Sunburn: A Novel

by Laura Lippman

  “And you help her with that, don’t you?” Irving does smile now, but it is an infuriatingly kind one, almost pitying. “She has her charms. I know, believe me. There’s something about her—a stillness, a capacity for quiet. Maybe she always had that quality, but sometimes, I think it was from living with Ditmars. She learned to freeze, like a deer, or a child playing that game. Freeze tag? And she gave a man a sense that he was a hero, that he could save her. If she made me feel that way, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

  “You had associates, other people who were involved in the things you did—” Adam is grasping and he knows it. But there has to be an explanation for Polly’s disappearance. Would he really rather her be dead than duplicitous, playing him for a sucker all these months?

  Yes, yes, he would.

  “Adam, here’s one thing you can take to the bank, one thing you already know, if you would just let yourself: I’ve never killed anyone, not directly. Do I know of deaths? Sure. But I was caught between two vultures, nothing more than a paper pusher. I’ve never shoved a knife in a man’s heart. She has. And she probably killed that girl, too, the one who died in the explosion. You should know these things.”

  “So you’ve been calling me out of concern with my welfare these past few weeks?”

  “No, but there is something I think you should know. Something that will change everything you think you know about your relationship with this woman.”

  It’s a mind fuck, Adam tells himself. He’s a bitter old man and Adam did do him dirty in a sense. If he hadn’t fallen in love with Polly, probably none of this would have happened. Cath’s death, Irving’s arrest. It’s not his fault that Irving sent someone inept to kill Polly.

  Someone inept—that’s the real threat. Irving doesn’t have to ask the guy who killed Cath to kill Polly. He’ll know to do it on his own. If she’s dead, the charges against Irving go away and no one has to flip on anyone.

  “I can’t believe anything you have to say.”

  “Be that way. I’m still going to give you a little stocking stuffer, something small to occupy your thoughts.” But instead of leaning forward as most men do when sharing a confidence, he leans back and presses his arm on the table in front of him, almost like someone bracing for an accident. “She knows about you. Has for months.”

  “Knows what?”

  “Knows that you’re a private detective and that I hired you. She was pretty slick, I have to admit. Called up, pretending to be a housewife with a cheating husband, checking your references. But you know and I know that I wouldn’t have been giving you a very good reference as of August, right? I told my mystery caller that, per the law on confidential personnel information, I would confirm only the dates of your employment with me. And I did. Can you think of anyone else who would have been thinking of hiring you last summer?”

  Adam hasn’t lost his ability to think on his feet. “That’s not news to me,” he tells Irving. “Polly and I came clean with each other a long time ago. About everything.”

  “Oh, so you knew what I told you today. About the daughter. And the money.”

  “Right. All that money is for the daughter, she’s never touched it and she’s never going to.” He lies for himself, not Irving, and finds the lie credible. That explains everything. There is no money, she is not dishonorable. She found out he had a secret and kept her own, tit for tat. He’ll tell her everything and she’ll tell him everything. If he finds her, when he finds her, assuming she can be found.

  “Well then, Merry Christmas,” Irving says. “And a Happy New Year. I don’t know about you, but I feel cautiously optimistic for 1996.”

  45

  Polly waits.

  She sits in the High-Ho Saturday evening, which closed early today and will not open again until Tuesday. She has left the car she’s using, a bright red Toyota with Maryland tags, in the lot. From where she’s sitting—behind the bar, but to the side, so she has a view through the window—she can see the light on in room 3 at the Valley View. She decided to leave the door unlocked, which is a little risky, but the manager knows where she is if anything happens, says he’ll keep an ear out.

  But for the first time in almost a year, Polly can admit to herself that she has no idea what’s going to happen. Which is not to say that all her careful plans have proceeded as she hoped over the past year. Quite the opposite. She did not foresee how long things would take, that’s for sure. She was not prepared for Gregg’s reactions—the macho posturing of last summer, the sudden dedicated daddy game he’s playing now.

  She did not plan for Adam, for love. No one plans for love, much less decides to love a man she cannot trust. But maybe that will be okay. She can work out the Adam problem later. First, she needs to get through the next few hours. She has left her trail of bread crumbs and all she can do is wait and see who comes through the door.

  The door at which she is aiming Mr. C’s gun.

  The crunch of gravel, the rattle of a doorknob. A man’s shape fills the door, backlit by the neon of the Valley View sign. Even in silhouette, she knows him instantly. The shoulders are broad, the posture perfect.

  Adam.

  Fuck, she’s wrong again.

  46

  “Polly?”

  “Hi, Adam.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working a little overtime.”

  She puts the gun down on the bar. Adam walks over to her. It is nine o’clock, the eve before Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve’s Eve. Was it really only forty-eight hours ago that he thought he would be down on one knee in this spot, asking a woman to marry him? This woman, standing vigil with a handgun she probably doesn’t even know how to use.

  “Whose car is that out front?”

  “Mine. Or used to be. But I would think you would know that. I assumed it was in your dossier on me.”

  “My dossier?”

  “Isn’t that what private detectives call their reports? Remember I didn’t go to Oberlin, only community college. But you knew that, too. You know where I went to high school and the dates of my marriages, all that stuff. It must have gotten confusing at times, trying to remember what you were supposed to know and what I hadn’t told you yet.”

  He wants to hold her. But there is the bar between them. The bar and the gun.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “There never seemed to be a right time to tell you. Once we were in love—did it really matter?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t have the luxury of thinking about things like that. There are more pressing matters.”

  Adam looks at the gun on the bar. He remembers thunder, an explosion. Which came first?

  “Polly, did you kill Cath?” he asks.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “That’s honest, at least.”

  She still hasn’t answered his question.

  “Where did you go, Polly? Where have you been?”

  “I went to Baltimore. Gregg told me earlier this month that he’s going to pursue full custody of Jani. That he might even expect child support from me, down the road, although he’s waiving it for now. Isn’t that rich? Of course, he doesn’t know that I have money coming to me. That was the whole point, to get out of that marriage before Gregg found out about the settlement. I’m guessing you know about that, too? I assume that’s why Irving hired you. He heard I had money, he wanted it. And not because he needed it, just to make things hard on me.”

  “I get why you don’t want your ex to have your money, but if you’re not going to raise your kid, would it be the worst thing in the world to pay support if you can?”

  “You don’t get anything.” Her tone is weary, impatient. “Come with me.”

  She leads him out of the bar, across the street, to room 3. As she opens the unlocked door, he’s saying, “I don’t think this is the time to—” Although part of him thinks maybe it’s exactly the time, maybe it’s the only thin
g to do now. Maybe if they make love, he’ll remember why he loves her.

  But the bed already has someone in it—a little girl with high color in her cheeks and dark, tight curls. It’s only seeing the girl, close up, that Adam registers how much she looks like her father—and how much she looks like Adam. He couldn’t see that before, but he and Gregg bear a strong resemblance to each other.

  “Jani,” Polly says. “But, again, you know that. You’ve seen us together, right?”

  He nods. “At the beach. Before you left her.”

  “I figured I was only going to be gone for a few months, tops. I didn’t realize how long things would take. I thought I could get to Reno, get a divorce in six weeks. Belleville wasn’t part of the plan. Neither were you. I had so many lovely plans. I sure didn’t expect her father to fight me for custody. I assumed he’d be going crazy after a few months alone with her, would beg me to take her off his hands.”

  “You kidnapped her.”

  “She’s mine. There’s no custody order, no law broken. I took a bus to Baltimore Thursday afternoon. Spent the night in the bus station, which was interesting. On Friday, while Gregg was at work, I went to the old house, packed up a bag for her, put it in the trunk of the Toyota. I still had my keys, after all. Then all I had to do was let myself in about eleven, when the house was dark, and pick her up. She wasn’t even that surprised to find me carrying her. I think she always knew I would come for her. I drove straight to the Valley View, checked in about one a.m.”

  “Why did you bring her to the motel instead of our place?”

  “I didn’t want to involve you.” It’s the first thing she’s said that doesn’t ring true. After all, she was sitting across the street, in the dark, with a gun.

  “Involve me? Like you said, there’s nothing illegal about a mom having her kid. He could call you in for auto theft, I guess, although if your name is on the title—”

  “It is.”

  “Then I don’t think the cops can get involved. But your ex must be going crazy.”

  “He shouldn’t be. I left a note that I was taking her for Christmas and would bring her back next week. He had her for all other holidays this year. It’s only fair.”

  Adam has never had a kid, but he’s pretty sure that sneaking into your estranged husband’s house and taking your daughter two days before Christmas is guaranteed to make a man crazy. And he’s pretty sure that Polly knows that, too.

  The girl stirs in her sleep. “Let’s go back to the High-Ho,” Polly says. “She’s a light sleeper.”

  “Is that safe, leaving her here?”

  “Safe enough. I told the desk clerk to keep an ear out for her, that I had to do some inventory for overtime pay, but that my daughter was sleeping.” Her voice positively caresses those last few words.

  “What about the gun?”

  “I heard someone pulling up and I got a little scared.”

  But Mr. C keeps his gun in his desk. And you don’t do inventory in the dark.

  They cross the highway, head into the still-dark bar. Now they are on the stools, just as he imagined it. Where is the velvet box? Back at their apartment, still hidden in that little grove of tampons. Maybe that’s for the best. This isn’t the time for a romantic proposal. Instead of a blue velvet box between them on the bar, there’s a gun.

  “Polly, what are you really up to?”

  “I’m going to run, Adam. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’m going to disappear with her, make him divorce me in absentia. Once we’re divorced, I’ll be okay to use my money. With money, I can fight for her.”

  “He has rights, Polly.”

  “Don’t talk to me about his rights. There’s already a new woman, with her own kid. I know Gregg. He’ll marry her. She’ll favor her kid. Then they’ll probably have a kid together and Gregg will favor that kid. Jani’s a strong little girl. That’s why I could risk being away from her for a few months. But she’s not strong enough to rely on Gregg. No one is that strong.”

  “Polly, did you kill Cath?”

  “Did you really think I was the kind of woman who would abandon her kid? Because if you believe that of me, you might as well blame me for Cath and anything else. If you already think I’m a monster, I’m not going to persuade you otherwise.”

  There’s a flaw in her logic, but Adam is too overwhelmed to nail it. And, once again, she has sidestepped the question about Cath.

  He goes over to the jukebox, tries to remember the selection he pressed not that long ago, when they danced here together. Why is it so hard to find this time? Ah, Double A, Double 1. He presses it. Spanky and Our Gang start to sing, but the notes can’t cover the sound of crunching gravel, the bar door being slammed open hard enough so it almost bounces off the wall.

  “You bitch,” Gregg says from the door, running toward Polly like a linebacker. “You crazy sick bitch. Where’s my daughter?”

  Polly dives for the gun, bobbling it a bit, and Adam realizes his fears were well placed: she has no idea how to use a gun. It doesn’t matter, because before she can do anything, Gregg is on her, dragging her to the floor, while she tries to hold on to the weapon with both hands, kicking and flailing, even biting him.

  The fight between them seems almost intimate, filled with the passion and bitterness that only two former spouses can manage. She never loved Gregg, Adam is sure of that, but she definitely hates him now. It’s as if Gregg is every man who ever hurt her or disappointed her. And Gregg, who has no compunction about hitting a woman, fights her on her terms, slapping and scratching and pulling hair.

  Adam attempts to pull Gregg off Polly, succeeds only in loosening one of her hands from the gun. She yanks Gregg’s hair with her free hand, but no matter how hard she tears at his hair and face, he won’t let go, they are tangled together as if they may never part. Gregg has closed his hand over hers, Adam needs to step in to grab the gun, who has the gun, where is the gun—

  June 11, 2017

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Polly studies the tomatoes at the farmers’ market. It’s not even summer officially, which makes these lumpy heirlooms quite suspect. “Tomatoes this early?” she asks the farmer, an older man. Then she realizes he’s probably about her age, late fifties. She never remembers how old she is.

  “Hothouse,” he admits. “But just as good.”

  She’s dubious, still she sorts through them, looking for two that are ripe and ready. She has Nueske’s bacon at home, some American cheese. She needs only to pick up a loaf of good bread from the organic baker, a head of Boston lettuce. Jani specifically requested “your famous grilled cheese sandwich” for lunch today and Polly seldom says no to either of her daughters. Besides, Jani has just graduated from law school, UB, near the top of her class. How can Polly deny her a grilled cheese sandwich? She asks for so little, this second child, has accepted with unfailing good grace that family life has to center on Joy’s needs. Jani hasn’t found a job yet, but only because she’s choosy. No Wall Street, no white-shoe firm for passionate Jani. She plans to represent people like her sister, although through a nonprofit, not a money-churning personal injury firm. How Jani loves to sneer at the cheesy commercials for such lawyers, the refrigerator magnets they send out with the Yellow Pages.

  Polly doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it was just such a lawyer who made their life—their little jewel of a house, Joy’s ability to live with them—possible. It’s not important.

  Should she get a good cheddar? Adam always said that nothing melts like American cheese. Maybe a mix of the two, though, so you get the best of both worlds—a perfect melt and more flavor.

  Polly just hopes Jani won’t start harping on her new favorite topic: Polly dating. While Jani seemed to appreciate having Polly’s attention focused on her and Joy all these years, she is suddenly intent on pairing Polly up with someone, anyone. She talks about Match.com and eHarmony and the lonesome law professor who looks a little bit like Ichabod Crane, but is so funny. Polly doesn�
�t even bother to tell Jani that she has no idea who Ichabod Crane is. She says only: “I’m happy, honey. I can’t be any happier. I had a true love, once upon a time and that’s more than most people can say.”

  Jani assumes that true love was her father, Gregg. Why wouldn’t she? Stories are like dough. Did Adam tell Polly that? No, but it sounds like something he would have said. Put your hands in your stories, work them, but don’t overwork them. Polly has always told Jani that the summer of 1995 was a “rough patch.” She ran away, she took a job in a small Delaware town, took up with another man. “I never expected things to end the way they did.”

  Who can contradict her story? Fourteen years ago, when Jani was only eleven, her father was executed for the murder of Adam Bosk. Gregg always insisted it was an accident, that Polly was the one who grabbed the gun, fired the fatal shot. But there was the convenient fact of that restraining order she had started to pursue, via Barry Forshaw, only two weeks earlier, the belated police report on Gregg’s attempt to stalk her back in July. Polly feared Gregg. He was dangerous. The record showed that.

  But, Adam—Adam wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t due until Christmas Eve. Twenty-two years ago, when almost no one had a cell phone or e-mail, there were gaps and mysteries in communication. He’d said he wouldn’t be in Belleville until Sunday morning. She had no reason to doubt that.

  And the fact is, Gregg probably wouldn’t have been found guilty of a capital crime if he had shot Polly instead of Adam. When a husband kills his estranged wife, it’s just love gone wrong. When he kills the handsome bystander who’s trying to break up the fight—that’s when things get serious.

  A month later, Polly, looking for a tampon, found the jewelry box that Adam had hidden. When she had the ring appraised, she was tempted to sell it, but she couldn’t bear to part with it. She has never worn it. She keeps it in a safe-deposit box for the day when Jani falls in love. She hopes against hope that Jani will pick a good man.

  For her part, Jani insists she’ll never marry. Jani says she has to be responsible for Joy’s care when Polly is gone. But neither Polly nor Joy wants Jani to live that way, to see her sister as a burden that requires swearing off earthly pleasures. Joy is a joy, everybody’s favorite, the heart of the family, a truly old soul. Now thirty-six, she communicates with an iPad, and it amazes Polly how funny she can be, her gift for wordplay and poetry. It makes no sense, but Joy, whose movement is limited in every sense of the word, reminds Polly of footloose Adam. She is just so very present, day to day. And it was proven long ago that Joy doesn’t need Polly. It’s Polly who needs Joy.