Love Nest

by Andrew Coburn

  Rollins glanced behind him.

  “I’ll take it,” she said and relieved him of the empty glass before he could place it on the imposing book cabinet of carved cherry, somebody’s heirloom she had paid top dollar for at a Beacon Street auction in Boston. “Every business has its problems.”

  “That’s what I told him. Right, William?”

  “Words to that effect,” Rollins murmured.

  She peered at him and said, “Do you want another drink, one for the road?”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “Wise of you to know that,” Alfred Bauer said. “Harriet will see you to the door.”

  They did not speak until they reached the foyer, where Rollins placed himself impassively under the chandelier, adjusted his spectacles, and fixed his scarf. Harriet Bauer freed the bolt in the lock and gripped the doorknob without turning it. Her smile, planted inches from his face, revealed her gums.

  He said, “You smell like a gymnasium.”

  “Does that offend you?”

  “You know it doesn’t.”

  “Are we sparring?”

  “Don’t we always?”

  “Are you making a pass?”

  “Hardly,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It would amuse you.”

  “No,” she said, “it would amuse Alfred. You’re such a neat package of a man, William. Quite unreadable when you want to be. Are you an alcoholic?”

  He shook his head.

  “Good. That would have worried us. Are you queer?”

  He gathered himself to reply but then did not bother.

  “I didn’t think so, but Alfred wondered.”

  “Then why didn’t he ask me?”

  “Some things I do better.” She opened the door and cold air barged in. A wind had kicked up and sounded like church voices swelling into a hymn. She said, “You’re taking this very well. I know in my bones Melody meant something to you. I’m bothered I don’t know how much.”

  “Who killed her?” he asked quietly.

  “That’s the big question.” They each listened to a stampede of leaves. “Let’s hope it wasn’t one of us.”

  He stepped past her, braced his shoulders, and glanced back. Her smile was faint.

  “Someone must tell Rita,” she said.

  The name chilled him.

  “You do it,” she said.

  He started to speak, but the door closed on him.

  • • •

  The ambulance attendants shuffled in, bundled the body in a red rubber bag, and carted it away on a litter. With his back to the empty bed, Sergeant Dawson telephoned Chief Chute at his home and apprised him of events. The chief, who had dozed off while watching television, said, “Take it slow, Sonny. I’m not all that alert yet. Tell me again about the tip.”

  “Dispatcher said it was a muffled voice, could’ve been male or female or even a kid’s. All it said was somebody was dead at the Silver Bell, room forty-six. A cruiser in the vicinity got there in minutes.”

  “We got the voice on tape?”

  “Yes,” Dawson said. “Billy has taken pictures and is still dusting, and later he’s going to vacuum. I’ve got guys checking the other units, but it seems nobody saw or heard anything. Most of the units on this side are unoccupied.”

  “Tell me about the victim.”

  “The body was lying unclothed on the bed. Somebody with strength had worked her over. Her face was messed up, but I recognized it. She wasn’t local.”

  “Thank God for that. So who was she?”

  Dawson had wrapped the telephone cord around his wrist. Meticulously he freed it. “Melody,” he said, and there was a sizable pause from Chief Chute.

  “Sonny, I’m sorry.”

  “Everybody used her, absolutely everybody.” Rapidly he regretted his words. Stretching the cord to the fullest, he carried the phone to the window and separated the drapes. The moon, at its influential fullest, beamed in like a voodoo eye.

  “Sonny, I hate to ask you this, but it’s important. You can lie a little if you want, but I’ve got to have an answer. Did you ever … I mean — ”

  “I know what you mean.” He was quiet for a moment. “No, Chief, not really.

  Chief Chute’s sigh filled the phone. “I remember when life was simple, the town little. ’Course I wasn’t chief then, just a plain old patrolman having a coffee at Lem’s and talking to the girls from town hall. Did I ever tell you that’s how I met my wife?”

  Dawson closed the drapes.

  The chief said, “I don’t suppose you’ve notified the district attorney. Do it, Sonny, do it now.”

  “I was hoping you would. I was hoping you’d convince him to let me take charge of the case.”

  “Sounds like you already have.”

  “Tell him we’ll sew it up for him. Tell him I’ve already got leads.”

  “Would I be telling the truth?”

  “More or less. I’m ninety percent certain it was the Bauer boy who made the call.”

  The chief’s intake of breath was sharp, and Dawson could picture him digging his toes into his slippers and smoothing his fuzzy hair. His voice was low. “The Bauers scare me.”

  “I can handle them.”

  “And the Italian woman, Rita whatever her name is. Can you handle her?”

  “I’ll use kid gloves.”

  “No pun intended, but she’s a heavyweight in every sense of the word.”

  “I realize that.”

  “You’re not planning on hiding anything, are you, Sonny? I mean anything major.”

  “You trained me too well for that.”

  “No, Sonny, neither of us are what you could call trained. We play it by ear. That’s what scares me the most.”

  “I want only what’s best for the town,” Dawson said in a colorless tone. “Trust me.”

  “I’ve always trusted you, Sonny. Why should I stop now?”

  Dawson put the phone away and then looked into the bathroom, where Officer Lord was still in a crouch, a smudge of gray powder on his nose. “Did you hear all that, Billy?”

  “No, Sonny. I never listen in on other people’s conversations. But I’d like to give you some advice. If you don’t mind. If you won’t get mad.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’ve got to learn to cover your ass.”

  Leather-and-chrome furniture and potted plants of a lush variety marked the lobby of the Silver Bell. The night clerk, a retired fire fighter named Chick, lifted his rumpled face when he heard the doors open and fidgeted when he saw who it was. “I don’t know anything, Sonny. I swear to God.” In the crosshatch of a weathered cheek was a black mole that jiggled like a spider in its web when he spoke. “You want, I’ll sign a paper.”

  Sergeant Dawson splayed his fingers against the edge of the reception desk. “Take it easy. As far as I know, we’ve always been friends.”

  “Always!” the clerk affirmed. He had chalk white hair and the blazing eyes of an insomniac. His employment was an act of charity by the manager, Mrs. Gately.

  “You know who it was, don’t you, Chick?”

  “I knew her only a little, that’s the truth. She signed in late last night, no luggage, alone, like always. I said two words to her, that’s all.”

  “What were the words?”

  “Hello.”

  “That’s only one. What’s the other?”

  “I forget.” His mole twitched. “Sonny, why are you doing this to me?”

  “What name did she use?”

  “Barbra Streisand. She liked to make jokes. Time before it was Tina Turner. I didn’t know who Tina Turner was till somebody told me. Sonny … I can guess how you feel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you went out of your way for her.”

  “No, it’s like you said, Chick. You don’t know anything. Where’s your boss?”

  “Waiting for you. I called her, she came right over.”

  Daw
son turned on his heel and walked beyond the reception counter, past a potted plant and a charcoal sketch of a raptorial bird. The clerk called after him.

  “Sonny!”

  “What?”

  “Hang loose.”

  Dawson did not knock on the office door, simply opened it, strode in, and smelled coffee, freshly made. The delicate pot was on a tray, part of a service set, cups and saucers included. “I suspect a long night,” Mrs. Gately said from the shadows of her desk. A gooseneck lamp with a slender fluorescent tube cast the only light, mostly on her well-structured face. “Help yourself.”

  He lifted the pot and, not bothering with a saucer, poured coffee into a cup. The cup was china, the silver sterling. “I rate.”

  “No,” she said. “I do.”

  He dribbled cream, stirred, and took a cautious swallow, eyebrows bent in. Mrs. Gately rose soundlessly and stood, with polished fingernails grazing the desk, a trim and shapely figure in a navy blue blazer and a straight gray skirt, the skirt tight across her hips. Her hair, stylish in its curl and cut, possessed striking tones of silver. Her nose was aquiline. She had a kind of grave beauty that needed no smile and prospered with age. She was nearly fifty.

  “There’s not much I can tell you.”

  “You surprise me,” he said, his mouth down at the corners.

  “What do you expect, Sergeant? Tears? I don’t cry for anybody.”

  He remembered her husband’s funeral, the wake at Lundgren’s, and the quick service at Christ Episcopal Church, no tears then either. He said, “I thought she’d stopped coming here.”

  “That’s what you wanted to think.”

  Her voice had become cold and measured. His seemed twangy. “Who was her client?”

  “Assuming she had one, how would I know? Her arrangements were discreet.”

  “Where’s her car?”

  “Look in the lot. Gold Mazda. She was doing well.”

  “Did you talk with her?”

  “Briefly. Late this morning. I told her to behave herself.”

  He dropped his cup. He did not think that he meant to, but there, suddenly, probably on purpose, were the broken bits, with some of the spill on his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he said and started to stoop.

  “Leave it,” she said rigidly, and he straightened and sidestepped the damage. She slipped away from the desk, diminishing her face to shadow. “We don’t like each other, do we, Sergeant?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Perhaps we blame each other.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “You were suspect.”

  He kneaded his brow, as if his mind were sore. In the secrecy of his mind, Melody shimmered. Whole and healthy, her wealth of auburn hair swirling past her shoulders, she smiled at him. “Do you know what I wish, Mrs. Gately? I wish we could be open with each other.”

  “I told you months ago I don’t trust policemen. I don’t trust their motives or their mentality, but for some reason you think you’re different.”

  “I am.”

  “Why? Because they call you Sonny? Because they love you at Lem’s? Because you seem to care for people? Sorry, Sergeant, it doesn’t wash.”

  “I thought we were on the same side.”

  “The same side of what? The tracks? Hardly.”

  “Don’t be a bitch, Paige.”

  She bristled, not at the epithet, but at the use of her given name, which was her mother’s maiden name, the family one of Andover’s oldest. Taking slow steps, she carried herself closer to him. “Do you remember a long time ago I told you Melody was messed up, really messed up? You asked what it was — drugs? — and I told you straight. Men, your age.”

  “And Bauer’s.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. Your rival.”

  “Don’t make it sound dirty.”

  “What was it?” She took another step forward, her mouth severely set, as if her words had a bad aftertaste. The toe of her pump crunched china. He could smell her scent, faintly cinnamon. “You have interesting eyes, Sergeant. Green. Real green. That’s what attracted her.”

  “So much you don’t understand.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I wanted what was best for her.”

  “Be careful of what you say, Sergeant. You have the right to remain silent.”

  He tightened as her ironic face half smiled, the movement of her bright lips scarcely perceptible. He looked for sympathy of a sort in her eyes. It was there all right, but it was not real. It was parody. Without warning she grasped the lapels of his check jacket.

  “I could kill you.”

  Here and there threads gave.

  “Let go.”

  Then a noise wrenched them both around, she swiveling hard on her heels. The door had opened, and the knit face of the night clerk peered in at them, eyes flaring. “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “Something I forgot to tell Sonny.” The voice was sheepish, apologetic. “About the Bauer boy.”

  “I would guess he already knows.”

  “Tell me later, Chick,” Dawson said.

  The face withdrew, some disappointment in it, and the door closed with a gentle click hardly heard. Mrs. Gately moved back a pace, cords shifting in her throat, as if a grim part of her were taking control of the whole of her. She said, “The boy is in his teens. The idiot years. It would be best to leave him alone.”

  “I don’t think that will be possible.”

  “Then you’d better know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve dealt with the kid before.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yes, much,” he said grimly and gave her a look conveying the sympathy she had denied him. “You should have stayed in real estate, Paige.”

  “Do you know who his godmother is?” she shot back, and he nodded with the irony of a cardplayer who had saved an ace.

  “That could be more your problem than mine.”

  Her face darkened, seemed to seal up. She spoke in a voice that was rock hard. “You owe me for a cup.”

  He said, “You’ve cost me a jacket.”

  • • •

  William Rollins left his Mercedes on the street and trudged reluctantly up the moonlit walk, which took a jagged route around shrubs planted on graded levels, a tough shovel in the winter. The house was a custom-designed contemporary built twenty years ago on ledge, the windows of varying sizes and shapes, a fancy of the original owner. Nearly every window was ablaze. The current owner, Rita Gardella O’Dea, who lived alone, stinted on nothing.

  At the door he pressed the button and, with a shiver of anxiety, the cold driving at him, listened to chimes. He knew there would be a wait. Rita O’Dea never hurried, except perhaps to church to light candles for the souls of her parents and her brother. When the door finally swung open, he greeted her from bent shoulders, as if the passing minutes had pressed upon him.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said.

  He hustled in, worked his way by her as she closed the door with a firm thrust. She was sheathed in a turquoise robe and was robustly overweight, with great charcoal eyes that had a way of smashing into him and knocking him either into place or out of it. Her heap of black hair was jolted up by a ribbon. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said.

  “I was watching TV. That’s not disturbing me. You watch TV?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I watch it a lot.” Her shadow hovered. “Well, Willy, what’s up?”

  It was a name he detested and felt he did not deserve, but he dared not correct her. She was the sister of a slain Mafia leader and an exile from Boston, her behavior eccentric, her moods unpredictable, her whims many. In her large, full face, sweet in repose, was the sulk of a child and in her voice the wail of a baby.

  He said, “A matter to discuss.”

  “Something serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s not stand here.”

  She took him through a room that had be
en redecorated. It was light and airy, Scandanavian, the furniture a glossy teak, the white pelts of animals tossed on the floor. He felt her smile.

  “You like it?” she asked, looking back. “I got rid of all the wop stuff. The shades with fringes, all that shit. Somebody should’ve told me.”

  Nervously he adjusted his glasses. “What you’ve done is marvelous.”

  “Should be. I paid enough.”

  She directed him into the spacious kitchen, where puncheons of gleaming oak formed counters and the copper of hanging pots and pans resembled weaponry. Every culinary convenience, from a double microwave oven to a Cuisinart food processor, seemed within the sweep of her large arm.

  “Sit down,” she said, and he sat at a trestle table, his coat still buttoned but the collar lowered. She laid out a dish, cut generously into a chocolate walnut cake, and said, “Have a slice.” It was a slab. Which he did not want. He had no sweet tooth and never had, not even as a child. “Try it.” He picked it up in his hand, for there was no fork, and ate from the side of it. No napkin. He licked his fingers. “Well?” she asked, and he brought his head up.

  “Delicious.”

  “Better be. I put everything in it.” She loomed over him with her hands buried to the elbows in the capacious pockets of her robe. “You said it was serious, so is it bad? I hate bad news.”

  What bothered him the most at the moment, absurdly, were moist crumbs that had fallen on the lap of his coat. When he tried to brush them away, he made a smear. His anxiety mounted.

  She said, “If it’s a problem you can handle, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Some trouble at the Silver Bell.”

  “Tell Alfred.”

  “He sent me.” He wanted to get out of the chair, but she was in the way. “Melody is dead.”

  The blood left Rita O’Dea’s face. Watching her hands rise slowly out of her pockets, he expected the worst, but her voice was soft. “Hold me.”

  He struggled up and, as much as he could, embraced her.

  Two

  Twenty years ago, when Paige Gately’s husband took sick and she got into the real estate business, Andover was in the midst of a housing boom. The Lawrence Eagle-Tribune, which displayed its Andover news prominently, proclaimed that builders were changing the face of the town. “Developers,” the reporter wrote, “are gobbling up the green, subdividing it, and erecting houses in areas that were once poultry farms, fruit orchards, meadowlands, pine groves, lovers’ lanes, swamps, and gravel pits.”