“Oh my gosh, Einstein. You must weigh a thousand pounds.”
“He weighs one hundred and twenty,” Sam said proudly. “And he’s not even fully grown.”
“Wow.”
“Did you want my mom? She’s inside — I can get her.”
He started to stand up, but I held out a hand. “I would in a minute. But I also wanted to talk to you, Sam.”
“Oh?” He looked surprised and understandably cornered.
“Yeah. How are you feeling today?” I sat down on the step below Einstein’s, hoping he wouldn’t try to sit on me.
“I’m better. I went to school and everything.” Sam brushed a blond hair off of his nose and smiled at me, and I realized that, like his sister, he was a lovely and charismatic child.
“That’s good. You really did seem under the weather the other day. And I noticed that you were shocked by Jessica’s note. The one in her locket.”
He looked away, down his elegant street. “It was weird. Her writing a poem like that.”
“Was it? Hadn’t she written poetry before?”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. It was weird.”
“It seemed to frighten you a bit.”
Einstein chose that moment to open his giant chops and emit a loud belch. There was a moment of shock in which I simply stared at him; then the absurdity factor kicked in and I started giggling. Sam, seemingly relieved, joined me.
“Wow,” I said.
“He’s so gross,” Sam confided, patting his giant dog with affection.
We made eye contact while we were laughing, and it seemed to break a barrier I had not realized was there. Sam looked less uncomfortable then, and more willing to talk.
“The thing is, and don’t tell anyone this or anything, but the night before Jessica, um—”
“The night before she died?”
“Yeah. She and my dad,” he looked carefully behind him at the closed door but instinctively lowered his voice, “they had a big fight. I don’t know what started it, but they were out here in the driveway, and I could hear their voices through my bedroom window. Einstein and I were on my bed.”
“I’m surprised you both fit,” I said lightly.
“It’s not that comfortable,” he admitted.
I waited, not wanting to push him. He looked at his shoes, then poked at the laces. Einstein looked, too, and a huge string of drool dropped on Sam’s trainer. Sam laughed. Then he sighed. “Jessica and my dad hadn’t gotten along for a while. She thought he was, like, a chauvinist. That was her big word,” he said, shaking his head. “She always told me that she didn’t want me to treat women the way Dad did. I wasn’t sure what she meant, because he seemed to treat her and mom okay.”
“Sure,” I said.
“But that day I really didn’t like the way my dad was acting. He called Jess a—” he reddened and looked down at his shoes. “He called her a slut. He said she was acting like a slut. I just felt really bad when I heard him say that, even though I don’t totally know — like, what that means.”
“What did she say?”
“She got all mad, and said he should look at his own behavior. She said he shouldn’t even run for office because he was a hypocrite and a— I don’t know — some big word that starts with M.”
“Misogynist?”
His eyes widened. “Yeah! I don’t even know that word!”
“It means a man who dislikes women.”
“Oh. Huh. Well, she said a bunch of her other big words, and she said my dad shouldn’t run for office. She said my dad needed therapy.”
Sam gulped. I petted Einstein.
“And then—” Sam paused, looking directly into my eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Then he hit her. He slapped her face.” He looked miserable. Sam was a man with a conscience. He was also a son whose father had fallen greatly in his esteem.
“Oh.” Danny had told me this, and I had told the police. But Danny had not mentioned that Halliday had struck his own daughter. Perhaps Jessica had not mentioned that to him.
“Then Jessica got in her car and drove off, and came back really late, but the next day she was acting like normal. I even heard her joking around with my dad.”
“So everything was all right?”
“I don’t know. But that poem — I thought maybe it was about my dad.”
Sam’s eyes filled with tears and, mortified, he looked away again. I thought I understood what he was thinking: it was as if Jessica were planting a clue about her own murder — but how could she have known she was going to die?
“Sam, there is no shame in crying for the sister you loved. I am so impressed with how much you loved her, and what a good brother you are. You’re also a good son, because you don’t want to believe anything bad of your father, and that’s appropriate.”
“I know. And I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about my dad. He’s a good person. He works hard to give us all this—” he waved his hand at everything around him, including Einstein, who probably ate his weight in food every day. I wondered if Sam were repeating an expression he’d heard his mother say.
“Sam, you’re a good kid,” I said. “And you know what? Your mom strikes me as the kind of person who would listen, no matter what you wanted to say to her.”
He nodded. “Yeah, she is. She’s the one who let me get Einstein. She had to talk my dad into it.”
“Don’t ever be afraid to talk to people.”
He nodded. The door opened behind him. “Sammy, did you want to take Einstein for a—” Janet Halliday paused and then smiled at me. “Oh, hi, Ms. Thurber. I didn’t know you were out here. Look.” She pointed at herself; she was wearing Jessica’s necklace.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “And here’s something of hers, too.” I reached into my purse and retrieved the journal. Her mother, I’d decided, would want it, would treasure it, and therefore it wasn’t mine to keep.
“What’s this?”
“An old journal of Jessica’s that I came across in a drawer. Some great writing. Offers some real insights into her thinking.”
“Thank you.” She looked down at the dog in an effort to hide her tears.
I turned to Sam. “Hey, did I tell you I have a dog, too?”
Sam brightened.
“His name is P.G. and he’s a Beagle. I think Einstein might be able to eat him in one bite. But if you thought he wouldn’t, maybe we could take them to the Pine Grove dog park some day. P.G. just loves it there!”
“Really? I’ve never taken him to a dog park.”
“It’s fun. It’s like a dog social club.”
“What’s the P.G. stand for?”
“Pelham Grenville.”
“What?” Sam wrinkled his nose.
“It’s one of my favorite writers. P.G. Wodehouse. That’s what his initials stand for.”
“Huh.”
“Well, Sam, I guess I should get going. Thanks for talking with me.”
I pulled out my little notebook and ripped out a sheet of paper, on which I jotted my phone number. “Here’s if you and your mom and Einstein ever want to meet at the dog park. I’m probably going to take P.G. this Saturday.”
“Okay.”
“How are you liking David Copperfield?”
“Oh, I finished. It was pretty good. Funny and stuff. But there’s like — a lot of coincidences.”
“There sure are.”
“I thought of naming Einstein Dickens, but then I named him Einstein.”
“It’s a perfect name.” I couldn’t resist ruffling Sam’s hair; then I patted Einstein’s giant crown and bowed slightly, which made Sam laugh. Janet had an arm around her son; she looked as though she were leaning on him slightly.
I went back to my car, started it, and waved as I drove around the circle. An expensive looking vehicle pulled in; as I waited to turn left I watched the car in my rearview mirror. Mr. Halliday emerged, holding a briefcase. He said somethi
ng to Sam and Janet, and Sam answered. Then Jessica’s father turned to look at me.
After I pulled into traffic; I could still feel the intensity of his gaze, could still see him standing there, his posture alert, his body still. I wondered how likely it was that Nathan Halliday had killed Jessica. Was he that worried about protecting his campaign? Would he kill his own child, his only daughter? It didn’t seem likely. And yet he had slapped her, called her a “slut.”
In any case, it didn’t matter. I had promised Sam I would say nothing, and I wasn’t going to betray his trust; I was glad, though, that Kelsey McCall already knew about Halliday’s fight with his daughter. If Nathan Halliday was a likely suspect, then the police would investigate him. Perhaps they were doing it already.
I tried to remember whether or not the Hallidays had been at Kathy’s funeral when I had gone. The place had been crowded, and I had kept to the edge of the crowd, not really wanting to draw anyone into a conversation. Could Halliday have been the man who tried to open my car door? Had there been someone there at all? Or had my fears gotten the better of me?
I flipped on the radio, determined to obliterate the questions that chased each other around my mind; behind them was an ominous presence that I feared would follow me everywhere.
Twenty-Six
“Human nature is a mirror, sir. A mirror, clear and smooth. Look into it and marvel.”
—Porfiry, Crime and Punishment
I was exiting my car when I saw a woman approaching with a baby in her arms. It took me a moment to realize that it was Cindy Jonas, and she was waving at me.
“Oh, hi!” I said. Charlie was waving, too, and smiling with recognition.
“Teddy! I’m so glad I found you. Derek left a note on his door that he was at your place, so I ran over. I’ve got to get downtown for class. Could you take Charlie up there? Here’s his diaper bag and Derek knows the whole drill.”
“Oh — uh, sure.” I slung my purse over my shoulder and accepted Charlie, who was wearing chunky little sandals, blue jean shorts and a T-shirt that said “Wishbone.” It bore a picture of a Jack Russell Terrier dressed as Sherlock Holmes. “Hi, Charlie.”
“Hi!” he said brightly, and he hugged me.
“Wow. Is he, like — nicer than most babies?” I asked.
Cindy laughed. “Charlie is very sociable. I’m always handing him off, poor thing. Okay, Mommy’s going to school. Love you, baby.” She gave Charlie a big kiss, whispered “Thanks, Teddy!” and ran back to the street and her car.
Weighed down now with about twenty-five pounds of boy, I went into my building and up to my apartment, where I found Derek on the phone. He smiled when he saw me with Charlie, then held up a finger to suggest he was almost finished.
“Yes. I am glad, too. Thank you so much. I’ll see you soon, then. Bye.”
He hung up and turned to me. “Hey, pretty. And who’s that little man?”
“I’m Chowie,” said Charlie.
“And who am I?”
“Onko Deck!”
“That’s right!” said the man who was now stealing the boy out of my arms.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Oh — uh, your mother.”
“My mother? Oh, no.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to answer or not…”
“Well, I’m betting you’re sorry you did.”
“No, no. She was charming. I heard all about your talents, your beauty. Your upcoming birthday. You never even told me.”
“I’m sure it would have come up.”
“Your mother didn’t want me to be caught with no gift on such a special day — which I appreciate.”
“Huh. When’s your birthday?”
“October 23rd.”
“And this year you will be…?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Ah. So we’re not so far apart.”
“No.”
“You seem older.”
“As in grandfatherly?”
“As in more mature than I am.”
“I think you’re very mature.” He kissed my cheek. “You have class tonight, correct?”
“Oh, yes. So I’ll thank you for the dog-walking and send you and the precious boy on your way. I have a bit more reading to do.”
“Sure.” Derek made quick work of packing up everything that he and Charlie needed. Then he said, “So what brought you to the Hallidays again today?”
“I wanted to talk with their son, Sam. I thought maybe he had a secret.”
“And did he?”
“Sort of. He just needed to talk. So I’m glad I was there. We might walk dogs together some day.”
“Uh-huh.” He looked slightly suspicious of me.
“That’s it, really. I am not trying to be killed.”
“Find a buddy to walk you in and out of class. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And call me when you get home?”
“I will.”
He kissed me once more while Charlie stared with his big eyes.
“I’ll be thinking of you,” Derek said.
* * *
It was Friday; Derek had finally come, two days before our test on Crime and Punishment, to speak about authenticity and crime. He had confessed, much to the class’s disdain, that he had never read the book. “But Ms. Thurber has filled me in a bit on the main character. I understand he is divided, and therefore paralyzed by indecision — tormented by it.”
The students nodded.
“This goes along with the notion of authenticity and psychological wholeness. The premise would be that if we have this kind of division, we are not whole. The things that part us tend to be concepts like good and evil, love and hate, right and wrong. But if we privilege one of these terms, then the other is one that we suppress into our unconscious.”
“What do you mean, privilege it?” asked Rosalyn.
“What do you prefer: right or wrong?”
“Right.”
“So that is the term you privilege. The one you believe to have more value. What does Raskolnikov privilege — good or bad?”
“It depends which chapter you’re reading,” Chris Angelini joked.
“But is there a suggested preference? Something which drives his character?”
“He cannot forget his Christian upbringing. He believes in what’s right,” said Danny. “But he insists on clinging to his atheistic theory. That’s why when he’s confronted by people like the police or his girlfriend, he acts weird, because he’s repressed his goodness and it’s breaking him.”
“So if we go with that premise, there will be times that people will be able to see his inauthenticity because he cannot present a whole self. He will not be able to do so, theory says, until he has claimed what he has lost.”
“That’s why Sonya and the policeman advise him to reclaim his God,” said Juan.
“So tell me,” Derek said, interested. “How do we see his inauthenticity?”
Several hands popped up. “Yes — Carla, is it?”
“When he goes to Porfiry’s house — that’s the detective — he decides to put on a particular attitude. He decides to be a carefree student, and he makes sure he’s laughing when he goes in. Later Porfiry tells him that the minute he saw him laughing, he knew he was guilty.”
“Because his laughter seemed forced? Inauthentic?”
“Yeah. And because at heart he is a miserable person, so it wasn’t a good choice.”
More hands went up. “Yes — Danny.”
“When the cop is interrogating him, he can see that Raskolnikov’s suffocating. He keeps asking him if he wants fresh air, and Raskolnikov is sweating bullets. And then Porfiry tells him that his lip is trembling. He says his lip trembles a lot, and Raskolnikov gets mad, because he can’t see these things about himself.”
“Great point. Who’s seen television shows about police interrogations?” Tons of hands. “And what’s one way they try to get people to confess?”
Chri
s didn’t even raise his hand. “By getting in their heads. By trying to expose whatever is repressed.”
Derek turned to me where I sat quietly in the corner of the room. “Miss Thurber, I am thoroughly impressed with your class, and I pledge to read Crime and Punishment this summer.”
The class cheered. Derek smiled and pulled out some handouts. “For those of you who have further interest in this topic, I have compiled a list of articles — not long ones — I hear you’re quite tired of long readings.”
The class groaned as Derek grinned and passed out his papers. “But some of this research might lead you to future projects, even in college. I point you initially to some readings by Rousseau, Marx, and Freud…”
The students took them willingly enough, but they continued to pepper Derek with questions. “Let’s all thank Mr. Jonas for giving up his free period,” I said, and the class applauded.
Then, inevitably, one of the girls asked, “Are you guys going out?”
Derek’s face didn’t change at all; he straightened his pile of papers on my desk. “I wish,” he said.
Chris yelled, “I think Mr. Jonas is being inauthentic!”
The class laughed, and I held up a hand. “Class, no one asks you about your personal lives.”
“Ms. Thurber is blushing!”
The bell, mercifully, rang at that moment, and I shooed the students away. Danny remained, though. “Ms. Thurber, can I talk to you?”
“About my love life?”
“No. About Jessica.”
“Uh— okay. Can Mr. Jonas hear this, too?”
“Sure, I guess.”
He waited until the last student left and then he faced us, his chin a jut of determination. “This theory makes sense to me. And I decided to apply it to real life. And I think I know who killed Jessica.”
I was standing in front of my desk; I sat on it, suddenly. “What?”
“The thing is, we know she was after some guy, right? Some guy in power.”
“We don’t know—”
“So the logical conclusion is that it’s a guy here. She was here, in Pine Grove, when she got killed. Who does she know here? Her friends, her family, and her teachers.”
The Ghosts of Lovely Women (The Teddy Thurber Mysteries) Page 20
