by Lois Winston
“Max only hears sounds that interest him, like the doorbell and the creak of the refrigerator opening.”
“So what do they think? Any suspects yet? Any leads at all?”
“Hey, I spent ten minutes talking to an overweight police officer with bad breath who seemed more interested in how I kept my ficus green than in finding Pepper’s killer. I don’t know any more than you do.” I shivered and kicked at a piece of loose linoleum with my foot “Be sure to keep your doors and windows locked.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what the police keep telling me. Makes me feel like I’m six years old.”
“Oh, God, I hadn’t thought about that This prowler could have broken into your house last night instead.”
“Only if he was blind or truly crazy. Who would choose to rob us and walk away with maybe a new blender and a pair of Kmart cufflinks, when he could go next door and fill a treasure chest?”
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful, especially now that you’re there all alone.”
“Except for Anna and Max.”
“You know what I mean.” Andy and Daria’s husband, Jim, were old friends—that’s how Daria and I met in the first place—so she feels somehow responsible for Andy’s leaving, and worries over me like a neurotic parent. She can’t understand why I don’t spend my days in bed, weeping.
Sometimes I wonder that myself, but it’s a hard act to pull off when you’ve got a four-year-old. Besides, there’s only so long you can hold onto What-Might-Have-Been. And only so long you can delude yourself about What- Actually-Was.
“You know what I find most upsetting?” I said. “Kimberly. What goes through a little girl’s mind when her mother is murdered?”
“If she’s anything like Pepper she’ll handle it just fine.”
The comment was insensitive, even for Daria, who was inclined to see things the way she wanted, no matter what the truth was. As fond as I was of her, there were times when she drove me crazy with her self-serving certainty and her steadfast unwillingness to admit to shades of gray.
“Surely you don’t mean that?”
She appeared to think about it for a moment. “Actually I do, but I didn’t intend it to sound as crass as it did.”
Anna was pulling on my shirt and whispering in my free ear that she was hungry. “Got to go,” I told Daria. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“The minute you hear anything.”
“The very minute.”
“Are you sure you’re all right over there?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got a meeting tonight, but tomorrow night I’ll bring over take-out Chinese and we’ll have dinner. Okay?”
As soon as I was off the phone I scooped Anna up in my arms and hugged her tightly, trying hard to blot out visions of Kimberly, who no longer had a mother to hold her. And when Anna asked for some chips, I didn’t hesitate. In fact, I set the whole bag on the table and didn’t say a thing about her finishing her yogurt first.
How would I explain what had happened? I debated coming right out and telling her what little I knew, but in the end I couldn’t make myself utter the necessary words.
“Look,” I said instead, “you got a postcard from Daddy.”
Munching on a handful of chips, Anna studied the picture of the Eiffel Tower, then asked me to read the card.
“ ‘Dear Anna,’ “ I read. “ ‘Today I visited a castle that was so large you would have been able to sleep in a different room every night for a whole month. But you would have had to go pee in a pot and then carry it outside and dump it in the woods. Poop, too. Aren’t you glad you don’t live in a castle? I miss you. Love, Daddy.’”
She laughed. “Is that really true?”
“People who live in castles today have bathrooms, of course, but in the olden days they didn’t.” I started to explain the particulars of chamber pot use, but Anna interrupted.
“When is Daddy coming home?”
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t think Daddy knows himself.”
I watched the smile fade from Anna’s face. She missed him terribly, and that pulled at my heart in a way Andy’s leaving never had. What would happen when the novelty of postcards and exotic foreign stamps wore off? How would she feel if he decided not to come back? I wondered if these were questions Andy had even considered.
Yet, Andy did love Anna. And he’d been a good father most of the time. One look at the two of them horsing around together and you knew there was something there. That’s why I’d thought he would have been pleased about the prospect of a second child.
We’d talked for years about having another baby someday. And while we hadn’t actually planned on it just yet, I’d assumed someday covered a lot of territory. For Andy, however, someday apparently meant maybe, but probably not and certainly not now.
When the little pink dot showed up on the pregnancy test strip, I’d been surprised, but more pleased than not. And the more I’d thought about it, the more pleased I got. Our someday had arrived.
Andy met my announcement with a blank stare. “Jesus, how did that happen?” he asked.
So much for sharing the joy. “Is that important at this point?”
“It’s just that I thought you were being careful is all.”
I had been careful, most of the time. But either I hadn’t been careful enough or most of the time didn’t cut it. Either way, I was pregnant and secretly thrilled. I’d figured Andy would come around too, eventually, though by the time he’d left, he hadn’t. There was always the chance he might still. But if he didn’t, then what?
Whenever I tried to think it all through, rationally, I’d discover that reason only got you so far. Having a baby when you might be on the verge of divorce didn’t seem like the smartest thing a person could do. Nor did it seem particularly wise to have a baby, even if you were going to stay married, when only one of you really wanted it. That’s where logic took me. But how could I not give birth to this child who’d already taken hold of my heart?
I gave Anna a quick hug. “Off with you now,” I told her.
Later we would tack the card up on the bulletin board in her room, along with the other cards Andy had sent over the last month, all of them addressed to Anna. Occasionally he’d add a P.S.—”Say hi to Mommy for me”— but not very often.
I watched her trudge off to her room, the card from Andy in one hand, the bag of chips in the other. I gave in to a moment of remorse, then put the whole thing out of my mind and went into the other room to compose a note to Robert Livingston.
~*~
The finer points of good breeding have always eluded me, and I find writing even the simplest thank-you note something of an ordeal. My note to Robert was proving to be even more taxing than usual.
Hi, heard your wife was murdered. So sorry. Hope she died quickly and painlessly. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.
It wasn’t the sort of letter even Miss Manners could have written easily.
A truly charitable person, I thought, would convey her sympathy in person. But I was chicken. If I couldn’t find the words to put on paper, how would I ever know what to say to his face? Then once again I thought of Kimberly, her trusting innocence and quick, wide smile, and tore up what must have been my tenth draft. So what if I stammered and stumbled on my words? That was a small price to pay for compassion. I checked on Anna and then dragged myself next door, secretly hoping Robert was otherwise occupied.
The Livingstons’ doorbell plays a melody I’ve never been able to identify, even though I could now hum right along without missing a beat. I was still following the notes and practicing my opening remarks when Robert answered the door, looking as though he were just about to step out for an evening at the club. He is one of those middle-aged men who would be right at home on the pages of English Country Living. Classically handsome features, bright blue eyes, and a full head of hair, graying slightly around temples. The very image of gentility. I’ve never felt particula
rly at ease around him, but that’s probably because rich, powerful men always make me uncomfortable.
“One of the policemen told me what happened,” I said. “I wanted you to know how truly sorry I am.”
Robert stood framed in the doorway without moving. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me.
“Is there anything I can do? Run errands for you? Watch Kimberly?”
He smiled then, ever the gracious host. “That’s very kind, but I think we have things pretty much under control here.”
He did not look like a man who had recently lost his wife. Not that I expected hysterics, or even puffy, red eyes, but I thought it wasn’t unreasonable to expect a hint of emotion.
“Well, let me know if you think of anything,” I told him as I turned to leave. “I imagine it’s such a shock that right now you don’t know which end is up.”
He smiled again, a thin, stiff smile and thanked me for stopping by.
Back home I took on the task of explaining to Anna that her friend’s mother had been killed. I told her Kimberly would need our extra love and kindness, and Anna nodded solemnly, but I wasn’t sure how much she really understood. Then I filled Max’s water dish, did a load of laundry and stuck Anna’s untouched bowl of yogurt back in the refrigerator. The chips had clearly been the bigger attraction.
Later that afternoon Robert called, hesitant and apologetic, to ask if I could watch Kimberly for a few hours. “There are some things I have to take care of,” he said, as he dropped her at our front door. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He wore the same tan slacks he’d worn earlier, but he had traded the cashmere sweater for a dark blue blazer. Impeccable.
“No problem,” I said. “Anna will be happy to have some company.”
“I’ll come get her as soon as I can. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.” His smile was perfect, friendly but controlled.
Then, just as I was remembering why I found him cold and unfeeling, he knelt down and took Kimberly in his arms. “I won’t be gone long,” he said gently. “You’ll be all right here with Kate and Anna?”
“Will you hurry home, Daddy?”
“As fast as I can. I love you, sweetheart.”
Kimberly wrapped her arms around his neck, and as he kissed her one last time I caught the sorrow that passed over his face and wondered that I had ever found him intimidating.
~*~
The girls built a Playdough city that covered the entire kitchen table, and then helped me make brownies, licking bowl, beaters and spoon as thoroughly as Max would have. When they went out back to play in the sand, I worked on the pen and ink drawing I’d begun earlier in the week. Art had been my passion for as long as I could remember, but it had been years since I’d made a serious effort to produce anything. In the last month, though, since Andy’s departure, I’d happily rediscovered an artistic energy I’d thought had deserted me for good.
Several hours later, pleased with how well my drawing had gone, and almost smug in my sense of accomplishment, I turned on the evening news. Pepper’s death was the lead story. With an odd mix of fascination and revulsion, I watched as the camera panned the length of the street and then closed in on the Livingstons’ house. Finally, while the reporter wrapped up her summary of the morning’s events, a close-up of Pepper’s face flashed on the screen.
But these weren’t the pictures that stuck in my mind when I flipped off the set. What I saw, and couldn’t turn away from, was a vision of Pepper’s last moments.
As though I were watching a film, I imagined her tucking Kimberly into bed for the evening, kissing her forehead and whispering the magic phrases of their nightly ritual. In bed herself sometime later, from the floating warmth of slumber, some strangeness, some odd sound or sensation, would have woken her. She lay there in the dark, listening to the pounding of her own heart, certain her imagination had run wild, but unable to go back to sleep just the same. At some point she must have gotten out of bed, but whether she did so in a moment of panic or in the resigned way people do when nighttime fears begin to take hold, I couldn’t decide. Whichever it was, the intruder was suddenly there, standing in front of her. The unthinkable had become fact.
What went through her mind when she saw him there, felt his breath on her face, his hands against her skin? What had she felt in that moment of terror? I couldn’t begin to imagine. But I couldn’t stop reliving those moments either, as if by witnessing the unspeakable, it might become bearable.
THREE
It was almost eight o’clock when Robert rang my bell again. I had fed the girls and given them both a bath in the Jacuzzi with lots of suds. They were upstairs in Anna’s room listening to a tape of Shel Silverstein poems, whispering to one another in serious, pensive tones.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“It’s fine.” I stepped back, opening the door wider. “Would you like to come in for a minute?”
He hesitated, then nodded and followed me into the living room.
“Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine? Some coffee?”
Wearily, Robert plopped down on the couch and ran a perfectly manicured hand across his hair. “You wouldn’t happen to have any scotch in the house, would you?”
I found a bottle at the very back of the cupboard, still in its Christmas wrapping. “You’re in luck. Do you want water with it?”
“Just straight, no ice.” When I returned with the glass, he was leaning back against the cushions, eyes closed, but he sat up when he heard me approach.
“Thanks,” he said, with a lopsided, self-effacing smile, “I think I need this.”
He took several long gulps of scotch and gazed at his feet. In the bright indoor light I could see the dark circles under his eyes and the waxy pallor of his skin. Like an elegant host at the end of a long evening, his manner was impeccable, but the sparkle was clearly gone.
We sat in awkward silence for a moment while I racked my brain for suitable topics of conversation. Everything that came to mind was somehow connected with Pepper, and I was reluctant to mention her name.
“What a day,” he said at last.
I nodded and murmured agreement.
There was another moment of heavy silence, then Robert sighed. “If only I’d been home last night, Pepper would still be alive.”
Or you might both be dead, I thought to myself. Robert might be a formidable match at the negotiating table, but he wasn’t the sort to send an intruder scurrying for the door.
He drained his glass and held it up, questioningly.
“Same as before?”
He nodded, and I went to replenish his drink.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” I asked as I handed him the fresh drink. I still wasn’t sure if it was better to talk about Pepper or not. But Robert had initiated the subject, and the truth was, we could hardly sit across from each other, with Pepper murdered less than twenty-four hours earlier, and talk about the Oakland A’s.
Robert stared into his glass, then swallowed hard and looked up. His gaze drifted to the window behind me. “I didn’t find her until this morning,” he said slowly. “I got home late last night. Didn’t even bother to go upstairs, I just slept on the couch in the den. Pepper is usually up before I am, but this morning the house was strangely quiet. When I saw Kimberly sitting on the bottom step sucking her thumb, I knew something was terribly wrong.”
He paused, and when he continued his voice had a throaty rasp to it. “Pepper was lying diagonally across the bed with a big gash on her cheek. Her head was twisted sideways at a funny angle. I could tell she was dead even before I touched her.”
A shiver worked its way down my spine, all the way to the tips of my toes. “The police said some jewelry was taken.”
He nodded. “But it wasn’t any of her good stuff, just the everyday jewelry she kept in her dresser. Her wallet was taken, too. The bedroom was messed up, but it doesn’t look like anything else is
missing. Nothing obvious anyway. The funny thing is, Pepper doesn’t even keep her good jewelry in the safe, she just stores it in a shoe box in the closet.” This last was accompanied by a half-smile which I found oddly touching. “She was a remarkable woman,” he said, emptying his glass.
“Can I get you another?”
“I probably shouldn’t.” There was a short pause. “But I will, thanks.” Robert had a way of looking directly at you when he spoke, which I found both flattering and a little discomforting.
“How about something to eat too? This isn’t exactly L’Etoile, but I could make you a sandwich or an omelet.”
“An omelet would be wonderful.”
He followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table munching pretzels while I diced mushrooms and grated cheese.
“The policeman who was here today said the killer . . .” I paused and glanced at Robert, but the word didn’t seem to upset him. “That the intruder probably got in through an open window.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say.”
“It doesn’t sound like Pepper, forgetting to close the window.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Robert stretched his legs out in front of him and brushed at a piece of lint on his knee. “But she’s been distracted lately, worrying about the Wine Festival and all. She was probably making a mental list of things that still needed doing and the window just escaped her mind.”
He watched me break the eggs into a bowl. “Don’t you drink?” he asked, gesturing to my glass of Calistoga.
“Sometimes.” Then, because it sounded rude, like maybe I was faulting him for downing scotch instead of crying over a dead wife, I explained that I was pregnant. I hadn’t told anyone except Daria because I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it, and my throat grew tight when I said the words.
Robert’s eyes drifted to my middle. “Only six weeks,” I explained.
“The beginning of a new life. You must be excited.”
Under the circumstances, it was hardly that. In fact, I was trying hard to ignore the whole situation in the hope that it would miraculously disappear. This was the advice my mother used to give me when I complained of a stomachache.
