by L. R. Wright
“I’m sure he’s got something in mind,” said Helen. “I can’t imagine Karl giving up his job without having something to take its place.” She looked quizzically at Cassandra from behind her spectacles, which Cassandra noticed were new: they had large round lenses and tortoiseshell frames.
“He wants to be a private investigator,” she said, almost too quietly to be heard. She had looked around furtively before making this announcement. Even though she’d thought of this for Karl herself on more than one occasion, now that it was apparently going to happen she couldn’t dismiss the fact that most people thought of the private investigation business as more than a little sleazy.
Helen was laughing out loud.
“Yeah, fine,” said Cassandra, flushing with embarrassment. “It’s fine for you to laugh.”
He had said, though, that his friend’s offices were in a fashionable high-rise near the courthouse. With trees, and a fountain. And marble floors.
“I think it’s exciting,” said Helen dreamily, looking up at the blossoms of the cherry tree. “A whole new life...”
“Yes, Mother. That’s all well and good. For him. I hate to put it this way, but—what about me?” she asked, embarrassed by the plaintiveness in her voice.
“That’s why I asked if you’d bought a business yet,” said her mother. “And you haven’t. So you’re as free as the wind, Cassandra.”
Cassandra mouthed the words: free as the wind. A small breeze touched her lips, and brought to her nostrils the fragrance of the cherry blossoms.
“You’d already decided to go into business for yourself,” said Helen. “Which means you’d already decided to leave the library.”
Leave the library. Her chest ached whenever she thought about it. But, “Yes,” she said. “I guess I have.”
“So you’re both beginning new lives. I think that’s wonderful.”
Helen took Cassandra’s hand and stroked it, holding it between hers, and Cassandra felt her hand tremble, as if it were a small creature with a tiny beating heart.
“And since you haven’t decided yet what business to buy,” said her mother, “may I suggest that you consider investing in your husband’s?”
***
Denise had decided that if Ivan were going to report her to the police, to charge her with assault or attempted murder or something, he would already have done it. And he wouldn’t have bothered to send her a note telling her he wanted a divorce. And so she was for the moment grateful not only to whatever gods there were, for causing Ivan to survive his ordeal, but to Ivan himself.
She had called the bank that morning and told them she’d be at work tomorrow.
Perhaps she would save her money and go back to school. The world was full of possibilities, thought Denise, tossing Ivan’s socks and underwear into a cardboard carton, standing on a stool to check the contents of half-forgotten cupboards—determined to eliminate all traces of Ivan from the house as soon as possible. This was not done with anger in her heart. She simply had an enormous need to turn her back on her marriage and get on with whatever was to constitute the rest of her life.
It hadn’t occurred to her yet to announce her new status to family and friends. She had to regain some equilibrium first. She wanted to come to terms with her new, soon-to-be-unmarried self before introducing it to anybody else.
When she had finished packing up Ivan’s things, she sat down at the desk in the bedroom to reply to his note. This proved to be much more difficult than she would have anticipated. She tried first to apologize, but couldn’t find the words: how on earth do you tell somebody that you’re sorry you almost killed him? Perhaps it was something that ought not to be put in writing anyway, she finally decided.
Next she launched into an analysis of their marriage, a summation of memorable events, an affectionate acknowledgment of shared love... But this she found to be equally inappropriate. The wastebasket was by now full of crumpled paper. Her right hand was threatening to cramp. The sun was low in the sky and Denise was hungry for dinner.
“Dear Ivan,” she wrote. “Of course you may have a divorce.”
Then she dithered a while about whether to write “affectionately,” before her signature, or “best wishes.” In the end, she just signed it.
She looked at this brief note gloomily. Surely there was more to say. But it seemed not. She folded it and put it into an envelope, and wrote Ivan’s name on the outside. She would deliver it to the school tomorrow.
She had propped the envelope up against her purse, which sat on the kitchen counter, when she heard someone knocking at the door.
“I don’t want to come in,” said Mrs. O’Hara, “but I need to speak to you. I find that I want to tell you what’s going on, although this is something I have never done before.”
She saw Denise’s bewilderment; felt it, as an ache in her chest. She tried to picture winged fate turning away from her and embracing Denise Dyakowski in its dark folds. But the image refused to acquire substance.
Mrs. O’Hara raised her arm, heavily, and rested her hand on the doorjamb. “I don’t quite know how to go about this.”
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Denise.
“I’m sure,” said Mrs. O’Hara.
She thought there must be lots of people who could carry on in her name. That Naomi person in the cafe, for example, the one whose drug-dealing husband was in jail: Mrs. O’Hara had recently heard that Naomi had had a hand in putting him there, which, if true, made her a kindred spirit.
But Denise, standing here before her, Denise, brushing uneasily at her short, curly hair with ineffectual fingers, Denise had for all intents and purposes done in her first sinner already, all on her own.
“If he had died,” said Mrs. O’Hara, “you would not have done wrong.”
She imagined many successors, who might form a society and visit her regularly, in the short time she had left. They would sit around her stove on cool evenings, or outside among the sunflowers in the daytime; they would relate their experiences to her, and to one another, and they would seek her advice...
“You realize that, don’t you?” she said intently to Denise.
“Oh no, Mrs. O’Hara,” said Denise quickly. “I think it would have been wrong, oh yes.”
One didn’t choose this avocation, of course, Mrs. O’Hara acknowledged, reluctantly. One was, in fact, chosen by it, or for it. And to make this designation wasn’t within her power.
“Well. Anyway,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “I have just one left, so I’ve had to choose between the two of them. And I’ve chosen him. Your husband.”
Denise, frowning, shook her head in bewilderment. “Chosen him for what?”
“Her name is Susan, by the way.” Mrs. O’Hara glanced at her van, parked on the street. “I haven’t decided how I’m going to do it. Or when. But it will be soon.” She looked into Denise’s face, searching, although she knew she would find no comprehension there. “It’s the last one. And I want to have some time to myself. So I have to do it soon.” She turned, and headed slowly across the muddy yard.
Denise called after her. “Mrs. O’Hara? Mrs. O’Hara!”
Mrs. O’Hara turned around and waved. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be over soon.”
Denise felt the chimera again, massive and unpredictable, hovering above her head.
Chapter 22 Friday, April 5
ALBERG GOT TO work very early, full of energy and optimism. He had awakened suddenly, at dawn, absolutely certain that a break in the homicide investigation was imminent. He knew it would happen. He just knew it. He had that feeling—a prickling sensation; almost an itch—that happened when things were about to come together.
He had forgone breakfast, having decided to reward himself, when the intimidating pile of paperwork in his office had been vanquished, with bacon and eggs at Earl’s. Of course it was true that he’d had an omelette just yesterday. That was a fair number of eggs in one week. But he’d eaten practically none of the damn o
melette—what a fiasco that breakfast had turned out to be.
He thought about Cassandra, then, imagining her sitting in her windowless office, bathed in the soft gray glow from the skylight, her chin in her hand. In his imagination her face was blank, expressionless: he couldn’t tell what was in her mind. But he knew that she was thinking, furiously, because the more still she became, the harder her mind was working; and she was very still. Alberg felt a bit sick. He wished she’d have an epiphany of her own. He wished he could give her one.
He shook himself free of his musings, and concentrated on his IN basket.
An hour or so later he draped his jacket over his arm and took a stack of completed paperwork out to Isabella. “Do not provide me with any more of this crap,” he said to her. “Not today.”
Isabella scrunched up her forehead in protest.
“Not until after lunch, anyway,” said Alberg irritably, shrugging into his jacket. “I’ll be at Earl’s.”
Outside, he ran into Eddie Henderson, who was just arriving.
“Morning, Staff,” she said.
Alberg glanced at her casually, then more sharply. “Is something wrong, Sergeant?”
She stopped and looked at him, and for a moment he thought she was going to blurt out whatever was bothering her. He was immediately dismayed, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“No, nothing,” she said slowly. “Why, Staff?”
His new sergeant lacked serenity today, that’s what it was. Odd, to find serenity in a police officer. But she had it, all right. Usually.
“You just look—I don’t know,” said Alberg, uncomfortable now. “A little worried.”
“I’m okay. But thanks for asking.” She hesitated. “I’m glad we didn’t find her there. The waitress. In the clearing.”
Alberg nodded. “So am I.”
“But I still think something’s happened to her.”
“I hope very much that you’re wrong,” said Alberg. “But I’m afraid you’re not.” He wanted to talk more about this, and was about to suggest that Eddie join him at Earl’s, when an aged Toyota pulled up at the curb and a woman climbed out, hurriedly, and rushed up to them.
“You probably don’t remember me,” she said to Alberg. “I was at your wedding. With my husband. I do hope you have a few minutes free.” She glanced at Eddie and lowered her voice. “I really do have to talk to you.”
“And you are—?”Alberg inquired courteously.
“My name is Denise. Denise Dyakowski.”
“And what do you want to talk to me about?” said Alberg.
“About my cleaning woman,” said Denise. “About Mrs. O’Hara.”
***
Mrs. O’Hara, driving home, thought that maybe, when this last one was done, she would be able to stop looking for evidence of man’s weakness and transgression everywhere: maybe her last few months could be tranquil ones.
But just because she wouldn’t be looking for it, maybe wouldn’t even see it, this didn’t mean that it wouldn’t be there, she told herself, driving rapidly, propelling the van around the turns in the road with uncharacteristic recklessness.
She slowed and turned off the highway, close to home now.
Mrs. O’Hara realized that her life on the Sunshine Coast had been a lonely one. Perhaps that was why she had remained for so long largely untouched by the profundities of what she had done. She had developed a peculiar habit: she would lift her hands into the light and study them, short nails, rough skin, no blood on them, no blood at all... She accepted responsibility, oh yes, but had remained untouched and undisturbed by the deeds she had executed.
Until Number Six.
One of Mrs. O’Hara’s early clients was a harassed middle-aged woman who worked in a realtor’s office. She lived in an out-of-the-way cottage with her mother-in-law, an excessively talkative person, small and bent, with rheumy eyes behind thick spectacles and large hands so gnarled and leathery that they looked more like tools than living appendages. The old woman liked to totter around the house in Mrs. O’Hara’s wake, brandishing her cane and telling mystifying tales about her past. When her daughter-in-law came home the old woman would turn on her, berating her for the meals she cooked, the way she did the laundry, the untended garden. Mrs. O’Hara paid these harangues little attention, perhaps because the old woman’s voice was frail and quavery. But one day she happened to be looking at her when she had one of her outbursts. Although the old lady often brayed proudly that all of her teeth were her own, she didn’t have all of them anymore. And Mrs. O’Hara saw with horror that the unkind words hurtling from her mouth toward her weary daughter-in-law were accompanied by spittle. Mrs. O’Hara looked quickly at the daughter-in-law, who had literally turned the other cheek.
Enough is enough, she thought grimly.
The next time she came to clean she waited until the mother-in-law had lain down for her afternoon nap—curtains drawn, spectacles on her night table, cane resting against the wall, shoes side by side on the mat next to the bed. Mrs. O’Hara hovered outside the door, which was not quite closed, until she heard the old woman begin to snore. Then she went into the room, picked up the second pillow, placed it swiftly, firmly, upon the old woman’s face, and pressed.
The woman struggled—she had more strength than Mrs. O’Hara had anticipated. Would she remain resolute? Mrs. O’Hara wondered. Because she realized that this was the first time she had actually been present when depriving a person of life. She pushed on the pillow, reluctant to use too much force for fear of breaking any of the old woman’s fragile bones. She heard the alarm clock ticking, oblivious, felt the woman’s big hands scrabbling at her arms, and hoped the old lady thought it was her daughter-in-law who was doing this to her.
Finally, finally, she was still.
Eventually, Mrs. O’Hara removed the pillow, and looked curiously down at the dead face. The eyes were open. Mrs. O’Hara closed them, gently, with the edge of her hand. She thought the old woman looked very peaceful. Maybe she had even wanted to die.
Mrs. O’Hara finished cleaning the house, then called her client at work. “I can’t waken your mother-in-law from her afternoon nap,” she said. “I’m afraid she has passed away.”
She waited for the daughter-in-law to arrive, and was a strong, comforting presence while they waited for the ambulance.
Later, though, later, in her cabin, sitting in her rocking chair, thinking about the events of the day, Mrs. O’Hara’s teeth suddenly began to clatter, very gently at first, then more urgently, and her hands on the wooden arms of the rocking chair shook, and she felt violently nauseated and had not quite made it to the toilet when she threw up.
Mrs. O’Hara had not actually seen the old lady expire. But almost.
And she did see the poor dog die. Maybe that was what had created in her the need to witness the moment of Rebecca’s death, as well. Mrs. O’Hara hadn’t expected to have any particular emotional response to the event—just felt it as a need. And then...
Mrs. O’Hara pulled off the rough, narrow road and under the shelter. She rubbed at her face, hard, wishing she could rub from her body all pain, all weariness, all despair.
She opened the door, stepped out of the van, and slammed the door closed. And headed, through the rain, up the slope toward the cabin.
***
“All Denise knows,” Alberg said to Eddie, “is that her name is Mrs. O’Hara, and she lives somewhere up around Pender Harbour, and she’s a cleaning lady.”
“And she’s threatened to kill this Denise person’s husband? The cleaning lady has?”
“Yeah,” said Alberg. “Sit down, for god’s sake.”
Eddie sat in the black leather chair that always reminded Alberg of Sid Sokolowski. “Why?”
“Denise wasn’t very forthcoming about that. Her eyes were skittering all over the ceiling: they reminded me of waterbugs. But what she did say was that she and her husband have separated, and Mrs. O’Hara doesn’t approve.”
Eddie p
ut her hands on her thighs, elbows out, and squinted across the desk at him. “Come on, Staff.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s probably nothing. But she’s taking it seriously—Denise, I mean.”
“Has she told her husband that the cleaning lady’s out to get him?”
“I don’t think she and her husband are speaking to each other. She thinks he’s probably gone to live with his sweetie.”
“Maybe Mrs. O’Hara’s a hitman,” said Eddie, brightening. “Maybe Denise hired her.”
“Then why tell me about it?” Alberg snapped. He sighed. “Sorry. I seem to have lost my sense of humor.” He leaned back in his chair. “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right—one of them’s crazy, and maybe it’s Denise. But I promised I’d go talk to this Mrs. O’Hara.” He hesitated. “I know the guy,” he said reluctantly. “Denise’s husband. They came to our wedding.”
“So why not go talk to him, instead of this O’Hara woman?”
“Because I’d feel like a bloody idiot, warning him about his cleaning lady, unless I’d checked her out first.” He glanced at Eddie. “I want you to run her down. Find out where she lives. Then come with me when I go talk to her.”
***
Mrs. O’Hara studied the contents of the freezer compartment of her fridge, and was reaching reluctantly for a TV dinner when she heard someone coming up the path from the road.
She closed the freezer and tiptoed to the back door. Heard him making his way through the greenery at the side of the house. Mrs. O’Hara stood in her living room with her fists on her hips, staring at the door. At the first knock, she swung it open.
“Who are you?” she said to the man standing there. She knew who he was, though. He was a policeman. “And what do you want?” He was tall and broad, somewhat overweight, and a scrim of politeness concealed whatever his intentions were. He had on khaki pants, a white shirt that was open at the throat, and a lightweight jacket.
Then a woman stepped around the corner of the house to stand beside him. She was also tall, and wore a police uniform. She had a strong, solid-looking body and an open, amicable face that Mrs. O’Hara decided was a lie—it was the clear blue eyes, the wide mouth and the firm chin that created the suggestion of congeniality. But Mrs. O’Hara knew from her stance, from the way she held her head, from the disturbing directness of her gaze, that it was an illusion.
