A Bitch Called Hope

by Lily Gardner

  Gary, the piano player, started in with “My Favorite Things.” Raindrops on roses for Pete’s sake. The waiter brought a new pot of tea and a plate of cakes. Lennox helped herself to the layered torte and watched her mother. Aurora looked truly horrified. Whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles.

  “I’m sorry,” Lennox said. “If this is too upsetting, we can talk about my Christmas list. Or your Christmas list.”

  “But she’s innocent.”

  “I don’t mean to be crass,” Lennox said. “But really, Aurora, put the whole ‘these things don’t happen to people like us’ issue aside. Bill made a ton of money and from what I’ve heard in the last few days, he was a womanizer. Maybe Delia wanted a divorce, maybe she just wanted him gone.”

  “What she went through with that man,” Aurora said. “Time after time he’d swear he’d never do it again.” She sighed. “I told her leave him, but those Catholics are like geese. They mate for life.”

  “So she gets herself a Texas divorce,” Lennox said. “No messy entanglements, just kill the no-good so-and-so.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Her party took months of planning. You can’t tell me Delia spent all that time working her patootie to the bone to murder her husband in front of her two boys and all of her friends.”

  Aurora definitely had a point. And it was a whole lot more compelling than the statistics. “Tell Delia to hire Bowersox, Kline and Hansen,” Lennox said. “They’re the best criminal attorneys in town.”

  “Criminal? They’re going to arrest her?” Aurora’s hand shook badly enough that she splashed tea on her sleeve. She set her cup down. “You have to do something! You have to help her. We’ll drive over there this afternoon. You can tell her what to do.”

  Lennox said. “It’s unprofessional for me to stick my nose in police business and advise a person under investigation.”

  “What do you mean unprofessional?” Aurora’s voice grew shrill. “This is your profession.”

  Delia hadn’t been charged with anything, but Lennox couldn’t help hoping for a chance. “If Delia hired me,” she said.

  “Is that all that’s stopping you?” Aurora said. “Give me your card. I’m going there tomorrow for dinner.”

  There. It was happening. Lennox would make her pitch to Delia. And to hell with poaching on Tommy’s turf. Tommy was just going to have to deal with it. But could Aurora be trusted to make a pitch to Delia?

  Lennox leaned over in her chair and pulled a cell phone out of her handbag. “Let’s call her. We can drop over this afternoon.”

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Lennox was still in her pajamas with her first cup of coffee, reading the headlines in The Oregonian. Cyclists fighting with motorists, another climber lost on Mount Hood. She stretched her legs beneath the dining room table and read her horoscope: “Fleeting attractions instill restlessness. You must work hard to preserve valuable relationships.” She must. A gust of wind blew against the windows. The sky was the color of lead. She turned to the Metro section and read the headline: “Wife Indicted in Council Crest Murder.” Followed by: “An indictment was filed this morning against sixty-four-year-old Delia Pike on one count of first degree murder.”

  “Yes!” She threw her head back and wolf-howled to the gods of good fortune. Then immediately felt super guilty that her good luck was due to Delia’s misfortune. Delia, who had been nothing but sweet to Lennox her whole life. That was the thing about luck: its laws were those of scarcity. Lennox was still reading when the phone rang. Aurora. The old dear probably hadn’t seen seven in the morning in a couple of decades.

  “I want you to go to that jail right now,” she said. “And post bail or whatever it is you do.”

  Lennox explained some of the finer points of the judicial system to her mother. Lennox could’ve conducted a tutorial on jurisprudence and taken Aurora grocery shopping in the bargain, so brimming to the top was she with goodwill.

  Later that morning Lennox got the call from Delia’s attorneys: Bowersox, Kline and Hansen. Could Lennox meet with Mr. Kline tomorrow at ten in the morning? He wanted an informal interview to see if they were a good fit to work together.

  “I look forward to it.” Lennox struggled to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  It was altogether a very satisfying day spent canceling surveillance jobs, billing clients, updating her resume.

  By dinnertime the rain had lightened to mist. Lennox had pressed her suit and polished her shoes. The doorbell rang just as she was debating whether to get a middling bottle of wine from the corner store or take the time to go to the supermarket for a bottle of champagne.

  Tommy Pavlik stood on her porch, his hair curled in the damp, the stubble on his cheeks more serious than five o’clock shadow. Not a glimpse of him in a year and now he was practically a fixture. Curious how the fact of Tommy didn’t excite her the way she imagined it would when she spent all those lonely nights missing him. But no reason she should celebrate alone. She opened the door and saw that he cradled a long florist’s box in both arms.

  “You’re growing back your beard,” she said.

  His face the picture of entreaty as he extended the box of flowers. “This is for you.”

  “Linda must’ve given you back the checkbook.”

  Okay, so she was being the kind of ex always trying to squeeze off a cheap shot. It’s easy to despise such a person, but what they don’t tell you is how good it feels. Lennox sighed. “Well, come in, then,” she said.

  And he did, smelling of rain and clover, tugging at her resolve. “The place looks different,” he said, looking around her living room. “You’ve got grown-up furniture. You must be doing all right.”

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Very nice,” he said. “Maybe I should come work for you.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. “Hand me down that vase, would you?” she said.

  While he stretched up to open the cupboard over the fridge, she lifted the cover of the florist box. A dozen long stem reds. They didn’t smell so much like roses as they did a florist shop. That was nice, too.

  He handed her the vase and magicked a bottle of expensive-looking cabernet from his inside pocket. “I was hoping I could talk you into a glass of wine,” he said.

  Hell, why not? Red roses and cabernet: better than champagne. And look at him: that lean body, that cute little left turn his nose took. He was as adorable as ever, and for just that second, her endorphins or hormones or whatever they were made her want to jump his bones right there on the kitchen floor.

  Forget it. She’d sooner tattoo “loser” across her face than act on that particular impulse.

  “I just got a new case,” she said.

  “That’s great,” he said, then walked over to the drawer by the left of the sink and pulled out the corkscrew.

  “Hand me the pruners, would you?” she said.

  He knew her kitchen as well as she did. And that intimacy was more seductive than the roses. Only problem was he would leave and the space would close up behind him, leaving her alone again.

  She trimmed the end off a rose and set it in the vase. The rain started up, spattering across the dark windows, Tommy’s reflection behind hers in the pane.

  He handed her a glass of wine. “Let’s toast to your new job,” he said. “Maybe you’ll take me out to dinner with all your money.”

  They clicked glasses. She took a sip. It tasted like jammy fruit and smoke. After she swallowed it, black pepper tap-danced across her tongue.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  He watched her, looking the world like he was waiting for a signal.

  “Fast work on that indictment,” she said. Sounded friendly enough only it wouldn’t seem all that friendly once he realized she was working for the other side.

  “Slam dunk,” he said.

  “Why would she throw a big do and then kill her husband in front of what, sixty witnesses?” Lennox stood a rose in the vase.

  �
�Who knows?” He leaned forward and topped her wine glass. “The old gal was so ripped on diet pills she couldn’t keep her story straight.”

  It bugged her that he would insinuate that Delia was a user. Delia was a nice lady. Lennox said, “She just lost her husband.”

  “Because she murdered his ass,” he said. “We got a smudge of her lipstick on the murder weapon.”

  She looked up from arranging the flowers. “Murder weapon?”

  “Sorry, Dish.” And he looked sorry, he really did. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Now that I’m a civilian.”

  The Land of Civilian was a dry, bitter place where you sat in your car staring at drawn curtains and closed doors for hours on end, where everything was a big freaking secret.

  “I’ll put these on the table,” she said. “Carry my wine, would you?”

  He followed her from the table to the sofa. “I miss this,” he said.

  She looked at him sprawled on her sofa, bright and shiny in his date clothes, his eyes reflecting the lamplight. She missed this, too. Missed him lounging on her furniture. Missed him talking shop, back when he could. Missed it a lot. But that was the thing with Tommy: you went through your whole life craving these little pockets of time and missing them for more time than you had them.

  He set his wine on the coffee table and leaned towards her. She could smell the brand of shampoo he used, the wine on his breath. Quick as a cat he hooked his little finger under her necklace and pulled the chain out from the collar of her shirt. Her traitor flesh jittered to his touch. A slow grin spread across his face. The necklace was a plain gold heart and a gold-plated handcuffs key. A real handcuffs key. A gift from him years ago when they first became lovers. He meant it to be romantic and naughty. That was Tommy.

  “This necklace is not about you,” she said.

  He said, “I’m glad you’re still wearing it.” His finger traced the line of gold chain around her neck. “What do you say I make a fire?”

  She batted his hand away, wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You’re not staying that long,” she said.

  “I’ve got all night, Dish.”

  “Stop touching me! Are you nuts?” she said.

  He put his hands up and leaned back, finally serious.

  “You never have all night,” she said.

  He was watching her, a complicated look on his face she’d never seen before. Bet your last dollar her truth-o-meter was pegged deep in the red.

  “What the hell is going on?” she said.

  “I’ll divorce her. Just give me two years. Luke will be in junior high. Old enough to have a say in custodial rights. I’ll marry you.” He tipped Lennox’s chin up so she’d look in his eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

  The sorry thing was how he could possibly imagine that she’d wait around another two years. After what they’d been through, not another two weeks.

  “What I want,” she said, “is you to have already left Linda.” She stood up from the sofa, took his jacket from the chair back. “Go home, Tommy.”

  He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Wait,” he said. “I know two years is a long time, but this time I’ll really go through with it. That’s why I stayed away so long, because I didn’t want to ask you to wait.”

  She shook her head. “Not good enough.”

  “Friends,” he said. “We can be friends. You’ll see, two years will go by and I’ll be free.”

  Friends. Lennox had a whole lot of male friends. It went without saying male friends don’t talk much about relationships or feelings. Makeup, or Botox or OB-GYNs. But the fundamentals were the same: friends believed in you. They made sure you weren’t hanging out there, all alone. They had your back.

  She sat back on the sofa. “You want to hear about my new case, friend?” she said.

  He moved closer to her on the sofa cushions.

  “It’s not for absolute sure yet,” she said. “But it looks like I’ll be investigating the Pike murder.”

  Watch him look happy for about three seconds. Followed by two seconds of confusion. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, then said, “Lennox—she’s guilty.”

  “I don’t think she is.”

  He slid his glass towards the center of the table and stared at his hands. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “Yeah. I do. I miss homicide.”

  “You’ll be working for the defense.” Tommy made that sound on a par with working for the Mafia.

  “Private investigators work for defense attorneys. Maybe you’d rather see me selling shoes.” She stood up from the sofa. “Tommy, I have an early day tomorrow. Thanks for the roses. They’re beautiful.”

  Tommy walked to the door, probably thinking how this was going to look to the guys. Probably thinking a whole lot of stuff. She opened the door wide. “Friends?” she said.

  Chapter 7

  Twenty-six murders are committed in Portland every year, give or take. Back when Lennox worked in homicide, she and Tommy investigated a third of them. Turned out Lennox missed working homicide a whole lot more than she missed Tommy. Delia’s indictment was all the lucky break she needed to get her toe in the door.

  The rain let up as she plugged the parking meter and walked the half block to the offices of Bowersox, Kline and Hansen to meet with Delia’s attorney.

  The offices of Bowersox Etc. took up the entire twenty-second floor of the Standard Insurance Building, a big deal skyscraper that had its own sculpture, one the locals called Three Groins in the Fountain, and two elevators to get to where you needed to go. Lennox waited until she got into the second elevator before she smoothed her hair and checked her teeth for lipstick in the mirrored wall. She wore her hair pulled up in a French knot and a no-nonsense black pantsuit, Tommy’s necklace peeking from the neckline.

  The elevator opened onto the lobby: glass walls and fawn-colored carpet. The sky had cleared enough to see the northeast side of the city and beyond that the Cascade Range, jagged and bruise-colored, the taller mountains snow-capped. Phones trilled and the receptionists, two of them, answered with soft, serious voices. Lennox was asked if she wanted coffee or mineral water and then was shown to the office of August P. Kline.

  Not an office, really, more of a suite, and chilly, no drowsing around here, fellas. Kline’s corner office view overlooked the distant mountain ranges that rimmed the city like the edges of a soup bowl. In the middle distance, Mount Hood rose, a white cone above the blue foothills. The other direction took in the Multnomah County Courthouse across the street, the turquoise spires of the Convention Center, and on the horizon, the white hump of Mount St. Helens. Kline stood facing the Mount St. Helens view, saying, “Yes, I see,” and, “Can you have it for me sooner?” in his phone. He looked like a sturdy man, a man not easily blown off his feet.

  She stood there, just stood there, and waited for him to turn around. Two upholstered chairs sat facing a desk you could land a helicopter on. Such a big desk for a guy not much taller than she. Kline finished his conversation and turned to face her. He had gray eyes, a straight nose and a good square chin.

  “Ms. Cooper,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  Not only close to her height, he also looked close to her age. Difference being his thirty-eight some years were accounted for. Accounted for and framed expensively on one of the two interior walls. The gold seals winked approval from behind their glass.

  “I thought we might go over your qualifications,” he said. “And then decide whether we’re a good fit.”

  She pushed her résumé across the expanse of his desk. He leaned back in his chair and read. His hair was light brown, his ears small and close to his skull. They gleamed pinkly, the cleanest looking ears she’d ever seen. You could almost touch up your mascara in their reflection when he turned profile.

  “I see you have a BA from UC Berkeley,” he said. “That’s where I did my undergraduate work.” He stabbed her résumé with a manicured finger. “Lo
oks like I was a year ahead of you.”

  She smiled. “Go Bears!”

  “I don’t follow football,” he said. His finger pointed farther down her résumé. “You’ve listed your current position as Cooper and Associates Investigations.”

  “I’ve owned my own investigative business for nearly a year,” she said.

  “The associates?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Cooper and Associates.”

  “Some day.”

  His lip curled, like maybe she should rename her business Cooper Limited.

  She’d worked with men like him before. Sooner or later she’d win him over. Sweat trickled down the sides of her bra even in the chilled air. She lifted a folder from her briefcase and leaned forward in her chair.

  “I’ve brought recommendations from Safeco Insurance, Blue Cross, Macy’s, West Coast Communities and a number of individuals I’ve done work for,” she said.

  He leafed through the pages, his eyes running down each one. A speed-reader.

  The sky darkened and it began to hail. The hailstones pinged against the glass wall. Kline straightened the recommendations and bounced their collective edges. A small smile played around the corners of his mouth.

  “Commendable,” he said. “But you worked on criminal cases when you were with the Portland Police?”

  The leather sighed as he leaned back in his chair and waited for her to elaborate.

  “I worked on the police force for eight years,” she said. “Two years in vice, the last four in homicide.”

  The hail came down harder now and beat steadily against the glass. Here it comes, she thought, the big question. And she was so close, so close to having this job. She wanted to reach across August P. Kline’s enormous desk, grab him by his shiny ears and say, “Give it to me, man.”

  “Detective?” he said. “Isn’t that pretty far up the ladder?”

  Her yes led to the inevitable next question. He was watching her. No, more like studying her. A man who’d probably never had to justify a goddamn moment in his life. He’d never been in trouble or in danger, never seen his lover down on the ground, gut shot.