Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  “Oops.”

  He smiled and stood up to greet me. “Don’t worry. I don’t trust adults. I’m a kid myself. Despite what my birth certificate says.”

  His palm was rough with some kind of scar tissue and his arms beefy, unlike the rest of him. He had more angles than a quartz crystal. As in the past, I felt momentarily disoriented by his pale blue eyes, a stark contrast to his too-tan skin.

  “Great color,” I said spontaneously.

  His grin was self-deprecating, his teeth dazzling. “Salon bought. So’s the hair color. That’s it. The rest of me is real. Scout’s honor,” he said, flashing me the appropriate hand signal. “Want to go inside? I’m afraid you can already feel the bite of winter coming.”

  I was curious to see the house’s interior, but Dean looked toasty in a wool fisherman’s sweater and maroon corduroys. And a mug of spiced cider was steaming next to the glider.

  “Tell you what—if you can share some of that cider with me, I’d be happy to talk right here.”

  He clapped his hands enthusiastically, looking remarkably like a teenager. “Great. I’ll be right back. Have a seat.”

  The glider was constructed of unstained pressurized wood and had to be at least a decade old. My thighs rested comfortably in grooves worn down by years of use. I began rocking back and forth, the afternoon sun baking my forehead and cheeks.

  “Now, there’s a woman at peace.” His voice startled me. So did his words. Strangely, I did feel relaxed. I accepted the mug of cider with a small nod. The liquid was perfectly spiced, and I told him so.

  “The mulled cider’s a specialty of Maggie’s. You’ve never met her, have you?” he asked, his tone darkening. “Unfortunately, she’s not here to accept your praise.” All at once, his face crowded with lines, aging before me like the portrait of Dorian Gray.

  Hesitantly I asked, “Where is she?”

  “Wish I knew.” He shook his head and made a halfhearted attempt at a grin. “But that’s not why you’re here. I saw Dougie last night. He told me about your concerns. So how can I help?”

  The steam from the cider was beading on my upper lip and nostrils. It felt wonderful. “First of all, please tell me you haven’t bought into Crowell’s lame investigation.”

  “The man’s an incompetent,” he said sympathetically. “No doubt about that. But I’m going have to disappoint you about the cause of death. I concur absolutely with Doug. Noreen was a drunk. All indicators point in one direction. She overindulged, passed out and cracked her skull.”

  I frowned. Didn’t anyone but me wonder why an active drunk had failed to have a single bottle of booze in her home? “I still don’t understand why an autopsy wasn’t performed.”

  Dean pursed his lips, barely hiding a trace of annoyance. “We didn’t need an autopsy to identify cause of death. I happened to catch Doug at the hospital when he was examining the body. We both knew about Noreen’s alcoholism. You couldn’t live in Telham and not know. Doug had a hunch and he contacted the physician Noreen used in Philly, before she moved up here. He had noted an early stage of alcoholic cardiomyopathy, with increased wall thickness but normal diastolic internal diameter.”

  I liked Dean, but I wasn’t crazy about doctors and right now he was more doctor than human. “Can you explain that in lay terms?” I asked impatiently. The cider was gone and the conversation was chilling me.

  He smiled indulgently and checked my mug. “Sure, but first let me refill that for you.” The man was a mind reader.

  “Thanks. Mind if I follow you in?”

  After a second of hesitation, he said, “No. But remember, Maggie’s not around and, frankly, I’m not a great housekeeper.”

  He led me into a foyer filled with potted trees and hanging plants. A European-style kitchen was at the far end. High-tech kitchen accoutrements included a microwave that had more dials and buttons than a cockpit. The room was pristine white, with flashes of hunter green and peach. Dean’s housekeeping apologies were unnecessary. The place was immaculate.

  “Sorry about the cold medical terminology. It’s an occupational hazard,” he explained as he ladled cider from a Crock Pot. There was enough cider for a family of eight.

  “Dean, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you—do you have kids?”

  He winced sharply, sloshing cider over the side of the mug and onto my hands. “Christ. Sorry about that.” He turned on the cold-water faucet and held my hand under the spray. The pain hadn’t hit yet, but I knew it would. “This will help take the sting out,” he said soothingly.

  Standing this close, I could smell his cologne, an odor not unlike fresh-turned soil. Heat radiated from his skin. We were the same height, and right now we were practically cheek to cheek. My instincts went up. Sexual pheromones were in the air, and they sure as hell weren’t mine.

  “You have incredible green eyes. They’re almost jade.” His lips were so close, I could feel his breath on my face. With my free hand I turned off the faucet.

  “Thanks, Dean. For the water and the compliment.

  He leaned back. “That sounded like a come-on, didn’t it? Sorry for the eighteenth time. I’m really a jerk. C’mon into the living room. I promise I’ll be halfway decent.”

  A shiver of anxiety came and went. I followed his lead into an expansive living room with a Palladian window facing the road and a massive casement window on the other side overlooking the Acee River. The teak furniture was Scandinavian modern, and showroom perfect, down to the undefiled medical journals, electronics periodicals and gardening magazines fanned out on the low coffee table. I crossed to the stone fireplace that extended at least sixteen feet upwards, ending just before the peak of the cathedral ceiling.

  The ceiling fan was one of those that not only blew and sucked air, but did so at ten different speeds, with lights that flashed on when they sensed movement and dimmed when the room was still. A few feet to the left of the fireplace was an eight-foot-long entertainment unit that housed a flat-screen television, hi-fi stereo, laserdisk, CD carousel, and videotape editing console. Someone in the house was obviously an electronics freak.

  Standing before the low-burning fire, I held my undamaged hand toward the flames, then after a moment turned and asked, “Where is Maggie?” If she really was the housekeeper, she couldn’t have been gone very long. Even the slate mantel was free of dust.

  He dropped into a tan leather coach, crossed his legs and stared at me. I had the sense that he was sizing me up, calculating his next words. “You have a knack for identifying sore spots.”

  “I guess it’s my turn to apologize.”

  “Not at all. You’re a detective. I imagine you’re very good at what you do. As a professional, I can respect that.”

  Okay, enough with the cat-and-mouse game. I sat across from him. “What’s up, Dean?” My tone was unmistakable. Time for business.

  He adjusted his posture and I knew my message had penetrated. “My wife disappeared Sunday morning. I talked to Crowell about it, but he said there was nothing he could do until she had been gone at least forty-eight hours. Well, she’s been gone two days, and now he’s telling me ‘there ain’t much to do but wait.’ I don’t want to wait. I want my wife back.” He sighed, then smiled sheepishly. “As you may have guessed, I’m not my best when she’s not around.”

  I was barely listening. The coincidence was unnerving. Why hadn’t anyone noticed?

  Without thinking, I blurted, “Has Crowell even bothered to search the grounds?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

  Dean recovered quickly. “No. He didn’t think it was necessary.” He stood up and paced over to the casement window, hands in his pockets. “Maybe I should give you some background. Maggie and I have been going through some...rough times. We’ve wanted a child for so long.” He turned and faced me with red eyes and pale lips. “Ironic, huh, for a specialist in OB-GYN. I’ve delivered hundreds of children, for fathers far less qualified than me, but—”

  H
e cut himself off, as if startled by his words. Scratching behind his ear, he continued in a quiet voice, “Maggie’s had two miscarriages. The last one happened just three weeks ago. We were devastated. You don’t know...well, maybe I shouldn’t say that... Do you have children?”

  For some reason, the question unnerved me. I shook my head and felt myself tightening up. I’ve never been at ease around children, maybe because I was cheated of my own childhood. Their innocence, their sheer delight in discovering life, always startled me. My hands began tingling and I rubbed them vigorously over my knees.

  “Maggie’s been so depressed. I’ve tried to comfort her, arranged for a colleague to counsel her, but she is inconsolable. But I guess I didn’t fully understand what was happening with her. Saturday night I had a delivery at the hospital. Afterwards, I crashed in the physician’s lounge. When I came home Sunday morning, the first thing I noticed was that her car was gone. I thought she was just out running errands. But then I checked the closets. Her suitcases were gone. And so were mine. No note, no explanation.”

  Dean squatted in front of the flagstone hearth and stoked the fire with a brass poker. The embers burst into flames. “I don’t know what to do. For a man of action, that may be the hardest part,” he said, sounding exasperated. He tossed another log onto the fire.

  “Has she ever done this before?” I asked. Despite his explanation, the timing of Maggie’s disappearance disturbed me.

  “Never. She wouldn’t even go to the local supermarket without leaving me a note.” Wearing blackened fire gloves, he expertly rearranged the logs till the flames were licking the outside of the stones. A rush of heat swept toward me.

  “Does she have any special friends, relatives, who she confides in regularly?”

  He tossed the gloves on top of the wood ring and looked at me with concern. “Sure. Noreen Finnegan. The two of them were as thick as thieves.”

  My first reaction was anger. “Damn it, Dean. Don’t you think that’s mighty coincidental?”

  The poor man looked startled at my outburst. I counted to five, then started over. “Does Crowell know about their relationship?”

  His jaw muscles rippled. “Friendship. Not relationship.” He stamped over to where I was sitting and eyed me with irritation. “I didn’t say they were involved. My wife and I are in love.”

  Fine. I nodded meekly. Anything you say, Dean.

  “And, no,” he continued. “I didn’t tell Crowell that my wife’s new best friend happens to be the meanest dyke in eastern Pennsylvania. The man’s a phenomenal bigot with the reasoning capacity of a Neanderthal. With that kind of information, I’d get a shit-eating grin and a pat on the back. I can hear him now. ‘Well, buddy boy, I guess Maggie’s found herself greener pastures to chew.’ No. I didn’t tell him.”

  He had worked himself into a rage that seemed to drain from him as rapidly as it had erupted. Now, he sat down next to me and shook his head. “Again, I apologize. I’m just on edge. What makes it worse is that Thanksgiving is just a few days away. My wife’s gone and I can’t do anything. I’m on call this whole week. I have seven patients on the edge of labor, and the grand pleasure of informing another woman that she has cervical cancer.” His thick fingers rubbed his temples with unbridled anxiety. “Man. I’m going nuts.”

  Suddenly, he spun towards me. “Can I hire you? I mean, you do that sort of thing, don’t you? Missing persons? Money’s no object.”

  He rambled on while my internal alarm buzzed wildly. My instincts told me that Maggie’s disappearance and Noreen’s death were connected in some way. Taking Dean’s case would provide me with an official reason — and finances — for pursuing the investigation. With a silent groan, I realized I probably would have to contact the National Locator service again. My ear was still bruised from yesterday’s phone call.

  I explained my fees and shook hands with him. “I’ll get started right away. But I’ll need help from you. Pictures of Maggie. Access to her records, driver’s license number, Social Security number, credit card numbers, any information you have.”

  Dean was nodding eagerly. Too eagerly. I don’t like overly optimistic clients. The higher their hopes soared, the harder they crashed. Gesturing for emphasis, I said, “You have to understand, Dean, I can’t make promises. I may not find her, and if I do, you may not like what I find.”

  “Fine, I understand. Just do your best.”

  I wasn’t sure he did understand, but I continued anyway. “When did Noreen and Maggie first become friendly?”

  He looked away. “Late spring, I guess, before Noreen and Helen bought the house. The two of them had been checking the community out for a few months. As you know, there aren’t many places like Telham.” He hesitated. “We’re pretty liberal. Anyway, Maggie met up with them one day at the clubhouse while they were checking out the listings. She told them a neighbor of ours might be interested in selling his house. Two weeks later, they went to contract. Noreen and Maggie hit it off right away, God knows why.”

  “Any idea about what they had in common?”

  A finger traced the scar on his right palm. Lost in memory, he hadn’t heard my question. I repeated it and watched him flush. “Oh yeah. Drinking. Maggie has a little problem with alcohol. The one thing I can say about Noreen is that she helped Maggie recognize her disease. The two of them started AA together.”

  My interest piqued, I asked, “Do you know where the meetings were held?”

  He pointed a finger and said, “Hold on a minute.”

  As soon as he exited I jumped up, a burning sensation running along the back of my right thigh—a worrisome signal that my sciatica was about to pay me a visit. I cursed under my breath, then shifted into high-snoop mode. An array of photographs was artfully displayed in a hutch situated in the hallway leading back to the kitchen. I hobbled over, the pain dissipating slowly.

  The centerpiece was an elaborate wedding picture. Shot in a full-bloom rose garden, the picture showed a much younger and less polished Dean, his hair mousy brown instead of its current warm chestnut. He was at least fifty pounds heavier. The most remarkable features were his proud smile and piercing blue eyes. Seeing Dean now, and then viewing the photograph, was like seeing the lump of granite from which a fine sculpture had been carved.

  Next to him was an average-looking woman whose heart-shaped face bowed toward the camera shyly. Her hair was coal black and gathered into a French knot braided with yellow baby roses. I leaned forward, struck by the look in her eyes. They had the beseeching gaze of a puppy caged in a pound. She was young. Younger than Dean by a fair number of years.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Dean stood at the end of the hall with an armload of papers. “I hate to admit it, but she’s the spitting image of my mother. You know the song, ‘I want a gal just like the gal that married dear old dad.’ Guess that could be my theme song. But, then, you probably feel the same way.”

  The thought of settling down with anyone who bore so much as a vague resemblance to either of my parents was downright repugnant, yet I somehow managed to smile politely. I took a quick glance at the rest of the pictures, most of which seemed like childhood photographs. Of the many baby pictures, only a few were of Maggie or Dean.

  “Whose kids?” I asked, following him into the kitchen.

  He smiled broadly. “Mine.” Then he shrugged. “Kind of. They’re children I delivered.” His face darkened. Another nerve hit. I was batting them home today.

  Dean slipped the papers into a plastic bag from McDaniels, the local grocery store. “I pulled together a few things for you to review, plus this,” he said, handing me a plain address book. “It’s Maggie’s old one. Noreen gave her a new one for her last birthday. On the back page she’s listed all the local AA meetings.”

  Most of the meetings were at the Unitarian church on Route 390. The hours surprised me. The first one started at six in the morning, and the last ended at midnight. I flipped through the pages, noticing an unusual number of f
irst-name-only entries. Under the L, I found “Lisa” written in block letters, the name starred and accompanied by three different numbers. I had a hunch that “Lisa” was Maggie’s sponsor. I dropped the book into the bag. “Thanks.”

  Dean grabbed my hand. “One last thing,” he said, his voice edgy with emotion. “After this last miscarriage, we discovered pregnancy’s out for us. She can’t carry.” His eyes filled. “We decided to adopt. One of my patients is fourteen years old and due any day now. Just yesterday she decided to put the child up for adoption. But I know she won’t turn the baby over to me if Maggie’s not here. I’m not even sure I’d want the baby without my wife by my side. Please find her. I need her.”

  He was squeezing my hand so hard it almost hurt.

  “I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”

  There were times when I hated my job.

  The sun was resting on the treetops by the time I returned to the cabin. K.T. was still gone, but I felt my heart do a little kick at the thought of her return. Then I remembered how tortured Dean had looked. Love was a dangerous emotion. A tremor passed through me.

  Sitting in the den downstairs, I leafed through the papers and pulled Maggie’s credit card and Social Security numbers. Back in Brooklyn, Jill Zimmerman would need them to start a skip trace. I lugged in my modem and laptop, ran off a standard contract, typed in my notes, and transmitted the whole file to her. Some holiday, I thought. My therapist would be so proud.

  While I was on-line, I decided to sort through my notes on Noreen. As much as I hated to admit it, I was still kicking at the starting gate. Her death could really be accidental, for all I knew. I scrolled through the file and halted at the word cardiomyopathy. The term had never been fully explained. Flynn’s line was busy, so I resorted to my own personal expert.

  Beth Morris and Dinah Zahavi, my housemates back in Park Slope, not only serve as step-parents to my cats Geeja and Mallomar, but also as my personal nurse and therapist. Beth is so thin, a stiff wind could easily transform her into a kite. She has spiky blonde hair, an even disposition, and a fondness for corny show tunes. She is also a highly qualified nurse. I know her schedule as well as my own. At three o’clock on Tuesday, she was probably in her office at the Methodist Clinic. I dialed the number from memory.