“What about Sally?” I asked. “I thought she loved working there.”
He sighed again. “Sure she does, Laney. We all do, but Sally says some nights she feels like she's been digging ditches, she's so tired. Time catches up with all of us. Sometimes you do things for your husband or wife even though you don't want to, because it's what they want, to please them, you know? The truth is that Sally and I have been ready to call it quits for years. It was Tommy who was holding on, and Sally said okay because she'd loved him. You'll see when you grow up and get married.”
“I had no idea,” I whispered. I reached my hand around to the back of my thigh and pinched. This time it didn't work. Tears filled my eyes.
“I'm giving everyone a week off,” Burt said, “starting tomorrow, hedging my bets, I guess you could say. I'll make a final decision over the weekend.”
“I'll miss you,” I said through a haze of tears. “I'll miss the restaurant.”
“Thanks, Laney. Things change, you know?”
“I guess,” I said, feeling my hands curl into fists. “Good luck, Burt.”
Burt kissed my cheek and said, “You, too, kid.”
I started off, dragging my feet along the sidewalk. A stack of daily special menus sat on the back seat of Burt's car. The last printing for the last supper, I thought. A Rocky Point Country Club blazer, with the matching tie stretched out on top, lay next to the menus. My teariness turned to for-real crying. It's just too much. Jennleigh's American Grill was my favorite restaurant, and now it was gone. It's so unfair. I kicked a pebble and it skittered onto the asphalt. Both Burt and Tommy had been in my life since forever. I'd hung out with them at the club pool, celebrated Burt's wins and commiserated over his losses after club casino fundraisers, and laughed at Tommy's slapstick humor at the club's biannual talent nights.
“Stop it,” I told myself, knowing I couldn't. Memory, my grief counselor said, was as irresistible as sleep.
As I entered the Morrisons’ big colonial and called hello to their live-in housekeeper, a nice woman named Esther I rarely saw, I wondered, not for the first time, who in the world could have wanted a sweet man like Tommy dead.
* * * *
I touched my mom's feathery dreamcatcher and my dad's shiny club tiepin, setting them spinning. I'd hung them on transparent filament from the window lock over my desk the day I'd moved in. In some fantasy book I'd read in the weeks after my parents were killed, the girl who could fly and kill dragons and things wore her dead mother's locket as a talisman to keep her safe. I'd liked that idea.
I watched as my dad's pin twirled and swayed, the gold shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Anyone could buy the navy blazer with the club's coat of arms embroidered on the pocket and the matching tie, but you could only get the tiepin as an award granted by board proclamation. Dad got his for helping the club get a zoning exception for the putting green. Tommy and Burt had each got one, too, at that same ceremony, for donating Jennleigh's catering services to the club's charity fundraisers. The three men had hugged one another and everyone else, as thrilled as if they'd just won a million dollars. Out of nearly seven hundred members, they were the only three to be honored that year.
I clamped my eyes closed, trying and failing to shut out the memory.
The three men had called one another by the tiny numbers etched into the wreath on their treasured tiepins. “Hey, one eighteen,” Tommy had greeted Dad, “how's it going?” And dad had replied, “Good . . . how about you, one twenty?” And then they'd laughed, reliving their joy and pride. And now they were dead, both of them. I picked up the photo of me and Jackie on horseback, the day we learned to post. Neither one of us could walk without limping for a week, I thought, laughing out loud. My laughing faded to nothing. Last January, Jackie's dad took a job in Utah, and boom, Jackie was gone. Another loss.
“I miss you, Jackie,” I said to the photo.
Vivaldi's Four Seasons, my mom's favorite ringtone, which I used because I love thinking of her, and which I'd discovered got way less lame the more you heard it, sounded on my cell phone, interrupting my reminiscing—a good thing, I knew. I looked at the phone ID display and recognized the number—it was Margot O'Neil, my mom's second best friend after Cindy Morrison, and she was calling from work.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Margot asked.
My sadness evaporated. When Margot had invited me to spend Take Your Daughter and Son to Work Day with her, I'd felt such a rush of relief I'd nearly toppled over. I'd been braced to be alone. Cindy and Karl Morrison were both scheduled to be on the road for work and I'd resigned myself to spending the day at school while everyone else went off with a parent. Instead, I'd get to go with Margot to her way cool job at the police lab.
“Am I ever!” I said. “What should I wear?”
“The rule is business casual—so leave your little black dress at home!”
“Does that mean no jeans?”
“Yup. Khakis are good. Or slacks. Or a skirt. And closed-toe shoes. And a collared tee or a blouse or a sweater. We'll lend you a lab coat.”
“A lab coat!” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Awesome. What will I do all day?”
“You'll shadow me. We'll start with a morning staff meeting. The duty officer will fill us in about whatever transpired overnight. Then we hit the scopes.”
“Thanks, Margot. I can't wait!”
As I slid my phone onto my desk, I saw that Burt was still pacing along the sidewalk, back and forth, back and forth. Poor Burt, I thought.
My grief counselor had warned me that grief follows you everywhere, like a shadow. He said it's worse when questions remain. Like was the driver who hit my parents’ car so hard it exploded into tiny shards of metal that littered the highway for a hundred yards in every direction suicidal? Or was he just drunk? I understood his point. When you don't know things, you ask yourself the same questions over and over again, and no matter how often I told myself it was pointless and only made things worse, I caught myself doing it all the time.
I swiveled back toward Burt. From his somber expression, I knew that useless wondering was happening to him too. Who killed Tommy? he was asking himself. Why was Tommy in this neighborhood? Why had his body been left on the Morrisons’ sidewalk? Burt raised his shoulders and lowered them, up and down, up and down, trying to relax his muscles, I guessed. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe it, that it just couldn't be. I knew that look. It was dawning on him that he might never know.
* * * *
I read a chapter about Pericles, then went downstairs for a snack. From the French windows that opened onto the deck, I watched Gareth Sturbeck, Cindy Morrison's dad, Mr. S. to me, ride his lawn mower, heading toward the house. He lived in the renovated carriage house that had originally been built as stables way back sometime, like in the eighteen hundreds.
Long retired from doing something, I don't know what, at a corporation, Mr. S. was tall and lanky, with silvery hair. Esther said that she'd heard from the woman who came in to clean for him twice a week that he was selling off his investments, settling his affairs, she'd called it, speculating that he'd been diagnosed with a terminal disease and wanted to make things easier for his kids after he was gone.
“Country gossip,” Mom would have said, dismissing it out of hand.
Whether he was dying or not, I thought it must be horrible to be old and lonely. Sure, he lived next door to his daughter, but so what? Cindy worked for some hotshot shoe designer and was always traveling to China. Karl traveled a lot too. His job had something to do with alternative energy, like windmills. Which meant Mr. S. spent most of his time in his own house, alone. I could hear Mr. Adams now—"You're projecting,” he'd said when I'd brought it up last fall. I'd said it wasn't that, describing the near constant tension in Mr. S.'s jaw and the empty look I often saw in his eyes. The counselor had acknowledged that I was making a fair point—that just because I felt sad and empty didn't mean that Mr. S. didn't too.
Mr. S.
saw me through the window and waved, and I waved back. He cut the motor, stepped off the mower, and headed in my direction, walking with a hitch in his gait, as if his hip was bothering him. I met him by a stand of lilacs not yet in bloom.
“Terrible thing about Tommy,” he said.
“Horrible,” I agreed.
“And hard to believe. I can't remember the last killing we had around here.” He shook his head. “Was that Burt I saw you talking to just now?”
I nodded. “He said he hoped to get a sense of Tommy.”
He shook his head again. “Did you hear anything Monday night?”
“No. Neither did Esther. Did you?”
“Nope. And I'm a light sleeper. There was no scuffle, that's for certain, otherwise I would have heard it for sure. The police brought me in for questioning, did you know that? They say that it doesn't make any sense that Tommy's body was randomly dumped smack dab in front of the carriage house. There's so much undeveloped land around, including where they found Tommy's car, down on Seven Bridges Road, they figure there's got to be a reason why his body was left here in particular.”
“Do you think it was some kind of message?” I asked, my eyes opening wide at the thought.
“Maybe . . . except if the message was intended for me, it missed its mark. That's what I told them, too.”
“What about Cindy and Karl?” I asked. “They're the actual owners, right?”
“Yup . . . but the body was left at the carriage house, not the main house. Plus, they barely knew him.”
“I don't understand how this could have happened,” I said. “Last night, the news said that Tommy had dinner at the club and was on his way home. It's unbelievable.”
“I heard that report, too. Sally stayed behind for a nightcap after he left. Some friends drove her home about an hour later. They say it's the first time Tommy ever left without her.”
“Yeah, they're together all the time,” I said, thinking of how Mom and Dad used to laugh about it, saying as much as they loved one another, no way would they want to be together 24/7 like Sally and Tommy. “Do they know why he left?”
“He told folks he had to get to bed because he had an early appointment, and according to today's news, he did. With his dentist. Looks like it's just a coincidence that the one time he leaves without her, he's killed.”
I sighed. “Did you know him well?”
“Yup.” He shook his head, looking sad. “Jennleigh's is like a home away from home to me. I've eaten dinner there a few times a week ever since Verna died ten years ago. That's a lot of meals. How about you?”
“I helped them with some computer stuff last summer. And I love their burgers.” I glanced toward the front. “There has to be a reason the body was left here. It doesn't make sense otherwise. You can't think of any other connection?”
“Well, I put down a little cash a few years ago when they hit a rough patch . . . but I don't see how that could figure into it. Killing Tommy wouldn't help me get my money back, even if I needed it, which I don't. Tommy and Burt had a partners’ agreement where if one of them dies, the other one gets everything. In any event, I wasn't pressing them to repay . . . I don't care about the money. I told Burt when I handed it over that I was investing to help keep one of my favorite places open. If I got a good return on my money, great. If I didn't, so be it. It has to be another coincidence. Just a sad, sad coincidence.”
“Have they said how Tommy died yet?” I asked.
“Yeah, the medical examiner just released his report.” Mr. S. paused for a moment."He was strangled.”
I reached a hand to my neck. “Strangled?”
“That's what they said. Hard to imagine. From some of the questions the police asked me, I gather they found a few fibers at the scene—silk.”
“Like from a scarf? It never occurred to me that the killer might be a woman.”
“Lots of men wear silk . . .” Mr. S. met and held my eyes. “I wonder how Sally's doing?”
“When I spoke to Burt just now,” I said, swallowing hard, “he told me he's closing the restaurant for a week and maybe forever. Tonight might be Jennleigh's last night.”
“You're kidding!”
I shook my head and repeated Burt's explanation.
Mr. S. looked into the middle distance for several seconds, then turned back to me and smiled grimly. “Since they have that partners’ agreement, Sally would have no reason to kill Tommy . . . and of course, she was at the club while he was being murdered . . . still . . . want to join me at Jennleigh's for dinner tonight?”
I tried to smile. “Yes,” I said.
* * * *
I waited at the curb as Mr. S. backed his car out of the garage. Standing at the marked-off edge of the crime scene, thinking how Burt had tried to channel Tommy, I realized that I hadn't eaten at Jennleigh's since my job ended at the start of the school year. When the Morrisons were in town, and wanted to go out to eat, they always chose the new Asian fusion place, not Jennleigh's standard American fare.
When we got to the restaurant, the line stretched halfway down the block.
“You hold our place,” Mr. S. told me. “I'll see how long it'll be.”
Within seconds, Dale Mackie and his wife, Allie, joined the line in back of me. I hadn't seen them since my parents’ funeral. I used to hang out with their daughter, Emma, sometimes. I called her Emster, not because she looked like a hamster, but because it's hysterical to say.
Emster was one of the many girls I no longer spent much time with. I didn't want to. Last fall, as if a switch had flipped, Emster became obsessed with boys and music. I wasn't, and after trying to act like I didn't think it was all beyond stupid for weeks, I gave up. I just wanted to be alone.
Mr. Adams said that was a natural reaction to overwhelming loss, and that it would pass. Maybe, but I doubt it. I don't think I'm in a temporary phase. I think I've changed. I think I'm now a grown-up girl who likes to be by herself and ride horses and read, and so what? It isn't like I do drugs or anything. I'm a loner, not a loser. Who needs friends anyhow? Friends move away. Friends become completely boring. Plus, I've learned that if you don't let yourself care about something, it doesn't hurt as much when you lose it.
I greeted Mr. and Mrs. Mackie and we commiserated about Tommy and Jennleigh's. I asked about Emma and they asked about me, and then I pointed to his chest and asked, “Is that what I think it is, Mr. Mackie?”
Dale grinned and fingered his club tiepin. “I just got it Monday,” he said. “It was a special moment, I can tell you that.” His smile wilted. “Tommy was there.”
Mr. S. came up and I introduced him to the Mackies.
“Sally says it'll be about half an hour,” he reported.
“How is she?” I asked.
“About how you'd expect . . . pretty down in the dumps, but putting on her game face.”
Before I had time to reply, Sally stepped out of the restaurant and started working the line, thanking each person or group for coming, and apologizing for the wait. She looked as put-together as ever. Her hair was twirled into a French twist. Her makeup was smoky and intense. Her black dress fitted her perfectly.
The Sally I'd known for years was bubbly and outgoing, but now, when she looked in my direction, I saw that her eyes were clouded, as if she was having trouble focusing, and her shoulders hunched forward as if she was having trouble straightening up. Poor Sally. She was losing her job in addition to losing her husband. I felt tears well in my eyes. I didn't want to think about how she must be feeling, but I couldn't stop. Raw, I thought. She must be feeling scraped raw.
When she reached us, she saw it was me and hugged me. I fought an urge to flee. There was no reason for us to be here for dinner. I didn't want a last supper. I didn't want to be part of the end of an era. She hugged Mr. S., too, then turned to the Mackies.
I leaned into Mr. S.'s ear and whispered, “Can we leave?”
He looked startled, but said, “Sure.”
We slipped o
ut of line, and once we were in the car, I tried to explain why I'd wanted to go. “It's like stopping when you see an accident on the road,” I said, “not to help, but to see how bad it is.”
Mr. S. nodded. “I hadn't thought of it like that, but you're right. You're a smart girl, Laney. Sensitive too. I'm glad we left. Have you ever been to Roscoe's? They have pretty good burgers.”
That's where we went, and the burgers were terrific. The fries were, too. We had a good time, talking about what it was like when Mr. S. played shortstop for the Pawtucket Red Sox back in the sixties and how I liked to ride horses, Western better than English, and how we both liked to read. We didn't talk about Tommy or Jennleigh's at all.
Back home, Mr. S. walked me to the door and thanked me. “I had a great time, Laney. I know Karl won't be back until Tuesday and Cindy not till after that . . . want to go out for dinner again on Sunday?”
“Sunday's good. Sunday's great.” I sighed and looked away. “I hate being alone on Sundays.”
“Me, too. That's ‘cause it's a family day. You've got yourself a date, young lady.”
I grinned, relieved to have something to look forward to.
“Cool,” I said.
Later that night, with the duvet tucked under my chin, I watched as moonlit shadows of just-unfurling leaves stippled the floor. I couldn't sleep. I had coincidences on my mind. I knew coincidences happened, but from what I've seen, they're rare. It wasn't a coincidence that my parents died. It was a combination of cause and effect and bad luck. According to witnesses, without warning, the driver of a dark green SUV veered out of his lane and plowed into their sedan. Last Monday, Sally stayed at the club while Tommy drove home alone. Why? Tommy's body was left in front of Mr. S.'s carriage house. Why? I kept trying to think of logical explanations until finally the steady hum of katydids and crickets lulled me to sleep.
AHMM, June 2012 Page 9
