Love Nest

by Andrew Coburn

  He started up the motor, which protested at first with a sputter, and worked the wipers to dislodge leaves pinned to the windshield. The heat accumulated, and he picked at the front of his shirt to get it away from his skin.

  “Sonny. Look at me a sec.”

  He did.

  “Great eyes.”

  He ran the defroster, switched on the headlights, and tilted the rearview mirror. With an elbow almost hitting her, he shifted into gear.

  “Shouldn’t we wait?”

  On the road gusts of wind rocked the car, and the rain, too heavy for the wipers, smothered the glass. They crept along, the wipers flailing, the thick tires crunching over fallen branches. Other drivers had pulled to the wayside to wait it out. One had overshot the embankment.

  “In case we don’t make it,” she said, “thanks for the drink.”

  By the time they crossed back into Andover the rain was falling with less purpose, and when they reached the Silver Bell the sun fired itself through the drizzle and mist. Fording puddles, he made the long turn into the rear lot and braked near the door to her room. She smiled and extended a delicate hand.

  “Friends?”

  He said, “Don’t let me see you in Andover again.”

  • • •

  Paige Gately was not in her office nor, it seemed, anywhere else in the motel. The desk clerk’s face, full of loose, deep lines, seemed on the point of unraveling. “Swear to God, Sonny, I don’t know where she is. Didn’t see her when I came in.”

  “I thought you worked nights.”

  “Sometimes I do double duty.” An idea came to him. “She might’ve gone home. That’s what I bet.”

  Dawson lifted his eyes from the register, a finger between two pages, and nodded at the telephone. “See if it’s so, Chick.”

  Later he drove to Chestnut Street and gazed up at the high, aloof face of Paige Gately’s house, built by a forebear of her husband’s, venerable in its clean colonial lines and glassed-in porches. He had been inside once, some years ago, investigating an attempted break. He remembered big airy rooms hard to heat, wide windowsills low enough to sit on, only rich carpets well worth the attention of a thief, paint flaking from one of the ceilings. He rang the front bell and waited in vain.

  He found her at the left side of the house inspecting storm damage to flowers. She was poised on youthful-looking legs, with her back to the sun, in a sleeveless linen dress that elongated the trimness of her figure and emphasized the length of her arms. She had been to the hairdresser’s for a cut, and her silvery hair, a close-fitting cap, glinted like ice. Her feet were bare.

  “I hope this is important,” she said.

  He glided past the shimmering yellow of day lilies floating over panicles of baby’s breath the rain had battered to the ground, and he stopped within a yard of her, his eyes falling to her feet. The nails, which surprised him, were painted. The toes had picked up blades of wet grass. Her voice swelled.

  “Why are you so messy?”

  He glanced down at himself. “Caught in the rain.”

  “Not very clever.”

  “I’d like to know what’s going on,” he said, and received a blank look. He suspected no explanation was needed, but gave one anyway, quietly and tonelessly, in what had become his professional voice. She listened with civility but with no apparent concern. She shrugged when he finished.

  “It’s a hazard of the business. What else can I tell you?”

  “I’ve been through the register. It may have been more than an isolated case.”

  “Then I’ll have to tell the desk clerks to be more careful, won’t I?” She inspected white clusters of carnations and then moved on. He followed, stepping too close to a rose bush with flesh-tearing thorns. He jerked an arm back.

  “Tell me about the girl.”

  “I seldom meet the guests, unless someone has a complaint, which is seldom. She almost sounds like somebody you made up.”

  “Are there others?”

  She turned smartly on the balls of her feet. “I’m an innkeeper, Sergeant, not a madam.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you were.”

  “I’m relieved,” she said in a tone of patronage. “Any other questions?”

  “How much of the Silver Bell is yours?”

  She viewed him coldly, silently.

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “The devil you don’t. What makes you think I have money in it?”

  “I can’t picture you working there for just a salary, unless it’s substantial. Which it may well be.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m concerned over how much control you have. I know who the principal owner is and who’s probably behind him. That’s always worried me.” He shaded his eyes from the sun. “I wouldn’t want anything to get out of hand. No problems, Mrs. Gately.”

  “The problem is here,” she said, touching the tip of her nose. “Yours is one of the longest.”

  “My job.”

  “No,” she said, “your nature.”

  A fluffy stray chunk of cloud momentarily muted the sun as they walked toward the front of the house. Her feet slurred over the clipped grass and then left damp tracks on the flags leading to the driveway, which had recently been resealed. The house, bearing new shingles, new drains, rose more stately than ever.

  “A word to the wise, Sergeant. There’s a certain bit of righteousness about you that isn’t attractive.”

  “You seem to enjoy putting me in my place.”

  “Everybody has one. Correct me if I’m wrong, but your mother was that nice old lady who prayed audibly in Christ Church so others wouldn’t be ignorant of her piety.”

  “You know perfectly well who she was. She did sewing for you.”

  “Even the rector got annoyed.”

  “You hit low, Mrs. Gately.”

  “It’s usually where the truth is.”

  “I wish I’d gotten some from you.”

  He moved easily over the slick surface of the drive, which was almost bright enough to record his reflection. His car was parked behind hers. When he looked back, she was standing in a golden haze, her stance rigid.

  “Your nose, Sergeant. Just because you’re a policeman doesn’t mean it can’t be cut off.”

  • • •

  He drove through downtown, past the academy onto South Main and eventually turned left onto Ballardvale Road, still dense enough with heavy trees to look rural in short stretches. His house was a modest frame fronted by rhododendrons grown to giant size, planted decades ago by his father and nursed by his mother, hard-working upright people who had died on the same day, his mother first and his father, as if punching a clock, eight hours later. The garage was small and detached, somewhat rickety. Unlike his father, he was not handy with a hammer. He backed into the garage, a policeman’s habit, or at least his.

  The house was cool, uncluttered, still tidy from the woman who came in once a week to clean and do his laundry. He immediately went into the bathroom, stripped, and showered, lathering himself with soap that was a sample in the mail. Only a sliver remained when he finished. He slicked his dark hair back and weighed himself, the needle never registering a surprise. His lean body had always been good to him, and he could not recall the last time he was sick. Doing a few knee bends, he felt strong, no beginning or end to him.

  Girded with a towel, he padded into the kitchen and plucked a bottle of Molson Golden from the refrigerator. He sipped and read at the table. The paper was the New York Times, an introductory issue that had been tossed onto his lawn. His house was on a route for samples and offers, pollsters and solicitors. The doorbell rang when he was deep into the obituary of the Wisconsin handyman who had abnormally loved his mother, killed women, looted graves, and inspired the movie Psycho. He pushed the paper aside on the second ring.

  Through a panel of pebbled glass he saw a feminine shadow and thought it was the woman from the next street, recently divorced, who sometimes came over t
o make his supper and spend the night. He tightened the towel and opened the door wide. A wry smile confronted him.

  “Nice legs, Sonny.”

  A white shirt had replaced the striped jersey, but she still wore the bleached jeans and dangled the leather bag from her shoulder. He said nothing. He stood like a figure in a frieze, Greek or Roman, and stared at the dull little car she had driven up in, a Mondale-Ferraro sticker on the front bumper.

  She said, “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

  Six

  Under a pale sun several people gathered at Spring Grove Cemetery for the funeral. The air was chill, but there was no wind. A Unitarian minister from Boston chatted solemnly near the graveside with the two women Melody Haines had roomed with. The tall one, Sue, glanced anxiously at her friend, whose face was a puff of sickness, and then over at the undertaker from Lawrence, whose assistants were arranging carpets of fake grass and belatedly camouflaging the hole with a stretch of cloth that resembled felt from a pool table. The casket was still in the hearse.

  Noting her concern, the undertaker said, “Not to worry.”

  She left her friend with the minister and trod over hard ground to where Sergeant Dawson stood with the collar raised on his topcoat, his hands poked deep into the pockets. “Who are these people?” she murmured. Her arms dangled. “No one seems to care.”

  “You could be wrong,” he replied softly, his gaze drifting discreetly from stiff-necked Paige Gately to Attorney Rollins, whose stance was stoical in the shadow of Rita O’Dea, blown up in a fur coat and matching hat. The Bauers, who arrived without their son, stood redoubtable with their lack of expression. There was not even the blink of an eye.

  Sue said, “Who’s the woman staring at us?”

  He turned his head to look and was surprised. “Her name’s Lovell. She works at a bank.”

  “Did Melody have money there?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Lovell. Lovell. Melody never mentioned her, but that’s not surprising.”

  “Who did she mention?”

  “Only you, Sonny.”

  He watched two of the undertaker’s men dig flowers out of the hearse and tote them to the gravesite. The simple bouquet was from him, the tasteful arrangement from Sue and her friend. The lush and exotic concoction, he suspected, was from the Bauers. He said, “Nice of the minister to come here. Did Melody know him?”

  “No. He’s my friend.” She pushed her hair aside. “Nat and I went through Mel’s things. There’s nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “You shouldn’t have touched anything.”

  “Clues, Sonny? There were none. No diary, no letters, no mementos. She lived light. No drugs either. She’d been clean for a long time. The autopsy must’ve shown that.” She watched him steady his head, as if retrieving himself from a clutch of bad thoughts. “What’s the matter? Something you want to ask me?”

  “Not today,” he said.

  The undertaker and his men drew the casket from the hearse and bore it to the grave, propping it over the hidden hole. The casket had a bronze glitter and a fierce and repellent aura of finality. A sob was heard, which brought Sue up straight.

  “My little pal is taking it hard.”

  He could see that. He could not remember her name. Then it came to him. With frizzy hair hanging out of her wool cap, a coil of it sprung over her spectacles, Natalie looked pathetic one moment and combative the next.

  “I shouldn’t have left her. Excuse me.”

  Alone, he took quiet steps toward the others. Attorney Rollins, wearing dark glasses instead of the amber ones, nodded almost imperceptibly. It was more a wince, as though he felt much about him was misunderstood. Rita O’Dea was a luxurious mushroom of fur, her glossy boots only half-zipped because of the heft of her calves. She stared at Dawson out of gorgeous black eyes full of cold interest. Paige Gately gave him a glance, and the Bauers ignored him. He approached Fran Lovell so softly that she did not see him until he stood beside her.

  “What are you doing here, Fran?”

  “I have a right, don’t I?” she replied, reacting as if she had been dug in the skin. Her drab coat belied her position at the bank. She looked more like a teller who, haunted by tallies that did not balance, rarely ventured out of her cage.

  “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

  “Good. I’m glad I can still surprise somebody.” She furrowed her brow. “Why weren’t you one of the bearers?”

  “It wouldn’t have looked good for the investigation.”

  “What investigation? What are you doing?”

  He regarded her quizzically. “You have a suggestion, Fran?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said at once, the tone propitiating. “It’s just that I forget you’re a detective. A good one, I’m sure.”

  The undertaker and his assistants shrank back from the casket and everyone else inched closer as the minister, Bible in hand, assumed his position. Head lowered, the bald spot in his hair shone like wax. Dawson listened to the words but did not sort them out. Nor did he pay attention when Sue, her voice ringing over Natalie’s sobs, read something she had written. His mind was heated with unexpected shapes that bore no quick relation to reality, and he turned his head in a brief confrontation, his green eye pitted against the disarming blue of Bauer’s. When the minister tossed dirt spang on the metal casket, it sounded like a minor explosion.

  “That was beautiful,” Fran Lovell said as people began turning away. Her cheeks were wet. “Can we go to Lem’s for coffee? Please?”

  “Later,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  She did, keenly, but he was already slipping away, angling between the heaviness of Rita O’Dea and the rigidity of Paige Gately. He intercepted Sue before she could speak to the minister. She looked at him and said, “It’s over. She’s gone.”

  “Yes,” he said, his throat sore. “Her car, the Mazda, belongs to the county now. They’ll auction it off in time, but I’ll try to get you the money from it. Reimbursement for the funeral.”

  “That’s not what’s on my mind, nor Natalie’s.”

  He had a pen and a pocket notebook out, some of the pages dog-eared. “I’ve forgotten your last name.”

  “Bradley.”

  He jotted in the notebook. “Nice name. Ordinary in a distinguished way.”

  “We don’t think there’ll ever be an arrest.”

  “There’ll be one. You have my word.”

  Natalie had posted herself near the casket, a flower in her mittened hand. She glared at him.

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “She doesn’t think your word is good enough.”

  • • •

  The high school was a block of brick and glass, two stories above ground and one below, a walkway descending to the entrance. To Dawson, it would always be the new high school, for it had been built on a knoll behind the old one a few years after his graduation. The old one had replaced the original, Punchard High, which became a junior high and now, greatly refurbished, was the seat of town government. The smell of the new high school held a trace of the old. To Dawson, it suggested morning mouth and marijuana.

  The principal was unavailable, out of the building, conferring with the superintendent of schools, but his assistant was in, a chatty fellow with a face fenced in by black hornrims. Dawson gently interrupted him, mentioned the Bauer boy, and asked to see him.

  “What’s Wally done now? I can assure you he hasn’t bothered Mrs. Medwick again. She’d have told me.”

  “It’s nothing. I just want to talk with him.”

  “Far as I can tell he’s doing OK. ’Course he’s quiet, shy, you never know what’s going on in his head. I saw him in gym this morning. Wouldn’t want him mad at me.”

  “I’ll wait in your office, you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll have to pull him out of a class.”

  “Please.”

  Dawson stepped into a small office, sat on the edge
of a metal desk, and waited. Nearly five minutes passed before the boy appeared, morose in a cable-stitch sweater, a shock of blond hair over one eye, a slouch to the broad shoulders.

  “Close the door,” Dawson said softly.

  The boy did as he was told, with a shuffle, and then stood as if tongueless. His arms hung dead at his side.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s good, Wally, because there’s nothing to be afraid of with me. We’ve talked before. We know each other.”

  There was no response. Despite the size of him, the fullness of his chest, the stretch of his sweater at the shoulders, the only aggressive feature was the jut of his chin. The rest of him was muted, equivocal, his muscles merely dimpling what seemed the unshed chrysalis of childhood. Dawson spoke gently.

  “I’ve seen your attendance record. You’ve had some recent absences.”

  “I had the flu.”

  “I’m glad you’re better.”

  Dawson’s solicitude seemed to paralyze him. He had a ballpoint pen in his hand, ink on his fingers. When the pen slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, he merely stared at it.

  “Do you still see Dr. Stickney?”

  “I don’t need to anymore.”

  “Everything’s fine?”

  “Yes.”

  Dawson stared at him in a way at once forebearing and insinuating, as if he could chart his thoughts and understand them all, maybe even trace them to their darkest roots. “I saw your parents at the cemetery. Mrs. Gately was there. Attorney Rollins. Mrs. O’Dea. I was surprised you weren’t.”

  He was silent, a tightness pulling at his face.

  “It was a nice service. Subdued. Dignified. She’d have liked it.”

  The silence lingered.

  “Do you want me to pick up the pen for you?”

  “I can do it,” he said in a burst, as if breaking a spell. He went down fast and came up ghastly from the strain. Something snapped loose within him. “Why don’t you say her name? You haven’t said it once.”

  “You say it instead,” Dawson urged gently.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Yes, you do.” Dawson mouthed it. Melody. Melody. Made it into a soundless tune. And watched him recoil.