Cold and Pure and Very Dead (6 page)

T
he New York cops
had just finished grilling me about my interview with Marty Katz, and I was watching their green Ford Taurus pull out of the Dickinson Hall lot when Piotrowski materialized at my side on the marble steps. He must have been lurking around the corner of the square brick building waiting for Syverson and Williams to leave. The sight of his plain, broad face with its brown eyes and Slavic cheekbones somehow reassured me that, in spite of the irrational irruption of murderous violence into my life once again, God might still be in His Heaven and all might still be right with the world. Piotrowski had that effect on people; it was one of the things that made him a good homicide cop.

The weather was glorious, sunny, and so clear that from my position on the wide steps, I could glimpse the outline of the distant Berkshires between the Gothic stone of the college library and the sleek concrete modernity of the Wakefield Dining Commons. In the informality of first-day classes, groups of students and teachers sat cross-legged on the grass under the ancient maples of the campus quad. I raised an automatic hand in greeting to Earlene Johnson, the Enfield Dean of Students, who flashed me a knowing smile when she noted my companion, then hurried on by, but I felt extraordinarily detached from campus life. The New York investigators’
news had stunned me with its implications, making the cause of Marty Katz’s death all too apparent to me. If I hadn’t so flippantly tossed off the title of Mildred Deakin’s book in response to his question, the reporter would still be alive. Admittedly it was a stupid question he’d asked, but he didn’t deserve to
die
for it. I’d asked a great many stupid questions myself over the years—after all, I was a teacher—and no one had yet come after me with a hunting rifle.

The idyllic leaf-green and red-brick scene before me stood in bald contrast to the ugly fact of Marty Katz’s murder—and to the sordid world homicide lieutenant Charlie Piotrowski negotiated on a daily basis. The lieutenant’s impressive size—six-foot-three, well over two hundred pounds—was not all that distinguished him from the professors and administrators bustling around the campus on academic errands. A general air of attentiveness to the variegated phenomena—human and physical—that surrounded him, of alertness and readiness to respond—set this plain beige man apart from the abstracted scholars around us. He seemed to inhabit space more concretely than did my colleagues, rendering the space he inhabited intensely more concrete. Slit-eyed, Piotrowski watched the unmarked Taurus until it turned onto the campus ring road and disappeared from sight. Then he pivoted and barked at me. “They treat you okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied. His brusque tone put me unexpectedly on the defensive. “As okay as possible for a couple of homicide cops who think I killed a
New York Times
reporter in cold blood.” I frowned at him. “What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”

He grumbled. “Thought I should get myself out of reach for a while; your friends from New York are gonna be making mad-as-hell phone calls about me
tipping you off.” Then, before I could thank him for that tip, he eyed me closely, and his manner gentled. “You don’t look so good, Doctor—kinda pale and shocky. They didn’t hassle you, did they?”

I shrugged.

“They can’t really consider you a suspect.…” Lieutenant Piotrowski squinted in the noontime sunlight, his face set in professional cop mode, sussing out the situation, checking all the angles.

“No. Not really. At least, I don’t think so. But, Jeez, Piotrowski … I’m in a state of shock. A reporter from the
Times
is dead, and all because he sought out a writer I told him about, a novelist nobody had seen—or heard from—in decades. A deliberate
recluse
, the New York detectives said. I may not have killed Marty Katz, but, you know, it’s beginning to look as if I set in motion a chain of events that did.”

“Cut yourself a break, Doctor!” His tone was sharp, and a woman student passing by gave us a quick glance.

“But it’s all my fault,” I protested. “When the New York lieutenant gave me the facts of the case—that Marty was gunned down in Mildred Deakin’s, ah, Finch’s driveway—it became clear to me that he would never have been there in the first place if I hadn’t told him about her. He was a journalist; he must have hunted her down to get her story. From what those cops said, it looks like she probably freaked out when he told her what he was there for, grabbed her husband’s deer-hunting gun, and killed him. At least, that’s what that skinny lieutenant said—that they’ve got Mrs., ah, Finch in custody.”

“Hmm, well, you might be right that he wouldn’t have looked her up if you hadn’t mentioned her, but you couldn’t know—Hey—whoa—Doctor, don’t
cry.”
He reached out to pat my shoulder, then glanced around and abruptly pulled his hand back. “At least, don’t cry here, right in front of your office. Ya gotta remember that. It’s a cardinal rule: Never bawl where they cut you a paycheck. No telling who’s gonna be watching.” He slid a pack of tissues out of his pocket, handed me one, hesitated for two seconds, then continued. “Listen, why don’t we take a ride and talk about this? I got some, ah, other things I been thinking about lately—thinking about a lot, as a matter a fact. I’d like to … ah … run them by you. You had lunch? No? Okay, I’m buying.”

“I don’t
bawl!”
I dabbed at my eyes. Piotrowski was right; I had to get out of here. The campus was at its busiest this early September afternoon, students, staff, and faculty energized for the new school year—and all too curious about their long-unseen peers. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I could use something to eat.
And
a shoulder to cry on.”

The lieutenant’s eyes widened skittishly, and I hastened to clarify. “I mean, I’d like to run this mess, er … situation … by you. Who better?”

The New York cops had asked me not to talk about the case, and, especially, to keep quiet about Mildred Deakin’s connection to it. I’d agreed, but didn’t think that meant I couldn’t tell Piotrowski. “We got a few leads to follow up,” Syverson had said, pursing her bloodless lips, “before that news becomes public knowledge. So, we’d appreciate it if you …”

“This
mess
, huh?” Piotrowski furrowed his eyebrows. “Yeah, who better than yours truly at taking care of messes?” His abruptly expressionless tone surprised me.

“Well, you
are
a pro. Maybe you can help me make some sense of Marty Katz’s death.”

“Wa-i-i-i-t a minute, Doctor.” Any softening in his manner suddenly vanished, and the gruff professional was back in full force. “You’re not thinking about sticking your nose in this—”

“Just let me get my bag from my office, and we can talk it over in the car.”

Before I could start up the steps, the Dickinson Hall front door opened, and Jake Fenton emerged from the dusky interior. The novelist squinted, then smiled when he saw me. Our paths intersected three steps up from where Piotrowski was standing.

“Heyyyy, Karen,” he said. “Good to see you.” Ignoring my outstretched hand, he squeezed my arm. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” I replied, returning his smile. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“I’ve been away.” Jake’s eyes flicked sideways, then back. Uneasy? Evasive? Or was the shock of Marty Katz’s death overshadowing all my interactions? “But, hey, I’m back, and we never had that date we talked about. You were supposed to show me the town.” He winked at me. For a few seconds I forgot my irrational guilt about Marty Katz’s death and allowed myself to be swept into the force field of this man’s physical magnetism. With a tan so deep he could have passed for a native of some South Seas island, he radiated health and a muscular energy not-so-subtly sexual in nature.

“Let’s set it up,” I replied. “I’m on leave, so my time’s pretty flexible right now.” Jake wasn’t much taller than me, I noted immediately, maybe an inch or two. Just enough to make things interesting.

The writer glanced curiously at Piotrowski, who, blank-faced, gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and began ambling down the steps—as if he and I had simply been passing the time of day.

“Thursday?” Jake evidently decided Piotrowski was harmless and tipped his head inquiringly at me.

“What time?”

“Three? Then we’ll get a drink—maybe some supper.”

“Great,” I said, then out of the corner of my eye noted the lieutenant idling before a bulletin board studded with multi-colored posters. “Right now, I’ve got to run.”

“Okay. Thursday. Three. I’ll pick you up at your office. Bye, Karen.” He waggled his fingers at me, then headed down the steps.

I waggled back, then hastened into the building to get my bag.

W
alking across campus
, on our way to his Jeep in the visitors’ parking lot, Piotrowski was silent, responding only briefly to my attempts at conversation. Over burgers at the Blue Dolphin, he listened silently to my recitation of the New York cops’ tale of willful death. At his parting caution—“Like I said, Doctor—you butt out of this”—I realized he hadn’t said a word about whatever it was he had on his mind and wanted to run by me. I was so caught up in the mystery of Marty Katz’s death, seemingly at the hands of the newly resurrected Mildred Deakin, that I didn’t bother to ask him about it.

A
t 3:14
A.M
.
the morning after the visit from the police officers, Amanda pulled into the driveway. She and Sophia had been out hunting down one last hot blast of summer, or, in other words, they’d spent the night engaged in what passed for clubbing on a Tuesday in western Massachusetts. Tomorrow my daughter was scheduled to take off for her senior year at Georgetown. When she opened the back door, quietly so as not to wake me, I was hunkered at the kitchen table in semi-darkness with a cup of microwaved milk. “Mom?” Amanda queried, as she let the door slam behind her, “what’re you doing up at this hour?” She pulled out a chair and joined me at the round oak table.

After months of allowing her reddish-brown hair to grow almost to her shoulders, Amanda was back to a short crop. The severe cut became her, highlighting her dark-lashed hazel eyes and the clean, elegant lines of her cheek and jaw. At twenty-one, despite the lateness of the hour, she radiated energy. She also radiated the stale odor of cigarette smoke. “Yuck,” I said, giving a pseudoconsumptive cough, then waving my hand in front of my face. “How can you breathe in those places?”

“It ain’t easy,” she replied. “But the music was great. I had a good time. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad,” I replied, and reached out to squeeze
her hand. Now that she had a reliable car, I didn’t have to worry quite as much about my daughter when she went traipsing all over the back hills in the middle of the night in search of tunes. This summer, thanks to a timely combined raise and merit award from the college, I had purchased a five-year-old Subaru station wagon, and Amanda had graduated to my gray 1988 Volkswagen Jetta. It was the end of the American Century, and things seemed to be looking up for the Pelletier family.

“So?” Amanda reached out and switched on the hanging lamp over the table. As usual she was dressed in jeans and one of her variegated wardrobe of Georgetown sweatshirts—cobalt-blue, this time. Also as usual, I thought she was stunningly beautiful.

“So … what?” I replied, squinting in the sudden light.

“What are you doing up so late?” she continued. “And sitting in the dark, too.”

“Insomnia,” I muttered into my milk.

“Again? Mom, what’s going on with you?”

Murder. Loneliness. Lust
. I shrugged. In the blackened window, a sepulchral woman’s shoulders bobbed up and down in their shroudlike oversized T-shirt. “Just stressed, I guess.”

“Stressed? But, Mom, everything’s going so well.” The shoulders bobbed again, but before I could respond, Amanda blurted, “It’s the law-enforcement thing, isn’t it?”

Kids always think they’re the center of the universe. Amanda, who’d been set on med school when she’d entered Georgetown three years ago, was now toying—against my express wishes, I might add—with the idea of following her beloved Tony Gorman into police work. My ex-boyfriend is a high-level official with a
New York State Police Drug Enforcement Agency based in Manhattan. He’s also a mesmerizing raconteur, and, when we lived together, Amanda had consumed his wild tales of undercover derring-do with each and every dinner—when Tony had managed to make it home for dinner, that is. Which wasn’t often. The stories had rooted in fertile soil—thus the course in criminology for which Amanda was registered during the fall semester.

“Well, honey, now that you mention it, I’ll add that to the list.” And I did:
Murder. Loneliness. Lust. Extreme Maternal Anxiety
. “But the truth is, your career plans hadn’t crossed my mind tonight. Something else has come up. Remember Lieutenant Piotrowski? I spent most of the afternoon with him.”

She grinned. “He finally asked you out?”

“No.” I brushed her frivolous comment away with an impatient hand.

“Another
homicide?”
Her voice scaled up three notes.

“Looks like it.” I removed the mug of cold, scummy milk to the far side of the table.

“At the
school?”
Up two more notes.

“No. Thank God.” Amanda, of course, knew all about the rediscovery of
Oblivion Falls
, so I told her about Marty Katz seeking out the reclusive Mildred Deakin, and about his subsequent violent death. “So, this has nothing to do with Enfield College,” I concluded, “except that I gave the interview, and I’m employed by the college.”

“Cripes, Mom. You’re the one who should be signed up for a course in criminal investigation, not me.” Amanda bent down to unlace her Doc Martens.

“I seem to be taking an independent study.”

“What are you gonna do about it.” Her heavy boots
clunked against the floor as she kicked them off. Suddenly my bare feet felt cold against the slick linoleum.

“Do
about it? According to Lieutenant Piotrowski, I’m going to
butt out
of the case and let the pros handle it.”