My family had been very reserved, just the three of us coexisting as one little unit, me with my never-ending supply of Nancy Drews, my father with his model airplane collection, and my mother with her ever-present Vogue in hand. Visiting the Rayfields always felt like I had landed on another planet where males predominated, females were coiffed, stylish, and a little quirky, and I loomed over the proceedings like a giant, silent dodo bird. It usually took me a few minutes—or a martini or two—to get acclimated, and I was out of practice. At that moment, I wished for the comforting touch of Crawford’s hand on my back or just his calming presence. I handed Gigi the big bag and took a deep breath. I did my best to insert myself into the festivities with a minimum of awkwardness. “Where’s the birthday girl?” I asked Max’s parents.
“Kitchen,” Gigi answered, gliding off with the gift.
Marty took my hand. “Come on. I made you a pitcher of martinis, and you’re late, so you need to catch up.”
Max was in the kitchen, but her back was turned to me when I got there. Fred saw me first and by the look on his face, I knew that we had a problem. I went up behind Max, who was holding what seemed to be a glass of wine that looked like it had come from a Medieval Times restaurant—large, filled to the rim with what appeared to be a full-bodied red, and set upon a metal stem made so elaborately that it almost looked alarming. It was the kind of glass that someone in a horror movie might use to serve poison. The Rayfields were nothing if not a little ostentatious. I put my arm around Max, and she turned.
“So glad you could come!” she exclaimed, but she wasn’t sincere.
“I know. I’m late,” I said. “You got my e-mail, right?”
“Yes, I got your e-mail,” she said. “How’s your dog?”
“She’s fine, I think.”
“Where’s Crawford?”
“With the dog.”
“Who’s fine.”
I knew where this was headed, and I looked at Fred for support, but he was staring gloomily out the window and at the spectacular view. “I’m sorry, Max, but I had to make sure the dog was truly better before I left.”
She softened a bit, realizing how much Trixie meant to me, but she was still a little terse. “It’s four o’clock,” she said pointedly.
“I got you that pocketbook you wanted,” I said brightly, the only diversionary tactic I had in my arsenal.
She softened even more. “Well, alright then.” Marty appeared by my side and handed me a martini. “We held dinner for you, though, and I’m starving.” She motioned toward Marty with her giant glass. “He wouldn’t hold a meal for me for anything. But for you? That’s a different story.”
Fred pulled me to the side, down the hall, across from a beautifully appointed bathroom. “What the hell happened?” he asked.
“Not a clue,” I said.
“You think it’s about Christine’s brother? The money?” he asked, but he already knew the answer to that question.
“I would say yes, but I guess we can’t be sure. Maybe the local police will turn something up?”
He snorted. “Not likely,” he said, his superiority complex regarding suburban law enforcement on full display. “I’ll be over. I’ll figure it out.”
Knock yourself out, I thought as he lumbered away, attacking a plate of pigs in a blanket before throwing himself heavily onto the couch in the family room. I joined him and sipped my martini, knowing that it would be my only drink for the night, since I had to drive home.
Before long, Gigi called us to dinner in the dining room, a grand affair with a table that sat eighteen comfortably. I sat between Max’s nephew, Boris, and his sister, Natalia, two children who had been named during the Cold War, or so it would seem. Then I remembered that they had a Russian mother, and I spied her at the end of the table, sitting beside Marty and regaling him with some story that had his complete attention. Boris, ten, broke the ice by asking if my hair was always that frizzy.
“You mean today or just in general?” I asked.
“Your whole life.” He speared a butter pat with his steak knife and dangerously slathered it on a piece of bread while I watched, hoping that I wouldn’t have to fashion a tourniquet from my linen napkin.
“Kind of.”
His face took on a sadness that was profound in its sincerity. “Oh.”
“Hey,” I said. “It’s not so bad. Sometimes I straighten it and it actually looks pretty good.”
He wasn’t buying it. I turned my attention to Natalia, who was hoarding a bowl of peas. “May I?” I asked.
“When I’m done,” she said. I started to notice a very distinct personality gene running through the Rayfield clan: tactless honesty coupled with complete self-absorption.
Max called down from the other end of the table. “Hey, Nancy Drew. How’s your latest case coming along?”
“Which one would that be?” I asked.
“The case of the dead brother-in-law.”
“Still dead,” I said. I wondered what was happening here and why thinly veiled hostility had become the main course. I studied the pattern on my plate.
“Is that why you were so very, very late?” Boris and Natalia’s mother, a woman whose name escaped me, asked. I think. With her heavy accent, I wasn’t entirely sure.
I took a shot at an answer. “That and the fact that my dog was sick,” I said.
She grabbed her chest in horror. “Then why are you even here?”
Max answered for me. “Because she’s my best friend and she wouldn’t think of missing this party.”
I looked to Fred for some support, but he was eyeing his prime rib with a hunger that looked like it could never be satisfied.
Marty, always a gentleman, changed the subject as I caught Max’s eye and mouthed “I’m sorry,” even though I thought I had already apologized profusely for a pretty insignificant infraction against the friend code. If she wanted to have a contest about who was a better friend to whom and I trotted out my list of grievances, she would surely lose. Marty raised his glass and in a display of paternal devotion offered a lovely toast to his only daughter, a woman who was turning into a first-class shrew right before my very eyes. Fred then offered his own tribute, but the only words I could make out were “meat” and “love.” Everyone else seemed just as mystified, but nobody was classless enough to ask for a repeat performance.
Max had softened to me by dessert. We were on the back deck, the place with the best view of the river, and she looked small and weary. “I just worry about you is all,” she said.
“And that’s how you show it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I was late, and I’m sorry that things—that I—have been so consumed by this whole mess. It’s over now, though, and things will go back to normal and you’ll have me all to yourself again.” Just the way you like it, I thought, the implications of that troubling me just a little bit. “I promise that we won’t have any more weird dinners with Christine, either.” Her reaction to the latest goings-on was strange to me, even for Max, but I chalked it up to her sensitivity over her birthday, stress at work, being married to Fred, and a host of other things that wouldn’t bother normal people but that got her emotions all in a jumble.
“No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing my hand. “It’s just that you know how I get around my family.”
I did know how she got around her family, but if this was the only way she could apologize, I felt compelled to respect that.
“One of these days, you’re going to get in a jam that you can’t talk your way out of, and that worries me,” she finally admitted. “One of these days, if you don’t stop getting involved in things that don’t have anything to do with you, you’ll be the one getting poisoned.” Once that was said, she reverted to her regular personality, the one that could only focus on one thing at a time, that thing usually being herself. “Let’s have cake.”
I watched her hustle back inside and che
wed on what she’d said.
I had to admit that she just might have had something there.
Fourteen
Crawford did something completely out of character Monday morning by calling in sick. Technically, he wasn’t sick, but he did a good enough impersonation of a sick person that he didn’t arouse too much suspicion. He wouldn’t leave Trixie alone, and he didn’t want me to incur the wrath of Sister Mary by calling in sick myself. I was relieved. I had fretted all night about leaving the dog home by herself, and the thought of something happening while we were both at work filled me with dread. I kissed him and hugged him tight before I left, grateful that I could go through my day secure in the knowledge that he was keeping close watch on my canine child.
Try as I might, the horror of the weekend still lingered in my mind, and apparently on my face. Those who didn’t know me well gave me a wide berth, and those who did know me asked if everything was okay. I assured all concerned parties that all was well and that I had just had a stressful weekend, leaving them to make up their own scenarios. With my history, I’m sure there were creative scenarios aplenty, but I didn’t have the energy to set the record straight. I kind of slogged through my day, teaching all of my classes and even getting to the cafeteria for a quick lunch with my colleague from the Religious Studies Department, Abe Schneckstein, but even his bonhomie was no match for my sullen mood.
Briggs was working the counter and the grill simultaneously, and he gave me a big smile when I approached the line. “What can I get you, Prof?”
“Surprise me,” I said, seeing Abe maneuver to a table by the window so that we would have a beautiful river view as we ate. He kept kosher and always brought his lunch to school; I watched him amble off to the men’s room to wash his hands, as he did before every meal we shared, before coming back to carefully unwrap whatever it was that the lovely Mrs. Schneckstein had packed for him.
After a few minutes, Briggs presented me with a panini, mozzarella, roasted red peppers, and pesto between beautifully grilled slices of focaccia. “Thank you,” I said. Kid had a knack. Marcus had been wise to hire him.
“Thanks!” he said, obviously pleased with his creation. “Anything else?”
I took a surreptitious look at his left hand, happy when I spotted a bare ring finger. “No, thanks, Briggs.” There was no one behind me, so I took a moment to dig. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Culinary Institute,” he said.
“And you’re cooking here?” I asked. That surprised me more than the beautiful sandwich he had prepared.
“Tough market out there,” he said. “Regular hours here, pretty good pay, and Marcus is great to work with.”
I took a bite of my sandwich, too hungry to wait. “I didn’t take into account the regular hours. Must make your wife happy.”
He blushed. “Oh, there’s no wife, Professor Bergeron.”
Bingo. Next step was to get Meaghan in here. He was tall and gainfully employed, a much better match than Mr. Super Senior, in my book.
I paid for my lunch and met Abe by the window table. He asked me what was going on, and I filled him in, letting him drink in every salacious detail of the past few weeks while he ate a bagel with some kind of spread on it.
“So you’re now more involved with Crawford’s ex-wife?” he asked.
“I guess you could say that,” I said, laughing it off, even though in the back of my mind was this new relationship with Crawford’s ex and her contention that her brother had not committed suicide. Was this her way of getting over the grief of losing someone she loved? How in the heck is someone who ingested a bunch of pills not a suicide? It seemed pretty cut and dried, yet the thought of how steadfast she was in her belief was something that stayed with me.
When all was said and done, I concluded that this was her coping mechanism, and Abe agreed with me. As a rabbi, he had seen his fair share of grieving spouses, siblings, and parents and had a good handle on what could be considered a normal response to something so devastating as suicide. He assured me that Christine couldn’t possibly have known a man who had been away for almost a quarter of her life and that we needed to keep that in mind even as she asserted that her brother would never take his own life.
I left Abe feeling better. I taught another class, then had stopped by my office just to pick up my things before calling it a day when there was a knock at my door, a sound that made me grimace in frustration. All I wanted to do was get the hell off campus and home to my husband and our dog, have a glass of wine, and relax. The night of worrying about how Trixie would fare all day without us, an unfounded fear after all, had taken its toll, and I was completely spent.
I called out to whoever was on the other side of the door to come in. To make it clear that my departure was imminent, I put my messenger bag on top of my desk and began putting books, folders, and assorted papers into it.
Mary Lou Bannerman poked her head in before coming all the way into the office. “Am I catching you at a bad time?” she asked.
For some reason, I was relieved to see her and not another student, someone who might suck up a good hour of my time asking for help with an assignment or requesting a recommendation for graduate school. Even though I wasn’t required to see students outside of my regularly posted office hours, I never turned anyone away, so it was my own fault if I didn’t get off campus until after six some nights. “No, please come in,” I said, “and have a seat.”
“I’m not staying,” she said. Her class had ended hours before, so I wondered why she was still on campus; maybe she was taking other courses at St. Thomas? She must have read my mind. “In the library,” she said, pointing toward the building just beyond the cemetery that could be seen from my office. “I wanted to work in complete silence, and being as we’re remodeling our family room and one of our bathrooms at home, I knew that would be impossible.” She looked at me, worry scurrying across her beautiful features. “You didn’t seem yourself in class today, so I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
I was close to cracking, but I managed to hold it together. I don’t know what it was about her—her sincerity, her concern, or just her serene demeanor—that made me want to burst out crying and reveal everything, but I had to remind myself that she was a student and I was her professor and that kind of behavior was completely inappropriate. “I had a stressful weekend. I guess I wasn’t able to shake it off as quickly as I had hoped.”
She stayed in the door of my office, a notebook and the textbook for our class held to her chest. “I’m so sorry. Anything you want to talk about?” she asked. She smiled. “I guess that’s a little out of the ordinary, you talking to a student about your stressful weekend?”
I nodded. “You could say that.”
She smiled again. “I thought so. Listen, though, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Someone poisoned my dog,” I blurted out. I put a hand to my mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s what happened. Someone poisoned my dog,” I said, and as I repeated it, I felt a tear slip down my cheek; I hastily brushed it away, but she saw it.
She dropped the notebook and the textbook on my desk and came over to give me a hug. The scent of her perfume, reminiscent of a fragrance my mother used to wear, was comforting, and I took a deep breath, inhaling it along with the memories it brought forth. I broke the hug quickly. “Thank you,” I said.
“Who on earth would poison a dog?” she asked.
I continued putting papers into my bag, not intending to do anything with them when I got home; the action gave me something to do and a way to avoiding looking into the kind face of this woman who had seen her own share of heartache. “I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m going to go home and curl up with her and make sure she’s doing better.”
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” she said. “I hope you have a lovely evening.”
“Thank you, Mary Lou.”
“I’m glad everything is okay with your dog. What’s her nam
e?” she asked.
“Trixie.”
“Sounds like a beautiful name for a beautiful retriever,” she said.
I had never said what kind of dog she was; I gave Mary Lou a quizzical look.
She pointed to my desk. “That’s her, right? With your husband?”
I looked at the picture on my desk in which Trixie was front and center, Crawford kneeling behind her. I had taken it one weekend when in a misguided desire to get some fresh air I had dragged the two of them to a spot about a half hour north of the house that boasted spectacular views. What it also boasted was a hiking trail that went straight up at a forty-five-degree angle, so when we arrived at the top, we were incapable of looking at the view, thanks to our exhaustion from making the trek. I remember my hands shaking as I aimed the camera at the two of them, managing despite my fatigue to get a great shot, the fall leaves behind them in spectacular array.
What was wrong with me? Here was this nice woman trying to help me get past my horrible state of mind, and all I could think was that she hadn’t known the breed of my dog prior to entering my office and having a conversation with me. I needed sleep badly. I was losing it.
She patted my shoulder one more time. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
I threw my bag over my shoulder and locked my office door on the way out, grateful for the company of this lovely lady who wanted to write a novel about a murder.
As I had often thought in the past, St. Thomas University made strange bedfellows. I realized as she walked away in the parking lot, having seen me to my car, that I never asked her why she had come by my office.
Fifteen
Max and Fred were at the house when I got home, and I moaned to myself as I drove up the driveway, having spotted their car parked at the curb. It’s not that I don’t love my best friend; she can be a little much, though, and God knows she had been really irritable lately. I wasn’t in the mood. Knowing that they were there filled me with dread; I had a date with the luscious Trixie Bergeron-Crawford and her even more luscious owner, Crawford, and a bottle of wine that didn’t have “Gallo” written anywhere on the label. I got out of the car and picked my way across the backyard in my heels, thinking that they would be the first item of clothing I removed when I entered the house.
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