An Educated Death (38 page)

My condo looked as bruised as I felt. I knew Geoff was coming back to paint and fix the scratches but for now, my once lovely place showed how kicked around and mistreated it had been. The damage gave it an ugly, temporary look that made it feel even less like home. The prick had broken lamps and failed to replace lightbulbs, so the corners of the room were dark, and, to my weary, wary senses, somehow sinister and threatening.

It was foolish. None of the people whose tragedies had touched me had ever lived here, none of them had even been here, and yet the place felt dark and sad and heavy with loss. I suppose I carried it with me. And then there was the loss that touched me most, the loss of Andre, a living, vibrant person, a person who
had
lived here. We'd made love in every room, even outside on the deck, and we'd fed and stroked and cared for each other here and shown each other pieces of our souls. It wasn't just my body that hurt. The tightness in my chest reminded me of last night, but this time it was the poison of feelings suppressed that caused the pain.

I fixed myself a hot bath liberally laced with foaming blue bath salts, poured a generous measure of bourbon over a few ice cubes, and settled in for some hydrotherapy. My stomach was reluctant to accept the drink. It longed for tea and soup, but they would induce neither sleep nor numbness. The normally comforting swirl of the sweet, warming alcohol jarred my still-fragile system and my stomach gave a few unsettling hops before it decided to accept what it was being given. It was only once I was sure that it was quiescent that I was able to relax and enjoy my bath. Then I enjoyed it so much I almost fell asleep in the tub.

They say the Eskimos, or Inuit, as we now say to be politically correct, have two hundred words for snow. It's probably a myth, but it is true that if you live with something very closely you do tend to dwell on it. I lay in the tub and tried to count the number of words I knew for the state of being tired. There were the obvious ones like exhausted and weary, which I certainly was, but also less usual ones, like enervated and lethargic and languid and debilitated, all of which I also was. Too bad I didn't have a thesaurus right by the tub, I could have looked up more if I hadn't been too spent to bother. Or, if I'd only had some energy, I could have moved on to words for pain and found some elegant or unique ways to describe all the sore, miserable aches left from my night in the emergency room or profound ways to describe the emptiness I felt recalling Andre's retreating back.

I might easily have slipped silently under the water and drowned, but through the trance induced by the warmth, good old Jack, and my exhaustion, I heard a peculiar buzzing sound that changed to a bang and then a buzz and a bang. It took a while for my stupefied mind to recognize that someone was ringing the doorbell and pounding on my door. And that whoever it was, they weren't going to give up and go away. Unless I wanted to disturb all my neighbors, and I was walking a very fine line with them already, I'd better go and answer the door. Or at least look and see who was there. I would only open it to someone I knew personally.

Reluctantly, I abandoned the tub, pulled on some underwear and a robe, and padded on my still-wet feet to the door. Joe Hennessey stood there looking frantic. "Are you okay?" he demanded. "I was afraid something had happened to you."

"The only thing that's happened to me is that you got me out of the tub, where I was having a wonderful, relaxing time, so that you wouldn't disturb all my neighbors and make them call the police."

He looked like a kid who'd been scolded. He even had the grace to blush. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was worried about you."

"You were worried about me? Or Rocky was?" I asked, stepping aside so he could come in. "I'm a grown-up. I can take care of myself."

"Carol Frank was a grown-up, too," he reminded me, looking for something to wipe his feet on.

The mat was gone, though. Stolen or ruined by the prick. "Don't worry about it," I said, as he bent to take off his shoes. Mother Hennessey must have been something, unless it was his wife. Ex-wife.

He set his shoes neatly by the door and headed for the living room, talking as he did. "I was with Rocky when he told her kids what had happened. So he could show me how it was done. We don't have murders in Sedgwick, you see. Turns out they were younger than I thought. Just got home from college today. I have to tell you. It was harder than finding her."

His busy cop eyes were taking in my place. The furniture, pictures, books. The peculiar gaps. The mottled walls where Geoff and his crew had patched but not yet painted. They came to rest on the Jack Daniels bottle and his face got hopeful. "Could I have some of that?"

"I thought cops weren't allowed to drink on duty."

"For medicinal purposes," he said, dropping wearily onto the couch.

He looked as if he needed it. I thought about the day he'd had, the day we'd both had, and headed for the kitchen to get another glass. A few of them had survived my tenant. "Those poor kids. I know what it's like for them. Is their father with them?"

"He is. What do you mean, you know what it's like for them? How can you know?"

He sounded aggrieved, as though I weren't taking his painful experience seriously enough. Most of the men I know aren't much for confessing pain and weakness, but when they do, they expect me to treat it very seriously. I put in some ice, poured him a drink, and made another one for myself. It was a dumb thing to do. I didn't need another one, but I felt like it. I was ignoring the fact that I was drinking on an empty stomach. Always a dangerous thing to do.

"I know because my sister was murdered," I said.

He almost dropped his drink. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

"You couldn't have. You want something to eat?" In my house, it's either a feast or a famine. When I'm busy, I forget to eat, forget to shop, forget to sleep. Then when things calm down I buy out the stores and stuff my refrigerator so full things rot. But I hadn't been living here, the prick had, so it was a good thing I'd gone to the store. I opened the can of mixed nuts, put the cheese and crackers on a tray, put my old friend Jack on the tray as well, and carried it into the living room.

Hennessey was staring at the wall. "What happened here?" he asked.

"The prick wrecked the place," I said.

"The prick?" he said, wrinkling his nose at the unladylike word. "That your ex?"

I shook my head. Hennessey was a nice guy but I wasn't up to small talk. Or big talk. Or any talk. I needed to crawl into bed, pound my pillow, and weep. The only good thing about having him here was that the shadows in the corners had retreated a bit and I didn't feel quite so surrounded by death and destruction. "I don't have an ex. I have a late." I told him about my awful tenant. "If I ever find him, I'm not bothering with a lawsuit. I'm going to chop him up and feed him to the seagulls."

"You shouldn't have told me that," he said.

"Why, because now you'll have to report me?"

"Nah. Because now I want to help."

I didn't want to think about the prick, so I changed the subject. "Were you just supposed to check up on me or are you here to baby-sit?"

"Baby-sit."

"Chief Rocky said, 'Get your ass out there and keep an eye on that troublesome broad, I don't want any more bodies on my hands,' right?"

"That's right. As soon as we finished up with the Frank kids, he turns to me and he says, 'Now you get your ass over to Thea Kozak's house. I'm not having any more murders on my hands.' So here I am. Your own personal bodyguard."

"He could have asked if I wanted protection." The alcohol made me hungry and I was scarfing down salted nuts at a frantic pace. To be fair, I passed the dish to Joe. He took a handful and put the dish down on his side of the table. I suspected he hadn't had any time for dinner either. Between us we'd reduced the cheese to a mouse-sized bite.

"The chief's not much for asking other people's opinions," Hennessey said. He stared regretfully at his empty glass. "Mind if I have another?"

"Help yourself." My mother raised me to be a good hostess, but I was too tired to even pretend tonight. I let him get his own drink and declined his offer to pour another one for me. I was already numb from exhaustion and alcohol. Dead on my feet. Too tired to argue that I didn't want a bodyguard, to insist that I wanted to be alone. It didn't matter, really, whether he stayed or left, in terms of his intruding on my life. I was going straight to bed and when I woke up I was getting dressed and going to New Hampshire with Lisa. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was going to be in sleepyland.

He was studying my bookshelves. In the soft lamplight he looked young, even though there were bits of gray in his dark curly hair and mustache. His uniform needed pressing and he needed a shave. I could tell that he found the literary assortment peculiar. "Most of those were gifts," I said. "I keep... kept... my favorites in Maine. And the music is at work. That's where I spend most of my time."

"So I've heard," he said. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what? Work all the time? I like to work."

"That right?" He reached out and poured himself another drink and I didn't try to stop him. I wasn't his mother. The couch leather creaked softy under his weight. He leaned back against the cushions, folded his arms over his chest and stared at me, or, more particularly, at the spot where my robe was gaping. "What if this guy... Andre, is it?... that you've been seeing... the one who ran out on you... what if he showed up with an armload of flowers and got down on his knees and begged you to marry him? What would you say? Thanks, but no, I want to go on working?"

I set my own drink down with a shaky hand. "Look, Officer Hennessey—"

"Joe."

"Look, Joe, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but my relationship with Andre Lemieux is none of your business."

He smiled and picked up his drink again. "Whatever you say, but I'd never walk out on you like that. Leaving you alone when you're in danger."

"But you were sent here, like an assignment. You aren't here because... oh, forget it...." I didn't want to talk about Andre, not even tangentially. I didn't want to talk at all. I wanted to sleep. I pushed myself out of my chair and onto unsteady feet.

"I'll show you where the guest room is and then I'm going to bed." He followed me down the short hall to the spare room I had used as a guest room and office. "There are sheets on the bed, and the bathroom is here. I don't know if the towels are clean. I've only been back in this place for one day. I'll be in there," I pointed to my door.

Hennessey had a strange look on his face. He leaned forward until he was close enough so that I could feel the heat of his body, but he didn't touch me. "I wish I could stay with you," he said.

A man with his eye on the main chance, this Hennessey. He probably spent the rest of his time figuring out how he could replace Rocky. His timing was exquisite. I was seven steps beyond exhausted, two sheets to the wind, and recently and very publicly abandoned by my boyfriend. Primed to fall into his arms. "Thanks for the offer, Joe, but no. I'm a one-man woman, I'm not ready to write off Andre yet."

"The man's a fool to leave you like that," he said urgently. "But look, that's not what I meant...." He touched his forehead with his hand, an embarrassed gesture. "I only wanted... I mean, nothing has to happen. Just let me be there. Let me hold you...." There was an edge of loneliness in his voice, a hint of desperation.

I looked at his face. There wasn't a trace of a leer or of lust. He looked a little scared and sort of sad as well as terribly embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm not saying this right.... It looks like I'm coming onto you when that isn't what I mean at all. Carol was... that is, it was... she was... the first murder victim I've found. You know how you felt there in the car, when you were shocked and upset and you cried? Well, that's how I felt, too, sort of."

He ran a tentative hand through his hair as he searched for the words to explain. "I mean, I could handle it, right? I'm supposed to be able to. That's what I'm trained for. It made me feel good that I was able to comfort you. Strong and powerful, you know. The cop who can handle the crime scene and comfort people, the whole thing. Taking pride in how I was calm and in control, feeling superior to you, feeling sorry for you because you couldn't take it and I could because I was the professional."

I leaned against the door frame as I listened, so tired my legs were trembling. He put out a hand and steadied me as I started to slip. Steadied me and turned me, and with an arm around my shoulders, led me toward my bed. He was still talking, and there was an urgent need in his voice that I understood. No just in his words but in his posture and his tone.

"It was only later, when I was driving here, that I realized how much I needed comforting myself." He hesitated. "That's what I'm trying to say here. That seeing something like that, and seeing her kids and their grief, and just thinking about everything that's happened... about pulling that poor kid out of the pond... it's all so sad and awful and I needed to... what?... affirm life? Cling to something good and warm and caring. Like today in the car. That wasn't a man-woman thing. It wasn't about sex. It was about two people helping each other through their pain and fear and shock."

My mind was so bleary I could barely follow him, but it sounded right. Either he was being surprisingly honest or else he was a wonderful actor. "I wasn't coming onto you because you're attractive," he said, "even though it's true, or because your boyfriend just left so, so I thought you might be an easy mark...." He seated me gently on the edge of the bed and began pulling down the covers. His voice had become so quiet I could barely hear him. "I don't want to be alone tonight, that's all. I just need someone to hold me and reassure me and tell me that things will be all right. I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't mean to."

Too weary to argue, and because I have a soft spot for strong men in pain, I reached out and took his hand. "We're just sleeping together, understand? No sex."