No Perfect Secret (20 page)

Geez
. “I guess Anna’s been gossiping behind my back.”

“Not that girl. She’ll say it to your face first. She told me what happened yesterday. I missed all the good stuff sleeping off a whopper. But, it’s a shame. Kevin a bigamist. God Almighty
—with a baby yet.”

“Yeah. That knocked her for a loop.” The radio was announcing school closings; gove
rnment office closings; which streets and roads were closed or being salted. “Where is she, by the way?”

“Running errands. We put our extension cords together and melted the ice on her car with her hair dryer. Worked like a charm on the locks, too. Her to-do list is over there on her desk.”

Caburn had a peek. He noticed, of course, that Anna had neat handwriting. He would’ve been surprised if she hadn’t. Bank. Dry cleaners. Packing boxes. L.C.; He guessed that was Library of Congress. The Library would be open, of course, as would all the museums—The National Gallery, the Smithsonian, the White House, shopping malls—all the places tourists frequented. D.C. wouldn’t close those money buckets down even in the face of a nuclear disaster. Then the radio blurted out that only essential government workers would be staffing offices and read the list of bureaus. All non-essential government employees were ordered to stay home.

Lila was putting away the ironing board when the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said. “Damned vicious telemarketers are having a field day. They know folks
are home because of the storm… Detective Polanski. Homicide,” she barked into the receiver. A shriek came through the line. Lila made a face that looked like a wizened old capuchin monkey.

Caburn laughed. He’d have to remember that one.

Once the shrieking died down, Lila spoke. “No, no, no. No one was murdered. I thought you were a telemarketer.” She handed the phone to Caburn. “It’s Helen.”

“It
was
Helen,” said Albert Phipps. “Who am I talking to? What happened? All I heard was yelling.”

“It’s me, Albert.”

“Frank! Why the hell aren’t you here at work?”

“I’m non-essential personnel.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“It was on the radio.”

“There’s stuff happening as we speak. Get your ass in gear and get down here.”

“I’m taking a leave day.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, then, I’m taking a sick day.”

“You’re not sick.”

“I got stabbed in the back
, remember?”

Caburn heard Phipps sucking on his pipe.

“That’s pushing it, damn it! All right, Just check in with us before three this afternoon. We’re leaving early. You got that?” Phipps didn’t wait for an answer. The phone slammed in Caburn’s ear.

“I guess I have the day off,” Caburn said.

“Have some fun, then, and drag Anna along. She’s had her nose to the grind since they’ve been living here—and now all of this crap with Kevin and Clara-Alice. It ain’t fair.”

“I’m working on it. But it’s kind of delicate. Miss Lila
—about that favor. Could you put your nurse cap on and slice this tape off the front and back of my arm? I want to leave the tape on my back, to kind of keep the stitches in place. Not stitches—staples. The surgeon stapled it this go round. We’ll just let the tape rot off on my chest.”

Lila laughed. “Yeah. We used to jerk it off recalcitrant patients. You never want to piss off your nurse.”

When Lila finished cutting him loose, Caburn finished pulling on his Tee. “Man! That feels fine. You’re a good woman, Miss Lila.”

“I am. I was raised right, schooled right and married right. What about you?”

“Raised right and schooled right, I guess. Never been married, though.”

“Anna was raised right, too.”

“Um—are you going somewhere with this?”

“I guess I’m just being an old busybody. Well, I got to go. Clarence and JoJo are picking me up later. We’re going to the fire station to wrap Toys for Tots, and afterwards, we’re going over to the homeless shelter. We’re volunteering to serve Christmas dinner. They do it every year, but the director says he’s got to see me, put his stamp of approval on me.” She
thrust her skinny arms into her old coat and pulled her hat down over her ears.

Caburn walked her to the back door.

“Careful,” he cautioned. “Don’t fall and break anything.”

Lila looked back at him. “Same to you.”

Caburn felt a rush of guilt. Lila wasn’t talking about slipping on the ice. What had he done? He hadn’t done anything. Thinking about it wasn’t doing anything.

He was hungry. He scouted the fridge and found nothing he could microwave. In the pantry he found a jar of peanut butter, and hanging on a plastic gadget were some bananas. He downed two toasted peanut butter and banana sandwiches with a quart of milk. He cleared the table, washed the knife and glass, found himself with nothing more to do. He was lonesome. This was a strange feeling because he never felt lonesome in his own apartment
—there was always something to do.

There were sports magazines, the treadmill, ESPN football, pickup basketball at the park, his martial arts classes, and the local pub where he could get a
double cheeseburger and an ice-cold Coors. Oh, and now there was the notebook, which he had not had time to plug in, much less learn how to use the damned thing.

He opened all the drapes. The sun was trying to shine. The icicles hanging on the eaves on the houses up and down the street were dripping.

And there were Helen’s tenants pulling up in front of Lila Hammond’s. He moved away from the windows, cleaned the fireplace and restacked fire logs. He pulled Anna’s blankets off the sofa and shook them. The air filled with her scent—a mixture of Chanel, Yardley Soap, and a citrus shampoo. Of course, he couldn’t name the scents, he just knew they were Anna’s. He heard the key turn in the lock and put a smile on his face.

The front door slammed, the kilim runner came flying through the air and knocked over a lamp, Anna’s purse sailed across the room and landed behind the sofa. She
yanked off her overcoat as she marched through the living room, the dining room and into the hall and towards her bedroom, which still smelled faintly of mustard.

Caburn followed behind, but not too close. “Are you upset about something?” She was wearing jeans, a sweater, and her hair in a ponytail. She filled the sweater out so nicely, he had a hard time looking away.

“No! Why should I be upset about anything going on in my life? Everything is just peachy, peachy, peachy.”

She yanked open the closet door and began hauling out Kevin’s clothes, shirts, slacks, suit jackets, tossing them over her head. Shoes flew. Lots of shoes, all heavy, filled with shoe trees, slamming against the opposite wall. Caburn dodged a couple, then backed to safety into the bedroom doorway. “That’s a pretty good throwing arm you have there.”

“Mind your own business!”

You are my business, babe. “Okay. Sure.”

The drawers were coming out of the chests now. Anna was making as fine a mess as had Clara-Alice without the mustard and honey—but with just as much fury.

Finally, Anna wound down. She leaned against the tall armoire, eyes closed. Her arms hung at her sides, and it was clear to Caburn that her mind had gone elsewhere, some place he was not invited. He waited.

~
~~~

Standing in the midst of her dead husband’s shirts, pants, suits, shoes, and underwear, Anna was coming to the conclusion that her life was in its worst turmoil ever. And throwing Kevin’s things around had caused his scent to cloud the air she was breathing. It seemed impossible that only weeks ago this very same scent had caused her to need him, want him, long for him. And now—now the smell of him made her want to throw up. She felt Caburn’s eyes on her and looked at him. “Do you use
Jean Patou
?”

He hiked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“You know,” she said impatiently. “—
Patou. Patou
. Aftershave, deodorant, fragrance.”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, but if it’s important to you, I use Old Spice aftershave and Lifebuoy soap. My grandpa uses it, my dad uses it, and my brothers and I use it. Except when
my sisters give us soap-on-a rope at Christmas—which to a man, we use on the dogs.” But he supposed Anna wasn’t interested in that. “Is it that pootoo stuff that’s making this room smell like a bordello?”

Anna exhaled. “Yes. Let’s go into the living room. The smell in here is making me nauseous. I’ll pack it up later.”

Anna curled up on the sofa. Caburn picked up the lamp and set it on the end table, then settled himself in a winged-back chair. “So,” he said. “I noticed your to-do list on your desk. Everything went fine until...?”

“Oh. Until I got to the bank. That jerk! The little twerp was so smug
—and I’ve been banking there since I moved to D.C. I explained about Kevin dying overseas. I explained that I needed access to our household account. He pulled our account up on his computer, and when I tried to look at it, he turned it away. ‘Tut, tut,’ he said. I wanted to tut-tut on his head. I’m the beneficiary on the account. He told me I need a death certificate to gain access.”

“And the guy was smug?”

“Very. It was as if he and Kevin had joked about taking me off the account.”

Caburn felt himself getting angry. “Would you like for me to break his neck?
His arms? Run him through with a saber? Cut off his head, maybe?”

“That would be nice.”

She was so serious, Caburn had to swallow both anger and laughter. “What about I just try to get a death certificate?”

“That would probably be better.”

So much for his day off. This task required a trip to the office. “I’m going to the office to take care of this for you. I’m going to ask you to stay out of your bedroom. We’ll get you some help to pack up that stuff, okay?” Caburn made a mental note to go through all of Nesmith’s pockets. The guy was so arrogant in his dual life, he might have left behind phone numbers or papers that could shed more light on his activities.

Anna sighed
as if the world had spun off its axis. “I don’t feel like Christmas at all. But, I guess I can finish my Christmas cards.” She sniffed. “I want to take back my maiden name. Can I do that?”

“Of course. You can do whatever you want to do. Who is there to tell you different?”

“Nobody. No parents, no brothers, no sisters, no cousins, aunts or uncles. Don’t you think that’s sad?”

Her eyes were growing huge and tears were welling up.
Caburn was sitting too far away to pat her on the knee or put his arms around her. “Come on, now. It’s called freedom. I’ll be back here as soon as I can. And, umm, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

Anna blinked. “I can’t go out on a date. My husband just died. It wouldn’t be right
—even if he was...was—”

“Whoa. Not a date. No way. I have to eat. You have to eat. This is just to get you out of this house. The way it is
—you’re sleeping on the sofa and eating in the kitchen. I’m not seeing that this place is all that comfortable for you. Anyway—it’s my job. I’m charged with looking after you.”

“Is the State Department afraid I’m going to kill myself? And somehow make this situation
into a media event?”

“Of course not. But you have a mother-in-law with a wild hair and
—”

“
—The other woman?”

Oh, boy. He had stepped in it. “Can we discuss this later? Albert is closing the office at three today, and we’re gonna have to make some international calls.”

“Do I have to dress up?”

“For what?”

“To go out to eat.”

“No. You look fine. Perfect.”

“Not perfect. If I were perfect, my husband wouldn’t have picked up another wife.”

Not going there, Caburn decided. This reminded him of the bickering between his sisters and their husbands. He got up and put on his jacket, and felt the hairs on his chest pull tight under the tape. A small groan escaped his lips.

Anna stared at him, realizing his arm was freed from his side. “You’ve cut the tape away from your side.”

“Miss Lila did the honors.”

Anna walked Caburn to the door. He seemed to have difficulty moving. She wanted to comfort him and tell him she was sorry for being so self-centered. It really wasn’t all about her. He’d had go through the misery and pain of being sewn up twice. No doubt, this was the first time he had to investigate a courier with two wives, who, in addition, had a wacked-out mother who stabbed him in the back, a second wife who proved herself fertile while the first was in agony because she was betrayed and barren.

All right, Anna told herself. She was going to be especially appreciative of him at dinner. She was going to let him know how much she valued his attention and his efforts on her behalf.

~
~~~

In the basement corridor the cat Helen kept fed was stretched out atop an old wooden crate, stamped British Ceylon, with all the lading in Chinese or Japanese and who knew what the crate once held? Probably some esoteric décor that landed on the top floor. Caburn stopped and stared. If he didn’t know better that cat was well into delivering a litter. Cats did not self-impregnate. At least today there was no sign of the rat. Unless, of course, the rat was inside the cat—which would account for the bulge.