“Manslaughter,” she spat out.
Just as Crawford had predicted. I wondered how the police could arrest Miller without the ME’s report, but Crawford had seemed pretty sure that this was the way it would go down. “I’m sorry?” I said, not convinced that I should be.
“You were there. You tell the cops that he had nothing to do with it,” she continued, now parallel to me and close enough to touch. Riding in a pickup gave her the advantage of being at eye level, something a car wouldn’t.
“I can’t do that. I was there.”
“Yeah, but they had a fight. Instigated by that louse Wilmott.”
“Your husband punched him in the head. Hard. He died. Draw your own conclusions.” Although I still wasn’t convinced that was the cause of death, I wanted Mrs. Miller to consider the fact that it could possibly be.
She thought about that for a minute, resting her head on the steering wheel. When she picked her head up, her face had gone slack. “Oh, and sorry about the black eye.” Something in her now nonthreatening tone made me stop walking. I turned toward her. “Eat a lot of papaya and pineapple and mix two tablespoons of salt with two tablespoons of lard or vegetable oil and spread it over your eye. Make sure it’s closed.” She saw the look on my face; I wasn’t a lard type of girl. Vaseline was the closest I got to anything moisturizing. “Trust me. It helps with blood circulation. And the papaya and the pineapple make the discoloration go away faster.” Her tone was rough but her suggestions kind. I wondered if Mrs. Miller was a Gemini. The abrupt change in her demeanor surely hinted at two sides of the astrological coin.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I’m a nurse,” she said, gripping the steering wheel of her idling truck; she was my second nurse of the day, counting Elaine. “Do you want to help me or not? They’ve got George in lockup and it’s only a matter of time before he’s shipped off to stay with the general population in White Plains.” She set her mouth in a grim line. “That’s not going to be good for him.”
That was probably an understatement. I commanded Trixie to sit because this was obviously going to take a while. “Listen, there’s nothing I can do to help you. I told the police everything I know. Your husband and Wilmott had a fight and then Wilmott died. I don’t know what he died from—”
“Blunt force trauma to the head,” she said, interrupting me. “From a punch. That’s what they’re saying. That’s the coroner’s best guess. The Wilmotts are very powerful in this town and the cops want to close this case fast.”
Talk about the wheels of justice turning quickly. “I still don’t know what I can do.” I wanted to mention that there were two cops on the scene—as well as Greg—who could also verify that George had hit him in the head but I didn’t mention that. She was pretty agitated already.
“Tell the cops it was just a fight. Tell them that you never saw George hit Wilmott in the head. Tell them that Wilmott fell and hit his head and that my husband’s fist did not come in contact with Carter Wilmott’s head. Case closed.” She dropped her hands into her lap and looked up at the interior roof of her car. “Tell them anything that will help me get George out of there.”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Miller.”
“Ginny.”
“I told them what I saw, Ginny. That’s exactly what I saw. To me, that’s exactly what happened.”
And that’s when she cracked. I don’t know why I was surprised, but when the tears started falling, I saw the softer side of Mrs. Miller. “They’re going to at least get him on manslaughter. You’re not going to press charges, too, are you?”
I shook my head. “It was an accident.”
Her lips quivered as a tear fell onto her tank top. “Thank you.” She rested her head on the steering wheel. “I don’t know why I tracked you down. I don’t even know you. I should have assumed that you had already told them everything you know. I’m just grasping at straws.”
I didn’t know what to say. Her tough façade gone, I now saw a woman who would do anything to help her husband and who loved him deeply. Not unlike Lydia Wilmott. “Where are you a nurse?” I asked.
“Phelps,” she said, referencing a hospital in Tarrytown, where I grew up. It was about ten minutes north of where we stood. “I’ve been there for twenty years. I’m the head nurse in oncology.”
I always wonder why I can’t move on and why, for me, August is the cruelest month. Now I knew. Everywhere I turned were reminders of my mother, her life and her death. I knew Phelps well. My mother had died there after a long battle with a rare but deadly form of cancer. I searched my memory to see if I recalled ever having seen Ginny Miller, but I came up blank. But if she was as wonderful, professionally, as all of the nurses there had been to me and my mother, I now had newfound respect for her. And I certainly didn’t find her frightening.
I remembered Tony’s Korean War adventures and the pig explosion. “Your husband ever been to war, Ginny?”
“No. Why?”
This lying thing was coming easier and easier as the weekend wore on. I figured if I had gotten information out of Tony so easily about his war exploits, finding out if George had had any similar ones would be a piece of cake. I was right. She had answered immediately. “Because if they get him for manslaughter, he’s in for the battle of a lifetime.” Okay, so it was overly dramatic, but it was the only thing I could come up with on such short notice.
The tough façade returned and Ginny gave me a hard look, even though what she had to say was kind. “I’m sorry I came on so strong,” she said, throwing the truck into drive and peeling off down the street.
I looked at Trixie. “What was that?” I asked her, but as usual, she didn’t have a response. I did know one thing: the bizarre nature of the weekend was making me look forward to going back to school and working freshman orientation, something that I normally dreaded. I guess something positive had come out of this big, giant, tragic mess.
Eight
Crawford was whispering in my ear as I tried to go to sleep that night.
“Not tonight, Crawford. I don’t feel well,” I said, and pulled the comforter up closer to my ears; I had the air conditioner on high and the bedroom was a cool fifty-nine degrees, just the way I liked it. I had filled Crawford in on my conversation with Ginny Miller after Max and Fred had left. He had been interested, but not intrigued, as I thought he might be. Actually, he had been singularly unimpressed hearing that I had been accosted by a woman who would do anything to save her husband from the clink. He had seen suspects and their loved ones go to much further lengths to avoid jail time. “I think I have that cow flu that was all the rage a few months ago.”
“Swine.”
“What?”
“It’s the swine flu. Mad cow disease, swine flu. Two different things.”
“Thanks for the clarification. We’re still not having sex.”
“If you don’t feel well again tomorrow, you should call a doctor.”
“I only have a gynecologist. And my lady parts feel just fine. I don’t have a regular doctor.”
“Then get one.”
I took a deep breath; I didn’t feel congested but I didn’t feel uncongested, either. Somewhere in between. “Who do you think put that explosive device on Carter’s engine?”
“Who cares?”
“I care,” I said.
“Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, rolling over to face the window, his back to me.
“Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“Yes, it’s weird,” he said. “But I just don’t care. I didn’t know the guy, but he’s responsible for you having a black eye, so as far as I’m concerned, good riddance.”
“Crawford!”
“Seriously. You witnessed a horrible thing. Let’s move on. We have bigger things to discuss than who put an explosive device on some crazy blogger’s car. That’s what Hardin and Madden are for,” he said.
I remained silent for such a long time that I thought he might have fallen asleep, but tha
t didn’t matter. I had a burning question on my mind. “Do you know anyone in the police department who might know something about car bombs?”
“Go to sleep, please.”
I did. I slept right through the alarm, Crawford’s shower and dressing, and the breakfast making that he undertook in the kitchen. I only awoke when he presented me with a bacon and egg sandwich, the smell of which roused me from my slumber. I sat up and looked at the runny egg, half-cooked bacon, and stale roll. But I also took in Crawford’s pleased face—he’s not much of a cook so making this sandwich must have taken a tremendous amount of effort—and decided that I needed to eat it and look like I was enjoying it heartily. He was in a much better mood than the night before.
“I would have brought you coffee but you don’t have any,” he said. “Do you want me to go to Beans, Beans?”
“No!” I said, a little too hastily. I didn’t want anything to do with that place. At least for the time being. “The juice is fine,” I said, taking a large gulp that sat in my midsection as though I had swallowed an entire orange. What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe Crawford’s insistence on my seeing a doctor was warranted. I figured I’d give it the day and then make a decision. I ate around the half-cooked parts of the bacon and avoided the egg yolk, feeding bits of the sandwich to Trixie when Crawford wasn’t looking. He wears a lot of equipment to his job, and putting on all of it takes an inordinate amount of time, so his back was turned for the better part of my breakfast. When he turned back around and saw that I had finished, he was clearly pleased. He’s a nice guy, that Crawford; I am glad I didn’t disappoint him.
“I’ll call you later,” I said, getting the sense that he was heading out. “I’ve got interviews with the potential English majors from the freshman class today. Always a delight.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and leaned over the bed to give me a kiss. “Are you sure you’re feeling better?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “The weekend kind of sucked and I’m looking forward to getting back to work.” I threw the comforter back and stretched. “Did I really say that? How could I be looking forward to going back to work?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but try to have a good day.” And he was off, leaving just the lingering odor of his clean laundry smell in his wake. No wonder I was a little dizzy.
After walking Trixie, I went through my closet, attempting to come up with an outfit that conveyed the gravitas that assigning future English majors required. I settled on a short-sleeved wrap dress and a pair of sandals, opting for comfort over seriousness. The dress was a little low-cut, but being as there was nary a safety or straight pin in sight, I pulled the material together, putting a little tape between the dress and my skin. I knew it wasn’t going to hold, but I also knew that it would make me feel better, knowing that I had done something to rectify the situation. I pulled my shoulder-length hair back into a low ponytail and threw on some earrings. I was on my way out the door fifteen minutes later after checking in with the dog walker, reminding her that the party was over; I was back at work full-time.
I was planning on walking to the train that morning because the weather was beautiful, and I was definitely on my way there when I found myself veering off at the end of my street and ending up at Beans, Beans. I paused in front of the window of the store. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would come back here after what had transpired just forty-eight hours previous, but I felt compelled and a little guilty. I had thought many bad things about Greg’s coffee over the past two days and, in actuality, it wasn’t that bad. Okay, it was terrible. But I didn’t want the guy to fail and I wanted to show my solidarity. See? I was here and I had witnessed the whole thing! I tried to make eye contact with the other people on the street in front of the store, but imagined that I looked like a crazy person trying to strike up a conversation and ceased after the third person hurried by me. The store looked no worse for wear; a quick look inside told me that everything was as it had been right before Carter and George had started their fight ending in Carter’s death. Greg was at the counter, all alone, not a customer in the store. Seeing him going about his business in silence, all by himself, made me sad. Against my better judgment, I opened the door and walked in.
His face lit up at the sight of me and, I have to say, it was not a bad way to start the day. He came out from around the counter and gave me a big bear hug, the kind that I really don’t enjoy, particularly from people I don’t know very well.
“Alison! Hey!” he said, hustling back around the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing, Greg. Thanks,” I said, quickly changing my mind when I saw his disappointed face. “A large black coffee, please.”
He turned around to fill a cup of coffee for me. “You’re my first customer of the day and I’ve been open since six.” He turned back around and handed me the hot cup. “Be careful. That’s hot.”
I pulled a little sleeve from the stack next to the counter and slipped it on my cup before burning the pads of my fingertips. “Thanks for the warning,” I said, opening the lid and taking a little tiny sip. “No business today?”
“Not yet,” he said, wiping down the glass-topped counter with a wet rag even though it was spotlessly clean.
“They’ll come,” I assured him. “If you make the coffee, they will come,” I said gravely, making him laugh.
“I hope you’re right.” He leaned onto the counter. “How are you doing today?”
“Me?” I asked, surprised that he even cared about my well-being.
“Yeah, you.” He smiled. “You got a lot more than you bargained for on Saturday.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You, too.” I put my coffee on the counter.
“You’re not drinking your coffee,” he said.
“Oh, I will,” I said. “I’ve haven’t been feeling so great since last week. A little queasy.”
Greg smiled broadly. “Something you want to tell me?”
I couldn’t figure out why he was looking at me with such a broad grin on his face until he made a motion with his hand over his belly. “Pregnant? Oh, no,” I said. I shook my head back and forth so vigorously I started to get dizzy. “No. Not pregnant. Sick, maybe, but not pregnant.” I put my hand on my abdomen, wondering if my physique was giving the impression that I was with child. Yes, the usual paunch was still there, but it was nothing to write home about. A steady diet of Devil Dogs and vodka martinis will eventually take its toll. Was it time to start using the Ab Roller that I had bought from the Home Shopping Network one long, sleepless night a few weeks back?
“Well, okay, then,” Greg said, his tone suggesting that he didn’t think I was telling the truth. In order to prove him wrong, I picked up my fully caffeinated coffee and took a long drag, forgetting that it was screaming hot. My scorched tongue reminded me for the rest of the day that a simple denial would have been appropriate under the circumstances.
“Let me ask you something, Greg,” I said, attempting to articulate with a sore and numb tongue. “Did Carter come here a lot? Or was Saturday just a fluke?”
“He was here every day,” he said.
“So I guess he didn’t say anything nasty about you on his blog?”
Greg laughed. “Oh, sure he did. But I’m a forgiving soul, Alison. It takes a lot more energy to be negative than to be positive. And I’m all about putting positive energy into the world,” he said, closing his thumbs and forefingers together on each hand. “Namaste.”
“Namaste,” I replied, and left the store thinking that I should take a page from Greg’s book.
I was at school within the half hour, my tongue still numb from the scalding coffee. I entered campus, feeling that I was safer here than in my own village, and started my trek to my office. St. Thomas University sits majestically, high on a hill, overlooking the Hudson. On a day like today, the walk to my office was absolutely gorgeous, a view of the river at my left the entire time. Hoping to see some of my colleagues after the nice
summer break, I decided to go in through the front door of the school rather than through the secret back door that was closer to my office but which offered a far less scenic view. But when I entered the marble hallway of the main building where most classes were held, it was pretty much desolate, letting the wind out of my sails a bit. This wasn’t an auspicious beginning to the semester.
I trotted up to my third-floor office and encountered Dottie Cruz, the poorest example of a department secretary one could find on campus. She was making her way through the Daily News, New York’s hometown paper, commenting to the guy delivering mail about the sorry state of the Mets.
“Wright’s gotta stop swinging for the fences!” she said, getting a hearty nod from the mail guy. “Let’s get some singles, David. Save the home runs for play-off season.”
Save the home runs? Was that such great advice? How about giving us home runs whenever you wanted? Or could? I decided to pick up my mail and beat a hasty retreat to my office. “Hi, Dottie,” I said, pulling out a stack of textbook catalogs and brochures for study-abroad programs that really didn’t pertain to my academic subject of English. Dottie and I really don’t get along; she’s an inveterate gossip, and since I’m usually the one supplying the grist for the gossip mill but am tight-lipped in her presence, she doesn’t consider me an ally. Add in that I complain vociferously about her to anyone who will listen at least once a day, and I would have to say that we had become archenemies.
“The holy father is looking for you,” she called after me. I realized that despite her nosy nature, she never mentioned my black eye, and for that, I was most grateful.
I turned around, unable to resist the snappy comeback. “Really? Pope Benedict is looking for me?”
She looked confused, and rightfully so; in her world, the “holy father” was one of my best friends and the school chaplain, Kevin McManus. He was not holy, nor was he a father (except in the ecclesiastical sense), so I just referred to him as “Kevin.”
“You know what I mean.” The mail guy had left during this scintillating exchange so she turned back to her newspaper. Seemed to me that she would have a lot of work to do for freshman orientation, but she didn’t share my sense of urgency or work ethic. But she did have a beau who was a colleague of Crawford’s, and she seemed deliriously happy every time he called or stopped by campus. I stared at the back of her head for a second before asking her a question.
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