by Elaine Macko
“Well, you think about it while you’re scrubbing dishes and washing clothes. I’m going to have a go with the vacuum.”
Chapter 25
A couple of hours later, I was sorting through a pile of mail, most of which would be tossed into the recycle bin. “I don’t believe it! A letter from Mary-Beth.”
“She must have gotten the address from Mom. Look. It’s postmarked a couple of days after our wedding. It took quite a while to get here. Come here, Sam. Let’s take a break and see what Mary-Beth has to say.”
Sam brought out some bread and more fruit, and a chunk of Gouda cheese with bits of cumin imbedded. When we were settled at the table, I picked up the letter and read:
Dear Alex,
I thought I would actually write a letter instead of emailing you. It’s a lost art, you know, and I plan to revive it starting here and now.
Just in case I forgot to tell you on your wedding day, or just in case you didn’t hear on your wedding day, what with the cloud you were on and all, I just wanted to tell you Jeff and I are so happy for you and John—you make a terrific couple and we know you will be happy together.
Now for the important stuff—I want to know who made your dress and where on earth did you find that divine fabric? I must have it. Better yet, maybe I’ll just borrow yours and save myself the trouble. By time you get back you’ll have gained quite a few pounds and will no longer have any use for the dress anyway. Can I borrow the shoes, too?
“My dress was lovely, wasn’t it?” I said dreamily thinking of the beautiful black dress. I threw the tradition of a veil out the window but carried a heavenly scented bouquet of freesias.
“It was a great dress and you looked beautiful. Now what else does Mary-Beth have to say?”
I narrowed my eyes and glared at Sam and then picked up the letter again.
So how is the honeymoon? Are you coming out of your room for some fresh air each day? Taking your vitamins? I imagine you sitting on a terrace somewhere, looking out over the blue Mediterranean; no, wait—that’s Spain. Okay, sitting at a café looking over at some castle. Wherever you are, I just hope you’re cooler than we New Englanders. To say the weather is a bit muggy would be putting it mildly. We are dying here. I really must rob a bank and buy myself a little summer place on the Cape.
Not much happening here, except for the news I heard about Paula Mackey. So if you feel like hearing some home gossip apropos of absolutely nothing, then read on.
“Do we want to hear gossip apropos of nothing?” I asked my sister.
“Continue.”
Seems there was a bit of a scandal about six months ago. I hate to bore you with details, but just in case you’re sick of all the wonderful food, and the gorgeous scenery is getting to you, or that hunky detective you married turned out to be a bore who cuts his toenails in public, you can read on for a bit of gossip.
I put the letter back on the table again eliciting a groan from Sam. “Is John hunky?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? Do Belgians make the best chocolate? Have I exceeded my credit card limit? Of course he’s hunky. Would I have let you marry him if he wasn’t? Now read on. I want gossip.”
“Okay, where was I?”
I’m sure you remember Paula Mackey, who is now Paula Wheeler. She was that tall, beautiful blonde in high school. The one we all knew would grow up to be a famous dancer with some ballet company. You remember, the one we all hated. Well, surprise, surprise, she did grow up to become a dancer, and perhaps infamous is a better word than famous.
Seems Paula has been dancing for many a year in Bridgeport at a place called the Rooster’s Cock. Not exactly the Joffrey Ballet.
“Jeez. I remember her.” I took a bite out of my cheese-laden bread. “I wonder what kind of place the Rooster’s Cock is?”
“Not a place where one would wear pink tights and a tutu, I would imagine. Unless one went topless. Read on.”
Paula has been married to Tim Wheeler since they graduated from high school. Tim went to college, got his degree, and was hired on at a manufacturing firm. Over the years, he moved up the corporate ladder, though never quite achieving executive status. Paula never did pursue a career with the ballet, having broken her ankle when she walked up on the stage to pick up her diploma.
“I remember that. It was so sad. We all felt so terribly for her. Maybe that’s why she got married so quickly.”
“We’ll never know unless you finish.” Sam didn’t bother hiding her impatience.
“Sorry.”
Nonetheless, things seemed to be going good for the Wheelers. Paula had two boys and was a stay-at-home mom. Once the two little tykes were off to pre-school, she became bored and started to think about college funds. Harvard is just so expensive these days. She answered an ad in the local paper and was hired on the spot, the broken ankle having healed nicely years before.
Now, having a wife who danced at the Rooster’s Cock was not what Mr. Wheeler wanted. So Paula made up a little white lie and told her family she was working the crisis hotline two nights a week. Tim and the boys were so proud of her. Imagine, helping all those people.
Well, things went along nicely for years until Tim was approached by the president of the firm. After all this time, his hard work was finally getting the recognition it deserved and a huge promotion was in the works. He was invited to the home of the president and told to bring along the family.
Paula bought a new dress and had her hair done. The two boys, now teenagers, scrubbed their faces, hid the pimples with some cream, and off they all went.
Things went splendidly until the Wheeler family was introduced to the VP of quality control. Seems his favorite after-hours hangout is the Rooster’s Cock and he himself has contributed quite a tidy little sum to the Wheeler boys’ college account what with all those ten dollar bills in the g-string.
All hell broke loose when Paula ran sobbing into the guest bathroom. She finally broke down and told Tim the whole story. Tim walked right out into the garden and punched the VP in the face, breaking his nose. Not exactly something that would be forgotten when the promotion came up for a vote.
Paula and Tim argued for days and everyone thought this was it—a divorce was immanent. Paula pleaded, she begged, she cried, she yelled, and then she had an idea. If she showed Tim the balance of the account she had started years before, maybe that would make him feel better.
You’ll be happy to know Paula is now teaching dance at a community after-school center. Tim got hired on at a firm that manufactures and sells everything anyone could possibly want for a party, including feather boas and tassels. The owner thought maybe Paula could be used on a consulting basis to test some of the products. And the boys, well, both will be attending university in a couple of years courtesy of the Rooster’s Cock.
Well, I guess that’s about it for now. Hope you are all having a lovely time and give me a call as soon as you get back. Kisses to all, Love, Mary-Beth.
I pulled my leg up onto the chair and shoved another piece of cheese in my mouth. “Well, I’ll be. Paula Mackey a stripper. Will wonders never cease? I wonder if I would make a good stripper.” I asked.
Sam was saved from having to come up with a diplomatic answer by a loud, short, buzzing sound that made the two of us jump right out of our seats.
Chapter 26
“What the hell is that?”
“It sounds like the buzzer downstairs.” I jumped up and walked over to an intercom system in the pantry area by the washing machine. “Hello?”
“Alex? This is Paul Cassé. Can I come up?”
“Hi, Paul. Sure.”
“You have to press the button to unlock the door,” he said from down below.
I depressed the little red button on the intercom and heard a click. A few seconds later footsteps thumped up the stairs.
Sam got up and came over to my side. “Are you crazy? You’re letting a killer come up here!” Sam picked up her purse, which was on the kitchen counter, and too
k out a Swiss Army Knife placing it in the pocket of her sweat pants.
“Damn. You’re right. Well, we don’t have to let him in.” Just then a knock on the door made us jump. “Okay. There are two of us and you’re armed. We should be okay,” I said.
We walked into the front hall and unlocked the door. Both of us put a silly smile on our face and said in unison, “Hi, Paul.”
Paul Cassé walked in. I could see Sam slip her fingers into the pocket.
“I’m sorry. I’m getting water all over your floor. It’s miserable out.”
“Here, let me take your coat,” I offered, taking Paul’s limp jacket and hanging it behind the door. Good, it was too light to be hiding a gun.
I picked up a fresh towel from the basket by the bottom of the stairs and handed it to him. Paul took the towel and dried his face then his hair. He smiled a thank you and walked into the living room. Sam and I walked to the edge of the room and watched as Paul sunk into the sofa leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“We were just having something to eat. Would you care for anything?” The last word came out as a high-pitched squeak as Sam’s elbow landed firmly on one of my ribs.
“No, thanks. Maybe something to drink. Tea? Coffee?” Paul’s eyes were still firmly shut.
“I’ll bring in some tea,” I said as I turned to go back toward the kitchen.
Sam was right on my heels. “Why are you offering him some tea, for goodness sake?”
“Because he’s wet and cold and he doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to kill anybody, least of all us.”
“Yeah, well, wait until after he’s had some caffeine and gets warmed with your towel. That ought to perk him right up.”
“Sshhh!” I hissed. “He’ll hear you. And you can put that fool knife away. The man is not a killer. Look at him.” We tiptoed back into the hall and peered into the living room. Paul looked as if he had fallen asleep. “Does he look like he’s ready to commit murder?” I asked as I went to make the tea.
Sam tiptoed after me. “Well, no. But I’ll bet Martine didn’t see anything coming either until the floss was tight around her neck.”
“Ooh! That’s sick. Get another mug from the cupboard.” I gestured toward the cupboard above the sink.
“Another thing,” Sam said, still not willing to let the Paul-as-the-murderer theory die, “let’s not forget the man is a wife beater and he lied about the vasectomy.” This last was said with an air of smugness.
I had to concede all of it was true. Paul may not be a killer but he wasn’t an angel, either.
“Okay, keep the knife in your pocket and sit by the door so you can run to the phone at the first sign of some waxy string or twine coming out of his pocket. Maybe we should check the pockets of his jacket first.” I took a step to where we had hung Paul’s jacket. “Jeez! Listen to me. Forget I said that. Just stay by the door.”
I brought the tea into the living room. Paul didn’t move as I poured him a steaming cup of hot amber-colored liquid. Sam and I watched him for a few minutes and then I gently nudged his leg. “Paul? Are you okay?”
Paul sat up slightly and pushed his damp hair out of his face “Sorry. It’s been a tough day.”
My hand went to my heart. “Oh my gosh. The funeral was today, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve been having a hard time, Alex, believing Martine is truly gone. Until today. She was cremated and the whole ceremony was horrible.” With the back of his hand, Paul brushed water from his eyes that probably wasn’t rain. “They have the casket on this little conveyor belt and we all just watch it for five minutes while they play some sort of classical music meant to soothe but achieving the exact opposite.” Paul sat up now leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his hand dangle. “Then little doors open and the casket moves along the conveyor until it’s out of sight. The doors closes. That’s it.” He hung his head and threaded his fingers together. When he looked up again, his eyes were red and moist. “Then what am I supposed to do? Go on with my life like nothing ever happened?” His voice was quivering.
I reached over and took his hand. “It takes time, Paul. Lots of time.”
“Maybe if her parents would leave, I could get on with whatever I’m supposed to do now and try to get through it. Maybe if everyone would just leave me alone.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Jane was at the funeral. Martine’s mother kept asking me who the woman with the bad haircut was.”
“And what did you say?” I asked.
“I told them I thought she was a friend from Martine’s exercise club. I don’t think the old cow believed me. She’s been giving me looks all day and I saw her go over and talk with Jane.”
“Martine’s parents are still at your place?” Sam asked from her sentry post by the door.
“They haven’t left. They’ve been here since she died. They show no signs of leaving. As a matter of fact, the whole family is over at my apartment. That’s why I was out walking in this.” He turned his head and looked out the huge front window at the sheets of rain still coming down. “I just wanted to be alone but they don’t take the hint. Her father insists on staying in Brussels until they catch her killer. Which, I might add, they are sure is me.”
The last was said with just enough venom to make me turn to check Sam was still in place with the knife in her pocket.
“And the fact the police showed up at our apartment after the funeral didn’t make matters any better.”
“The police? Why where they there?” I asked, knowing full well Gerard and John were going to question Paul about the wife beating.
Paul rested his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. I thought he had fallen asleep again but then he abruptly leaned forward and took a sip of tea.
“They’ve gotten it into their heads I was beating Martine. Can you believe that? Who would say such a thing?” He turned pleading brown eyes toward me. “Luckily, we went to a café on the corner of my street so the whole family didn’t get to hear that crap.”
“And were you?” Sam asked as I shot her a look with blazing eyes.
“Of course not! What kind of monster do you people think I am?”
“We don’t know you very well. Hardly at all,” Sam said.
“So you think I’m guilty, don’t you?” Paul asked, but surprisingly without any anger.
“Not necessarily, but like my sister said, we don’t know you.”
He heaved a huge sigh and a strand of his rich dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes. “Fair enough.”
“Did the police ask you about anything else?” I asked.
“Yes, they did—Wait. You know all about this, don’t you? The allegations of abuse, the whole thing. Of course. Your husband was there this morning and is working with that police inspector.” Paul rose from his seat and Sam took a step out of the room toward the phone. Instead of heading in her direction, he walked over to the window just as a crash of thunder shook the room.
“Yes, we know Inspector Willix planned to question you today. You lied, Paul. About the vasectomy. Why?”
“Because I didn’t want any children.” He turned away from the window and came back to the sofa. “That’s why I had it in the first place. I didn’t ask the doctor about reversing it because I didn’t want to.”
“So you told Martine it wasn’t possible.”
“Yes.”
“If you lied about that, why should we believe you about the abuse? The police found bruises on her body.” I folded my arms across my chest. The room had become cold and I wondered how to turn on the heat.
“You have no reason to believe me. As you so rightly pointed out, Sam, you don’t know me at all.”
“Then convince us, Paul. We want to trust you. Did you hit Martine?” I asked.
“No. Well, I never actually hit her.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sam asked, still standing in the doorway, her hand in a pocket.
“I grabbed her arm
once when we were having an argument and I pushed her. It was about two years ago. I know it was wrong but I never thought it could be misconstrued as wife beating.”
“Well, no.” I remembered the time I pushed John out of my way when we were having a heated discussion and he blocked the doorway. To his credit, he moved aside and never even put a finger on me.
“Can you think of any reason why Martine would have all those bruises on her?” I then asked in a more gentle tone, warming to the idea the young man seated in our living room was not capable of murder.
“No, I can’t. I never saw them. For the last several weeks before she died, I slept in our guest room. This thing about her wanting a baby so badly had become quite an issue. The thing I don’t understand is she was pregnant. So why was she pushing so hard?”
“Well, the baby wasn’t yours. She, of all people knew that. Maybe she hoped if you got your vasectomy reversed, she could convince you somehow the baby was yours,” I explained.
“I think the timing would have been way off, don’t you?” Paul mocked.
“How long had she been trying to get you to change your mind about a baby?” Sam asked.
Paul’s thick hair had dried into a matted mess. He pushed both hands through it and stared at Sam. “I don’t know. Six weeks, maybe. Probably more like two months.”
“My guess,” I said, “is she knew she was pregnant well before she died and hoped against hope she could work it out some way so it would look as if it were your child.”
“Why didn’t she just get an abortion? I’m sorry for asking, but it was a possibility, wasn’t it?” Sam asked.
“It’s not exactly legal here, but it can be done with very little difficulty. But no. She just wouldn’t have done that. Not so much because of any religious convictions, she thought religion was a sham, but she just didn’t feel it was right.”
