One More Time

by Deborah Cooke

  “Well, he’s not here. And if you order from Macetti’s, I’ll hate you forever.”

  “Here I’d thought that I was already in that club,” Leslie said. “Maybe there’s hope for an enduring maternal bond with the fruit of my womb yet.”

  Annette braced to go at it again, but for the sake of world peace—or an approximation of it in this particular corner of Eden—Leslie made a compromise suggestion. They could both do with some vegetables, though she wouldn’t get them into Annette without a few carbs.

  Like noodles.

  “So, how about Vietnamese instead?”

  * * *

  “Hey, you’re not going to wake up tomorrow if you keep this up.” The bartender gave Matt a nudge. “Don’t you got somewhere to go?”

  “Here is working just fine for me.” Matt drained his glass and pushed it toward the bartender.

  That man braced his massive elbows on the bar. “Maybe it’s time you squared up with me and went off to bed, my friend.”

  “You think I can’t hold my booze?”

  “I think you’re holding enough for a good four or five men your size.”

  “I’m not that small.”

  “No, you’re tall, but you’re lean, man. You’re the kind that takes it on good at the beginning, but can’t keep it up.” He framed his considerable paunch in his hands, jiggled it and grinned. “You need bulk to go the distance, and you ain’t got it.”

  “Give me another.” Matt looked around and realized that the bar was empty except for the two of them. And it wasn’t nearly as blurry a view as he’d prefer. “Please.”

  The bartender leaned on the bar again. “Look at the time. You’re the last person in this place, and I’d like to go home as much as anybody. You don’t need another drink. What you need is a coupla aspirin, a coupla bottles of Perrier, then you won’t hate either one of us in the morning.”

  “But…” But I can still taste my wife’s kiss…

  “You don’t think I seen lots of drinking in this city? You look like a smart man, a man smart enough to know when to quit.”

  “Just one more.” Just one more call home.

  “Don’t you got somewhere to go, my friend?”

  And that was the crux of it. Leaving the bar meant having to decide. A hotel room was not the most appealing prospect. The last thing Matt wanted was to be alone, to be left to sober up and face the shadows lurking in his mind. He wanted to be with someone, not just anyone.

  He wished suddenly that it could have been Leslie, then told himself not to live in the past.

  On the other hand, he didn’t want to appear unannounced at Sharan’s house, ready to embark on phase two of his life, and drunk out of his mind. It seemed that might be a bad start.

  And he wasn’t even sure about going to Sharan anymore. Funny how the choice he’d been so sure was the right choice didn’t feel so right anymore.

  All because Leslie hated her job and he hadn’t known.

  All because Leslie had kissed him as if she’d swallow him whole.

  All because the Leslie who had once surprised him half a dozen times a day and stolen his heart away had made a sudden and startling reappearance.

  The bartender opened the dishwasher, releasing a puff of steam. He started to unload glasses, giving each one a wipe with a towel before sliding it into the overhead rack. “You got a woman? You look like you’re thinking ’bout one.”

  Matt deliberately chose to refer to a woman closer to his current locale. He was drunk. He was seeing things as they couldn’t possibly be. He was afraid to leave the past behind. It couldn’t be more than that.

  “I haven’t seen her in years.” Matt shook his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t call her. I’m still married.”

  “And not to her?”

  “No.”

  The bartender chuckled. “Hey, this town’s like Las Vegas. What happens here stays here. Everybody comes here gets a little something going on. Where’s this woman live?”

  “Algiers.”

  “’Cross the river?” He looked at his watch. “You better get it in gear, then. The last ferry goes by midnight.”

  “That early?”

  “People sleep in Algiers; they don’t party. Or they party at home maybe.” The bartender shrugged massive shoulders. “Don’t make no never mind to me. I never seen the appeal of the place myself, but that’s just me. I like the city.” He grinned. “I like meeting boys from the north like you, who git away from home and go wild.”

  Matt chuckled despite himself. He deliberately remembered how Sharan had looked at him once, refused to admit that Leslie had also once looked at him that way, and told himself that his decision was made.

  He stood unsteadily and grasped the brass rail on the bar to stay on his feet. “Give me the tally, my friend,” he said to the bartender who smiled at Matt’s poor imitation of his accent. “Let’s square it up.”

  “You northern boys just can’t drawl, can you?” The bartender worked the word ‘drawl’ so that it stretched out past Tuesday. “You just don’t got it in you.”

  Matt looked back at him. “I could never touch that, drunk or sober.”

  The bartender laughed when he handed Matt back his credit card receipt. “Go find your woman, my friend.”

  * * *

  Matt hadn’t called.

  It was incomprehensible. Leslie sat in bed and stared at the clock. She’d been hoping and hoping… But it was almost midnight. He should have called, he would have called if he had any intention of doing so. He had tried to call her back earlier today.

  She had been stupid to not pick up the phone then. Maybe it had been the last mistake he’d allow her to make.

  He must have arrived at the hotel already.

  He wasn’t going to call. Leslie slid down in the bed, finding it all too easy to imagine what—or who—might be keeping Matt busy. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, tried to tell herself that she couldn’t expect a grown man to check in regularly like she was his mommy, tried to insist to herself that it wasn’t that important.

  Except that it was.

  Because Matt always called in. Promptly. Frequently. It was as if being away from home was so strange to him on those rare occasions that he was away from home that he felt compelled to call in and make a connection of some kind at regular intervals.

  The telephone rang and Leslie nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d plugged the extension in the bedroom back in—optimistically—but had forgotten how loudly it rang. She seized the receiver and forgot to make sure that she didn’t sound desperate.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Hello, Dr. Coxwell. This is Chief O’Neill from the Rosemount police.” Leslie sagged against the pillows, deflated. “I’m sorry to be calling so late.”

  “That’s fine. How can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to ask you this delicately, so I’ll just ask. I’ve been trying to contact your husband in New Orleans, but he hasn’t checked into the hotel where he said he would be staying. Now, I’ve checked with the airline and know that he arrived this afternoon, and I was just wondering whether you had heard from him. It’s entirely possible that he changed his mind about which hotel, after all.”

  Leslie gripped the phone, wide awake now that the police were interested in the location of her A.W.O.L. husband. “I haven’t heard from him since he was changing flights in Chicago this morning.”

  “Really? And is that typical when he travels?”

  Leslie forced a light laugh, one that sounded contrived even to her ears. “Well, Matt seldom travels, so I don’t have firm expectations of what he will do when he does. It’s possible that the hotel was booked up and he just went to another one. I don’t believe he had made an advance reservation, since this all happened so suddenly.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” the chief acknowledged. “Though I was hoping you might be able to tell me which one.” He cleared his throat. “I surely don’t nee
d to tell you how important it is for me to keep track of Matt Coxwell right now.”

  He was a diplomatic man, this police chief of the sleepy town of Rosemount, but Leslie understood the thread of steel in his tone. Unfortunately, she also understood that her husband could be in a lot of trouble. She kept silent in defense of him. Matt had told her years before that she was a lousy liar and he was right.

  After an awkward pause, the chief cleared his throat. “Perhaps you don’t understand the root of my concern, Dr. Coxwell. One of the things I need to ensure is that Matt has access to some counseling as soon as possible. There’s a tremendous shock in discovering a body in such state as that of Robert Coxwell, and cases of post-traumatic stress syndrome are not uncommon. He promised to do as much last night, but it’s fair to assume that he might not recall what we discussed.”

  Leslie had to ask. “Because he was drinking?”

  “Because he was in shock.”

  “This sounds as if Matt isn’t a suspect.”

  He made an indecisive sound, as if debating whether to confide in Leslie, and so she was a bit surprised when he did. “The coroner has yet to make a formal judgment, you understand, but I think it’s pretty safe for me to work with the assumption that Robert Coxwell committed suicide. I don’t know why he would do so, but his choice of method and a lot of forensic details add together quite coherently in support of this theory.”

  “Couldn’t it have been a burglar he interrupted?”

  “Few men put on their full military dress uniform to confront intruders. There were no signs of forced entry or of another person’s presence, such as one might expect to result from such a confrontation.”

  “Maybe an accident…”

  The police chief interrupted her. “Dr. Coxwell, with respect, there are two types of people in this world: people who are careless with firearms and people who are not. Robert Coxwell and I may have frequently disagreed, but we had a common ground in our respect for guns. I assure you that this was not an accident.”

  When she said nothing, he cleared his throat. “I will confess to you that the primary reason for my concern is that I did know Robert reasonably well, and I’m afraid of Matthew making similar choices, to his own detriment. Robert clearly believed that he could resolve psychological issues himself, without professional assistance…”

  “Excuse me, but I was not aware that my father-in-law had any psychological issues.”

  “People who commit suicide are frequently in a state of clinical depression, which interferes with their judgment. I believe that Robert was in such a state. So, I’m concerned that Matthew may have learned to not confess a weakness to anyone else, especially one that could be concealed. I want to be sure that he receives counseling immediately if not sooner.”

  Leslie gripped the phone. “It was that bad?”

  “It was worse.”

  Leslie couldn’t even imagine it. On some level, she hated Robert for having done this to Matt; on another, she felt a certain sympathy for someone so depressed that he would feel suicide was the only option.

  She decided to trust the Chief. “I do think it’s a bit odd that Matt hasn’t phoned,” she admitted. “I was, in fact, just wondering whether he’d looked up an old friend from college who lives in New Orleans. He might have wanted someone to talk to, and if they’re doing that, it might be why he hasn’t called.”

  “That’s a very promising possibility, Dr. Coxwell, and I would be very encouraged if Matthew had sought out a friend. I don’t suppose you might be able to share the address of that individual?”

  “Well, Matt’s taken his Day-Timer, but I think I know where last year’s Christmas cards are. There might be a return address on the envelope.”

  “That would be extremely helpful. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait on the line.”

  Leslie knew exactly where those cards were and exactly where in the pile she’d find the one she wanted. Mercifully, Matt was less organized than Leslie and never chucked the envelopes.

  She came back to the phone in record time and read off the address to the Chief.

  “S. Loomis?”

  “Sharan,” Leslie admitted, exhaling mightily when she did so, then deciding that she might as well toss out the rest. What else did she have to lose?

  “They were engaged once,” she said quietly.

  “I see,” the Chief said, as if he really did. “I’m sorry, Dr. Coxwell, that this tragedy seems to have created a lot of ripples in your life.” Leslie heard the smile in his voice. “Though I have always heard that you were the most organized person imaginable.”

  Leslie found her teeth gritting, getting a bit tired of everyone being so sure she could handle anything. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to keep you, Chief O’Neill. It sounds as if you still have work to do before you can quit for the night.”

  “I do indeed. I’m sure that we will be talking again, Dr. Coxwell. Good night.”

  Was it a good night? Leslie hardly thought so.

  Chapter Five

  Never mind Algiers being asleep: New Orleans was asleep.

  Matt crossed Canal Street, sobering fast at how deserted the core of the city had become. It was dark, close to midnight, the streets vacant except for velvety and ominous shadows. He could smell the river, hear distant music from the French Quarter, but shivered in the hush here. There were a few shops open, mostly selling garish T-shirts and cigarettes, a bit of booze, ice cream maybe, though the street was dark beyond the yellow gleam of their light cast on the sidewalk.

  He hunched over, shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look both inconspicuous and purposeful. Given the cut of his suit and the fact that he still wore a tie, “inconspicuous” was probably a stretch, but he tried anyway. He found the claim stub for his bags in his pocket, realized he’d forgotten them, and decided against turning back.

  He made his way past the casino, the trade center, through the deserted plaza, following the signs to the dock. It was darker here, even more deserted. The loading zone for the ferry had a low roof, or one that felt low because it was dark metal, and was walled with metal mesh. The floor was concrete and the light from the river shone at the far end like a beacon.

  It was not the most inviting space he’d ever stepped into. There was an ominous sense to it, an industrial grunge and emptiness that made Matt feel vulnerable.

  That was about to get worse. Matt was all the way down the abandoned dock before he realized that the end wall, the one facing the river, was also made of metal mesh. It was actually a gate, presumably to keep people off the dock before the ferry was tied up.

  But the fact remained that it made a closed box. Anyone who was assaulted here would be trapped. There was nowhere to run, except all the way back to the street entrance.

  Which was a pretty long sprint. Matt was not in his physical prime on that night, not by a long shot.

  He fitted his fingers through the mesh, glanced once over his shoulder at the encroaching darkness, then watched anxiously for the arriving ferry. His heart thudded in his ears.

  To his relief, it wasn’t that far to the other side of the river, though the current was clearly strong in the murky water. The little boat left the opposite dock, turned and immediately was tugged on an angle by the river. Its course was corrected, its lights cutting like blades across the dock where Matt waited. Its engines churned and it came closer. He swallowed nervously and silently urged the ferry to hurry.

  Matt was so fixed on the ferry that he never saw them coming.

  He barely heard the stealthy whisper of a boot on concrete before he glanced over his shoulder and took a blow right in the face.

  He stumbled and came up fighting, but there were at least three of them, it was dark and he was drunk. He swung, missed, took a hit to the gut and fell against the mesh, stunned by the pain. His head spun and he wondered whether they would kill him, what he could or would do about it.

  Then he felt fingers in his pocket. Once they had his
wallet, they spared him one more hit, presumably to make sure he couldn’t chase them. Matt fell to his knees, held his aching gut and vomited on the concrete. His assailants’ footfalls echoed on the concrete, their shadows dissolving like wraiths mingling into the greater darkness.

  Matt knew he could never identify them and didn’t much care. He’d had fifty bucks and a couple of credit cards that could be replaced. They were welcome to the lot of it.

  Because he wasn’t quite dead yet. That fact suddenly held more promise than he might have expected.

  * * *

  Leslie turned over the envelope from the Christmas card that was still in her hand, eying the elegantly cursive handwriting. It was so unabashedly feminine, so flamboyant, so unlike her own practical script. She listened, but the house was silent.

  She was unlikely to be caught by Annette in any nefarious deed.

  It was dark in the bedroom, the only light falling from the lamp on one nightstand. Leslie reminded herself how much she loved the color of this shade, of how it turned the bulb’s harsh glow to a warm golden light that seemed to encourage the sharing of secrets, the exchange of intimacies.

  She and Matt had made love in this light once. The memory came quickly, as bright as quicksilver, filled her with heat and was gone. Filled with yearning, impatient with herself for wanting what it seemed she could not have, Leslie fingered the card inside the envelope.

  What had gone wrong between them?

  Was the answer inside this envelope?

  There are people who can read other people’s mail without a qualm, much less a second thought. There are people who think that their own objectives are so overwhelmingly important that nothing else matters. Leslie had worked with these people. She was related to these people.

  She was not one of these people.

  She was a medievalist: she had sipped of the cup spilling with the wisdom of the greatest theologians of the western world. Leslie was quite certain—though the citation eluded her in that precise moment—that Thomas Aquinas had written about the wickedness of reading missives addressed to another person in his Summa Theologica. Maybe it was part of his treatise on the Just Price, that there was no just price for nosiness.