by Karen Ranney
"Did the whole neighborhood know?"
He nodded once more.
I studied my glass in the soft light from the kitchen, watching the rainbows sparkling in the crystal. Tom hadn't thought anyone knew, but Tom was an idiot.
I wasn't feeling very much pain at the moment. My lips were numb.
I turned and stared toward Linda's house. I couldn't actually see Linda's house at the moment. In fact, I was having some difficulty seeing Army.
"What's going to happen to all of Linda's African Violets?"
"Frank got them," he said, and made a noise like a groan.
Really, I should have given Army wine way before this. Maybe Tom would benefit by getting drunk. No, Tom never unbent enough to get drunk.
"Another tragedy. How was the funeral?"
"Sad," he said. "She was in poor health, but it was sad, nonetheless."
I nodded with the wisdom of wine.
"She was a victim, too," I said.
“Human nature attempts to find a cause and effect between two dissimilar acts. It’s a function of our brains. Maybe Linda's mortgage has nothing to do with Evelyn's death."
I nodded, accepting that theory temporarily.
“Why do you think Paul was murdered?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.
“An accident?”
“No. He was an excellent welder. He was meticulous, almost fussy, about his art.”
For Army to use that word was a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black.
“Will we ever know for sure?” I poured myself another glass of wine. It was an excellent year.
Now he looked a little doubtful. “Maybe. If the murderer surfaces. But people get away with crimes, even murder, more often than we would like to admit.” He glanced at me. “You don't think very highly of our little murder club, do you?”
His question caught me off guard. I turned my head, once again studying the windows as if I had never seen them. In reality, I was trying to find a way to explain exactly how I felt about his group.
“I consider it ghoulish for someone to be so intent on the death of another human being. But at the same time, I can understand the curiosity they all feel. I've experienced the same about Paul's death. And, like you said, it's a service, I guess. Bottom line, I’m not sure how I feel.”
He nodded and smiled. He had the sweetest smile.
My toes were delightfully warm.
"I still think Dorothy is mixed up in this," I said, hearing myself slur the words just a little. How very odd.
"I think she's to be pitied," Army said.
"You and Talbot think the same. Poor little Dorothy."
When had my lips gotten so thick?
"At work, I'm capable of getting along with dozens and dozens of people. None of them affect me the way Dorothy does.”
“Probably because you don't know the people you work with very well,” he said. "Or maybe because in a work situation everything's more sterile. You have to get along, so you ignore each other's idiosyncrasies.”
“You mean I'm living a double life.”
He smiled, and I had the most absurd wish to lean over and kiss him. Just a gentle little peck on his high forehead.
“I've had to live two lives,” he said. “The person everyone knew me to be during the day, and the private life I lived once I got home. It's only been since I've retired I can be who I truly am.”
“Our murderer is living two lives,” I said, just now realizing it. “He’s looking out at the world from behind his secrets, wondering how much people know, how close he is to being caught.”
Army looked startled at my statement. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
“Do you think we know him? I do.” I stared at my glass, surprised so many revelations were emanating from Tom’s wine. I must remember to tell him the next time I see him.
"Or her," Army said, his look direct and unflinching. "I think we do, too. Most murders are committed by someone in a small circle around the victim. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if one or both of us know this person. And well.”
I sighed. “I hope not. I hate murder. I can’t imagine the hatred it would take to cause another person’s death. To just snuff someone out like that.” I tried to snap my fingers but they weren’t cooperating.
I leaned forward to fill his glass and discovered the bottle was empty. I slipped off my shoes and padded into the butler’s pantry once more, the world pleasantly hazy. Even without my cane, I could have danced as lightly as a sugarplum princess. I twirled experimentally on the wooden floor, giggling at the sensation.
I decided not to test Fate any further and trotted back to the Winter Porch with my bounty, another bottle of Tom’s finest vintage. At least, I thought it was his best – it was in the very back.
I poured myself another glass and topped off Army's.
“What did the neighbors say about Barbara?"
He didn't look the least surprised at the question.
“People talk. They talk mostly about other people.”
I considered his words. “Why? To measure their own lives against other people?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly, but his look was kind. “We measure our own successes and failures against those of strangers and friends. Their marriage fails? We can congratulate ourselves our marriage is still strong. Their son is a delinquent? At least our child is in college.”
“Their daughter dies because of drugs, at least ours didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
“I blame myself for her death,” I said. A confession I've made only to one other person, Evelyn.
He smiled. “Hindsight is always perfect, isn't it? I can’t count the number of times I would've done something over. Perfection is a process, however, and I have not yet donned my angel wings or dusted off my halo.”
He reached over and patted my knee. “You probably feel as if you can't blame Barbara for her own death, so you blame yourself. But the psyche doesn’t like such an ominous burden, so it fights for its survival. Consequently, you’re caught in a half world between anger and sorrow.”
My short burst of laughter was prompted more by amazement than humor. He'd described what I was going through perfectly.
“I thought you were a retired dentist. Not a psychologist.”
“I dabble in the study of humans,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Murder is the study of psychology as much as it is forensics. Why do people kill? What leads a man or woman to take another life? I want to understand the why of it.”
Now, that I could understand.
“Will you be leaving the King Lion District?” he asked, the second person to do so.
I looked around and thought about all the changes the last few weeks had brought. "It's just a house, isn't it? Houses don't have memories. People do." I looked around the porch I'd decorated with help from Southern Living. "I'll remember the good times here and the bad. It doesn't matter where I am, I'll still have the memories."
Instead of feeling vulnerable for exposing all my secrets, I felt remarkably clean, as if I had scoured out my insides.
"I should hate to lose you as a neighbor."
"I'd miss you, too."
Sally raised her head and looked at me, capable in that one instant of communication, it seemed. I met her eyes and smiled and she smiled in return, revealing her lower teeth. A silly dog, one I loved a great deal.
“You should have a pet,” I told Army.
He glanced at Sally and smiled. “Frank is allergic. I have a choice, either a pet or Frank.”
“Have you been together long?”
I decided, since I had exposed so many of my vulnerabilities, a few personal details wouldn't be amiss from him.
“Only about five years,” he said. “After his wife died.” He glanced at me and his eyes twinkled again.
“When you first moved in, I didn't know how to handle it.”
“Did you expect us to have horns and a tail?�
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“I’m not sure what I expected,” I admitted. I leaned back against the cushions. “Perhaps I've led a sheltered life.”
“I doubt you could say that now.”
Wasn't that the truth?
Army stood and placed his glass on the table a little unsteadily.
"I shall have to be very careful crossing the street," he said in that formal manner of his. "I do believe I've had too much to drink."
The two of us had gone through two bottles of wine, so it was a good bet. I was definitely intoxicated.
I saw him to the front door, since I wasn't at all sure he could navigate the bushes. When he waved from the other side of the street - thank God our street isn't heavily traveled - I closed the door.
My phone rang immediately, as if it knew I was done with one bit of socializing and ready for another.
I wasn't ready for Tom.
“How are you, Jennifer?” he said, his voice low and warm and kind.
“Peachy,” I said.
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Have you called just to breathe heavily, Tom? If that’s the case, and this is an obscene phone call, hold on while I get a pen and paper. It’s been so long maybe I should take notes.”
“Have you been drinking?"
"Why, yes, I have. Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?"
"I'll talk to you some other time, Jennifer, when you're coherent."
“When did you get to be such a ponderous old schmuck, Tom?” I leaned up against the wall, pressing the phone hard to my ear so I didn't miss any of his precious words.
He took a very long time answering.
"I called to tell you where I was staying.”
“Is it important I know? If I need to reach you, I can certainly do it through the office. Claire will know where you are."
Silence again.
He named a downtown hotel famous for its ambience and river view. "The firm has a suite there."
I smiled into the phone. At least I had an answer to the logistical question. Where and how he'd had an affair. It surprised me to realize I really didn't want to know any more details.
It just didn't matter.
“I'd like to come by tomorrow and pick up some of my things.”
“Be my guest. Tell me what time and I'll arrange not to be here.”
“In the afternoon, before five.”
“Hot plans?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” I said.
“You're taking this very well.”
“I am, aren't I?” I was also a couple of sheets to the wind. What the hell did that mean, anyway?
“I don't mind if you're there, Jennifer,” he said his voice suddenly sounding tired.
“Then I'll see you tomorrow,” I said, suddenly wishing the call over.
No, I was wishing my marriage over.
28
A long, hot tongue bathed my wrist, fitting in perfectly with the dream I was having.
I knew it wasn’t a cabana boy before I opened my eyes.
Brown eyes stared balefully at me. Slowly, I focused, knowing I had to let Sally out, and quickly. There was a reason she was making that snuffling noise.
"I'm coming," I said as I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Cross your knees for another few minutes."
Damn, and it had been such a good dream.
After I made my way sluggishly to the bathroom I stared at myself in the mirror, with my punk rock hair and my red rimmed eyes, and my frowsy looking nightgown. The sheets had made an imprint on my face that wasn't going away any time soon. My lips looked pale and there were dark circles under my eyes.
I looked like something out of Drunks R Us.
I don't get drunk often and it was a damn good thing.
Maybe it was a blessing Tom was staying in a hotel. I wasn't in the mood for any comments.
I pulled on my comfortable swimsuit, the one hanging in all the right places and snug in others, and grabbed my terrycloth robe and my flip-flops. The last thing I wanted to do this morning was swim, but I resolutely took the back stairs, Sally following.
I let her out first, standing patiently as she circled me in an attempt to herd me into the proper position.
"I am not a sheep," I told her as I did every morning. She has yet to believe me. But I walked slowly in the direction she wanted me to go, stood there as she did her thing, then praised her when it was over.
This morning it was raining leaves. A few of them had entered the hole in the ceiling and I scooped them out of the swim lane before I turned up the heater and got in.
I pretended I was in the middle of the South Pacific, surrounded by sharks. My only hope for survival was to paddle like mad for shore. Halfway through my routine, I would have given myself up to fate, but I managed to ignore my nausea and fatigue and persevered until the hour was done.
The water was delicious, a lot warmer than the air above me. I sank down, lazily treading water since I'd turned the motor off.
I draped myself limply over the side of the pool and thought about remaining there for the rest of the day. Who was to know? I finally convinced myself to get out, putting on my robe over my suit and surreptitiously throwing out the voodoo drink Maude had left me.
Sally circled me as I headed for the stairs, whining excitedly. She wanted to play, but this morning I didn't have the energy to play fetch. I compromised with the belt of my robe once we'd made it to the bedroom. We played tug-of-war for a little while and I let her win, carrying off the belt to my sitting room.
Sometimes, I wish I had a dog's life. Maybe in the depths of Sally's psyche she had worries too. Was there such a thing as canine angst? Am I patrolling enough? Am I loving enough? Why didn't she play tonight? Will she never give me a treat?
I dressed in something warm and comfy, a brown sweater and matching pants. I didn't even look in the mirror again - what was the use?
Even though it was early, I got to my office and signed in, working on a contract that was more boring than complicated. After so many panels and panel fittings, laminated worksurfaces, and brackets, my eyes glazed over.
I found myself staring in the direction of Evelyn's house, admonishing myself that the GSA was paying for me to work, not daydream. The second time, however, I propped my chin on my hand, wishing I knew something different, could do something to solve her murder.
I felt like a failure in a lot of things. There was nothing I could do about Barbara. And nothing I wanted to do about Tom. But Evelyn deserved my best effort.
Dear Evelyn¸ what would she have said about her own death?
Too damn soon, chickie.
And Paul's scam?
I'll hang him up by the balls until he turns blue.
But I heard her hesitation in my mind, my imagination conjuring up her sadness for his perfidy.
I loved the bastard, you know.
What should I do, Evelyn? What do I do now?
Follow the money, Jenn. It's trite, overused, but oh, so true. Follow the money.
I sat up abruptly. Where was the money?
A large cash payout had been made, maybe twice, but where was the money? In Paul's checking account? What if it wasn't?
An oddity about my house: the doorbell rings loudest in the back where my office was. I heard it, twice, before realizing Maude must be on the second floor. I saved my file and stood, grabbing one of my canes.
When I opened the front door, Mrs. Maldonado was halfway down the front steps.
"Mrs. Maldonado?" I said. There, no language barrier so far.
She'd never come to my house before. Never climbed the steps or had the courage to ring the doorbell. Now, she turned at the sound of my voice and looked up, her face contorted by worry.
My first thought was a selfish one. Please don't let her bring me any tidings of death and destruction. I can't take it. My second was: I wish I'd known about her breast cancer, and should I say anything now?
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I opened the door when she reached the porch, said, "Por favor" in my faltering Spanish, inviting her inside.
When I was in high school, I had the chance to take Italian, German, or Spanish. Of course I chose Italian. Now, as Mrs. Maldonado and I stared at each other, I wished I knew more Spanish than I did.
"Mew."
I stared at Mrs. Maldonado. Had she just mewed? Yes, she had, because she did it again.
She rocked her arms against her chest as if supporting a baby and mewed again.
"Your cat?"
She nodded, but not to be outdone, I said, "Mew?"
We don't, as a rule, invite our neighbors into our lives. We might show them our house, but only the public parts. We might tell them of the important things: how many children we have, where we work, what colleges we attended. Now, I realized I hadn't even known the important things about Mrs. Maldonado.
She nodded, then said something in Spanish, none of which I understood.
I mentally flailed, wondering if Mrs. Maldonado would understand any of my Italian. For that matter, did I remember any of my Italian?
"No se, senora." There. A phrase, meaning. I don't know, Mrs. Maldonado. I also knew how to say "what a pity" and "two beers, please". The latter had come in more handy than the former.
Maude suddenly spoke behind me, her Spanish as fluent as mine was fractured. Mrs. Maldonado smiled in relief, nodded, and bobbed her head repeatedly.
I looked from one woman to the other, catching a word here and there. Evidently Pedro, her cat, hadn't come home for his dinner. Anything else was lost in the fog of a different language.
"Her cat is missing," Maude said, coming to my side.
I'd picked up on that, but all I said was, "Thank God you speak Spanish."
"I grew up in Arizona," she said. "It's almost mandatory." Unsaid were the words - just like San Antonio.
Mrs. Maldonado said something else Maude translated.
"He has a kidney problem and is on a special food, and she hasn't seen him all day." Maude looked at me, then back at Mrs. Maldonado. "She lets him out in the morning, but he's always back by noon."
"I haven't seen him," I said. "Tell her I'm sorry."
Maude nodded and conveyed the information to Mrs. Maldonado.
