by Clea Simon
“You’re sympathetic. That’s good.” He was writing, not even looking at me.
“No, I’m serious. Piers would not have killed her.”
He looked up. For a jolly guy, his eyes were piercing. “But you would have?”
***
My head was throbbing by the time I left, and I figured I’d take a walk. Boston’s financial district is not my regular stomping ground, and the suits on the sidewalk probably regarded me as oddly as I did them. But after an hour inside, I wasn’t ready to head back down into the T. I headed for the new “Greenway,” as the city’s huge new median was called, to clear my head and gather what remained of my thoughts. One block toward the new park, and I felt better already. Maybe the Big Dig had been a fiasco; the open lawn was still a refreshing sight in the middle of our more generic skyscrapers. And the open air felt great. I spend most of my waking days indoors, in the small back room that I’ve turned into my office. But there’s a world of difference between being inside by choice and being locked up. Out here, with the fresh, damp smell of spring on its way and a midday sun to warm me, I felt human again.
I also realized, perhaps more than before, what I could lose. Pilchard—I found it difficult to think of him as Andy, no matter how often he insisted—had been clear on one thing. The police would not solve this case. They had no incentive when they had me, murder weapon in hand. We would have to get to the bottom of this, find out who had killed Rachel and why, or this would be the last spring I’d enjoy in the fresh air for many years to come.
Well, that wasn’t exactly what Pilchard had said. He’d be content with any good alternate theory of the case, I knew that from the way he jumped on the idea of Piers and begun to spin out a story of a jilted lover driven mad by rage. I understood where he was coming from, but I couldn’t do that to Piers. He wasn’t a murderer, just a guy in a band. He’d lost his girlfriend, he didn’t need a friend framing him. What I needed to do was figure out the truth, not a convenient lie.
I found a bench new enough not to be covered with anything suspicious and took a seat, facing the sun. The crime was so far fetched, I wasn’t sure how to approach it. Who would kill Rachel? She was a vet, for God’s sake. She took care of animals. Did she offend a pet owner at some point? Neuter a pedigreed animal meant for breeding? Overbill? I couldn’t see it, but watching the early lunch crew beginning to fill the other benches, I knew I had to go through every possibility. Between our squabble on Wednesday night and my anger on Thursday, I was the obvious suspect. More than the right to picnic was at risk. What could have caused someone to kill Rachel? Had she been unable to save somebody’s adored animal?
Or was it the euthanasia issue? Everyone knew the city shelter put animals to sleep. As awful as that was, I also knew it was a mercy. When my beloved James had gotten too sick to stand, so weak that he’d refused to eat, refused to even lick a dab of baby food off my finger, I’d taken him to Rachel. She’d been wonderful, letting me take my time with my darling cat. He was nothing but fur and bones by then, but I held him for what felt like hours, sitting in her office while she steered other patients away. When I’d finally given her the okay, she’d let me continue holding him while she gave him first one shot, to anesthetize him, then another, to stop his heart. And then she’d stood back as I sobbed my heart out, only taking his limp body when I was ready. That had been a miserable day. But Rachel had been the good guy, the one who made the pain finally end.
The letters. We’d all dismissed them as fruitcakes, but it was true that Rachel’s hate mail had seemed more serious and a little less flakey than the collection in Violet’s blue file. Maybe the answer would be among the crayon threats and crazies. My hands itched to hold that file again. I’d been half asleep when I browsed through them before.
From what Pilchard had said, I might get another chance. The lawyer had run me through what would happen. The police would have taken everything in her office in to examine, he’d said, but Pilchard would get his shot at it, too, with a copy of the inventory to work from. And although Rachel had said the cops couldn’t make anything of those letters, not even the typed ones, Pilchard had made vague assertions about his own experts and I wanted my own shot. I knew this city, and I knew the animal scene. Between me and Violet—I stopped, caught breathless for a moment by my own train of thought. Violet had quarreled with Rachel. Violet had been one of the people who’d accused Rachel of faking the new policy, and Violet, in the not-that-recent past, had made connections with some of the more fringe animal rights groups. Could she, maybe, without meaning to, have set someone on Rachel? No, I shook my head. Violet might disagree with Rachel, but they, too, were friends. And even if they had a falling out, Violet had too much respect for what Rachel did—hell, she had too much respect for life—to be involved, even obliquely, in a crime like this.
I was getting nowhere, digging into weird places in my own mind. I’d have to tell Pilchard about the letters, make sure he got them from the police. And I’d ask Vi if I could read hers through again, too. Maybe there was something we’d missed. Some connection. After all, Caro had found them spooky, and they weren’t all about my two friends being in love. Beyond that, what did I have?
Musetta. My little cat had blood on her when I went to pick her up, but she’d been unharmed. Could that blood have been from Rachel? Suddenly the sight of those picnicking suits made my stomach flip and I got up to walk, the movement forcing me to breathe and settle down. How could my cat come to have my friend’s blood on her? Had someone stabbed Rachel in the cat ward? No, there would have been a trail. The scalpel that killed my friend had been sharp as a razor, and the bleeding would have started immediately. So, had Musetta been in Rachel’s office, perhaps on her way to the little treatment room just beyond? Did that mean whoever had stabbed Rachel had then taken the time to bring my cat back to the cat ward? I kicked at the gravel of a newly laid path. None of this made sense. All I knew for sure was that Musetta was the one witness I had. She was the only living creature who could say with certainty that when I had walked in on Rachel, the damage—those horrible wounds—had already been done. And she wasn’t talking.
Maybe Bunny’s idea of a pet psychic made sense. I smiled despite myself, and found myself imagining Musetta running through her litany of mews to a psychic interpreter as a uniformed detective took notes. “You saw what? Now, are you sure of the time?” But that just made me realize how much I would miss her, if I were locked up. Who would take care of her? My friends, I knew. But Violet had a shelter to run, and only the Siamese Simon seemed as close to her as her old favorite Sibley. Bunny had Pangur Ban and Astarte, as well as a baby on the way. And Bill would never love her quite as much as I would. No, it was unthinkable. I couldn’t leave her. I had to fight this. A T stop with a fancy new awning appeared at the end of the block and I picked up my pace heading toward it.
***
Much as I may have missed her, Musetta seemed unfazed by my absence and looked up, yawning, as I came in.
“I’m home!” She blinked and settled back on her perch by the window to continue her nap. “And I’m excited to see you, too.” In all fairness, she didn’t protest as I stroked her, smoothing out the sun-warmed fur of her back. I even got a bit of a purr before those green eyes finally closed and I left her to slumber on.
The answering machine was blinking when I came in, and I nearly purred when I heard Bill’s voice.
“Hey, babe, it’s me. I thought about coming over last night, but decided you probably needed your sleep.” His voice sounded warm and tender, even on my crappy machine. “How are you doing today? Call me when you wake up and we can start planning. You’re not alone in this.”
I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet under me. A nice chat with my honey would go a long way to making me feel human again. As I reached for the phone, Musetta landed on my lap. Either I was warmer than the windowsill or she had missed me after all.
“Hey, you.” Maybe I had been too distant
recently. “I got your message.”
“Just getting up?” I could hear the smile in his voice. Club or no club, he still rose long before I usually did. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I’ve been out and about for hours.” I stroked Musetta, feeling rather proud of myself. “I’ve got no time to waste, you know. In fact, I’ve already started on my defense.”
“Oh?” Maybe there was something in that single syllable. I didn’t hear it.
“Uh huh. I was talking with Patti’s new boyfriend, and he was telling me that the cops wouldn’t bother investigating Rachel’s murder, so it was up to us to figure out what had happened, for real.”
“Patti Wright? The real estate lady?” Bill had met her on numerous occasions, but she’d tried to sell us so many “love nests” that he’d learned to avoid her. “What’s she selling this time? A co-op criminal defense?”
“Not Patti, her new guy. He’s a lawyer, a big deal, I guess. Andy Pilchard?” I’d meant to build up to the conclusion, but Bill still had a cop’s intolerance for the frills of a story. He wanted the facts. “Anyway, I think I’ve hired him.”
“You what?” I jerked back, shocked by the volume. Musetta looked up at me.
“I hired him. Or, I think I did. Patti set me up to talk with him, and it seemed like right away he was talking about strategy and how we could come up with alternative theories of the crime.” I didn’t know why I was explaining myself. I felt like I was apologizing and only moments before I’d been so proud.
“Alternative theories?” He’d gotten quieter, but the warmth was gone.
“Yeah, like who else could have done it.” I scrambled to explain. “I told him that she and Piers had started seeing each other, but there was no way Piers was involved.” A grunt. “I mean, he’s not the type. But I did start thinking about finding out who did do it. That’s the best defense, Andy said.”
“Andy?” Bill was quiet now. I heard a deep sigh.
“What’s wrong, Bill? He’s supposedly some kind of top lawyer.” I thought about that billboard. It was sleazy, but maybe I needed sleazy now. “I mean, for someone who takes on criminal cases. And he’s taking me on pro bono. I think he wants to get in tight with Patti.”
“Or maybe he thinks that this is a chance to get in with a cop’s girlfriend.”
“Ex-cop.” Why did I have to remind him? “And what do you mean by that anyway?”
“Andy Pilchard is notorious.” Bill was almost spitting. “And even if you don’t know who he is, you can be sure he found out who you are. Pro bono, my—”
“Bill, hold on! He made sense. Everything he said made sense to me. And I want to get to the truth. I mean, Rachel was my friend.”
“This is not a game, Theda!” Bill was shouting now. “You need an honest, professional defense. Not some shyster who’s going to tell you to go out and get in more trouble.” Either she heard him over the line, or I had tensed up too much for Musetta. She jumped to the floor.
“But, Bill—”
“I’ll say it again, Theda. This is not a game. The Boston homicide department is more than competent to investigate what was truly a vicious crime. You’re a journalist. You’re not a detective. Stay out of police business.”
“I can’t, Bill.” I looked across at Musetta. She was sitting still, but her tail lashed back and forth. “I’m really sorry that you don’t understand.” I heard a sputter, but I couldn’t let him interrupt me now. “It’s not just that I want to find out what happened. It’s not that I think I’ve got some special insight. But Bill, if I don’t get to the bottom of this, I may end up in prison. This is my life.”
Chapter Fifteen
That hadn’t gone as I’d intended. We’d made peace before we hung up, but it felt fragile, as if the rest of the fight had only been postponed. My friend, my lover, my freedom, they were all slipping away. As if on cue, Musetta started coughing, not letting up till she’d hacked up a reasonable size furball.
“Thanks, kitty. That helps a lot.” Spurred to action by this mundane mess, I went for the paper towels. Musetta licked her chops and sauntered down the hall. By the time I got it cleaned up, I was feeling a little calmer, the self pity tucked back with the cleaning solution. Musetta, true to form, was on her office perch, a paisley pillow right by my computer.
“You trying to tell me I should get to work?” She yawned, stretching out one white glove toward me. I stroked her head and took a seat. She was right. What I needed was normalcy. Usually by Friday, I had at least decided on the next week’s column.
Tim knew that, too. His email was terse, but direct. “K- Story?”
I almost laughed. “I wish I knew,” I said under my breath before hitting reply. “Checking out a few options,” I typed, trying to strike a note between vague and optimistic. “Let you know Monday or sooner.” I sent it off. Tim couldn’t have been that mad at me if he wanted my story for a line in his budget. But a ping announced a reply.
“Clubland can wait. What’s with poison story?”
I pushed myself back from the desk. Thank God we weren’t on the phone. What could I tell him? Yes, there were developments, but the vet I’d gone to question had been murdered? Wouldn’t news be covering this anyway?
As if my computer could read my thoughts, it pinged again. Another email from Tim: “Metro on dead vet. Need poison angle asap. Metro front a possibility.”
Great. I’d wanted normalcy. I’d wanted to keep busy, and here was my editor, asking me to report out a story. Too bad, it was the one story I couldn’t write. There was just too much to explain. I stepped away from the computer, letting sleep mode dull its shiny face. I couldn’t give in to panic or self pity. I needed to think, and for that to happen, I needed food.
***
The calendar had only recently left winter, but the thermometer was pushing spring hard. Five minutes after I’d stepped outside, I found myself opening my heavy jacket. The ground was muddy, the trees bare, but between the sun and a breeze so gentle it barely stirred my curls, Cambridge was coming back to life. Daffodil greens poked up between the buildings and a few scattered snowdrops blossomed in a strip of lawn. Did anyone grow crocuses anymore? As I turned the corner, I saw a half dozen buds, some purple, some orange, that answered my question. How bad could things be?
Not entirely rotten, I thought as I pushed open the door to Rutley’s Burgers. The weather had been so nice I had made the trek down to the university, hungry for fresh air and also for beef. The aroma that greeted me reassured me I’d come to the right place, and my mouth watered as I envisioned a burger, grilled to perfection, with a thick slice of red onion on top. But I wasn’t the only one looking for a late lunch, and so by the time I found a stool at the counter, my order had grown to include sautéed mushrooms, bacon, and a slice of sharp cheddar.
“Hey, Theda!” I’d had my eyes closed as I chewed, the better to appreciate the play of cheese against onion, and nearly choked as I tried to respond.
“Tesh.” I nodded, mouth full, and reached for a napkin with my free hand. “Sorry, famished. How are you?” With a twinge of regret I put down my burger and wiped both hands, reaching out to give my friend a quick hug.
“Hungry, but I’m not staying.” That was a pity, the slender body I’d just embraced had felt a little too thin, and I could’ve used the company. “Take out.” Tess nodded toward the ordering station as if she could read my mind. “I had an appointment in the Square, so I’ll be eating at my cubicle.”
Tess worked at one of the university labs but only crunching numbers. There’d be nothing in her work area that could ruin a good burger or, I guessed, garden burger. “So, how’ve you been?” I tried to make the question sound casual, but Tess knew me too well.
“Am I still working the steps, you mean?” She smiled as if she’d caught me out. I didn’t like that smile, or the bones I’d felt when we’d hugged. “I’m doing okay, Theda. It’s hard, but I’m doing okay.”
Tess used to be one of my
closest friends, but even sisters have to give each other space. I nodded and took another bite, hoping that my silence sounded like support.
“But forget about me. How are you doing?” She leaned on the stool next to mine, and I worked on swallowing. “I heard from Violet. Are you going to be okay?”
“I hope so.” That last bit went down dry and I reached for my Diet Coke. “It was pretty terrible. And now, they think—Well, I’ve got a lawyer, anyway.” An awful thought struck me. “Tess, have you been talking to anybody? I mean, does anyone think…you know?”
She waved away the end of my sentence. “Oh come on, Theda. No matter what else, everyone knows you’re not a killer.”
That wasn’t the reassurance I craved. “No matter what else?” My throat felt tight despite the soda. “Tess, come on. Spill.”
“It’s nothing.” She looked away just when I wanted to meet her gaze. “I mean, everyone knows that you and Bill are on the outs.”
I swallowed hard. “They do?”
“Well, you haven’t been around that much. I mean, Francesca has pretty much planned the whole benefit without you.”
“Already?” My burger was losing its savor.
“Well, not by choice. You’ve been otherwise engaged.” Tess turned toward me, but I couldn’t read her face. “Hey, Violet needs something soon or the Helmhold House is going on starvation rations. And Bill had a night free, so, yeah, she went ahead. And besides—” She turned away.
“What?” I heard my voice croak.
“Is that my order?” I hadn’t heard the woman at the register yell out anything. Then again I hadn’t been listening.
“Tess, what is it?” I reached out. Her arm was definitely too thin.
“I’m sorry, Theda.” She looked down at the ground. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But, well, you didn’t seem to care.” I looked at her, unable to form a word. “I mean, when you do come in, it seems that all you do is flirt with Piers.”
“Number thirty four? Garden burger with fries?” That time there was no mistaking the yell, and Tess hopped off her stool.