by Nancy Tesler
I held out my arms. “Bad dream. C’mere.”
He took a flying leap across the room and landed next to me. I wrapped my arms around him. Matt’s a cuddler. I’m enjoying it for as long as it lasts. I figure I’ve got two more years of hugs at most till the testosterone kicks in and Mom becomes passé.
“Allie says we can’t go on the picnic today.”
I’d forgotten all about the afternoon we'd planned at Sterling Forest. “Oh, puss, I’m sorry. I have to work.”
He pulled away. “It’s Sunday. You said you'd be finished by noon.”
I love my work, but for just a fleeting moment, I envied the fifties mom who could stay home with her kids.
“I can’t help it, Matt. The lady who called yesterday has an emergency.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
He had a point. Besides which, at this particular time in my life, I don’t think I’m the best person to work with Vickie. I have a problem relating to “other woman” types. Especially young ones.
“Could we go for a swim at home?” Embarrassed, he corrected himself. “I mean at Dad’s then? I know it’s not our weekend with him but it’s so hot.”
I waited for the pain in my gut to subside. Despite my months of therapy, the image of my children frolicking in our swimming pool with their father’s Playboy bunny was enough to incite me to acts of violence. When I could unclench my teeth, I waffled, “I don’t think the pool’s been cleaned and filled yet, sweetheart. It’s only May.”
He turned his back on me. “Aw, man, that sucks!”
I didn’t think this was the time for a lecture on the unpleasant connotation of certain words no matter how common the usage. “I don’t even have my car, honey. I had to take a cab home yesterday.”
The back remained unyielding.
“Maybe you and Allie could find a good movie on Netflix,” I ventured. “When I get home, we'll grill out. It’ll be kind of like a picnic.”
He was silent for a minute, then he turned back and snuggled up. “Okay.”
I sighed, relieved. He was all right. I lay there stroking his silky hair, allowing his presence to warm me while I listened to him prattle on about how his Little League coach thought he should try playing catcher, and I shouldn't worry because he would always be wearing a catcher's mask and knee guards and a guard for his other vulnerable parts.
I put the dream out of my mind.
LUGGING A SMALL fan, I took an un-air-conditioned bus to my office which is in Piermont, New York, just across the New Jersey border. Because of the Sunday bus schedule, what is normally only a fifteen-minute drive from my Norwood New Jersey home, took almost an hour. By the time I arrived at about ten-thirty I was already out of sorts from the heat and the inconvenience. It didn’t help my disposition when I had to spend the next twenty minutes on the phone trying to find a garage that would rescue my abandoned vehicle on a Sunday.
Ruth-Ann was late, so after I slipped her disk into the computer and pulled up her protocol, I took the opportunity to open the mail I’d ignored yesterday, hoping for some checks. I switched on the radio letting the music wash over me as I flipped through the pile of advertisements. Some corner of my mind noted when the news came on but nothing registered until I heard the words, “...affluent community of Alpine.”
“...early this morning,” the announcer was saying. “The seminude body was discovered by her fiancé. The victim has been identified as twenty-eight-year-old Erica Vogel of...”
My pencil and two nails broke simultaneously.
“...employed by Mr. Burnham for the past three years. The police are not commenting, but it is believed foul play has not been ruled...”
I didn’t hear a word after “foul play.” If I hadn’t been dripping already, I’d have broken out in a cold sweat. The pencil dropped from my hand. I began hyperventilating, like the time I took a soccer ball in the gut playing goalie to Matt’s Pele.
I dashed into the bathroom and splashed water on my face and arms. It must have been ninety-five degrees in there but I was shaking as though I’d been shut up in a butcher’s meat locker. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Erica was dead! Maybe murdered! God knows I'd wished her dead, fantasized about it, even plotted it, as I’m sure, has every other betrayed woman from Medea to Sandra Bullock. But you can’t wish someone dead and make it happen. Wishes aren't lethal. How many times have I assuaged some tormented soul’s guilt with that little homily.
Okay, so I had some dreams about a dead body. I’ve had lots of crazy dreams since Rich left. I’m a visual person. I’m instinctive. I’ve never claimed to be prescient.
When the doorbell rang, my hands were still ice cold but I was breathing normally. I pressed the buzzer underneath my desk, expecting to see Ruth-Ann’s moon face peer around the door.
It wasn’t Ruth-Ann.
It was a uniformed cop and the plainclothes detective who had let me off the hook yesterday. I wondered later why it registered that his clothes hung loosely on him as though his appearance were the last thing on his mind.
He looked down at me, flashed his badge. “Detective Sergeant Brodsky, Bergen County prosecutor’s office, Mrs. Burnham.” His eyes wandered to the diplomas and certificates on my wall. “Or is it Dr. Carlin?”
“Ms. Carlin,” I stammered. “I’m not a doctor. Carlin’s my maiden name. I use it professionally.” Flustered, I babbled on. “You can’t be here about—-about your stopping me yesterday. I mean, you said—-did you say you’re from the prosecutor’s office?”
“Crime scene unit. I'm not here about your speeding specifically.” He glanced curiously at my double computer setup, with the large TV screen in front of the recliner. Deliberately I looked at my watch. “I have a patient. She's already late...”
“This shouldn’t take long.”
The uniform took up a position by the door. Brodsky lowered himself into the chair opposite me. Even sitting, his height intimidated me. “What were you doing in Alpine yesterday afternoon?”
“I live in New Jersey.”
“You live in Norwood. I stopped you in Alpine.”
I was about to lie and say I was visiting an old friend, but just in time, I remembered Sue Tomkins.
“I—-I was-—I had stopped by—-where I used to live.”
“You went to your old house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
Because it's home. Because another woman is...was living my life.
“Why'd you go there?”
I had a flash of brilliance. “My son wanted to use the pool. I wanted to see if my...if his father had filled it yet.”
“I see.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and made a note. “Had he?”
“No.”
“Couldn't you have telephoned?”
“He was out of town and I don’t...communicate with his...girlfriend.”
Why was he asking me these questions? He couldn’t possibly believe I’d had anything to do with what had happened to Erica. But he’d said he wasn’t here about my speeding. Could that mean...? Maybe I should I tell him I knew about her death. Murders are rare in towns like Alpine. He must be aware it was all over the news. I became conscious of the music still playing in the background and decided I’d better come clean. “I...heard about—-about the accident just now on the news.”
He gave no indication that he’d heard me. “How long have you and your husband been separated?”
“Seventeen months.”
Almost to the day. Rich left on Christmas Eve.
“Isn’t it usual for the wife to get the house when there are children?”
Damned right.
“Our house is very large, on two acres—-expensive to maintain. I couldn’t possibly...I bought a place in Norwood. It’s big enough for the children and me, and close enough to Alpine for them to stay in close touch with their father. Only problem is they had to switch schools so they don’t get to see their f
riends as much as...” I stopped aware my nervousness was causing me to ramble on.
“Was Erica Vogel named in your action?”
“We’ve just finished working out the settlement. It could be a few months till we get a court date and---”
“Would she have been named?”
I couldn't help it. “As what? Whore of the year?”
His mouth twitched. “As co-respondent.”
I grimaced. “We're going with no-fault.”
“What exactly was Ms. Vogel’s position with your husband’s company?” He flipped back through his notes. “I’m sorry, what’s it called?”
“Your Face Is My Fortune. Erica started out as a model. Last year she became head of the marketing division.” By way of Rich’s bed I wanted to add, but didn’t.
“And they manufacture?”
“They manufacture and market products for the skin and hair.”
“Mr. Burnham’s the president?”
“President, CEO, and Chairman of the board.”
Rich has a thing about titles.
Brodsky looked directly into my eyes. “Was Erica Vogel the reason your husband left you?”
My mouth went dry. I tried to work up some saliva. “Why are you asking me that? You—-you don’t think I had anything to do with—-with what happened to her?”
“A neighbor saw you late yesterday afternoon at your husband’s home. She said you seemed”--he glanced down at his notebook--“extremely agitated. When I stopped you for speeding, you were still pretty upset.”
“I was upset because she’s—-she was living in my home, sunning herself by my pool-—in my lounge chair. She was on the phone with my husband, planning their wedding! You bet I was upset. But she was alive when I left.”
“Did the two of you have words?”
“I don't speak to her. She never even saw me.”
“You were close enough to hear her talking on the phone, though.”
It wasn't a question.
“Yes, I...”
“Was she wearing a bathing suit?”
“My God, was she raped?” Too late, I realized how stupid that sounded. He wouldn’t be questioning me if that were the case.
He answered anyway. “It doesn't appear so. She was still wearing the bottom part of the suit.”
“That's all she had on when I was there.”
He scribbled something in his notebook. “Did you notice if she was wearing any jewelry?”
I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “She... had on a gold chain.”
Did he know about Rich giving her my necklace? Was I incriminating myself? Should I stop answering questions? “You have the right to remain silent” flashed through my mind, legal jargon gleaned from a thousand TV shows. “Is that--is that relevant?”
“Looks like it was torn from her neck in a struggle. Left burn marks.”
I grasped at the straw. “Then it was robbery.”
“Possibly,” he replied, and I knew he didn’t think so.
“Was anything else taken?”
“Nothing from the house.”
“How do you know?” I persisted. “Maybe some of her other jewelry...”
“Mr. Burnham indicated everything was there.”
A burning sensation began in my stomach. “You didn’t tell me how—-what happened to her.”
“She was struck over the head and pushed into the pool.” He spoke as though he were describing a minor traffic accident. “The blow didn't kill her. She drowned in two feet of water.”
I stifled a gasp as my dream came back to me. “Look,” I managed, trying not to appear guilty, sure that I did. “I didn’t like Erica.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“All right! I hated her! You don’t love the woman who stole your husband. But that doesn't mean you go out and kill her.”
“It does go to motive.”
“But I’m not a murderer. I’m a mental health professional, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’m not accusing you. These are just routine questions.”
Routine?
“A lot of people didn’t like her,” I rattled on, unable to follow the advice of all those TV cops.
“Like who?”
My mind went blank. “She—-she was a hard woman to work for-—to do business with if she thought she had an edge. She made enemies.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
I didn’t want to blurt out names, get innocent people in trouble. “I’d—-have to think about it.”
He pocketed his notebook and rose to his feet. “Do that, and if you come up with something more concrete, give me a call.” He dropped a card on my desk. “And you might think about talking to an attorney.”
I stared at him, openmouthed.
“Ms. Carlin,” he said, almost indulgently, “you admit to hating Erica Vogel. You were seen at her home around the time of the murder.” He held up his hand, cutting off my protest. “You might feel more comfortable getting legal advice. For your own peace of mind.” At the door he paused. “Oh, by the way, don't bother sending anyone for your car. We've towed it to the station. Sorry, but we’ll need to keep it for a few days.” And he shot me a look that froze my blood.
When the blood defrosted enough to meander on up to my brain, it hit me—-why the police had impounded my car. They were looking for evidence. Maybe for blood traces. For the murder weapon! The old saying popped into my head about being careful what you wish for-—you just might get it. Clearly some mischievous deity had granted my wish and was sitting up there having himself a belly laugh. Because I was the police department's prime suspect!
RUTH-ANN WAS SITTING in the waiting room when the door to my office opened and the two cops filed out. She got up so quickly, her chair fell over backward. As he passed by her, Brodsky reached over and set it on its legs. She recoiled as though he were covered with porcupine quills.
Ruth-Ann’s grandparents are Holocaust survivors. They’ve never gotten over their terror of anyone in uniform. It’s a fear they've unwittingly passed on to their granddaughter.
“What’s happening? What are they doing here?” she whispered, after the door had closed behind them.
I masked my own panic with a forced smile. “Oh, it’s nothing...just—-they were asking me some questions about-—someone I used to know.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Oh, no, no,” I mumbled, brushing past her and sticking a note on the door, telling Vickie I’d had an emergency and would call to reschedule. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel today, Ruth-Ann. I'm really sorry, but there’s something I have to do.” I was having a tough time standing still, and I was edging away when she caught my arm.
“But are they going to let you...are you going to be able to have Group tomorrow? Or just on Thursday?”
I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice. “Both days. Nothing’s changed.”
Her lower lip quivered. “I was afraid you--I couldn’t stand it if anything---”
“Everything's fine, really. Just something’s come up I have to take care of.” Gently I detached her hand. “Call me tonight and we’ll make an appointment for one evening during the week. I promise, okay?”
She backed away, nodding, and I was out of there, running down the street, before she could say another word.
I knew I hadn't handled things well. Ruth-Ann’s very fragile right now. A few weeks ago she had a mind-blowing breakthrough, a reliving of a traumatic past experience, and she’s still pretty shaky. I’d have to make it up to her at her next session. When I glanced back she was standing in front of my office building, her arms wrapped around her rotund little body, shivering like one of those orphaned seal pups you see on the Discovery Channel.
CHAPTER THREE
Later
“WELL HAIL, HAIL, the wicked witch is dead. Break out the champagne.”
Displaying gleaming white teeth, Meg grinned at me from behind the pristine counter of her c
afé–art shop. Meg’s Place is suburban New York’s answer to Cheers, only for the foodaholic set. Like my office it’s located in the small town of Piermont. Situated on the banks of the Hudson, Piermont is a picturesque community struggling to balance old-world atmosphere with modern commercialism and doing a decent job of retaining its charm. The narrow main street winds through the center of a town that on weekends is congested with tourists bent on finding the ideal gift for the person who has everything, or the perfect antique for that glaringly bare spot in the living room. If the feet give out, there are multiple places to find sustenance, including those gourmet’s delights, Freelance Café and Xaviers, run by the talented Kelly brothers. And now, of course, there’s Meg’s Place.
Meg has decorated her café in shades of green and peach, designed to make you think it is spring all year round. Everywhere you look, you see magnificent arrangements of fresh flowers, tulips mixed with roses and lilacs and tiger lilies and daisies, surrounded by baby’s breath and lush ferns. In the fall and winter you'd think Meg would go with mums, but she pays the price and makes you believe it's still spring. A great place to be when you're feeling down.
Surrounding the small tables where customers pig out on even better than Starbuck’s coffee and delectable homemade baked goodies, are shelves displaying sculptures and art objects that Meg takes on consignment and sells. On the wall over the counter, she’s hung photographs she herself has taken, photography being her hobby and first love. She once had a show in New York City. For a reason I haven’t been able to get her to talk about, she gave up photography as a profession, moved to Piermont, and opened up the café. In less than a year and a half, she’s built up a steady clientele.
“You don’t understand, Meg. They think I did it.”
“Oh, please. You couldn't kill those carpenter ants that were eating your house.”
“Tell that to the police. That detective said I should call a lawyer.” I still owed money to Arthur Carboni, my divorce lawyer. The thought of having to hire another lawyer, a criminal lawyer, for God’s sake, nearly put me over the edge. “Where am I going to get money for a lawyer?”
“He’s just trying to scare you.”