“I call her the Babe of Bensonhurst,” added Fred. Mia hung back for a second, but Fred took her hand and gently led her along. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
“Freddie!” the woman said, and grabbed Fred in a hug; she caught him somewhere between his waist and his chest. Fred hugged her back, grinning at Mia over his mother’s inky head. Mia felt a little knot of discomfort begin to tighten inside, the diminutive form of his name a little warning bell pinging in her head. Lloyd’s mother was prone to this kind of thing, too, with her Timmy this and Timmy that. But then Mia reminded herself of all the ways in which Fred was nothing at all like Lloyd.
The woman broke away from Fred and extended her hand with its vivid nails in Mia’s direction.
“I’m Bev,” she said. “Glad you could join us. Any friend of Freddie’s is a friend of mine. What’s your name?”
“Mia.”
“Well, Mia, I hope you brought your appetite. The food’s in there. Freddie, take her inside and fix her a plate.”
Which he did: roast turkey, sweet potato puree, glazed ham, pickled beets, green beans, lasagna, garlic bread. Mia was suddenly ravenous and took seconds of mostly everything. The beets. The beets were delicious. So tangy. She had never had better beets. And the sweet potatoes—so light and fluffy. Finally, she put her fork down.
“I hope you saved room for dessert,” said Fred.
After everyone had eaten, the group splintered off in several directions. The kids went into the bedroom to watch a DVD; a bunch of guys turned on ESPN. Bev organized a card game in the kitchen—all turquoise Formica, circa 1974—and began to shuffle.
“Mia, can I deal you in?” called Bev.
“I’ll sit this one out,” Mia said. She disliked most card games, but in the interest of being sociable, she would sit and watch.
“Okay, if you change your mind, just let me know,” said Bev. Her hands on the deck were practiced and light; the cards skittered across the table.
“What’s the game?” whispered Mia.
“It’s called Fuck Your Neighbor,” said Fred.
Loud, fast, and explosive, it was not a game with which Mia was familiar. Even though she couldn’t quite catch the rules, she still found herself enjoying it.
Bev yelped with delight when she made a good play and cursed with impressive brio when she lost. Finally, she gathered the cards into a neat stack and shooed everyone away from the table.
“Game’s over,” she announced, hoisting her tubby little body up. Encased in the tight black clothes, she reminded Mia of a seal. “Freddie’s making a fresh batch of coffee.”
“I am?” said Fred.
“Would you please?” asked Bev. “The coffeemaker’s all set up and ready to roll.”
“All right,” said Fred. “If you want.”
“Thanks, Freddie,” Bev said. “You’re a good boy.” She leaned over Fred, who was still sitting, and planted a crimson kiss on his forehead. “In the meantime, I want to talk to your new lady friend here. I’d like to get to know her.” Bev pulled up a chair next to Mia. “So you’re a Brooklyn girl?” she asked.
“Only for the last dozen or so years. I was brought up in Manhattan.”
“I love Manhattan,” Bev said. “Broadway—I could see a different show every night. And that Metropolitan Museum uptown; it’s a palace, I swear. No, not a palace. A temple. A temple of God.”
“So you like the Met?”
“Like it? I love it, just love it. The costume gallery’s my favorite,” Bev said. “I was just there with my friends Selma and Glowie—see, that’s Glowie over there, in the red-and-green sweater with the Scotties on it—and we saw all these fabulous wedding dresses. I wanted to get married again, just so I could fantasize about wearing one. And how about that Christmas tree they put up? The one with all the angels . . .” Bev was off and running: Impressionists, Greek and Roman statuary—”Those naked young boys are hot, hot, hot”—the American Wing, Renaissance Madonnas. She didn’t stop until Fred handed her a cup of steaming coffee. She took a sip and nodded. “You done good,” she told her son. Then, to Mia, “How about you? You like the museums, too?”
“I do,” said Mia. “But I hardly go anymore. I’m afraid I’m stuck in the same old groove—working and taking care of my daughter. That’s about all I have time for. Or energy.”
“I think you have a lot of energy,” said Bev. “I can kind of feel it coming from you. In waves, you know? Like heat or light.”
“Really?” asked Mia, intrigued in spite of herself. “You do?”
“Definitely,” said Bev. The imprint of her lower lip on the white cup was a bright red semicircle. “I know these things. Didn’t Freddie tell you? I can sense things about people. I read the cards, too.”
“Cards?” Mia sipped her own coffee, which had already started to cool. Was she referring to the game?
“Tarot cards. I know . . . I’ll read yours.” Bev put her cup down hard enough so that coffee splashed over the rim and dripped down the side. She didn’t appear to notice.
“Now?” asked Mia, looking over at Fred. But he was talking to a man with a head of curly white hair and his back was turned, so he didn’t see her.
“Sure, why not? You have something to hide?”
BEV’S BEDROOM was an ode to the color pink. Mia could tell that Fred’s dad had died years ago; no straight man alive could endure a room this aggressively femme. The walls were pale blush pink, the satin coverlet was rose, and the tufted headboard was a still darker shade of the same color. The windows were covered in balloon shades with a pattern of pink-and-green cabbage roses, and there was a matching overstuffed armchair with about a half-dozen fringed pillows piled on its seat. There was also a mirrored vanity that hosted an army of perfume bottles and a glass-fronted cabinet crammed with a dolls, teddy bears, and a six-inch plastic bride and groom that Mia guessed was from Bev’s own wedding cake.
“Come sit,” Bev said, patting the pink bed. Her black-clad thighs rubbing together made a soothing swish-swish sound.
Mia sat down as Bev bustled around, first finding the cards and then laying them out on the slippery pink surface of the bed.
“Turn over three cards,” she instructed.
Mia picked the cards, revealing the brightly colored pictures on the reverse sides.
“The Hanged Man, the Three of Swords, the Seven of Wands,” said Bev. “Interesting.”
“The Hangman is interesting? I’d say gruesome or morbid is more like it.”
“No, you can’t take it literally,” said Bev. “You have to interpret it.”
“How?” Mia knew very little about tarot cards, though she found their old-fashioned imagery and symbolism kind of quaint. Like a do-it-yourself fairy tale; the cards provide the nouns, and you added all the verbs and adjectives.
“Well, the Hanged Man could mean letting go, surrendering to experience. Or it could mean putting your own interests aside in favor of someone else’s. Or being vulnerable and open.”
“Sounds like it could mean a lot of things.”
“Of course,” said Bev confidently. “It’s all got to be taken in context.” She gathered the cards, shuffled them thoughtfully. “That was just a warm-up. Just to get the juices flowing. Now I want to do a universal reading. This time, pick six cards.”
Mia hesitated before making her choices. This was silly, wasn’t it? She was just humoring Bev, whom she was starting to like.
“The Hanged Man again,” said Bev.
“Uh-oh.”
“No, it’s like I told you: don’t be so literal about it. The Hanged Man is one of the most mysterious figures in the deck. He’s simple, but complex. He attracts us, but also disturbs. He’s a constant contradiction. And then when you have him next to the Magician . . .” Her lacquered nail tapped another of the cards Mia had turned over. “This is good. Very good.”
“Is it?” Mia couldn’t believe she was taking any of this seriously.
“Oh, yes. The Magic
ian is all about action, awareness, concentration, and power. It’s about creating miracles.” Something in Mia’s face must have changed, because Bev added, “I can tell that you’ve had the experience of some kind of magic recently. Something strange and compelling that you can’t explain.”
“Actually, I have . . .” Mia said, thinking, It’s just a coincidence; she can’t know. She felt a little uneasy though. Uneasy, yet curious, too. What else might those cards be able to tell her?
“Of course you have,” said Bev. “The cards never lie. Now, look at this card, the Lovers—”
“Ma,” said Fred, who had walked into the room. Both women turned to look at him. “Enough.”
“Oh, you’re a party pooper,” she said, giving Mia a conspiratorial wink. Her thick, had-to-be-false eyelashes were like a black centipede against her cheek. “We were having fun until you came in.”
“I’m sure you were. But people are looking for you. Peg and Mike want to say good-bye.”
“They’re leaving? Already?” Bev looked regretfully down at the cards on their field of shining pink. “To be continued,” she told Mia, gathering the cards. “I’m not done with you yet.” She rose, with some effort, and stopped in front of the mirror to adjust her sequined top and perform a little series of taps under her chin, as if she were trying to tighten the loose flesh there.
“Okeydokey,” she said to her reflection. “Duty calls.” But on her way out of the room she stopped and put a hand on Mia’s wrist. “There’s good things ahead for you. I can tell.”
“I like your mom,” Mia told Fred when Bev had gone.
“She likes you, too,” Fred said.
“How can you tell?”
“What do you mean how can I tell? She’s my mother. Haven’t I spent a lifetime learning how to read her signals?” He smiled. “But those tarot cards of hers—I gotta rein her in sometimes, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, I didn’t mind the cards,” said Mia. And she hadn’t, either.
They stayed until the dessert table—three kinds of pie, chocolate cake in the shape of a Yule log, platters of cookies—had been successfully depleted. As they hovered by the door, saying their good-byes, Bev gave Mia a hug instead of a handshake.
“Freddie, you bring her back here, okay?”
“Okay, Ma,” Fred said, managing to sound dutiful and ironic at the same time. “Can do.”
The traffic was extremely light on the way home and the motor-cycle—which Fred had insisted on driving—seemed to fly over the highway. Despite all the layers he had made her wear, Mia was freezing; the wind sliced through her jacket as if it were paper. Still, when she looked up, she could see the weak but steady glow of the stars overhead, a pale reiteration of the thousands upon thousands of dazzling lights that shone brightly from almost every doorway, every roof, every fence, and every tree that they were passing.
TWENTY-ONE
CHRIS COX WAS a dandy. The lawyer appeared at Mia’s apartment wearing a three-piece suit and molasses-colored wing tips that radiated a muted, costs-a-fortune glow. His tie was an exquisite, lushly patterned silk, and the French cuffs of his impeccably tailored shirt were secured by two opulent hunks of hammered gold. On his wrist was a complicated, expensive-looking watch, the sort that indicated all the time zones, even those on Mars, and there was a diamond stud winking in one earlobe. But he wore his finery lightly, as if it were running or boxing gear, and, in fact, he reminded Mia of a boxer, darting and jabbing his way around the room, his small hands clenched in tight, emphatic fists.
“The coroner put the time of Wedeen’s death at between eight and eleven on the morning of December sixteenth. Now can you tell me exactly, and I mean exactly, where you were that morning? Because I want to make sure your alibi is airtight.”
“The morning of the sixteenth . . .” Mia tried to remember. “I would have been taking Eden to school; I must have seen a few people I know at drop-off. I know—I ran into her friend Caitlin’s mom, Suzy. We even talked for a few minutes. I’m sure I can get her to verify that.”
“Good, good,” said Cox. “Now what else? What about after you dropped her off?”
“I took the subway into work. So there are at least a half dozen people, maybe more, who saw me at the office. Though I wish I didn’t have to get them involved in any of this.”
“Get over it,” Cox said. “You don’t have a choice. But so far, so good. I’m liking what I’m hearing. We’ve got several reliable witnesses to say that you were nowhere near Wedeen at the time he was killed. Now, I’m going to want their names, addresses, and phone numbers from you; can you get me all that information by tomorrow at the latest?”
“I guess so,” said Mia. He gave her a look, and she added, “All right. I will.”
“Better,” he said. “Remember, I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped.” He straightened his already straight tie. “Show me your clothes; appearances are very important with the judge.”
Mia led Cox into the bedroom and watched with mild amazement as he ruthlessly sorted through the contents of her closet. He made two piles—maybe and no. Most of the clothes fell into the no category, which was growing bigger by the minute, though Mia could not see why her black ribbed sweaters, turtlenecks, and black pants of all materials were so summarily rejected.
“No pants,” said Cox. “And, unless you’re in mourning, no black either. Black reads as too cool, too cynical.”
“Oh,” said Mia. Who knew?
“We want you to project a look that’s open and sincere. I could see you in a crisp white blouse and a string of pearls, maybe. Or a sweater, but in a soft, light shade: beige or ivory. I want you to look responsible and mature. Yet innocent, too. Innocence is a crucial theme here.”
Mia said nothing. This was all feeling very familiar, the digging through of the closet; the feeling that nothing she owned would project the right image, the right message, and the right self. But the stakes, she knew, were high, so she tried to cooperate. Then she thought of the night she got dressed for Fred’s visit, the night Patrick showed up.
“How about this?” she asked, digging through the crowded rack for the Burberry coat. After all, it had worked before.
“I like it,” Cox said. “I like it a lot.” He nodded, taking the coat from her. “Now we just have to find you something to go underneath.”
Mia didn’t mention the outfit she had chosen the last time she’d worn this coat, but allowed Cox to keep looking until he found a weird brown corduroy dress with buttons down the front—another of Julie’s fashion experiments gone awry—and a brown faux-croc belt.
“Send the coat and the dress to the dry cleaner’s before you wear them,” he instructed, rolling the belt into a neat circle before handing it back to her.
“But why? They’re not dirty.”
“I thought I made this clear already: I’m the expert here. And if I say cleaner’s, then I mean cleaner’s.”
“Cleaner’s,” she said. “Right.” Mia began putting all the rejects back in the closet.
“Now, the next thing we need to deal with is that bill you sold him.”
“The bill . . .” Mia, who was holding a pair of pants in one hand and a hanger in the other, paused.
“Yes. The bill. Costello is going to bring it up, and the judge is going to want to know where it came from. I haven’t pressed you about it before because you didn’t want to talk about it. But I have to address the things people don’t want to discuss—that’s my job.”
“I’ll tell you,” Mia said, “even though you won’t believe it.” She left the pants on the bed; they could wait.
“Try me and see.”
So Mia told him the story about the cash machine gone haywire, the money that came, unbidden, from its brushed-steel slot. When she was through, Cox was, for the first time since he walked through her door, quiet, though his bald pate seemed to pulsate from all the activity taking place within.
“Mia, there’s an option we
haven’t discussed yet,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“We tell the judge that you can’t answer because you were not in your right mind at the time. You don’t know where you got the bill; you had been having hallucinations, hearing voices—that kind of thing.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I know. But it’s more plausible than the truth.” He sighed. “Way more plausible.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I won’t say it.”
“No one is going to believe your story,” he said.
“I can’t help that, can I?”
He studied her, as if trying to get a sense of who she might be, what she would—and wouldn’t—do.
“All right,” he said finally. “Maybe it’s better that I don’t know where you got it. Our main focus is Weed, and clearing you from any possible involvement in his death.”
“We’re in good shape with that, right? I have an alibi; I can provide the corroboration you wanted; you vetted the outfit. What else do we need?”
“There is one more thing I haven’t brought up yet.”
“What’s that?”
“Costello mentioned something about a gold locket. She thinks it’s in your possession.”
“Do you mean this?” Mia dug it out from under her dress; she had taken to wearing it concealed.
“That fits the description, yes.”
“Why is she asking?” Mia asked.
“She contacted a few local currency dealers. One of them said that you had approached him with the bill.”
“Solomon Phelps,” said Mia, remembering with distaste that cool, blue gaze.
“Right. He said that when he asked you where you got it, you lied. And that you had a very unusual piece of jewelry, one that he thought might have significant value.”
“So what if it does?” asked Mia defensively. “It’s mine; I bought it.”
“From whom? Can you provide a receipt?”
Mia thought of the empty, darkened shop, the disconnected number.
“No,” she said. “I can’t.”
“I somehow figured that would be the case.” His fingers moved to his tie again, as if seeking its reassurance.
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