Death in a Funhouse Mirror (32 page)

"Don't let appearances fool you," Geoff the Burnout man said, "these guys know what they're doing. I uh..." he hesitated, "I hope this won't offend you or anything, but my dad's in the furniture business, and I uh... I took the liberty of stopping by the store and picking up a few things for you. No obligation, of course. He'll give you a good price, though."

"What sort of things?" I said suspiciously.

"A sofa. And a rug."

I almost laughed out loud. Hadn't I just been wishing for just this sort of service? So how could I complain now that he'd done it. "Let's see what you've got," I said, and followed him out to the truck. The "truck" was a heavily chromed, customized van with painted dragons, erupting volcanoes and other sci-fi stuff on it. With a flourish, he opened the back and stood aside so I could step in. The back was nearly filled with a sofa covered in buttery soft black leather. A radical replacement for the old faded chintz number I'd inherited from my mother. I squeezed myself alongside it and sat down on it. It folded itself around me like a glove, making me want to own it. "Okay," I said, refusing to get up. "How can I say no? I'll take it." It would go okay with one of my chairs, but the other chair was going to look frowzy and matronly beside this sleek monster.

Geoff, the consummate businessman, read my mind. "I can get you a chair to go with it."

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. "Why not?" I said. "Can you deliver that today, too?"

"Sure thing," he said. "You want to see the rug?"

I'd been expecting something contemporary, so the rug surprised me. It was an oriental, slightly worn, in shades of deep red, cream, black and gray. Once again, I fell for it instantly. "Are you sure you don't set these fires so you can sell people things?"

"That's a good idea," he said. "Never thought of that. Might have to try that, if things get slow. So, what do you think? You like it?"

"You know I do, don't you."

"Yeah," he said, "I know. The rugs are my hobby. I've had this one a while. Been saving it for just the right person. Goes nice with the sofa, too."

Once again I was reminded that you should never judge a book by the cover. This guy looked and dressed like a townie, ran a cleaning service, talked with the confidence of a broker, collected oriental rugs, and read people's minds. A pretty amazing combination. "Do you often bring along furniture to sell people after a fire?"

He nodded. "I sorta backed into it," he said. "Stopped by to give someone an estimate one day when I had a sofa in the back I was delivering for my dad. The woman saw it and asked if I'd sell it to her—turned out she was having her husband's boss for dinner the next night and her sofa had just burned up—so I said I couldn't sell her that one, but I could get her another one just like it and she was thrilled. You'd be surprised how often people are eager to skip the shopping and just replace the stuff as soon as possible."

"No I wouldn't. Look, I've got to run. How do you want to work the money?" We agreed on that and went back inside. Geoff joined his crew and I went into the bedroom to dress for the wedding. Twenty minutes later when I waltzed out, a vision in green satin, he stopped scrubbing long enough to whistle. "You look grand," he said, "but I still think you'd do better to spend the day at the beach."

"Would if I could, but someone's got to prop the bride up."

"I hear you," he said, "take it easy," and he went back to scrubbing.

I not only made it to the church on time, I remembered to bring "Auntie Thea's Emergency Kit," and it was a good thing that I did, because it was badly needed. The kit is something I always carry in my car to handle wardrobe emergencies. I'm not the type to care, really, but when you spend as much time as I do talking to people in situations where first impressions count, you learn to pay attention to your appearance. I have the predictable things like safety pins and a sewing kit. I also have Band-Aids and moleskin, in case new shoes give me blisters. Spare stockings in black, nude and ivory. Double-faced tape, for handling gaping blouses, too much cleavage, and falling hems. Aspirin, scissors, clothes brush, bobby pins. I was a veritable five-and-dime, and when I entered the little room where Suzanne was assembling her bridal party and saw the tense faces and watery eyes, I immediately began dispensing relief.

Two aspirin for the bride's mother. Double-edged tape for Connie, whose dress gaped a bit. Moleskin and a Band-Aid for Amy, whose heels had given her a blister. Three bobby pins to secure Suzanne's headpiece and scissors to snip off a trailing thread. By the time we were ready to step off down the aisle, I felt a bit like Mother Teresa.

It was a splendid wedding. The bride was heartbreakingly beautiful, the groom joyous and handsome. Suzanne's father actually tore himself away from his work long enough to escort his daughter to the front of the church, and the minister didn't wear soccer shorts. I cried as I watched my friend walk down the aisle—tears of joy for all the good things she'd longed for and was finally going to have.

I managed to stay upright and coherent and kept a smile on my face through a two-hour dinner with my parents. I held my tongue and was sweet—and Lord knows, I'm not sweet, even though people sometimes make the mistake of thinking I am— even when my mother told me four times that I looked tired and was working too hard, though I faltered when she asked for the third time where Andre was. I admit to an edge in my voice when I said, "Working." The best man trod diligently on my feet when we danced and Connie's husband kept his beady eyes glued to my cleavage. Through a masterful exercise of will, I kept my heart from breaking by not letting Andre or David into my mind, but in the midst of that crowd of happy people, there were moments when I felt very much alone.

An eternity later, footsore and weary, but very happy that my friend's day had gone so well, I parked in front of the condo and jumped out of the car, eager for a glass of bourbon and bed. I was wishing, in a forlorn, fairy tale way, that Andre would be there waiting for me, when the reality of the situation hit me like a two-by-four. I was standing alone at night in my parking lot, about to enter my condo where, for the past two nights, someone had tried to harm me.

I'd never realized how dim and genteel the lights were. As I peered across the lot to my door, I could see that there was someone standing by the door, and it didn't look like Andre. Awash with confusion, I stopped dead in the middle of the lot, debating whether to scream or run for the car. I wasn't dressed for running. The green dress had a narrow skirt and the heels were high. Screaming would disturb my already severely taxed neighbors but I couldn't handle another attack. Even us tough guys have our limits. My body was churning out enough adrenaline to fuel a herd of charging rhinos as I prepared to fight or flee.

Over the choking roar of my rising panic I called, "Who's there?"

My companion of the past two nights, Officer “Bandbox” Harris, with the displeased look that was becoming chronic firmly in place, stepped into the light. "Sorry if I scared you," he said, and just to be sure I didn't get the idea that he wanted to be there, he added, "the chief sent me."

He looked so unhappy I felt sorry for him, as sorry as my tense, aching body allowed me to be. Ever The Fixer, I tried to create an ego-saving situation for him. "I wouldn't mind at all, Officer, if you'd stay with me until I unlock the door and have a look around."

He nodded and took a step toward the door. I unlocked it, pushed it open, and stepped back to let him go ahead of me. "Would you mind going first?"

"Not at all," he said and stepped inside.

I followed Harris in, and went around behind him as he checked all the rooms, windows and closets. My heart was still pounding and I felt the drained, woozy aftermath of a bad fright. Harris didn't seem to notice. He was focused on the apartment. The place smelled strongly of cleaning products, but it looked great. He stared at the new sofa in astonishment. "How'd you do that so fast?"

"Guy from the cleaning service sold it to me."

"Geoff Poldari?"

"All I know is his name is Geoff."

"He probably stole it."

"He said his father was in the furniture business."

"Yeah?" Harris said. "Well maybe his father stole it. A light-fingered bunch, those Poldaris. Do a great job cleaning, though. He bring his brothers and his sister?"

"He didn't introduce me to the crew."

"Bunch of weird looking morons. Big guy who looks like an imbecile? Scrawny girl who just crawled out from under a rock, and the motorcycle man?" I nodded. "Yeah, those're his sibs. He's got more, but those're the only ones that can function. His ma had a kid a year for about twenty years, then the old man decided he couldn't take it, so he built himself a shack across the yard, lives over there by himself, only comes home for meals and the occasional screw." He shook his head. "Sheesh, what a bunch. Gotta give Geoff credit, though. He takes care of all of 'em. Has to, I guess, he's the only one in the bunch got any brains." He tapped the nightstick, which he'd been carrying, against his thigh.

"Well, everything looks quiet. Hope I won't be seeing you later. You oughta be taking it easy tonight."

"I'm glad you were here. I feel safer now."

"The chief sent me," he said again. "He doesn't want any more incidents. The word gets around and women... uh... people get scared. It makes the department look bad."

"Sure you can't stay and have some coffee?"

"No thank you," he said, tapping his palm with the stick, "I've got to get back on the road."

I walked him to the door, reluctant to let him go and be left there alone. I was also aware of what a pitiful figure I would seem if I asked him to stay—the scared and lonely woman clinging to a man so obviously desperate to escape. Well, there was no way I was going to appear vulnerable before this unsympathetic stranger. I grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open. The cool night air rushed in and enveloped me. Suddenly I was aware of the darkness, the enormous emptiness out there, and I was flipped back to the night before, to that dim figure coming at me and then the explosion of pain and nothingness.

It was a purely visceral reaction—I'm normally as brave as a barrel full of bears—but I found myself cowering against the wall with my hands over my head, making scared whimpering sounds.

Harris shut the door, put an arm around me, and steered me back into the living room. "It's okay, Ms. Kozak. It's okay. There's no one out there."

I bit my lip and willed my body to stop shaking. It didn't work. In a contest between will and primitive body chemistry, chemistry wins. I went on shaking. Harris seemed positively delighted by my vulnerability. I was finally acting like a victim. He offered me tea and blankets. I asked for bourbon.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to get out of this dress." Wedding clothes tend to be neither comfortable nor warm. Right now I was in the mood for soft, baggy things.

"Can you manage all right?"

I was going to say I'd been dressing myself since I was two but I didn't. He was finally being nice to me; there was no need to make him grouchy again just because I liked to be assertive. I excused myself and went into the bedroom to change. There, too, everything was shiny and clean. I put the dress on a hanger, the shoes in the closet, and changed into black cotton leggings and a midnight blue velour tunic. It felt heavenly to be out of the tight, rustly satin. On the other hand, everything smelled like smoke and paint and pine cleaner. I was going to have to haul everything I owned—what was left of it—to the laundromat.

Harris was playing my new Marcus Roberts CD, and as I looked out from my bedroom door, it looked like a stage set for romance. Soft pools of light, a crystal glass of golden brown liquor, light jazz, a man on my sexy leather couch. The badge and nightstick and gun didn't fit in the picture, though. I sat down on the other end of the couch, curling my leg under me, and took a sip of my drink, wishing I didn't feel so much like putting my head down and crying.

"Are you married, Officer?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"None yet. What about you? Are you married?" It was a purely conversational gesture. He knew there was no husband around. He'd been here in the middle of the night. Heck, in a way, he'd spent the night with me, and there'd been no husband then, either.

"I was. He died. A car accident."

"I'm sorry. Recently?"

"It's been almost three years."

"Significant other?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. There is... was... I don't know. I guess so. He's a cop. A detective. With the Maine Department of Public Safety."

He nodded approvingly. "Well, he can rest assured that we'll take good care of you."

Before I could comment on my elevated status or remind him of how he'd been badgering me the night before, the doorbell rang. Suddenly I wasn't just a woman sitting in her comfortable living room enjoying a drink. Fear settled on my shoulders like a lead cape. I set my glass down with trembling hands, and headed for the door. "Would you just come and stand behind me, please?"

With Harris in back of me, I cautiously opened the door. Andre was standing there, half-hidden behind an armload of purple lilacs. "I'm sorry," he said, "I know I should have called, but I had to see you." His eyes shifted from me to Harris and back to me and the life went out of his face. I watched it close down, become hard and angry. "You work fast," he said.

"Andre, this is Officer Harris. He's a cop."

"I can see that Officer Harris is a cop," he said, "and of course you just happened to have the emergency he's responding to while you were barefoot and in skintight pants and your 'touch me' shirt at 10:30 p.m. on Saturday night, listening to the music I bought for you because I thought it was romantic. An emergency that's lasted so long his engine's almost cold. Or is his engine just getting hot?"

"Don't be an idiot, Lemieux," I said, "you know me better than that." But I could see things through his eyes, too. I was wearing this outfit because it was comfortable, but the last time I'd worn it around Andre, I'd also chosen it because it made me feel sexy. I was the one who'd told him it was my "touch me" shirt. I might get him to understand if I had an hour to explain why the last few days had made me too tired to think straight, but from the look on his face, I knew that at best I had two minutes.