“Okay,” the detective said finally. “Thanks for your trouble.”
He turned to leave but Gavin said, “Hey, hold on. That’s it?”
Arnwright turned. “That’s it.”
“Is that bastard going to go to jail for what he did to me?”
“Doubtful,” Arnwright said.
Forty-Eight
The following day, Charlotte Davis sat on the bed she had shared with her husband and looked out through the sliding glass doors at the sun reflecting off the waters of Long Island Sound.
There were things she had to do, but she was having a hard time getting started.
Finally, she stood and opened the closet so that she could select a suit for Paul. The funeral home had been asking. Paul had only one good one. As a professor, he could get through almost any function with a sport jacket, jeans, and a tie. Even during graduation ceremonies, when he might be called upon to wear a gown, he could get away with smart casual undercover. The last time Paul had worn a suit, Charlotte thought, was to attend the funeral of a cousin in Providence.
And so he would wear one to a funeral again.
Charlotte pulled a dark blue suit from the hanger, laid it out on the bed. It had not seen any outings since its last trip to the dry cleaners. The tag was still attached. She took the jacket off the hanger, held it up to the light from the window, turned it around.
There was a small smudge on the back that the cleaners had missed, but really, did it matter? Even with an open casket, no one was going to see that. The matching pants, she noticed, had been on the hanger so long they had a crease at the knee, but again, was anyone going to see anything below the waist? Wouldn’t only the upper half of her husband’s body be viewable, not all of him?
Charlotte hadn’t even discussed with the funeral home director the possibility of a closed casket. Was that the way to go? It wasn’t as though Paul had been in a bad car accident. Death by drowning had left his face relatively unscathed. He was, in a word, presentable.
She decided she would press the pants, regardless. And at least try to get the spot off the back of Paul’s suit jacket. The man deserved that much.
Her cell phone rang.
She’d left it on the dresser. She took a step toward it, looked at the screen to see who it was.
BILL
She held the phone for several seconds, letting it ring six times in her hand before declining the call.
She did not want to talk to Bill. Not now. She’d not spoken to him since the call in the middle of the night, when Bill had told Paul not to go to the hospital. Bill was not the only one from whom Charlotte was not taking calls. She was ignoring calls from Hailey, too.
Except for one.
Paul’s ex-wife, her husband, Walter, and her son were coming to the service the next day. Josh, Hailey had told Charlotte, was utterly destroyed by the death of his father. He only stopped crying to sleep, which had only come because he was exhausted from weeping.
“Well,” Charlotte said, “the good news is, you and Walter got what you wanted. Full fucking custody.”
Hailey had gasped. Before she could respond, Charlotte ended the call. When Hailey tried to call her back, Charlotte did not pick up.
Charlotte set up the ironing board in the small downstairs laundry room and placed the suit pants on it. While she waited for the iron to heat, she went up to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She had started a pot earlier but had yet to have the first cup. Nor had she bothered yet with any breakfast.
The kitchen island was covered with nearly a dozen empty cardboard liquor boxes. She pushed a couple of them aside to make a working space for herself. She grabbed a small plate from the cupboard and some butter from the fridge. She put a slice of whole wheat bread into the toaster, but before she could push it down, the doorbell rang.
She glanced down at herself. She was only a step up from pajamas—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, hair pinned back, no makeup. She was not ready for unexpected visitors coming to pay their respects.
She sighed, scurried barefoot down the steps to the front door and peered through the narrow window that ran down the side.
It was Anna White.
Charlotte unlocked the door, swung it open.
“Dr. White,” she said.
Anna nodded. “Mrs. Davis. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, but would you have a moment?”
Charlotte raised her arms in a gesture of futility. It was far from welcoming, but she said, “Sure, come on in.”
“Thanks,” Anna said, following her up the stairs.
Once they’d reached the kitchen, Charlotte said, “I’ve left the iron plugged in, be right back.”
Charlotte disappeared downstairs.
Anna looked at the empty boxes on the island. As she turned slowly to take in the rest of the room, her gaze landed on the open door to what had been Paul’s minioffice.
Anna felt a chill that ran the entire length of her spine.
There, on the desk, next to the laptop, was the Underwood.
Anna assumed it was the typewriter. The machine Paul had believed was sending him messages from beyond the grave. The machine that, one might argue, drove him to the brink of madness. The machine that played a major part in the man’s suicide.
It had not been here the other night. Paul had said it was in Charlotte’s car, that it wasn’t coming back into the house unless it was smart enough to unlock the trunk.
She walked slowly to the office and entered. Cautiously, as though it were electrified, Anna touched the typewriter with the tips of her fingers.
She actually felt something akin to an electric shock but knew it was nothing of the kind. It was an emotional reaction. The metal casing of the typewriter was cool and smooth to the touch.
Anna was reminded of that movie, the one by Stanley Kubrick, where the ape reaches out to touch the black obelisk. Fearfully at first, then, when he realizes the black slab isn’t going to bite him, he runs his hands all over it.
Anna ran her fingers across the keys, gave the space bar a tap.
There didn’t appear to be anything ominous about it, but how the hell did it get back up here if—
“Dr. White?”
Anna turned to see Charlotte standing there. “You startled me,” Anna said. She nodded in the direction of the typewriter. “I just had . . . to look at it. How did it get back up here? Paul had said it was locked in your car.”
Charlotte gave her a quizzical look. “I put it there,” she said.
“Oh, well, of course,” Anna said.
Paul’s wife frowned. “Tell me you didn’t think it got up here on its own.”
“No, no, I didn’t think that,” Anna said, her face flushing. “I’m just surprised to see it.”
“When I went out to get boxes, I needed the trunk space, so I put it back in here. When I get around to Paul’s stuff”—her voice began to break—“I’ll have to decide what to do with it.”
“I guess, if it were me, I’d have . . .”
“You’d have what?”
“It’s none of my business,” the therapist said. “I’m in no position to judge.”
“No, tell me.”
Anna hesitated. “I think I’d have headed for Stratford, stopped on the bridge, and dropped that thing into the Housatonic.”
Charlotte’s chin quivered. She took several seconds before answering. “That’s exactly what Paul wanted to do. I should have let him.”
“You still could,” Anna said.
Charlotte nodded slowly, and said, “Maybe I just have to know.”
Anna let that sink in but said nothing.
Anna emerged from the office and wandered back to the island, where she stood beside a stool, not wanting to perch herself on it unless invited.
“I was getting his suit ready,” Charlotte said. “The pants are wrinkled, and there’s some kind of spot on the back of the jacket. Silly, right? Like anyone’s going to notice.”
“It’s n
ot silly,” Anna said. “You need to get everything the way you want it. You want to do right for Paul.” Anna looked at the empty boxes.
Charlotte didn’t wait for the question. “I’m going to have to sort through Paul’s things sooner or later.”
“This is definitely sooner.”
“I was wandering through the house yesterday and everywhere I looked I saw him. His books, his clothes, his CDs. I know the mourning is just beginning, but these reminders, everywhere I turn, are going to make it go on and on. Better to rip the bandage right off.”
“I guess that’s one way of handling it, but you might be moving a bit fast.”
“You don’t approve.”
“I didn’t say that. I know people who’ve dealt with loss this way. I knew a woman who lost her teenage son in a car accident, and she stripped the house of everything that reminded her of him. A week after he died, you’d have never known he lived there.”
“Did it help?” Charlotte asked.
“If you’re asking did it make her forget, the answer is no,” Anna said.
Charlotte was quiet for a moment. Then, “That detective came by late yesterday. Arnwright.”
“He came to see me, too.”
“He was here two, three times, asking me about Paul, but I guess yesterday’s visit was his last. He had the official coroner’s report, which also meant that they were able to release his body to the funeral home. That Paul did die from drowning.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He said they couldn’t officially rule it a suicide. I mean, we can’t know what was in his head, and it’s not like he left a note. But based on his behavior the last few weeks, it’s the most likely explanation. So they’ve called it something like ‘death by misadventure.’” Her eyes reddened. “Like it was some sort of fun outing that went wrong.”
Charlotte sighed. She raised her head and looked squarely at Anna.
“Why are you here?”
The question struck Anna with the force of a slap. She sought some reservoir of inner strength and said, “I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
“You said that five seconds ago.”
“This sorry . . . is different. I’m sorry I failed Paul. I failed him badly. You came to me. You told me. You were worried he might do something to himself. I should have done more.”
Charlotte looked at her, steely-eyed. “I guess you should have.”
Anna stood there several more seconds before she realized there was not much else to say. “I shouldn’t have come.” She stopped on her way to the stairs. “But I’d like to come to the service and pay my respects. It’s tomorrow?”
Charlotte nodded. “Two o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have a suit to press.”
Forty-Nine
Anna had thought there would be more people.
About forty showed up for the funeral, which was held in a small church on Naugatuck Avenue. While Charlotte and Paul were not affiliated with any Milford church, the funeral home had found a minister who was not only amenable to hosting the service, but also willing to say a few words about Paul.
Paul’s mother, who lived in a nursing home in Hartford, had been driven down by one of the facility’s care workers. In her nineties with twiglike arms and legs, she was wheeled in and given a spot near the front, in the center aisle. She gave every indication of being oblivious to what was going on.
At one point, Anna was pretty sure she caught a glimpse of Arnwright at the back of the church, but then she lost sight of him.
Several of those attending were evidently from West Haven College. Anna walked in with a woman who, she learned after some brief small talk, was the college president. She introduced Anna to a few of Paul’s colleagues. Anna forgot the names as soon as she heard them. When anyone asked how she knew Paul, she said simply, “He was a friend.”
She felt ashamed to admit her connection. Everyone, she believed, would know how she had failed him. She felt doubly ashamed that she did not want to admit it.
Not that there weren’t people there who knew. Charlotte, of course, and there was Bill Myers, who had been huddled over to one side of the church, reviewing some notes. Anna recognized him from real estate signs she’d seen around town over the years.
Anna also figured out who Hailey and Walter must be. They were the couple with the crying boy. That he was Josh there was no doubt. Anna could see the resemblance. He was a miniature Paul in a brown suit, red tie, and shined-up shoes. He sat with his mother and stepfather in the front pew to the left of the aisle, while Charlotte sat on the right. They did not exchange greetings nor look at one another.
It struck Anna that Charlotte was very alone. She was on the aisle, so she could only have someone on her right. Anna figured that would be a spot reserved for family, but once he had finished reviewing his notes, Bill took that seat space on the pew. He seemed to know the two women and one man to his right, which led Anna to think they were others from the real estate agency. Bill gave Charlotte a comforting hug, followed by the others.
A work family seemed to be all Charlotte had in attendance. Maybe the trip out from New York was too much for Charlotte’s mother.
Anna came up the right side of the church and slipped into a pew at the halfway point. She ended up sitting next to a man in a gray suit who turned and nodded.
“Hello,” he said.
Anna nodded.
He extended a hand. “Harold Foster,” he said.
“Anna White,” she said.
Foster?
There were probably plenty of Fosters in Milford, but Anna was pretty sure that Jill Foster’s husband’s name had been Harold.
He must have sensed the question she wanted to ask but would not. “Yes,” he said. “ That Foster. My wife worked at West Haven.”
“Were you and Paul friends?”
“Not . . . really. But there is, I suppose, a connection.” He took a moment to form his thoughts. “My wife, and Catherine Lamb, and now Paul. All victims, one way or another.”
Anna could see the reasoning.
“Taking his own life,” Foster said, shaking his head. “One can only imagine the torment he was going through.”
Anna could only nod. She was relieved to see the minister heading for the pulpit. “It looks like things are about to begin,” she said.
The minister took his place. He read several passages from the Bible that Anna did not recognize but assumed were relevant. She’d never been particularly religious, and her parents had rarely attended church. The minister called on Bill Myers to say a few words. Bill stood, gave Charlotte’s hand a squeeze, and mounted the steps to the pulpit.
“Boy, this is tough,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a folded sheaf of papers that contained his remarks. “If there were two words to describe Paul, they would have to be good guy. That’s what he was. He was a good guy. But he was more than that. He was a good husband, and he was a wonderful father to his son, Josh.”
Bill looked at Josh, sitting on the front row bench, dwarfed between his mother and stepfather, staring down into his lap. The mention of his name brought his head up briefly.
“And the fact that Josh is such a fine young man is a testament to what a good man Paul was. He was also a devoted educator. He cared about his students. I know that all the people here today from the college would say that about him, too.”
Bill cleared his throat, shuffled his papers. He seemed to have lost his place. He flipped the pages over, his handwritten scribbles briefly visible for the congregation to see.
“Here we are. Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little nervous. I first knew Paul back in our own college days, and we kind of drifted apart after that. Then we both turned out to be living in the same town, and we reconnected. I’m glad I got to know him again, even if it was only for a few years. These last few months were not easy for Paul. He suffer
ed a trauma he clearly could not move past. I think for those of us close to Paul, the signs were right in front of us, but we blinded ourselves to them. We thought things would be okay. There’s a lesson here for us all. When we see friends in trouble, we have to be there for them. We have to do everything we can to make them get help. We can’t assume they’ll pull through.” Bill paused. “I failed Paul in that regard, and have to live with that the rest of my life.”
There were some murmurs in the church. Someone whispered, “He’s being too hard on himself.”
Bill shuffled his papers again, and sniffed. He appeared on the verge of tears.
“I got a lot more stuff written down here, but to be honest, I’d be saying the same thing over and over again. We’ll miss him.” He gazed toward the casket, which had been closed for the service. “We’ll miss you, man, we really will.”
He stepped down and returned to his spot next to Charlotte, head bowed. She patted his back twice.
When the service was over, Harold Foster got up abruptly and cut in front of other mourners to be among the first out of the church. Maybe he was one of those people, Anna mused, who left the baseball game at the top of the ninth. Wanted to beat the rush getting out of the parking lot.
Anna wanted to get out of there as quickly as she could, too, and scanned the church looking for a less crowded exit path. But before she could settle on one, she heard a voice behind her.
“Sad, huh?”
A chill ran the length of her spine. Anna knew the voice. She turned to find Gavin Hitchens standing there in jeans, a sport jacket that was frayed along the lapels, and a loosened plaid tie.
She’d not seen what Paul had done to him. His arm was in a sling, his forehead bandaged. Anna guessed he was favoring one leg, as he had one hand firmly gripped on the back of a church pew for support.
“Gavin,” she said.
“Some cop came by, asking weird questions about Paul, but he never said he was dead. But then I heard about the drowning.” He shook his head. “A real tragedy.”
“Stay away from me.”
She started to turn away when he said, “I’ve got some good news, though.”
A Noise Downstairs Page 24
