Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Right now, standing in front of the reception counter waiting to be called, that face had assumed an obdurate expression that looked suspiciously like the one she saw in her own mirror from time to time.

  ‘‘Short,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s my hair. The bowl cut is for kids.’’

  ‘‘I’m the one that has to look at it.’’

  ‘‘I’m the one that has to wash it and push it out of my eyes.’’

  She resigned herself. At least he didn’t want to dye it crimson like Taylor Nordholm’s. Yet. ‘‘So long as you keep something around your ears. I can’t stand it when they cut the sideburns off.’’

  Bob’s name was called and he went into the linoleumed pit to his assigned hair station, where a young lady with a golden stud in her eyebrow bent over him. They consulted. Bob didn’t look Nina’s way.

  It’s the invitation to the dance, Nina thought. It’s Germany. He wants to look more grown-up. She didn’t want that at all. Sitting down on the bench, she buried her nose in Elle magazine, but the rest of her went back to Collier and the lake.

  After a long time Bob came to her, beaming. He looked like an underage Marine recruit. All traces of sideburns had been buzzed away. On top of his skull some hair had been retained to lead an uneasy existence, standing at attention at this and that angle. His chin seemed to have lengthened an inch or two.

  She reached out a wondering hand and felt the stiff spikes. He had been moussed.

  He was ecstatic.

  ‘‘Oh, Bob,’’ she said.

  They went on to Matt and Andrea’s to watch a kung-fu flick. The cousins and Matt assembled in the darkened living room in front of the fire and sounds of grunting and banging started up. While Nina heated the limp tostadas in the kitchen microwave, Andrea handed her some iced tea. ‘‘Come on, cheer up. He looks good,’’ she said. ‘‘Très chic.’’

  ‘‘If you’re modeling for Soldier of Fortune. Next he’ll join a vigilante group and start hoarding guns.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be such a mom. He just wants to try something new. It’s natural. He’s thirteen. Ride with it.’’

  ‘‘Your turn will come, Andrea. Troy’s not that far behind.’’ She took a tostada out and set it on a paper plate. ‘‘How’s it going at the shelter?’’ Andrea managed the Tahoe Women’s Shelter, which had twenty-two beds and a new backyard playground, thanks to one of Nina’s old clients, Lindy Markov.

  ‘‘Calmer than usual. The husbands and boyfriends are too exhausted laying in wood for winter, finding their tire chains and shoveling snow to cause trouble. Plenty of jobs since the ski resorts are all opening early. So the domestic violence quotient is way down. We have six women and their kids right now getting themselves together. Manageable.’’

  Cantonese expletives and savage thrashing sounds came from the living room. ‘‘We could adjourn to the hot tub,’’ Andrea said, inclining her head toward the back door.

  ‘‘A capital idea.’’ Nina called to Bob to pick up his plate, and she and Andrea went to the icy patio. They pulled the lid off the wooden tub. Steam geysered up.

  ‘‘Oh, yes,’’ Andrea moaned, dribbling her fingers in the water. They got naked and hopped in.

  Pure return-to-the-womb physical bliss. They lay there, the hot water tickling their chins, legs floating, spread out and justified, women under the stars taking their ease.

  ‘‘So how’s your love life?’’ Andrea said lazily.

  Startled, Nina fell into a rigorous examination of her toes, which jutted like tiny icebergs into the mist. At least no Titanic was in sight yet.

  ‘‘Heard from Paul?’’ Andrea said, on the scent now.

  ‘‘Not for a while.’’

  ‘‘Enjoying the serenity of the cloister?’’ A clump of snow fell from the pine overhead into the water, sizzling and dying instantly.

  ‘‘Not exactly. There I go again,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Love puts a spell on me and I’m helpless. Lines from a song Sandy plays over and over.’’

  ‘‘Sandy? Our Sandy?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Something’s going on with that woman.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Yet.’’

  They soaked quietly for a while. Nina began drifting into a reverie featuring the failed relationships of her past.

  ‘‘Nothing but grief, every doggone time,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Why can’t I just live alone and be happy and content, Andrea? Why do I have to be tortured with loneliness and driven right back into it?’’

  ‘‘Aw, there you go again,’’ Andrea said. ‘‘Self-pity puts a spell on you and you’re helpless.’’

  They both laughed.

  ‘‘So who is he?’’ Andrea said. ‘‘Tell dear old Auntie Andrea.’’ She put her arms behind her head and twisted her auburn hair into a knot, somehow tucking it so it stayed put without benefit of a rubber band. The cross she wore floated above her freckled chest.

  ‘‘I can’t talk about it. It’s too soon.’’ Nina really wanted to spill it, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know what had happened yet, so how could she describe it?

  ‘‘He must be goooood,’’ Andrea said, pleased at hitting pay dirt. ‘‘Judging by that flustered look on your face.’’

  Nina turned onto her stomach and stretched out, arching her back to take out more crinks from the wood-stacking of the day before. ‘‘If I ever get married again, it’s going to be a rational decision. I’ll do like the French. Marry for money, stability . . . companionship.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ said Andrea. ‘‘Marry an accountant with agoraphobia. He’ll never leave ya.’’

  ‘‘It never lasts,’’ Nina said. ‘‘You know it doesn’t. Look at the women at the shelter. They were all in love once. Some of them still are.’’

  ‘‘I got lucky. I got your brother. It lasted. You know, Paul really did love you.’’

  ‘‘I know. And I owe him so much. He saved my life up there on Angora Ridge. But we never should have gotten involved. I had to think about real life. Like—he doesn’t like kids. He and Bob didn’t hit it off. And he wouldn’t leave Carmel. And I won’t leave Tahoe.’’

  ‘‘And he got on your nerves.’’

  ‘‘He was out of control, you know that, Andrea. He’s—he’s unpredictable and wild. I told you what he did to Jeff Riesner.’’

  ‘‘But you miss him?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Nina said. ‘‘All the excitement. Anyway, it’s over.’’ They meditated on this for some time, eyes closed, floating.

  Then Andrea said in a sprightly voice, ‘‘But love springs eternal.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Andrea. How can you spout romanticisms with the work you do every day?’’

  ‘‘You’re still young. You can fight all you want, but Nature’s gonna have her way with you.’’

  ‘‘She already did,’’ Nina mumbled, sinking deeper into the water.

  Andrea laughed again.

  They stayed in the water for a long time, talking. It was one of those rare occasions when their children were near and taken care of, and neither had something urgent to do. They covered a lot of ground. Eventually, Andrea started in on codes of honor. She thought every woman should figure out her own. She was leading discussions at the shelter about it, and writing an article about it for the social worker’s journal.

  ‘‘I tell them, your mother taught it to you, even though you may not realize it. It comes from your spirit, not your brain. It’s your source of dignity.’’

  ‘‘What’s your code of honor, then?’’ Nina asked.

  ‘‘Family first. Alleviate the suffering, don’t add to it.

  Look ’em right in the eye, and let ’em have it if you have to.’’ Andrea pantomimed a bomb exploding through the steam.

  ‘‘You’re a wise old crone, even if you are only thirty-two.’’

  ‘‘That’s my ambition. To be an old grandma with lots of grandkids playing on the stoop while I cook up a kettle of borscht in the ki
tchen. I can’t wait till my seventies.’’

  ‘‘No. Really?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. That’ll be my prime.’’

  Driving home through the dark snow-lined streets, Nina had to concentrate to keep from falling asleep. The spike-haired commando next to her drowsed into the headrest. Few other cars disturbed them. The heater blasted but she didn’t need it because she was warm from the core. Her wet hair sent rivulets down her neck.

  She had checked when she got in, and the Tecnicas hadn’t gotten up and tramped away yet. Tomorrow morning she would deal with them.

  Hitchcock met them at the door and she let him run around the yard for a few minutes. When he whimpered outside she opened the door, towel ready, and he came running in, white-muzzled, frosty-breathed. She wiped his feet and jaws and he trotted to his blanket-covered beanbag beside her tall pine bed as she climbed between the sheets. Bob had already gone to sleep downstairs.

  She began thinking about Heidi’s parting words— something about Jim’s arm, and the thinking imperceptibly melted into dreaming. This time Jim was skiing down a steep run waving his Popeye forearms and she was trying to ski alongside and have a look, but she looked down to find flip flops on her feet instead of skis and she began somersaulting backward, head over heels down a cliff, a girl named Misty beside her. . . . The phone rang, and she struggled for it.

  ‘‘It’s me.’’ Collier’s voice was hoarse.

  She found that tremendously interesting. ‘‘I’m here.’’

  ‘‘I know it’s late but I couldn’t sleep until I talked to you. You better shut me down right now. You regret it, don’t you? You’ve decided it was a mistake, right?’’

  ‘‘Tomorrow afternoon about three?’’ Nina said. ‘‘I couldn’t stay long. We could have coffee.’’

  ‘‘I’d like to come over there right now.’’ These half-growled words brought on a blast of sexual heat.

  ‘‘God, Collier,’’ Nina said, kicking off the covers.

  ‘‘Shall I?’’

  ‘‘No. No, my son’s here.’’

  ‘‘Tell me you want me to, though.’’

  ‘‘I—I want you to. But don’t come.’’

  ‘‘All right. Could you pick me up at my place? I’m closer to town. Here’s the address.’’ He told her the address, and she didn’t bother to write it down, even in her sleep-addled state.

  She wasn’t going to forget it.

  8

  SATURDAY. A nasty thought rocketed her up from her dream launch pad. Sunlight streamed onto her comforter from the window that looked onto the street, the one with the blinds she had forgotten to pull. Sweating and gasping, she rolled out, found her slippers, glanced at her watch—too early, far too early—and turned the spigots on the shower in the bathroom to which she had half-consciously staggered.

  The Tecnicas! Flaming red and vulnerable in the back seat! Had she even locked the Bronco out there in the driveway? How could she have gone through the whole evening and never once checked out the bottoms of those things? What if they were striped, or diamond-shaped, or had some clear incised pattern that was repeated on Alex Strong’s body? She still hadn’t seen the autopsy pictures, and the report had been vague. Doc Clauson was keeping his options open.

  Warm water ran into her mouth as she caught her breath again. What if there was a clear correspondence between boots and skin? What if these particular boots could actually be linked forensically to the injury?

  Then it would be a murder. Then the case would be at an end, not at the beginning. Maybe Clinton’s lawyers could dream up a defense; Nina didn’t think she could.

  She caught the upsetting thought that had awakened her, that Jim might be guilty. She hadn’t consciously considered that before—the whole idea was bizarre! He couldn’t be! He couldn’t have been lying in her office that day. No one could lie that well.

  The anxious feeling grew. She became convinced that the boots wouldn’t be in the Bronco. They glowed in her mind like plutonium. She pulled on her robe and ran outside in the snow, tugged at the back door— locked, but she could see the Nordstrom’s bag in back. A moment later she had the key in the door and was pulling a boot out of the bag, using a corner of the robe to keep her fingerprints away, turning it over and—

  Gray metal with a heel plate and treads regularly spaced, set horizontally, chevron-shaped. Imagine someone designing the bottom of a boot with such care and deliberation, setting specifications for a mold . . . She pulled out the other one. A matching set. You didn’t have to be a lab tech to see those grooves, she thought. They might show up on the body after all—

  No body! Alex had been cremated. So all they had were photographs, and Doc Clauson opining on the witness stand.

  If it showed on the photos of the body, then. Collier would have those autopsy photos blown up to Imax size, and . . .

  No, there would be no need for blowups. If the patterning matched, she would be over at the D.A.’s office pleading for Jim’s life.

  On the other hand, there might not be a mark, she thought. I’m just considering all the possibilities that the police are considering. Fair enough. What’s the matter, really? What’s frightening me so much?

  She thought again to herself, it’s spooking me, everything in this case. Heidi, that terrible word, ‘‘transection,’’ in the autopsy report, Philip Strong’s indifference and talk about Alex’s ghost, the actuality of the big red boots that would have crushed anything under them . . .

  She went back inside the house where her son and her dog still slept and put the boots on the kitchen table. While she made coffee, she thought about it some more.

  She was being irrational, panicking over shadows. If no corresponding pattern showed up on the photos, the seams on the bottom of the boots could also prove Jim’s innocence. And what jury would ever believe a man would undress his brother and cold-bloodedly do that to him?

  She needed the autopsy photos for Ginger, and she didn’t have them, and she couldn’t get them. All Ginger would have was the boots, if Collier didn’t show up with a search warrant for her house and find them in the next half hour. Was he capable of that? Of course he was.

  She got on the phone to a courier, who promised to come right over to pick up the package. The boots went into a box marked ‘‘Personal and Confidential’’ with Ginger’s home address in Sacramento on it.

  Ten minutes later she heard the knock on her door, and a girl from the licensed and bonded company she used took the box away, promising Ginger would have it by noon.

  Then she called Sandy to ask her if she could reach Marianne Strong. Alex’s wife could help her picture the family better, maybe give her some facts to defuse the police investigation.

  Bob sat in the kitchen munching on his cereal, sleep-dazed. She went onto the back deck and looked out at the forest. The heavy-laden trees sent a fine drizzle down as the snow melted on the branches. The top layer of snow in the backyard had liquefied, but they wouldn’t be seeing the ground again until March.

  Her thoughts turned once more to the Donner Party, as they so often did when the snow began to fall. For months the eighty pioneers had starved in the woods near the North Shore during the late fall and winter of 1846, too inexperienced to find food. Many had died by the time the first party of rescuers arrived in the early spring of 1847, and what they found astonished them.

  The starving pioneers were lying out in the snow enjoying a sunbath on a glorious sunny day, the surviving children playing at some game, ignoring the corpses of the dead strewn here and there.

  In the worst extremity, the grotesque begins to feel normal, she thought.

  She had been making love, relaxing in a hot tub, eating dinner, while all along Alex Strong lay broken in her mind, a corpse in the snow. The notion that the police were investigating whether Jim Strong had jumped on his injured brother with those heavy red boots meant for joy and fun was impossibly savage and ugly, but she was about to get dressed and throw a load of laundry i
n the washer anyway.

  She and Bob would go out and play, take the sled and climb the neighborhood sledding hill. They would eat pizza at Brown Bear Pizza.

  Part of her, the mother part, would be there.

  Before three, Bob settled down with his homework in his room. Nina went into her bedroom and called the number Collier had given her the night before. ‘‘Yes?’’ he said on the first ring.

  ‘‘I can’t come.’’

  ‘‘Oh. I’m disappointed. I’ve been sitting here thinking about you. I really want to see you.’’

  ‘‘I’ve sort of come to my senses.’’

  ‘‘Couldn’t we wait on that? Before we start analyzing?’’

  ‘‘I’ve got a client you’re looking at for a homicide. How can we see each other while that’s going on?’’

  Collier said, ‘‘I just think we’re two lonely people who got an unexpected gift. Let me see you. I can’t talk about this on the phone.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Bob’s doing his homework.’’

  ‘‘You told me once we can look for happiness even in the middle of the work we do. You even made a pass at me.’’

  ‘‘I remember. You were so exhausted that you fell asleep in the middle of a clinch. It was probably a wise move.’’

  ‘‘I’m not asleep any more. Did you notice? At Homewood yesterday?’’ He had her smiling a little.

  ‘‘What do you want, Collier?’’ she said. ‘‘I can’t see you. I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘Where do you live?’’ he said. ‘‘Let me stop by later. Just for a few minutes. Just to talk.’’

  ‘‘Just to talk? Nothing more? Get this cleared up?’’ Nina said.

  ‘‘I promise.’’

  ‘‘Okay, then. About eight?’’ She told him where she lived and hung up the phone.

  She felt immediately that she had made a mistake inviting him to come over. She couldn’t help it though. The phone call had made her hungry to see him, even if it was only for a minute.