Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  “And how are you?” he asked. He put his arms around me, and kissed me. His tongue tasted like wine.

  “I missed you today.”

  Joel moved a hand up under my black sweatshirt. “I missed you, too.”

  With a quick flick of his wrist, Joel executed the singularly male maneuver that disengages a bra in the space of a second.

  He kissed my ear. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “And this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about that?” He was smiling, watching my face. “Better without the clothes, don’t you think?”

  I did, but I was too breathless to say so.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  Joel has a way of getting a woman out of a pair of tight jeans that is impressive unless I dwell on how this method was developed. I was cold without my sweatshirt and blue jeans, and he pulled the blanket up around my shoulders. I noticed the firelight reflected in the wood floors, the living room dark save the flicker of flame. It was as simple as that, a certain man pulling a blanket up over my shoulders because he worried that I was cold. Happiness, I mean.

  Joel held me close to his chest, running his fingers up and down the inside of my thighs, kissing the side of my neck, sucking my lower lip into his mouth. I closed my eyes and relaxed against him and was acutely aware when his muscles tensed, and he went very still. I opened my eyes. Joel’s face was a fingertip away from mine and he was looking at me in a way that was more speculative than loverlike.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “What you just said, a little while ago. When we were talking about the possibility that Cheryl’s murder has something more to it than an intern being seduced and discarded. You said the family viewpoint would support that angle.”

  He settled away from me, lying on his side. I pulled back from him, propped myself against the wall and wadded my sweatshirt onto my lap.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. I’ve spoken to Paul Brady and saw his daughter, Miranda, today. They want to finance their own investigation. I think the main point is to ease their mind, so that they know they did everything they could. Get an independent opinion about what happened to Cheryl.”

  “And you turned them down.” Joel was so still as he watched, as if my decision answered a question he didn’t want to ask.

  “I took the case.”

  He looked away from me and exhaled sharply. Then he stood up and reached for his pants and shirt, dressing methodically, wordlessly.

  “I’ll sleep at home tonight,” he said.

  “Does that mean here or the loft?”

  “The loft.”

  He was just as aware as I was that a new bed had been delivered and assembled yesterday afternoon, and that we had planned to sleep in it for the first time tonight.

  “You don’t want to discuss this?” I asked him.

  He glanced down at me, hands working deftly to knot his tie. “If you’d wanted to talk about it, I assume you’d have brought it up before you took the case.”

  “Joel—”

  “Have you accepted a fee?”

  “A retainer. Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five hundred.”

  “I hope it’s worth it.”

  Joel never got angry with me—even when I got angry with him. His calmness diffused things between us; kept us running on an even keel. I’d never understood how he could be so even tempered and gentle with me. I’d even wondered if it meant he was emotionally lazy or something ridiculous like that. Leave it to me to make a good thing questionable.

  But he was angry now.

  “So what, Joel, you’re just going to leave?”

  He started picking up the boxes of Pad Thai, gathering up the two wineglasses.

  “Stop cleaning up, dammit, and talk to me.”

  Joel paused, but did not look at me. He set the glasses and garbage down very gently on the floor and headed toward the door.

  “If you’re going to go to the trouble of putting your tie back on for the drive home, why don’t you tighten it up a little and choke yourself with it?”

  Joel closed the front door and made a point to turn the key in the lock.

  I could not believe he was going to walk out like this, and my hands were shaking, my stomach full of butterflies. I didn’t mind arguing things out, but I can’t stand it when a man walks off and won’t deal with things. I hate uncertainty. I want confrontation and closure.

  I grabbed the front door and twisted the doorknob. “I don’t need you to lock me in, Joel. If you’re leaving, just go.”

  I knew he was standing right outside the door. Come in here, I thought. Come back and talk to me.

  “I’m tired, Lena. I need to go home and get some sleep.”

  “Fine then, go.”

  I heard footsteps on the sidewalk, a car engine catch, the grind of tires on the drive.

  Would he really be able to sleep? Could he just set this aside and go on with his routine, because I knew that I’d spend the next ten hours agonizing and punching my pillow.

  At least now I knew what made him mad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I woke up early the next morning with a tight feeling in my eyes and throat. Maynard was asleep at the foot of the bed, and he opened his eyes to slits, stretched and yawned widely and rolled over on his back. It was still dark outside, but going grayish. The phone hadn’t woken me, so Joel hadn’t called. Time to get up and go to work.

  But first I was going to have a long soak in the tub.

  There wasn’t any bubble bath, and there was only one towel and it was one of Joel’s old ones—a dingy sky blue. I turned on the faucet, wound my hair up in a clip, and padded downstairs after Maynard, trying to remember if Joel had brought cat food.

  He hadn’t. I looked down at the cat who looked up at me. “Ummm,” I said. And then I remembered the potato chips—my cat, like me, had bad eating habits.

  I gave them to him whole so he could bat them around and kill them before he ate them alive. I peeled a Styrofoam cup down to about an inch high, filled it with water, and set it down on the floor. A large, curled chip skated past my toe and stopped just under the overhang of the cabinet next to the stove. I turned and headed back upstairs.

  It is amazing how deep a claw-foot tub is. The water level rose slowly. If I’d turned the faucets on just before I went to bed last night, I’d have a bath ready right about now. I climbed in, winced and added a little more cold water to the mix. I leaned into the back of the tub and sighed. My legs floated free and I slid and would have gone under if the water level had been higher. The tub was too long.

  I wondered what Joel would have said if I’d told him about taking Miranda out to look at Cheryl’s car. I wondered about Miranda, thinking that I had made McFee and myself vulnerable to the discretion of a twenty-year-old girl I had known for less than twenty-four hours. Of course, if she was less than discreet, we could deny everything.

  The water finally reached the halfway mark, and I added more hot to the mix. There is nothing that matches the embrace of a hot bath as it leaches the tension out of your body. But it was hard to relax when I had to hang on to the edges of the tub to keep my head above water. I turned sideways—cramped, but I could rest my head with no fear of drowning.

  I rested my forehead on my knees and tears leaked down the sides of my cheeks. I could spend my life in the bathtub, alone, because Joel would never speak to me again. I missed my cup of coffee. Every morning Joel made coffee and brought me a cup. I wondered if he would ever bring me a cup of coffee again. Maybe he would be taking a cup of coffee to some other woman, one of those women who say, I don’t know, I have to ask my husband first.

  On the other hand, if Joel wanted to spend his life with a woman like that, best to know early. He didn’t know about the warehouse, and he’d still gotten furious and refused to talk and made me feel like my paycheck was the equivalent of thirteen gold coins.
Unreasonable and unfair. It didn’t show respect for my work or my judgment; it didn’t show respect for me. Was this Joel’s way of getting out of the deal? Had he changed his mind about buying a house with me? Maybe he’d gotten cold feet.

  Maybe I should turn the water off before I caused a flood.

  The door to the bathroom opened abruptly and I looked up, startled, to see Joel hesitating in the doorway. He knelt down by the side of the tub, and put his arms tightly around me, getting his suit, tie, and shirt wet.

  “Are you crying?” he said.

  “No.”

  “You lie.”

  Joel had gotten his tie off, as well as his shoes, and I was wrapped in a towel that he was peeling away while kissing the back of my neck when the doorbell rang.

  “Ignore it,” I said.

  The bell rang again.

  “I’ll get it,” he said. I tossed the wadded towel to the end of the bed and got back under the covers. Unlike Joel, I didn’t have to worry about being late for work.

  I heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and precise. “Lena?” Joel stood in the doorway, hanging back. His face looked closed and he seemed miles away again. “Miranda Brady is here to see you.”

  “What?”

  “Mir—”

  “I heard you, I just don’t believe you. It’s … what time is it, Joel?”

  “Seven-forty.”

  “What in the hell is she doing here at seven-forty?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I will, dammit.”

  I pulled on jeans and a sweater over my damp skin, and ran barefoot down the stairs. Miranda wasn’t in the doorway. No doubt Joel had invited her into the living room, though it seemed pointless, as there were no chairs. But Miranda wasn’t in the living room, she was in the kitchen staring out the back window in the little dining nook.

  “Miranda?”

  She paused for a long moment before turning around, as if too absorbed in my soggy backyard to register my voice.

  “Has something happened?”

  She smiled and extended her hand. “I stopped by to give you the key to Cheryl’s apartment. I talked to Daddy last night and he asked me if I’d remembered to give it to you.” She paused, registering my lack of makeup, no bra beneath my sweater, bare feet, and the curling damp edges of my hair. “Did I come by too early?”

  I didn’t answer, just took the key. Miranda was clearly one of those unfortunate and annoying people whose timing and social skills could use some fine-tuning. I saw no sign of the stunned girl who had left my house late yesterday. Miranda looked well rested, and wore low-rise khakis and the same clogs. No backpack today.

  “Daddy wanted me to give you this, too.” She handed me a folded slip of paper. “It’s just a note that says we authorize you to be in the apartment. Daddy didn’t really sign it, he had me do that.”

  “Thanks. Ask your father to give me a call, will you?”

  She smiled brightly. “Sure.”

  I studied her. “And nothing’s happened? You haven’t thought of anything else you want to tell me? You’re okay after … yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I am really. I’m sorry, I—” She looked over my shoulder and I turned my head and saw Joel in the doorway.

  “Lena, I’m headed out.” Joel’s voice was leaden.

  “Don’t you want some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it at the office.”

  “Detective?” Miranda said.

  She didn’t look surprised to see Joel. My theory had been correct; I’d been hired because of my relationship with Joel. I didn’t even want to think what he’d say if he figured that out. He wouldn’t hear it from me.

  Miranda was twisting the end of her shirt and looking up at Joel. “Since you’re here, I mean, is there anything new on Cheryl?”

  “No, Ms. Brady. If there was, I’d have called you.”

  Miranda watched him like a crow tracks a shiny object. “Well, I guess two heads are better than one.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to look at Joel after that comment, and I decided to keep Miranda and Joel apart for the duration of the investigation. I also decided that I needed an office out of the house, and wondered if I could possibly afford it. On the other hand, I didn’t think I could afford not to have one.

  Joel nodded at her. “Good-bye, Ms. Brady. Lena.”

  “Stay in touch,” Miranda said.

  She was not at her most charming this morning, but I recognized the tendency for someone in her position—a position of helplessness and frustration—to try to exercise some kind of control. Joel didn’t kiss me good-bye, and I didn’t blame him.

  “I’m having coffee, Miranda, would you like some?”

  “I’d like to stay, but I’ve got to go to work. Sorry, that’s why I’m here so early. I’m already late.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Michael’s Sporting Goods, off Man-of-War. We’re taking inventory, and I’m supposed to be there at seven-thirty.”

  “Thanks for coming by, Miranda.”

  “Sure. I like your backyard.”

  “I do, too.”

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. I figured it was that or let her roam the house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cheryl Dunkirk’s apartment was on Euclid, a red brick fourplex set between bungalow houses built in the twenties and thirties. Some of the houses were residential, but most of the ones facing Euclid were offices or small shops. I knew the police had gone through everything in great detail, but I always like to see for myself.

  Certainly there was more to Cheryl Dunkirk than her love life. She was an ATF intern, she had ambition, she had goals, she had opinions that were loud and clear. On the other hand, when a woman disappears or turns up dead, more often than not there’s a sexual connotation to the crime, which is usually committed by someone in her life: a lover, a husband, an ex. Reality 101.

  I parked the Miata and made my way up the stained concrete steps, wondering why Cheryl lived in Lexington and not Richmond, where she went to school. I’d ask Miranda next time we talked. Better still, I’d ask Paul Brady.

  Cheryl lived on the second floor, and I followed the concrete walkway around to the back of the building. Two guys in sweats and heavy trainers were playing an intense game under the hoops, the basketball mud-streaked from pounding the wet, grimy pavement. As soon as I opened Cheryl Dunkirk’s door, they stopped and looked up. I waved and went inside.

  No doubt the rent was cheap. The apartment had the basic layout: living room, with the regulation worn mushroom-colored carpet; an opening into a small kitchen—stove, refrigerator, no dishwasher; two bi-fold doors separated the washer and dryer from the hallway between the bedroom and the kitchen. On the other side of the living room, a small hall, with the bedroom on the left and the bathroom on the right.

  I smiled just a little. Cheryl and I were kindred spirits.

  To the untrained eye, the eye of one who is not a connoisseur of disorder, the living room would be shrugged off under the classification mess. Those who are compulsively neat are too distracted by panic to see a mess for what it is, or what it can be. Being disorderly myself meant that I was not blinded by conventional opinions.

  It was clear that Cheryl enjoyed her mess. The result was not so much a sloppy lifestyle as a personal expression of comfort. It was likely Cheryl’s pretense that the disorder was unconscious. But for those of us who are appreciative of the art, Cheryl’s mess was as studied and intricate as calculus, and inhabited space as boldly as red lipstick on a white ceramic mug. Her disorder had logic that would be difficult for anyone other than Cheryl to replicate.

  My number one observation: Cheryl’s state of disorder pushed others away, keeping them at the edges of intimacy, where they would fall or stick according to their nature, level of stubbornness, and sheer ability to endure. She had obvious standards. Garbage and old food were a violation of this unnatural o
rder, and I would not expect to see either unless Cheryl was feeling particularly outrageous, generally hostile, or purposely trying to annoy someone, or possibly just very short of time. Cheryl’s priority in life was her work, made clear by the stacks of manuals on the floor, the neat piles of notes, the computer that was only lightly layered with dust and completely absent of clutter. The web of wires that come with technology were not disguised or hidden; judging from the proliferation of this intricately entwined population, the cords and plugs seemed “in your face” enough to be downright celebrated. There were ATF manuals, and several books on forensics and crime scene investigation, all with an EKU bookstore sticker on the spine. Textbooks.

  An open phone book, one of my personal cluttering favorites, was facedown on the floor no more than eighteen inches from the front door. I picked it up, gratified to find it open to a list of pizza places. I was liking Cheryl now; she was no longer in the category of good-looking and vulnerable young victim. She was real.

  An EKU sweatshirt hung over a lampshade, an arrangement that was perfectly safe as there was no bulb in the socket. My guess was that the shirt was a reminder for Cheryl to pick up lightbulbs the next time she was out.

  A second stack of books, including the Revised Legal Statutes of Kentucky, were piled just left of center of the computer where they were visible, ready to hand, and in no danger of being toppled. Location, location, location.

  An absolutely mad disarray of opened, half-folded, and occasionally wadded and smudgy newspapers seemed to be a useful and inexpensive way to fill a corner. Magazines added a welcome touch of color—Vogue, The Economist, and two law enforcement journals. Clearly, Cheryl was a well-dressed conservative.

  Coffee mugs (inevitable) were placed around the room with a harmonious randomness that smacked of feng shui. All of them were stained but drained. Bills, paid and unpaid, were filed beneath the top book in the tallest pile. The danger, and I know this from personal experience, is that this bill paying system frequently goes awry if additional books are added to the top of the pile. But the book stack method is at least as effective as the drawer toss of a more orderly soul.