Squinting, I flipped down the visor to block the sun as I drove back over the bridge. I caught my reflection in the mirror again. That scratch had grown redder. That mysterious scratch. You never had any physical marks from sleepwalking before. There it was. I’d finally let myself hear the whisper in my psyche. Had I begun sleepwalking again? After twenty-one years without any incidents?
I tuned out the worrying voice, even as the scratch’s unexplained source gnawed at me. So did my hunger. The clock on the dashboard read 10:11 a.m. I hadn’t eaten since Mao’s Chinese take-out shrimp and broccoli the night before. Despite everything, I had an appetite. As I turned off Crooked Beach Road onto the dirt lane that led to my driveway, I looked forward to fried eggs, a hot bath and clean clothes.
I live in the Coop, as it’s known. A white clapboard chicken coop. The long, low, shoe box–like structure sits at the back edge of a former strawberry farm next to a swath of county-owned woods. The landlords are Summer Weekenders, a gay couple whose renovated 1880s farmhouse is on the other side of the property and who had returned to their city residence in early September.
They did a lovely job on the farmhouse, forgoing the typical million-dollar expansion and staying within the existing footprint. They installed solar panels, a copper roof and oversize casement windows, but those cost more than they’d budgeted, and they couldn’t fix up the Coop as they’d planned. No solar for me. I have space heaters and a Danish woodstove, along with lots of old, leaky, wood-frame, six-over-six windows that fill the Coop with clear “vodka” light. The rent is reasonable, the place is charming and has real potential, but it’s freezing in winter.
When I spotted the red Prius parked in my driveway, I almost turned the car around. Grace had used her key to let herself in. As much as I’d wanted to see her earlier, I wasn’t up for her company. I was worn out and wary of questions. Grace is an expert interviewer; I could feel the heat of her grilling already. She’d want to know where I’d been. I was reluctant to admit, even to my best friend, that I’d been spying at the scene of Hugh and Helene’s murder. And that I worried I’d been sleepwalking. And worse . . . No, that was absurd, and I refused to even think about it.
I parked and walked wearily to the front door. As I reached for the knob, the door flew open. Grace stood there talking into her phone.
“She just got here, Ben. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and threw her arms around me. “Nora. I was so worried. You heard about Hugh and Helene?”
“Yes, I did. It’s horrible.”
She released me and stepped back, scowling down at the consequence of our hug: streaks of mud from my trench coat decorated her NPR T-shirt.
“Are you okay? Where were you?”
I hesitated. Was a lie of omission still a lie?
“I went for a drive.”
I scooted around her into the living room, noticing how it had been tidied up. I’d let my housekeeping slide with my depression. There were no clothing and magazines strewn on the wicker couch or kilim-covered floor. The take-out food cartons had been cleared from the pine dining table. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the rooms.
Grace followed me inside and shut the door. All this domestic handiwork was hers. In college, she managed to make staying in and doing laundry on a Saturday night seem like a party. Of course, smoking pot always helped.
“You went for a drive? Really?” She evaluated me skeptically. “That explains why you look like you’ve crawled through a sewer.”
I averted my gaze.
“And how you got that nasty scratch under your eye.”
I heard my cell phone—my only phone—ring in the kitchen. Saved by the bell.
“You’ve had about ten calls since I got here,” Grace said, trailing me as I went to fetch it. “One was from Lada, but I didn’t answer because I couldn’t tell her where you were. I’m sure she’s upset.”
The phone sat on the butcher-block kitchen counter next to a pile of mail. Its face read “Unknown Caller.” I silenced the ringer.
“You should call her,” Grace said.
My back was to Grace, blocking her view of Hugh’s letter. It still sat on top of the mail stack. I’d reread it a dozen times but couldn’t make a decision about how to respond. Grace obviously hadn’t noticed the return address or she would have said something. This was not the moment to show her a maddening letter from Hugh. There was no point in letting her know he’d hurt me again, or in stirring up anger at him. I picked the envelope up discreetly and stuffed it in the pocket of my trench coat.
“Nora?”
“What?”
I pivoted and walked back to the living room with Grace still on my tail.
“You should let her know you’re okay.”
“Who?”
“Lada! If, in fact, you are okay. Have you heard one word I said?”
I flopped onto the couch and began the struggle to take off my Wellingtons, twisting and yanking first one, then the other to no avail.
“Talk to me, Nor.”
“Fuck!” I yelled as a boot finally gave way and I pitched it across the room. The toe grazed the framed photograph of my father that sat on my desk and toppled it, filling me with regret. Grace came and stood over me, her brow furrowed.
“Give me that,” she said, pointing to my remaining booted leg.
I lifted my leg and she calmly eased the boot off.
“I want to know everything,” she said.
Grace makes the most delicious fried eggs. Mine always cook up rubbery, but she gets perfect, crispy whites and syrupy yolks. Eating them in my oversize, claw-legged bathtub between sips of strong coffee makes them taste even better. The tub sits next to a window that looks out over a small garden and across an open field ending in dense cedar woods—a welcome change from the bleak views in my post-divorce city apartment.
Pink roses bloomed just under the window the first spring I spent here. But the deer munched the petals like candy and left only thorny stumps. I’ve been meaning to clear out the dead rosebushes and plant daffodil bulbs before the frost hits. The man from the garden center said the deer have zero interest in daffodils. But I haven’t gotten around to taking the bulbs out of the shed yet. Sometimes I think I’m like those bulbs. Dormant. Sitting around in dull, protective wrapping.
Instead of working in my garden, I spend a lot of time soaking in this tub. I watch squirrels, chipmunks, blue jays and cardinals. I daydream about the usual topics: money, worldly recognition. Love. I imagine having enough money to buy a house of my own, writing a great piece of journalism and winning a Pulitzer, meeting a man. This would be a romantic place to make love if I ever met the right one. I tried dating last spring. A photographer Grace knew from the city who was doing a book on Pequod’s historic houses. A smart, funny guy. After three dates, I invented a reason to withdraw. I told him a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work.
Aside from the excellent tub, my pale blue bathroom has wall sconces, a side table and a Shabby Chic armchair in the corner—my version of a Jane Austen sitting room. Hugh would not have tolerated this decor. I’ve discovered that one of the benefits of living alone is you can have as much chintz as you like.
After serving me, Grace returned to the bathroom with a cup of coffee for herself and curled up in the rose-patterned armchair.
“So, out with it. How did you get so filthy? Where did you go?”
Despite her questions, I had to admit hanging out like this with Grace was comforting. We’d spent about a zillion hours talking to each other in our dorm bathroom back in the day.
“I drove to the beach and took a long walk. I was trying to wrap my head around what happened.” I set the empty plate on the floor, leaned back against the porcelain wall of the tub and sank further into the water. I hated lying to Grace.
“And the mud?”
I swallowed hard and said the only thing I could think of.
“When the storm hit, I ran for the car. I tripped and fell into a pudd
le near where I parked.”
Somehow lying to Grace while I was naked made me feel more sinful—like Eve in the Garden after the apple. She came over, picked the plate up and looked me right in the eye.
“You must have been so upset,” she said, softening. “You were in shock.”
Shock. Yes. Lizzie and Grace had both come to the same, logical conclusion. That would explain my irrational thinking.
“I wasn’t in my right mind,” I said.
Grace went back to her chair and put the plate on the side table.
“I just wish you’d called me before you went off like that.”
“I did. I couldn’t reach you,” I said, relieved to be honest for a moment. “So you spoke to Ben? Does he know anything besides what they said on the news?”
“He’s tried his contacts at the county police but hasn’t heard back yet. He’s thinking it was a home invasion or a robbery gone bad. It’s just so insane.”
A home invasion. A robbery gone bad. I sank lower into the water and closed my eyes. Hugh’s and Helene’s faces appeared. Flesh reduced to gory masses of red-and-purple mush. The work of a shotgun blast. I gagged and sat up.
“Like the Clutters.”
“Who?”
“The Clutters. The family those robbers shot in Truman Capote’s book In Cold Blood.” I covered my eyes. For the first time since I’d heard about the murders, tears poured out.
Grace rose again, came over and knelt next to the tub.
“Breathe, honey. That’s right. Just breathe,” she said, rubbing my back.
“This whole thing is so unspeakably awful.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I just feel . . . fuck. I don’t know what I feel.”
“It’s traumatic for you.” She stroked my hair. “And with all the times you must’ve wished them dead, maybe you feel, I don’t know. Guilty.”
She’d hit a nerve. I straightened up and glared at Grace. “I do not feel guilty,” I said defensively.
“Okay. Sorry. Simmer down. I just said that because . . . I don’t know why I said it.”
She knew me so well. Was she picking up on the fear I was trying to squelch?
Grace got to her feet, dried her hands on a towel and studied me closely.
“I’m worried about you, Nor. Even before all this. You’ve been looking exhausted.” She took a step back, hesitating before asking. “You’re not having any more of those sleepwalking episodes, are you?”
I stiffened. “Why would you think that? You know I grew out of those, like, forever ago.” I was trying to reassure myself as much as convince her.
Grace sat on the rim of the tub now, a vexed look on her face. “But you’re so tired. You haven’t been yourself. I guess it’s because you’re depressed. You’ve been depressed ever since Helene and Hugh moved to Pequod.”
She was right about the timing. The doorbell buzzed.
“You expecting someone?” she asked.
“No.”
“It could be a reporter.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll get rid of whoever it is. And then we’ll pick the rest of that crud out of your hair. You must’ve fallen into a very dirty puddle.”
The buzzer rang again. Grace left the bathroom, and I ran my hands through my filthy locks. Bits of dead leaves and another tiny twig, similar to the debris I pulled out earlier, fell into the water. I sank down and watched the flotsam and jetsam float on the surface, feeling an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. I splashed water on my face.
A male voice began murmuring outside along with Grace’s. And then it struck me: reporters generally don’t ring doorbells. They call for a comment. Or lie in wait at the property line until their target comes out. Maybe it was Mac? Could he have returned from the morgue already?
While I was contemplating this, my eyes caught a movement out the window at the edge of the forest. A form lurking among the tree trunks and ferns. I wasn’t tired anymore. I was on alert, my muscles tense. I sank deeper into the tub to hide my nakedness and tracked the dark shape outside, fixing on it for a second and then losing it again. Someone was definitely out there. I started to reach for a towel to cover myself but stopped when I saw a fluffy bit of white flitting between the cedars. I let out my breath and relaxed into the tub. That would be a doe—a worn-out doe running from another horny stag, her white tail lifting in alarm. We were at the end of rutting season.
She came forward to the edge of the woods, stepping slowly on her slim legs. Tall and elegant with a thick, grayish-brown fall coat, she held her head high. Her black nostrils twitched. Her brown eyes were wide and watchful.
She knew how vulnerable she was. Had her trust meter hit the red zone? She seemed to be trying to decide if it was safe to go for that patch of green still growing out there in the sun. Or that group of acorns under the oak. Could she nibble the last bit of sweetness before winter kicked in and the bitter, hungry days began? Perhaps she was pregnant already. Did she need extra food for the babies she carried?
I thought of Helene’s pregnant belly in the painting.
Ripped open.
Hugh’s heart.
Cut out.
That didn’t read like a home invasion or robbery gone bad. That felt personal. The vengeful act of someone with a grudge. Like me?
“Nora.”
Something outside startled the doe. She turned tail and ran back into the forest as Grace slipped inside the bathroom and shut the door, looking uneasy.
“The police are here,” she said.
Chapter Seven
“You’re creating another Richard Jewell situation,” I heard Grace complain as I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in my robe. She was referring to the security guard wrongfully accused of planting a bomb in a trash can at Atlanta’s ’96 Olympics.
“You’re going to start a witch hunt,” she said as I tentatively entered the living room. “You’ll set off a media frenzy.”
The bald cop in the tweed sports jacket who had been running the crime scene was facing her. He had his hands folded across his corduroy-covered privates. Through the window behind him, I saw a county police officer sitting in a squad car in my driveway. Grace had been expressing worry that the press would discover them here and assume that I was a suspect.
“Ah, hello, Ms. Glasser,” the cop said over her shoulder.
“Hello.”
Grace turned around and mouthed, “Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“Detective Larry Roche. County Homicide.” He flashed his badge. “I was just about to tell your friend Grace here that none of the reporters saw me leave. I instructed our media liaison at the scene to issue an official statement just before I took off. They were too focused on getting their quotes to track me. I promise you, the press did not follow me here.”
Just then his cell phone began to play the theme from The Godfather.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He answered the phone with a brusque “Roche” and ran his free hand across his smooth, shiny head. “Tell him I’m authorizing overtime. I want the blood work. Stat.” He frowned at whomever was on the other end. “Well, get the dive unit on it. And while you’re at it, find out who’s leaking information out there.” He hung up and addressed me again.
“Sorry, Ms. Glasser. I wondered if we could ask you a few questions. On a totally volunteer basis, of course. Any leads you give us will be a big help. We’re groping in the dark here.”
So they didn’t have a suspect. They wanted my assistance, my knowledge of Hugh’s friends and associates.
“Sure.”
“Would you mind coming down to the county precinct in Massamat for the interview?”
I blanched. Grace launched into full-on protective mode, hands on her hips.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why do you need to take her to Massamat? Why can’t you ask your questions here?”
An interview was an interview to Grace. Unlike me, she was not a TV
crime-drama buff. No binge-watching Helen Mirren play Detective Chief Inspector Tennison in Prime Suspect. No indulging in cheesy Law and Order marathons. Those shows help me believe there’s order and justice in the world, if only for an hour or so. If Grace had watched as many crime shows as I had, she would know the police liked to conduct interviews on their own turf in order to intimidate and confuse suspects. They’re hoping their guests will incriminate themselves or confess before they “lawyer up.” Roche’s request could mean I was under suspicion. My insides were quaking while I tried to look calm.
“A formal environment usually helps jog people’s memories,” Roche said reassuringly. “There might be a seemingly innocuous event in Ms. Glasser’s relationship with Mr. Walker that could help point us in the right direction.”
“But there was no relationship anymore,” Grace argued.
“It’s all right, Grace,” I said. “I want to help.”
Maybe I was misreading this and the police really wanted my assistance. It was entirely possible I did have a piece of information that would lead them to another suspect. Besides, what was the alternative? Calling a lawyer or refusing to cooperate would make it seem like I had something to hide. Except for visiting the murder scene this morning, I didn’t. Or did I?
“Thank you,” Roche said, making prayer hands in my direction.
He was so dapper and polite, he might have been a date picking me up for a Sunday brunch.
Grace turned to me, worried. “Nora, I don’t know about this.”
“It’s all right,” I repeated. “Just let me put on some clothes.”
Grace—trying to promote goodwill, I guess, or deal with the awkwardness—offered Roche one of her excellent lattes while he waited. He declined.
Tips for Living Page 8