Tess started to flip through the rest of the pages. Lea tried to snatch the book away from her. But Lea was timid, scared of damaging the precious memento. Curiosity sparking, Tess held it out of arm’s length and scanned the pages. It took only a moment to find what Lea didn’t want her to see: a classmate’s photo had been crossed out with an emphatic black X, the legend “Cunt” written beneath it. Despite these additions, the name was still legible.
“Linda Stolley,” Tess read out loud. “If I remember the Beacon-Light’s first story, she was Wink’s first wife. I guess the divorce wasn’t too amicable, if he had to go back and deface her junior high school yearbook picture.”
Lea looked scared, but she didn’t back down. “She was a…well, I don’t like to say that word, but it’s what she was. Wink left her years ago, but he never got divorced from her officially. So when he decided to marry me and finally wanted to get a divorce, she held him up for a fortune. Her alimony cost more than the mortgage on this place, but it was the one bill Wink never skipped, I can tell you. Oh no, Miss Linda always had to be paid first no matter what.”
“You make it sound as if he had a habit of paying other bills late.” Unwittingly, Lea was confirming the Blight’s story, line by line. The violence, the rage against his ex-wife, the financial problems.
“I’m not—” Lea snatched the book back. “I wanted to show you how loved Wink was. I thought you were on our side.”
Tess had forgotten her role. “Look, I’ve upset you. That was the last thing I wanted to do. Please, wear your bracelet in good health. And if you do have to sell anything, call Jules Weinstein first. I’ll make sure he does the appraisal for free. It’s the least I can do.”
Lea looked at her skeptically. “Was that the whole reason you came over here, to get dibs on my jewelry? Maybe you made up the whole story about this gold bracelet. Maybe you’ve never even met Wink.”
“I met him. I talked to him just last Friday.” At least this was the truth.
“What did he say?”
“He said you were very good to him, that you had a good marriage.” And this was sort of true.
Lea might have pressed her for more details, but a key was turning in the lock. Tess assumed it would be her mother and the children, but there was only one person, someone with a heavy, irregular tread. A tanned man in a navy windbreaker came into the room. It took Tess a second to place the familiar face in an unfamiliar place. Paul Tucci. Tooch.
“Oh, Tooch!” Lea said. “Wait until you hear, this woman is from Weinstein’s Jewelers, where Wink bought me the most beautiful bracelet last week.” She held up her arm so he could inspect it.
“Weinstein Jewelers? That a fact?” Tucci stared at Tess, who hoped he would not be able to match her to the sweat-slick cyclist from Durban’s. Certainly Wink’s conquests and would-be conquests must blend together over the three decades he and Wink had known each other. “When did you say Wink stopped by?”
“I didn’t, but it was recently. Just last week.”
Tucci looked at Lea’s face. You couldn’t call it happy, but it was slightly more animated than the dull, flat countenance that had greeted Tess. Lea was looking at the bracelet, as pleased as a child. Over her head, Tess shot Tucci a pleading look. Yes, I did something really shitty, but don’t take this away from her. Let her believe her husband did something nice for her before he died.
“Nice work,” he said. “Very classy. Maybe I’ll stop by Weinstein’s, pick up something for my mama’s birthday.”
“Call first. I’ll personally help you.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Tucci assured Tess.
Chapter 15
Tess was just pulling out of the Cotswolds when she caught the latest traffic report on the radio. “An accident on the inner loop of the Beltway has traffic there backed up all the way from Providence to Security,” announced a cheerful man who happened to be hovering above it all in a helicopter. “Better find an alternate route unless you have a lot of time to kill.”
This day was just getting worse and worse. Sighing, Tess snapped off the radio and resigned herself to making her way home along secondary streets. But her mind was still back at the Wynkowskis’. Would Tucci tell Lea who she really was? How dear a friend did someone have to be to warrant his own house key?
Preoccupied, she didn’t notice she was on Route 40, not even a mile from her parents’ house, almost as if her car had a homing device. Perhaps the Toyota was looking out for her best interests: surprise visits were worth big, big points in her family. And her mother had sounded a little plaintive at the hospital. A drive-by schmoozing, if handled properly, might erase all Tess’s other demerits.
The Monaghans lived in a too-big house in Ten Hills, a neighborhood that had run to huge Catholic families when Tess was growing up. Six kids, eight kids, ten, eleven, twelve. This was normal; it was Patrick and Judith Monaghan, with just one child, who had seemed freakish. Tess’s classmates had assumed the Monaghans hadn’t had more children because they eschewed sex, an abstinence adolescents found admirable in their parents. Tess had seen no reason to disabuse her friends of this notion. How much more embarrassing for them to find out her parents were certifiable voluptuaries. But now that she was grown, she was secretly proud her parents’ marriage was still a passionate one.
Judith was sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing a foot just freed from an Italian pump, and reading the morning paper. For a second, Tess saw her as the rest of the world must see her—not as her maddening, monochromatic mother, but as a handsome woman, even a pretty one. She was both right now, her face smooth, without the frown lines her daughter so often provoked.
“Tess!” Judith cried when she sensed her standing there. Then, almost reflexively: “Your hair.”
Tess put a hand up to her forehead, unsure what offense her hair had committed this time. It was loose, which her mother usually preferred to other styles—the long braid down the back, the ponytail low on the neck. Wait, here was the problem: she had used an old plastic headband to hold it back, one in a tortoiseshell pattern. Her mother did not approve of headbands for females over fourteen. Judith wore her glossy brown hair in a short, thick pageboy, which required exactly twenty-five minutes with a blow-dryer every morning. And today’s outfit was perfect, as always, if not exactly fashionable. Navy shoes, now discarded, navy hose, navy skirt, white silk blouse, and navy jacket. Her earrings were lapis, dark enough to match the suit, and set in silver, which went with the silver beads at her neck.
“When a woman turns thirty, she shouldn’t have a mane,” Judith chided. “You need to shape it.”
“I was in a hurry this morning. I’ve been working on special assignment.”
“As an…investigator?” Her mother was lukewarm about the job with Tyner. When Tess was unemployed, she had insisted any job would do. Now she longed for Tess to be a professional, someone with regular hours, a fat salary, and a thin husband.
“Yes, as an investigator, although this is a contract job. But I think I’m suppose to keep things confidential. Like a lawyer.”
The word “lawyer,” even in passing, had a softening effect on her mother. If Tess worked at a law firm, perhaps she would go to law school and become someone Mrs. Monaghan could brag about, ever so casually. Better yet, maybe she’d meet a doctor on a malpractice case. Tess knew how her mother’s mind worked.
“Would you like something to drink as long as you’re here? A Coke? Tea?”
Although still full from her Marconi’s lunch, Tess knew this was a cheap way to make her mother happy. “Tea would be nice. Let’s have a cup together.”
The kitchen had been redone three years ago, and it reflected Judith Monaghan’s single-minded approach to color. Almost everything was white—walls, cabinets, appliances, the tile floor—with a few red and blue accents placed carefully throughout. As the water boiled in a bright blue teapot, Tess took down fire engine red mugs. The spoons, the everyday ones, had blue wooden handles. A b
right red Le Creuset casserole sat on a back burner. When spring was further along, there would be red and blue flowers in a white vase on the whitewashed table. Perverse Tess sometimes longed to bring her mother pink tulips, or something yellow, to see if Judith could tolerate these unchosen, clashing colors.
“Forsythia,” she said out loud, and her mother looked out the bay window in the front, to the row of ancient forsythia beginning to bud.
“I told your father to cut it back last fall, but I think he got carried away. It looks straggly, doesn’t it?” Then, without transition, without any change in inflection, “That car again.”
A brown car, with ever-larger portions of salmon showing through, was driving slowly down the street, the Buick that had trailed Tess the night before. Damn, my car is in plain view. But it seemed unlikely they could have followed her today, from downtown, through the maze of the Cotswolds and on her aimless journey. Were they keeping tabs on everyone close to Spike?
“Again. You said, ‘That car again.’ Have you seen it before?”
“It was here on Saturday, when we got home from the hospital. It drove up and down a couple of times, so I called the neighborhood patrol. That’s one good thing about the mayor’s people moving into this neighborhood. You get action when something is going on.”
“The mayor’s people” was her mother’s code for professional blacks. Tess usually corrected Judith’s euphemistic racism, but enlightenment could wait. The Buick was pulling over, parking at curbside.
Tess shrank back behind the kitchen island, trying to find a place where she could watch the car through the kitchen window without its occupants seeing her. The front passenger door opened and, after a few seconds, a man came up the walk. A short, chunky man in a leather blazer, with a face that defied any specific description. It was a generic face, a clean-shaven oval beneath bushy brown hair, dark glasses hiding the eyes. A good face for a criminal, Tess thought, as the doorbell pealed.
“Mother—” her voice was urgent enough to stop Judith, who was bending over and putting her shoes back on.
“He’s probably selling something,” she assured Tess. “I’ll send him on his way and we’ll have our tea.”
“Don’t let him know I’m here.”
Judith could be distressingly obstinate and slow at times, but she picked up on Tess’s tone. “Is this something to do with your work?”
“Yes.” There was no point in letting her parents know that the unsavory side of Spike’s life was in the ascendance. “This man is very angry with me. Don’t let him in. Whatever he says, don’t let him in. I’m going to stand by the phone, ready to call 911 if I have to. But I won’t unless I absolutely have to.”
Her mother studied Tess. She was torn, Tess knew, between lecturing her daughter on her unorthodox life and enjoying this sense of mission between them. The bell rang again. She walked to the door with the brisk air known to quicken the pulses and words-per-minute of the clerk-typists in her division at the National Security Agency. Tess crouched down by the wall phone, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Spike Orrick told me he was gonna leave something for me here,” the man was telling Judith. “You know anything about that?”
“I think you must have the wrong house,” she replied. Tess could tell she tried to shut the door on him as firmly as possible without slamming it, but her swing ended prematurely with a dull thud. The man must have stuck his shoe between the door and the frame.
“Maybe you better let me come in and look.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave Ten Hills right this minute.” This time, Tess heard a sound she couldn’t identify, followed by a quick exhalation and a muttered curse. The door slammed shut firmly and the deadbolt turned. As Judith marched back into the kitchen on her navy heels, Tess lunged for the kitchen door and locked it, just in case the men tried to come through that way. Outside, the Buick roared away from the curb. It sounded asthmatic, the way a car does when it’s going to need a new muffler soon. Good, she’d be able to hear it coming.
“How did you get him to leave?” Tess asked.
“Stepped on his foot with my high heel.” Judith laughed, pleased with herself. “He’s not the first man to stick his foot in the door. But what does this have to do with your job? That man was asking for something from Spike. Is that why you didn’t want to call the police, because Spike is mixed up in this?”
The teapot sang, momentarily sparing Tess a reply. She poured the water over the tea bags—good old Lipton’s, nothing flavored or new-fangled for Judith—wondering why the men would come here. Spike would never implicate her parents in any part of his gambling operation, given her father’s job as a city liquor inspector. Yet this was the second time they had been here in four days.
“They tried to get into Dorothy’s house on Saturday, but she didn’t even take the chain off,” her mother said. “They told her they were looking for a dog. You know what I think? I saw something on television about burglars who tell some story in order to get into your house, to see what you have worth stealing. Then they back up a truck as soon as you go to work and cart everything away.”
Tess almost scalded herself with water as she swung around, still holding onto the teapot.
“They were looking for a dog?”
“That was the story they used Saturday, down at Dorothy’s.”
“Did they say what kind of dog?”
“They didn’t have time to say much. Dorothy blew her police whistle in his face and slammed the door on him.”
The greyhound—of course, they wanted the greyhound. But why? Why would anyone want that dog under any circumstances?
“Esskay,” she said.
“You want a piece of sausage? Oh, honey, you know your father and I don’t eat those fatty foods any more. But let me see what I have for a snack.”
“I’m sorry,” Tess said, putting her untouched mug of tea on the kitchen table. “I have to go.”
“Why?” Her mother called after her. “What’s going on?”
She searched for the only reason her mother would accept. “I just remembered, I left my iron on.”
There was no brown-over-salmon car wheezing down Bond Street, or waiting in the alley outside her apartment. Inside, Esskay was in bed with Crow, napping. Tess stood over them, watching them, feeling an odd mix of tenderness and responsibility toward both. I didn’t ask for this, she thought. I can’t handle this.
Crow’s breathing was slow and measured. The dog’s inhalations were quick and sharp, her lip curling back over her teeth, her legs moving as if she were chasing rabbits in her dreams. Crow wrapped himself around the twitching dog, nurturing even in his sleep. Tess took off her clothes and took her place behind Crow, joining in their conga line. She began to fall asleep, only to jerk awake at the sound of a car moving slowly through the alley. She got up, looked out the window, snorted down a quick whiff of bourbon. Back in bed, she had barely surrendered to the not unpleasant mix of hot flesh and warm fur when the phone rang, waking everyone entwined there.
“Hello,” Crow whispered dreamily to her, as she reached over him to pick up the phone. He squeezed her thigh in welcome.
“Hello?” Jack Sterling’s voice came over the line, tentative and shy.
“Yeah,” she said to both men, a little groggy from being right on the edge of sleep.
“I’m sorry to call you at home, but I admit I couldn’t wait. Did you talk to Lea Wynkowski?” Crow rolled toward her and pushed his leg between hers, as if trying to warm himself.
“Yes, I did talk to her,” Tess said, feeling a rush of shame as she recalled her heartless trick.
“Does she blame the paper? Does she think we killed her husband?”
What was it about Jack Sterling that made her want to say whatever he longed to hear? “Right now, the only person she really seems to blame is Wink.”
“Did he call her before he…did what he did?”
She was fully awake now. “No, the last time she talked to him was Friday. And he was in a pretty good mood then. Said he thought the deal would still go through.” She glanced at Crow, who was looking at her expectantly, the way Esskay sometimes stared at the kitchen table, even when there was no food on it. “She didn’t even know about the story until Sunday night.”
“I guess that’s something. Although even if she absolves us, I’m not sure I can. Did she say anything else? Anything at all? Don’t spare my feelings, Tess.”
“Nothing, really. Did I do okay? Or does this mean I have to go back to sitting in that office six hours a day?”
Sterling laughed. “You do whatever you like. I told Colleen I’ve given you a special assignment.” His voice changed, warming a shade. “Tess?”
“Hmmmm?”
“You sounded hoarse when I called, as if you were sleeping. Are you in bed?”
“Uh-huh.”
He hesitated. “Are you alone?”
Again, she told him what she assumed he wanted to hear, what she wanted him to want to hear. “Uh-huh.”
“Go back to sleep, Nancy Drew.” He hung up the phone, as did Tess. But she did not go back to sleep. It was only 7 o’clock. She rolled into Crow, and they made love like an old married couple, quickly and silently, with small, efficient movements that barely rocked the bed. Esskay slept on, undisturbed by their rhythms, still chasing rabbits.
When they were finished, Crow put on his jeans and went whistling into the kitchen to prepare everyone’s supper. Tess, who had never been a stare-at-the-ceiling sort, found herself studying the old-fashioned light fixture over her bed as if she had never seen it before. Something worrisome was skulking around the edges of her mind. Not one thing. Three things.
Charm City Page 15
