by Susan Breen
“You wanted my husband dead. You’re so holier-than-thou, but you wanted him dead.”
As she spoke her insulting words, she stretched back like a bow, as though taunting Maggie with her youth and fertility. Never had Maggie felt so old, so desiccated. She would have stormed off, but she didn’t think she could get up. The virtue of age, she thought. It forced wisdom because you couldn’t move fast enough to be impulsive.
“I went to see Char Bender,” she said, changing tack, hoping to knock Noelle off her perch just a little bit, though Noelle did not seem troubled. In fact, her face lit up.
“What’s old Char up to? Can she still move?”
“Yes, she can. She’s doing all right, but she told me about that contract you had with Bender. She said it was impossible for you to have a baby with him.”
Noelle didn’t seem the least bit put out by the question.
“He would have changed his mind. Men always do.”
She put her hand over her abdomen. She was beginning to show. How had Bender ever thought to keep this woman barren, Maggie thought. She was a monument to fertility. She was life, in all its selfishness, Maggie supposed. Survival of the fittest. Evolution. Her children would be tall and strong—assuming she fed them.
“But what if he didn’t?” Maggie pressed. “What if he insisted you follow the terms of the contract?” Would she have gone ahead and had the baby? Maggie wondered. Would she be willing to give up Bender and all the things he provided her with?
“He loved me. He would have changed his mind.” She looked at Maggie. “I knew him. I knew his fears, I knew what he wanted. He would have wanted this baby and he would have loved her.”
“I knocked on your door the night he died. You didn’t answer.”
For the first time, a shade of something crossed Noelle’s face, whether it was anger or guilt or fear, Maggie wasn’t sure. But she sensed she’d touched a nerve.
“I was in the attic, writing.”
“You didn’t hear me?”
With her huge brown eyes, Noelle stared at Maggie. A butterfly fluttered near her stomach, but she waved it away. Maggie fought to understand. “Or you did hear me, but you didn’t want to answer the door?”
Maggie looked down at her wedding ring, and remembered an argument she’d had with her husband on a similar topic. When he was so sure he wasn’t equipped to be a father and she was so exasperated at time going by.
“You thought it was Bender knocking. Not me. And you didn’t want to talk to him.”
“He yelled at me. At me!” Noelle said. She puffed up her cheeks, blew out. “Who did he think he was talking to? Who did he think he was? How dare he tell me what I could do with my body!” Her voice changed slightly. Sounded a bit like Queens.
“And then he went out for a run?”
“The doctor told him he should run. It was good for his heart.”
“And you locked the door.”
“Yes. And I didn’t plan to open it until he changed his mind.”
It would have been ridiculous if it weren’t so tragic. Bender died on Maggie’s lawn because he and his wife couldn’t agree on family planning.
“You knew he didn’t want children when you married him.”
“I know what men want,” she said. “I know what I want.”
Maggie looked around her, then across to the house that loomed next door. She considered the vastness of it, the four floors, the windows and balconies, and looked farther up. Toward the small window at the top that had stayed lit all these weeks. She could see perfectly into that window. So that’s why he ran to the tree, she thought. Because he hoped to see his wife there. But she wasn’t looking out the window, but down at her computer. So he died waving at a wife who paid no attention, with a neighbor who was looking out yet another window, waiting to throw a rock at him.
Was that justice? Maggie wondered. Was that what he deserved?
He’d chosen to marry this woman. He’d chosen to behave the way he did. Still, it didn’t sit right with Maggie. Had she known what she did now, she would have behaved differently. She was sorry he died as he did.
Noelle rose to her feet.
“Did you love him?” Maggie asked.
“He loved me,” Noelle replied. “That’s all that mattered. That’s all that ever mattered.”
Chapter 33
Finally, Maggie thought. Finally she had an answer to one question. It wasn’t much, but it was the first positive thing she’d managed to accomplish. Now she knew why Noelle hadn’t answered the door. She knew why Bender ran to her tree.
She also knew why Winifred was murdered. In a general sense, anyway. Winifred must have discovered some information pertaining to Bender’s murder and, being Winifred, she hadn’t reported it to the police, but neither had she kept silent. She had confronted the murderer. That made much more sense to Maggie than Walter Campbell’s suggestion that her friend killed herself. She could see Winifred doing something brave and foolish; she couldn’t see her passively surrendering.
The question was, what had Winifred known? Why was she killed?
She needed to call Walter Campbell and tell him what she’d learned, but when she called the police station they told her he was off with his daughter. Of course, she’d forgotten it was Sunday afternoon. She left a message and then paced around her house for a bit, waiting for him to call back. After several hours went by she figured Walter wasn’t calling. He’d probably dismissed her as a busybody. Well, too bad for him. She decided to go to the park. She called Peter and left a message. Maybe he would meet her.
There was enough light left in the park that the girls’ softball teams were still out. It was early in the season, the girls unscarred by defeat, and she laughed as she watched them all chattering and laughing and occasionally hitting the ball. She smiled at some of the parents, who she recognized from Sunday School. One of the garbagemen was there. His daughter was built like a linebacker and had a great arm and Maggie suspected she’d get a scholarship down the road. Would she come back afterward, Maggie wondered, or would she stay away?
So many of the children moved away. It was expensive to live in Darby. She wondered if Peter wanted to leave. He’d always said no, but now, in this park, she wondered if she had coerced him into staying here. She’d wanted him here so badly. Had he felt trapped? Should she have freed him long ago to live his life? Instead he was a grown man living like a teenager.
She needed to talk to him, but then she noticed her cellphone was dead. She’d forgotten to charge it in all her running around. She stuck it back inside her bag. She knew she should go home, but she wasn’t ready yet. She watched the girls play softball and she took out her notebook, began jotting thoughts into it the way she used to when she was writing mysteries. Who had a motive? Who had the most at stake?
She wrote for quite a while, so absorbed in her task that she didn’t realize night had fallen. She was alone in the park. She looked at her watch. It was 9:00 on a Sunday night. Not that late, but the village was quiet. Restaurants closed. Bars closed.
She wasn’t sure what made her feel afraid, but suddenly she sensed she wasn’t alone. The Tappan Zee Bridge bloomed right in front of her, the streets of her town were a scream away. Yet suddenly, as she sat there on her bench, she felt as though someone was watching. Maggie turned around. Nothing was there except for the playground, now deserted. She stared at it for a moment. There were so many places to hide in a playground. She remembered how her daughter once climbed into a tunnel and didn’t come out. Maggie hadn’t known where she was and had been on the verge of calling the police when one of the children found Juliet.
“Hello,” Maggie called out. “Anyone there?”
Something in the stillness reminded her of the night on her front lawn. A memory she must have repressed, because it jumped up at her now full throttle. The sensation of being watched, the smell of honeysuckle, the prickle of danger. She started to walk to the entry gate of the park, which was, unfo
rtunately, a narrow spot, easily blockaded. But there was no one there, no one to block her way, she thought, as she picked up her pace. This was a poisoner, not a mugger, she consoled herself as she trotted past the gate and found herself in a nest of old warehouses, an area that during the day thrived with artists and designers, but now was quiet. An elderly woman had died near here, a year ago. A woman with dementia who’d wandered away from her daughter and slipped on the rocks.
Was that a step?
An owl hooted. The moon winked. Maggie could hear traffic from Broadway. She was so close to safety, she thought, and then stumbled and scrambled back up to her feet. She felt dizzy. She felt alone. She remembered suddenly the story of one of the poisoners she’d investigated. A woman who told her husband that she was taking her son to visit family; then the husband, by himself in the house, looking to find some money he’d misplaced, looking under the mattress and finding there the body of his son. Horrors. Her stomach twisted with horrors, as Maggie kept walking forward and now was almost certain that she heard someone behind her. She thought of the 23rd psalm. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. She kept whispering the words. “Fear no evil.” She smelled something bitter, the smell of hate, sweat and hormones, which she recognized from her anger with Bender. She started to walk faster, but she felt exposed. Surely he wouldn’t attack her. He. Did she assume it was Peter?
“Peter,” she said. “Not Peter.”
No, this hate couldn’t come from him. Her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know what was worse, the sense of fear or betrayal. No, it wasn’t Peter and she wouldn’t allow herself to be attacked.
She crept forward, every nerve anticipating a blow. One of the warehouse lights flickered off. Then on. Was that a step? She couldn’t take it, turned around to face whatever was coming toward her. It was enough. She would meet her fate head-on and if this was the end, so be it. She couldn’t take one more moment of this terror, and she thought she saw a foot just about to break into her circle of vision, when she heard a most welcome sound.
A dirt bike. She smelled oil, heard its buzzing whine, and then around the bend came her young man, ripping over the bumpy road. He rode right toward her, then slowed as he caught sight of her. Slowed down even more. Then stopped. She’d never been so close to him. His eyes stared at her curiously. She watched him take in her disheveled state. She suspected she smelled of fear, salty and dank. Beyond her she heard the slightest of movements.
He took off his helmet and handed it to her, nodded.
“Thank you,” she said. This was no time for argument; she climbed behind him. He stood up on the bike, then pressed down and it jerked forward. Maggie almost flew off backward, but she held on. Her arms circled his strong chest. She felt the most amazing sense of security. Here was youth and strength and hope. Here was the future.
When he pulled up in front of her house, Mr. Cavanaugh was out with Fidelio, and he jolted as Maggie got off the bike.
“Can I get you some cookies?” she asked the young man.
“No, thank you,” he replied, in a surprisingly deep voice.
She put her hand on his. “Did you see anyone there?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I thought I heard someone. It scared me. Thank you for coming along.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and she thought of a line from Paradise Lost that she’d always liked about reluctant angels. She thought of him like that, glorious and bold and rebellious, and she was about to tell him so when he got back on his bike, revved the engine, and tilting all the way back, like the Lone Ranger, he arced into the air and was gone.
“Nice boy,” Mr. Cavanaugh said.
“You know him?”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s Billy Kim. He studies with me. You must know his mother.”
“I don’t think so.”
“She owns the manicure salon on Main Street. He’s giving a recital next Sunday. You’re welcome to come. Cálmate, Fidelio,” he whispered. “Cálmate.”
The dog looked puzzled, as well he might, Maggie thought. For the first time Maggie wondered why Mr. Cavanaugh always spoke to the dog in Italian. Or Spanish.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” Maggie said, “I wonder if I might ask you a question?”
It turned out that Cavanaugh was spitting at her oak tree because he hated Bender for what he’d done to his daughter. Lorelei Bender was Cavanaugh’s most promising piano student and the first student he’d ever had who could have had a musical career. Cavanaugh went so far as to rent recital space at Steinway Hall to showcase her talents, but at the last minute Bender pulled her out. If she was that good she needed a better teacher, he said.
Cavanaugh pleaded. He would teach her for free. A talent such as hers needed to be nurtured. Bender switched her over to some high-priced charlatan in Manhattan.
“She’s in the marching band now,” he sniffed. “Plays the saxophone.”
Yet another reason for hatred, Maggie thought. Yet another example of the anger that seemed to swirl around her dead neighbor.
That night Maggie locked up carefully. She didn’t have a gun, but she did have a set of sharp steak knives. She took one and put it under her pillow. Not much defense against a poisoner perhaps, but it was something. Off in the distance she could hear the coyotes howl. She thought of them in the woods. Once she’d seen a coyote pup separate from its mother; it was one of the few times in her life she’d felt actual physical danger. She felt the presence of evil. Someone was toying with her. Something dark was out there, and it frightened her. She looked out her window that night, watching, waiting, but nothing came. She looked out to the brightest of the stars and prayed for guidance. She felt weighed down by all she had to do. Everything kept coming back to Peter, but she knew it wasn’t him.
Suddenly she remembered something that had been swirling around her consciousness all afternoon; something Agnes had said. She needed to talk to Agnes, and her last thought, before she drifted off to sleep, was that she’d find Agnes somewhere on Main Street in the morning. She’d ask her then.
Chapter 34
Of course, Agnes was not on Main Street, though she practically lived there. But Maggie did find Iphigenia, who looked surprisingly droopy. Far different than the cheerful Iphigenia she had seen a week earlier, when they went to Doc Steinberg’s.
“Hello, old friend, how are you?”
“Good,” Iphigenia said, though she wasn’t a good liar. Her dark eyes glistened with tears. Her hands shook.
“You don’t look well.”
“Tscha.”
“Did Doc Steinberg call?” Maggie asked.
They’d only gone to the doctor a week ago. Life seemed to be speeding up, slowing down. Time playing such tricks.
“You got a good report from the doctor, didn’t you? That was a relief.”
“Yes, a good report,” Iphigenia said, automatically guiding Maggie over to the chair. She was one of those people who couldn’t speak unless her hands were busy. She looked upon Maggie as though she were an overgrown yew and began to hack. It will grow back, her mother whispered. Kindness is always more important.
That’s easy for you to say.
“Are you feeling okay?” Maggie asked. She closed her eyes.
“Yes, I feel great. I’m in good health. This is what the doctor said.”
“Tell me what’s wrong. I thought seeing the doctor would make you feel better.”
“Hush,” Iphigenia said, and resumed clipping. She did it for a while. Maggie had no idea what was going on because her eyes were closed. Better that way. She listened to the snipping and made believe it was happening to someone else.
“There!” Iphigenia said, and smacked Maggie on the back of her head, which caused her to open her eyes and gaze upon her reflection incredulously. She looked like a movie star. An old movie star, but still. She’d always worn her hair casually, but Iphigenia had done something to b
ring out cheekbones she didn’t know she had.
“Finally,” Iphigenia said. “If I do nothing else before I die, I do this. My work is complete.”
Maggie looked into her friend’s eyes. Iphigenia sank into the chair next to her. “What is it? Why are you completing your work?”
“I didn’t tell the doctor everything.”
“Why?”
“Because if I tell her everything, I know she’ll want me to go get tests and I can’t handle that.” She began shaking her head no.
“What didn’t you tell her?”
Iphigenia looked like she was boiling inside. “I feel a lump.”
“Didn’t she examine you? Didn’t the doctor feel it too?”
“Yes, but I turned so she wouldn’t feel it. I’m scared. I’m not like you, Miss Maggie. I’m not brave.”
“I’m not brave either,” she said.
“Yes you are. Look at all the things you do. You lose your daughter and your husband and you keep on going. You have the courage of a lion, and me, I am a mouse. I am less than a mouse.”
“Iphigenia, I don’t know where courage comes from, but I know this: it flourishes among people who love you. It’s possible to do things you’d never do when someone believes you’re capable of it. I suppose living in this village, and being part of this church, I’ve grown used to having people believe in me, and so I’ve come to believe in me too. If Doc Steinberg said you’re fine, you probably are. But if you’re not, you can deal with it, and I’ll be there to help you.”
Iphigenia nodded vehemently. “Yes, of course, you are right.”
“Should we go to the doctor now?”
Iphigenia seemed about to sink to her knees, but then she pulled herself together, tossed her hair, locked the door to the shop, and the two of them walked up to Doc Steinberg’s. So many people waved at them as they walked by. Some Maggie didn’t even know, and it struck her hard to think that someone in this village was a murderer. Someone she probably knew, probably loved, was killing people. Someone might have tried to kill her last night, and the thought made her angry, and when she felt angry it brought up the emotion she’d felt toward Bender. She couldn’t get past the feeling that although he was the victim, he was also the person who had set this whole thing in motion.