Compromising Positions

by Susan Isaacs

  “What?” he croaked.

  “I asked a few people a couple of questions about the murder,” I explained, and shrugged my shoulders to show him how utterly casual I felt about the whole incident: a mere petty intrigue in a life filled with exquisitely fascinating moments.

  “Judith, are you crazy?”

  “You seem to be asking me that question a lot lately.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly given me reason.” He had lowered his voice a little, but his fists were still clenched. When he saw me looking at them, he jammed his hands into his pockets.

  “No, I haven’t. Look, you get excited by dirty public images that need laundering; I get excited by a good murder. It’s really just a matter of taste. Different strokes for different folks. You do your thing, I do mine.”

  “My thing, as you call it, happens to be my profession. Now, look, Judith, your thing happens to be being a wife and mother.” He paused and seemed to remember something. “And, of course, being a historian. All of which preclude detective work. Now, please,” he began to shout, “would you tell me what the fuck you’ve been doing?” His moods were alternating with the regularity of a machine: a ting of cool rationality followed by a thump of fury, and then another ting, another thump.

  “I just spoke to a few people involved in the case. I was curious, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have nothing more to say on the subject?”

  “No. I mean, if you were interested in the murder, I’d be glad to discuss it with you, but it’s obvious you aren’t.”

  “All right. I’m interested.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He turned on his heels and marched out of the kitchen, very neatly, just as he had been taught in ROTC, the year before he became a liberal. I heard him stomping up the stairs. The bedroom door crashed shut.

  He’s probably looking for the master list of his camera equipment, I mused. Just to check. Just to make sure that the crazed murderer/housebreaker wasn’t also a photography buff, panting to make off with his telephoto lens. I had to admit to a certain grudging admiration for M. Bruce. All he needed was a Polaroid and a few props. No massive leather bags of equipment to lug around, no malfunctioning electronic flashes to impinge on his creativity.

  The bedroom door creaked open, and I listened to Bob’s funereal march down the stairs. I walked into the living room and sat on the couch in a gesture of rapprochement; I’d meet him halfway.

  “He’s coming,” Bob announced from the hallway.

  “Who?” I demanded anxiously.

  “The guy who’s in charge of the Fleckstein investigation,” he responded casually, sauntering into the living room. He leaned against the fireplace mantel.

  “Are you nuts?” I demanded. “How could you just call up someone like that without talking to me about it?”

  “Judith, don’t you realize I’ve just been saying the same thing to you?”

  “You’re so mature!” I screamed at him. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll always remember your kindness. A husband turning his wife in. Thanks.” I stood and turned my back toward him.

  “If you’re planning on going anywhere, don’t. The lieutenant’s coming in fifteen minutes. He wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When the doorbell rang, I casually kicked off my shoes and drew my feet up onto the couch. Bob glared at me and took several deep breaths, overtures to a gloriously orchestrated aria of snide remarks. But he couldn’t find anything to say. I looked away from him and concentrated on the prismatic effect of early afternoon light passing through a crystal ashtray on the coffee table.

  “The doorbell,” he hissed. “Aren’t you going to get it?”

  “Do I look like a butler?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, appropriating my favorite gesture of studied casualness, and began sauntering toward the door. “It’s all right, Judith, I’ll get it. Just do me one favor,” he said as he turned the corner to the entrance hall. “Please put your shoes on. You’re not a teen-ager.” I glanced down at my shoes, two scuffed loafers, Gucci derivatives, with stretched-out tongues sticking out at me, and kicked them under the couch.

  I listened to the door open and to the muffled voices. Mumble, mumble, Bob Singer. Mumble, mumble, Lieutenant Mumble. She’s inside. Fine, mumble, mumble. They came into the room. Bob’s voice said: “This is Lieutenant Sharpe.” I sensed they were standing about two feet away, observing me, as if I were a witch who had drawn a charmed circle that they were unable to cross.

  “Judith,” Bob said, barely suppressing a whine.

  I raised my head and glanced at Sharpe. Then I swallowed hard, to mask my surprise. Instead of the fascistic, gross hulk I had anticipated, complete with a chewed-up cigar and yellowed, mottled skin, I was looking into a pair of big, soft, liquid brown eyes. And although his hair was gray, he was no more than thirty-eight or thirty-nine. There was no coarseness, no brutality. His bland-looking, snub-nosed face was toughened only by its obvious intelligence—and fatigue. He had bags under his eyes, blue-gray smudges, really, and a pale gray stubble of a beard.

  Bob cleared his throat, preparing to repeat the introduction. But Sharpe crossed the invisible magic line I had drawn and held out his hand. “I’m Nelson Sharpe.” Having no other choice, I stood to shake hands with him. He was fairly short, about two or three inches taller than I, but he had the advantage of shoes.

  “Judith Singer.” His handshake was firm, not the limp clasp many men use with women, nor the over-compensating, knuckle-crushing grip. Bob cleared his throat again. Sharpe’s hands, I noticed, were quite large, with long, heavy fingers. Fair compensation, I thought, for his lack of height. I’ve always subscribed to the myth—or perhaps the fact—that you can look at some part of a man’s body and determine the size and shape of his penis. I remember sitting up late one night in the dorm before an exam, discussing this. Someone said all you had to do was check the size of the toes. No, chimed in someone else, it’s the shoe size. Wrong, declared another, it’s the fingers; small, thin fingers mean you may be very disappointed. Nancy then presented a corollary to this digital theory, which was thumbs only. If you know the thumbs, you know the man.

  “I think we should talk about the Fleckstein case, Mrs. Singer,” he said. His big hands hung at his sides. “Your husband said you had done some investigating.”

  Sharpe spoke in such a calm, neutral manner that I drew up stiff and straight, alert. Knowing he couldn’t possibly feel neutral about the case, I realized he was either trying to put me at ease or treating me like a crazy lady, keeping his voice subdued so as not to over-stimulate my shattered nerves.

  “Tell him, Judith,” Bob ordered. “Go ahead.”

  “Tell him what?” I sat back on the couch. Sharpe chose a gold club chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. I gazed at Bob, trying to look confused, quizzical. He remained standing, uncertain whether to align himself with me on the couch or to take the matching club chair next to Sharpe, on the side of law and order.

  “For God’s sake, Judith, stop playing games. Tell Lieutenant Sharpe how you’ve been poking your nose into the Fleckstein business. Get it over with.” Turning from me, he looked at Sharpe, raising his eyebrows and twisting up a corner of his mouth in a regulation gesture of helplessness. Women aren’t easy, his expression said. Sharpe gave him a brief blink and continued to look bland.

  “What would you like to know, Lieutenant?” I asked.

  “Everything, Judith. Everything. Just start talking, and if he has any questions, he’ll ask.” Bob smiled modestly at Sharpe, pleased that he had made the policeman’s lot a happier one.

  “Mr. Singer,” said Sharpe, taking a pen and a small notebook from his breast pocket, “would you please leave the room?”

  There followed a moment of absolute silence, a moment where animation was suspended, where all thoughts froze in the journey from brain to mouth and stood in the petr
ified stillness of shock. Perfect, profound quiet, until Bob managed a squeaky, “What?”

  “Could you please leave the room? I’d like to speak with Mrs. Singer alone.” He massaged the tip of his small nose with the back of his hand, ordinarily a tough gesture, but Sharpe’s nose was so pert, so cute, that it belonged on a face in an ad for baby food. “I’d like to get down to work, Mr. Singer,” he added.

  His three sentences had given Bob time to recuperate somewhat. “Look, Sharpe, in case you happened to forget, my wife is entitled to have someone with her. If not me, then I’ll call my attorney. My wife is certainly entitled to have counsel present during her interrogation.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘interrogation’?” I demanded. “He hasn’t even brought out his rubber hose yet.”

  “Be quiet, Judith, for once in your life. Now listen, Sharpe...”

  “Mr. Singer, all I want to do is ask Mrs. Singer a few questions. She is not a suspect. If at any time the situation warrants it, I will inform her of her rights.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Bob grumbled. I would not have been surprised if he had stuck out his tongue at Sharpe and sneered: “So’s your old man.”

  “Look, Mr. Singer,” Sharpe began pleasantly.

  I cut him off. “Bob, could you please leave the room? If I need anything, I’ll call you.” If he had refused, if he had stamped his foot or raised his voice, I would have folded immediately. But all Bob did was stare at me, his lower jaw drooping. “Look, Bob, why don’t you pick up Joey at Marilyn Tuccio’s and take him for a walk or something?”

  He stood, giving me one of those bottomless, chilling looks that only blue-eyed people can manage. He tightened the knot on his tie. “Okay, Judith. If you don’t want help, do without it. Just don’t come crying to me later.” He grabbed his coat and jacket, which he had thrown over the piano bench, and marched toward the door.

  “Will you come to see me on visiting day?” I called after him. “Maybe they’ll let us hold hands through the bars.” The door slammed noisily. I must have stood to run after him and apologize, because Sharpe said: “Could you please sit down, Mrs. Singer?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Sure.” I felt very weak and very ill, and prayed that if I threw up, I would miss his blue polyester slacks.

  “You know Marilyn Tuccio?” he inquired, opening his notebook.

  “Yes. I know her fairly well. And the fact that even for a moment you considered her a suspect is patently absurd. Good God, instead of making a deliberate effort to discover a rational—or even an irrational—motive for the murder, you people have been following all sorts of half-crocked innuendos. And from people like Lorna Lewis, no less. Really, how could you give credence to a person like Lorna Lewis? She was sleeping with Fleckstein, for God’s sake. I would hardly call that a disinterested party.”

  “You talk,” said Sharpe, a hint of a smile crossing his face.

  “Yes. And I think too.”

  “Yes. Now, how do you know about Lorna Lewis?”

  “I listen.”

  His right hand reached for his cheek and he rubbed his face, back and forth, back and forth. “Mrs. Singer, let me tell you something. For the last few weeks, I’ve been working eighteen hours a day trying to make some sense out of this case. I’m very, very tired. So if you can be of any help, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “You’re trying to humor me.”

  “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “Only because it seems necessary. Believe me, it’s taking my last ounce of energy, and if you don’t cooperate soon, I’ll probably fall asleep in this chair.”

  He did look tired, his lips almost ash white. His entire body, abandoning the struggle against gravity, drooped down, earthward. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, wanting to help him.

  “No. No thanks.”

  “Juice? A Coke? A piece of fruit?”

  “A piece of fruit would be fine.”

  “An apple? An orange?”

  “An apple, please.”

  I rose and walked into the kitchen. “The apples are in the refrigerator,” I called to him. “Can I touch it?”

  “Wait.” He came into the kitchen, over to the refrigerator, and stuck his fingers into the rubber seal around the door. He held it open while I bent down to the fruit bin and took out an apple.

  “Want to check it for fingerprints?” I asked, holding it up by the stem.

  “I’ll pass.”

  I washed the apple in cold water and then, with two sheets of paper towels, rubbed it to a high gloss. “Here,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said, gazing at me. His eyes were very large and round, like Paul McCartney’s, but with the softness of a kindly old dog—and very alert. Tired as he was, his eyes were vibrant, wide awake, taking in everything, every detail in the room, especially me. “Looks like a nice apple,” he muttered.

  “Hope so,” I replied encouragingly.

  He took a small bite and, for less than a second, let his eyes run down my body to about knee level, then quickly raised them again and looked at me, brown eyes to brown eyes. “Very good.”

  “Well, it’s all I have. Can’t afford bananas.”

  “Bananas?”

  “Bananas. Like Lady Bountiful in Fleckstein’s picture, the fruit and vegetable queen.”

  He roared with laughter, a loud, rich sound from such a quiet, tired man. Then, suddenly sobering, he said: “Let’s sit down.”

  He followed me into the living room, where we resumed our previously staked out positions on the chair and couch.

  “So you’ve seen the pictures,” he commented, crossing his legs, his left ankle resting above his right knee, making a large triangle with his groin at the apex.

  “No. Where would I see the pictures?”

  “Where would you get all the information you have? I don’t know.” Sharpe held the apple in his right hand. His left rested motionlessly on his crossed left leg. His thighs were thick, muscular, a contrast to the rest of his body, which was of average build.

  “Okay,” I breathed tiredly, as if his weariness were contagious. “Where do you want to start?”

  “You pick the place.”

  “Okay. My refrigerator. When I came home this morning...”

  He stood suddenly. “Can I use your phone?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  He walked inside, a gray tweedy jacket covering what I sensed was a firm, flat behind. He returned within a minute. “I just wanted someone from forensics to come down to check out the refrigerator. They’re on their way.” Crossing in front of me, he sat on the other end of the couch. “All right, about your refrigerator.”

  “Nothing. I mean, I walked in this morning—I had been out from a little after nine to about eleven-thirty—and there it was. ‘M.Y.O.B.’”

  “Where had you been?” I gave him Nancy’s name and address, and he jotted it down. “Now,” he continued, “have you any idea who might have wanted to deliver a message like that to you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Who?” He shifted a few inches closer to me.

  “Someone who evidently doesn’t want me poking into the Fleckstein case.”

  “And do you have any idea who that person might be?”

  “No. Not really. Well, a vague idea.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Sharpe gnawed on his upper lip for a few seconds before exploding. “For Christ’s sake! Now, listen, I’m investigating a murder, and all I have to show is a slew of suspects and not one damn solitary lead.” He swallowed, rather slowly and ostentatiously, and seemed to calm down. “Look, if you could possibly help me, even with a vague supposition, I would be grateful.”

  “Well, I’m not really positive. Actually,” I said, moving as close to the arm of the couch as I could, “it’s just a hypothesis.”

  “Why don’t you try it out on me?” he suggested.

  “I’d rather not.”

  For a moment, he studied the half-eat
en apple and then, looking straight ahead, said: “You know I can have you arrested and held as a material witness.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” he replied softly and turned to meet my eyes in a fixed, unblinking stare.

  “Bullshit,” I announced. His stare widened. “That’s a cheap trick, trying to scare me. I’m really surprised at you. How can you hold me as a material witness? What have I witnessed? What concrete information am I holding back? Just what are you going to say to the judge? ‘Book her on a withheld theory charge, Your Honor.’ Look, if you want to talk, I’ll talk, but I don’t appreciate your trying to browbeat me into submission.”

  “You’re not easy,” he remarked.

  “You are?”

  “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  I realized that without Sharpe’s approval, I could do no more investigating. So I decided to cooperate. I began with Mary Alice, without mentioning her name, telling Sharpe that although Fleckstein had never attempted to blackmail her, the threat was implicit; he had the pictures, he might someday use them. Another friend, I reported, recalling my discussion with Fay Jacobs, had been propositioned by him. A mother of one of my son’s friends had been involved with him. I ran my hand across my forehead, a gesture of disbelief; the combination of Fleckstein and Scotty Hughes still seemed so incredible. And he had come on strong to Marilyn Tuccio. In fact, everywhere I turned, I seemed to encounter women who had some connection with Fleckstein.

  “And what about you?” Sharpe asked.

  “No.”

  “Never met him? Never saw him in your life?”

  I explained that I had seen him once, as a patient. “But he never looked south of my gums.”

  “He didn’t?” Sharpe sounded surprised, which pleased me.

  “I was six months pregnant and gargantuan.”

  He rubbed his cheek and sideburn. “How do you explain Fleckstein’s success with women and yet maintain that your neighbor, Mrs. Tuccio, was immune?”

  “Well, he didn’t score all the time. That other friend I told you about, the older one, refused his advances. And Marilyn is just not the type. To begin with, she’s very religious. Sincerely religious; it’s an integral part of her personality. And she’s very busy. And,” I added, watching his big fingers move up and down his cheek, “she’s happily married.”