“Maybe you wanted to have an affair with him. Maybe he turned you down.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m just saying. We’re both in trouble here.”
She bristled with rage. “You said we had a situation. You called me and asked me to meet you. So now I’m meeting you. What are we going to do?”
“I wish I knew. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of experience being a murder suspect.” He drummed his fingers on his kneecap. “One thing I think we should do is stay in touch. Compare notes. Make sure we’re on the same page. If Knapp is linking us, we ought to make sure that link isn’t going to cause us trouble.”
“We could stay unlinked,” she pointed out.
“Too late for that,” he said. His gaze was on her again, still speculative. “Since we’re already linked, what are you doing for dinner?”
“Did you drag me all the way out here to ask me out?” She meant to sound affronted, but she was too flattered to force much anger into her tone. For the first time since Roger’s death, a man was making a pass at her. She was within shouting distance of fifty years old, and a man her friends considered a hunk wanted to take her out to dinner.
A man being investigated for murder, she reminded herself. And she hadn’t been on a date in more than twenty-five years. As far as she knew, it wasn’t even called dating anymore. Karen never said she was dating Brad. Randy—God knew what he was doing; he didn’t discuss it with Lainie. When he’d turned fourteen, she’d explained to him what condoms were, and he’d assured her he already knew. She’d told him she’d love to become a grandmother someday, but not for at least ten years, and he’d told her not to worry about it.
For the most part, she didn’t, not when it came to her kids. To think of herself in the context of condoms worried her a lot.
Stavik hadn’t asked her to have sex with him. Just dinner.
“I can’t have dinner with you tonight,” she finally told him. She wasn’t ready for this yet. Stavik had introduced a new situation, and she hadn’t yet accustomed herself to the other situation she was in with him.
“Are you saying you can’t have dinner with me tonight, or are you saying don’t ask again? I’m not good at taking hints.”
Once again, he’d made her laugh. “I’m saying not tonight.”
“So, some other night, then. Okay.” Grinning, he rose, extended a hand and helped her off the rock. She was grateful he let go of her once she was on her feet. The whole idea of romantic socializing struck her as weird. She needed time to accustom herself to it. No hand holding until she’d prepared herself a little better.
The crowd on the beach had thinned as the approaching evening shot dark blue streaks across the sky. Lainie scanned the few people still enjoying the waterfront. None of them looked like police officers, but then, what did a police officer look like? Knapp?
It occurred to her that the first man she considered dating in twenty-five-plus years ought to be someone who wasn’t standing in the crosshairs of a murder investigation. If Stavik could ask her out for dinner, surely eastern Massachusetts must contain a few other men who would consider her worth pursuing. Not that any of those men had made themselves known to her, other than the silly, alcohol-induced flirting that had erupted at the parties she and Roger used to attend, where women had brushed their boobs against his arm. Men didn’t have boobs, but they liked to brush their egos against women, and on occasion she’d been the brushee. “Whenever you get sick of Roger, send me a signal,” this or that semi-inebriated lawyer would say at this or that social event. Lainie had never sent any signals.
Had she sent a signal to Stavik? Had she unwittingly communicated to him that she was interested? Was she interested?
He did have certain attributes that qualified as hunky.
And hell, if they were both going to get sent up the river, they might as well enjoy their last days of freedom.
Not tonight, but she had a feeling she and Stavik would be sharing dinner soon.
Chapter Nine
SUNDAY MORNING, Lainie went shopping.
Rockford had two supermarkets: one with lots of burnished wood, terra-cotta tile flooring, elegant displays of organic produce, and soft rock piped in; the other lit with bright fluorescent ceiling fixtures, stocked with reasonably priced merchandise, and pumping country-and-western through its sound system. Lainie’s grocery needs generally required stops at both stores, and while they were usually jammed on Sundays, she took the chance that they’d be slightly less jammed in the morning, when Rockford’s good Christian residents attended church.
A fair number of residents seemed to prefer worshipping hydroponic tomatoes, hormone-free brown eggs, and whole wheat pasta that morning, because even at nine thirty Lainie had to maneuver her shopping cart through aisles as clogged as the Mass Pike at rush hour. Among other items, she needed lunch fixings to get her through the week. Big Brad had gone through all the sliced turkey and provolone yesterday—not that she would deny him a few overstuffed sandwiches when he’d washed her car.
She purchased extra cold cuts and bread to accommodate his enormous appetite, in case he wanted to perform more chores for her in the near future. She also tossed a box of ginger snaps into her cart for Karen. She was gripped by a strong nurturing urge; she wanted to feed her babies, even a Brad-sized baby. She wanted to send Randy food, too. Impulsively, she tossed a bag of chocolate chips into her cart. Maybe she’d bake cookies and mail him a care package.
She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so maternal. Because she’d come close to going on a date last night? Because sitting on a rock with Bill Stavik had made her think about sex?
Or because if justice got outrageously corrupted and she wound up being sent to the Big House, who would feed Karen and Brad and Randy? As long as she was still at large, she was determined to keep them well nourished.
At the checkout aisle, she found herself in line behind Hayden Blumenthal’s mother. “Lainie Lovett!” Jodie Blumenthal bellowed, evidently eager to make sure everyone in the store knew a teacher was present.
Lainie greeted her with a smile and a muted hello.
“I’m so glad I ran into you,” Jodie said. “I’ve been meaning to drop you a note, but . . .” She tossed a bag of fresh basil onto the conveyer belt. “I wanted to thank you for helping Hayden this year. I can’t believe how much better she’s talking.”
“She’s doing really well,” Lainie said, partly because it was true and partly because all parents love to hear their children praised.
“I can’t tell you . . . Your patience with her, and those breathing exercises you gave her—do you have speech therapy training?”
“Nothing formal,” Lainie told her, “but I’ve had a few stammerers in my classes over the years, and I’ve read up on it. It’s one of those self-perpetuating things. The more confident Hayden feels, the less she stammers. The less she stammers, the more confident she feels.”
“Well, all I can say is, you’ve been a godsend.” Jodie dropped a shrink-wrapped package of grass-fed Angus sirloin onto the conveyer belt and then startled Lainie by flinging her arms around her. “Thank God Hopwell has teachers like you.”
Lainie patted Jodie’s arm. That seemed safer than hugging her back. She was willing to hug parents once their children were no longer in her class, but hugging a parent of a current student might be misconstrued—although Lainie wasn’t sure how.
She was touched as well as embarrassed by Jodie’s effusiveness. If she needed a character witness at her sentencing, she’d ask Jodie to testify on her behalf.
I’m a good person, she reminded herself as, a few minutes later, she loaded her groceries into the Volvo’s trunk. I’m a talented teacher. And damn it, I didn’t kill anyone.
After stocking up on staples at the glaringly-lit supermarket with the linoleum flo
ors and the Shania Twain background music, she drove home. Karen wasn’t bustling around in the kitchen, which meant either she was still in bed or she was with Brad. Lainie hoped it was one or the other, not both—or if Karen was in bed with Brad, they weren’t engaging in moofky-foofky in Karen’s virginal pink bedroom upstairs.
Lainie unpacked the groceries and felt a deep satisfaction at the sight of her refrigerator and cabinets crammed with food. When the kids were younger, her kitchen was always stocked like this, the shelves nearly buckling under the enormous inventory she’d had to keep on hand to prevent her two teenagers and their friends from starving to death between lunch and dinner.
Randy and his buddies, in particular, ate with an enthusiasm that made Lainie want to pop a Rolaids. If the metabolism of teenage boys could somehow be harnessed, the country could stop worrying about its energy resources. All that heat, that constant burning of carbohydrates and protein, ought to be able to provide enough electricity to keep the nation’s televisions broadcasting all night long.
Karen hadn’t appeared by the time all the food was put away. The Sunday Boston Globe lay in scattered sections across the kitchen table. Lainie fixed herself a cup of coffee and rummaged through the sections, searching for the sports. The City/Region section caught her eye. She ought to throw it out unread, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to leaf through it, just to see.
She found the story on page five, a small item mentioning that, as building executive Arthur Cavanagh was laid to rest yesterday morning, the police continued their investigation into his murder. No one had been arrested yet, according to the report, but “the police are pursuing several promising leads.”
Several? Lainie, Stavik, and who else? If those other leads were as promising as the Lainie and Stavik leads, the Rockford Police had bupkis.
If she was their most promising lead, they weren’t going to leave her alone. Sighing, she folded the section shut, lifted her mug of coffee, and headed up the stairs. She passed Karen’s closed bedroom door—no sounds emerged, for which she was thankful. Once inside her own bedroom, she shut the door, hiked herself onto the bed, and rummaged in her night table drawer for her phone book. The drawer contained little of interest—the phone book, several pens, a notepad, a travel pack of tissues, a small sewing kit. No condoms. She wondered if she ought to buy some. The mere possibility caused her neck to grow warm with a blush.
She thumbed through the phone book until she found Peter Cataldo’s home number and dialed it. A partner of Roger’s in Boston, Peter was one of the firm’s criminal specialists. He always took juries by surprise, since he was slim and fey and so astonishingly well groomed that anyone who didn’t automatically assume he was gay had to figure he was the epitome of metrosexuality. It happened that he was gay, and the odd delicacy of his bearing seemed to convince juries that his clients couldn’t possibly be guilty of the crimes with which they’d been charged.
Lainie had always been fond of Peter. Right now, her fondness for him was irrelevant. What she needed was legal advice from a top-notch lawyer who wouldn’t charge her five hundred bucks an hour and whom she could trust. And who wouldn’t object to her phoning him at home on a Sunday.
Peter didn’t object. “Lainie! Sweetheart, how are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Have you got a few minutes, or am I interrupting something?”
“You’re interrupting my attempt to scour the omelet pan. Now Wayne will have to clean it. You couldn’t have timed this call better.”
She smiled, propped a pillow against the headboard and leaned into it. Wayne was Peter’s partner. They’d been together for longer than many married couples she knew, and lately they’d been hinting about making it permanent.
“How much more permanent can you two be?” Lainie always asked whenever Peter’s eyes grew misty and he started talking about wedding chapels in Provincetown.
He would bravely blink back his tears and explain to her that the law exerted a power quite different from love, but just as essential. “Legally married and in love are two separate issues,” he’d explain. “Both are transformative.”
What she needed now was some transformative legal advice. “Peter . . .” She swallowed, then forged ahead. “I’m calling because I’ve got . . . a situation. I can afford you, but only—”
“Don’t be silly. I’d never charge you.”
“Even if this turns out to be a really big mess?”
“Lainie. Sweetheart. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” she said, hearing the exasperation in her tone. “But the police seem to have me in their sights.” She proceeded to tell him about her encounters with Officer Knapp.
When she was done, Peter clicked his tongue. “Don’t they have IQ tests for police officers in that little burg you call home?” he asked. “For God’s sake, Lainie, why should he suspect you? Just because you consorted with his prime suspect?”
“I didn’t consort with him,” Lainie said, bristling. She wasn’t sure what you’d call having a drink with a man or sitting on a mound of granite overlooking Walden Pond with him, but consort didn’t sound right. “First of all, I hardly know the guy. And second of all, I think he’s innocent.”
“But you hardly know him, so you can’t be sure of that,” Peter noted. “Stay away from him, okay?”
Lainie felt as if someone had dropped a weight onto her heart. Peter’s counsel shouldn’t disappoint her, but it did. She’d just begun to get used to the idea that she didn’t have to stay away from Stavik. “I really think he’s innocent,” she repeated.
“And if he is, you can consort with him to your heart’s content once this is all over. Until it is, though, I want you to have nothing to do with him. As for your intellectually-challenged police department, don’t talk to any of them unless I’m present.”
“If I insist on having you with me, they’ll think I’m guilty.”
“As far as you know, they already think that. Listen to me, Lainie. You’re so innocent you can’t even imagine what kind of trouble you’re in. If the local police are just toying with you, fine—but better safe than sorry. If they want to talk to you, say you want your lawyer by your side. Then keep your mouth shut until I get there.”
“What if they want to talk to me and you’re . . . I don’t know, in a courtroom, arguing on behalf of a truly guilty person?”
“Honey, my clients are never guilty.” He chuckled. “I’m betting this whole thing blows over in a few days. The cops will find the culprit and they’ll forget you ever existed. Try not to worry. I’ll take care of you.”
“I appreciate that.” Tension melted from her like ice in the hot sun. Yesterday, Karen, Randy, and Big Brad had tried to take care of her, and while she’d been unspeakably grateful, she’d also known that she was the adult in this household, and they were the children, regardless of their age and size. They wanted to take care of her but they couldn’t, because she couldn’t even begin to tell them how much taking care of she needed.
Peter was an adult, though. And unlike Stavik, he was detached, objective, and skilled. Since Roger’s death, she’d gotten used to taking care of everything, including herself. But right now, she faced a problem she couldn’t take care of. Thank God for Peter.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked her.
“Not that I can think of.” Lainie hesitated, then added, “But maybe you could find something out for me.”
“What?”
“There’s a private investigator working out of Boston, I think. He recently did some divorce work for . . .” Lainie struggled to recall the name of the woman Margaret had mentioned yesterday. It had been a strange name, that much she remembered. “Whimple-something? Her husband—or rather her ex—is a big name in downtown real estate.”
“Tom Whippletine,” Peter said. Peter lived on Beacon
Hill and moved in upper-crust circles. That he would know the name of one of Margaret’s wealthy acquaintances didn’t surprise Lainie. “I heard about that split. Everyone says his wife is going to end up very, very comfortable.”
“I’m curious about the private investigator she hired,” Lainie said. “Do you think you could find out who it is?”
“For you, darling, I could leap tall buildings in a single bound.” He chuckled again. “I’ll snoop around and let you know. Any reason this P.I. interests you?”
Lainie hesitated again, unsure whether to pass along gossip she’d heard from her mother-in-law, who’d heard it from her friend at the club, who’d heard it from the secretary of a forensic accountant, who presumably had heard it from the private investigator. Not a terribly reliable chain of sources.
But if Peter was going to help her, he deserved to know everything she knew. “Someone told me Patty Cavanagh hired him. The private investigator.”
“She hired a P.I.? Interesting.”
“I’m guessing she hired him because the local police are so inept.”
“They do sound inept. Give me a few days. I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you. Now, what are your instructions?”
“Don’t talk to the police unless you’re there.”
“Right. And . . . ?”
She sighed. “Stay away from Bill Stavik.”
“Try not to sound so heartbroken about it. If you’re ready to start dating, sweetie, let me set you up with someone. I know some terrific guys. Straight guys. Honestly, you don’t need a construction foreman. You’re Roger Lovett’s widow. You deserve the best.”
She let Peter’s snobbery pass without comment. Everyone at Roger’s law firm had either been born rich and aristocratic or had fiercely clawed his way up into the ranks of the elite. A laborer like Stavik, even if he had a college degree, would never measure up.
Unlike his colleagues, Roger hadn’t been a snob. He’d been too polite to criticize their arrogance. But outside of work, he’d gotten along well with everyone from every social class. He’d played basketball once a week in a league consisting of doctors, plumbers, landscape architects, and a fellow who ran a local septic cleaning service. As long as they played fair, he’d considered them his friends.
Dead Ball Page 11
