by Clea Simon
Like poison? The idea struck me like lightning. Could that have been what Rachel was trying to tell me? Poison? Like what had been put on the cat’s food?
No, I shook my head. The contaminant on the kibble had been cocoa, or something very like it. Dangerous to cats, but not to humans. But could there have been a connection? In truth, I couldn’t remember if Rachel had even referred to the bad food as “poisoned.” She might just as easily have called it “adulterated” or “contaminated.”
So what had she been trying to tell me? Had she been pleading? I mouthed the word “please,” holding one hand close to my lips. No, that didn’t quite work. Had she been calling for Piers? That was closer, but still, not quite right. Maybe she hadn’t been trying to tell me anything. Maybe I’d simply been witness to her last breaths, the gasps as life left her.
A wave of nausea hit me. Maybe I was sick. Maybe somehow I’d been poisoned, too. No, that was silliness. I was in shock, probably. Grieving certainly, and, even for me, up way past my bedtime. Still, the quiet was getting to me. Didn’t I live in a city anymore?
At times like this, I wished that I had moved in with Bill the first time he’d suggested it. That had been a few months ago, after I’d been through a different rough patch, and I’d rejected the idea without a second thought. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I did. I do. Bill and I were solid, and he was a far cry from the bad boys of my past. But I had to know if it was all for the right reasons. I wanted more time to get used to the idea. Looking back, that had been right around when he was leaving the force. The timing hadn’t been good for a variety of reasons.
Besides, I had my friends. That was the great thing about clubland, about the scene. Everyone uses the phrase “family of choice” these days, but we were the real thing. We came together because of shared passions, and we’d seen each other through worse.
Thinking of my friends drove the nausea back. I sat up straighter and Musetta jumped to the floor. Dawn would come, and I’d call Violet and Bunny, and maybe even Tess. Violet had come through for me today, and Bunny was my inside person at the Mail. But Violet had Caro now, and Bunny had Cal, and soon would have a little one, too. As for Tess, well, we had been close. But that was before drugs had taken control of her life, and she’d been distant since. Embarrassed, I’d thought. Ashamed of how she’d gotten sucked in and, even more, how she’d hid her problem. Could something like that be going on again? I thought of her at the River Bank, dancing and laughing. What was my life coming to that the sight of my friend having a good time filled me with dread?
I leaned back and closed my eyes. God, I was tired. And then I felt the soft brush of my cat, Musetta had come back and was rubbing her head against my bare shins.
“You’re right, kitty. I can’t think any more about any of this now.” And I followed her back to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
I was sinking. White arms were dragging me down into a darkness that was warm and thick. I fought back, but my own hands were tied. I kicked. And then woke up.
The phone was ringing and Musetta was on my bureau, staring at me with the glare that only an inconvenienced cat can muster. I’d forgotten to turn the ringer off.
“Sorry.” I whispered as I ran past her. My discommoded cat didn’t even blink. Of course, blinking is a sign of affection in cats—their way of saying “I love you”—but I think she was also aware of the impact of her full-on green-eyed glare.
“Hello? Hang on!” I hit the machine just as it picked up, and just in time to catch the beginning of a rant.
“Krakow, I can’t believe you’d do this to me!” My editor sounded more irate than hurt. I let him spout. “You know what we’re up against here. This counts as a betrayal. A personal betrayal. And I’ve always been on your side.”
This was getting strange. “Tim? I’m here.” Silence. He must have thought he had my machine. “And I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Tim snorted. “As if, Krakow.” Tim was always picking up his daughters’ mannerisms. I guessed they were reaching their teens. “Why didn’t you call me back yesterday?”
“Yesterday was crazy.” I wracked my brain for how to explain. He didn’t let me.
“Fine, Krakow. It doesn’t matter. It was too late anyway.”
My column. “What’s wrong, Tim? Has someone complained about ‘Clubland’? Cause I have my notes.”
“And do your notes have the whole story? Everything?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I went over that evening in my mind. I hadn’t taped the interview because we’d met at the Casbah. Over the last few months, I’d given up on taping interviews in bars. Half the time I’d get them home and not be able to make out more than bar noise and laughter. “Why?”
“Because I’m hearing that there was a story behind the story, if you know what I mean.”
I’d settled on the sofa by this point, and reached to pull the afghan over my bare legs. “No, Tim, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Krakow. I thought I could trust you. Are you going to tell me that you weren’t drinking with these guys?”
My head was starting to throb. “No, Tim, I’m not. We were in a bar. They’re in a band. I interviewed them over a couple of beers.” I pressed my hand to my forehead. “Actually, I think the drummer had a diet Coke.”
“Very funny, Krakow. I don’t mean the interview. I mean after.”
“Yeah.” I dragged the word out. What was Tim getting at? “After the show, I hung out with the Mystics for a bit. Why does this matter?”
“Because you hadn’t turned your piece in yet, Krakow. That’s why. And so when the calls came in that you were more than drinking, that there was some, shall we say, hanky panky going on, that’s an issue. Because you were still writing and if you were fooling around with them, well, you could be biased. You could be writing up bands that you, um, wanted to get close to. Don’t laugh, Krakow. I have to take it seriously. You’re in my department. You’re my writer. This reflects badly on me.”
“Tim, hold on here.” I wasn’t laughing. This kind of nonsense had to be dismissed immediately. “This is ridiculous. It was a friendly interview and after their set I hung around to talk with them some more. I wanted to get some more material.” I almost stumbled over the last word. Had I liked Liam, the guitarist? Yes, I had. But that was none of Tim’s business. “The Infallible Mystics had never played here. Monday was a small gig, just a warm up, and I was previewing the big radio show next week. I needed to see them, and then I needed to talk to them again. I had a score of new questions.”
That wasn’t entirely true. I’d had more than enough material for my column from our first interview, before their show, and although I had gotten a few extra tidbits, I’d basically hung around because I liked them. Because I could. But I’d never considered such socializing unprofessional. I’d never been questioned about my integrity before. “Where is this coming from, Tim? I mean, people complain about critics all the time. Someone was probably jealous. This isn’t like you.”
“Well, maybe it should be.” He was blustering about. He knew I was right, but there was something else going on. “From now on, we’re holding to a higher principle.”
“Is this coming from the money guy? Cash?”
“We’re under scrutiny now, Krakow. That’s all you need to know. And I don’t need you embarrassing me.” He paused and I tensed, waiting for what would come next. “Now, what’s up with the pet poisoning?”
That should have been a relief, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. Not before coffee. “I’m working on it, Tim. I’ll let you know.” With a final harumph, he hung up. I would have to come clean about Rachel, about my own involvement. I had been wrong to not tell him immediately, but I just couldn’t face it, not yet. And he was wrong about some things, too. Before I talked to him again, there was more I needed to know, like who had called my editor and slandered me.
“Bunny?” My first mug in hand, I was ready to
get to work. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No prob.” The answer came back half a yawn. Cal had a day job now, doing some kind of graphic design, but I’d forgotten that he worked at home most mornings. “I’ll get her.”
Another slug and I was feeling halfway human. “Hey, Theda! You guys coming over for brunch Sunday?”
“Bunny, I’d forgotten.” The silence at the other end let me know my friend was hurt. “I’m sorry, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on.” More silence. “Bunny, I’m sort of in trouble.”
“What?” I’d caught her in mid-gargle. She wasn’t hurt, she’d been getting ready for work. “Theda, what have you—”
“Bunny, I can explain. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I really didn’t want to get into this. “I’ll tell you another time, I promise. But there’s, well, there’s another thing. Something you can help me with.”
She spit and I heard water running. “Bunny, you still there?”
“Yeah?” Was that a hesitation or had she moved into another part of her morning routine?
“Someone has badmouthed me to Tim, and I need to find out who.” Silence again, and this time there was no sound of water in the background. “Bunny?”
“I’m here. I’m just, blech, morning’s are not my best time.”
“Still?” Her lack of answer was my answer. “Hey, I’m sorry. But I’m sort of up a creek here.”
A sigh. “That’s fine, Theda. I’ll be waddling in there soon enough. But can you tell me anymore?”
I stammered a little. “Just that someone told Tim I was inappropriate with a band I wrote about.” The rest of it could definitely wait.
“And were you?”
“Bunny! You know I wouldn’t. And, besides, Bill and I are back together.”
“Well, when you didn’t let us know about brunch…” She let the words hang. “I’m sorry, Theda. I woke up sick this morning, and I’m just not myself.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m just dreading this. What if my manifestation of the goddess isn’t as the mother? What if this is the biggest mistake I’ve made in my life?”
“That’s the morning sickness talking. You and Cal have wanted this baby for so long, and you’re going to be a wonderful mother.” I believed it, I truly did, but I was too distracted to sound convincing. “Really! It’s just—”
“I know, Theda.” She sounded exhausted. “I’ll poke around. Hey, you didn’t get a chance to ask around for me, did you?” I was drawing a blank. “About a pet psychic?”
“You didn’t really—” I caught myself. She did. “I’m sorry, Bunny. I will, I promise. I swear on Musetta’s whiskers.” That seemed to cheer her up and we parted on better terms.
“Now you try to keep out of trouble, Theda, okay? Blessed be.” I took what comfort I could from her final words, and poured myself another cup of coffee for strength.
I should call Patti back. Her offer of an introduction was a huge favor, but the idea of talking to a defense attorney, even a friendly one, just made everything too real.
Maybe I’d get her voice mail. “Hey, Patti, it’s Theda. I guess you’ve heard my news.”
“Theda! So glad you got me.” I could hear traffic. Patti wouldn’t have answered if she were with a client, but she was on her way somewhere. “Do you have a pen? This is Andy’s number. Call him right away. I was about to leave a message for you. He had a cancellation this morning.” She rattled off a number and I jotted it down reflexively.
“Thanks, Patti. I think I may wait and see what Bill says before I call though.”
“Don’t be stupid, Theda. Andy’s the best, the absolute best! Do you remember the criminal cases with the Big Dig last year? And the MassBay Bank official and that little girl? They were all his.”
I vaguely recalled headlines. “I don’t think I knew what happened in those cases.”
“Exactly!” She sounded excited. “He made them disappear. Here’s my showing. Gotta go! Call him, Theda!”
Great, so I was on par with embezzlers and worse. Wouldn’t hiring this guy mean I was guilty from the start? I collapsed onto the couch and Musetta jumped up onto my lap, like she’d been waiting. Maybe she had. I stroked her smooth black back and took another sip of my coffee. My cat started purring, leaning into me as if to hold me in my seat.
“You want to keep me here, don’t you, kitty?” That resounding purr was my only answer. “Well, maybe you’re right.” I reached over for the phone and made the call.
An hour later, I was sitting in a downtown office with my head in a spin. “Andy,” as I’d been instructed to call him, was a round little man, mostly bald and as innocuous-looking as an accountant. But from the moment I’d walked in, he had grabbed hold of my case like a bulldog. I had thought this would be an introductory meeting. That we’d discuss fees and expectations. But I gather he was either truly smitten by Patti or he had a thirst for justice that hadn’t been slaked by his other clients. Before I knew what was happening, he was discussing strategy.
“The key,” he said, pacing around an office that looked too bookish for the man himself, “is coming up with a better story.” He’d sat me in one of those leatherbound chairs with the brass studs that looks better than it feels, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to move. “It’s all about which story the jury would rather believe.”
“But I’m not telling a story. I’m telling the truth.”
He waved me off. “You want some coffee? Jo,” he hit the intercom on his oversize desk, “can we get some coffee? Cream?” He’d already sent one assistant scurrying when I’d told him that a public defender had handled my arraignment and bail hearing. The police blotter lay open before him. “Sugar?”
“But shouldn’t we figure out first if we’re a good fit?” I didn’t want to be rude.
“No time to waste. Especially when it’s pro bono!” He laughed, but I hoped he was serious. Somehow money hadn’t come up. I was trying to figure out a way to ask, but he shushed me, staring at the papers in front of him.
“The weapon was a surgical scalpel, No. 15 blade. That’s good.” He made a note on his pad and looked up at me. “That argues against premeditation. Something like that would have been around anyway. I mean, it was an animal hospital, right.”
“Well, it’s a shelter with a clinic attached. But it has treatment rooms and an OR.” He was back in the crime report, not listening, so I waited. He grunted and made some more notes, then stood up. “Okay, I have the outline. Now, you walk me through what happened. Tell it simply, just what happened, step by step.”
And so I did. Looking up at the bookshelves behind him made it easier, somehow. Andy began pacing, his bald spot wandering in and out of my line of vision. But looking at those books, in their sedate leather bindings, I was able to go through it all. That I’d pushed the door open. That I’d walked back without permission because I was so familiar with the shelter. And that I’d undoubtedly been heard yelling for, or at, Rachel. For a moment, I thought of our confrontation the night before, on Wednesday. I’d snapped at her then, too. Would anyone remember me banging on the door? How much had Amy, or anyone in that crowded waiting room, heard?
But Andy was questioning me about yesterday.
“No, I didn’t see anyone when I went to look for her. Just that one vet tech.” He perked up and raced to his desk to scribble on his pad. “But she wasn’t coming out of Rachel’s office.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He finally sat, the better to take notes. “That office had a door onto a treatment room—and the treatment room led back to another hall, didn’t it?”
“Yes.” I thought it through. Rachel’s office was more like a foyer, opening onto the much-larger treatment room. And I’d seen the vet tech walking down the front hall. She could have come around from the back, if she moved fast enough. “But Musetta was already back in the cat ward.”
“What? Walk me through that again.” And so I did, telling him about the blood on my cat’s fur, th
e blood that had made me so angry. If someone had killed Rachel while Rachel was looking at my cat, and then replaced Musetta in her carrier, then that person was long gone before I got to Rachel.
“Not long gone. You said Rachel died in your arms?”
This was a bit much. The books started to swim. I needed to be specific. Concrete. “I didn’t see Rachel at first. Her office is always a mess, tiny and crowded. Not like—” I waved my hands, taking in the built-in bookcase behind the desk, the wall of windows looking out on Post Office Square. “When I did see her, she was on the ground. And, yeah, she was breathing. I thought she was trying to say something so I knelt down. That must have been when I grabbed the knife, or whatever it was.” I remembered the slim, cool blade.
“Did she say anything?”
“She was trying. I can’t be sure.”
“Dying utterance.” He made more notes. “Always good with a jury.” He tilted his own pen toward me. Silver, it made me think of that knife. Scalpel, I corrected myself. Rachel had been killed with one of her own scalpels. “Theda?” He was waiting.
“She might just have been trying to breathe.” I shook my head. “She was going ‘pah, pah, pah,’ like, I don’t know.” I didn’t want to say “like a goldfish.”
“Pah? Could be Paul or Pat. Definitely not Theda. Did she have a boyfriend?”
“Well, there was Piers. I think they were—”
“Piers!” He didn’t let me finish my thought. “Perfect. Maybe this was a lover’s quarrel, and you walked in on the sad finale.”
“No, that doesn’t make sense.” I pulled myself to the edge of the huge chair. I needed to make my point. “I’m not even sure they were together. If they were, they’d probably just started seeing each other, and they’d still be in the honeymoon stage. And I know Piers. He’s a gentle guy.”