Who By Water

by Victoria Raschke

  “Yes. Gregor and I are old friends.”

  “I see.” She made another scribble in her notebook. “Were you aware of anyone else Miss Belak was involved with?”

  “Not last night. I mean, I knew she was sleeping with other people, but I didn’t know who.”

  “But you know someone’s name now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” Marta looked up at her again, this time with anticipation.

  This was awkward. “Like I said, I knew Helena had other partners. That didn’t matter to me; we weren’t romantically involved. I never asked her and she never asked me.” Involved. What a strange fucking word for it.

  “But?”

  “Last night Vesna called my son to come to my apartment because she was worried about me. Shock. Going to the hospital.” Jo waved her hand dismissively.

  “Vesna?”

  “Sorry. Vesna Kos. My friend, neighbor, business partner with Gregor.”

  “And?”

  “Gregor told Faron what happened and it came out that Faron had been sleeping with Helena.” She looked down at her hands, embarrassed. It sounded even worse telling it to a stranger. “I had no idea. Apparently Faron didn’t either.”

  Marta was staring openly at her now. She’d laid her pen down exactly parallel to the notepad. “You lead a very interesting life, Ms. Wiley. Are you involved with anyone else?”

  “Is that relevant?” She really didn’t feel the need to divulge anymore of her private life.

  “This is a murder investigation. Everything is relevant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what, Ms. Wiley?”

  “Yes I am involved with other people.”

  “Their names, please.” She picked up her pen again. Jo had a flash of her numbering down the page like she was expecting a laundry list, but Marta just held her pen above the paper.

  “Milo Rogel and Rok Zorko.”

  “And what is the nature of…”

  Jo cut her off, irritated and embarrassed, and pissed off because she was embarrassed. Her life was being displayed and dissected and she didn’t much care for it. “Milo and I sleep together regularly. We occasionally go to the theater or to a restaurant together. Rok and I have known each other for 15 years. He travels a lot, but we see each other when he is in town.”

  “How long have you been involved with…” she looked down at her note, “Mr. Rogel?”

  “A year, year and a half.”

  “Do Mr. Rogel and Mr. Zorko know about each other? About Helena?”

  “Yes. I don’t have secrets from people I sleep with about other people I sleep with.”

  “They all know each other?”

  “No. I mean each of them knows, knew, there were others but I don’t know if they all knew each other socially outside of fuck– sleeping, with me. Maybe they all go out and have beers and talk about me!” Her voice echoed in the emptiness of the room. She paused and said more quietly, “I prefer to keep the rest of my social life separate.”

  “I see.”

  “What does that mean?” The disdain in Jo’s voice was unmistakable.

  “Nothing. I just want a clear picture of what’s going on. Was there any jealousy between you and any of your lovers?”

  “Lovers? No. Everything was out in the open. I just told you that.”

  “With you. But with others?”

  “What do you mean others?”

  Marta looked her in the face again. “Since your lovers knew about each other, I’m assuming they may have other lovers as well.”

  “Yes. Well, not Rok. Not lately anyway.”

  Marta looked surprised. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Fairly. He’s currently celibate to prepare for a pilgrimage to Nepal.”

  “But you still see each other?”

  “Yes.” Why was that so fucking strange to everyone? She wanted to leave.

  “To do what, exactly?”

  “Is that relevant?” Her volume crept up again.

  “Ms. Wiley…” Marta looked at her, waiting.

  Jo wondered if she practiced that patronizing look in front of a mirror. “We play chess. And he’s teaching me to knit.” She said it more to her lap than to Marta.

  Marta laughed loudly. When she regained her composure she apologized. “I’m really very sorry, it’s just…”

  “Why is that so funny?”

  “It isn’t.” Marta tried and failed to straighten her face. “I mean, well, given everything you’ve just told me … Well, you didn’t seem the knitting type.”

  Jo looked her in the face. She had moved past embarrassment and was simply pissed off. She said very quietly and clearly, “A girl needs a hobby.”

  “Yes.” Marta laughed again, but more to herself. “Ms. Wiley, please tell me what happened after you spoke with Ms. Belak at the museum.”

  Jo met Gregor back out on the street in front of the precinct.

  “Jesus. That was awful.” She ran her fingers through her hair. It was the first time she’d wanted a cigarette in months.

  “Twenty Questions about your sex life?” He brushed a stray strand off her face.

  “More like 200. You?” The noise of the street was almost too much to bear after the tomb-like quiet of the station. She was grateful for the fresh fall air, though.

  He nodded. He wasn’t exactly in the closet, but he didn’t broadcast his private life to the world.

  She took his wrist. “Can I buy you a coffee? Sit for a second?”

  “I would love to do something as normal as that, but I have a meeting this afternoon I can’t get out of. Are you okay on your own?”

  “Yeah. Some alone time might be a good thing.” She didn’t mean it, but it might be true. She hadn’t even started to process that Helena was dead, and now there were all these other layers to sort through.

  Gregor hugged her tightly and strode off toward the nearest taxi stand. He was one of the few men who could make a rumpled suit and morning stubble look fashionable at lunch time.

  She walked the few blocks back toward the river. The sky was a perfect, cloudless cobalt. The leaves were turning colors and falling, gilding the cobbles in shades of orange and gold. She looked up to the castle perched at the top of the wooded hill below which Staro Mesto, the Old City, nestled. The beauty of central Ljubljana surprised her every time she saw it. Looking around was like immersing herself in a series of expertly illuminated dioramas. The changing light of seasons, even of a day, of a snowfall, of a rainshower; each shift of light transformed it like a set change. October days were her favorite though. The Baroque wedding cake of the central city was most perfect to her in the autumn, just before the dulling gray of the winter set in.

  She found an open seat outside at Cacao. It was cool enough that the staff had put blankets over the backs of the seats and benches. She was dressed warmly enough not to need one. A server came to take her order.

  “A café latte, please.” Milky coffee after breakfast. So American, but she had worked hard to get to a place where she didn’t much care what most people thought. And yet, a police officer doing her job had made her defensive.

  The embankment was busy with Ljubljančani and turiste. She was thankful Cacao didn’t have much of a crowd, at least outside, and she’d been able to get a seat next to the river. From where she sat she could see up to the castle and down the river to the Three Bridges. No matter how bad things were, looking at the water soothed her. She could find herself almost trance-like watching the current.

  She felt calmer, but she still ruminated on Inspector Marta’s observations on her “interesting life.” How little that interesting life had let her get to know Helena, and now Helena was dead. Now she was murdered. The same inspector would be interviewing her son. She thought again about Helena’s come-on at the
museum, and the lingering way she’d squeezed Jo’s fingers as she’d turned away. That was the last time she would ever touch her. There was a last time. There had been a last time for her father. There would be for Faron, and Gregor and Vesna. She had never thought about savoring that.

  “Jo?”

  She looked up into Milo’s concerned face.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “Or hear me. I called your name several times.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Are you okay? I heard you were at the Emona thing last night.”

  “Mostly okay. I just came from the police.” She grimaced.

  “I’m sure they have to question everyone who was there.”

  “Yes. And I knew the woman who was killed, Helena.” She couldn’t say murdered out loud again. She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand.

  He sat down next to her. “You knew her well?” He ran his fingertips under her eye without mentioning her tears.

  She smiled ruefully. “Depends on how you mean. Physically, I knew her about as well as you can know a person, but I didn’t know her very well at all.”

  “I’m sorry.” He put his hand on her thigh.

  “I didn’t reply to your text last night. I didn’t see it until this morning. I’m so sorry.” She put her hand over his.

  “Jesus. I don’t care about that. Last night must have been awful for you.”

  “Hm.” She looked out at the river again as it flowed through the city, carrying only a standup paddle boarder in a wet suit and later, a river cruise boat half-filled with tourists. It seemed like she’d been more unnerved by losing her shit so spectacularly and winding up tranked at the hospital than she was upset by what happened to Helena. It was an awful feeling.

  Had she actually felt something more for Helena? Did she know Milo any better than she’d known her?

  He put his other hand over hers.“Do you want some company tonight? I mean not…Just, I didn’t know if maybe it would be better…to not be alone.”

  “Thank you. I think I do want to be alone tonight. I just…”

  He interrupted her. “You don’t need to explain.”

  “Thank you. Will you come tomorrow though?”

  “Aren’t you working? I mean, are you going to work tomorrow?”

  “Yes. What else would I do? But I’m done at 10. Damijan agreed to train the new dishwasher and stay later.”

  “I’ll see you at 10 then.” He started to stand to go.

  “Make it 10:30. So I can shower and peel off the smell of restaurant.”

  “Maybe I want to peel you?” He was one of the few people who could say something that weird to her and make it sound sexy.

  She pretended to frown. “Yes, Napoleon. You can come at 10. I won’t wash.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into the foot traffic along the river.

  She finished her coffee and tucked her napkin under the cup so it wouldn’t blow away into the water. She left enough euro coins to cover the coffee and headed back across Prešeren Square to the teahouse to check on Igor, their resident graffiti artist. He’d been setting up when she walked through the courtyard with Gregor that morning.

  The front door of the shop was propped open and two large fans pulled the heavy aerosol smell of spray paint into the courtyard. Every light was on inside the shop, and it was brighter than any customer had ever seen it. The floor, the bakery counter, and the tables were covered in drop cloth. A heavy piece was taped over the kitchen door to seal it. Igor paced on a stretch of low scaffolding along the right wall. She stood in the doorway and watched him deftly texture the waves with short bursts from a can of white spray paint.

  He turned around to look toward the door. She guessed he’d sensed her standing there. He wore a full gas mask to combat the fumes, and he waved to indicate he’d come over. Jumping the two or so steps down from the scaffold, he motioned her outside and joined her in the courtyard. He was taller than she remembered.

  “You shouldn’t be in there without a mask.”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that breathing that stuff is really bad for you.” He shook the spray can in his hand.

  “I’m sorry for being snippy. And, thank you. For taking precautions. I hadn’t even thought about the paint settling or anything.” Or how much cleaning she’d have to do after all those cloths got taken up.

  “I usually work outside, where it’s not much of an issue. I borrowed the drops and gear,” holding up the mask, “from a friend who does commercial painting.”

  “Will you be finished today?” She was surprised by how much he’d done already.

  He laughed. “It isn’t exactly oil painting.”

  “I know. I just thought you’d need more time.”

  “I usually complete a piece in one night, looking over my shoulder for police.”

  “There’s that.” She paused; he was scrutinizing her. “I should go and leave you to it. I just wanted to stop by to see how it was going. You can text me when you’re done and I’ll come down.”

  He took her forearm, and the warmth of his hand reached her skin even through the heavy sweater. “I don’t mean to intrude, but you seem distracted.”

  “I’m fine. I was at the Emona thing last night.” Surely everyone in Ljubljana knew what had happened. Murders were exceedingly rare, and it had happened at such a rarefied gathering. The headline was plastered on every kiosk she’d passed.

  “That must have been disturbing.”

  “Helena and I were… friends.”

  He looked at her with some surprise, though it was hard to tell with him. “I didn’t realize you knew her.” She thought he stressed “knew” slightly more than necessary.

  “Apparently I run in some pretty interesting circles.” She pushed her hand through her hair. Interesting, and much bigger and weirder circles than she’d ever thought.

  “Helena’s circle, as you say, was large.”

  His tone said that he too had been part of that circle.

  “Anyway. I’m going to go make myself some lunch. Can I bring you something?”

  He shook his head. “I brought a sandwich.”

  “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. And Vesna should be back around four.” She walked away backwards as she spoke. He was a fine looking man. She hoped Vesna wouldn’t screw that one up.

  He waved and she turned around to take the stairs up to her apartment.

  Tea. Sandwich. Nap, if she could close her eyes. It wouldn’t be easy to turn off the hamster wheel churning her thoughts.

  She opened her front door, keys clanging in her hand, and kicked her clogs off in the entryway. Gregor had tidied the kitchen while she’d gotten dressed that morning. His house was palatial compared to hers, but he understood that in a small space, just a few dishes in the sink made the whole place seem a mess. She grabbed her blue mug from the drain board and pulled a tin of chamomile tea down from the cupboard.

  Humming softly, she busied herself making tea and a cheese sandwich thickly spread with the end of last year’s apple chutney. Then she noticed what tune she was humming. It was the theme from M*A*S*H.

  Why the fuck? She had Gregor to thank for the earworm. No, she had heard it last night, too. At the hospital? No. Before, at the museum. That didn’t make any sense. She must have heard it somewhere in the background before then, and it had lingered subliminally. To eradicate it, she sought and found a Leonard Cohen playlist on her phone. Her constant companion in times of turmoil.

  She gathered her tea and sandwich and curled up in the corner of the futon against the wall, listening to Leonard sing about the famous blue raincoat. She placed her tea on the wide windowsill that faced the courtyard and balanced her sandwich plate on her knees. She looked out the window while she
ate, watching a neighbor’s laundry blow gently on the line strung between the second floor railings. The sun shone on one side of the courtyard, but the other side was already in deep shadow as the sun moved down from its zenith.

  She was breaking her own rule by eating on the white draped futon. Everything in the apartment was white, even the painted floorboards, and she was particular about only eating at the table. This was one time when comfort would triumph over self-imposed conformity. She finished her sandwich and set the plate on the windowsill between her mug and the orchid she was trying to get to bloom again. She checked her phone to see the ringer was on in case Igor texted, and set it next to her plate as well.

  She was aware of some lingering grogginess from the sedative at the hospital, but every muscle in her body felt ready to run. That was unnerving, not least of all because it had long been her position that she’d run only if something were chasing her.

  She slid down on the futon and balled up a throw pillow under her head. Now that she was trying to fall asleep, her mind began to race through a catalog of troubling thoughts: the morning’s conversation with Gregor about Faron and Helena, the intrusive interview with Inspector Marta, the image of Helena’s lifeless body on the mosaic floor, and of her wide open eyes.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Rok had used the two phrases to talk her down off many an emotional ledge when Faron was younger and she’d been angrier. It wasn’t working today. She tried instead to turn her mind to a happier image, punting up the river in the small boat Gregor kept tied up near his house. She concentrated on the surface of the calm water and the shadows of trees hanging over the banks. It finally worked and she drifted off.

  She bolted upright from a dead sleep. A noise in the apartment. It took a second to register: someone was at the table, and it wasn’t anyone who had a key to her flat.

  Helena sat there, calm as a cat in the sun, sipping tea out of Jo’s gray mug. It was the mug Gregor had used and washed that morning. Helena’s hair was disheveled and her head tilted a bit to one side. She was wearing the toga-draped dress from the previous night; it was crumpled and soiled.