Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  And we all know why, too. Jessica attempted to counter some of her frustration by secretly adding an extra drop of batter to the pan, pretending it was Kryptonite.

  But she wasn’t about to dwell on this ongoing debate about the relative merits of two beings who had begun their lives on the pages of a comic book. The rest of this day belonged to her. David would be at work all day, and Sammy was going home with one of his friends right after school. Hours and hours of free time stretched ahead of her. She was reveling in it, loving the feeling of having lots and lots of precious, beautiful time, as decadent as six pounds of chocolate-covered almonds, as enticing as a glass of ice-cold champagne, as luxurious as a hot bubble bath. Most of all, there was plenty of time for Terry and her to rendezvous with Edgar Keklak.

  “I’m all ready,” she chirped as Terry answered the door of the apartment he rented. It was on the third floor of a large Victorian house on Eighth Avenue that had been converted into half a dozen apartments. She was curious about seeing the inside, but Terry was already on the way out.

  “Now Jessica,” he warned, closing the door behind him, “don’t expect too much. It’s not as if the killer is going to come running into the Sea Glen Diner while we’re there, falling to his knees and confessing.”

  “I know. But at least when I finish breakfast, somebody else will be doing the dishes.”

  Edgar Keklak was already there when she and Terry arrived. He was sitting at a corner table, the one with the best view of the traffic. There were three beige coffee cups on the table.

  “Ah, they’re here, Dotty,” Edgar called to the waitress as they came in. “You can bring that coffeepot back now.”

  “A man after my own heart,” Jessica muttered.

  As she sat down opposite him, she said brightly, “Good morning, Mr. Keklak. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us this morning.”

  “Can’t say as I had anything better to do.” The old man shrugged. “Now what did you folks say this was all about?”

  “The Sea Cliff murders,” Terry said, sliding in beside her. “If you don’t mind, we can get right down to business.”

  He waited for Edgar’s nod before continuing. “You probably know that there have been three murders already. The first victim was my brother, Lloyd Nolan.”

  “Yep, I know all about it.” Edgar leaned back while Dotty filled the two empty cups with coffee, then poured him some more. “I didn’t actually know either Ditzler or Mortimer, but I did know of them. When you’ve been living in a small town like this one for as long as I have, you’ve at least heard of just about everybody.”

  “That’s what we were figuring,’’ Terry said. “Since you seem to be fairly well attuned to what goes on around here, Jessica and I were thinking that maybe you’d have some ideas of your own about who the killer might be.”

  “ ‘Course I got my own ideas. I expect everybody in town does. When something like this happens, it’s hard not to speculate.” He took a gulp of coffee. “My feeling is that it’s got to be somebody who’s pretty familiar with Sea Cliff. Probably somebody who lives right here in town.”

  Jessica was startled. Her worst fears were being confirmed. “Why is that?”

  “Choice of victims, that’s why. The only thing I can see that ties the three of them together is that they’re prominent Sea Cliffers. The kind of people everybody in town knows, the kind everybody’s always talking about. Whoever killed them was trying to make a statement. That’s the only reason I can think of that would cause somebody to pick out three such different, yet so visible people.”

  “So you don’t think the three victims were ... oh, I don’t know, that they had some kind of deal going on the side, something like that?”

  Edgar Keklak shook his head. “Maybe if it’d just been Nolan and Mortimer—oops, sorry about that. I forgot the man was your brother. But Ditzler was squeaky clean. I’m sure of that. That’s why I’m convinced that the only thing they all had in common was that their murders would be front-page news.”

  “That had occurred to us, too. But wouldn’t that be a strange reason to go around killing people?” Jessica asked. “Just because they’re well known?”

  “I’d say that that depends on your motivation. Look, the murderer obviously isn’t some psychopath who’s going around getting his jollies by slicing up bodies. And I’ve pretty much ruled out revenge, at least in my own mind. No, there’s something funny about this . . .something different. My guess is that whoever it is isn’t someone who fits the usual profile.”

  “Do you have any idea of who that person might be?’’ Terry asked gently. “Any idea at all?”

  Edgar Keklak shook his head. “The only thing I can say— and this is based entirely on gut feeling, mind you—is that when we finally find out who the murderer is, we’re all going to be surprised.”

  * * * *

  “So much for our crackerjack undercover team,’’ Jessica said with a sigh as she and Terry walked out to the parking lot half an hour later. “Mr. Keklak is certainly a sweet old man, but he didn’t have any more insight than we do.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Terry replied. “I thought what he had to say was very interesting. That business about the killer not fitting the usual profile, I mean. He was right; there is something about these murders that doesn’t quite fit.”

  “Right. Motivation is the one thing that has yet to come into focus.” Jessica shrugged. “I give up. The more I think about the murders, the less sense any of this makes. I feel like we’re just going around and around in circles.”

  “I agree. So what do you say we drop this and go for a walk along the beach?”

  Jessica looked over at him, surprised.

  “Now? You mean right now?”

  Terry shrugged. “Maybe you won’t get much of a tan, but the view can’t be beat. Come on. I will simply not take no for an answer.”

  Sea Cliff Beach was empty today. The white sand was blowing in the January wind, and the waters of Hempstead Harbor looked black and forbidding, not at all like the peaceful backdrop for sailboats and yachts that it became the moment spring drifted into town. The playground was deserted. The swings drifted back and forth lazily, looking just plain spooky, as if they were the playthings of invisible children. The toy cranes stood by idly, and the hobby horses looked lonely and cold.

  Even so, being at the beach in January was, by definition, romantic. Jessica pulled her jacket around her more tightly, feeling like a model shooting a television commercial.

  “So what do you want to do today?” Terry said suddenly.

  She looked over at him, startled. “What do you mean? I thought we were supposed to be investigating murders.”

  “Aw, that’s no fun. Besides, you just said yourself that we’re going around and around in circles. Let’s play hooky for the rest of the day.” He was grinning. “Come on. What do you say?”

  Jessica did a quick review of her obligations for the day. There were no convenient excuses for her to draw upon. She was free to do whatever she wanted to do.

  Even if that means spending the day with a man who is not my lawful wedded husband? she wondered.

  But that question absorbed her for less than two seconds.

  “You’re right,” she replied. “I deserve a day off.”

  For the rest of the day, she and Terry were like two teenagers who had cut classes to do all the things they’d always wanted to do. After their walk along the beach—which, given the temperature in the forties and the no-nonsense winds that came whipping mercilessly off the water, proved to be better in theory than in practice—they headed for the nearest movie theater, over in Roslyn. There they caught a Spanish movie, a comedy made even funnier by the fact that they were the only people in the theater and they therefore both felt free to bypass the subtitles and create their own translations.

  Next they had lunch, all the pizza they could eat. Then they hit all the thrift shops in town, giggling together over the clothes f
rom the sixties and seventies and putting their heads together to try to figure out the purpose of some of the mystery housewares they found piled up in cardboard cartons.

  “I’m pooped,” Jessica finally said, settling into the front seat of Terry’s car once they agreed that they had exhausted all of Roslyn’s possibilities. “It’s tiring, having all this fun.”

  “I’m glad you’re having fun,” Terry replied. “What next?”

  Warily she glanced at her watch. “Gosh, it’s getting so late. I should probably be getting home.”

  “Aw, let’s go get some hot chocolate first.”

  “Well...” Her hesitancy made it clear which way she was leaning. “Make it coffee and you’ve got a deal.”

  It wasn’t until Terry had pulled up in front of the white Victorian on Eighth Avenue that Jessica, absorbed in chatting away about the movie they had seen, realized that the locale he had in mind for afternoon tea was his apartment.

  “Oh, are we going to your place?” she asked, suppressing the urge to gulp loudly.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Actually, I’m kind of eager to see it,” she returned, not without sincerity. “I've always wondered about these old houses that have been turned into apartments.”

  She wasn’t disappointed. The compact collection of rooms in this furnished apartment—living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a good half-dozen alcoves—was made homey with flowered wallpaper, rag rugs, and heavy wooden furniture that looked as if it had withstood generations of abuse. Despite the apartment’s inherent charm, however, she couldn’t help noticing that Terry had done little to make it his own.

  Probably because he’s only here temporarily, Jessica reasoned. Reminding herself of that fact made her a little sad.

  While she took off her coat—slowly, as if she still weren’t positive that this was what she wanted to be doing, or should be doing— Terry went into the kitchen, an offensive collage of clashing yellows, and began nosing around. She was surprised to find that she was actually nervous. She wandered from one part of me living room to another, pretending to study the pictures on the wall, the trim work on the fireplace. In actuality, she was simply giving her trembling knees something to do.

  “Well, I’m all out of milk,” Terry reported from the kitchen, having just opened the refrigerator door and stuck his head in. “Can you drink your coffee black?”

  Jessica grimaced. “Only at knife point. What else do you have?”

  “Well, let’s see. There’s a half-empty can of Coke. ...”

  “Or half-full, depending on how you look at it.”

  Terry made a funny face at her. “It looks half-empty to me. Hey, there’s some wine. How about that?”

  To have said no would have sounded unsociable, if not actually prudish. Besides, Jessica reasoned, a little wine might help her relax. She certainly wasn’t doing a very good job on her own.

  When he presented her with a jelly jar that had been reincarnated as a wineglass, she mumbled her thanks and sat down gingerly at one edge of the couch.

  “Gosh, I can hardly remember the last time I had wine while the sun was still out,” Jessica mused, staring into me golden liquid in the jelly jar as if it were a crystal ball. “I guess it was back in October, when I had lunch with a friend in the city.’’

  “I can get you something else, if you prefer.” Terry joined her on the soft cushions, a medley of green and gold hemmed with satin fringe, a la Marie Antoinette. “There’s always that Coke.”

  “Oh, no, this is fine.” She decided to go with the idea that honesty is the best policy. Grinning self-consciously, she added, “It’ll help me relax. I’m, uh, a little nervous.”

  “Nervous? Why?”

  “Oh, it’s just a personal conflict kind of thing. It happens every time I try pretending I’m a detective. You see, I’m used to thinking of myself as a marketing type, or a mother. . . . Whenever I find myself in a situation where I’m supposed to act like Gene Hackman, I get kind of tense.’’

  “Ah, I see.” Terry nodded knowingly. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  “Uh, no. I guess it’s . . . uh, being here with you.”

  “We’re not doing anything illegal, you know. Hey, wait a minute. You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” Jessica sipped her wine. Was it her imagination, or did it really smell faintly of Welch’s grapes?

  “So what’s going to happen with all this?’’ she asked, quickly steering the conversation away from the personal. “I mean, are the police ever going to catch this murderer?”

  Terry shook his head and sighed. “It seems like a really tough case. There’s the whole motivation thing, of course. And then there’s the fact that the killer is smart, whoever he is. At least he’s smart enough not to plant enough clues for the cops to figure out his identity.”

  “Except for the purple ribbon.”

  “Right. Except for the purple ribbon.”

  Jessica frowned. “Did anybody ever explore the possibility of the purple ribbon symbolizing something?”

  “That’s an interesting thought. Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like . . . like royalty. You know, purple is the color of royalty. Or it could mean something else. Maybe you should mention that idea the next time you talk to the ... what was it you called the head guy again?”

  “The M.F.W.I.C.”

  From the huskiness of Terry’s voice, and the fact that he was easing closer to her on the couch, Jessica could tell that it wasn’t murder he was thinking about right now. But what really bothered her was the fact that she was kind of enjoying it, even as it put her on guard.

  “Terry—”

  “Ummm?”

  “Uh, why don’t you tell me more about your work?’’ she said brightly. Sitting back against the cushions, she folded her arms across her chest.

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s boring, really. Not at all the kind of thing that people enjoy hearing about at cocktail parties.”

  “You know, I used to think the same thing about my work.” Jessica knew she was babbling, but the glazed look in Terry’s intense blue eyes gave her the feeling that to stop talking, even for a few seconds, would be dangerous. “I worked for a pharmaceutical manufacturer, you know....”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Of course you do. But trying to explain to people what I actually did, you know, what marketing was really all about . . . well, whenever I did, they immediately got this look on their face, as if I had become totally boring all of a sudden.”

  “Jessica, I can’t imagine that anyone would ever consider you boring.”

  “I’m pretty boring, Terry.”

  “I don’t think so, Jess. Not at all.”

  With that, he leaned over and kissed her, lightly, tentatively, asking a question rather than making a statement. Jessica found herself kissing him back, not certain whether it was because she was doing what she felt she was expected to do or because she really wanted to.

  At any rate, it was alarming.

  “Wait a minute,” she cried, squirming away and jumping up. “I can’t be doing this, Terry.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” he said gently.

  “Yes, but we’re supposed to be talking about murder.”

  He looked up at her expectantly. She could tell he didn’t really believe that she was totally surprised, nor that she was totally innocent in the final results of this little game they had been playing for the past few months.

  “Look, Terry, I think maybe I should just go.”

  He let out a long, loud sigh, then tiredly rubbed his face with his hands. When he reemerged, his eyes were red and his expression was one of confusion.

  “Have I just been fooling myself, Jess, or have I been getting all kinds of go-ahead signals from you? I don’t know; maybe I just misread you.”

  “No, you haven’t misread me.” Jessica closed her eyes for a moment. �
��I just . . . look, I need to figure some things out, that’s all. Okay?”

  Terry nodded. “Sure, Jess. Look, you know where to find me. I’ll be around.”

  Outside, the day was already beginning to fade into night. The trees were stark and black against the darkening sky, and it suddenly seemed much colder. Jessica dug her hands deep into her pockets as she walked to her car. She knew she should be feeling something—flattered, maybe. Like a femme fatale, someone irresistible, gray hairs and stretch marks and all. Or perhaps guilty. That would have been appropriate, wouldn’t it?

  But the truth was, an emotion was filling her up so that she felt nearly overpowered by it. She dug down-deep and discovered that what she was feeling right now was very much alone.

  * * * *

  “What’s this?”

  Jessica blinked hard a few times as she walked into the kitchen, expecting to find nothing more than that morning’s breakfast dishes waiting for her in the sink. In fact, she was looking forward to that rare commodity known as solitude, craving the sense of serenity that invariably came from having the whole house to herself. She wanted to think, to let the thoughts flail around in her mind like clothes in a dryer, hoping that when the fluff cycle stopped, everything would somehow just fall into place.

  So she was startled to discover that there was a huge bouquet of red roses in the middle of the kitchen table, their posture so proud and their color so vibrant that under different circumstances they might be accused of showing off. Sitting beside them was a penitent-looking David, wearing a hopeful smile.

  “I made a point of coming home early,” he said. He stood up, then just stayed there on the other side of the room looking I awkward. “I knew that Sammy wouldn’t be here, and since things have been kind of strained between you and me lately, I thought it might be nice if we spent some time alone together. Especially since I’m leaving for that conference in Boston tomorrow morning. I don’t think we’ve ever been apart for four whole days, have we?”

  “No, I don’t think we have.”

  As she took off her coat, she was afraid a scarlet A might have appeared on her sweater. She even glanced down, just to make sure.