by Perry, Meg
"Indeed. Do you suppose the police will be contacting me?"
"I don't know. It's very possible. I expect they'll be talking to anyone who might be able to help them figure out whether this piece of paper is worth anything or not."
Conrad nodded. "Well, I appreciate you telling me about this. If the police do call, it won't come as quite as much of a shock."
"Right. And something else occurred to me. You might want to be on the lookout for someone wanting access to the Book of Kells facsimile who doesn't seem - um - appropriately academic? Depending on who the dead guy's partner was, he or she may want to take a look at ours for some reason?"
Conrad rubbed his hands together with delight. "Oh, the intrigue! I shall use extra care in vetting our scholars over the next couple of weeks."
"Heh. That's great, Conrad. Thanks." I said goodbye, and left with another handful of pumpkin seeds. They were actually pretty good.
The rest of the day flew by. Pete and I were meeting at Kevin and Abby's apartment in Westwood – my former home – for dinner at 6:00. When I got there, Pete was already there. He and Kevin were on stools at the kitchen bar, eating carrot sticks. I went into the kitchen itself and hugged Abby. "Do you need any help?"
"Nope, it's under control and almost ready. Grab a beer for yourself."
I did and kissed Pete hello. He grinned at me. "Hey, you. Hard day?"
"Nah, not bad for a Monday. Busy, though."
"I've been filling Kevin in on the events of the weekend."
I looked around Pete at Kevin. "Yeah, pretty bizarre, huh?"
Kevin shook his head. "Unbelievable."
Pete jumped back in. "We were just talking about who might have known about Jennifer's collection."
Kev shook his head again. "It's hard for me to imagine Jennifer telling anyone about it. She didn't talk about her hoarding to anyone."
I nodded. "She told us before the clean that no one that she worked with knew anything about her problem. She has friends at work but she'd never let any of them come to her apartment."
Pete spoke up. "I wonder if it's someone related to the old woman who gave Jennifer those boxes. Maybe they already knew the dead guy - but they could easily have had prior knowledge of anything valuable that might have been in those boxes."
“But Jennifer told us that Miss Lucille didn’t have any relatives.”
Kevin said. "I don't know Eckhoff very well, but Belardo is a bulldog. They’ll get it all sorted out."
"But they’ll need help. Belardo said he was going to contact the art theft unit to see if they could tell him who could authenticate the page."
"Right. And that will be someone at the university, I'd think."
"Most likely. I talked to our special collections guy today. He’d love to take a look at the paper."
We sat down to dinner and had just finished eating when Kevin’s phone rang. He looked at the display. “Uh oh. It’s Tim.” He answered and spoke with his partner for a minute, then clicked off. “Sorry, but we’ve got a body off Mandeville Canyon Road. I’ve gotta go.”
Kevin left. We stayed to help Abby clean up, then Pete drove us home. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom/office and dropped my computer bag beside "my" desk, then stood and looked at the room. Almost nothing in it was mine. The fire in my apartment back in June had burned all my books, and I had only begun to start replacing them. I'd bought new clothes, but I still didn't have as much as I'd had before the fire. I’d bought towels. Everything else here was Pete's.
It was a weird feeling.
As I was standing there, Pete came into the room behind me. "What are you doing?"
"Just looking around. Thinking about stuff. All that stuff that Jennifer had, and the fact that I own almost nothing."
"So, you're not an acquisitive kind of guy. You haven't fallen for the consumerist culture's brainwashing. That's a good thing."
I laughed. "Yeah, I guess. It's just weird to realize that almost nothing here is mine."
He frowned. "Does that bother you?"
"No, not really. I mean, obviously, it's your house, I've only been here four and a half months and I came here with nothing, of course everything is going to be yours. I guess it's just this thing with Jennifer and all her stuff...it's made me realize how little I have."
Pete was quiet for a minute. Then, softly, "You don't feel like this is your home."
I looked at him sharply. "Yes, this is my home. Where else would it be?"
"Sure, it's your physical home. It's where you live right now. But you don't feel like it's yours. You don't feel any ownership of it."
"Well...no. I don't. You own it. I live with you, in your house. If anything happened and we ever broke up, you'd stay here because it's your house. Your Uncle Arthur left it to you." I shrugged. "It's not how I feel, it's just a fact."
Pete didn't say anything for a minute, but he looked upset. Then he sighed. “Do you have work to do? I’ve got papers to grade.”
"Yeah, I have some articles to find. No TV tonight."
“Okay, good.” Pete turned to leave and I laid my hand on his arm. "Hey. It doesn't bother me. Really."
"Okay." He smiled, but it was a weak effort.
When I finished the work I needed to do, Pete was still grading. I went downstairs and put in a load of laundry, straightened and dusted the living room, packed our lunches for the following day, checked the doors and windows, and went back upstairs. I stuck my head in the office; Pete seemed to still be trapped in the throes of undergraduate psychology papers.
"Hey. I'm gonna take a shower." I thought he might offer to join me.
But he didn't. "Okay. I'm not at a good stopping point."
"Okay." I shrugged inwardly.
In the shower, I thought about our earlier conversation. Did I think of this as my home? Well, sure, on one level. When I said to Liz in the evenings, "I'm heading home," this is where I meant I was coming. But, I had to admit...if we were playing a word association game, and someone said "Home" to me, my first thought would be "Oceanside." And wasn’t that sorry, that I still thought of my dad's house as "home." I was 32 years old. I should have moved beyond that.
But apparently I hadn't.
I got out of the shower, put on pajama pants and a t-shirt, and went to check the laundry. The washer was done, so I started the dryer and went back upstairs. Pete was in the process of closing down his computer. I was barefoot, so he didn’t hear me coming. I went up to the desk where he was sitting and wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind, and was immediately tossed backward as Pete flinched and threw his arms out to get mine off his.
“Hey! What the hell?”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. You startled me.” Pete stood up, turned and reached for me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t punch you, did I?”
“No. What was that about?”
“Nothing. You just startled me.” But he had his closed face on. I knew it wasn’t just that, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He took my hands in his and kissed my left palm. "Sorry I couldn't join you in the shower. Rain check?"
"Absolutely. Did you get the grading finished?"
"Yep." He hugged me and we stood there like that for a minute. I could feel the tension in his back muscles. He said, "Your hair smells good."
"It's that bargain shampoo."
"Mmm hmm." He let go and studied at me from arms' length away. Then he smiled. "Okay. I'm going to take a quick shower and wash the scent of student failure off of me. Then I'll meet you in bed."
"Sounds good." I watched him walk out of the room, wondering what the hell had just happened.
I got settled in bed and was reading when Pete stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry. He hung up his towel and slid into bed. "You know, I've been thinking about who might have been the junk man's accomplice."
I chuckled, relieved that we weren't going to talk about mine vs. ours issues. "That's the ex-cop coming out of you."
"Yeah, I guess." Pet
e rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow. "I left the force before I got to be a detective. I think I would have enjoyed it. Anyway...let's think logically. That box was buried under five years' worth of junk. Who could have known it was there?"
"Hmm. Okay. Jennifer got the boxes of books when her aide died. Miss Lucille told Jennifer that she didn’t have any family, but maybe that wasn’t true. Or maybe she was estranged from the family. In her mind, she didn’t have any family, but there are relatives out there who know about the boxes."
"Sure. That's one possibility." Pete rolled onto his back, reached into the drawer of his bedside table, and pulled out a small spiral notebook and a pen. I raised my eyebrows. "I didn't know you had anything but condoms in there."
"Ha ha." Pete grinned. "This is to record any strokes of genius that might occur in this location."
"Right. Not much recorded yet, I see."
Pete smirked. "I've been busy with other things in this location recently." He turned to a clean page and started a list. "Okay. Number one, did Miss Lucille have any family, and if so, did they know about the boxes. Who else?"
I mused. "Jennifer could have told someone. I don't know who, though. Someone that she works with? But again, even Jennifer didn't know exactly what was in the boxes. All she knew was what the old lady had told her."
"Right. But it's still a possibility, however unlikely." Pete made another note. "Could anyone associated with the TV show have known?"
"I don’t see how. Jennifer would have to have told them, and she apparently didn’t know."
"And what about Wally himself? Was he the one who made the initial discovery, then alerted someone else? We don't know anything about his background, either. He could be an unemployed rare books dealer, or something like that."
"True. He didn't look like a career junk man."
"No, he didn't. He was too clean. Although that's a stereotype, isn't it?"
"Yep. I had no idea you harbored these prejudices against junk men."
Pete laughed. "Neither did I. Did you talk to Wally at all on Saturday?"
"Not really, not beyond a few interactions like 'You got that?' and 'Thanks.' Did you?"
"Nope, not even to that extent. I don't remember hearing him talk much to anyone."
"Me either. We were all too busy hauling junk to talk much." I yawned. "Did you notice anyone working in that area in particular? Over where those particular boxes were?"
"No. I don't remember anyone being in that corner for any length of time. We didn’t even uncover those boxes."
"Right." I frowned. "But Eckhoff said there were several boxes open. Like the guy or guys had been looking for something specific in one of the boxes. So they must have known what they were looking for, but they didn't know exactly where it was."
"But they had a pretty good idea. There were a lot of boxes in there, and they must have narrowed it down pretty quickly."
"Yeah. Which makes me think that they were concentrating on the ones that came from Miss Lucille’s attic. Which brings us back to either the old lady's family, or someone that Jennifer told."
"Yeah. But how could Jennifer have told anyone about anything as specific as an illuminated manuscript, if she'd never opened the boxes?"
I shook my head. "She couldn't."
"So Belardo and Eckhoff are probably concentrating on the old lady's family or estate."
"Yep. She died about five years ago, according to Jennifer. Do you suppose the executor of the estate would have done an inventory before they released the boxes?"
"I have no idea." Pete rolled back over and put the notebook and pen on his nightstand, then rolled back to face me. "So we're right back where we started."
"Right. And that's exactly nowhere."
That night, I dreamed that when we opened Jennifer’s apartment door, the place was full of monks, bent over desks, producing illuminated manuscripts.
The next day I had lunch with Liz and told her about my conversation with Pete about the townhouse. “I’ve got to make a decision about giving up the lease on the apartment.”
Liz looked surprised. “I thought you’d already decided to stay with Pete.”
“Not officially. I mean, of course I’m leaning in that direction, but I haven’t told Kevin to go ahead and get a new apartment.”
Liz leaned back and crossed her arms, frowning at me. “Have you heard the old saying, ‘The one who has the power in any relationship is the one who cares the least?’”
I looked up at Liz with a start. "No. What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you. You think you're the one who's taking all the risk, by giving up your apartment, but you're not. Pete's the one taking the risk. You can always get another apartment. You're the one who's free to go if you decide to, just pack up your stuff and leave."
"I wouldn't do that."
"Do you think Pete knows that?"
"Yeah, I think he does." I glared at Liz. "Are you trying to piss me off for some reason?"
"No. I'm trying to get you to see that you can hurt Pete a lot more than he can hurt you."
"I don't see where you get that. I'd say we're pretty even in that department."
"No, you're not. Pete has given you everything he has, he's laid himself open to you. What have you done for him? And sex doesn't count."
"I can't believe we're having this conversation."
"And I can't believe you're trying to keep from answering my question."
I shook my head. "I do lots of things for him."
"Like what?"
"I...I do most of the cleaning. I do all the laundry. I live with him, for fuck's sake."
Liz looked at me unwaveringly. "Have you told him you love him?"
"Yes! Every day!"
"Do you tell him spontaneously, or is it just 'Love you too' when he says it first?"
I tried to remember. "I know I've said it first before."
"Yeah, but you can't remember when. You can't remember the last time you said, 'Pete, I love you,' for no other reason than you love him." She looked disgusted. "That's just great, Jamie."
"I'm not..." I was speechless. "I can't believe this."
"Believe it." She stood up and took her trash to the receptacle, then came back and sat down. "This is about the time in a relationship where you get that look on your face. Like a scared animal, wondering where the traps are." She leaned forward. "There are no traps this time. You're the one with the shotgun this time."
"Liz. When we broke up before, it was Pete that pulled the trigger."
"I know that. And it's taken him this long to get you back." Her face softened. "You should see the way he looks at you, when you're not looking. He adores you. He loves you so much it hurts. It hurts me to see him look at you like that."
I sighed and rubbed my face. "Is there a point to all this?"
"Yes." She stood up again and gathered her belongings. "This time, you're the one with the power to fuck this up." She leaned forward again and looked straight into my eyes. "Don't fuck it up." She gave me one last look, and left.
Shit.
I looked into the distance, kind of pissed and kind of realizing that Liz might have a point. What did it say about me that I couldn't remember the last time I'd told my boyfriend that I loved him? Without being prompted?
Nothing good, that was for sure.
If there was a romantic in our relationship, it was Pete. He was the one who left notes in my lunch or stuck to the bathroom mirror. He was the one who whispered in my ear in bed. He was the one who almost always initiated the cuddling, who was the touchy-feely one of the two of us by far.
Except for that weird little episode last night…
I groaned inwardly and rubbed my face again. I was a shitty boyfriend.
I did love Pete. Maybe more than I’d loved anyone else, if I was honest with myself. And I did a pretty lousy job of showing it.
Well, I could change that. It would take some effort because it didn
't come naturally to me to be romantic or cuddly. I'd just have to consciously make the effort until it became second nature.
Fake it 'til you make it. Except I wouldn't be faking it.
Okay. I was going to start right now.
I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on the Messages icon. I typed in, "Hey, you, <3" and sent it to Pete's phone.
I slid my phone into my pocket. I was slinging my computer bag over my shoulder when I felt my phone vibrate. I pulled it out and clicked on my message.
"<3 u2. :-)"
I smirked a little to myself. This romantic shit might be kind of fun.
The rest of October flew past. We didn’t hear anything from Jennifer, the police, or anyone connected with the TV show for a couple of weeks. I’d nearly forgotten about it when, on October 30, I got a phone call from Detective Belardo. He said the investigation into the piece of paper hadn’t turned up anything interesting and the murder case was turning cold, but he wanted to bring me up to date, as he’d promised. We scheduled a meeting for the following day. I asked Belardo if he could bring me a photocopy of the fragment, and he said he could.
The next morning I met the detectives outside. Belardo and Eckhoff were waiting for me at the edge of the sculpture garden, and Belardo handed me the copied page. I said, "So the paper turned out to be nothing special?"
"That's right." Belardo took his notepad out of his pocket to refer to it. "We took it to an antique book dealer in town on the recommendation of the art theft unit. The dealer examined it and said it had been aged to look old. It had clearly been done by a talented artist, but whoever that was was probably either trying to pull a scam or was working on an art project of some sort. More likely the latter."
I nodded. "Okay, that makes sense. But then why would someone kill for it?"
Belardo shrugged. "Who knows? The thieves obviously thought they had something valuable, even though they didn't? Most criminals are not the brightest bulbs in the pack. We still need to find our killer, but now it turns out we're not looking for anyone with any kind of expertise."
Eckhoff grinned. "Yeah. Just your run of the mill dumbass murderer."
