An Image of Death (23 page)

It took over twelve hours to get back to Chicago. The storm dropped nine new inches of snow before tapering off, and a light snow was still falling when I landed. It was after one by the time I cabbed home from O’Hare. I paid the driver and lugged my suitcase to the front door. The fresh mantle of snow brightened the night, and the black limbs of the locust tree, etched against a gray velvet sky, leaped out at me. Snowplows whined and scraped at the other end of the block, but my end was a soft, silent world that, in its stillness, seemed more contained and manageable than the one I’d escaped. I let myself in, grateful to be home.

***

There’s nothing like a good depression to make you sleep. I woke to a bright winter sun throwing lemony shafts of light through the blinds. It was after eleven. I padded downstairs and brewed coffee, struggling to come to terms with the day. Fouad must have plowed the path because my driveway was clear, with neat piles of snow catching sparkles from the sun. Fouad slips in and out of my life like an unseen spirit, smoothing out the kinks in my life without my being aware of it. I count myself lucky.

After showering and dressing, I contemplated doing a few loads of laundry but decided that would take entirely too much effort. The message light on my machine was blinking, but I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it either. I sat at the table drinking coffee. I was halfway through my second cup when I heard keys jangling outside. A moment later Rachel burst through the door.

“Mommy! You’re home!” She hurled herself into my arms.

Suddenly, my world felt better. I hugged her tighter than usual. I know the contours of Rachel’s body almost as well as my own, but she felt different today. I tilted my head. “Did you grow over the weekend?”

She giggled and wiggled her foot. I looked down. Shiny new Steve Maddens with thick platform heels were welded to her feet.

“Pretty sharp.”

“Daddy bought them for me.”

“Lucky girl.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” A male voice cut in.

I spun around. Barry was leaning against the door jamb of the kitchen. My ex-husband looks like Kevin Costner, but he’s aged better. He has kept all his hair, has the sexiest blue eyes east of the Mississippi, and a body that, despite my best efforts to ignore, still quickens my breath. “Oh, hi.”

He smiled.

I tried to ignore the ping that shot through me.

“When’d you get in?”

“Late last night.” I motioned to the window. “Snow.”

“We thought you weren’t coming back till tonight.”

“I didn’t, either.”

He tilted his head, then looked at Rachel, who was watching us curiously. “Honey, why don’t you go upstairs and unpack?”

Rachel laid her hand on my arm. “It can wait.”

I leaned over and tweaked her nose. She hates when I do that. “Do what your father says.”

She scowled at both of us but hoisted her backpack over her shoulder and started upstairs. Barry moved to let her pass. “Mind if I have some coffee?” he asked.

I was surprised. Barry usually bolts as soon as Rachel climbs out of the car. I doubt he’d actually been inside the house more than twice since we separated, and once was to pack up his things. But then, he hadn’t expected me to be here this morning.

“Fine with me.”

He stepped into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. He takes milk but no sugar. Funny how I remember. I took out milk and put it on the table along with a spoon.

He poured some in, stirred, then took a sip. “It’s good.” He raised his chin and looked at me over the rim of his mug. “So, how come you’re home early?”

I frowned. “I—I had things to do.”

“In the middle of a snowstorm?”

I shrugged and poured more coffee. I didn’t care if he didn’t believe me. It wasn’t any of his business. I busied myself putting away the milk.

“Ellie, you look like you’ve just lost your best friend. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

I closed the fridge door. I did want to talk—I wanted to cry and scream and shout. Except Susan was away for the weekend, and Genna wasn’t the kind of friend I confided my troubles in. But neither was my ex-husband. I shook my head.

“It’s about David, isn’t it?”

My eyes filled. I’d been holding it in for hours now, and I didn’t have much left. I went to the table and sat down. Barry sat, too, and nodded sympathetically, which only made me more miserable. “It seems as if David has a new lady friend.”

Barry arched his eyebrows.

I told him what happened. Usually when I discuss something with Barry, I feel pressured to condense or summarize my points. He’s the fidgety type, and I recalled plenty of irritated looks when he thought I’d gone on too long. Now, though, he listened without saying a word.

When I finished, he ran a hand through his wavy brown hair, which was still remarkably free of gray. “I’m sorry,” Ellie, he said softly. “That has to be hard.”

Pain has a way of making the improbable seem natural, and his expression was so kind it kick-started a reaction in me. The ache in my chest flared up again, and tears rolled down my cheeks. I stood up and dragged my sleeve across my face. Barry stood up, too, and moved closer, brushing his hand down my cheek. Without really thinking about it, I clasped it. And before either of us could react, he slipped his other arm around me.

He pulled me close, and I buried my face in his shoulder. He stroked the back of my head. I looked up, and my stomach lurched. His eyes were soft, his lips parted, his expression eager. He wanted me. The strangest part was that I wanted him, too. He bent his head.

“What about Marlene?” I whispered. Marlene was his girlfriend.

“She’s not you, Ellie,” he said hoarsely.

I swallowed. He kissed me. As our lips met, something inside me swelled, and the old, familiar rhythms surfaced, as if they’d been lurking in my body for years, just waiting to be summoned. Sex had never been a problem for us, even at the end. It would be easy to let those urges take over. To let my body melt into his.

But then awareness kicked in. Barry never put himself in a situation he couldn’t exploit. It was his nature. He always had to seek the upper hand. And in my fragile state of mind, I was ripe for his machinations.

I pulled away. “You’d better go.”

He released me reluctantly. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He paused for a beat, then gently tipped up my chin with his fist. His Bogie imitation, it had been a lovers’ rite, our private ritual. He’d never had to say the words that went with it. We both knew them.

“You’re really sure…”

I nodded. He dropped his fist, shrugged, and zipped up his coat.

An hour later nothing had changed, but I felt better. If nothing else, Barry’s behavior was a reminder that relationships are never completely over. That the skeins that bind us remain entwined, impossible to unravel. And, in the final analysis, why would we want to? After the anger, the disappointment, the betrayal, those threads are the only things that link us together.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

After I dropped Rachel at school Monday morning, I called Susan. “This is an SOS—Serious Order of Shit.”

When either of us declares one, the other knows to drop everything, no matter what time of day or night, and hook up immediately. The only detour permitted is for a pound of chocolate or bottle of wine. Or both.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m so depressed, I could listen to Neil Young.”

“That’s bad.” She paused. “Wine or chocolate?”

I thought for a minute. “Neither. But don’t eat lunch. I’ll pick you up at one.”

“Can it wait that long?”

“It’ll have to. I’m editing tape this morning.”

Before I left for Mac’s studio, I finally summoned the nerve to check my messages. Both were from David. Would I please call him, he asked in the first. He wanted to explain. He owed me an apology. By the way, Willie was doing fine and sent his regards. Please call, the second message said. “We really need to talk.”

I punched “Stop” on the machine. How dare he toss around the ubiquitous word
talk
, as if relationships could be altered or transformed simply by pronouncing certain words. Did he expect me to ignore what I’d seen? To pretend it had never happened? I erased the messages.

Before going out, I checked the mailbox to see what had accumulated over the weekend. I don’t check the mail every day; it’s mostly bills and junk mail, so when I spotted an envelope with Fouad’s name and address on it among the circulars and coupon books, I promptly opened it. Two pieces of paper fell out. One was a note scrawled in pencil by Fouad. He’d signed his name with a flourish.

I was shoveling the walk and found this under the stoop. I thought it might be important for you or Rachel.

I examined the other paper. It, too, was a note, more terse than Fouad’s. Barely legible, the ink was smeared and faded. It looked like it had been lying in the snow for a while. I could just make out the words.

Please. You keep. Not safe for me to have. I come back.

I turned the paper over. No further message was on it. And no signature. I frowned. Was it a note from one of Rachel’s friends? Had it dropped out of her trapper? I turned it over and looked at it again. The penmanship was full of curlicues, and the words leaned to the left. My heart thudded in my chest. I’d seen that handwriting before. On the envelope of the tape that was dropped off at the house.

I backtracked to the house, mentally blessing Fouad for his thoughtfulness, and called Davis. The note must have separated from the tape when it was delivered. Rachel brought the tape inside, but probably never saw the note.

When Davis’ voice mail picked up, I called back and talked to a human. Dispatch said Davis wasn’t due in until noon. I was on my way to Mac’s now and would be meeting Susan at one. Noon would work. I slipped both notes back into Fouad’s envelope, dropped it into my bag, and headed out to the car.

I was backing down the driveway when Lillian Armstrong pulled up in her white Cadillac, blocking the end of the driveway. For someone who claimed to be a Florida snowbird, she sure was spending a lot of time in the nest. She lowered the passenger window and beckoned me over. Reluctantly, I climbed out of the Volvo.

“Just remember I told you so,” she said when I was close enough to hear.

“Good morning to you, too, Lillian.” Her eyes narrowed just enough. “What’s going on?”

“Well.” She paused theatrically. “Not only has my cleaning lady not shown up for the past week, but I can’t get the damn service on the phone.”

I bent my head toward her window. “What do you mean?”

“The number for DM Maids has been disconnected. And there’s no forwarding information.”

“Are you talking about the service owned by Halina Grigorev? In Mount Prospect?”

Lillian eyed me. “How did you know?”

I sidestepped the question. “When did this happen?”

“Sometime over the past week.” She drummed freshly manicured fingertips on the wheel. “Did that policewoman come down on her? I told her I didn’t know anything about her—their status. You don’t think she’s going to be coming after me again, do you?”

I knew the answer was no, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her. “I wouldn’t have any idea, Lillian.”

“I told you how they are,” she said tartly. “No work ethic. They don’t care about doing a good job. Or treating people right. All they care about is—well, I wouldn’t know, but you can bet it’s not us.” She snorted with contempt.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Lillian, but I’m not sure there’s anything I can do.”

“I realize that.” She glared. “I just wanted you to know. I said you couldn’t trust them. Not for a New York minute. Now I have to start all over again.”

She didn’t wait for my reply and pulled away, a puff of self-righteous exhaust trailing behind her.

***

I spent the morning editing tape with Hank. A good editor is like a good musician: They both have to understand harmony, rhythm, and pace. Hank is both. He knows exactly when to cut and when to let a scene play. He also knows when to kick things up with an effect or musical bridge and when to tamp down for subtlety. And he plays bass on weekends.

We screened all the footage, tagged sound bites from Jordan Bennett’s interview, and laid them in over shots of the apartment. I made notes of various pans and angles on the B-roll. We were going back to Cabrini tomorrow to shoot the kids moving in, and I wanted to make sure we replicated the same angles for a match dissolve.

After firming up tomorrow’s shoot, I got back in the car. I still had twenty minutes before Davis was due in. I decided to swing by Sunset Foods for poached fish. Not only was their version—moist, tender, but firm—better than any restaurant’s, but it would be an opportunity to see Stan the Fish Man. Stan has a killer smile, a great body, and recipes for everything from marinated shrimp to Chilean sea bass. Half the women on the North Shore are in love with him.

I was passing the hardware store when I remembered we needed more salt for the driveway. I’d been meaning to get some for weeks. I turned in and ran inside. By the time I lugged a twenty-pound bag of salt to the car, annoyed there’d been only one cashier for seven customers, it was noon. The police station was a few blocks in the other direction. Flirting with Stan would have to wait.

The lobby of our police station looks like any other office building’s, with recessed lighting, potted plants, and magazines fanned across a small table. As I waited for Davis, I remembered sitting in this lobby last fall. The circumstances had been less sanguine.

“Hi, Ellie. What’s up?”

I twisted around. I hadn’t heard her come through the door. “Georgia. Did you get my message? I called you from Philadelphia.”

She greeted me with a smile. “I took a few days off.”

They must have agreed with her. The worry lines across her forehead were gone, and she looked relaxed. Was she with a boyfriend? Or family? I realized how little I knew about her personal life.