Love Nest (26 page)

T
he Bauers were buried in Spring Grove Cemetery next to their son. There was no known relatives of Alfred Bauer to attend the graveside service. The only one from Harriet’s side to make the trip from Kansas was one of her brothers, a dour-looking Baptist with close-cropped gray hair, who spoke of his dead sister as a creature who had alienated herself from God. With eyes tucked deep in his face, he looked around and said to Attorney Rollins, “Who are these people?”

Rollins nodded discreetly. “That man over there, by himself, is Sergeant Dawson, a member of our police department.”

“He doesn’t look like a man who’s at peace with himself. Nor, for that matter, do you. You have spirits on your breath. Who’s the fat woman?”

“That’s Mrs. O’Dea. And the lady beside her is Mrs. Gately. Both were dear friends of your sister and brother-in-law.”

“Who’s the one crying?”

“Miss James. She worked for Mr. Bauer.”

“And the man with the beard?”

“Dr. Stickney. Another close friend.”

“I notice you drive a Mercedes. You must be rich.”

“It’s an old one.”

“The family would like to know how much money will be coming.”

“That’s hard to say at this point,” Rollins said, squinting through his glasses. “There are claims on the estate, which could tie it up for years.”

“Our lawyer will be in touch with you.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think we’re ready now?”

“Yes, certainly.”

He stepped past Rollins and positioned himself between the two caskets with a prayer book he did not open. He gazed at the assembled faces and raised his voice. “I’m a man of few words, so this will be short.” He cleared his throat. “You toss a pebble in a pond and make ripples. That’s life. When the ripples are gone, that’s death.”

• • •

Late that evening Attorney Rollins left the lounge at Rembrandt’s and walked precisely toward his Mercedes, swinging his arms just so. Sitting behind the wheel, the driver’s door left open and the interior dome light casting a pale glow, he patted himself down for two minutes in search of his keys. Ten minutes later, on Central Street, he failed to negotiate a curve and ran the Mercedes over a curb, onto a lawn, and into a tree.

Officer Billy Lord took the call on his cruiser radio and responded. He recognized the car, so he knew who was in it before he managed to yank the door open. “You all right, Counselor?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Rollins said. “But it doesn’t look good for my car, does it?”

Billy Lord stuck his head in and got a whiff of him. “Look,” he said, “I want to give you a break. Anybody I can call to get you home?”

“Sergeant Dawson’s the only one I can think of.”

“Gosh, I don’t know, Counselor. Do you think he’d do that for you?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Sergeant Dawson arrived shortly, just before the tow truck, and guided Rollins into his unmarked car, which had gone through the wash that day. Inside it smelled of window spray. Rollins sat perfectly upright as they turned off Central Street, the headlights cutting a large swath.

“I appreciate this.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

Rollins opened the top of his overcoat and pulled at the knot of his tie. “Could you turn the heat down a little? Thank you.” He rested his hands on his knees. “You know, Sergeant, I had fantasies of marrying Melody, but she never asked me to.”

“You should’ve asked her.”

“I couldn’t do that. You could have.”

Dawson made another turn and presently pulled up in front of Rollins’s house, a light left on for himself. Dawson said, “I had a problem with that, Counselor. She was like a prize racehorse. Everybody had a piece of her.”

“But you had the biggest.” Rollins pushed at his door and let himself out. Then he peered back in. “I made meals for her, but
she
made them for you. That was a major difference. Goodnight, Sergeant.”

• • •

Paige Gately called Chick into her office, gestured for him to sit, and offered him coffee, which she expected him to decline. He surprised her by asking for two sugars and a lot of cream. She indulged him, and he showed his appreciation with a smile that rearranged every wrinkle in his face. The cup clattered in its saucer. His grasp was sure, but his crooked finger had a problem with the cup’s delicate ear. She placed her fingers in the shallow pockets of her blazer and leaned against the side of the desk, her legs close together inside her straight skirt. “As you know, Chick, the Silver Bell won’t be mine after Friday.”

“The place won’t be the same without you,” he said with sadness.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” she went on firmly, “but they’re bringing in their own staff. I did what I could for you, you have my word, but they have their own organization.”

“I kind of thought that was why you wanted to talk to me. Not your fault, Mrs. Gately, I know that. Those big chains don’t have much feeling for the little fellow.”

It was going too smoothly. She knew that and eyed him carefully. He slurped his coffee.

“This the cup Sonny gave you?”

“Not much gets by you, Chick.”

“I keep my eyes and ears open and mouth shut.” He spoke proudly. “When you hired me you knew you were getting loyalty. I like Sonny Dawson and all, but you’re my boss.”

She moved slowly from the side of the desk to the rear and leaned a thigh against the edge. “I’m not sure I follow that last part.”

“When the girl got killed. That terrible day I never did tell Sonny I came to work early. I was snoozing in my car. In the lot. You know how I am. Never can keep my eyes shut for long.”

“Yes,” she said tightly. “I thought you might have been doing that.” She lifted her fingers from her pockets and sat at the desk, her elbows firmly anchored. “You’re quite right, Chick. I did indeed hire you for loyalty. You weren’t really the sort one readily gave employment to, and I knew you’d be grateful.”

“I am. I always will be.”

“You will of course be entitled to severance pay.”

“Yes, I’m grateful for that too.” He drank more coffee. “But being without a job kind of takes the fun out of life. I thought Mr. Fellows might want to do something for me at the bank.”

“What did you have in mind, Chick?”

“I thought maybe a teller, so I can talk to people, see everybody who comes in and out.”

She sank back in her chair and calculated the threshold of one man against that of another while taking into account the power of her own voice. Her mouth, pursed, was a bright spot on her face. “I have a better idea,” she said with finality. “Why don’t we add a bonus to your severance pay and leave it at that.”

• • •

On a Tuesday eight inches of snow fell. In the next day’s shivering beginning, Ralph Roselli arranged for a man with a plow to clear the sloping driveway. The graded walk he began shoveling himself, his coattails flapping, his long drag of a face reddening in the sharp blue air, which chipped the knuckles of his ungloved hands.

Inside the house Rita O’Dea was munching cinnamon toast and watching Phil Donahue, whose head of hair she admired but whose guests, polygamists, she soon tired of. Peeling apart the Boston
Herald
, she checked her horoscope and read “The Eye,” in which her brother’s name had once appeared with frequency. While munching a dark-skinned apple, she completed nearly two-thirds of the crossword puzzle. Eventually she lumbered to the window to see how far Roselli had progressed in his shoveling. She did not immediately glimpse him because he was lying on the ground.

She tossed her mink on over her voluminous lounging pajamas and went out the door in her bunny slippers. Much of the walk was cleared, the snow hurled high on each side. Roselli lay on his back, his coat twisted to one side. She had to step over the shovel to reach him. His chin had settled into its folds, and his purple hands lay on his chest like cuts of meat.

“Your ticker?” she asked from her height, and he nodded. “This is a bad one, Ralph?” He blinked. “Can you get up?” He shook his head. His baggy face looked as if it had been filleted of all its bones. He spoke without moving his lips. He wanted an ambulance.

She bent over him, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her mink, and gazed into his misted eyes. Her words were soft. “Remember when the big boys in Rhode Island decided my brother was to be hit. Nothing nobody could do, the decision was made. You had to sit there in your car and watch Tony get it in the back of the head. Remember, Ralph, I told you I never blamed you?” She smiled down upon him. “I lied.”

• • •

“Can I join you, Sonny? — ’less you’re expecting somebody and want to save the seat.”

Sergeant Dawson looked up from his late breakfast of bacon and eggs and replied, “Be my guest.”

The waitress came, and Chick said to her, “I wish I could eat like him, but I ain’t got the stomach. All I want is a little tomato juice.”

Dawson pushed aside the newspaper he had been scanning, mostly the sports pages, basketball scores noted and forgotten. He said, “How are things at the Silver Bell?”

“Haven’t you heard, Sonny? I got no more job. The new people didn’t want me.”

“Then what are you doing here? You should be in the ground.”

“I know that, but everything’s frozen. So I thought I’d wait till spring.”

“You’d better tell Mr. Wholley at Spring Grove. He might have the hole already dug.”

“Jesus, you’re right, I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He’s the one will be looking after me.”

Dawson ate the last of his bacon. “Do you know what I think, Chick? I think you’ll outlive me and the waitress.”

The waitress delivered the tomato juice, which was ice-cold. Chick tossed off most of it with a single swallow, and it seemed to go down him like lump. Then he wiped his mouth with the bony back of his hand. “I was wondering, Sonny, can we talk confidential?”

“Sure, go ahead, I’m listening.”

“It’s something I should’ve told you before. About the girl. Melody. Tina Turner.”

Dawson’s jaw shifted. “What about her?”

“There was somebody else went speeding off that day.”

• • •

The side streets in Boston were not as cleanly plowed as in Andover. Back Bay was a mess, and traffic was a horror, headlights flaring up in the tainted air. He navigated down a narrow street where pedestrians could not keep on the sidewalks and floated up beside his car like random ghosts. The search for a parking space consumed a half hour. With chill, wet feet, he climbed the steps to the brownstone two hours after he had telephoned. “I thought you weren’t coming,” Sue Bradley said, letting him into the apartment. She felt his hands. “Cold,” she said and took his coat. “Do sit. Don’t stand on ceremony.” He dropped into a chair. She smiled, almond-eyed and fresh-skinned, the sleeves of her shaggy sweater pushed up to the elbows. “Natalie’s leaving, did you know that?”

“How would I know?”

“She’s been offered a job in Chicago, much more money. She’s really very smart, smarter than me, though she doesn’t know it. Did you know she’s fluent in five languages?”

“No, I didn’t know that either, but I’m not surprised.”

“Mel’s gone, now Nat’s leaving. That leaves me all alone. Scary. Do you want a drink?”

“No.”

“Hot chocolate, coffee?”

“No thank you.”

She drifted forward and sat on the arm of his chair. “That job of yours, Sonny, do you really like it?”

“It makes me feel useful,” he said. “I help keep the town safe for realtors and developers.”

“But do you
like
it?”

“It’s not what it used to be.”

“Quit it.”

He half smiled. “And do what?”

“I’ll make you rich. Marry me.”

“It wouldn’t work.”

She pushed an idle hand through his hair. “For a few years it might. A lot of people would settle for that.”

“It’s something to think about,” he said and looked around. “Where is Natalie?”

“In one of her moods. In her room.”

“I’m surprised she’s leaving you.”

“It’s not me she’s leaving, Sonny. It’s Melody. It really hasn’t been easy for her.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“Anything I should know?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

The door to Natalie’s room was partly open. Her briary globe of hair was all he saw at first. She was bent double, squeezing on her shoes. Raising her head, she looked at him with little interest. “May I come in?” he asked.

“You already are.”

“May I shut the door?”

“No.”

“OK, it’s not necessary,” he said as if talking to an injured child. She was not wearing her glasses, which made her face look different.

“Contacts,” she immediately explained. She played with the bracelet on her wrist. “Melody’s,” she said.

“I have some news,” he said.

“What kind of news?”

He moved to her bed and sat on it. “Good news, but I need your help.”

When he came out of the room several minutes later, Sue was sipping a drink in the shadowed kitchen. He went to her with his hair still mussed where she had run her hand through it. Her drink looked and smelled like Dubonnet. “Maybe I’ll try one of those,” he said.

She tilted her head. “What else would you like?”

“To stay the night.”

• • •

Claire Fellows said, “It’s for you, dear.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then ask.”

“Who is this, please?” She listened hard and then pressed the receiver against her breast. “She says she’s calling long distance. Spring Grove.”

“Where the hell is Spring Grove?”

She smiled. “The only Spring Grove I know is a cemetery.”

He shucked himself out of the club chair that had belonged to his father, tore himself away from the television drama he had been watching, and shuffled toward her in leather slippers she had given him three Christmases ago. He snatched the phone from her hand. “Yes, who is this?”

“It’s me.” The voice was Melody’s.

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