A Perfect Crime (5 page)

Laurent Perrier Rosé: they’d drunk it to celebrate the end of the hiking trip he’d taken her on in the Cevennes, following the route of Robert Louis Stevenson. That had been years ago, not long before the petri-dish phase. Francie was amazed that he would remember, amazed by the candles, the lilies. It was all perfect, and unreal, like a Cary Grant movie; and pathetic, which Cary Grant never was. That—the pathetic part—and the secret fact of Ned, undermined the righteousness of her anger.

He cracked a claw. “Remember that summer, Francie?”

“Of course.” She saw that he was without a tie, almost the first time she’d seen him that way since he’d been fired.

“We had fun, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not eating. I didn’t overcook it, did I?”

“It’s just right.” She took one bite, could barely get it down.

“That’s better,” he said, beaming. “Here’s to France. And Italy, too, for that matter.”

They drank to France and Italy. “What’s this all about, Roger?”

“Just dinner,” he said. “No agenda. A quiet marital dinner.”

“Did you hear some news today?”

“News? What sort of news?”

“About work.”

Roger kept smiling, but his eyes no longer participated. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing definite. But I’m optimistic.”

He went back to the hiking trip, bringing up details she was sure he would have forgotten: the shepherd with the steel teeth, the one-eyed dog that had followed them for days, the blue-black cherries they’d picked off a tree, eating until they could eat no more, cherry juice dripping off their chins. All true. But what had become of that Roger, and how responsible was she? Too late to go back—or even think about it—but would there be dinners like this in some future with Ned, candlelight in his eyes, melted butter on his fingers, time?

“And now for dessert,” Roger said.

“None for me.”

He came in with a pecan pie, her favorite. “Just try it,” he said.

Again one bite. Had she ever tasted better? But still she could hardly swallow.

“I went heavy on the butter and added a little maple syrup,” Roger said.

“You baked this yourself?”

He nodded.

“But you don’t bake.”

“I followed the recipe in one of your books. It’s really not that complicated, is it?”

He tilted back his head, waiting for an answer. The candlelight illuminated the patch of face powder and the white hairs in his nose. All at once, Francie felt she was about to vomit. She pushed back her chair.

“If you’ve got work to do or something, don’t let me keep you,” Roger said. “I’ll clean up.” He swirled the champagne in his glass, forcefully, into a tiny pink-and-golden maelstrom. “And Francie? About this divorce business—could you give it some thought?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“That’s all I ask.” He raised his glass to her, champagne slopping over the side.

5

N
ora had a 5:30 court, but Francie got stuck in traffic and arrived ten minutes late. Nora was already in the bubble, hitting with the assistant pro against a woman Francie didn’t know. Nora hadn’t said anything about doubles, Francie preferred singles—and weren’t they supposed to have a talk? Francie changed and hurried onto the court, stripping the cover off her racquet, apologizing. The women met her at the net.

“It turned into doubles,” Nora said. “Why don’t you play with Anne? Anne Franklin, Francie Cullingwood. Francie, Anne.”

They shook hands. Anne was pretty, slim, fine-complected, and didn’t quite look Francie in the eye: no doubt the shy
hausfrau
Nora had mentioned. “I’ve heard such good things about you,” Anne said.

“Who’s been talking?”

Anne blinked. “Why, Nora.”

“Don’t believe a word she says,” Francie said. “What side do you like?”

“Forehand,” Anne said. “But if that’s your side, I could . . .”

“Not a problem,” Francie said, going to the backhand, swinging her racquet lightly, trying to make her arm feel long. She always played better if her arm felt long.

“Hit a few, Francie?” called Nora from the other side of the net.

“Serve ’em up,” Francie said, not wanting to delay the game any more.

The assistant pro went to the net and Nora got ready to serve. “Better stay back on the first one,” said Anne. “I have trouble with her serve.”

“Tell me about it,” said Francie, backing to the baseline.

Nora boomed in her big serve, the jamming one that spun nastily into the returner’s hands. To Francie’s surprise, Anne stepped away—fast and light on her feet—and chipped a low forehand crosscourt. If Nora had a weakness it was getting down for the low volley; she could do no more than float Anne’s return back down the middle, two or three feet above the net, and Francie, closing, put it easily away.

“Beautiful volley,” said Anne.

“Your setup,” Francie said.

Nora’s next serve kicked out wide on Francie’s backhand. Francie didn’t quite get around on it and the assistant pro picked off her return, angling it at Anne’s feet from point-blank range. Somehow Anne dug it out, bunting it down the alley for a clean winner.

“Partner,” said Francie.

They broke Nora at love, something Francie didn’t remember seeing before, won the first set 6-2. Neither did Francie remember the last time she’d played with a doubles partner whose game so nicely fit her own, Anne’s speed and steadiness matching her power and shot-making.

“What’ve you guys been smoking?” asked Nora on the changeover.

They toweled off, drank water, changed sides. “New in town?” said Francie as she and Anne walked toward the baseline.

“No,” Anne said. “Just getting back into the game now that my kid’s a little older. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.”

“Boy or girl?” said Francie.

“Girl.”

“What’s her name?”

“Emilia.”

“Pretty.”

“And what about your kids?” said Anne.

“Don’t have any,” Francie replied, handing her the balls. “Your serve.”

Francie didn’t play as well in the second set, but Anne played even better, and the assistant pro, frustrated, lost her cool a little and started blasting the ball with all her might, usually out. Six-one.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” said Anne as they went to the net to shake hands.

“Putting up with you?” said Francie. “I was on your back the whole second set.” She tapped Anne’s behind with her racquet. “Nice playing.”

After, they sat in the bar, Francie, Nora, Anne. The club had a new microbrew on tap. Nora ordered a pitcher. Francie signed the chit. “You like microbrews, Anne?” Nora asked, filling their glasses.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried one.”

“Live a little,” said Nora. She raised her glass. “Here’s to fuzzy balls.”

The bartender, used to Nora, didn’t even turn, but Anne’s face, still a little pink from tennis, went pinker. She took a tiny sip, said, “It’s very good,” put down her glass.

“While on that subject,” said Nora, downing half of hers, “I may be getting married this spring. Or next week.”

“Congratulations,” Anne said.

“She’s just being funny,” Francie said.

“Not true. Bernie wants to marry me.”

“Did you ever get his last name?”

“Does it matter? I’m not going to use it anyway.”

“I kept my maiden name,” Anne said. “My parents weren’t too happy about it.”

“Maiden name,” said Nora. “Can you believe an expression like that? If you ever started really thinking about things, you’d want to shoot everybody.” She refilled her glass. “With the exception of Bernie. He’s kind, sweet, and gentle. He does have that toenail thing, though.”

“Fungus?” said Francie.

“Whatever it is turns their nails all hard and yellow.” Nora went to the bathroom.

Anne, still pink, turned to Francie. “Nora mentioned your husband was quite a tennis player.”

“He was,” Francie said. “And yours?”

“He doesn’t play. I—I’ve tried to get him interested, but he has no free time.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a psychologist.” Anne took another sip of beer, bigger than the first, as though fortifying herself. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I hope it’s not too pushy.”

“We’ll never know at this rate.”

Anne went pinker still, and Francie felt a little ashamed of herself. “Are you and Nora playing in the tournament?”

“What tournament?”

“The club doubles championship.”

“We don’t play together anymore. Not in tournaments.”

“But you won it a bunch of times—I saw in the trophy case.”

“We finally decided to preserve the friendship instead.”

“I know you’re joking. You’re both so supportive on the court.”

“Not of each other. The last tournament we played they called the police.” Anne’s eyes widened . “Now I am joking,” Francie said; how delicate this woman was. “What’s on your mind?”

“First,” said Anne, “I’d better confess I don’t usually play as well as I did tonight. Not nearly.”

“And second?”

“I wondered if you’d like to be my partner in the tournament.”

“How could I say no?”

Nora was back, Anne gone. “She’s not as fragile as she makes out,” Nora said. “See the way she went right at me with that overhead in the second set?”

“She probably assumed you’d be moving to cover the empty court.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m fat?”

“No. ‘ You’re fat’is my way of saying you’re fat.”

“So you’re not saying it?”

“My meaning is clear.”

“Because even supposing I’d put on three or four or fifteen pounds—did you notice how hard I’m hitting the ball?”

“You’ve always hit hard.”

“Not like this. I’m going to write an article for
Tennis Magazine—
‘ Eat Your Way to Power. ’Just a little beefy hip rotation and pow—F equals MA.”

“You’re working on the M?”

“That’s what’s revolutionary about it.”

Nora ordered more beer; Francie signed. “Ready to talk about Roger?” Nora said.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Does he have that toenail thing, by the way?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“Meaning you don’t know?”

Francie said nothing.

“Meaning you’re not occupying the same bed? Of course. And that would be your Byzantine way of telling me. How long has this been the case?”

“Some time.”

“That would be months.”

“Many.”

Nora shook her head. “One month is my limit when it comes to abstinence—must be tied to the cycles of the moon, something tidal. After that, I need life support.” She studied Francie’s face, quite openly. “Can’t be good for you, either,” she said. “Someone like Anne, that’s different—modest sex drive at best.”

“How would you know something like that? Maybe she’s in bed with her husband as we speak.”

“Ironing his shirts is more like it,” Nora said. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had an orgasm? In the company of another human being, that is.”

“What difference does it make when I had an orgasm?

Nuns—”

“You’re not a nun. Answer the question.”

The true answer was last Thursday, and not only one. Francie came very close to saying just that: her lips parted, the tip of her tongue curved up to form the
L
of “last,” and after that the whole tale—cottage, kayak, little bedroom—would come spilling out. Francie clamped her mouth shut, held it all inside; she could keep a secret.

“What?” said Nora. “What?”

Francie tried to think of some breezy diversion, some bridge to another subject, but nothing came to mind. Nora’s eyes narrowed. “This divorce can’t come too soon.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Francie.

“Why not?”

“Maybe if he had a job again, Nora, but right now it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fair? You said fair?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it’s time to consider a boyfriend.”

“And that would be fair?” Francie asked—very close to the first question she would have asked if the real story had come spilling out.

“You’re asking me if cheating on Roger would be fair?”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“That’s the way people put it.” Nora thought, drank more beer, thought again. “Got anyone in mind?” she said.

“No,” said Francie, feeling Nora’s gaze and not even trying to meet it.

A long silence followed. Nora poured the rest of the beer, looking at Francie from the corner of her eye. “Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?” she said.

“Rose? I knew her.”

“But did I ever mention the time I called her number, six months after she died?”

“Why?”

“Because there was something I’d meant to tell her.” Nora rose. “Good luck, kiddo.”

“Good luck?”

“With Anne,” said Nora. “In the tournament.”

Francie went home. The phone was ringing. She picked it up.

“Francie? Anne Franklin. Hope it’s not too late. They just called me with the draw—we play Friday at four-thirty, if that’s all right.”

“Fine.”

“And I was thinking maybe we could set up a practice match before that.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a court Thursday at six.”

“Thursday’s out,” Francie said.

“I’m sorry—that’s the only time they had.”

“We’ll just have to wing it,” Francie said.

Francie went to bed but couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of Nora’s grandmother, kept hearing the chill in Nora’s voice when she wished her luck. That was unbearable: candor, as they said, was the soul of friendship, and she had let Nora down. There would have to be at least one change in Ned’s rules.

6

T
hursday. Francie spent the day in her office, preparing a report (negative) for the acquisitions committee. “. . . menstrual performance, coupled with an installation consisting of outsize Tupperware (e. g., casserole dish—10 ft. diameter) suspended from a . . .” She found she’d already typed that sentence, not once but twice, as a quick scroll through the text revealed. She couldn’t concentrate at all. This often happened on Thursdays, but this Thursday more than ever.

The phone rang. Francie reached for it with dread. Once before Ned had called to cancel, at about this same time. But it wasn’t Ned.

“Francie? Tad Wagner here.”

“Yes?” She’d heard the name but couldn’t place it.

“Your insurance agent—classmate of Roger’s.”

“Oh, yes.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“So I understand. I saw a nice article in the
Globe
.”

“That was really about the foundation. I wasn’t even supposed—”

“I’m impressed. But the reason I’m calling—now that this career of yours is taking off, have you given any thought to a term policy in your own name?”

“A term policy?”

“That’s the instrument I’d recommend in your case.”

“Are you talking about life insurance?”

“That’s my forte.” He pronounced it correctly—at least Harvard gave you that.

“I have no dependents, Tad.”

Pause. “What about Roger? Word is he’s . . .”

What about Roger? Roger had supported her for years. And if they did end in divorce, she could change the beneficiary:
to Em
. “How much does it cost?”

Tad described different options. Francie settled on a term policy for $500, 000 with Roger as beneficiary and hung up. Tad must have been desperate for business: that
Globe
article was six months old.

Ten to four. Enough. She saved and printed her report. Then she wrote
To Ned, with all my love, Francie
on a plain sheet of paper. She stared at the words. They seemed alive on the page.

Francie folded the paper, put it in an envelope, taped it to the rewrapped painting leaning against her desk. She’d never written Ned a note before—written communication was out—but this was special. He could destroy the note if he wished. The pleasure of writing it had been exquisite: it made their relationship real. Francie packed her briefcase, picked up the painting, took the elevator down to the garage.

She drove out of the city under a low and fast-darkening sky, planning what she would say about Nora. It was just a question of making him see how close they were, how trustworthy Nora was. Francie was sure he would understand. Her heart grew light and buoyant—she could feel it, high in her chest, like a bird about to fly. She felt as happy as she’d ever been, at least as an adult, until just across the New Hampshire line, when the car phone buzzed. She realized immediately that she’d forgotten to send the goddamn report upstairs to the acquisitions committee.

“Hello?” she said.

But it wasn’t the committee. First a faint background voice, female, said, “Three minutes to air,” and then Ned came on. “Hello,” he said.

“Ned.”

“Hi.” He never spoke her name on the phone. There was a pause, and in it Francie thought:
Say you’ll be a
little late
. He said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it today.”

“Oh.”

“Two minutes to air.”

“Really sorry. Something’s come up; I’ll explain later.”

“Something bad?”

“Nothing bad, but I’ve got to go.”

“Bye, then.”

“I’ll call.”

Too late to go back to the office, and Francie didn’t want to go home. She kept driving, wishing she hadn’t said
Bye, then
like that. Something coming up had to mean something involving Em—a parent-teacher meeting, a dance recital. Em came first. Em was the reason Ned couldn’t get divorced; Em was the reason for secrecy. Francie understood that, accepted it. If she had a child, she would be the same . . . Francie didn’t finish the thought. A competing one had risen in her mind, obtrusive:
If I had a child, I would never take the risk, not for
anyone
. She shoved this second thought away, back down into her unconscious or wherever it had sprung from. She didn’t have a child: she couldn’t know. And how unfair to Ned. He loved her, he loved Em. Did that make him bad?

Francie was almost at Brenda’s gate before she remembered the show. Switching on the radio, she caught Ned in midsentence, the signal weak and scratchy with static but audible: “. . . pain will ever go away? Maybe not—that’s the truth of it. But it will change into something else, something more manageable. Time may not be a healer, but at least it turns wounds into scars, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I do, Ned.” The woman was crying. “Thank you.”

“Rico from Brighton. Welcome to
Intimately Yours
.”

“Hey. Great show. Can we switch to something different for a second?”

“Thursday, Rico. Anything goes.”

“I’d like to talk about the Big A.”

“The Big A?”

“The A-word, Ned.”

“Adultery?”

“You got it.”

“And what’s your angle?”

“The scientific angle.”

“Which is?”

“You know,” said Rico. “Nature’s law. It’s in a man’s best interest to get his genes out there as much as possible and it’s in a woman’s best interest to have a man around to help with the kids. I mean, that’s a contradiction, right?”

“And the implication?”

“That it’s not about morality. You do what you gotta do.”

There was a long pause, full of static. Then Ned said, “Why don’t we throw that out to the listeners—the Big A, a question of—”

Francie lost him completely. Night had fallen now. Her headlights glinted on Brenda’s gate. She unlocked it, drove through and up the hill. At the top, she tried the radio again, and Ned came in clearly. “. . . reduce this to a bunch of genes? Let’s take another call.”

All at once, Francie had a crazy idea. She had a phone, it was a call-in show, she knew the number. Why not call him? He’d never said not to call the show. Free-form Thursday. She picked up the phone and dialed; no chance of getting through anyway.

“Intimately Yours,”
said a voice. “Who’s this?”

“Iris,” said Francie. “On a car phone.”

“And what did you want to talk about?”

“Genes.”

“Mind turning off your radio? You’re next.”

Francie waited, her heart beating its Thursday beat again. What was the saying? Hide a tree in the forest. Did it apply to what she was doing? Maybe not. Maybe this wasn’t such a good—

“You’re on.”

Ned spoke, right in her ear, but with a tone he never used with her: “Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”

Maybe not a good idea.

“Iris? You there?”

Francie said, “I just want to tell you how much I like your show. Thursdays especially.”

Silence. It seemed endless. Then the line went dead. She turned the radio back on, felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl.

“. . . lost Iris. Let’s take another call.” Ned, his voice pitched higher than she’d ever heard it. Not a good idea, not well executed, not funny. Francie pounded her hand on the steering wheel.

Early retirement: an infuriating suggestion. On the computer in his basement office, Roger opened the file containing his résumé and made a single change, adding
IQ—181 (Stanford-Binet)
on the line below the date of his birth. He printed the résumé, read it over. The new entry didn’t look bad, no worse than a long list of specious awards, for example. Quite professional. He prepared a mailing list of potential employers for the revised résumé.

After that, Roger logged on to the Puzzle Club, started the
Times of London
crossword. Where was he? Hell, in ideal form: that would be
dystopia
. Seven across, six letters: ugni, sylvaner. He typed in
grapes
. Ten down, nine letters: loss. Roger paused, sat for a few moments, then went up to Francie’s bedroom; their bedroom. He bent, looked under the bed. The painting of the grapes and the skateboarding girl was gone.

Roger grew aware of Francie’s clock radio, broadcasting to an empty room; she was like that, leaving on lights, running the tap the whole time she brushed her teeth. “Genes or no genes, Ned, ” a woman on a phone line was saying, “it’ll always be cheating in my book. ”

“Sounds like the first line of a country hit,” said a studio voice, gentle and sympathetic: the kind of male tone suddenly common in broadcasting, a tone Roger hated.

“Let’s take another caller,” the man said as Roger moved to shut him off. “Who have we got? Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”

A long pause. Roger was unfamiliar with Francie’s clock radio; he fumbled for the switch, found the volume instead, turning it louder.

“Iris? You there?”

“I just want to tell you how much I like your show,” a woman said. “Thursdays especially.”

Roger froze. Time seemed to freeze with him. The radio went silent, until at last the smooth-voiced man cleared his throat and said, “Oops, looks like we lost Iris. Let’s take another call.”

“Hi, Ned. Can we get off this adultery thing for a minute? I’m having a problem with my—”

Roger turned off the radio, stood motionless by the bed.

Francie. Beyond doubt. What had become of her, calling any talk show at all, to say nothing of a smarmy, prurient one like that? To let herself be used by them, like one of those pathetic big-haired women on television? He left the room, closed the door, stopped. And why would she call herself Iris?

Car phone. What was the number of Francie’s car phone? Roger didn’t know, had never called it. He went downstairs to the kitchen desk where Francie kept all the household accounts. He found the latest cellular phone bill, noted her number, and dialed it, leafing through the bill as he waited for a ring.

“The cellular phone customer you have called is not available at this time,” said a recording.

Roger wondered where she was.

Francie drove down to the stone jetty, printing fresh tire tracks in unbroken snow. The snow should have warned her of what lay ahead, but not until her headlights shone on the river, white instead of black, did she realize it was frozen. She got out of the car, stepped onto the jetty, looked down into the dinghies: five or six inches of snow on their floorboards, caught in the ice.

Francie gazed across at the island, the tops of the elms white against the night sky. She hadn’t anticipated this; a New England girl, and she hadn’t foreseen winter, the changes it would bring for Ned and her. Now she saw them very clearly-motel rooms, dark parking places, furtiveness. Her mind recoiled, and Ned’s would, too. Without the cottage, they had a relationship entirely mental, like some Victorian exercise in frustration. How long could that last?

Francie walked to the end of the jetty, sat down. Her feet took charge, lowering themselves to the ice. Then she was standing. Nothing cracked, nothing split; the ice felt thick and solid. She went back to her car for the painting, then moved out onto the ice, one step after another.

Francie walked across the river. She wore leather city boots, not even calf-high, but high enough. The snow on the river was only an inch or two deep, the rest blown away by the wind. This was easy—good traction, and no rowing, no tying up—with Brenda’s wintry island more beautiful than ever. A moonless, starless sky, but she could see her way easily; the snow brightened the night. A shadow stirred in the elm tops, rose high above. The owl. Francie paused to watch, lost it in the darkness, took another step. The next moment she was plunging to the bottom.

Down she went in complete blackness, icy water bubbling around her, so cold it made her gasp, swallow, gag. Her foot touched something: the bottom? She pushed off, a panicked, reflexive kick, and frantically kicked toward the surface—or what she hoped was the surface, because she could see nothing but bubbles, silver on the outside, black within. But the surface didn’t come. Was she moving at all? So heavy: she struggled with her coat, freed herself from it, tried to get rid of her boots, could not. She kicked, wheeled her arms, felt pressure building in her chest like an inflating balloon, and always the never-ending shock of cold. Her head struck something hard and she sank.

As Francie sank, she had a strange thought, not her kind of thought at all. She wasn’t religious, certainly didn’t believe in any kind of quid pro quo, deal-making God. But still, the thought came—
If you let me live, I’ll
never see Ned again
—as though she were guilty, and this the punishment.

Francie kicked again, once, twice, the bubble about to burst from her chest. Her head had struck something hard: the underside of the ice? She raised her hands in protection, and her fingers reached into night air. Francie broke through the surface, choking, retching, but alive. She floundered in a pool of black water, no wider than the top of a well.

Francie commanded her hands: on the ice. They obeyed. Pull. They pulled, but the ice broke off. Francie tried again, and again, and again, hands, face, body numb, teeth chattering at an impossible speed, breaking off chunks of ice, breaking, breaking. She heard a terrible cry, her cry, and then the ice held for her. She flopped onto it, drew herself up, inches at a time, to her chest, her waist, and out.

Some shivering mechanism now controlled her body. She staggered across the ice, onto the jetty, into her car. The keys? In her coat: gone. But then she saw them glinting in the ignition, left by mistake. What was happening to her? She turned the key, switched on the heater, full-blast. The engine was still warm. It had been only a few minutes. She clung, shaking, to the steering wheel, and remembered
oh garden, my garden
: gone, too.

It was after midnight when Francie got home. From his basement office, Roger heard her footsteps overhead. He waited an hour by the clock and went upstairs.

Francie’s boots were on the mat by the front door. They looked wet. Roger went closer. They were wet. He picked one up. Soaked, inside and out, and it was too cold for rain. Had she gone for a walk on the beach, strayed too close to the surf? He sniffed: no salty smell, but to be sure he gave the leather a lick of his tongue as well. Freshwater, then, and at least a foot deep. Fresh-water: ponds, lakes, rivers. He gazed up the stairs, thinking.