The Other Widow (21 page)

She decides to go to work, that she'll be better off there, where there's more than enough to keep her busy, to pry her thoughts away from Jeananne and Joe, from Brennan's dogged probing—where it's at least a little safer. Dorrie stretches, sticks a pot into the sink, and runs cold water on the oatmeal crusted to the bottom.

Her cell rings as she heads down the driveway to her car. A small beep announces a new message as she sits in the front seat, waiting for the engine to warm up, holding her hands against the heater vents, as if she can pull the warmth out with her fingers. The engine is so cold, it chokes. Gasps. She waits. She'll give it a minute longer. She pulls out her cell to see who called, but the number isn't one she knows. She hesitates, her finger poised above delete, but then she shakes her head, puts the phone on speaker, plays the message. At first there's only dead air, not even breathing, and then that robotic-sounding voice again, more muffled this time. “Why are you still here?” She takes the phone off speaker and replays the message with the cell up to her ear.
Why are you still here?
Her heart speeds up; her breath comes fast. She feels as if she's on a tightrope in a high wind. She feels as if each step she takes is terrifying, deadly—that there is no net beneath her.

She saves the message and turns off her phone, tosses it inside her bag. The engine is as warmed up as it's going to get. She looks over her shoulder, up and down the street. What the
hell
? She jams her car into reverse, puts on her dark glasses, and creeps along the streets to the city.

The phone call was jarring to be sure. At the same time, it makes her feel oddly vindicated. She now has something she can hand over, an actual voice, making an actual threat, right there in her phone. But would anyone else consider it a threat, or would they see at as a prank call from a bored teenager, out of school? Or, worse yet, a wrong number—a pissed-off husband, looking for his wife in a crowded mall? “Why are you still here?” as in
Why are you still here in Bloomingdale's and not on the other side of the mall, trolling for that overpriced face cream at Sephora?
Except the malls aren't actually open yet. A restaurant then. Or possibly a rest stop on the road somewhere in Connecticut, the connection weird and robotic, distorted from the weather. And who, exactly, would she hand this over to anyway? Definitely not Samuel. Viv, maybe at some point, but they're not especially chummy at the moment. And Jeananne . . .

She sighs. Maybe she should talk to Brennan.
I don't care about the details,
she'd said. And Dorrie believes her. But it was illegal, walking away, leaving the scene of an accident. Even if she told Brennan she was too afraid at the time to admit she was in the car with Joe, or that she wasn't thinking straight—the shock, her banged head. Even so, she'd had a thousand opportunities to come forward after that. Brennan was a cop for years, an enforcer of the law. She might feel duty bound to turn Dorrie in, and then the whole thing would unravel. Her affair would be out there like a video on YouTube for everyone to see.

Every once in a while, in an off moment, after the unexpected glimpse of Karen darting onto her front porch, Dorrie thinks she might confide in her, but she knows it's an insane idea. Karen would call the cops in the blink of a large blue eye. And really, for all Dorrie knows, it's Karen breathing into the phone, mumbling baffling, scary things through a bath towel, digging up an old toy microphone one of her sons used as a child and making tinny threats.

She slides out of her car and doesn't beep it locked until she's halfway to the elevator, leaving herself an exit if she needs one. Inside, in the lobby, Edward is collecting money for Jeananne. “No flowers in the ICU,” he explains to Francine and yet another new temp receptionist; he acknowledges Dorrie with a slight nod and she can see that Edward is certainly not acting now. He's extremely upset, more upset than Dorrie's ever seen him. His eyes are red and watery, his voice quiet in the silent lobby, subdued and unsteady. Jeananne worked primarily for Edward, and a quick and crazy thought that maybe she is more than his assistant floats through Dorrie's mind.

“Thought we might pool our resources,” Edward says, “buy an iPod for her room at the hospital, download songs she used to listen to, her favorite groups. It might help her to—” He stops. Dorrie forages through her wallet and comes up with a twenty, which she places on the receptionist's desk.

“It's a wonderful idea, Edward,” she says. “Really.

He nods. The phone rings on the desk in the lobby and the new temp presses several buttons with an emerald-polished nail. She looks confused. Phones begin to ring in different rooms.

“Yes,” Edward says, although it isn't clear what question he's answering. His eyes rest briefly on Dorrie and his expression surprises her, startles her. He looks upset. But he looks frightened, too, as he turns to walk back to his office. Dorrie hesitates. This might be a good time to make peace, to smooth things over with him, although she isn't sure what, exactly,
to
smooth over. She drops her bag on her desk, drapes her coat over a chair, and heads back up the hall to Edward's office. She'll tell him she'll be glad to get the iPod for Jeananne, happy to download some songs and take the iPod down to ICU. She shakes back her hair and clears her face, puts on a small, beatific social-worker smile.

She takes her time. Edward intimidates her. He's the opposite of Joe, so gruff and abrupt, which is probably the reason Joe worked with the clients. Edward might well frighten them into the arms of the competition. Besides, she isn't sure how much or how little Edward knows about her involvement with Joe. For years the two of them went to the chess club together every Monday night. Knights on St. James, she thinks it was. Maybe, after Joe stopped going, he confided in Edward, some late night, after a few too many beers.
Why did you stop going to the chess club?
Edward might have asked him.
How come I never see you up at Knights anymore? Is it that ditz from work?

She pauses outside his office. She can hear Edward's voice, loud and strident. Angry. “I don't know why you're bothering me about this now, Lansing. And
here
? He's just—Joe's just
died
for chrissake.” Dorrie hesitates. Edward looks at her across his office, shakes his head. He sticks up his hand like a little wall, and Dorrie nods, keeps her expression undisturbed as she backs out. At least she tried.

When she's in her own office, Dorrie closes the door and dials the operator from her cell. She's had a disturbing call, she explains. A threatening call. Is the operator able to give her the name of her last caller? No, the operator tells her. She's very sorry, but for that Dorrie would need to be with law enforcement, have a court order from a judge.

The exchange from that morning's call is not a Boston one. It starts with a seven, not a six. Interesting. Dorrie writes it down. She'll wait. She'll put in her trainee time with Francine, which is lately limited to poring over pictures of Paris on the Internet, and on her break she'll call the number, find out for herself who it was.

At exactly eleven, she walks to the break room, her heart pounding so hard she hears it in her ears. She uses one of the desk phones, pushes star sixty-seven, and then she push-buttons in the number. She waits as it rings, and, when no one answers, she hangs up and hits redial. She does this three times and, finally, someone does pick up. He sounds slightly annoyed. Not particularly scary, but definitely annoyed. “Geppetto's. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” she says with a southern accent, practiced and perfected for a role she had the year before. “You surely can. Where exactly are you located?”

There's a long pause. Dorrie can hear him inhale.

“What city?” she says. She pronounces it “ceety.” Lays it on thick. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof thick. She won't give anything away. Not at this point.

“Oh.” He exhales hard, as if he's smoking a cigarette. A joint maybe. “We're here in Waltham. Where're you?”

XXV

KAREN

K
aren locks the door and sets the alarm. She takes off her boots and sticks them side by side beneath the table in the foyer, sticks the plates and glasses from her little brunch with Brennan in the dishwasher.

She glances at the magnet on the fridge and dials the number for the accountant. “It's Karen Lindsay,” she says. “I'm a client.” She takes a gulp of coffee as the receptionist rings her through to Arthur Reinfeld.

“Mrs. Lindsay.” Arthur Reinfeld has a nice voice. Soothing. “I am so awfully sorry about your husband. Horrible shock. Joe was a great guy. A great businessman. Unbelievable. So completely unexpected! I just met with your husband three days before his death.”

“Thank you,” Karen says. “He was— It's very difficult,” she says, and swallows down another gulp of coffee. It won't do to get emotional. Not now. She takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” she says again. I was going through Joe's things, Mr. Reinfeld, and I wonder if you would be kind enough to help me. I have some questions. I'm a bit over my head here. I'm sure you can understand.”

“I can. And I sympathize with you, Mrs. Lindsay.”

“Karen,” she says. “Please.”

“Karen, then. As I said, I sympathize with you, Karen. I really do, but I'm afraid I can't help you with this.”

“I don't understand,” she says. “Weren't you Joe's accountant?”

“I was. Yes.” Arthur Reinfeld pauses. “But I handle the taxes for the company. That's really all I do. Any specifics, you'll have to get with Mr. Wells.” He sighs. “Much as I'd like to help you, I'm afraid I can't.”

Karen hooks a kitchen stool with her foot and sits down. “But aren't I, as Joe's wife, as his
heir
, Mr. Wells's partner by default? I will be taking over Joe's half of the company.”

There's a pattering sound on the other end of the phone. Karen imagines Arthur Reinfeld tapping a pencil point against his desk, anxious to get off the phone. “But, as yet, you haven't taken over?”

“No.” Karen sighs. “Not yet.”

“Well, then, I'm afraid there's really nothing I can do.”

Karen is stunned. Furious. “I understand,” she says. “Actually, I don't at all. You handled my husband's finances for years. Couldn't you just—”

“I really can't.” He sounds sincere. The pencil stops tapping. A chair squeaks. “I'm not at liberty to tell you anything at this point,” he says. “And, again, as I said, I do only the taxes now. For the past couple of years, actually. It was nice to finally talk with you after all this time, Karen, despite the circumstances, and I do wish you luck getting everything sorted out. It's so difficult after a death. Again, I am so very sorry about Joe.” And Arthur Reinfeld politely ends the call.

Fuck Edward. And Joe. “And his little dog, too,” she says. Antoine snarls.

I just met with your husband three days before his death.

Karen doesn't even take a breath before she calls the company and asks for Edward. She waits while a series of clicks and whirs connects her first to Francine, then to a male voice she doesn't recognize—the enigmatic Len, she guesses—and at last to Edward. She is somehow spared Dorrie.

“Edward?” she says the second he answers. “You want to talk about the company? Let's talk!”

There's the sound of a door closing. “I think we both know that right now is not the best time or place for this discussion.”

“Where, then?”

“Shall I come out to Waltham?”

“No,” Karen says. “I'll come there. I can be in town in an hour. Where?”

“How about D'Angelo's?” he says. He sounds depressed. “I'll buy you lunch.”

Edward is already inside when Karen arrives at D'Angelo's, a cozy little place in the North End. It smells like garlic rolls and red sauce. It smells caloric.

“Sorry,” she says, glancing at her watch. She's twenty minutes late. She makes a slight gesture for Edward not to bother getting up. “Traffic,” she says. “They're working on the roads.”

“Right,” he says. “Endlessly.” His face is pale. Drawn. His eyes are faintly swollen.

“Are you okay?” She asks this even though she's furious at Edward. He looks that bad.

“My assistant,” he says. “Jeananne. I told you. Very upsetting.”

Karen nods, although she thinks he hadn't told her. It was actually Brennan. “Horrible. She always seemed like such a nice . . .” She doesn't finish. She has no idea what Jeananne was like. She'd met her at a couple of Christmas parties and she always seemed extremely talkative. Chatty, Joe used to say. “I'm sorry.” Karen takes out her reading glasses and scans the menu. “How is she?”

“Not well. But I'd really rather not talk about Jeananne, if you don't mind. As I said it's very . . .” Edward signals for the waiter, a white-haired gentleman, who listens to their orders and repeats them back verbatim without writing them down. She and Edward make small talk for a few minutes, but Karen gets the sense that Edward isn't listening, that he's barely heard a word she's said.

“I'll get to the point,” Karen says. “I found something Joe wrote. It was scrawled on an old—” The waiter arrives with her salad and Edward's pasta. She pauses. “An old bill,” she says when the waiter has left again for the kitchen. “But first. How did you know Maggie Brennan was at my house this morning?”

“I didn't, really. I hazarded a guess, that's all.”

Karen fiddles with her silverware, nibbles at her salad. “Anyway, I found this note Joe wrote to himself.”

Edward takes a sip of his drink. “And?”

“
And
. . . he was wondering, Edward, why there were so many supplies being returned to Home Depot.”