Preserving Peaches

by Pamela Burford

  SB rode in the straw tote hanging on my shoulder, drawing the attention of Burke’s dogs. They rose onto their hind legs to get a better look, and smell, of the newcomer, while going to amusing lengths to avoid placing their paws on me. So Burke might indeed be a homicidal maniac, but at least he knew how to train his pets.

  For his part, Sexy Beast commenced the shrill whining that signaled his distress at being confronted by other dogs, but found it impossible to maintain his anxiety in the face of all that doggie love. There are dogs here! But they’re super friendly! I’m conflicted!

  “Please, have a seat, Jane. Let me help you with that.” He relieved me of the tote. “This whole area is fenced, so there’s no need of a leash, unless you want to use one, of course. Don’t worry about the lads. They’re just eager to make friends.”

  I examined our surroundings and saw that both the patio and an adjoining lawn were indeed contained within a tall wooden fence. The lawn appeared to be a kind of mini dog park, complete with bowls of water and a poop-bag station. Satisfied that there were no toy-poodle-sized gaps in the enclosure, I lifted Sexy Beast out of his tote and deposited him on the wooden deck, to the tail-wagging excitement of Burke’s “lads.” The gang ran off to explore their new playground.

  We suspended conversation while examining the menus, finally settling on personal-size brick-oven pizzas: pepperoni, soppressata, and Italian sausage for me; roasted mushrooms, cipollini onions, and smoked mozzarella for Burke. He already had a glass of soda in front of him, ginger ale by the looks of it, so I asked for iced coffee (with my usual two shots of espresso) in lieu of the pinot grigio I’d planned to order.

  After our waiter—a young actor type named Aaron—had collected our menus and left, Burke said, “Tell me about yourself, Jane. What do you do for a living?”

  I’ve learned that when bending the truth, it’s best to avoid turning it into a pretzel, in part because it’s not always easy to remember some random fib you told, but also because it’s impossible to sound knowledgeable about a subject when you know absolutely nothing about that subject. For this reason I chose not to tell Burke I was an astrophysicist or a belly dancer or principal bassoon with the New York Philharmonic.

  Taking a cue from my conversation with Carter and Audrey the day before, I said, “I’m an investigator, specializing in locating missing objects.”

  Without skipping a beat, he said, “Do you work for an insurance company?”

  “Um, no, I’m freelance.” Thinking fast, I added, “But insurance companies sometimes hire me. If they, you know, suspect a fraudulent claim.” I looked around. Where was Aaron with my wine? Then I remembered. I’d ordered amped-up iced coffee. The perfect choice for soothing the nerves.

  “Fascinating,” he said. “What are you currently working on?”

  How had I lost control of the conversation so quickly? “Oh, it’s a lot more boring than it sounds. What do you do, Burke?”

  “I’m a dialect coach.” He smiled at my baffled expression. “The short explanation is that I train actors to do accents, although there’s more to it than that. I help opera singers enunciate unfamiliar languages. I’ve even worked with a couple of comedians on celebrity impressions.”

  “Wow. Unlike my job, yours really does sound fascinating,” I said. “Which brings me to the obvious question. Is your accent on the up and up?”

  His smile broadened. “Born and bred in Manchester. I moved to New York in my late twenties, with every intention of returning to England after a few years. But then I got married, and Ellen had no desire to leave the States, so here I am.”

  The truth? I’d already known about Burke’s unusual occupation and some other basic details, having Googled him the night before. Clearly I hadn’t dug deep enough, though. His British origins had eluded me.

  Aaron appeared with my iced coffee. I stirred in cream and three sugars, then added a fourth, because it’s a well-known fact that sugar has a calming effect.

  “How long have you been divorced?” I asked.

  “Full disclosure.” The smile was now history. Burke looked every inch his age as he explained, “Ellen and I are separated. I’ve become resigned to the fact that there will be no reconciliation. The time has come for me to move on with my life. So you should know that my divorce is not yet final, if that’s a deal breaker for you.”

  “It’s not.” In the face of this man’s undisguised pain, I was suddenly ashamed of my subterfuge. “I’ve been divorced for eighteen years.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I can only assume you were a child bride.”

  “I was twenty-one when we got married. Also when we split up eight months later. I just turned forty.”

  “I’m surprised you never remarried,” he said.

  “What can I tell you?” I said. “I never found the right guy.”

  That’s what happens when you spend your entire adult life mooning over the one that got away. At least that pitiful phase of my life was behind me.

  “Can I ask why you divorced so quickly?” When I hesitated, he added, “If I’m being impertinent, you can tell me to shut up.”

  “No, it’s all right,” I said. “I wanted children. I assumed he did, too. That’s a conversation we probably should’ve had before the wedding.”

  “Never assume,” Burke said. Watching me bite back a smile, he said, “What?”

  “It’s just that I’ve been doing too much of that lately. Making assumptions.”

  “Dangerous habit,” he said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, and I thought, Holy cow, am I on a date?

  I gave myself a mental kick in the butt. Focus, darn it! Burke had just handed me the opening I needed. If he could be impertinent, so could I.

  “So what about you?” I asked. “You were married a long time. What caused the breakup?”

  His direct gaze never wavered. “My mental and physical abuse of my wife.”

  I stared at him, speechless. My nape prickled.

  I couldn’t bolt out of there without Sexy Beast. Where was he? My gaze zeroed in on the grassy dog park where he was play-wrestling with his new pals. How long would it take me to sprint over there, snatch him up, and jump the fence? Okay, awkwardly clamber over the fence in my cute little pencil skirt and three-inch heels.

  “Why so quiet, Jane?” The accent I’d thought so sexy moments earlier now sounded like Anthony Hopkins’ portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.

  Where was that darn tote bag? I whipped my head around, finally spying it under the table, just out of arm’s reach. A lot of good Dom’s stupid self-defense spike did me zipped into an interior compartment of that thing, under a pile of assorted doggie paraphernalia.

  “Where’s your sense of curiosity?” he asked. “Don’t you want all the gory details?”

  “If this is your idea of a joke,” I said, “you’ll notice I’m not laughing.”

  “It’s no joke, as you very well know.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I had no idea what he was talking about, but one look at those steely gray eyes made me shut it again.

  “I see you’ve decided not to prolong the charade,” he said. “That’s to your credit, I suppose.”

  My mouth felt dry as sand. I took a long gulp of my iced coffee. “When did you figure out this isn’t a real date?”

  “Call me suspicious,” he said, “but when this attractive young woman suddenly popped up on the dating site and expressed interest in meeting me, my antennae twitched—and not in a good way. Recent events being what they were, I decided it would behoove me to find out everything I could about Must_Love_Poodles.”

  “But all you had to go on was...” I paused, thinking it through.

  “Your photo, dog breed, and geographical location.”

  “I was careful not to be too specific about my location,” I said.

  “Clever Death Diva,” he said. “You used Suffolk County, knowing Crystal Harbor
would set off alarm bells, being Peaches Gillespey’s hometown. But why engage in that kind of subterfuge if you have nothing to hide? Sadly for you, I’m no slouch when it comes to online research. I deduced who you were even before we shared first names in our messages.”

  Talk about underestimating your enemy. “Then why did you agree to meet me?” I asked.

  “To find out why you targeted me, and get you to back off. I didn’t kill that horrid woman, but if I had, well...” He spread his arms, indicating the romantic “first date” I’d engineered. “This was a very foolish thing for you to do.”

  Don’t you hate it when coldblooded killers are right? Not that I knew for certain he was a coldblooded killer, but nothing he’d said or done so far had convinced me otherwise, his protestations of innocence notwithstanding.

  “You’re not the only person I targeted, if you want to call it that,” I said. “The fact is, I’ve recently spoken with several people who were in Peaches’s, um, orbit.”

  “After meeting with them under false pretenses?” he asked.

  What was I supposed to say to that? No, you’re the only one I pulled this kind of stunt on. Please don’t kill me.

  I said, “You must know I’m the one who found her body.”

  “I do know that,” he said, “and I can’t help but wonder what you were doing in that attic—a place so desolate, no one had set foot up there during the entire winter.”

  Howie and Cookie wondered the same thing. Sometimes the truth really is the best answer. “There was a crowded party going on in the building,” I said. “My birthday party, in fact. A friend and I were looking for a quiet place to talk.”

  “The friend being Martin McAuliffe.”

  A little zing of fear shot through me as I wondered how much this man knew about my private life. “Anyway,” I said, “seeing Peaches like that... I mean, it’s not as if I’ve never seen a dead body. In my line of work, it comes with the territory. But this was different.”

  “Because this time it was so richly deserved?”

  I was saved from having to respond by Aaron, who told us our pizzas would be right out and did I want another double-shot iced coffee. For some reason, I said yes, despite the army of ants stampeding under my skin, plucking my nerves like banjo strings.

  Burke declined a refill of his ginger ale. He watched Aaron walk away before continuing. “What you’re trying to say is that viewing Peaches’s mummified husk had a profound effect on you and that you feel compelled to find out what happened to her. Well, we all know what happened to her. The question is who.”

  “Um...” Did I dare agree with that statement, when Burke himself might be the who? “I’m not trying to conduct my own investigation, if that’s what you’re getting at. The police have this case well in hand. They’ve even made an arrest.”

  “The loathsome son. I take it you’re not convinced.” He cast his gaze toward the dog park, where the restaurant hostess was dispensing dog treats and sidestepping something in the grass. “I see I have a bit of tidying up to do before I leave.”

  Because heaven forbid the man who quite possibly tied Peaches Gillespey to a chair and strangled her with her own scarf should fail to clean up after his pets.

  He turned that icy gaze on me once more. “If you’re not conducting your own murder investigation, as you claim, then why are you talking to people who were connected to Peaches?”

  “Believe it or not, Burke, I actually have a legit excuse. Her daughter hired me to locate some items that have gone missing.”

  “What sort of items?” he asked.

  I couldn’t see what harm it would do to tell him. “Peaches had a collection of figurines and whatnot, and all of them are shaped like... Are you going to make me say it?”

  “Apples?” He frowned in deep cogitation. “Grapes? Bananas? No? Well then, I can’t imagine.”

  “She collected them since she was a girl,” I said.

  “How unutterably banal,” he said. “And what do some peach-shaped gewgaws have to do with me? Make it good. I always enjoy a little light fiction.”

  “Sorry, you’re getting the truth,” I said. “This gewgaw thing has nothing whatsoever to do with you. You were right when you said I feel compelled to look into Peaches’s murder. The cops might not consider you a suspect, but there’s still that ‘person of interest’ thing. I saw an opportunity to meet you and I jumped at it. End of story.”

  “Not that you’re investigating or anything.”

  “So about the loathsome son,” I said. “Sean Moretti. You’re right. I’m not convinced he did it, but I’m not ruling it out, either.”

  “The detectives there in Crystal Harbor, particularly your friend Howard Werker, seem to believe the young man went straight from introductory burglary to graduate-level matricide and skipped all the classes in between.”

  “It could happen,” I said. “Just like someone could go straight from spousal abuse to premeditated murder, with a little stalking thrown in because hey, why not.”

  Burke stared at me for long moments during which I forced myself to stare right back.

  Yeah, I know, but since I couldn’t undo my boneheaded decision to meet the guy under “false pretenses,” I figured I might as well at least try to squeeze a little information out of him. He was fully aware I was doing it and would either play along or garrote me with a dog leash. I perceived virtually no middle ground between those two options.

  Aaron chose that moment to reappear with our food. He placed the pizzas in front of us and swapped out my empty iced-coffee glass for a full one. Was there anything else he could get us? No? Enjoy!

  Under normal circumstances, I’d dive headlong into a meal that looked and smelled so amazing. All that beautiful sausage and pepperoni. My stomach, however, had other plans. It squeezed into an even tighter ball and said, Nah, I’m good.

  The dogs appeared at our feet as if by magic. They sat without being commanded, licking their lips and staring fixedly at our meals. The sausage would have been too spicy for Sexy Beast, so I cut a small piece of cheesy crust and gave it to him. His three companions carefully tracked my movements before returning their attention to their owner.

  “Lads, you know better than to beg at the table,” Burke said. “Don’t let someone else’s bad habits rub off on you.”

  I had an overwhelming desire to grab the nearest leash and garrote him.

  “Off with you.” He pointed to the dog park. “Go.”

  His dogs hesitated, looking from Burke to me, as if expecting me to invite the wrath of their possibly homicidal owner by feeding them at the table. I was just defiant enough to say, “Don’t worry, Sexy Beast, I’ll bring home a doggie bag.”

  He actually knew what those two words meant, having been the happy recipient of countless doggie bags over the years, so with one last wistful sigh, he trotted off. Lather, Rinse, and Repeat moped along behind him, casting longing glances back at our table.

  I’d half expected a refined fellow like Burke to attack his pizza with a knife and fork, which would have allowed me a glimmer of superiority. Apparently he’d been a New Yorker too long to commit that particular regional faux pas. He picked up the first slice and made all gone with it in short order.

  I said, “I have to ask how your dogs got their names.”

  He blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Ellen named them. She has a quirky sense of humor.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “She’s a hairdresser.”

  “No,” he said, “she’s a woodworker. But one of the first things we noticed about our new puppies—they’re litter-mates, by the way—was that they love bath time.”

  “I’ll bet you get some funny looks when you call them by name in public.”

  “Most people assume I’m giving them bizarre commands. Rinse! Repeat! Now I must ask you. How did Sexy Beast get his name?”

  “His first owner loved movies. Sexy Beast was one of her favorites.”

  “I’ve never seen it
,” he said. “I shall remedy that posthaste. Is there something wrong with your meal, Jane? You’ve barely touched it.”

  As if he weren’t well aware of the reason for my sudden loss of appetite. “I’m too tense to eat, Burke. You make me nervous.”

  My candor seemed to catch him off guard. “That was not my intention.”

  Like hell it wasn’t. His casual mention of my “friends” Martin and Howie was no doubt intended to rattle me. I hated that it was working.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I won’t starve. Let’s get back to our previous discussion. Before the food came.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “You seemed to be accusing me of stalking, spousal abuse, and murder.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “My statement did not rise to the level of accusation. If anything, you accused yourself of spousal abuse. ‘My mental and physical abuse of my wife,’ I believe is how you put it.”

  “I thought it was clear I was referring to Ellen’s unfounded accusations of abuse,” he said. “I know you must have read her letter to Peaches, the one that started all the trouble.”

  “I did,” I said, “and I found it disturbing.”

  “My wife is very bright but emotionally unstable, Jane. I recognized the signs early in our marriage.”

  How convenient. A loony wife whose word couldn’t be trusted. “Did you get her help?” I asked.

  “Of course. I hoped that with appropriate medical treatment and psychotherapy, she would improve, and indeed she did enjoy long stretches—weeks, sometimes months at a time—when she seemed perfectly normal. Unfortunately, it never lasted. It’s the reason we never had children.”

  I said, “Has she ever been hospitalized?”

  “No.” His tone was firm. “The specialists I’ve consulted assure me Ellen’s not a danger to herself or those around her. Over the years I developed strategies—coping mechanisms, I suppose you’d call them. Ways of getting through the rough patches with a minimum of trauma. I moved my office into our house so I could see clients there and spend more time with Ellen.”

  “It must take real commitment—” I winced at my poor word choice. “I mean, it can’t be easy to care for someone with that kind of condition for so long. Some people would question why you stayed with her.”