he looked like he wanted to kick his heels together and hoot. “Real shame.”

  “Guess it’s good news for the two of you.”

  He stood up, obviously surprised. “Camilla told you about the lawsuit?” I nodded. “Damn that woman.” Squeezing the front brake as if it were someone’s throat, he said, “Well, sure, it’s good news. Just the legal costs alone could put me out of business. That’s what she wanted to do. You know, that eye for an eye bullshit. My business for hers. Hell, Camilla just got startled by some deer on the road. She hardly touched Noreen’s car. The suit was pure spite. But that doesn’t mean I’m glad she’s dead.”

  I wasn’t convinced. I etched Fred’s name down on my mental list of suspects and, with an exaggerated sarcasm he couldn’t miss, asked, “So you don’t have any idea who might have wanted to kill Noreen?”

  Scratching his nose with the back of his hand, he said, “Who says she was killed? That’s not what I’m hearing.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Obviously, Fred had heard about Noreen’s death before I had ever opened my mouth. Wondering why he had pretended ignorance, I asked, “When did you hear the news?”

  Averting his eyes with a grin I would have found ingratiating under other circumstances, he said, “Man, I can’t lie for shit. Look, I remembered you telling me you’re some kind of private dick. It don’t take a genius to figure out you’re here fishing for suspects.”

  “Who told you about Noreen?”

  “Doug Marks, the coroner. You know he lives just around the corner from here. Ran into him at the gas station last night.”

  I nodded. Marks was the next person I planned to question.

  Fred reiterated the coroner’s abbreviated version of Noreen’s death, which was less than I already knew. I turned to go, then had another thought. “By the way, did you happen to notice whether Noreen was drinking at the party?”

  Fred scratched the skin under his ear and gazed at me quizzically. “Nah. She was too busy stirring up trouble.” After a moment of hesitation, he said, “But maybe I missed something. Hold on and I’ll ask Mil.”

  I followed him into the greenhouse, then stopped. Outside you could taste the aluminum edge of winter in the air but in here, it was the heart of summer. I was surrounded by brilliant foliage, the aroma of roses, lilac, and dill. Sneezing with delight, I bypassed the roses and inspected the herb and vegetable garden. I surreptitiously tore off a mint leaf and nibbled it, then strolled over to a bed of flowers set off by aged railroad ties. Clusters of magnificent indigo-hooded flowers clung to tall stalks bearing lobed, rich green leaves. As I bent closer, I heard a sound behind me.

  Fred had returned, a mop slung over his shoulder in a manner that reminded me of Elmer Fudd out to hunt some “wabbits.” I pointed to the flowers and asked him to identify them.

  He seemed uneasy. “Delphinium . . . or maybe Monkshood. You’d have to ask Mil. That’s her bailiwick. By the by, she says Noreen always seemed drunk. Even when she was sober. All I know is the woman was a damned witch. If someone had to go, personally I’m glad it was her.”

  My next stop was Douglas Marks’ house on Blue Ridge. Still puzzling about Fred, I rang the buzzer.

  “Door’s open,” Douglas shouted from the distance.

  I stepped inside and almost collided with the stuffed, eight-foot grizzly in the entrance. Brooklyn was looking more attractive to me every minute.

  “I’m in the office.”

  I followed his voice, weaving through a room littered with antiques and framed photographs of every size and shape. I paused to admire a spinning wheel whose wood finish had been worn away by time and the delicate touch of someone’s hands.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” Douglas said from the doorway at the other end of the room. He was at least six-two, with the dimples of a cherub and the easy grin of a con man. His coarse, brown hair was pushed back from his forehead in thick waves. As I stared at him, I vaguely remembered being told that Douglas had had a brief stint as a doctor on some daytime soap opera. No wonder. He had the face of a man who could operate with one hand, while stroking a nurse’s back with the other.

  I picked up an ancient mustard-yellow frame bearing a silvery daguerreotype of Confederate soldiers gathered around a grave site. “Family heirloom?” I asked.

  “Hobby. I love historical photographs. It excites me to think that I own an image of someone who no longer exists on this planet.” He gestured into his office. “Please, come in and have a seat.”

  I complied, curious that he had still not asked for my name. I started to explain who I was, but he waved his hand and said, “I know. You’re my temporary neighbor. Close friend of Amy and Carly. You forget. This is a small, tight-knit community. If you sneeze, I’ll know all about it.” He lowered himself onto the scarred oak piano bench positioned in front of an equally scarred rolltop desk.

  My skin felt itchy from his earnest scrutiny. I waited to get back out into the late-fall sun. I squirmed in my seat and said, “You probably know that Noreen Finnegan was an acquaintance of mine.”

  He nodded meaningfully and steepled his hands under his chin. “A tragedy. One of the most dreaded aspects of my job is encountering untimely deaths. The elderly almost always look at peace, somehow at home, in their caskets. But the young . . . their skin looks more plastic.”

  Sweat broke out on my forehead. I couldn’t afford to think of my sister. I shifted my attention to his desktop. A thick book on death-rate statistics in the United States since 1875 rested on a pile of legal pads inscribed with a precise, sharply edged print. Next to that was a model mahogany casket with silk lining. I scanned the spines of books lodged in a cubbyhole off to the right of the desk. His interests ringed from botany to basket-weaving to ballistics. Truly a man of the nineties.

  I tuned back in to Doug’s monologue. He was explaining how he served as both the township’s funeral director and its coroner. “I must confess one of the drawbacks of the job is that I sometimes walk into a party and have difficulty viewing the participants as anything but walking inventory.” His affect was so studied, I again recalled the rumors about his fleeting career as an actor.

  I cut him short. “I forget now...just what soap opera were you on?”

  The question startled him. “Come again?”

  “I’ve heard that you used to be an actor.”

  He laughed, a little too loud.
“A high school performance as Othello. Certainly you’re not interested in my teenage aspirations.” He patted my knee patronizingly, then said, “Let’s get back to the real issue. I suppose you’re curious about the cause of death. Noreen was clearly intoxicated. Her clothes reeked. She apparently cracked her skull upon passing out. A serious injury, certainly, but hardly the cause of death. My ruling is congestive heart failure stemming from alcoholic cardiomyopathy. The bottom line—cardiac arrest.”

  “Did you check the alcohol level in her blood?”

  “Not necessary in this case. You could smell the booze all over her body. We knew she had spent the previous night at a party, and I am personally familiar with her history of alcoholism. The woman was extraordinarily volatile.”

  “So you just guessed at the cause of death?” I said accusingly.

  He gritted his teeth. “You may be surprised to know that even a hick town like this one can have trained professionals. For your information, my ruling was confirmed by a colleague. Maybe you know Dean Flynn?”

  One of the first homeowners in Telham, Dean lived two houses up from Noreen. The two of us had played water volleyball a few times in the community pool. He reminded me of one of my best friends from high school. “Isn’t Dean a gynecologist?” I asked incredulously.

  “He’s a highly esteemed physician. We work at the same hospital.”

  “And neither of you think an autopsy is in order?”

  He looked annoyed. “No. I’ve seen many cases like this. Besides, I knew how much she drank and I know she saw a cardiologist at the hospital a while back. There was no sign of burglary or rape or even assault. Matter of fact, there was absolutely no indication of criminal activity in the home at all. Unless, of course, you deem alcohol abuse to be criminal. Under such circumstances, I had no legal obligation to perform an autopsy—unless the family insisted. And in this case, I was expressly directed to not perform an autopsy.”