Big City Eyes

by Delia Ephron

  I drove into an unfamiliar area, near the beach, undeveloped. Thickets scraped my car as I approached at a slow roll. No street-lights or other signs of civilization—this must be swampland or a bird-watching preserve. I turned on my brights, which illuminated parts of the picture. Wide horizontal yellow stripes that moved about morphed into men in oversized black rubber topcoats banded with yellow for safety. Stationary blocks of white turned out to be the doors of cop cars parked every which way. Their red roof lights continued to whir. Beams flipped one way, then another, as officers aimed their flashlights. Then flares brightened the road, giving visual definition to the area, but no explanation of the circumstances. Gradually the random dance of lights became choreographed as officers advanced, all flashlights now pointing in one direction, into heavy bramble. It must be an accident—an accident with a deer. Deer must really love to hang out in this wilderness.

  I left the car, and cold still air zapped my bones. The sky recalled my one visit to the Hayden Planetarium, a fantastic trip through the galaxy with every star available for observation. A heart-stopping sight evoking, in comparison, my own puniness. The vegetation grew low here, a wicked impenetrable tangle. Despite the police invasion, this seemed a place of true isolation.

  Amid the rustling, the relayed orders, and the gibberish on walkie-talkies, I discerned the bark of his voice. This was not quite as hard as selecting one particular violin out of a symphony orchestra. He was with the men securing the area with yellow tape. Which of these guys shrouded in black was Tom—that was anybody’s guess. I didn’t see any smashed vehicles, so the commotion did not have to do with a car accident. A bike was abandoned at the side of the road, and a thin, nervous fellow, shifting from one foot to the other, spoke quietly to a policeman. Day-Glo bands wrapped his ankles.

  “So what’s happening?” I slipped over to an officer, who glanced at me but didn’t respond. I corralled another, who answered, “Dead body.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Move back,” he said. “You’re contaminating the crime scene.”

  Crime scene? This had to be a stroke or heart attack victim, a jogger. Being someone who fears the worst, I went into complete denial when faced with it. “You must be mistaken,” I actually replied.

  Two more headlights were coming this way, and everyone turned, awaiting Chief Blocker. His car door slammed and all conversation stopped. The crowd parted to create a slender path to the wilderness. I took the opportunity to scoot behind the chief, alert to the flashlights directing his eyes. They swung across the undergrowth—wet murky soil, thorny branches, bushes of needled twigs—and landed on two bare feet sticking out. Ten toes with at least six beams on them showed very clearly the different colors of polish, one per toe.

  “What are you doing here?” McKee’s voice was behind me.

  I spun around. “It’s her,” I whispered.

  “Who?” He was in police drill, and there was no way to imagine this was anything but an interrogation.

  “The girl in the Nicholas house. I told you she was dead.”

  He gripped my arm and pulled me across the road. “How do you know?”

  “I recognize her feet. Her toes, remember the nail polish? You didn’t listen to me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? Nothing. I was driving home from the movies.”

  “And you’re so sure it’s her.”

  “I’ll be happy to identify her breasts if you like.”

  I calculated roughly back to the afternoon when she obviously, oh so obviously took a drug overdose, possibly self-inflicted, possibly not. “She’s been dead almost a month.”

  “It’s not clear.”

  “It is clear.”

  “We’re waiting for the county medical examiner. He’ll do an autopsy.”

  “So someone took her from the house and dumped her.”

  “Buried her,” said McKee. “Did a half-assed job of it. Animals smelled her and dug her up.”

  And then the sergeant left, called to the huddle of men in black.

  She was dead. The shock of being right. The triumph of being right. The sadness of being right. That was somebody’s daughter and somebody’s friend. But I was right. I know a weird arm when I see it. I cornered the bike rider, bled him for information. He’d been pedaling along and smelled gas, like a stove gas leak but stronger. He’d reported it to the police, who sent a truck from Suffolk Gas and Electric to check the main. This was bad luck for whoever ditched the body. The main turned out to be right next to those bare feet poking onto the road as though thumbing a ride—a ride to the coroner’s. His truck arrived a few minutes later, and my last view of the young woman was of a lump zipped into a bag.

  Of course I wanted to talk to McKee again, was dying to, we had so much to discuss. I got in my car, with the lights and heater on, and waited while the police completed their business. As everyone else was driving away, he finally came over. “Did you see her face?” I asked.

  “What was left of it. Some beast, probably a raccoon, feasted on her.”

  I went limp. The import struck with that grisly tidbit. “We have to go back to that house.”

  By way of response, all McKee did was poke his tongue into his cheek.

  “We should go tonight. We’ll find something. Evidence. I swear. We saw her, we have an obligation.”

  “Lily, go home.”

  “Listen, when I was in the bedroom, I saw … I didn’t realize it at the time, but you know how elegant the place was, pretty fancy for a beach house … well, later I remembered that there was no plate over the electric outlet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I was lying, but I was on a roll. I had to lie to hook him, and it wasn’t going to be easy. His manner was professionally impersonal, which was fine. I appreciated that. This was business. This had nothing to do with our former extracurricular activities. They were over. “In two places, plates were missing. Downstairs in the living room, and upstairs in the bedroom by the couch. I read this book about concealment”—this at least was true—“it was very informative. One of the prime places to hide drugs and jewels is behind electric plates. I think that woman had taken drugs, don’t you? Look, I’m not saying there’s something hidden, but you really didn’t do a serious search, either. It makes no sense, in that perfectly appointed place, for socket plates to be gone. If you take me, I’ll show you where. And besides, we were there together. If I go back with you, I might see something different from what you see, or remember something different. My brain could get jogged in a helpful way.”

  For a very long minute, McKee appeared to consider my request. “I can’t go in there unless I have a phone call.”

  “A phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “I can’t go unless I have an anonymous call from a pay phone, reporting some lights or activity in the Nicholas house. I need a reason to enter and investigate.”

  “I see.”

  He extracted a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. I held it by the dashboard light to read his name, Sakonnet Bay Security, and a beeper number.

  “Thank you.”

  He stashed his rubber coat in the trunk of his car so he was no long masquerading as a member of a toxic cleanup committee. With no further discussion, we proceeded to collaborate as if born to it. I trailed him to the station, where he signed off, and then he followed me, waiting a half-block away while I left a message on his beeper from the pay phone at a Shell station. I put my hand over the receiver—this was very exciting, to disguise my voice. After pulling into my driveway, I entered the house, found a screwdriver (in case we needed to remove any electrical plates), and exited the side door, a stealthy move that seemed brilliant. The ever-vigilant Mr. Woffert would have no hint of my nighttime excursion. I rendezvoused with McKee at the corner.

  Climbing into his SUV was no smooth move for a short person. A red wool scarf
lay on the passenger seat. He tossed it into the back. Scattered on the floor were an empty apple juice can, a child’s sneaker, several toy airplanes, and a large mottled autumn leaf. He picked it up and laid it carefully on the dash.

  “Alicia’s,” he said.

  Rife with souvenirs of family life, the car functioned as a sort of chaperon.

  The curious thing about returning to the Nicholas home was that, regardless of whatever might have taken place there, the sense of foreboding that had infected our previous visit was gone. No alarm had been triggered, and I hadn’t suffered a destabilizing dog bite. And in spite of any uncontrollable flirtatious thoughts, I believed, as much as he, that our personal involvement should go no further. Those erotic memories had been replaced by something more powerful—the sight of him at the carnival, a captain steering his precious cargo through the crowd. Her enthusiasm. Her innocent joy. Sam could be like that, he had been like that. McKee and I donned professional personalities, took refuge in them perhaps. The two people who returned to the summer house were a reporter and a cop.

  Even the residence, in the glare of spotlights fastened under the eaves, appeared less formidable on second viewing, simply an overblown version of a beach house. We closed the car doors gently, but only because, in the quiet, every sound was amplified. “You can forget the screwdriver,” he said. “I hope you didn’t think I bought that bullshit about socket plates.”

  As we walked up the steps to the porch, McKee mentioned that no one had stayed in the place since we’d been there. He must have had this information because his security business was kept informed of the comings and goings in the off-season. He deactivated the alarm, and clicked on his flashlight, and we entered.

  “Where’s the light switch?” I whispered, although we were the only ones there.

  “No lights.” I heard his voice behind me and the sound of the door closing.

  “How come?”

  “Because we don’t want an anonymous call. Another one. A real one.”

  “Oh. Of course.” I was obviously not gifted at deception. Having embarked on a game plan, I had forgotten about it.

  With his flashlight, McKee made a wide sweep from one end of the living room to the other, then investigated in sections, moving the beam from top to bottom. Outside the bright pool of light, the room remained dark. I couldn’t see even a speck of him, although his sleeve brushed mine, sending a prickle up my arm despite several layers of clothing between us.

  “Someone came and cleaned.”

  “Yes,” he answered as the flashlight revealed plumped cushions on the couches and coffee table books arranged just so. “The housekeeper,” he added, and his voice was not next to me any longer. I hurried to catch up with it and bumped into a hassock. “What happened?” He shined the light my way.

  “I tripped.”

  His hand grasped mine, leading me into the kitchen, where he released it.

  “These folks are loaded,” I said as we viewed the gleaming top-of-the-line appliances on the granite counter. He worked with precision, whipping open cabinets and drawers, hunting through a maid’s room off the kitchen as well as the dining room. Here and there I frisked objects that turned up in the light—I was utilizing information gleaned from my criminal guide pamphlet. Did the aerosol can have a false bottom? Were the moldings mismatched?

  “Wait, I smell something. What’s that?” I asked. “Someone’s perfume?”

  “Not unless they’re wearing Pine-Sol,” said Tom.

  With my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I followed him into the hallway. The flashlight beam shot upward, revealing the staircase and the bedroom door at the top. “Ever been in the Variety Shop?” he asked.

  “That store on Main? No.” I noticed the banister was freshly polished. I didn’t touch it.

  “It’s a clothing store with a lunch counter. My wife picked up a pair of jeans for me there. I swear they smell of hamburger grease.” He stopped and I crashed into him. Because I was on the step below, my head banged into his behind, and his billy club hit my chest.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I mean, yes, okay.” I moved next to him. “Did you hear something?”

  His hand smacked flat against my breast. I think he was putting up a stop sign, indicating that I should be silent, but didn’t realize my proximity. We both pretended this grope hadn’t happened. McKee continued to listen, I assumed, since he didn’t respond immediately. Then he uttered a slow “No,” and we moved onto the landing and he aimed the light toward the bedroom. He turned the knob and let the door swing in. We entered and our heads swiveled the same way, to the left. The bed. No one was in it. But a light was on—the reading lamp on the right side-table. No other fixture illuminated, but here in the master bedroom, a silk shade on a Chinese lamp cast an inviting peachy glow over the duvet. We approached and looked down. I expected to see the imprint of a body, a soft indentation on a pillow, but the spread was ironing-board smooth, and the pillows, three deep, perky in organdy jackets.

  “The housekeeper could have left it on.”

  “Was it lit when we were here before?”

  Neither of us knew the answer to this question. I recalled a curtain billowing inward, the softening of daylight by the tempered glass, but once my eyes had landed on the naked woman, I wasn’t noticing lamps.

  “My wife’s going to be wondering where I am,” said McKee.

  That was out of the blue, or maybe not. His wife. Good.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ann.”

  A simple, stalwart name.

  “Most likely scenario,” said McKee, having stirred himself into action by reminding himself that he was married, “she died of a drug overdose. A tryst involving uppers or heroin or something.” He moved into the bathroom, where there was no bloated dead woman slumped in the luxurious circular tub, large enough for two as a matter of fact, with Jacuzzi sprays. Nothing out of order here, although McKee gave me a moment of fright when he opened the shower door.

  “People are always discovered dead in the shower or bath,” I blathered, as he walked past me. “You know, in movies, the house looks deserted, and then they move into the bathroom and there’s a bloody arm hanging over the side of the tub.” McKee now scanned the surfaces, turning three hundred sixty degrees, trying to find something of interest, something that wasn’t perfectly appointed, something that didn’t belong in a hotel room awaiting guests.

  I opened the closet door and we both stared into the organized abundance of clothing in the walk-in vault.

  “The parts that weren’t eaten were pretty much intact. Don’t imagine that she was in that brier patch very long.”

  I didn’t argue that, even though he was a cop, he’d probably had no more experience with the decomposition rate of murder victims than I had. “She was dead here. I saw her arm.” I was tugging at the two-inch strip of wood trim along the base of the settee. A niche for dope could have been hollowed out under it. “You never believe anything I say.”

  “Never?” His eyes softened as he contemplated me crouched on the floor. “I haven’t known you long enough for ‘never.’”

  His words unsettled me. As I got up, my legs felt wobbly. He offered a hand, and in a moment that took forever and was over in a blink, I found myself in his arms. I didn’t know how our passion could erupt so suddenly. It turned out that I am a desperate, even thrashing lover, but also utterly pliant. I think Tom picked me up, and I was dead weight; he could have mailed me, without protest, UPS. Anyway, my feet were definitely off the ground for a while, and then we were both horizontal: Tom, a master of timing and nuance, and I, his wild consort. I was not a virgin, obviously, of course, yet, thanks to irony—my constant companion, my invisible shield—I was intact emotionally. I cried throughout the entire event. I realized this only in the afterglow, when Tom touched my wet cheek with his fingers, then tasted them. “Tears,” he said.

  It is not easy for a cop to undress, I can atte
st to that. His belt had taken a while to discard, between the buckle and the attached equipment. Lying skin to skin, with our stuff strewn about, this room we had visited for clues now felt as if it belonged to us: our hideaway, with beautiful linens carelessly rumpled, and light just low enough to obscure consequences. I would have bet my life that, no matter how passionate I was, I could never have made love on a bed where a dead woman had lain. I would have been wrong.

  “Do you hear something?” Tom asked.

  “No. Yes, oh my God.”

  I leapt off the bed, grabbing for my clothes, flailing about stark naked, sensuality blown to bits by panic. One shoe was upside down on top of the settee; I had no idea how it had gotten there. I snatched my shirt with one hand, pants with another. They trailed the ground, I almost tripped over one pant leg as, hugging my belongings, I dashed for the bathroom, where I fell against the door to hold it shut. I dispensed with underwear, threw on only outer garments, shoving my bra and underpants into my pocket.

  “Jesus,” I heard Tom say as I was coping with a shoe. Then the murmur of someone responding softly. Should I stay here or go out? How far had Tom managed to put himself together before meeting the intruder?

  Probably I should have remained in the bathroom. Probably, in retrospect, but I am a hysteric and have no logic or clarity. I pushed my hair around, splashed my face with cold water. Noticed my chin—chin burn. A giveaway. I flushed the toilet, having at least the presence of mind to provide a pretext for being in the bathroom, and then exited.

  “My brother,” said Tom. “Billy, this is Lily Davis.” Tom was unmaking the bed. He had stripped off the spread and was throwing back the top sheet. Why was he doing that?