Love Nest (17 page)

“You rejected me, Sonny. Do you regret it?”

He answered, total truth. “Bitterly.”

“I’m fresh, clean. So healthy it’s criminal.”

“I know that.”

“You could have all of me, no folded corners in my life, no markers. Want me to clean? I’ll clean. Cook? I’ll learn. I’ll make you happy.”

He said something but nothing intelligible, nothing meant for a living ear, including his own. All at once he felt crowded, hemmed in, as in the dream, and waited to be pushed and shoved.

“Second chance, Sonny?”

The pinkness fell away, lay like a fire on the floor. He heard the quick patter of feet and, rising up on his elbows, glimpsed little tits, a full belly, round knees. He heaved an arm up. “Get out of here.”

She scratched him. Crimson threads spread from the breaks in the skin. Then came a movement from another direction, the thump of a knee on the bed. “Are you sure, Sonny? Are you really sure?” She spoke against his bleeding shoulder as if printing the words onto his flesh. The voice was Sue’s, the shadowed face perched over the long neck was hers, the almond eyes shining down were hers. The breasts were pale pears boldly displayed. “How often do you get a second chance?”

“Only in fantasy,” he mumbled.

She swung an aggressive leg and straddled him, her weight warm and humid and then chafing and burning. “This is for real.” The bed pitched. She drove hard, pausing only once to kiss him with blood on her mouth. They finished fast, with matching shudders, as if someone had stomped over their common grave. Her breath fell between them.

“You needed that, didn’t you, Sonny boy?”

The voice was no longer affectionate. Lying drained, muscles in both legs twitching, he blinked up at her. She leaped off.

“Get up, you bastard! Get dressed and get out!”

Natalie, forgotten only by him, threw his clothes at him and stood curiously still under her thorny ball of hair, her eyes inside her glasses as empty as Little Orphan Annie’s.

“Look what she’s got, Sonny.”

No need. He guessed.

“I hate him,” Natalie said in her own breaking voice, spite in her hand, and he sat up cautiously, gripping his shirt, one of his black socks.

“What do you think, Sonny, is it still unloaded?”

He did not want to guess. He sat mute and immobile, his shirt covering his crotch.

“Would you do it, Nat? Would you really do it?”

Natalie squeezed the trigger as he went rigid. The dry click was deafening to all.

They each dressed, Natalie the quickest with only pajamas to slip on. She assisted Sue with her bra. Sue buttoned her blouse, tossed her hair, and then returned his piece to him.

“Use it on the real killer,” she said.

Natalie said, “Or on yourself.”

T
he Silver Bell Motor Lodge changed hands on an exceptionally bright afternoon, the first day of December, the temperature rising to an unseasonable height. The transaction was conducted in the conference room of Citizens Bank, the sun streaming through the wide windows. Ed Fellows’s signature on the bank check was a scrawl. A paraph gave it flare. The figure was substantial, top dollar, payable to Bauer Associates. Only Ed Fellows, Paige Gately, and the lawyers were present. After arranging his copies of the documents into a neat pile, the lawyer from the bank slid the check across the mahogany table to William Rollins and said, “I guess that does it.” With a slight tremor Rollins deposited the check into his briefcase. Everybody rose for an exchange of handshakes.

Paige Gately leaned toward Rollins’s ear and whispered sweetly, “You son of a bitch, you’ve had a couple.”

He shook his head. “Don’t you know when a man is scared?” he whispered back and snapped the lock on his briefcase.

The bank lawyer left. Ed Fellows dusted his hands, as if the deal had been physical, and said, “Well, that’s that.” William Rollins lingered and drew a stare.

“May I speak with you alone, Paige?”

“Something on your mind?”

“I’d just like to chat for a moment.”

“Wait for me in the lobby,” she said.

Alone together, Ed Fellows removed his half glasses and allowed his pale eyes to swim free. “Have you heard from the hotel people?”

“I was on the phone with the executive vice-president this morning. Looks good. He wants to talk business.” Her smile was arch, artful, confident. “I suggested we get together in a few months. He wants it sooner.”

“How was it left?”

“I said I’d get back to him. I don’t want to make it too soon for obvious reasons.”

“You’re a wonder, Paige.”

“Are you just discovering that?”

“I’ve never underestimated you,” he said softly. Then he grinned. “And I always knew, some way or another, we’d be partners.”

His arm slid around her. She removed it. “You’re the junior partner,” she said.

She descended to the lobby, where Attorney Rollins was waiting patiently, briefcase in hand, his head a shade tilted as if from a crick in his neck. He said, “Mrs. O’Dea would like a word with you.”

“Sounds ominous. Where is she?”

“Phillips Academy. Addison Gallery.”

“What in God’s name is she doing
there
?”

“Getting culture,” Rollins said tonelessly and extended an arm. “I’ll drive you.”

The sun shone brilliantly on the venerable brick buildings of the academy, the grounds meticulously groomed, the green of the grass almost as rich as in summer, as if landscaping were an extension of the curriculum. Rollins parked the Mercedes across from the chapel, and together he and Paige Gately followed a shrub-shaded path to the impressive stone stairs leading to the gallery.

“I’ll wait here and enjoy the weather,” he said. “The exhibit’s on the second floor. Contemporary British painting and sculpture, on loan from the Buffalo Fine Arts Academy.”

“Sounds like you know all about it.”

“I viewed it yesterday.”

“You haven’t told me what she wants, William.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I honest-to-God don’t.”

She examined his pale face, then gazed off at the rolling expanse of the campus. “This is the best prep school in the country, but it didn’t do much for you, did it?” The words were cruel, but she did not mean them that way. “It didn’t do much for Biff either.”

Rollins said, “Don’t keep her waiting.”

Not too many people were at the exhibit, a few instructors from the academy, some students, a townie or two. Rita O’Dea was easy to find. Wrapped in a flowing cape, sunglasses pushed into her black hair, where they glinted like added eyes, she pondered a semiabstract piece of sculpture entitled
Seated Woman with Arms Extended
. Without looking at Paige Gately, she said, “A tiny head and no boobs. Looks more like a beetle or a ladybug. What do you think?”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in art.”

“I’m fitting in, didn’t you know? I finally got around to joining the Newcomers Club. You know what a newcomer is in this town? Anybody who wasn’t born here. I went to my first meeting and all they did was jabber about this exhibit. I figured I’d better take a look so I’d know what they’re talking about. Now I’m here, I think they were pulling each other’s chain.”

A head turned.

“You understand any of this stuff?”

“I pretend,” Paige Gately said.

They moved on to a piece that was more a carving than a sculpture. Called
Curved Form
, it was an undulating
U
with a hole in its bottom. Rita O’Dea’s sizable arms came out of her cape in a gesture of frustration. “Am I supposed to make something of this?”

“It had a certain fluidity,” Paige Gately offered carefully.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

A startled security guard stared.

Rita O’Dea suddenly gazed upon Paige Gately’s trim figure with an air of envy and anger. Then, vaguely apologetic, she lowered her voice. “My brother all the time used to tell me not to draw attention to myself. Hey, I got a choice? I just step out the door, I got people gawking. You got thin genes, I got the kind make you fat.”

Paige Gately did not know her well, but she knew enough to treat her with caution, respect, and a certain amount of flattery. “You have a beautiful face.”

“And gorgeous hair. My body had been better to me, I could’ve been a terrific hooker. I started getting heavy when I was twelve, time I was twenty I was
this
.“ She spoke with self-mockery and plucked the sunglasses from her hair, snapping the wings in.

They approached a foot-high sculpture on a pedestal called
Family Going for a Walk
, beside which, by the same artist, was a painting of the identical subject. In both works the figures were busily united into a streak as if by sticky clothing.

“This, maybe, I could put in my living room,” she said, gesticulating with her glasses at the sculpture. “Let people talk about it … if I was giving a party or something. I guess you give a lot of parties.”

“No.”

“But you go to plenty.”

“Not many.”

“But you’re asked. That’s the difference. We come from different worlds, don’t we, Mrs. Gately? I’m the wop sister of a dead mafioso and you’re an Andover Yankee full of airs. You got class, I got greaseball written on me. I fart, people hear me down the street. You probably do it dainty. That’s a difference. I finger myself and howl when I come. What do you do, squeak?”

Paige Gately’s face was dead white and partially frozen.

“But under the skin we’re not so different. We got the same instincts, Mrs. Gately.”

“What’s your point?”

“You got something up your sleeve buying the Silver Bell.”

“If you feel that way, why did you consent to the sale?”

“Maybe I want to see how smart you are. Or how dumb. Maybe I’m a little bored and can use some fun.”

They viewed a large, doleful painting in muted shades of gray and blue depicting the chalky protoplasmic shape of a dog peering over the edge of a gutter through the bars of a catch basin.

“This sucks.”

“Yes, it sucks,” Paige Gately agreed. The air seemed to vibrate between them.

“Or maybe,” Rita O’Dea said, “I don’t mind another woman getting ahead, even at my expense. A man, of course, would be different. I’d have to cut his balls off, otherwise people back in Boston would think I’m getting soft.”

She smiled, and Paige Gately searched the smile for twists of truth. The red mouth, like the large smooth baby-soft face, was unreadable. The black eyes were dazzling.

“You call me Rita from now on. I’ll call you Paige.”

“What’s all this leading to?”

The sunglasses vanished into a pocket of the cape. “That’s for you to figure out.”

“I’m afraid I’m slow, Rita.”

“No you’re not.” They were poised now before a big oil painting of a ghastly red-fleshed figure. The figure, female, lay sprawled against flaming colors on a pink sheet in a deep sleep less like death than belated birth. “This, I look at it long enough, would piss me off.”

Paige Gately said, “You want a piece of whatever.”

“You got it.”

• • •

The medical examiner conducted a private practice in offices in downtown Lawrence, across from the common, where Sergeant Dawson hunted him down. He was sitting on a bench, taking advantage of the mild weather and brilliant sunshine, his wispy hair lifting a little in the soft breeze. “Nice life,” Dawson said, plopping down beside him.

“You think so, Sonny? You want to trade?”

“You have a patient coming in at two. Your secretary said to remind you.”

“What do you think of my secretary? Usually I wouldn’t hire one that young and pretty. Distracting. But as I get older, I think about sex less and less.”

“I think about it more and more,” Dawson said.

The doctor laughed, sunlight shifting over his face, illuminating all the hollows. A brightly dressed Hispanic woman was sitting at a nearby bench, her black hair as sleek as a crow. Her children were untidy, noisy, and rambunctious. “Get married, Sonny, that’ll cool you down.”

A denim-jacketed youth swaggered by, sweeping his hair back with a long black Ace comb that looked like a weapon. Dawson said, “I had my chance, muffed it. But that’s not my problem.”

A number of city hall workers with scarlet Irish faces paraded by, each greeting the doctor. On the opposite bench an elderly woman hiked up her triple layer of dresses to sun her stunted knees.

“What is your problem? Medical? Maybe I can help you.”

“I’m wondering how good a cop I am. If I have a right to be one.”

“Career crisis, huh?”

“More than that, Doc. It’s a moral one.”

“Christ, those are the worst. I hope you’re not going to make me listen.”

“Did you know the Bauer boy was my suspect in the motel murder?”

“I figured that. I know how shook you were when he hanged himself.”

“I put heat on him, Doc. That’s how certain I was. His suicide, much as it horrified me, was the clincher. I mean, why else would he do that? Would you have an answer?”

The doctor gazed off at two drunks propping each other up like lovers, their free hands groping for a bench. Closer by, the Hispanic woman opened up a loaf of plain bread and doled out slices to her children. “Different world over here, huh, Sonny? Not like Andover. Biggest fear in Andover is some spic from Lawrence might bust in and steal the stereo. Small chance, right? Any spic trespassing ten feet over the line immediately has a hundred eyes on him.”

Dawson brought a hand to his throat, loosened his tie, and opened the top of his shirt. His revolver pressed uncomfortably against his hip like something unwanted.

“Have you heard this one, Sonny? When a woman in Lawrence gets mad at her husband she throws dishes at him. A woman in Andover peels the little alligator off his polo shirt.”

Dawson gave a faint nod, then skewed his head around, as if he thought someone were creeping up behind him. It was only a pigeon. The doctor smiled.

“Have you heard this one?”

Dawson’s ear was half-tuned to the tireless hum of traffic on Common Street, where the buildings were a gritty monochrome, some in need of repair.

“In Lawrence a woman has her faults. In Andover she’s a shade too perfect, result of a facelift.”

“What are you telling me, Doc?”

“It’s hard for me to get excited over what happens in Andover.”

“Then you don’t have an answer for me.” He started to rise, but the doctor stopped him with a small gesture.

“There was something peculiar. Maybe I should’ve thought about it more. When I examined the boy’s body I found semen stains.” The doctor lowered his head and his voice. “I may not have mentioned it in my report.”

Something heaved inside Dawson’s chest. “What does it mean?”

“It might not have been suicide.”

“What else could it have been?”

“An accident.”

• • •

Rita O’Dea drove herself from the Addison Gallery to the Bauer home on Southwick Lane. Harriet Bauer answered the door on the first sounding of the chimes, failed to hide a trace of displeasure, and said, “Alfred’s not here.”

“I know that,” Rita O’Dea said.

They kissed politely.

A window was partly raised in the sun room, where heavy cream-colored cushions gave substance to the white wicker furniture. Harriet, wearing one of her husband’s shirts, the tails flapping, served Rita a blend of fruit juices in a crystal tumbler. Rita took a small swallow, then a deeper one, and licked her lips.

“Not bad. What is it?”

“Coconut, pineapple, and a touch of something else. I forget.”

“How are you bearing up?”

The shrug was barely perceptible. The eyes were tired. The windows looked out on a stand of spruce, through which jays swooped, driving away much smaller birds anonymous in their drab dress. Rita spoke in a flat tone from deep in a chair.

“I loved him too, you know.”

“I loved him more.”

“Of course. You were his mother. But life must go on. I know that better than anybody.”

Harriet had not taken a chair but stood like a stray piece of statuary, tight jeans molded to her strong legs. Her fair hair was yanked back, but much of it was escaping the knot. Her eyes were small from a lack of proper sleep. Rita gazed up at her.

“Women should stick together at a time like this.”

“I’ll survive. I always do.”

“You’ve never liked me, have you, Harriet?”

There was a hesitation. “I’ve never trusted you.”

“You should play everyone by ear. That’s something my brother taught me. You knew him well enough, didn’t you?”

“I was young.”

“How was he? I mean, as a man.”

Harriet pretended to remember. “He was the best.”

“He was a
magnifico
. When he was alive, everybody kissed my ass. Cops, bankers, politicians. Anything for Tony’s sister. That’s how big he was.” Her eyes started to fill, but she quickly recovered. “Someone, wasn’t him, he never talked about that stuff, told me you were a class act. If you’d stayed in the business, you could have written your own ticket.”