She doesn’t know about Maureen—I don’t mean the aging lesbian professor from Harvard, whom she does know—but my Maureen. Whoever she really is.
“I saw Maureen O’Hara this morning.”
She stiffens. “She’s still down here?”
“No. I was in Cambridge, on business. I stopped in her office. Listen, when I told you I’d been helping her do her bird-watching thing?”
She nods warily.
“It was only a couple of times. We don’t have a lot in common.”
She looks at me. “That’s all? A couple of times?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know. The way you put it before it was like . . . never mind.”
“She’s not exactly my type.”
“I guess not.”
We’re going in the wrong direction. “You don’t care for her, obviously.”
Johanna stiffens. “Maureen’s predatory. She hit on me once. It was an ugly scene. I try to avoid her, but I have many gay and lesbian friends, so we run across each other occasionally. If we’re at the same gathering I try to stay on the opposite side of the room.”
“Well, I won’t be seeing her anymore, so you don’t have to worry about bumping into her when we’re together.”
That was the right thing to say. She loosens up, moves closer to me.
Without being obvious, I keep a safe distance. I don’t want to throw cold water on her hopes for tonight, but I’m not here for romance.
I take the picture of Maureen out of my pocket. “Have you ever come across this woman?”
She reaches behind me and twists the switch on the lamp, so the bulb comes up brighter. She takes the picture of Maureen from me, studies it for a moment. Her face clouds. “Yes, I’ve seen her.”
“Where?” I don’t want to seem too excited, but it’s hard not to be.
“In Boston. Not long after I’d come back from being down here, the first time I met you.”
“Had you ever met her before?”
“No.” My questions are obviously disturbing to her. “Why do you ask? Do you know her?”
“Not really.” I pause. “Do you remember her name?”
Johanna shakes her head. “No. Shoot, this is embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“Because I talked to her about you.”
“About me?”
She nods. “This woman”—she taps the picture—“approached me at a party. She asked if I knew someone named Fritz Tullis. I was surprised, since I’d just met you. I told her I did. She seemed excited about that.”
“Did she say why?” I ask. I feel a vein involuntarily vibrating in my neck.
“She said she’d heard you were into bird-watching, that you were a good photographer and took pictures of birds on your property. She told me she was a professional ornithologist who was interested in studying bird life in the Chesapeake Bay area.” Johanna pauses. “She pumped me a lot about you,” she tells me, shaking her head. “You must think I’m a ditz.”
“Not at all.” I’m breaking into a sweat, listening to this. “I think you’re a damn nice woman, actually.”
“You do? After I’ve told you that?”
“It’s no big deal,” I say, not wanting her to know that it is. “So—you and this woman got into a conversation about me?”
She nods. “It was more like an interrogation, now that I think back on it. She asked me a bunch of questions about you. Where you lived, your photography, whatever I’d mentioned.” Her face reddens. “I was a little tipsy. I ran my mouth about you more than I should have. Particularly to a stranger.” She frowns. “Why do you have her picture?”
“She came to see me.”
“She did?” Johanna asks, distressed.
“Yes. She showed up at my place one day, asking if I’d take her bird-watching. She told me what she’d told you—that she was an ornithologist from Boston.”
“Did you take her out to see birds?” Johanna probes. The unspoken question is, did you do anything else with her.
“One time, that day,” I say breezily. “I shot some film, as I always do, and this picture of her showed up on the roll, when I developed it. I guess she saw what she wanted,” I add, “because I haven’t seen her since.” Casually: “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“It can be,” she agrees.
It’s clear she’s upset that she may have caused a problem for me, and by doing so, hurt her chances for any kind of ongoing relationship with me.
“Hey, it’s nothing,” I hearten her. “By the way—do you remember if you mentioned that James Roach was at my mother’s party, that night we met?” I try not to sound desperate.
She thinks back. “Yes, I did. That was a big deal, meeting an assistant secretary of state, particularly in a remote location like here. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I’m like a cat that way.”
“Which curiosity killed. That’s the saying, anyway.”
“I’ve heard that,” I tell her. “Which is why I’m always careful.”
• • •
We say our good nights at her front door. “I’ll call you,” I tell her. “I’m tying up some loose ends, so it might be a few days. Are you going to be down here for a while?”
“Until the end of the week, at least. I might stay longer.” If I have motivation to do so goes unspoken.
I regard her for a moment. “Can I ask you a question? It’s personal.”
“That’s okay,” she says encouragingly. She wants to get personal.
“I know I’m a reasonably attractive guy, but there’s plenty of attractive men in Boston. So why me?”
She smiles. “That is pretty personal.”
“You don’t have to answer. Forget I asked.” I start to go.
She puts a hand on my arm, stopping me.
“I don’t mind answering.” She moistens her lips. “It isn’t true there are that many attractive men around, at least not that many who interest me. And you are a man, a real man.”
She pauses. “But there’s a lot of boy in you, too, Fritz. It’s like you’re not quite fully grown up. There’s still a part of you that’s a reckless adolescent.” She smiles. “And that is a turn-on.”
She’s telling me something about myself that she means as a compliment. But it isn’t, not entirely. I can’t say I’m thrilled that she said it, but it’s something I need to hear.
She kisses me on the cheek. “I’m glad you called and came by, Fritz.”
“So am I, Johanna,” I say, concealing my heavy heart. “So am I.”
• • •
Sleep isn’t going to come tonight. Maureen’s deceit is a vise around my heart. Who is she? And why has she been lying to me? What’s her motive? The stealing of another’s identity to get close to me is her most flagrant violation, but there are others—her mysterious disappearances at critical moments; the times she’s suddenly been called away on business, or had to visit a friend, such as the night Wallace was killed. There’s a pattern, it seems to fit.
The accordion folder Fred brought over the night after my mother was killed, which has all the paperwork detailing the companies Roach was involved in two decades ago, sits on the desk in my mother’s study. I have nothing else to do now—I’ll take one last look through it before I throw it all away.
The material is tedious, complicated, and boring. Although Roach is no longer part of the equation, I turn to the section Fred highlighted, because Roach’s name is the only thing in this shitpile I know. All the deals he was involved in transpired fifteen or more years ago, before he put his holdings in trust. He unquestionably had been a heavy player in the arms game. But there’s nothing to indicate he still is, or has been for over a decade.
The words on the pages are blurring into each other. Time to pack it in. I start to put the files back into the folder, when something resonates in the back of my brain.
I leaf back through the document, look at it more carefully. And the
re, buried among a dozen other names, is a name that screams at me from the page.
I should have thought about this possibility sooner, the signs were all there.
I begin poring through the documents again. This time, I pay closer attention.
• • •
Maxwell Simmons, in pajamas and bathrobe, opens his front door and ushers me inside. It’s still early in the morning. I broke every speed limit in two states to get here as fast as I could. I’m bedraggled—I haven’t showered, shaved, or changed my clothes. I’m sure I don’t smell delightful, either.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I apologize. I’d called him at four in the morning.
Simmons doesn’t comment on my appearance. “It’s all right,” he says graciously.
He offers me a cup of black coffee. “Anything in it?”
“Black’s fine, thanks.”
I wouldn’t mind a shot of Maker’s Mark to spice it up, but he’s a decorous old gent, he’d think badly of me. His blind dog wanders into the room, settling at his master’s feet. Simmons reaches down and scratches behind the dog’s ears. “You sounded agitated over the phone, Mr. Tullis. Almost feverish.”
My hands are shaking. Excitement, lack of sleep, adrenaline. I put the cup down so I don’t spill coffee on myself, hand him one of the documents I’ve been poring over.
“You didn’t tell me about this.” I point to a section I’ve highlighted.
His bushy eyebrows go up, forming an inverted V. “We talked about Roach. You didn’t ask about anyone or anything else.”
“I didn’t know to. All I knew was Roach.”
He shrugs. “I don’t feel obligated to do your work for you, Mr. Tullis. I’ve already gone deeper into this than I should have by meeting with you.” He sighs. “I thought I’d buried my feelings about all of this years ago. But when you came to see me, the possibility that Roach might finally get his just reward overcame my qualms about being involved, however indirectly.”
“Well, sir,” I tell him, settling in, “let’s talk about all of this now. So that maybe, at long last, he will.”
• • •
The thermometer on the facade of the brick courthouse reads 97 degrees in the shade, and the humidity is equally brutal. This is no climate you want to be outside in. The dogs on the street lie on their sides in the shade, panting feverishly, their long pink tongues caked white with sweat.
I park my car across the square from the First Bank of Jamestown. Even though the air-conditioning is turned up full blast, my skin is clammy as an eel’s and my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with socks. I take a moment to compose myself; then I get out of the car, walk across the street, and enter the bank, where I head for the safe deposit section, sign in, and take my box to a cubicle.
I brought a photographer’s loupe with me to view the transparencies. I spread them and the enhancements out on the flat table, each image side by side, examining them carefully under the magnifier.
And there it is. I look closer, to be absolutely, one hundred percent positive.
I’m positive.
• • •
The shades are still drawn at Maureen’s motel room. As before, I knock on her door. There’s no response. I didn’t expect one.
I scan the area. No guests coming or going, and it looks like the cleaning ladies have finished tidying up the rooms along this row. I try the door; maybe I can force it.
But I don’t have to. The maid must have forgotten to lock it. Maybe this is a portent, that all my luck isn’t going to be bad. Looking around once again to make sure no one’s watching, I step inside, quickly shutting it behind me.
The room is dark. I turn on the dim overhead light, hurriedly pull open drawers in the small chest, rummaging among her underwear, other garments. I check the bathroom, the medicine cabinet. I even get on my hands and knees and look under the bed, which hasn’t been dusted for who knows how long. Nothing.
Some clothes are hanging neatly in her closet—dresses she’d worn to my mother’s house for dinner, shorts and jeans from when we went to observe the birds. Her shoes are lined up against the back wall. Running shoes, dress sandals, low heels. At the far end, lying on their sides, laces askew, are her custom-made hiking boots. I pick them up, heft them. They’re almost as big as my Nikes.
I tense as I hear a car pull up outside. A door slams, some footsteps, then a room door down the breezeway opens and closes. My hands are wet—I’m sweating. I have the same premonition of impending calamity I had the night I snuck onto Roach’s property.
There’s one more place to check—the most obvious one, which I’ve saved for last. I open the drawer of the small corner desk, quickly rummage through it. Inside I find a dog-eared Gideon Bible, some motel stationery, assorted blank postcards featuring local attractions—Amish buggies, quilts, old bridges, fishing boats in a harbor.
Under the Bible there’s another, smaller book. I pick it up. It’s Maureen’s notebook, the one she’s been writing in since the first day we went birding. I open it, holding the pages up to the light filtering through the door. There’s no mistaking Maureen’s handwriting. It’s the same precise penmanship that informed me she wouldn’t be coming to my mother’s funeral.
Quickly, I riffle through it. As I’d suspected, there’s nothing in it about birds, because this isn’t about them. It’s all about me, everything I’ve done and told her since she and I met—my comings and goings (particularly as regards my suspicions about Roach), the pictures I’ve taken of his property since she’s met me, what I know about the murders, especially what I’ve hidden from the police. Nothing about her, nothing that tells me who she really is. The most depressing thing is that there’s not one entry about her and me on a personal level. To read this, one would never know we’d had any kind of romantic or emotional relationship.
I flip to the back of the notebook and see an entry with today’s date. Unlike the other entries, which are neat, precise, and detailed, this one was simply and hastily printed, in big, block letters:
“MEET ROACH AT BOAT. TEN O’CLOCK TONIGHT. AVOID FRITZ!”
• • •
I walk to my car, activate my cell phone, and call Fred.
“Hey, Fritz. What’s going on?”
“Call your cousin. I know who the killer is.” My voice is surprisingly calm, considering.
Fred isn’t calm at all—he’s jumping out of his pants. “Who is it? How did you figure it out?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. When can you guys get down here?”
“I’ll check with Marcus. Damn, Fritz, this is incredible!”
“Call me back. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
• • •
He gets back to me in less than five minutes.
“Marcus can get down here in four or five hours. He has to bring the local cops with him, since this is their jurisdiction. And he’s gonna bring the Prince Georges County Police, too, because of Wallace. Where do you want to meet?”
I want the final dénouement to be on my family’s property. That’s where it all started, and it’s fitting that’s where it should end.
“My mother’s house. But Fred . . . not this afternoon. I have something I have to take care of first.”
“Okay,” he says. “When?” I can hear the impatience in his voice.
“Tonight. After . . .” I calculate quickly. “After eleven.”
“Eleven it is. We’ll be there.”
My parents’ house bakes in the afternoon sun. I pull up in front and sit for a moment, staring at it. When my mother and father lived here there was a quality of aliveness. Now it’s an inanimate structure, a collection of rooms.
Generations of Tullises have lived in this house. That’s over now. I’m holding the fort until the hammer comes down.
What a job it’s going to be to pack it all up. The furniture and furnishings are old-fashioned, out of style, almost nothing Sam or Dinah or I will want to keep. We’ve already split u
p the items that had emotional value—Dinah got my mother’s china, silver, and jewelry, Sam took my father’s collection of antique watches, I dibbed my dad’s old desk and chair, and the three of us divided some paintings, family albums, other special heirlooms. The rest goes on the auctioneer’s block.
To the northeast, large, ominous gray thunderheads are gathering. By evening we should have a heavy downpour; perhaps a full-blown storm. Then, once it passes, the air will be light and breezy, sweet with the fragrances released from the trees, the green grass, the rich, loamy earth.
I’ve come to love it here—I didn’t appreciate this place when I was younger, I took everything for granted. I’ll never take anything for granted again.
I park my car out of sight in the garage, close the door, enter the house through the mud room off the kitchen. Immediately, I can feel the change, it’s palpable. I’ve been in this house when no one was here, but this is a different kind of emptiness, it’s like oxygen being sucked out of a bell jar. This is a home that no longer has a soul. As has my mother’s, it’s departed to another place, never to return. An inanimate shell, a collection of wood, brick, glass, mortar. Nothing more.
Moving through the house, I close the windows, pulling the shades. I leave all the lights off as well. Anyone snooping around would think the house was empty. That’s how I want it.
The hours crawl by. I could really use a beer, but alcohol in any amount, even one beer, would be stupid and dangerous. I need a clear head. I have more than enough conclusive evidence now to go to the police, which is what I promised Fred I’d do, what Buster would urge me to do, what I know I should do, not only because it’s the right thing to do, but more important, for me, because it’s in my best interest, my best interest being my self-preservation. Turn everything I’ve learned over to the professionals and remove myself from danger.
But I’m torn, because of the unresolved business with Maureen, or whoever she really is. That entry in her daytimer really threw me for a loop. Why is she meeting with Roach? What’s their relationship? What else has been going on with her that I don’t know about? And how does that connect to all these murders? My need to find out the answers to these questions is more important to me than anything else, even my own safety.
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