The Weeping Buddha

by Heather Dune Macadam

  She let the highway abscond with her thoughts until time and space merged into one and she was suddenly, a half-hour later, on the crosscut heading to Sag Harbor and just seven miles from home. The light was beginning to slant from the west as she drove past Whalebone Landing and Trout Pond, the haunts of her youth. She took Long Beach to North Haven because it was the prettier route home. The water was so still it looked like a slice of mica, and the sun, dipping toward the horizon despite the fact that it was four in the afternoon, cast a rosy glow over the surface. Other cops and detectives who lived closer in to work never understood the reason the drive was worth her time, but crossing the Sag Harbor bridge and the stormy blue of the bay, Devon was reminded once again why she had made the decision to live so far out on the East End.

  On Bay Street she slowed down to the maximum 20-mph speed limit and slowly coasted toward her grandmother’s old house. Its Victorian roof and the graceful bend of the porch appeared even older amid the renovated homes of the nouveau riche. Devon’s family fought to maintain the original qualities that once made Sag Harbor unique in the world, and that meant they hadn’t painted the house since 1968—or was it 1958?

  Directly across the street from her house an ugly battleship-gray monstrosity some jerk had built simply because “he could” loomed. She and Aileen called it the Mausoleum. Now, if someone had murdered him or his architect she would have understood, but Gabe and Beka? It didn’t make sense.

  The Imamura-Montebello family had lived typical East End artist lives—they had opened their home to up-and-coming talent, fostered and mentored many new names in the art and dance worlds, and were generally acknowledged, if not liked, by everyone. True, she and Beka hadn’t talked as much as they once had in their youth, when every decision they made depended on the other’s opinion. But they still got together for lunch or talked on the phone every few weeks, and they always spoke every New Year’s Eve, until this one. This was after they’d had that stupid argument last summer at the annual Sag Pond clam-bake.

  “Ten years is too long to be waiting in the wings, Dev,” Beka had concluded after fifteen minutes of disagreement over Devon’s love life. “You’re a principal dancer, not corps de ballet.”

  Devon was tired of being judged and ridiculed, and angry with Beka for continually picking on her relationship with Lochwood. “You don’t understand,” she snapped. “Loch and I aren’t like one of your affairs!” She felt evil as she said the words but couldn’t stop herself.

  “My affairs ended when I married Gabe, they didn’t begin!”

  “Loch loves me. His wife is ill, and I can understand why he stays with her.”

  “You believe that load of crap? You’re a cop, how gullible can you be?”

  “I must be pretty gullible to think you weren’t doing coke back in the ’80s.”

  “Everyone did it. And don’t go acting all high and mighty with me. You could party just as much as the next person.”

  “At least I didn’t let partying get in the way of my life.”

  “No, you let life get in the way of your art!”

  “That’s always what it comes back to, isn’t it? I stopped being an artist. Did it ever occur to you that I am doing my art?” She could see Beka fighting back the word “No.” What either of them said next would make or break the relationship, and they both seemed to know it.

  “You don’t let anyone into your world,” Beka said finally.

  If Devon had just kept her mouth shut their friendship might not have ended in stalemate. She had been mad, though. “And you can’t imagine giving up your art for anything or anyone. You can’t even imagine giving your life to someone you love—Loch can.”

  “What if he came to you right now and said let’s get married? Could you take forever?” Beka challenged. “When was the last time you had a relationship that wasn’t an affair? You’re terrified of intimacy.”

  “Oh, and you’re the intimacy queen?” Devon never should have said it like that.

  Why had she quit painting? Part of what Beka had said to her in their fight was true—Devon liked to think that she wasn’t selfish enough to be an artist, but the fact was she had been afraid. What if she failed? When she was brutally honest with herself, Devon Halsey knew she lacked the genius of a deKoonig, Pollack, or Montebello. However, she was meticulous when it came to observation and detail, and while those qualities might have made her artwork too planned and controlled, they were assets in a Crime Scene detective.

  Beka’s hand flashed in the air like a fish rising out of the water and hung there, her eyes narrowing spitefully. “He’s never going to leave her.”

  Devon bristled. “You forget, Beka, that I know why Todd ran off that night and so do you! Because you wanted to fuck someone else!”

  “I’ll tell you something, Devon, I’m the only friend you have anymore. You’ve ignored your friends for so long we’ve all given up on you. I keep waiting for the real Devon to come back, but she’s gone.”

  “And where’s the real Beka? At some party, posing for the society sheets?”

  “You used to be an artist!”

  “You used to be nice!”

  “You’re wasting your life on a married man.”

  Beka’s words still stung. Devon had not stayed to hear the rest.

  Her car pulled up into her driveway where a welcoming committee of spots wiggled and barked excitedly, and Devon felt a concrete certainty that she had made the right decision. She loved what she had: her job, her home, her dog, Loch, Aileen, her folks four miles down the road.

  “Hey, Boo!” she greeted her seventy-five pound dalmatian. He was the Boo in the “Just Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” the first present Lochwood had ever given her.

  “Since I can’t be with you all the time I want someone who is,” he’d told her. The puppy’s pirate-patched eye had winked at her, then he had burst out of the box and into her arms. “They’re one-man dogs. That means he’ll always love only you.” It was the closest Loch had ever come to saying he loved her.

  Beka had never understood that Loch was just like the dalmatian—even if he was married to the wrong woman, he loved Devon, and he always would.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  What is Tao? A bright-eyed man falls into a well.

  —HARYO OSHO

  Devon had been lucky to inherit her grandmother’s house in the new “hot spot of the Hamptons.” She had tried renting the place in the summers, but stopped after the tenants called to complain about the mosquitoes.

  “In the house?” she had asked, genuinely concerned that there might be holes in the screens.

  “No, outside!”

  Her next tenant—another high-strung New Yorker—had been terrorized by wildlife. “There’s a raccoon in the yard!”

  “You’re in the country,” Devon reminded her.

  “I can’t sleep knowing there are wild animals out there!”

  Devon gave up dealing with city people and moved home.

  It had been hard to commute and take care of Boo. Then her childhood friend, Aileen, who was now a pet-sitter by trade and had lived in Sag Harbor all of her life, was ousted from her apartment. She had lived in the same place for fifteen years and had never worried about a place to live before. But her landlord’s son inherited the property. Desperate or greedy, no one was sure which, he threw Aileen and three others out of their year-round housing to make room for summer people who could pay summer prices. Devon figured he deserved what he got and promptly called her previous tenants to tell them of this brand-new rental offering.

  That May—the beginning of the “season”—Aileen needed to move. It was a yearly ritual for locals all over the Hamptons who, upon vacating their winter rentals, scrambled to find anything—a hovel, a tent, a couch to sleep on—so they could keep their jobs until fall when the towns were vacated once more. For Devon, Aileen’s homelessness was a godsend. They had learned how to swim, ride ponies, and shoplift together. They had smoked their first
cigarette and swigged their first bitter taste of bourbon together. It had happened on the same night, and to cover up the odor they had eaten a gallon of ice cream immediately afterward. They had always been friends—it only made sense to offer Aileen a place to live in Grandma Haile’s house.

  Aileen moved into the upstairs bedroom and paid rent by feeding and walking a dog that needed attention and exercise during Devon’s ten-hour, and often longer, days. It was a fair trade. Devon had someone who could take care of Boo, and Aileen, who had lost her own dog Quincy earlier that spring, had a home to live in while continuing her business, walking other people’s dogs, and saving money to buy her own house.

  Devon pulled her bag out of the car, waved to Aileen, and then wondered if she’d heard about Beka and Gabe yet.

  “Happy New Year, roomie!” Aileen waved.

  Devon patted Boo on the head one more time. Beka was wrong; she did have friends. Her dog and Aileen were her friends. Hell, she’d known Aileen longer than she’d known Beka.

  “He’s been here since noon,” Aileen said—she had a way of starting conversations in the middle as if Devon had just stepped out of the room rather than having been gone for twenty hours—“just sitting out in the yard and staring at the bay.”

  “Who, Boo?” Devon had no idea what Aileen was talking about.

  Aileen chuckled. “Hans. He wouldn’t even come in for a cup of tea.”

  “He must have heard about Beka.” Devon stood up slowly. She didn’t want to deal with other people’s feelings regarding Beka’s death; she still had to deal with her own.

  “Oh, she called.”

  “Who?”

  “Beka. Left a message last night for you.”

  Loch had been right.

  Devon walked toward the house with her spotted shadow close at her heels. “Beka and Gabe are dead.”

  “Oh my gawd! You’re joking.” Aileen’s Long Island twang made her O’s sound like Au’s.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it at 7-Eleven.”

  “It’s closed for the holiday; besides, I got too many dogs to walk. I work on holidays, know what I mean?”

  Devon knew exactly what she meant. “Hurley was at the scene. It’ll be in Newsday tomorrow.” She pressed the playback button on the answering machine and waited for the messages to rewind.

  “Hi, Devon. Hi, Aileen. It’s Alex. I’m out here for the holidays. Dev, I hope you’re coming to Number One Chinese Restaurant for dim sum tomorrow. Beka arranged a loft reunion, so I’m sure you know about it.” Devon made a black swiggle on the notepad in front of her. No, she had not known about the reunion and couldn’t help feeling resentful that Beka hadn’t called to tell her. “Everyone’s coming: Maddie and Godwyn, Josh and Katiti, and I just got hold of Sam! Bring that cop you’ve been dating. What’s his name? Can’t wait to see you. Call me. I’m listed if you don’t have my number. Maybe we can all drive in together. If you talk to Beka tell her to call me. Ciao bella!”

  “Ciao bella! She is so full of herself.” Aileen shook her head.

  Devon made a note to call Alex and then, as if invoked from the past, Beka’s voice crackled through the room.

  “Where are you? I really need to talk. I’m sorry about what I said. I need my friend back.” Beka sniffed loudly as if she had been crying. “Come over when you can, okay? Please? It’s about Todd.” There was static, typical of her cellphone, and a click. Aileen and Devon stared at each other but neither moved.

  “That’s so creepy.” Aileen shivered.

  “I’m going to see Hans.” Devon held the door open for Boo and together they headed across the first dune and toward Havens Beach.

  The sun was truly setting by the time Devon found Hans sitting on a rock facing Sag Harbor Bay. The monk’s back was broad and dark as a carved Buddha, and the stillness surrounding him made her hesitate before speaking.

  “Hans?”

  He kept staring at the remnants of scarlet and lavender along the horizon. “Devon Halsey, how are you this day?” His Swedish accent was thick, but Devon was fairly used to trying to interpret Hans’s words and listened carefully.

  “Not so good, Hans. Beka is dead.”

  “It is a terrible thing. Not at all like our Beka.”

  “What’s not like her?”

  He put his large carpenter’s hand on hers and squeezed. He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid to have wrecked things for you, but …” Devon strained to grasp the meaning behind his words, “… to see for yourself.”

  “See what?” She felt as small as a child next to him.

  He stood up. “I think I have her hair at the zendo.”

  Lochwood sat at his desk and opened the Imamura-Montebello casebook. How could he make Devon see that Beka—probably because of an innate instability—had murdered Gabe and killed herself? He reread his notes and concluded once more that he couldn’t. He had to let the evidence talk and thus prove it to her. He knew how important it was to keep an open mind, but so did Devon. He had to trust her to follow this through in her own way, just as he was going to. Still, from all he and Gary had heard it seemed to fit—Beka Imamura had killed Gabriel Montebello. The real mystery was why. He looked at a few of the Polaroids Devon and Frank had shot of the bodies and knew if he forced Devon to see Beka’s guilt, he’d lose her.

  Could he bear to lose Devon and Brea at the same time?

  All of his life the only thing he had longed for was a family, people to protect and depend on him. Well, he had gotten his wish. Marty was completely dependent. Devon was not, and she didn’t even need his protection. All she needed, all she asked for, was to be with him, and that seemed harder to give than anything.

  He picked up the phone and left a message at the photo lab to rush the crime-scene photographs, then called hematology and toxicology for a rush on the blood. They’d love coming back from vacation a day early and hearing his voice first thing. He flipped his calendar from December 31 to January 1—the years just kept on coming.

  He and Devon had planned to work New Year’s Eve because they thought there might be some strange case involving the new age—mass suicide or mass murder from one of those weird “spiritual” groups on the North Fork. The far-out stuff only happened in California though. New Yorkers just killed each other—with samurai swords from the look of it. He glanced at his watch. It was only six o’clock. He had another six hours before he was on duty and he wasn’t tired in the least. He reached for the casebook one more time as the phone rang.

  “Brennen,” he said as noncommittally as possible. He could tell by the hollowness of the voice that she was speaking into her car phone. “I was just thinking about you,” he lied. He wished he’d just been thinking about her. He wondered what she was up to, without him.

  “There’s a new development out here.” She told him about Hans.

  “Is this some weird Buddhist thing?”

  “Maybe? I’m on my way now. I’m treating it like a crime scene.”

  “Treat it like a Crime Scene.”

  “That’s what I said,” she replied with a lighthearted chuckle.

  “F-you!” He suddenly felt optimistic. It was the first time he’d heard levity in her voice in twenty-four hours. “Sorry about earlier.”

  “Yeah, well. There was a message from her.” She knew he was grinning. “Wipe that condescending smile off your damn face. It doesn’t mean she killed Gabe, just that you were right.”

  “She call about Todd?”

  “What do you think?” She hung up the phone and kept her left hand on the steering wheel as she followed Hans off of Highway 114 and into the Northwest Woods. They veered down Swamp Road; the lights from residences disappeared in the depths of trees and rather suddenly it became a dark, cold night.

  They parked in his driveway and walked through the picket fence and under an overgrown hedge. Tufts of snow floated to the ground as the privet, with its heavily laden branches, bowed to the wind. The scene had changed in the years since
she had been here; it felt foreign and strange in the gloaming, and in the absence of Beka. Hans bowed to the Buddha in the garden and Devon followed suit, stooping awkwardly, suddenly afraid that she was bowing incorrectly.

  “I left the offering over there,” he whispered, and pointed to Buddha’s hands. “There is more inside, where she cut it, but this is the offering.”

  Barney, the zendo watch dog, trotted up to them and eyed her warily.

  “Hey, Barney!” Devon knelt to the ground and held out her hand in a submissive gesture. He grumbled and turned his back on her, only to lick the back of Hans’s hand before lumbering through the old picket gate. Her absence had just been commented upon by the zendo’s most senior member.

  They walked across the yard to the garden Buddha. “Was Beka sitting regularly?”

  “Almost every morning; she wanted to take Jukai and was studying hard.”

  “Studying what?” Devon stooped to the ground and brushed away the snow to see if any footprints might have been left near the Buddha. There were no tracks near or around the sculpture, even though the Buddha itself was almost completely uncovered, sheltered as it was by a low-hanging bow weighed down with snow.

  “The texts.”

  “I don’t remember cutting one’s hair as part of Jukai.” She stood up and looked at the scene, disappointed. There was nothing that stood out to her, nothing unusual.

  “No, that’s Tokudo.”

  “But Beka was not becoming a monk.”

  “Beka would never cut her hair.” He smiled at Devon.

  Devon made a small bow, took the hair out of Buddha’s hands, and placed it in a bag.