The Dearly Departed (29 page)

“You know I don't eat breakfast.”

“Even on vacation?”

“Vacation! This is not my idea of vacation. I expected to find a grand white hotel with mountains above and a lake below. I didn't expect King George. And I certainly didn't expect the King's Nite Motel and an owner who acted as if she'd never seen an American Express card before.”

What would Sunny do? he wondered. What words would work here, spoken in what tone?

“What about my guest room?” Fletcher asked.

She looked around, spotted her purse, opened it, and frowned at its contents. “What
about
your guest room?” she asked.

“It has a futon. There're probably sheets that fit. And it has a lake.”

“And that is your way of saying what?”

“I wouldn't mind the company,” he replied.

Joey's cot and bare-bones barracks reminded Dr. Ouimet of his on-call nights in Boston decades ago. He'd slept fitfully. Why had he thought that being away from home, in monklike quarters, would soothe his soul? And then he remembered: He couldn't have his own bed, his feather pillow, his white-noise machine,
and
his liberation. He'd chosen, and this was marital separation in the light of day. This was what he'd wanted. He'd get up early and read, then meet his host for breakfast at 9. He'd wished he'd said 8
A.M.
, but young fellows enjoy their sleep.

Joey had turned out well. He'd had a wild streak in high school. Or was he thinking of another boy on Mattatuck, the third Lussier boy? No, it was Joey whose hand he'd sewn up after some incident, some senior-class prank involving the maneuver of a car into the gym. He smiled. Boys could be rascals and still turn out all right. He thought of his own sons and his smile faded. They would have to take Christine's side. They might call his office and privately express their neutrality, but lip service would have to be paid to the sanctity of their parents' marriage, and to Mother.

He tried to concentrate on what was merely the turmoil of separation and divorce rather than that other, more acute pain and the inexpressible horror of losing Margaret.

He could have saved her. He could have banged on the door, or at least pressed the doorbell as if he were there on an urgent professional matter; interrupted their lovemaking and demanded an explanation, a resignation. He shouldn't have looked. There was the shame of that memory. And the shame of knowing that she'd glanced up and seen his face in the window, as if he were a common Peeping Tom. She had to know it was he, although the look on her face was alarm rather than recognition. And that man had jumped off of her, that lean, tall man with the body of a forty-year old, that runner, that dieter, that consumer of vitamins, his genitalia unbound and flapping with indignation.

Ironically, tragically, he'd walked away feeling that he'd done the right thing, shown restraint, hadn't demanded that Miles Finn . . .
what
? That had been the problem. He had no rights, only romantic wistfulness. Margaret had been so kind to him; had listened to his declarations; had, in a loveless period before Miles established year-round residency, allowed him to swing by after his house calls. He had said he'd accept the one-sidedness of their friendship, and her notion that hugs were chaste but that kisses meant adultery. He'd take whatever it was she could give him. He knew how she felt, though; he knew too well that his marital status was a social convenience and an excuse. Margaret did not find him attractive. Margaret did not want to have sex with Emil Ouimet, M.D., despite his willingness to cross all lines moral, religious, and EEOC. He offered to divorce Christine first. Would Margaret reconsider if he was free? If a whole year passed before they were ever seen in public? If they married first? Moved away? If he were a widower?
Anything?

He had to tell someone soon, and Joey might be the one, although The Dot would hardly be the place for a confession. But who would be any more professional, any more convenient? And who in this town, be they counselor or clergy, wasn't a patient?

Dr. Ouimet accepted a small chrome teapot from Winnie but refused a menu. He waited, checked to make sure she was out of range, then said to Joey, “I must talk to you. There are things I should have told you that are tormenting me.”

“Here? Or did you mean later?”

The doctor checked the booths on either side of them, then whispered, “I went to Margaret's house the night she died. I was on a house call—well, a trumped-up one. Fred Sturgess had a kidney stone, and truthfully, the renal colic was over when it passed into his bladder. But it was an excuse to get away.” He winced. “I never betray doctor-patient confidentiality, but I thought you'd want to know every detail.”

“Or maybe not,” said Joey.

“I drove to the golf course and turned off the road. And when I got to Margaret's house, I saw his car—”

“Whose car?”

“That goddamn Bug! Finn's.”

“Which night was this?”

“The night she died!”

“Okay, look. I'm going to suggest that we move this conversation across the street—”

“I saw them!”

“Mrs. Batten, you mean? Did you enter the house?”

“No. The front door was open. I heard . . . noises.” He swallowed several rapid breaths.

“What kind of noises?”

“Giggles, moans. Noises one would emit during intimate relations, especially pleasurable ones. I don't think I have to paint you a picture.”

“No,” said Joey.

“I should have walked back to my car and driven away, but I didn't.”

“You stayed?”

“I stayed. I very quietly withdrew from the porch. I went around to the side of the house.” He met Joey's gaze directly. “To another window. Behind them.”

“Doc!”

“I did. Just what you're recoiling from. I acted as if I were a common Peeping Tom.”

“Doc, if you're going to tell me something that could link you in any way to their deaths, criminally—”

“I'm a sick man! That's what I'm telling you. I worshiped Margaret. All of that made me desperate and curious, and it made me do something I never thought I was capable of.”

Joey leaned closer. “Emil, this is serious. This isn't something you confess at the local diner.”

“I have to! I have to tell you everything I did so you can tell me if I could have saved her.”

“Shh. Calm down. If you don't want Winnie dialing 911, then just take a sip of your tea and tell me calmly and quietly what you want me to know.”

“I saw them!” He closed his eyes.

“Alive?” Joey whispered.

The doctor opened his eyes. “Of course alive. Very much alive!”

Joey did a quick check behind him for eavesdroppers. “And can you tell me what this is leading to?”

“I watched.”

“You mean, through the window? You just watched? That's what you had to confess?”

“I didn't interrupt them. I didn't kick him out. I watched as if I were paralyzed. I stood outside the window prowling, lurking, skulking . . .”

“But you walked away. You had nothing whatsoever to do with their deaths, right? They were alive, breathing, having sex? You left, and next thing you know, you got a phone call saying they had died, right?”

“Worse! I heard it at the breakfast table. From my wife, without a shred of compassion in her voice!”

“Doc, you drove to her house because you've been carrying a torch for Margaret for years, correct? You saw her fiancé's car—”

“Alleged! That was never formally announced!”

“Okay, alleged fiancé. You went to the door—at what time?”

“Eight-thirty; nine at the latest.”

“Okay: a very decent hour, on your way home from a house call. You don't want to be seen, so you move around to a side window. You watch them having sex, and you don't interrupt. Neither party calls me to report anything amiss. You leave, no doubt devastated, and you go home. Correct?”

Dr. Ouimet blotted his eyes with a paper napkin, then blew his nose. “Except for one thing, which I'd like to confide to you off the record, something I did that links me to the site. I wanted to come to you before your investigation brought you to me.”

Joey said, “Emil. There
is
no investigation. The autopsies were conclusive. The deaths were ruled accidental: carbon monoxide poisoning. There was a crack in the heat exchanger. The air conditioner tripped the thermostat. Case closed. So if you're going to confess what I think you're telling me, some private act that had nothing to do with their deaths, then I wish you wouldn't.”

“I should have stopped them,” he whimpered. “If I hadn't been so timid. If I hadn't been so . . . fascinated. Or so weak . . .”

“Doc, what difference would it have made? You'd have taken a swing at Miles Finn and at best sent him packing. So what? Margaret would have gone to bed alone and still would have died in her sleep. I think I know what you're getting at—you watched, you got a little excited, you left some evidence, right? But what you did behind Margaret's house is not illegal. Believe me. Every teenage boy in America would be in jail.”

“But I thought—we both watch the news—what if someone found my DNA at the scene and I had never mentioned being there that night? Or my shoe prints were found leading around to the bedroom window, or my tire tracks in the driveway?”

How much longer can I listen to this without cracking a smile? Joey wondered. Before choking on my coffee?

Dr. Ouimet continued, “I know I can trust you, and I know as a doctor and a man of science that what I did was not an aberration. I always tell my patients who are feeling me out on the subject—”

Joey covered his face with his hands.

“If you'll permit me to continue, Joseph,” the doctor chided.

Joey managed, “Go ahead, but I gotta tell you, I don't really need to hear it.”

“It didn't happen at the window, as you may be imagining, which to my mind would have been the moral equivalent of renting an X-rated video. It was a very private act, away from the house, in a very dense thicket of bushes . . . into my own handkerchief.”

Joey by now was patting the doctor's forearm, hoping to thwart the unbosoming. “That's enough,” he said. “I'm not a priest. I know you've suffered a terrible shock and you need to tell someone everything, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. But this isn't in my job description. If you need to talk about it, you should talk to a professional.”

“There's nothing left to tell,” said Dr. Ouimet. “That's all there is. I'm a man like any other. I wish I had interrupted them.” His voice changed to a gravelly whisper. “Because maybe he would have left, and I would have comforted Margaret and confessed my feelings, and might have been invited to stay—even in a chair in the parlor. And I would be out of my misery now.”

“You don't mean that,” said Joey. “C'mon. You're upset—”

“What do I have now? You tell me one thing I have to live for.”

“Your kids,” said Joey. “And your patients. What would this town do without you? And even though you just had a terrible fight with Mrs. Ouimet, you have her. She'd come running if she knew what you were saying.”

“I'm talking about having someone to love.”

Joey said, “I don't want to be cruel, Doc. But I think you might not have a good grip on where Margaret stood in all of this. I know you loved her—you've told me ten times in the past twenty-four hours. But she was engaged to another man. Maybe, because she died, you've talked yourself into another scenario.”

“He wasn't right for her. I'd have been there when that crumbled. I was willing to wait. Even though she didn't reciprocate my feelings, she never gave her notice. She was by my side every day. Whatever you want to call that—friendship, companionship, administrative assisting—it was what I lived for.”