A Fugitive Truth (11 page)

“Sasha says the alarm’s been going off a lot because of the construction,” I explained.

“That’s a damned waste.” She frowned. “I know, it’s the insurance companies, probably, or something, but other folks who really need the fire department won’t be able to get them.” The detective sergeant looked as though she’d just had an idea. “Have you—?” But just as quickly, she reconsidered whatever it was she was going to ask me and turned to leave. “Never mind. I’ll be in touch.”

I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on my departmental paperwork, composing e-mails to the colleagues and students covering my classes, and losing myself in that other world. When I got back to the house, I found I was the first one home from the fray, but I hadn’t even grabbed a soda when Jack stumbled in.

He didn’t bother to conceal the fact that he was loaded, and went directly to his cupboard, where he emptied the scant remainder of one bottle of scotch into his glass, drained off that inch, and then opened another bottle immediately. He was wearing his headphones, and I could hear another synthetic jazz tape playing, but slowly, the sound distorted by the failing batteries.

What am I doing here? I thought miserably as I watched him. These people are one nervous tic away from the loony bin. Not even the Funny Farm. Brian’s right, I need the real world, not more obscure factoids and isolation in the midst of these freaks.

Only after Jack had refilled his glass halfway to the top and added one lonely ice cube did he seem to slow down, noticing my presence there with him and pulling off the headphones. “Faith’s death. One feels
surrounded
by malignancy. Terribly upsetting.”

“Yes it is,” I said.

“But of course, you were the one to find her,” he acknowledged. As if that fact were reason enough, he took another gulp. “Horrible.”

Despite his drinking, there was only just the
hint
of a slur on “course.”

Jack looked at me apprehensively, then breathed, “Do you think she was
murdered
?”

It took me a long time to say it. “Yes. I don’t know who or why, but she wasn’t out there by herself that night,” I said.

“That night, Wednesday night! But that’s the thing that confuses me,” he exclaimed, scrubbing the back of his neck as if that would clear his thoughts. “I could have
sworn
that I saw her yesterday morning!”

“What?”
I almost dropped my soda.

“You see, I can’t be certain.” Jack looked anguished. “I just can’t be certain.”

“What time did you see her?” I asked. “Was it before breakfast?”

“Oh, not
morning
-morning,” he explained. “It was still dark out, about three-thirty, I think it was. I don’t sleep well, you see.”

I said nothing, thinking about the disruptive effects of alcohol on sleep.

“I’d been tossing and turning, and I thought a wee dram might ease things a bit, you see. Calm me. I happened to look out the window, and I could have
sworn
I saw her walking down the road, toward the gazebo. But I just don’t
know
.”

“Well, when you were down here in the kitchen, did you hear the door—?”

“Kitchen?” he asked, puzzled. The ice popped in his drink, reminding him it was time to take another large sip.

“Yes, yes, kitchen,” I said impatiently. “If you could see her, she must have just left—”

“Oh, no,” Jack said. “I wasn’t in the
kitchen
.”

“I thought you said you got a drink?”

“Well, I keep my small bottle of brandy in my desk, you see,” he admitted unwillingly. “You remember, from the other night? And like I said, I have trouble falling asleep sometimes.”

“I see.” I recalled the sickeningly sweet stuff he’d shared with me.

“I just
happened
to glance out the window, as I said, and I saw her heading down the road. I recognized her by her dress, you see.”

“Jack,” I asked softly. “Were you wearing your glasses?”

He looked uncomfortable, a thin glaze of perspiration creeping across his balding head. “No, of course not. I was just…getting my drink, you see. Didn’t need them. But I did remember that dress of hers, all…whatever you call it. Billowy, full.”

I thought about the narrow cut of Faith’s jumper, and I knew now for certain that Jack had seen no such thing. “Didn’t you think it was odd that she should be out so late, with no coat on?”

Jack was silent for a moment. “I remember thinking that she seemed to be in a hurry. I thought she was going to the library.”

“Jack! The library closes at five o’clock! What on earth would she be doing going there at that hour? Wait, are you sure it was really three-thirty? Did you read the clock wrong?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he said wretchedly. “I just don’t remember much, maybe I’ll remember better later, after the shock has worn off some. Perhaps another small sip—”

“Damn it, Jack! You don’t need another drink! You need to tell Detective Kobrinski all about this!”

“I will, I know I have to tell her,” he snapped, suddenly angry. He slammed down his glass. “Just as soon as I figure out what it was, I’ll tell her. I’m no shirker,
I
know what
I
have to do. So just leave me alone, Emma, leave me be!”

Under other circumstances his hopping about might have been funny, but now I was alarmed, convinced he was going to have a heart attack. Jack was nearly purple and sweating like a racehorse.

“Jack, I didn’t mean to—”

“You have no
idea
what it’s like,” he continued, unmindful of my interruption. “No idea at all, and you just start in on
me
, do this, do that!”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“
You
don’t know anything,” he insisted angrily. “Just go away. Leave me alone! Why can’t you all just leave me alone!”

Jack stomped out of the kitchen, bringing his glass with him. Stunned by his outburst, I stared after him a minute before I started pulling out the ingredients for dinner and began cooking.

“Smells good,” someone whispered into my ear.

I jumped about six feet in the air. Michael had come into the kitchen without making a sound.

“Holy snappers! Michael, don’t
do
that!” I exclaimed when I came down out of orbit. “What is it with people around here, always sneaking around?” First Harry, now Michael.

“It’s a library, Emma,” Michael said, leaning against the doorway. He looked like he’d do it again the next minute, if he would get the same reaction from me: he was the very picture of a little boy teasing. “Skulking is the first thing everyone learns.”

I frowned at him and turned my attention back to my frying onions.

“I keep forgetting, people are a little edgy around here since yesterday.” He unbuttoned the omnipresent overcoat and then massaged his hand as if it were sore.

“You seem to exclude yourself from the rest of us, the way you say that.”

Michael shrugged and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, then, catching himself, swore quietly and put it back into his pocket.

“I didn’t really know Faith all that well.” He shrugged again, shook his dark hair out of his eyes. “She died. It happens.”

“You know, that sounds a little callous.” I cracked some eggs violently into the pan with the onions, then picked out the eggshell. I deliberately turned my back on Michael to stick some bread in the toaster but he didn’t say anything until I had turned around again. I noticed he was rubbing his wrist again.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Nothing. Look, it’s a shame Faith’s dead. If she was murdered, then that should be looked into. But I’m not going to cry crocodile tears over it. What am I supposed to do?”

I sighed as I dumped my scrambled eggs onto a plate. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s other people you should be thinking about now, not how
you
felt—or did not feel—about Faith. The library is full of scared, shocked people who might not see it from your angle.” Some of the egg had stuck to one side of the pan, and I scraped at it irritably, got the toast, then took my plate into the dining room and began to eat.

Surprisingly, Michael followed me. He twitched aside one of the curtains to sit on the windowsill, despite the fact that there were five perfectly good chairs free at the table. “Do you always go around thinking about what other people think?”

I put down my fork and looked at him sarcastically. “Well, Michael, that’s sort of the definition of what anthropologists do.”

“But you’re an archaeologist.”

“Right. I generally think about what dead people thought.” Then I heard what I had just said and suddenly, I didn’t want to finish my dinner. The eggs sat on the plate looking cold and greasy.

“Sounds like a lot of work to me. And depressing too.”

“Then I guess that’s why you don’t bother,” I said shortly and then got up to throw away the remains of my dinner. I hadn’t even made it to the door when Michael stopped me.

“I don’t see
you
crying into your tea towel, Emma. Could it be that beneath that carefully groomed exterior, you’re just as ‘callous’ as I am?”

“Look, you,” I snapped. “My relationship with Faith was minimal and complicated and just plain weird right up to the minute we said good night. I’m still sorting things out for myself, so just cut me a little slack, okay?”

Michael nodded. “And yet, I wonder what you would have said if that’s what
I’d
told
you
.” He stood up, then without warning, brushed past me. “I need a cigarette. Don’t wait up worrying about the parlous state of
my
soul, Auntie.”

He left me stunned. As I washed my dishes slowly, I wondered: Just what had his relationship with Faith been?

F
ROM THE SOUNDS
I
HEARD EARLY
S
ATURDAY MORNING
, as far as Jack was concerned, I wasn’t off the hook yet. My plan to sleep in late
and
avoid my cranky housemates wasn’t working. I heard Jack coughing and hawking his usual morning symphony on his way to the bathroom, and I noticed that he added a few extra slams and dropped items just for my benefit. He obviously remembered my inclination to sleep in and was making the most of the chance to act out. At one point I could have sworn he threw the bathroom scale out of spite, but I couldn’t be certain. A phone rang, and I buried my head under a pillow; everyone seemed to be conspiring against my getting a little extra sleep.

I finally decided that there was no point in trying to wait until we all cooled off, as no one was cooling, especially me. I felt crabby and decided that I hated everyone: The only thing keeping me in this nut bin was Margaret Chandler. Besides, I had an evil caffeine-deprivation headache that I could only wish on Republican politicians.

The news channel blared from the parlor and then went dead, followed by a slammed door as I descended the big staircase. Good, I thought, that was Jack. I watched the coffee drip with maddening slowness into the pot, and was glad that Jack had left the house: I wasn’t ready to be the peacemaker. We were all in this together, and you didn’t catch me pitching any tantrums.

Brian said that he’d show up for his visit around noon or one. That meant three hours until I had a little relief from the tumult here. I figured a trip down to the library would keep me from dwelling on the situation. Even if the stacks were officially closed on weekends, I could still get to my carrel to sort out my notes and look at the reference works that were available to us. Good: A plan and a monster mug of joe were positive steps toward staying sane.

And speaking of sane—“Honey! You cooked for me!”

I was mildly shocked to see Michael, fully dressed, subdued smart-casual, overcoat, and all, practically waltzing into the kitchen.

“Michael?”

“Gooood morning, Auntie!” He pirouetted over to the counter and helped himself to a cup of coffee.

This was not the enigmatic, secretive man I remembered from the evening before. “Pardon me for saying so, Michael, but you seem…happy…about something.”

“Oh I am, Emma, I am.” He set his cup down and, hopping backwards, tried to hoist himself up to sit on the counter. His right arm buckled, and with a little groan, he missed the counter, smacking his butt hard on the floor.

Although he winced when he rubbed his wrist, even that didn’t seem to faze him. Michael reached up for his coffee and continued as if he’d achieved precisely what he’d intended. “The gods punish me for attempting to be spry: I offer them the fit meat of hubris, and every time, they eat it up. But still I resist, I try.” He thought about that and then frowned briefly. “Unfortunately, that’s the clinical definition of hubris and one doesn’t really beat the gods at their own game. But no matter.”

“Look, Michael, I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—” I began.

His dopey adolescent grin returned. “Last night? Last night? What happened last night?”

“Well, we both used the word
callous
, and I think—”

I stopped when Michael continued to look confused. For a minute, I thought he was trying to embarrass me into recounting the entire situation, but then his face cleared. “Oh. That? You actually listened to what I said? And then you
thought
about it? To borrow a phrase from Jack, dearie gracious me. Ah, no matter. I’m pretty certain there should be no lasting harmful effects.” He vaulted up onto his feet, actually no mean trick as he was still entangled in the loose tails of his coat. “Down, boy, down!” he said, slapping the overcoat away. “My editor said that those tests that the FDA performed on my last book were inconclusive at best.”

“As long as there are no hard feelings—” I offered.

Michael abruptly coughed violently, spraying a mouthful of coffee all over the sink. Startled, I tried to pat him on the back, but he waved me off while he tried to draw a clear breath, coughing all the while. And standing so close by, I was forced to notice that he was wearing an unabashedly musky cologne; I was suddenly and forcefully reminded of all the documentaries I’d seen where they described how male animals marked their territory and attracted mates by smell. Jack’s Brut seemed like a meek afterthought, by comparison.

“Ach, Nicole Miller ties are not enhanced by staining—good thing I had my overcoat, eh?”

I shook my head sadly.

“You speak of hard feelings,” he continued, “not knowing I’m about to meet the vituperative Wife Number Three. She rang up this morning, trying to get more alimony out of me, when she knows there can’t possibly be a farthing left in the coffers. Numbers One and Two—”

My jaw dropped. “You’ve been married three times?” He couldn’t have been too far off forty-five, at most.

“Four, actually.” Michael looked annoyed. “I was about to say, Numbers One and Two are currently plotting with Number Four. I think Number Three is acting on her own this time—the other Weird Sisters would never consider anything so banal as mere finance. The four of them are constantly scheming, fighting, dispersing, regrouping. And yet, always to my disadvantage.”

He went on thoughtfully, index finger raised as if trying to articulate a bit of life wisdom. “Never marry anyone who teaches at the same college you do, Emma, you wouldn’t believe how it can work against you.”

Michael raised a second finger to tick off the next of his tenets. “And if you do marry someone who teaches where you do, make sure you don’t do it more than three times—I’m pretty sure now that four’s beyond the safe limit.” He sipped. “Anyway, Number Three is meeting me in Boston today to wrangle.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I remembered that I had been meaning to ask him about the quote in Madam Chandler’s diary, but other events had distracted me. “Well, maybe after you get back, you’d be willing to look at a quote for me. I think it’s a Classical philosopher, but I don’t know for certain. That might cheer you up—”

Michael was impatient and forgiving all at once. “Dear child, there’ll be no need of cheering.” He explained: “When Number Three says she wants to discuss money, she really means that she wants to work herself into
such
a violent froth of animosity that the only relief for the little piranha is to rend our mutual clothing and attempt to subdue me through coitus. I’m happy to say that I give in every time.”

I was still trying to wrap my head around this when Michael took his leave, still looking uncharacteristically jaunty.

“Ta-ta, Auntie. Send the SWAT teams to the Parker House if I’m not back by Sunday night.” He rubbed his hands together greedily. “With any luck, there’ll be a hostage situation!”

I watched as Michael started up his rattletrap Mazda and roared off with one of Edith Piaf’s melancholy songs blaring through the rolled-up windows. He had to be the most outlandish, most mercurial person I’d ever met; jaded and charismatic, incisive, rude, brilliant, and at times, just plain weird.

And if I was being perfectly honest, damned attractive. I’d found myself carefully resisting his odd charm a little more vehemently than I liked. I frowned. Michael was exactly the kind of guy who would have gotten me into trouble in high school, whispering rude and witty things so that I laughed and got busted while he wore an angelic look on his face. I didn’t want to find him amusing. I didn’t want to think him attractive.

I also noticed that I never did get around to asking him about his relationship with Faith.

After a brisk walk to the library, I decided I’d spend my time tracking down some data on Reverend Blanchard, but what I found in my carrel was enough to detour me from that mission. A handwritten note on top of my stack of reference books was waiting for me.

Whew! Jack certainly has his priorities straight, tick me off first, then let me know that he did actually come up with something about Faith’s movements early Thursday. I looked around but he was nowhere to be found, and I couldn’t tell when he’d written the note.

I worked for a while after that, but Jack’s comment about the authorities got me wondering about a number of things, and I realized with a start that I actually knew someone who might be able to answer my questions. I dug out my cell phone and getting a tolerably good signal in the lobby, punched a number that I never suspected I remembered and hardly believed I would ever use again.

“Fordham County Sheriff’s Office. How can I direct your call?” a crisp voice with a mild Maine accent answered.

“I was wondering if I could leave a message for Sheriff Stannard to call me when he gets in on Monday.”

“Ma’am, he’s in the office today, would you like me to put you through?”

“Thanks, yes.”

A momentary pause was followed by Muzak. Sheriff Dave Stannard had stood by me when others had pressured him to arrest me as a suspect in a murder; he’d also been willing to listen to my opinion when he was out of his depths in looking at clues, where they overlapped with my professional expertise.

Part of me realized that I’d given Dave Stannard’s name and number to Detective Kobrinski for exactly the same reason that I was calling him and not Detective Bader, even though Bader lived and worked in Massachusetts. I didn’t have much of a personal relationship with Detective Bader; I kept in touch with Dave through occasional e-mails and cards that had followed me doing a talk about archaeology at his girls’ schools, but he was in Maine and I was now living in Massachusetts. Brian had a much higher probability of running into Detective Bader than he would of finding out I’d been asking questions of Sheriff Stannard.

Almost as though the thought of him summoned him, the man himself answered. “Dave Stannard.”

“Sheriff, this is Emma Fielding. The archaeologist. You remember, I—”

“It’s been a while, Professor Fielding, but I doubt I could forget you.” His voice was as warm and comfortable as buttered toast with tea. “What can I do for you?”

“I just had a few questions, but if you’re busy right now…”

“Naw, there’s nothing going on.” The sheriff chuckled pleasantly. “I’m just in today because so many folks called in with the flu. Good thing I’m not partial to college basketball, or I’d be out sick too. What can I do for you?”

I knew better than to be fooled by that down-East, good ol’ boy patter. Dave Stannard was indeed down East and the Yankee equivalent of a good ol’ boy, but there was nothing but shrewd thoughtfulness behind it all. Recalling that, I was suddenly a little shy about telling him the reason I called.

“I’m sort of…helping out with…another investigation.”

There was a pause before he spoke. “I guess by investigation you don’t mean some fraternity pranks over at Caldwell College,” he said briefly.

“No, I’m not in Caldwell right now, I’m in western Massachusetts, near Monroe.”

Another barely detectable pause before he said, “Okay, what have you got?”

I told him about finding Faith and about my confrontation with Detective Sergeant Kobrinski. “But what I was really wondering about was…well, how Faith died. I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t know what happens when someone drowns. Could you answer some questions for me?”

There was such a long silence that I almost imagined I could hear the waves crashing on the wintry beach just five miles away from the Sheriff’s Department. “You know, Professor, I’m not sure I’m real comfortable second-guessing a fellow officer—”

“Oh, no, I’m not trying to get involved,” I hurriedly reassured him. “I was just the first one to find Faith. And…I sort of…knew her from a while ago.”

Another moment passed while Stannard digested that little morsel.

“Look, I really am just trying to do a little research,” I pleaded. “Faith’s death, accidental or not, has been bothering me, and I thought if I understood a little about what actually happens when a person drowns, physically, I mean, I might be able to sort of…calm down. Focus on my own work again. Honest. Can you help me out? What about…the person I met in your office a couple of years ago?”

There was a long pause. “You mean Dr. Moretti?”

“Yes, I think that’s right.”

He took so long to answer me that for a moment I wondered if he was going to.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here,” Stannard replied. “I’m just thinking. She’s got a really odd way about her sometimes. I wonder if you wouldn’t be better off just looking in the encyclopedia or online or something.”

Suddenly, my stomach went queasy as I recalled my first encounter with the ME. I realized that although I had intentionally blotted her manner from my memory, she was exactly who I needed to talk to. “You think she’d be willing to answer a couple of questions?”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. You won’t have any trouble getting her to tell you all you want to know. The trick is to get her to…well, to be honest, getting her to stop.” Dave Stannard sounded a little reluctant.

“Look, at this point, I’ll take anything,” I reassured him. “Can you give me her number? And is there any chance she’d be in on a Saturday too?”

“I’m almost positive; she’s dangerously in love with her work.” He gave me Dr. Moretti’s number.

I scribbled it down. “Okay, thanks, Sheriff. I really appreciate this. And don’t worry. I just need to know these things so I can make sense of them for myself. I won’t be a nuisance to the detective. I’ve got my own work to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll try,” Stannard said. “You know, Emma, I kind of got the impression that you’re one of those folks who can’t help themselves when they get an idea in their heads. Now, I’m not going to tell you what to do, and you already said that you’re going to let the police do their work. But look after yourself. Take care.”