When Secrets Die

by Lynn S. Hightower

  I poured dry kibble in a bowl and mixed it with real tuna fish—StarKist, white tuna, packed in oil. Maynard has started losing weight, and it worries me. The vet says his teeth are okay, but he really scarfs down the tuna and I am trying to fatten him up. I am waiting on the result of blood work to see if he has a thyroid problem. He has lost way too much weight, especially since he eats a lot of junk food, courtesy of me, and should therefore be pudgy. Maynard and I have long been crazy about potato chips (salt and vinegar my favorite, sour cream and onion his). The vet visit turned into a senior wellness checkup, long overdue I guess, but the bill came to two hundred and thirty-five dollars. Which would not have been a problem if I had gone to work for Clayton Roubideaux, instead of Emma.

  On the other hand, that was a BMW in my driveway.

  I had a new CD of Brazilian music, which I put in the player. I felt so good that I started up the gas grill outside, and headed for the laundry alcove off the kitchen. The hamper was overflowing. And, if left to Joel, it would take days to get it done. One thing you can say about me is that I am efficient. Whereas Joel would sort the laundry into seventy-three little piles that were not even allowed to touch each other, much less be washed together, I just washed everything in cold water. I opened the top of the washing machine, stuffed in a full load, and set the dials. What took Joel at least eight to ten loads, I could do in three. Sometimes two, if there weren’t a lot of towels. Was Joel ever going to be surprised.

  He was late—around eight-thirty, and he hadn’t bothered to call, which he usually did, but I wasn’t mad. We both have those kinds of jobs. Cops don’t work regular hours, and neither do private investigators. And Joel, moving up in the rank of detectives, often worked late to clear the paperwork from his desk. He likes to leave a clean desk before he leaves the office. I find this odd, since it’ll just get messed up again the next day, but there is no need to be critical.

  Dinner was ready by the time I heard Joel’s key in the lock. One load of clothes was in the dryer, the other sloshing through the wash, and I was curled up on the couch smoking one of the cigars I had found in Emma Marsden’s glove compartment. I mean, my glove compartment. I had planned, when I saw them, to return them to her tomorrow, but later I had gone out and brought them into the house. I thought that Joel and I could have a celebratory smoke after dinner.

  He didn’t say hello when he came through the door, but I was used to that. Joel isn’t overly vocal, and he comes home looking grim until he transits from the world of work to the comforts of home.

  “Hey, baby!”

  He stood at the edge of the living room, blinking. Well, the lights were bright. I tend to turn all of them on.

  He only glanced at me and frowned, and I realized he was looking for the owner of that beautiful car in the driveway. He didn’t know he was looking right at her.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Just me.”

  “Just you?”

  “Me and Maynard Kitty.”

  “Then whose car is parked in our driveway?”

  “Mine.”

  “Lena, there’s a BMW sports car in the driveway, are you totally oblivious?”

  Actually, he didn’t really say “are you totally oblivious,” but clearly he was thinking it.

  “I know, I know, it’s mine! Ours! You can drive it whenever you want, I’ll share it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “You bought a car?”

  “Right, with the jingling change right out of my pocket. Or did you think I got a loan? And who in their right mind would loan me money?”

  “Is this something where the dealer lets you drive it home to try it out?”

  “I don’t think they let BMWs off the lot like that.”

  “Well, this one is obviously … used.”

  “You mean that big son of a bitch dent beside the driver’s door? I don’t care, Joel. How else am I ever going to afford a car like that?”

  He walked over and gave me a kiss, and just looked at me, waiting for an explanation. He looked tired. Not a good day. He is dark, hair and skin tones. Eyes deep brown. He has lost most of that air of world-weariness he used to carry around like the hump on a camel, but there is something sad in his eyes that will never go away.

  “It’s payment, from my new client.”

  “New client? If they can palm you off with a BMW, they can afford to pay you cash.”

  “Palm me off? Joel, you make me feel like that character in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ coming home with magic beans.”

  “You mean Jack?”

  “I do if he’s the one who gets the heat for screwing up.”

  “Nobody ever gives you money, Lena. You always come home with magic beans.”

  “What’s wrong with that, so long as they’re magic?”

  “It’s just not …”

  “Sensible? The norm? What, Joel?”

  “Practical.”

  “Speaking of practical, I cooked. And don’t even start to get that look on your face. It’s my kitchen too.”

  “Is it corn casserole?”

  To his credit, his tone was pleasant. But I never cook corn casserole for Joel anymore, he just doesn’t appreciate it like me and Maynard. It’s an easy dish, creamed corn with potato chips crumbled over the top, baking time a scant twenty minutes.

  “Grilled chicken, dirty rice, and peas.”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

  “We’re out of wine. But I do have cigars. Good ones—Portofinos!”

  “As always, Lena, you surprise me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Headlights arced in through the living room blinds, a car in our driveway, sometime around eleven o’clock. Then the doorbell rang, which was awkward since we were naked, entwined on the couch, and smoking those Portofinos.

  “Lena, you are so restless. Can’t you be still for five minutes?”

  “The doorbell rang.”

  “Did it? Probably a wrong number.”

  “You couldn’t hear it over your snoring. See? Your cigar went out.”

  I stood up, pulling on my jeans.

  “Always bouncing around these days. You used to be so restful, Lena.”

  “You mean depressed.”

  “I found it attractive.”

  I couldn’t find my bra or my sweater, so I grabbed Joel’s shirt, buttoning it up quickly. Whoever it was, I’d get rid of fast. Weirdly late for someone at the door.

  “I’m too tired for bad news,” Joel said.

  “Maybe it’s a mortgage lender wanting us to refinance. They’re getting so aggressive these days.”

  I opened the door. The air outside was chilled, the first blast of fall, and a trio of leaves blew in when I opened the storm door to admit my ex-husband and his woman.

  “What a wonderful time to drop in,” I said.

  “Lena, you didn’t look through the peephole.” Rick gave me two kisses on each cheek.

  Judith hugged me. “Sorry. I know it’s late. But Rick insisted.”

  Rick waved a hand. “Oh, please, Judith, it’s never too late for family.”

  “Or never late enough,” I said.

  Rick paused. He was still wearing the black sweater and khakis, and a pair of fake eyeglasses. “What does that mean?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t analyze it, Rick, just accept the insult.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask us in? Or are you giving Joel time to get his clothes on?” Rick grinned at me and pointed to the shirt, which was buttoned seriously out of sequence, causing obvious bunching along the midsection. He raised his voice. “Are you decent yet, Joel? Are you wearing her shirt since she’s got yours?” Rick covered his eyes and wandered into the living room.

  “I brought you something,” Judith said. She’d changed clothes. Levi jeans that fit her loosely and a white work shirt. Her work shirts were always white, and always smudgy looking since she worked with metal and oil paint for a living. “Come look, it’s in the trunk. We brought your car back, by the
way.”

  “My Miata? You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, we did. The neighborhood association has been sending us notices about you leaving it on the front lawn.”

  “How picky. It’s a commercial area.”

  “I know. And I thought it could wait till morning. The truth is Rick saw you drive away in the BMW and then not come back for your car and he was antsy about it.”

  “Why didn’t he call?”

  “He did.”

  “Oh. That’s right, the phone did ring. I must have been … doing the dishes.”

  She just grinned at me, then opened the trunk of her 1968 Caddy convertible. Solid white, red leather interior. “I have a wedding present for you.”

  It was a fireplace screen, heavy, the metal intricately worked in baroque curlicues, and it had been painted chalk white. “I’m getting tired of black and I’m painting things. I just put a lavender one in our bedroom. I somehow thought—for your living room—pure white. To offset the red walls.”

  It took my breath away. “I love it, Judith. I’m honored.” I gave her a hug.

  Judith’s metal works were so highly in demand that it would take years for her to fill every order that came her way. Her solution was to work only on what interested her, since she swore that anything else stifled her creative process. People took her to task for that—some of them other artists who wrote articles about her in the newspapers, along the lines of artists have to work in order to eat, or they are being unprofessional. Her usual reply was that it was her creative process, so fuck off.

  Judith being Judith, the projects she chose would have no relation to what brought in money. Only, since Judith was Judith and one of those magic people, they did bring in money, and a lot of it. She and Rick were rolling these days. It couldn’t have happened to a more perfect woman. Too bad it didn’t happen to Rick when I was married to him.

  She put a hand on my shoulder when I reached in the trunk to pick it up.

  “That’s man’s work, honey. Let’s go inside and have a drink. They can figure out how to get it in later. I just wanted you to see it. Sure you like it?” And she grinned. She knew I did.

  I followed her through the door. “Wait a minute. Did you say wedding present? Because Joel and I—”

  “Shhh, don’t say that word so loud in front of the men. They’ll spook.”

  “This isn’t one of your psychic things, is it? Or are you just messing with me? Joel and I haven’t even talked or even thought or—”

  I stopped, because for a minute I thought Joel did have on one of my shirts. But it was his, only smaller.

  “What happened to your shirt?” I asked him.

  “It was like this when I found it. In the dryer.”

  Rick put a hand to his head. “Oh, my Lord Jesus. Don’t tell me you let her do laundry?”

  Joel looked sadly down at his jeans, which were gaping open because they could not be fastened. “With Lena, it’s never a matter of letting or not letting.”

  There must be something wrong with the washing machine, I thought. I said, “There must be something wrong with the washing machine. Judith? Beer?”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Wine if you have it,” Rick said.

  “Beer then.”

  I went to the refrigerator, smiled fondly at the dirty dishes on the countertops, pleased that I had gotten Joel out of the kitchen before the dishes were done, though I’ve never known any man to refuse what Joel had not been able to refuse either. I like it when men are predictable.

  There were chilled beer flutes in the freezer, thanks to Joel, who was more of a homemaker than I’d ever be. But I didn’t want to add to the considerable mess I’d made cooking dinner, so I took the beer out in bottles. I checked the washing machine on my way back through. Definitely on cold water. I wasn’t stupid, for God’s sake.

  I made two trips, handing round beers. Joel had gone upstairs to slip into something a little more comfortable, and came back in his favorite pair of paint-splattered sweatpants just as Judith was lighting up a cigar.

  “Sooo bad for you,” Rick said.

  She smiled and blew smoke his way, then handed it to him across the room so he could take a puff. He inhaled deeply and looked so much like a man enjoying good sex that Joel and I exchanged looks. Rick was doing it on purpose, of course.

  Rick waved a hand, and made a sad little face when Judith took it away from him. “Those sweatpants look inhumanly comfortable, don’t you dare let Lena get near them.”

  I peeled at the edges of the label on my beer bottle. “I don’t know what happened to the clothes, Rick, but it wasn’t anything I did.”

  “No, of course not, dear. Juvenile delinquents broke into your laundry room and shrank them while you and Joel were deep in … discussion, there on the couch.”

  “What’s with the glasses, Rick? You don’t have to be in character here. Take them off.”

  My ex is an actor. He runs a debt rescue service now, where he fends off creditors for people in financial distress. The name of the business is You’re In The Right Place, and he’s good at his job because he used to be a debt collector, to his everlasting shame. Which is what he used to do between acting jobs, which meant he did it a lot. I know most of his “characters” and their props because I was there in the old days when he created them.

  “Those are real,” Judith said.

  “Real?”

  “Just reading glasses, Lena Bina. And don’t try and change the subject. Shall I tell them how you did laundry when we met?”

  “No, you shallent.”

  He took the cigar back from Judith and puffed away. There was no point in offering him his own. He and Judith always smoked together, a small intimacy I somewhat envied and admired. Rick had loved me very much, way back when, but he was absolutely mad for Judith. Well, we all were. She was just that kind of person. If I had to choose between her and Rick, naturally, I’d have to choose her.

  Rick looked at Joel. “Lena Bina used to leave the washing machine lid up, as a matter of course, and just shove her clothes in right after she took them off, then dash naked across the apartment to get dressed. After the washing machine was full, she’d dump in twice the soap required, then wash the clothes on HOT water, with the water level on low. Then she’d forget about them and by the time she got them into the dryer, they’d had a good two or three days to stay wadded up and wet and get nice and sour smelling, which is something you can’t always wash out.”

  “Rick, that only happened one time, and it was an experiment to see if the no-trouble system would work. I just didn’t happen to check the water level.”

  Rick dismissed me with a wave of the cigar, which he handed over to Judith. “The lesson is, Joel, don’t let her near a washing machine.”

  “Rick, do you know how annoying it is that you always tease me like I’m your sub-intelligent little sister?”

  “Lena, considering that we were married, don’t you consider that remark … I don’t know, vaguely incestuous? Even for Kentucky?”

  “Depends on what you mean by vaguely. As in too vaguely … or not enough?”

  I saw Judith give Joel a look. They knew we couldn’t help it.

  “Oh oh oh there he is my little Maynard Kitty.”

  That was sure to piss Joel off. Maynard loves only me and Rick, no matter how much Joel makes up to him.

  Maynard struggled to jump into Rick’s lap. “Oh, baby,” Rick said, scooping the cat gently up. Rick looked at me sadly. Maynard was getting very old.

  He settled the cat into the “meatloaf” position that Maynard favored, then tilted his head up and raised an eyebrow. “What’s with leaving your car in my front yard and driving away in a BMW? Have you come into money or something?”

  Joel laughed unkindly and muttered something about magic beans.

  “It’s my fee for a new case.”

  “Lena Bina, do you never ever get paid in actual dollars? Even euros would be—�
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  “Rick, I don’t remember asking for your opinion or advice. Or yours either, Joel.”

  Rick looked at Joel, who refrained from making the comment he no doubt wanted to make.

  “What makes any of you think this subject is open to discussion?” I said. “Because I promise all of you, it’s not.”

  Rick just gave me the mysterious smile. It was quite mysterious, so clearly he’d been working on it.

  “What’s the case?” Judith asked. “Is your client the woman you were in the restaurant with?”

  “Yes. Her name is Emma Marsden. She’s the one you’ve been reading about in the papers.”

  I noticed that Joel was sitting up a little straighter.

  “The Munchausen Mama?” Rick said.

  “I don’t believe in Munchausen’s.”

  “What is it, anyway?” Judith asked.

  “Oh, you know, the one where the mother makes her child sick so she can get attention.” Rick raised an eyebrow at me. “Lena, of course, will predictably think that the entire syndrome is made up by evil men to keep perfect women under their thumb.”

  I nodded. Rick, as usual, had nailed it.

  “Except it does happen,” Joel said.

  I looked at him.

  “I’ve seen it, Lena.”

  I shook my head at him.

  “Videotapes, made in hospitals, where the mother actually injected the child with something, air bubbles. Or put a pillow over their face to suffocate them.”

  “Are you telling me this is common, Joel?”

  “No, rare. More accusations than proof, and I’m aware of at least three other incidents where this particular doctor made an accusation that didn’t stick.”

  We all turned to look at him, Judith, Rick, and myself.

  “You seem very up-to-date on the subject, since I just talked to the woman today and took her case a few hours ago.” And awfully forthcoming with information, I thought, but did not add, because I did not want to impede the flow.

  Joel stared at me. “There will be something in the newspapers tomorrow. Maybe on the news, concerning Emma Marsden.”

  “Which naturally you can’t tell us about,” I said.