Brightleaf (15 page)

32

Detective Metz’s Casa

Mary Beth

Being at Detective Metz’s house is strange. I give the front yard a once over and am disturbed to discover he’s a statuary person. He’s got a pair of concrete deer standing in his side yard: a full-size, seven-point buck and a corresponding doe. Then he’s got a couple of squirrel statues and an eagle with spread wings perched on a tree stump. Looks like Snow White might make an appearance any second. His lawn looks freshly mowed.

“You must really love animals,” I say.

“Not really. Why?”

“The statues.”

“I saw them at one of those statuary places off the highway. Aren’t they cool? I bought the two deer and the eagle, and they threw in the squirrels for free.”

I nod and say,”Cool.”

Detective Metz opens his front door. Immediately, a wonderful aroma drifts out.

“Did you cook?” I ask, shocked.

“I did,” he says, more humbly than I would expect, as he gestures me into his home.

“It smells incredible! What did you make?” I’m pretty surprised Detective Metz would cook. I hope he didn’t take the day off just to do this.

“Coq au vin.”

“Coq au vin? I’ve always wanted to try that.” It’s true, I have. I’m all over anything chicken with gravy. This is more than enough to help me get over the trauma of seeing the bald eagle statue.

I may even have to brag to Terry that someone cooked a gourmet meal for me, too. See how he likes that. Then I remember Terry did make me some pretty delicious eggs this morning. That makes two gourmet meals from two different men in one day. I’m making myself uncomfortable thinking about it.

“I got it out of
The Joy of Cooking
.”

Even more impressive. I don’t own many cookbooks myself, except
Rachel Ray’s 30-Minute GET REAL Meals
and a 1955 Junior League cookbook that I inherited from my grandmother.

Detective Metz has two black leather sectional sofas that fit together in a big right angle, making a V that opens towards the most humongous flat screen TV I have seen in my life. He’s got some golf clubs in the corner and a stack of DVD’s on the floor. He’s got this framed poster from the movie
Rambo
next to the TV, a larger-than-life picture of Sylvester Stallone with a bandana tied around his head and one of those bullet belts across his chest, machine gun ready. There is also a dining table at one end of the room, and it’s all set up with black placemats and napkins, silverware, and red square plates.

I plop myself down on the sectional.

“So did you find spinach, or did you not? I’m just curious.”

“You want a drink?” asks Detective Metz.

“Got any tea?”

“I was thinking more of something to help us relax. I have wine and vodka.”

Vodka is something I have never drunk. My mother’s alcoholism pretty much killed any natural curiosity I may have had in the liquor department. I tell him wine will be fine.

He hands me a glass of wine and I think of roofies. I’m vigilant to remember to always watch people when they pour you a drink. Only, I’ve never had to watch out for Mavis or the girl at the Hardee’s who pours the sweet tea.

He sits across from me on the other sofa and says, “Long day for me.” He takes a sip of his wine, then lifts his iPod off the coffee table, pushes buttons, and places it on a dock with speakers. “You like Usher?”

I don’t really keep up with current music. Besides listening to Linda Ronstadt and Perry Como, I like the oldies radio station. I tell him that Usher is fine by me, but I’m nervous. I’ve got this uneasy feeling we’re on a stage, and Detective Metz knows all the lines and I know none.

I place my wine on the table and stand up, walking slowly around his living room, like there’s something here I haven’t seen yet.

“Fancy TV,” I say. Then I walk over to the window and look out at his yard.

“Aren’t you going to drink your wine?”

“I might have to save it for dinner. I haven’t eaten much today.”

“Then we’ll have to remedy that,” he says, setting down his glass. He goes to the kitchen. I hear some rustling, and he comes out carrying two plates and sets them on the coffee table. One plate has cheese and sausage slices arranged in a spiral; the other is piled with tortilla chips with a bowl of queso on the side.

I pick up a piece of cheese and sausage and bite into it. Then another. I eat about seven chips dipped in queso before I take the first sip of wine.

He says, “I’m a big believer in alcohol bringing people together.”

I almost spit out my wine.

“Let me be clear,” he says in his best official policeman mode, like he’s teaching a D.A.R.E. program. “Alcohol can be dangerous if you’re not careful, but for moderate people, like ourselves, Mary Beth, it can help us relax and have real conversations. Drop our inhibitions. You get to see the real person. The person behind the uniform, if that’s who I am to you. And to me, you’re the person with the dead friend, the person dying to get her hands on his journal. All this formality stands in the way of us being ourselves. But there’s more to both of us. Wouldn’t you say?”

I cram another piece of cheese in my mouth and nod my head.

“Wow, you’re really hungry.” He looks at his watch and says, “We could probably eat now.”

“Can I help with anything?” I ask through a mouthful of cheese.

“No, you just sit right there and get comfortable,” he says and pours more wine in my glass. He pours himself vodka and carries it to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he walks out with a steaming platter filled with chicken and mushrooms, smothered in sauce the color of chocolate. This is not my grandmother’s chicken and gravy. He sets the platter on the table and returns to the kitchen. He reappears with bowls of warm red potatoes and bright green beans. I’m amazed. When Detective Metz was eating at the Salad Station, I surmised he was more of a Jell-O with marshmallows person. I can’t believe he went to this much trouble for me.

He pulls a chair from the table and motions for me to sit, and he nudges my chair up to the table and unfurls my napkin, laying it across my lap. He serves my plate, then his, picks up his fork and says with a dazzling smile, “After you.”

Dear Lord, I could get used to this kind of treatment. Seriously.

The meal is delicious. I may have to learn to cook someday because there’s no way I could ever get Mavis to make coq au vin, unless there’s a frozen variety at Sam’s Club.

While we eat, we talk about Detective Metz’s job, and all the interesting parts it entails. He also tells me the downside to the job, like crime scenes and how troubling it can be dealing with innocent people affected by crimes. Especially the kids, he says. I love how he seems so affected by the children. It’s surprising, especially after all that stuff he said in the car about children whining and crying, but I guess it’s different when he’s on the job. I tell him that would kill me, too. Then I tell him about my grandmother and how she left me her house on Main because neither my father nor Marcelle wanted to live in Brightleaf, and she wanted to keep it in the family. I explain how I came up with the boarding house idea. I am really enjoying myself, talking with Detective Metz – Clark – and stuffing myself with chicken, mushrooms, and potatoes. We continue talking about our interests, your basic getting-to-know-you type conversation, including me telling him about the Share Group. Which finally leads to Ned. I tell him how I looked up yohimbe and how upset I was when I learned everything about it, but that didn’t sound like Ned at all. But Clark just says you never know about people. That you can’t rule anything out. Finally, I bring up the journal.

“So can’t you see why that journal is so important to me?”

Detective Metz says, “I can see how you might think reading it will help you figure out how your friend died. But he was probably just a loser anyway.”

“Huh?”

He sips his vodka and says, “No, no, no. I didn’t mean he was a loser. I didn’t mean to say that. You want the journal? I’ll get it!”

Detective Metz seems really happy to give me the journal. I thought it would be much harder to make him produce it. He walks over to the shelf, where he placed it when we first arrived. He holds it out to me and says, “Don’t get your fingerprints on it because I have to get it back in evidence tomorrow. If you touch it with your bare hands everyone will think you were the one who killed him. Then I’ll have to book you!”

“
Killed
him? I thought you said he wasn’t murdered.” I grab the journal with my napkin.

“I
only
kiss and tell,” he says taking another sip of his drink.

“What?”

“I mean I’ll tell you everything if you kiss me.”

He’s giving me the goofiest look. Then it dawns on me that he’s had about four vodkas, not including the glass of wine he drank when we first arrived. I’ve seen plenty of drunks in my life. I cannot be bothered by it. I have the journal in my hand and need to do some speed-reading, so I ignore him. But it is hard to ignore him because while I am reading Ned’s journal, Detective Metz walks behind my chair. I can feel him standing there, so close that my spine gets that funky tickle. Then I feel his hands on my shoulders. He starts giving me a massage. It is extremely distracting. Even worrisome. I put down the journal and look up at him looming behind me.

He says, “Do you like what I’m doing?”

“I can’t say I’m crazy about it.”

He says, “Maybe I need to work on your arms more” and starts rubbing my arms.

I put down the notebook, stare at the table straight ahead of me and say, “Clark, could you please stop? I’m very appreciative for that wonderful dinner, and we’ve had a nice conversation, but you promised if I had dinner with you I could read Ned’s journal.”

“Seems like I gave you two things,” he says. “Dinner and the journal. You might owe me one.” Then he puts more pressure on my shoulders.

I stand up. “Do I need to go outside with Bambi’s mom and dad to read this journal?” I motion to his yard art visible through the window.

His expression changes from smiling to sullen. “No,” he says. “Just sit on my sofa and read it. I’ll leave you alone.” He walks off to a back room to sulk. Presently I hear a toilet flush.

“Thank you!” I sit down on the sofa, open my pocketbook, and pull out a pen and an old envelope for taking notes. I open the journal and begin reading, jotting down anything that looks important, but there isn’t much to read. The notebook has about fifty pages, but only fifteen are filled. Still, it’s interesting. When I’m finished, I pull my cell phone from my purse and see that I have two missed calls from Terry. I wonder if Mavis told him about my date. I decide not to call him back but just see him at the house later on tonight. Now, about those video games—I need to find out what Ned was playing at the time of his death. They seemed to have significance to Doyle. Video games seemed mighty important to Ned, too.

Detective Metz comes out of the back and wants to know if I’d like a cup of coffee. I jot down a few more notes without looking up and say, “Remember once I asked you about the games you found at Ned’s house? Do you remember what he was playing at the time? And yes, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

There is silence behind me. Finally he says, “Cream or sugar?” So I turn around to tell him three sugars, but when I face him it looks like he’s got himself a t-shirt like Mavis’s. The male version of the bikini bod shirt. Then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. And the bikini he’s got on his lower half is real and has a tiger print.

He says, “We should stop beating around the bush, Ms. Green.”

I’m not sure if I should run or laugh. I’ve never been in a room with a man dressed this way before. Alone. On the beach sometimes you see old men with big bellies wearing those weeny bikinis, but Detective Metz is neither old nor fat. In fact, he’s as fit as a person can be, and has a really hairy stomach and chest. I’m pretty sure I should start to worry.

“Thanks again for dinner,” I say, slowly standing and placing the journal on the table, “but…I did not mean to give you the wrong idea.” I pick up my pocketbook and carefully hang it over my shoulder and start walking towards the door. “I promise that when I accepted your dinner invitation, I wasn’t anticipating you showing me your underwear.” I’m moving in slow motion like he’s some type of a wild animal (a tiger comes to mind) who might attack if I move too fast. One sudden move…and bang!

“I’m sorry you’re not having a good time,” he says.

“It’s not that I’m
not
having a good time.” I smile and shake my head. “Actually, I’m just not comfortable at your house with you right now. This is not really what I imagined when you asked me out.”

“What did you imagine?” he asks.

He probably does this with every woman he brings over. And they are all probably like,
Oh, Clark! You’re sooo handsome! Get me drunk! I want a massage! Show me your tiger underpants!

I start for the door again, but he gets between it and me. The tiger bikini bottom is way too close to my person, and I start feeling light-headed. I ask him what he thinks he is doing, an officer of the law and all. And he tells me that I know what we are doing and to quit acting like I was born yesterday. I just stand there for a few seconds, thinking. Finally I say, “I need to use the bathroom. Bad.”

He gestures towards the hall where I heard the toilet flush a while ago.

I close the bathroom door behind me and lock it. There’s not even any soap or a hand towel in here. They say men are the worst about washing their hands after doing their business. All I have to say is I hope Clark washed his hands before getting busy in the kitchen over our dinner. I lower the toilet lid, sit, and think about what to do next. I’ve got a drunk policeman dressed like Tarzan out there trying to have his way with me. While I’m thinking, I flush the toilet, wait a few seconds, turn on the sink, and make a little racket. I’m terrified of opening the door. I might have to sleep in here tonight. Not like this flimsy door could keep out anyone who really wanted to get in. Then again, this is not
The Shining
, and Detective Metz is not exactly an axe-wielding Jack Nicholson. I bet if I didn’t come out all night I’d be safe. So I sit a while longer, and presently I look at my phone again. No new calls. It’s ten o’clock. I’m reminded of how similar this situation is to when I was hiding from Terry in The Grocery Palace bathroom. I’ve got to quit hanging around in bathrooms so much.