The Affliction

by Beth Gutcheon

  “And what did you talk about on the drive? After your calls?”

  Lyndon looked puzzled. “You know. This and that.”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me.” His tone had dropped a few degrees of warmth.

  “Uh . . . well we talked about the school, Rye Manor. I’m on the board there.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a property we’re trying to buy, to complete our package. Ray wanted to hear how the evaluation went. At the school. Last week.”

  “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

  “Uh . . .” Lyndon was ooching and backing again in his big conversational car stuck in another mental back alley, Bark saw.

  “Nothing, really, just . . . he was interested, you know. Because of Floro’s job.”

  “I see. And he didn’t mention that she was gone? Since Wednesday morning? Off in a snit?”

  Lyndon was beginning to look uncomfortable.

  “Look. Detective . . .”

  “Bark.”

  “I think I know what you’re trying to ask me.”

  “Really? What?”

  “I won’t lie to you. Ray and Florence were having some problems. He isn’t the most sensitive guy in the world, and he wasn’t always all that nice to her. But it’s just . . . marriage, you know? Ups and downs. She’s a perfectionist at work, she’d wind herself up and then she couldn’t shut up, and it . . . well it would drive me crazy, but they just needed a little distance. You are barking up the wrong tree, there.”

  “What tree do you think I’m barking up?”

  Lyndon was closing in on exasperated. This guy in his shopping mall suit was condescending? To him?

  “You’re trying to find out if Ray did something to Florence. And he didn’t. He couldn’t have. We drove down to the Poconos, we played some blackjack, had a nice dinner, went back to the tables, drove home the next morning. Her body was found way before we got back.”

  “What time was that?”

  “What?”

  “When you got back?”

  “I don’t know. Around noon, something like that? Margot will know,” and he reached for his phone again.

  “Never mind that, I’ll talk to her myself. Let’s go on. Did you share a room, at the hotel there?”

  “What?”

  “With Ray? Did you share a room? Or did you each have your own?”

  “We’re friends, not fuckbuddies,” said Lyndon rather shirtily.

  Bark raised his eyebrows.

  “Sorry. Pardon my French. I mean we’re a little old for sleepovers. Things aren’t that tight.”

  Writing in his notebook, Bark said, “So, you drove down. You checked in. Did you ask for adjoining rooms? Rooms near each other?”

  “No. We just checked in, one after another, and took whatever rooms they gave us. We weren’t even on the same floor, I don’t think.” Where the hell was this guy going with this?

  “So. You checked in, you got your key cards . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what?”

  “Jesus! You want the whole thing, minute by minute?”

  “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  Lyndon leaned back in his chair and twirled it halfway around, so he was facing his window, which looked out onto a parking garage. He rotated back slowly, and with an air of resignation.

  “We went to our rooms. I wanted a shower and a change of clothes. I knew Ray would be at the slots, and I told him I’d find him. So I found him—”

  “What time was this?”

  “You know there aren’t any clocks in casinos? You know that, don’t you?”

  “I assume you wore a watch.”

  “About an hour later. About seven. I found him playing Triple Red Hot 7s. We went to the tables together and played some roulette—”

  “You said blackjack.”

  “Roulette and blackjack! I play roulette, he plays blackjack. About nine we went for some dinner. Then we went back to the tables.”

  “You were winning? Losing? Breaking even at that point?”

  Lyndon took a deep breath. “I was winning. Not sure about Ray.”

  “Where’d you have dinner?”

  “What?”

  “Those casinos usually have a choice of places to eat. Restaurants, coffee shops, fast food.”

  “I don’t remember the name of it!”

  “Well what did you have?”

  Lyndon looked at him levelly, trying to decide if he was being toyed with. At last, he said, “Steak. I had a rare steak and a baked potato.”

  “And Ray?”

  “I don’t remember. Hamburger. Pork chop. Then we went back and played a couple more hours, then we went to bed, that was it.”

  “Went to bed at the same time? Decided together to go to bed?”

  Lyndon gave him a look, then answered very precisely. “I believe I went over to Ray and said I was turning in. Then I went upstairs.”

  “And what time was that?”

  Lyndon looked at his watch, as if it would tell him. “I’d say, two-fifteen, two-thirty. Right in there.”

  “And Ray was still playing blackjack?”

  “And Ray was playing . . . I think he was shooting craps at that point. It was late, I was tired, I don’t remember. Are we done here?”

  “Almost. Were you still winning? When you quit?”

  “I had a great night.”

  “And in the morning you had breakfast together? You and Ray?”

  “No,” said Lyndon with exaggerated patience. “I ordered room service. We met downstairs by prearrangement. I don’t know if Ray had breakfast or not. Are we done?”

  “One more thing. How tight are things?”

  “What?”

  “When I asked if you had separate hotel rooms, you said ‘things aren’t that tight.’”

  “Oh. I just meant, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just an expression.”

  “Really. So things are fine with you, financially. Doing great, even in this economy.”

  There was a silence.

  “Well, never mind,” said Bark. “It was an idle question.” He stood up. “Thank you for your help. I’ll just take a little of your wife’s time now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Knock yourself out,” said Lyndon. He swung himself back to look out at the parking garage. It had floors supported on columns, but no outer walls, so he could watch the attendants zoom down the corkscrew ramps as if they were racing at Daytona, then slow to a sedate pace as they hit the level where the owners waited. Lyndon had worked in a garage like that for three years during college.

  Ellie Curtin was sitting at the kitchen counter, her laptop open before her, when she heard the door buzzer. She wasn’t supposed to open to anyone she didn’t know, unless someone was with her. Through the front door’s little peephole that distorted everyone’s face she saw three people. That wrinkly she’d seen on campus since last week, and also at the shop, another lady like that, same song different verse, that she didn’t know, and Danny the IT guy from school. Okay, did this count? Did she know them or didn’t she?

  Well, she knew Danny, and her mom knew the first wrinkly, and it had started to rain, so it seemed rude to make them stand there. She undid the guard chain and opened the door.

  “Thank you, Ellie. We met the other day at the Wooly Bear. I’m Mrs. Detweiler. I’m helping Ms. Liggett with a few things, you may have heard. This is Mrs. Babbin, and you know Danny Chin.”

  They had all three stepped into the foyer.

  “Hey,” said Ellie to Danny.

  “Is your mother home?”

  “She’s at work. She’ll be here soon, though. Do you need me to call her?”

  “Up to you. It’s you we came to talk to.”

  “Okay,” said Ellie warily. She meant “Okay, I understand what you just said,” not that it was okay with her.

  “Good. Could I just ask you, do you have a TickTalk account?”

  This was Wrinkly #1, a
nd uh-oh. Ellie did not like the sound of this. Last semester they had had like an all-school emergency chapel about anonymous bulletin boards, and how no Rye Manor girl was supposed to use them, because you could be mean on them, and being mean without signing your name was cowardly and way worse than just being mean. Duh. But she wasn’t. Mean. She did like watching what went on on TickTalk, though, and her mom was clueless and probably never heard of TickTalk, so she never told Ellie she couldn’t, at home, where school rules didn’t count. Sort of.

  “Would you mind if Danny had a look at your phone?” Maggie asked her.

  What the hell was she supposed to say to that? Of course she minded. “Well but . . . why?” Ellie said.

  “Would you feel better if we asked your mother first? We had hoped she’d be at home.”

  “I mean, yes,” said Ellie.

  Hope handed Ellie her phone, and Maggie said, “Would you dial her for me?”

  Ellie took it and punched. “Mom, it’s me,” she said. “There are some people here,” and she handed the phone to Maggie.

  “Kate, it’s Maggie Detweiler. The purler. We’re at your house, with Ellie. Something has happened at school, and it’s a bit of a story, but it has to do with some electronic messages that have come from this address. We’d like to look at Ellie’s phone, if you don’t mind.”

  Maggie listened to dead silence for something like half a minute. Then Kate said, “Please wait until I get there. May I speak to my daughter?”

  Maggie handed the phone back to Ellie, who said “Mom?” and then listened to what sounded like an extremely directive series of remarks. Then she ended the call and handed the phone back to Hope. (What was it, were these old bags sharing a phone? They didn’t both have their own? What was the point of being a grown-up if you couldn’t afford your own stuff?)

  “She’ll be right here,” said Ellie. “She says you can sit in there until she gets here.” She gestured toward the sitting room beyond the staircase.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Maggie, unperturbed, though she was pretty sure the tone of Kate’s remarks had not been hospitable.

  Kate Curtin came through the front door in a matter of minutes and she did not look like a colorful wooly anything unless it was an angry mammoth. She had dashed through the rain without an umbrella or a hat and there was water on her cat’s-eye glasses; they must have been hard to see through. Danny stood as she came into the sitting room. Maggie and Hope looked up pleasantly from their chairs while Kate stood over them.

  Foregoing pleasantries, Kate said, “I’d have appreciated if you’d spoken to me first,” with a certain pressure behind the words. “Before you start questioning my daughter. In our home.”

  “I’m very sorry that we didn’t,” said Maggie. “It was late enough in the afternoon that we thought we’d find both of you here. And it was raining. We guessed wrong, but I apologize.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  Maggie explained what TickTalk was, and why the school had a problem with it.

  “This house isn’t at school,” said Kate.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t put that clearly. There is a rule against Rye Manor students using the site at all. From anywhere.”

  “I never heard of that.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Does Ellie know that?”

  “I believe she does. Ms. Liggett made it very clear, I’m told, early in the year. Schools find it difficult to enforce, for the very reason that the posts are anonymous, and it’s become an issue at this school because someone is posting quite nasty messages on the board about a vulnerable Rye Manor student.”

  “Who?”

  “Is it important that you know? We’re trying to protect her privacy.”

  “If you’re accusing my daughter of something then yes, it’s important.”

  After a thoughtful moment, Maggie said, “We’re not accusing your daughter of anything. But I can see your point. It’s a girl named Lily Hollister.”

  She saw an almost undetectable reaction.

  “Ellie’s barely mentioned her.”

  “That may be true. But the messages that are upsetting her came from a device connecting through the Wi-Fi in this house.”

  Kate looked blank, and then sat down on a hard chair in front of the bricked-up fireplace.

  “Wait. If they’re anonymous, how do you know that?”

  “Please take my word, we’re not here annoying you for the fun of it.”

  Danny spoke up. “Digital messages leave trails as they move through the system.” It was the kind of remark that a civilian who knew only how to turn her computer on and off really had to take on faith, so Kate did. To Maggie’s relief.

  “We’d like to have Danny take a look at Ellie’s phone, if you will allow it.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  Maggie let it hang until she was pretty sure Kate had figured out the answer on her own. Then she said, “We’re trying not to involve the police.”

  After a moment, Kate stood up and made a gesture: right this way. She led them into the kitchen.

  The kitchen was awash in yellow, lemon-painted cabinets and sunflower wallpaper lighting the room in the gray wet of early evening. Ellie sat on a stool, typing furiously on her laptop at a program the girl had closed by the time they reached her. She looked up, her expression a mix of wounded innocence and resentment.

  Her mother said, “They need to look at your phone, honey.” The phone, in a royal blue bumper case, was lying beside the computer on the counter.

  Ellie gave her mother a long look, then handed the phone to Danny.

  He woke it up and instantly found the TickTalk app. He opened it and saw it had autofilled the username JinglebElle. He handed it to Ellie, who tapped in her password, and handed it back. He scrolled through the threads he found there, poked around in various settings, then locked the phone and handed it back to her.

  “Ellie, are you on this tick thing? Do you use it?”

  “Everyone has it, Mom. I don’t use it though.”

  “Not everyone has it. I don’t. Why do you have it if you don’t use it?”

  “I, like, follow it. See what’s on it. I don’t post.”

  Kate looked as if this were a topic they would revisit in private.

  Danny moved to her laptop. “Okay?” he said to Ellie. Ellie nodded a resentful assent. The three women watched as Danny conducted a series of maneuvers through the operating system that no one in the room understood but him. Maggie and Hope were examining the actual bulletin board on the wall by the refrigerator, covered in family photos, when at last he said, “I don’t find it. No one has accessed the site from here.”

  Ellie said, “I could have told you.”

  “Thank you for your help, Ellie,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry we had to interrupt your evening.”

  Danny said, “Is this the only computer in the house?” He looked at Mrs. Curtin.

  She said, “Well, no . . . my computer is upstairs.”

  “May we?”

  Kate appeared to like this development even less than having her daughter electronically strip-searched. But after a long moment, she waved her hand toward the stairs in the foyer, and they followed her where she led.

  At the bedroom door, Maggie understood the many layers of reluctance Kate had to be feeling. When she turned on the light in her room, they saw the bed unmade and days’ worth of crumpled clothes draped over a chair. Socks and other items of small clothes lay on the floor around it.

  “Sorry,” said Kate, “the maid must have missed a day,” in a tone that meant Don’t you dare judge me. She went to the desk that occupied one corner of the room, switched on the table lamp, and woke up her computer. Then she moved aside to let Danny do whatever he was going to do.

  Hope sat on the bed. Maggie sat on a Thonet chair in the corner. Kate, as if they weren’t there and she might as well use the time, began shaking out discarded garments and carrying them one by one either to the
closet, where she hung them up, or to the laundry hamper in the adjoining bathroom. She was thinking that you really haven’t lived until you’ve sorted through your dirty socks and underwear in the company of a couple of judgmental old trouts who probably did have maids, when Danny said, “Found it.”

  The room went quiet. Kate had jerked as if a bolt of current had run through her.

  Maggie and Hope were up and going to Danny, both looking as if they had been so sure this was just due diligence that they’d forgotten why they were bothering with it.

  “TickTalk was accessed several times from this machine on Friday afternoon, and twice on Saturday.”

  Kate said, “That’s ridiculous. I never even heard of TickTalk before today.”

  “Do you lock your computer when you’re not here, Mrs. Curtin?”

  “No—there’s no one here except the two of us.”

  “Is your Wi-Fi password protected?”

  After a slightly embarrassed pause, she said again, “No.”

  “You really should, you know. People nearby can use your signal and slow it down for everyone.”

  “I know. I meant to do it.”

  Maggie said, “Would you ask Ellie to come up here, please?”

  When Ellie was installed in the chair that more usually served as a clotheshorse, Maggie asked, “Were you in the house at four in the afternoon last Friday? The twenty-fourth.”

  “I have no idea,” said Ellie.

  “Think, please. The day Mrs. Meagher’s body was found.”

  “Oh,” said Ellie. “I remember. Yes. We were dismissed after lunch.”

  “I know who did this,” Kate said. Maggie held a hand up to ask her to be still.

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Umm . . . three?”

  “And was anyone with you?”

  Ellie looked at her mother. Her mother looked back, deeply angry.

  “Alison Casey,” said Ellie.

  Maggie went to the computer, opened a browser, and typed TickTalk. The site came up at once. Maggie typed Miss305 into the username log-in box.

  “Ellie, do you know Alison’s password?”

  “No,” she said, as if she’d like to add Duh.

  “How about for Snapchat or Instagram?” In Maggie’s experience besties were constantly popping onto each other’s feeds. She wondered they didn’t fall down the stairs on their way to the gym or to lunch, they were so busy passing phones around to share whatever had come through during class while their phones were off, instead of watching where they were going.