Idyll Threats

by Stephanie Gayle

  A cow mooed, long and low. I surveyed the onlookers: white, middle-class people staring at the minister, the casket, or anywhere but. The family huddled together, shoulders touching. Sad and strange that all four of Cecilia’s grandparents had outlived her. The grandmother who’d had hip surgery used her husband as a crutch, her face collapsing as she cried. Snuffling noises emerged from behind her lace-edged hankie. Cecilia’s mother and sister cried too, silently. Tears slid down their faces. Dripped onto their dress collars. Had Cecilia cried like her grandmother or like her sister and mother? Billy might know. He stood near the family in his dress uniform, hands at his waist, grim-faced.

  The mourners returned to their cars. I followed the last of the stragglers to the Norths’ home and stepped past knots of people on the lawn. In the living room, Cecilia’s sister, Renee, stood in a huddle of her peers. She was Cecilia’s height, but blond. Her eyes were brown, half hidden by swollen eyelids, like raisins poked into dough.

  Voices were low, but there was a speed to the conversation. People speculated about who had killed her. I recognized a sharp-faced young man wearing a well-cut, dark suit. The ex-boyfriend, Matthew Dillard. Now that he was alibied, he had my sympathy.

  People gave me wide berth as I passed through rooms, looking for the bathroom. A line of women stood outside it. I turned back and went to the dining room. A long row of casseroles sat on the buffet. Oversized plates of cold cuts crowded the room’s giant wooden table. Bread loaves were squished between supersize containers of mayo and mustard. The lemonade dispenser sweat giant water beads. The Norths had air-conditioning, but it wasn’t strong enough to withstand this crowd. I’d put money on someone fainting before this ended.

  A thin, middle-aged woman in a black-and-white checked dress came through the rear door and stabbed a casserole with a slotted spoon. “Help you?” she said when she saw me watching. Her tone implied she’d rather not.

  “Hello, I’m Police Chief Lynch.”

  Her lips formed a thin line. She said, “I’m May Hanover, Susan’s sister.” Ah, the aunt. She looked a bit like Mrs. North and Cecilia. The symmetry of the features, mostly. Her eyes were dark brown, like her hair.

  “You live nearby?” I asked.

  “No. Maryland.” She checked the other food. Stirred some veggie dip.

  “Did you see Cecilia much?”

  “Every Thanksgiving. I’d travel up here and see the girls.” She adjusted a container of toothpicks near the cheese plate. The cheese looked near melting. God, it was hot. Was her dress wool? It looked it.

  “Would you like to step outside?” I asked.

  “I should—” She glanced at the food. There was too much of it. “Just a second.” She came back twenty seconds later, armed with cigarettes and a lighter. She led me to the backyard. It looked like my own, shaggy and untended. We walked until we reached the edge, marked by a tall wooden fence decorated with bird silhouettes. We stood below a cutout hawk. She snapped her lighter, lit her cigarette, and took a long drag. “Cecilia smoked,” I said.

  “Did she?” Her voice implied ignorance, but her face wasn’t up to the lie.

  “You knew.”

  She blew smoke toward an overhanging tree. There was a nest inside the crook of its branches. The nest was made of straw, and contained a bright-red string. A ribbon?

  “I knew,” she said, “but her parents didn’t.”

  “What else didn’t they know?” The nest. Were there baby birds inside? Should we be standing so close? If the parents thought we’d tainted the chicks, they might abandon them. I’d read that somewhere.

  “They’re good parents.” Her lips flattened again.

  “Yes, they are.” The Norths had never struck me as otherwise. “So Cecilia told you secrets?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. I used to be the cool aunt, but I’ve aged out of that.” She patted her skin, calling attention to wrinkles. She looked good for a woman her age. “But she’d sometimes ask for advice.”

  “Such as?”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?” Was she joking? She finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground. “She’d been unhappy at work.” She looked at the others gathered on the lawn. They sipped from plastic cups and broke into sudden fits of sharp laughter.

  “No one else mentioned this.”

  She shrugged. “I doubt she told anyone. She was good with secrets.”

  “Did she say why she was unhappy?”

  She pushed her chin forward. “Her supervisor sounded like a pill, and there might have been something—I don’t know.”

  “Something?”

  She lit a second cigarette. “I got the impression she thought that not everything at the company was on the up and up.” She inhaled and held the smoke.

  “And you didn’t mention this because…?”

  She exhaled a cloudy stream. “You think she was killed by an insurance company because she knew too much? Give me a break. She was a Human Resources assistant. If I’d thought for a minute she’d been in danger, I’d have said something.”

  “So you don’t think her death had anything to do with her job?”

  “No.” She stomped on the half-smoked cigarette.

  “What then?”

  She flicked her thumb over her lighter, creating a spark and a flame. “I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “A golf course at midnight is a strange place to be.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She rubbed her lips. “I need to brush my teeth. I don’t even like cigarettes. The taste, like kissing an ashtray. But the calm, you know?” She stared at the house. “Cecilia actually liked smoking. But then, she was young.” Her tears trembled on her lower lids. “She was a sweet kid.” The tears fell.

  She shook herself. “I’d better get inside. Check on the food.” She touched my arm, and the heat of her hand felt unpleasant, like a burn.

  Above us, a bird cheeped. Returned to the nest? Or safely tucked inside all this time?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She left.

  I stood and surveyed the crowd. Our victim had a lot of friends. But the one I’d hoped to see, the man from the cabin, was absent. I thought about Cecilia, cadging smokes and sneaking out to meet an older, married man at night. We weren’t dissimilar, she and I. She had been scrappy, not one to back down from a fight.

  I stayed another half hour, cruising the Norths’ house, overhearing stories about Cecilia. Things I learned:

  She liked to sing but was tone deaf.

  She’d asked for a unicorn two Christmases in a row until she received a note from Santa that explained that unicorns were mythical creatures.

  She responded to Santa’s note with a dictated letter of her own saying she’d heard rumors that he wasn’t real, but she believed in him and so maybe he should look into the unicorn thing more closely.

  She loved animals and was always rescuing strays and convincing people to adopt pets, including salamanders and rats.

  She’d told her sister she’d already picked out the song she’d dance to at her wedding, but she wouldn’t say what it was in case it jinxed things.

  I reviewed this list as I drove home, the air conditioner blowing chill air at my groin and hands.

  At home I contemplated watching the game. The Yankees were playing tonight. Maybe I’d go to Suds. Or maybe I’d stay home and watch Apollo 13. I liked Ed Harris. He had the bluest eyes.

  I removed my suit and headed for the shower. Its black and pink tiles a reminder of how little I’d altered this house. But renovating a bathroom was costly and inconvenient. And I could ignore the colors. Though it was still hot, I took a scalding shower. Tried to cleanse myself of the funeral, of the weeping family, and of the people who pointed as I walked past. Did they think we were taking too long to solve the murder? Did they have any idea what was involved? I rubbed harder. Then I soaped lower. My cock was up for some exercise.
I pictured Ed Harris. Ran my hand along my dick and imagined his tongue was my fingers. Stroked with one hand while the other pressed the pink and black tiles, keeping me upright. Ed Harris, Ed Harris, his mouth wet and hot and Ed Harris, Ed Harris, Dr. Saunders. I grunted and convulsed. My cum hit the metal faucet, the drops white and viscous, like glue. I rinsed myself front to back, breathing hard, pleasantly empty-minded for the first time in weeks.

  The bathroom’s wheezy ceiling fan didn’t remove much moisture. I hummed along with its loud mechanical breaths. The mirror was steamed over, drips streaking the glass. I toweled my hair as I walked to the bedroom.

  Dressed in boxers and a fresh T-shirt, I sat in my recliner. I reached to my side and opened the file I’d copied at the station, my eyes peeled for witnesses. It’s not good practice to make copies of in-progress case files and bring them home. I’d punish anyone I caught doing it. But I owed it to Cecilia North to close her case, and if bringing files home was the way to do it, so be it.

  It is better to beg forgiveness. Rick’s words echoed in my head.

  “Amen, Leprechaun,” I said, looking toward the gun safe, where his key ring was. I looked down and began reading the crime-scene notes. “Amen.”

  Suds was closed at 5:30 a.m., when I’d begun my day, so I’d had to get coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. Two large cups with sugar. “With sugar” meant they put Brazil’s total export into the foam cups. But it ensured my eyes were open two hours later when Mayor Mitchell opened my door. He wore a polo embroidered with the Nipmuc Golf Course logo. Interesting fashion choice.

  “Good morning, Mayor.” I didn’t stand.

  “There was a robbery, out by Lenox Road,” he said. No good mornings today.

  Ah, so that’s why he was here, and why he was annoyed. “Yes,” I said. Another baby burglary. So called because they’d stolen the video-game system, again. And eaten all the junk food. We were betting some juvies were the criminal masterminds behind it all. This time our baby burglars had also gotten hold of a private video of the owners’ “intimate relations.” That had peaked my men’s interest. They claimed Mrs. Peterson was super hot. I doubted Mr. Peterson would see his videotape before some shmuck here checked its authenticity. “I’m aware of the burglary.”

  He always called them robberies, though the residents were never home when they occurred.

  “This is the fourth in six months!” He neared my desk and stared at its chaos. “What are you doing about it?”

  “My men are investigating. So far we don’t have a lot to work with.” A thought became a stone in my hand. A way to kill two birds. “I’ll assign another cop. William Thompson.” I’d been looking for a way to eject Billy from the murder ever since his snow-blower joke.

  “Good. Now, I know you have a murder, but we can’t let the crime rate increase because we’re focused on one case.”

  “We’ll close them,” I said. “Soon.”

  “Right, then. I’ll see you at the Idyll Days committee review.”

  “Uh huh.” No idea what he was talking about.

  He asked, “You growing a beard?”

  I hadn’t shaved. “Maybe,” I said, though I didn’t plan to. “Ladies love a beard.”

  He waved good-bye, missing the joke. Rick would’ve loved that one.

  The quiet lasted five minutes. My next guest was Revere. His buzz cut was freshly trimmed and his shoes polished. “Found something I thought you’d like to see.” He handed me faxed pages, curled at the ends. A theft report for a Smith & Wesson .45. “Douglas Browning reported this?” I asked after I’d read the topmost fields. Donny’s father. “He owned the same type of gun used in our murder?”

  “He did. Before he reported it stolen.”

  “In 1993.” Four years ago. “You found this?”

  “Thought I’d check state-wide thefts.”

  “You having the resources.” He must’ve called in some favors.

  “Me having the resources.” He relaxed his stance.

  “So he owned a gun.” Douglas Browning’s gun was one Smith & Wesson. 45. Just one. And yet his son had seen the victim hours before her death. But the store tape showed him there for his whole shift, and the tech boys said the tape hadn’t been doctored. Still, it was odd. I didn’t like odd. “They have any leads on who stole it?”

  “Browning blamed his cleaners. I swung by to see them. They’re still upset about it. Two tiny Polish ladies.” He hunched his shoulders, “They don’t seem likely.”

  I bit my thumb. “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be.”

  “I hate coincidences.”

  He took a ballpoint pen from my desk. “They’re troublesome,” he said. He unscrewed the bottom cap and pulled out the ink barrel. Then rotated it. This was how he thought. He fidgeted with office supplies, like Finnegan’s paperclip. Perhaps Revere was human after all.

  “Let’s keep this under our hats for now.” I didn’t need Wright haring after Douglas Browning, Esquire. Getting us embroiled in a lawsuit that bankrupted the town a second time. “Check if there’s a connection between Mr. Browning and our vic. But keep it discreet.”

  “Sure thing.” He set the reassembled pen on my desk. “You hear any more on Gary Clark’s alibi?”

  “Solid.” Finnegan had checked it out. “All of his poker buddies said he’d been present at the game. The host’s wife confirmed it, and Finnegan says she didn’t like Gary much.”

  Revere said, “Your shirt’s buttoned wrong.” I looked down. The fabric on my shirt gaped. I’d matched buttons to the wrong holes. The mayor must’ve noticed. Great.

  “Thanks. Have you seen Billy?”

  “He’s by the board, talking sports with Finnegan.” That’s all he said and all he had to. Revere thought Billy was too young. Well, I was about to make Revere happy.

  “Send him in.” While he fetched Billy, I fixed my shirt, and fingered my stubble. I’d shave this evening. Get tidied up.

  Billy came in looking like an advertisement for milk. He had a slight sunburn. “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Billy, I’m reassigning you.”

  “What?” All his puppyish good cheer disappeared.

  “I need the burglaries wrapped up. Now. You’ll report to Hopkins.”

  “But I—”

  “No buts. Report to Hopkins.”

  He crossed his arms. “Did I do something wrong, Chief? I know I don’t have much experience, but I think I can—”

  “Hoops,” I said. I’d never called him that before. “Report to Hopkins.”

  He closed my door so quietly I didn’t hear it click.

  I visited the gents and pissed away half of my coffee. Then I decided to take a closer look at the gun-theft report. When I opened the door to my office, I saw I had another visitor. Mrs. Dunsmore looked at a paper, her ample hip brushing the edge of my desk.

  “You’ve got an interview with Mr. Kelly at ten a.m. today.” She stared, expectant. When I didn’t reply, she said, “Patrol supervisor. Remember?”

  “What’s the date?” I asked. Stalling. I noticed she’d colored outside the lines today with her lipstick.

  “The nineteenth. Why?”

  “The nineteenth?” I blurted, my voice loud and sharp to my own ears. Shit. I’d forgotten. Rick’s anniversary. How had I forgotten?

  “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Dunsmore eyed me as if she suspected I’d lie.

  “Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  A year ago today, Rick and I had gotten a tip that Apollo St. James was dealing near 171st and Fort Washington Ave. We wanted to talk to him. About where he’d been when his cousin, Bertie, had died from multiple stab wounds. We’d heard rumors Apollo had been there and had seen who’d killed his cousin.

  I drove, because I’d won the coin toss. Rick gave me shit about it. “Tommy, you know what the difference is between your and my grandmother’s driving skills, God rest her soul? She had balls.” He laughed his crazy-high laugh until we spott
ed Apollo St. James.

  And surprise, surprise, he was leaning into a shiny black Audi. The car faced us, idling in the northbound bus lane. Apollo’s hand outstretched. This was our lucky day. We’d have leverage. Apollo had been inside twice. This was his third strike.

  I parked on the opposite side of the street, facing south. Rick and I exited the patrol car, hands at our guns’ butts. “Apollo!” I shouted. He jerked out of the car.

  “Hands up!” Rick yelled. “Hands up!”

  The asshole driving the Audi jerked ahead and U-turned at us. Rick, midstreet, spun away from the car. I turned to catch its number as it sped away. And while I was staring at the New York plate, committing its numbers and letters to memory, Apollo was pulling the gun from his waistband.

  I turned. Rick was yelling at Apollo to put the weapon down, now! I grabbed my gun. Apollo’s face was sweaty. His hands shook. I looked at Rick. His mouth twitched, but his hands were steady. He hadn’t used today, then. Oh, God. I hoped he hadn’t.

  “We just want to talk. Put the gun down.” Rick kept his gun trained on Apollo’s midsection. Center mass. That’s where you shoot. Rick had never had to. I had. Before we were partnered.

  Apollo said, “I ain’t going back, man! Not for this!”

  “Don’t be stupid. We just want to talk.”

  Rick held steady and I calculated distance and collateral. There were people nearby. A young girl stood behind Apollo. A shot could easily hit her. Shit. And what if Apollo shoots? Doesn’t miss? If Rick gets wounded, I’d get a new partner. Same thing if I get hurt. It would be that much easier to stay with the new guy. We’d have cases in progress. Rick would be fine. He’d be okay. But no, that wouldn’t—

  Is that idiot moving?

  Bam! The sound tore my ears apart. Rick stumbled backward. Bam! Rick fired. I saw the smoke. Bam! Apollo, shooting again. People screamed, running for doors, ducking behind cars. Rick fell. I trained my gun on Apollo. Bam! Where had my bullet gone? He was running and I took another shot, but my hand was shaking and he was gone, around the corner, out of sight. And Rick was on the ground, bleeding. His freckles were dark against his pale skin, his breathing jagged like there was something between him and oxygen. I got on the damp asphalt beside him. “Rick! It’s gonna be okay. Hang on.” He coughed. That sound. I’d heard it at my grandfather’s bedside. Death rattle.