I marched off the boat and into the salty night wind. Ten minutes later Marianna joined me in my car and I began an immediate expostulation.
“It wasn't Scott,” I said. “I know you're convinced, but it just wasn't. He was confused when he confessed. He saw it—the blood and shit—and went temporarily schizoid.”
“You know, Shannon, I thought I was the only one made stupid by love.”
I slammed the car into drive. “What's your point, genius?”
“I think you should lift your glance up from Boardman's crotch and start paying attention to what's behind his shallow gray eyes—”
By pounding my fist into the steering wheel, I signaled my preference for a silent ride home. Marianna, in response, banged the dashboard back, and we remained at a silent if not peaceful truce the rest of the way.
I dropped Marianna at her car, still parked at Al Forno, and I headed down to the police station, where I fought my way through the unruly press crowd camped at the front doors. I found Chucky Sewell holed up behind the locked doors of his glass-encased office. He was on the phone. I banged on the door and he let me in, as he always did, no matter what he was doing. Except this time we were both on business and he went calmly back to his phone conversation as he paced the windows of his office, peering out on his flock.
Chucky was big and I loved it. The mere girth of him gave me the chills. Since the age of thirteen, I'd felt like the gawky giraffe in a kindergarten production of Swan Lake. Being tall and skinny is good for models and California girls, but hey, I live on the puritan East Coast, where the average height for a female is five-four, and the last time I saw that height was third grade, and even then I was still a foot taller than the rest of my little friends. I'm always ready for that up-and-down thing strangers do with their eyes. I watch their eyes travel the long, exhausting distance from my feet to my head, as if they've just pulled out a yardstick and are measuring me for my coffin.
And there was my Chucky, a nice hefty six-four, a full head of salt and pepper hair, and the cutest twinkling blue eyes my love-biased gaze had ever seen. And except for that ever-so-slight little belly that he could never seem to shed, Chucky was as fit and tight as the strings on a shiny concert grand. He walked every day, everywhere he could. The guy's legs were like tree trunks; his shins as thick as my thighs, and believe me, I know because I measured them once during a rare weekend together in Martha's Vineyard while his wife was in Boondocks, Virginia, visiting her first, second, and tenth cousins. Chucky's kids, five in all, were grown and out of the house. I'd met them all at one time or another at social functions. One of them had guessed the true nature of our relationship—the youngest boy, about twenty at the time. He actually took me aside at a Christmas party and said, “I can tell by the way you two talk to each other. Dad's eyes go soft when he's standing around you. I never see his eyes like that anymore since my sisters moved out.”
I didn't bother denying it. What was the point? Chucky and I fit together like a charm to a bracelet, but he was a good Catholic boy who'd never divorce his wife unless she left him first. And at over two hundred pounds (at least that's how fat she looked to me), she wasn't going anywhere fast enough for it to mean anything serious for Chucky and me. So we just left our relationship where it was: a Hepburn-Tracy-type affair. We'd seasoned into an old married couple without ever signing the papers.
“Vince,” Chucky said over the phone, “let's just try to wrap this up fast and let the political fallout settle where it may. Murder. Premeditated. That's my take. You figure out the legal end.”
I couldn't hear Vince's end of the conversation, but I knew him well enough to know what he was saying. Vince Piganno was like Marianna; they had these idiotic consciences and thought the Code of Criminal Law was holier than the Bible. Maybe it had to do with being Italian. Like those Romans of yore: The social system will fail unless we follow a social structure and strict moral codes. And as far as politics was concerned? Vince said lying is a religion to politicians. They lie during confession, he'd say.
So I wasn't surprised when Chucky hung up with Vince and thrust his hands in the pockets of his loose trousers, shaking his head at me as if Vince was somehow my responsibility.
“Well, your boss wants to draw this out. He started quoting goddamn Cicero to me. Something like There's nothing more deceptive than the whole political system.’ What Cicero has to do with Boardman killing his wife I'd sure as hell like to know.”
I sat behind Chucky's desk and started straightening out papers for him. It was a little-known fact that I was a neat freak. Cleanliness I didn't give a crap about, but if everything around me wasn't in numbered piles, I was a raging lunatic.
Chucky flipped the blinds to his office closed so no one would see me behind his desk, messing with police business. Damned if all the cops didn't know about us anyway, but Chucky was annoyingly careful about not giving anyone any real evidence of our unlicensed and illegal coupling.
“I'll tell you what Vince means,” I said, “if you really want to know.”
“Nah, what's the point? That man and I are like two guys on the same debate team who speak different languages. We're always disagreeing for some reason or another neither one of us understands, but ultimately one of us defers, because winning is our prime goal.”
“Whew, that was a mouthful, Chucky. You're getting intellectual on me. What's up with that?”
He came over to me and fluffed my cropped hair into more of a tangle than it already was. “You're the brainy lawyer, honey. I'm just the testosterone-powered cop, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… Well, Vince doesn't believe anything people say. That's what he meant with the Cicero quote. Vince'll want to wait for the evidence and the grand jury.”
“See what I mean? Piganno and I agree. My gut says Boardman's lying too. And if he's not guilty of killing his wife, he's a politician and guilty of something else, so ipso facto, he's lying about something. And the evidence'll bear me out on this. You just wait, darlin'.”
“See, Chuck, now you're talking Cicero too. Obtuseness among men in power is obviously a widespread epidemic.”
Chucky laughed. He loved playing Grade Allen to my George Burns, pretending he was the goof and I was the smart one. Of course I was the smart one, but I never knew if Chucky really believed it, or if he thought he was just humoring me by letting me think so.
I hate the tangled web of men's mucked-up minds.
“Well, whether you like it or not,” Chucky said, “we're looking at the Honorable Senator Boardman as our prime suspect. Dack called me right before you got here. One of the women—I'm guessing the wife—was shot point-blank to the back of the head. That ain't heat-of-passion. So unless the ME comes up with a finger pointing in a different direction, I'm liking Boardman for premeditated murder.”
Shaking my head, I walked to his door. “That makes me real sad, Chuck, real sad. Because I was kind of liking him too, if you get my meaning. He's just my type. Big and brawny.” I looked up at him, wide-eyed, as if the thought had just hit me. “He kind of reminds me of you, Chucky Bear.”
“Should I be jealous?” he said, tilting his head at me.
With a great big grin I said, “Depends on whether or not you care if you lose me.”
I loved dragging my fingers through those finely woven spiderwebs and wreaking havoc on the threadwork of lies that men create for unsuspecting flies. Especially the married spiders like Chucky who've managed quite efficiently to lead double lives. He'd managed to have a wife, kids, and a mistress who all coexisted—sort of— happily ever after. Sure, I was his enabler. Sure, it was my fault for letting it happen. (I was no unsuspecting fly) And because I was free to walk out on him whenever I wanted, I could never really get angry with him. And the truth is, I'm not sure I'd marry him if he did leave his wife. So yeah, I liked Chucky, maybe even loved him—in my weaker moments—but sometimes I hated his guts too.
I realigned my spine cocksure straight and chu
cked Chuck a kiss. But when I whipped open his door ready to blow into the sunset, I saw a humbly stooped Scott Boardman standing next to his lawyer, Ron Esterman. I'm guessing they were waiting their turn at Chucky.
When Scott Boardman looked up at me, staring for maybe a second too long, Chucky followed me out his office door sans that cute blue twinkle in his eyes.
“Thank you for dropping by, Miss Lynch,” the now seriously official Chief Sewell said to me. “We'll be in touch with your office.”
My cue to leave, so I briefly sized up the two men standing before me—Chief of Police Charles Sewell and Senator Scott Boardman. We were on Chucky's turf, so he was clearly the pack leader of our small group in attendance. I deferred to his authority and stayed quiet. But I zoom-viewed on Scott Boardman's face again, and like a cruise missile flying below radar, his downcast eyes snuck another longing stare at me, telling me something, or asking me something, or just plain looking for a chest to cry into again.
Bedroom confession notwithstanding, I still believed the guy was innocent.
OFF-KILTER
SATURDAY MORNING DRIZZLED INTO VIEW AT about seven-fifteen when Laurie woke me by phone.
“We're on our way. We need to talk.”
Half an hour later I peered down from my window to the entrance five stories below, where the colorful miniatures of my friends sat against the rainy backdrop of sepia and gray. Beth's red Saab, its convertible top down, was idling by the building's granite steps. Laurie, sporting a yellow rain slicker, rode shotgun, while Beth, her head Grace Kelly-scarfed in apple-pie apple green, was behind the wheel. Marianna was in the rear, her arms splayed across the backseat, a white cigarette hanging from her mouth as Laurie leaned over the front seats and reached for Mari with the car's lighter.
Beth looked up and saw me first, waving enthusiastically like a fragile daisy. I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed out, wondering why they'd decided to ride top down in a goddamn drizzle. But never the one to topple the last pin of an off-kilter decision, I said nothing as Beth pushed the gear into drive. Rarely engaging in superficial greetings, we were on our way in virtual silence. We were as used to each other as the right arm is to the left.
As Beth concentrated on the road, I stuck my face into the wind like a contented golden retriever, but I couldn't clear Scott Boardman out of my head.
“What's this all about?” I finally said, irritated by my own thoughts and the rain drizzling on my head. “Or are we just testing the tires for hydroplaning?”
“Just a breather,” Mari answered. “A time out for a resetting of our mental clocks.”
“Bullshit, Mari.”
I didn't take well to criticism. So when I got the gut feeling they were breaking me in slow like an old horse too long in the wild, I started kicking. Was Marianna being straight with me? Was this just a quiet Saturday morning ride through the Elysian Fields, or did they really have anything new to say—like I was fucking up royally?
Safely parked at the salon, I pitched my Camel butt against the curb and we exited the car and headed for the salon's front door.
Nails Only was a misnomer for a place that in actuality serviced every known external part of a woman's body. The Brazilian waxes? Marcia was a regular ob-gyn when it came to a female's nether regions. The salon was run by Marcia, her sister Pat, and Roxanne, who hailed from Galilee, a salty fishing town in South County, Rhode Island. A Marcia and Roxanne confab over drinks was sure to hit all the high notes in the Whorehouse Dictionary of Obscene and Lascivious Acts Against Nature. Funny thing about Rox though: Unless the woman was drinking, she barely spoke at all.
Our menage a quatre congregated at the entrance door as Marcia rose from behind one of the manicure tables. Despite being four-eleven and tipping in at ninety pounds, she had a mouth as big and loud as mine, and pound for pound was every bit as threatening. Word on the street was that she was a cross between a leprechaun and a Hummer.
She had opened early for us. With barely a hi, she pulled a fresh sheet off the shelf and, snapping it open, let it luff down over the table. “Who's ready for some torture?”
I pulled off my jeans and jumped aboard.
Beth ran to the curtains and pulled them closed. “Who's doing me?” she asked.
Roxanne kicked out the chair from under her manicure table. “Over here,” she said in curt response.
Marianna sat in front of Pat's station and laid her hands flat on the table.
“Should I get acrylics this time?” Beth said. “Since I won't be typing much longer?”
“Every time we come, the same damn question,” Laurie said, rifling through a magazine. “Get them and be done with it, Beth.”
Pat wasted no time diving for the latest AG gossip. “So what's the scoop on this Senator Boardman? It's all over the news. Did he do it or not?”
Sooner than expected, we were launched back into the Boardman fray. In deference to me, I guess, no one answered readily. They knew my suspicions and were waiting for me to answer first.
“Not,” I said from behind the curtains.
“Really?” Pat answered.
Pat was a good manicurist. Like a bartender dishing out questions and weighing your responses, she had the knack of making you think she was deeply interested in your opinion but didn't probe further, scurrying from topic to topic, hoping to spark a priest-worthy confession. French manicures and deep-soul catharsis were Pat's specialties.
“Well,I think he's guilty,” Pat said. “I'm not buying his alibi.” Suddenly Pat commanded my attention as if she'd just touched down from a remote planet far away. Half-plucked, I came out from behind the curtains buckling the top clasp of my denims and strutted to her table, hovering over it like a hungry vulture. “Alibi?” I said.
Pat clucked at the sudden attention and made me wait for her answer. Though now that I think of it, she probably had no idea why four employees from the AG's office were waiting on an answer from a nail tech about a murder suspect's alibi defense when we should have been asking her about the newest OPI nail shades.
“Alibi?” I repeated.
“You don't know?” Pat answered. “It was on the radio just before you came in. Apparently he'd been in his car driving up from Connecticut while the murders were taking place. News report says he found his wife and her friend dead, panicked, and left the scene.”
I gave myself a few seconds to let it sink in, but before I knew it, I had suddenly realized why this little Saturday morning soiree had been gathered in my honor. I looked at my three erstwhile friends, who didn't seem at all surprised at the news flash. “You're all shits, you know that?”
Laurie spoke first. “Vince called me earlier. We didn't know before this morning.”
Beth remained mum. Or was she catatonically dumbstruck by her hands, which were looking cheaper by the minute? “Can I blow my nose with these,” she said to Roxanne, “without poking my eyes out?”
I looked at Beth. “Beth, do you friggin' think that's the crucial question of the moment?”
Beth glanced at me, somehow empowered by her three-inch nails. “So Boardman recanted his confession. He's a liar, Shannon. So what? If someone just murdered two people, is fibbing a moral leap?”
“He lied to me,” I said. “Me!”
I must have sounded insane—like some lover scorned, for Christ's sake—because even Beth felt safe enough to make fun of me.
“Yup,” Beth continued. “He brutally killed his wife and her lover and now he's claiming innocence. Wow, what a shocker!”
I looked at Laurie and Marianna, both of whom could more fully appreciate the dangers inherent in lying to me, but Laurie got up to take my place on Marcia's waxing table, and Mari was mouth-blowing her nails dry.
Beth shrugged. “I'm sorry, Shannon. But sometimes even you can make a mistake.”
“Well, does anyone think he could be innocent?” I asked. “Maybe—”
“Shannon,” Marianna whined pleadingly, “stop! The man confessed to yo
u in bed and then called a defense attorney and recanted. It's classic guilt. And since we are the ones employed to prove him guilty, the only question left is, will Laurie get the case, or will Vince give it to me? Because you are clearly biased and don't belong anywhere near Scott Boardman—or this case.”
“Here's my question,” Laurie said to me. “Are you going to the cops with his confession? Or are you going to pretend he never said it? It's evidence, you know.”
“Fuck you, Laurie,” I snapped. “You think you're so fucking smart. As if you—because of your superior intellect—could never make a mistake based on stupid emotion like Marianna does all the time. And now you're trying to make me feel like an emotional wimp like her—”
“Wait the fuck a minute!” Mari said. “Am I being trashed here just to save your dumb ass—”
I got up and kicked my chair halfway across the room.
And with that, our Scott Boardman rap screeched to a halt like a car at a cliff with no reverse gear. Beth returned to the knotty issue of her nails, while Marianna and Laurie worked their way back to one of our typical frenetic and classic palavers, weighing the urgent matters of our lives and times: waxing versus shaving, the newest fillers for facial wrinkles, the various novel indications for Botox, including suppression of migraine headaches and intra-penile injections for recidivist pedophiles. I remained coldly silent until it was time to leave.
Once outside, Beth still refused to raise her convertible top for the drizzly ride back to Providence-town but she tooled along with extra-special caution because Marianna and Laurie had decided it would be fun to yowl “Dixie” at the top of their lungs the whole way back and Providence was rife with cops who had nothing better to do than torment the unsuspecting and the innocent.
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