by Jan Burke
I heard it beneath a chorus of relentless self-accusation.
“IRENE?”
I turned to see a tall blonde standing behind me. “Oh—hi, Claire. I thought everyone else had left.”
“They have. I was going to call a cab, then I saw you standing out here alone. Are you all right?” she asked.
I nodded. “How about you?”
“I—I need a favor, actually. I wonder if I could get a ride. My car is in the shop, so Ben was going to pick me up this evening, but I guess he’s fallen asleep. I’ve called, but I just keep getting the answering machine.”
“Maybe he’s on his way over here. I’ll wait with you, if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “At first I thought he might be on his way, but it’s been too long. And he doesn’t answer the car phone in his Jag.”
She literally meant “his Jag,” as in “his and hers.” Ben and Claire Watterson had matching Jaguars. This proved they were frugal—they could have afforded a chauffeur-driven limo. And she wanted a ride in my drafty old heap? Right. Cab fare, even all the way across town to their mansion, could have been paid for with about two minutes’ worth of the interest on Claire’s pin-money account. So I figured that Claire needed a favor, but it wasn’t a ride.
“Sure, I’d be happy to give you a lift,” I said. “Just let me go back into the hotel and call Frank. He’s turned into a real worrywart.”
“Please, use mine,” she said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a cellular phone.
I started to say “A pay phone would be cheaper,” but realized what a ludicrous remark that would seem to Claire. I called home. I also got an answering machine, and left a brief message saying I’d be later than expected.
“Frank must have been called out,” I said, handing the phone back to her. “Come on. I’m parked in the self-parking lot—I’m too cheap for valet.” I paused, wondering again why she would want to ride with me. Even though Claire was one of the women who had survived Andre Selman, I usually only saw her at the annual dinner. But in the next moment, I thought of the last time I had turned my back on someone. “I’ve only been to your house for a couple of fundraisers,” I said. “Seaside Estates, right?’
“Yes. I hope it’s not too far?”
“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t get to talk to you much tonight. This will be our chance to catch up.”
“Yes,” she said, but didn’t say more as we walked to the car.
As I started the Karmann Ghia, she asked, “What did you mean, ‘called out’?”
“Pardon?”
“About your husband. You said he must have been called out.”
“These are his prime business hours. He’s on call tonight.”
“On call? Is he a doctor?”
“He’s a homicide detective.”
She made a face. After a moment she said, “Doesn’t it bother you that he spends his time around dead bodies?”
“Cuts down on the office sex.”
“Irene!”
“Sorry. No, the dead ones don’t bother me. In general, bodies don’t tend to be dangerous. It’s the folks who left them that way that worry me.”
Her perfect brows drew together. “Yes, I suppose the fact that he’s out looking for killers is more frightening.”
“Right. I begin to feel relieved if it’s a suicide case.”
She was silent for a time, then suddenly asked, “Who’s Lucas Monroe?”
Good question, I thought. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Lucas Monroe was a drunk on a bus bench, partly because I couldn’t understand how it could be that Lucas was that man. “I’m not who I used to be,” he had told me. No kidding.
“An old friend,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years. I met him in college.” When he was strong, good-looking, and dressed more neatly than about 98 percent of the student body. So clean-cut, he wore a suit and tie every day. “He was a graduate student, a teaching assistant in sociology. I took a statistics class from him.”
“Statistics?” She was openly puzzled. “I thought you majored in journalism.”
“I did. And Introduction to Statistics wasn’t required for my degree. I took the class at my father’s urging.”
“Your father must have been a cruel man.”
I laughed. “I fought the suggestion. But my father argued that government decisions were constantly being made on the basis of statistical studies, and that I would be a better reporter if I could analyze those studies on my own.”
“Statistics was the most boring class I ever took,” she said.
“I told my dad that I had heard that complaint from lots of stat students. He pooh-poohed that, told me to ask around the various departments until I found someone who had a reputation for teaching the subject well. Lucas Monroe had that reputation.”
“You must have really loved your father to take that class.”
“My father and I were close, but we weren’t getting along very well at that time. Growth pains, I suppose.”
“But you took the statistics class anyway.”
“To prove him wrong. When I later reported that Lucas Monroe made a convert out of me, my father was pleased. When I graduated, Dad ignored my journalism professors and sought out Lucas.” I shook my head, remembering. “He made his way through the commencement crowd to shake Lucas’s hand. They talked for a while, and later my father said, ‘That young man is destined for great things.’”
“Was he right?”
I swallowed hard, pretended fascination with the road for a moment. “My father’s prediction wasn’t remarkable. Just about everyone who knew Lucas saw the same bright future. Lucas had won scholarships and awards, and he had obtained his bachelor’s summa cum laude. He was doing well in his graduate studies—had a gift for both teaching and research.”
“What does he do for a living? Is he a professor at Las Piernas?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing now,” I said, thinking that was at least partly true. “Like I said, I lost track of him. Lucas was gone from the college by the time I returned to Las Piernas. Later, when I was working at the Express, I ran into some complex studies that were far beyond my abilities. I called and asked for him, and was told that he was no longer with the department of sociology. I wasn’t surprised, really, because he had talked of going on for a doctorate at one of the big universities. He told me he wanted to try to get on the faculty at Las Piernas, but I just figured he found something elsewhere.”
“You said he was a graduate assistant in sociology? Andre Selman’s department?”
“Yes. Lucas was one of the researchers on one of Andre’s first well-known studies. In fact, I met Andre while sitting in Lucas’s office.”
“You know, Andre really is a rat, but he knows some great people.” She was quiet, then added softly, “I met Ben through Andre.”
Claire came earlier in Andre’s lineup than I did. As I recalled, she had one of the more short-lived encounters with him. I was an intern at the Express the year she married Ben; I remember the sensation caused by Claire’s courtship with him. Ben was widowed, had no children, and was her senior by a quarter of a century. They had now been married for over fifteen years, and all but the most vicious tongues had stopped wagging.
I glanced back over at her. To my surprise, she looked like she was about to cry.
“Claire? What’s wrong?”
She bit her lower lip, hesitating. Claire and I weren’t close friends, partly because we moved in such different circles. I wasn’t sure she would confide in me.
She took a deep breath and said, “I’m worried about Ben. He says he wants to retire.”
“Why are you upset? You’ve been trying to get him to retire for at least five years now.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “And he hasn’t wanted to. So why now?”
I made the turn on to the road that leads to Seaside Estates, one of Las Piernas’s upper-crust enclaves. The Seaside Country Club golf c
ourse was on our right, huge houses on our left. “What does Ben say about it?”
“He says exactly what you said. ‘You’ve wanted me to retire, so I’m retiring.’”
I laughed. “That’s a pretty good imitation of Ben’s voice.”
She smiled a little. “Lots of time listening to him. I suppose I’d be happier about this retirement if he seemed happier about it.”
“Most people have mixed feelings about retiring. Ben’s been at the Bank of Las Piernas for a long time—and in a very powerful position in the community. President of a bank that has helped businesses get started, financed much of the growth and development of the city.” I thought of the one person I knew who worked for the Bank of Las Piernas. “The people who work with Ben respect him. My friend Guy St. Germain speaks very highly of Ben as a boss.”
“Guy is an exceptional employee.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m borrowing trouble. It will be great to have Ben all to myself. I don’t know why it bothers me.”
I made a turn that brought me to a security gate. She handed a keycard to me. “You’ll have to guide me from here,” I said, as the gate rolled open.
“Turn right, then keep heading uphill. Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not like Ben to leave me stranded somewhere,” she said, looking worried again.
“You seem to think this is connected to his retirement. Could something else be troubling him?”
She opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” After a moment, she said, “I don’t know, maybe it is something else. I worry about his health. He hasn’t been sleeping well, or eating enough. I wake up in the middle of the night, and he’s over at the bedroom window, just staring out into the darkness. Or I’ll find him sitting up in the study at three or four in the morning.”
“Does he give a reason for any of this?”
“No. He just tells me that he didn’t mean to worry me. Says he’s getting old, and …”
“And what?”
She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the seat. “Sometimes he’ll say, ‘You should marry a younger fellow next time.’”
I didn’t say anything.
“It hurts to hear him say that,” she said. “Makes me wonder if—oh! Turn at the next corner. You can only go right.”
I made the turn. After a short distance, we were in front of another gate. She reached into her bag and pressed a remote control button that caused this gate to open, pushed it again once we were through. We drove down a dark, tree-lined lane that gave way to a long, curving driveway that sloped up to the mansion. There was a Jaguar in the driveway.
“Looks like Ben is home,” I said.
But she was concentrating on the house, a puzzled look on her face. “The lights are out.”
It took me a moment to register what she was saying, because there were plenty of lights on—but then I realized that they were all exterior lights. The house itself was dark.
“Maybe he’s gone to bed,” I said, but she was shaking her head.
I barely noticed her denial, because at that moment, what I at first took to be a berserk, woolly bear came bounding toward the car. As it drew closer, it started barking, and I realized it was not ursine but canine—the biggest dog I have ever seen in my life.
“Don’t jump, Finn!” she called out. Apparently he heard her, or saw the censure on her face. He scrambled to a halt and plopped his rear down just outside the passenger door—close enough to her window to steam it with his breath. Sitting, he was nearly as tall as the car. He started whining. “He’s an Irish wolfhound,” she said, anticipating my question. “Back up, silly,” she said to him with affection. “I can’t get out.”
His response was to lift a paw as big as a saucer and smack it against her window. When he set it down again, Claire drew in a sharp breath.
There was blood on the window.
4
HE’S HURT!” Claire cried, but even as we hurriedly opened our car doors, I wondered how he had managed to lope across the lawn if he was badly injured.
Finn wasn’t waiting for sympathy. He ran away from us, barking his deep-throated bark. We were both wearing heels, so we couldn’t follow very fast. He turned, came partway back, ran from us again.
“Finn, stay!” Claire called. He seemed to consider this option for a moment, gave a big “woof” of dissent, and took off once again.
I kicked off my shoes and closed some of the distance. He rounded the corner of the house and headed for the backyard.
There weren’t any exterior lights here, so it was dark along that side of the house, causing me to slow a little. The ground was cold and uneven beneath my stockinged feet. I stumbled once, but didn’t fall, and glanced back to see Claire taking off her shoes.
I wondered if we should change tactics. Maybe it wasn’t blood on his paws. Maybe he was just making mischief, playing a game of chase. He came back into view, his tousled fur backlighted as he stood in silhouette at the far corner of the house. The bark changed to a baying sound. I ran faster.
A large patio came into view, and as I rounded the corner I saw a swimming pool; I stopped cold when I saw a series of crazy-eight patterns of red paw prints along its deck. The dog’s baying put me in motion again. He stood outside what appeared to be a cabana; it was small compared to the house, but I guessed it to be about as large as my first apartment. It was white. One of a pair of French doors facing the pool was open. A light was on inside the building, spilling out through the open door. As I came closer, Finn quit baying and started watching me intently. It made me slow to a walk, then stop—about twenty feet away from him.
I heard Claire coming up behind me. I reached out and motioned for her to wait next to me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Call the dog, Claire,” I said. “Just let me go in while you hold him.”
For a moment I thought she would protest, but her face went pale as she looked down and noticed the bloody prints on the deck.
“Come here, Finn,” she said in a shaky voice.
He twisted his head to one side in canine concern, but stayed put.
She took a deep breath and said in a commanding tone, “Finn!”
He trotted over and sat prettily in front of her.
“Check to see if his feet are hurt,” I said. “I’m going to take a look in the cabana.”
I walked toward it before she could object.
“Ben?” I called from the open door. There was no answer.
I stepped inside and found myself in a small sitting room decorated in soft hues of rose and gray. A small white refrigerator hummed in one corner. To either side of the sitting room, there were changing rooms, two on each side; their open doors showed them to be empty. A short hallway led to another door, also open. Over the gray tiles which led to it, I saw a trail of bloody paw prints.
“Ben?” I called again.
Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator.
With wide, awkward strides, as if stepping on stones across a stream, I crept along, careful to avoid the blood on the cold tiles.
“Ben?” I said, a little louder.
Nothing.
But there was a smell, I realized, a smell that grew much stronger as I neared the door.
My palms started sweating, my heart drumming. I wanted nothing so much as to turn around and run out of that hallway, out to where there might be sweet, cold air—big gulps of air—air that didn’t reek of blood.
I braced my palms on either side of the doorjamb and made myself peer around the corner, look inside the room. It was a bathroom. The shower stall door had been pushed open. On the floor, lying half out of the shower stall, was a man, fully clothed. Ben Watterson. He held a gun. The back of his head was missing. It might have been in the big mess in the shower. I didn’t stick around to find out.
As I came running out of the cabana
, I saw Claire, staring at me.
“Don’t go in there,” I said.
She immediately let go of the dog and started to do what I just told her not to do. She had a wild look on her face. I grabbed on to her. “Claire, don’t—”
The dog barked at me, scared me enough to make me let go of her. I don’t know if she heard me or if she heard the dog, but she didn’t move.
Finn barked at me again.
“What—?” She left it at that. I don’t think she wanted to ask the question. I might answer it.
“Let’s go into the house,” I said.
She looked at the cabana again, didn’t budge.
“It’s Ben,” I said. “I’m sorry, Claire.”
“No.”
I waited.
She just shook her head. “No. Not Ben. Not Ben. No, you’re wrong. It’s not Ben.”
“Yes, it is.”
She bit her lip, then said, “Let me see him. He might need help.”
“Claire—it’s too late. I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t in there very long. You don’t know that he’s—you don’t know! I want to see him.” She hurried toward the cabana.
“No!” I shouted. “For Godsakes, Claire, don’t—”
She stopped moving, turned toward me.
“Please don’t,” I said. “Please, please don’t go in there.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then came stumbling back to me.
“We need to go into the house,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice steady. “We need to call the police.”
“No,” she said, but let me put an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned against me, and let me guide her away from the cabana. She just stared at me when I asked for the key to the house. I finally took her purse from her, found the keys, then tried a couple until I found one that would unlock the back door, which led into the kitchen. She stood nearby, petting the dog. “Good boy, Finn,” she said, at least half a dozen times.