“I’m sorry she broke your confidence,” he finally said. “You should know that from now on, there’s going to be a lot of talk. People felt free to poke around my world when my wife died, but it was nothing like what’s about to happen to you. I wish it weren’t the case, but there’ll be press.”
“I’ve been a public spectacle before. I hate it.”
“Fame and murder take it to a whole other level. You’re going to have to toughen up. They’re going to be prying, coming at you with questions like crowbars.”
Ben was right. I knew the public’s appetite was insatiable when it came to what veteran journalist Pete Hamill called “murders at good addresses.” They couldn’t get enough of Claus von Bulow and O. J. Simpson. That investment banker, Ted Ammon, who was found naked and beaten to death in bed at his East Hampton mansion? People fed off that story for months. I felt betrayed by Lizzie, but I needed to settle down and stop taking things personally.
“Point taken,” I said. “Now I’ve got a question for you, Ben.”
Ben took a sip of his drink. “Shoot.”
“What were you and Douglas Gubbins talking about at the police station? I have a feeling it was about me.”
He nodded solemnly and pushed my vodka closer. “Don’t you want your drink?”
“You’re saying I need one to hear this?”
“Recommended.”
I took a long, slow pull on the vodka tonic while Ben checked around us for eavesdroppers. When he was satisfied we had privacy, he leaned in.
“Remember my Deep Throat in the DA’s office?”
“The one who tipped you off to the embezzlement charges against the county highway superintendent?”
“Same guy. He told me what they have on the Point murders.”
“The Point murders? That’s what they’re calling them?”
“He spoke off the record. Nothing they’re releasing to the press.” He tapped my glass. “Have some more vodka. I’m driving.”
I gulped more of the drink, but too fast. The bubbles backed up into my nose. I picked up my paper cocktail napkin with the teacup emblem and sneezed into it.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you.”
Ben took a deep breath before speaking.
“There was no forced entry. Hugh or Helene, or both, likely knew their killer. The police haven’t found the murder weapon yet, but they were each shot at point-blank range with a .22,” he hesitated, “in bed.” He paused again. “And they were shot in the face.”
I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut. I felt both relieved for myself and nauseated. This confirmed the shooting. A gun was involved, and I didn’t have one. But I couldn’t lose the image of Hugh’s head resting on a fluffy white pillow, dark red syrup oozing out of the charred, fleshy crater where his nose used to be.
“Don’t look at it, Nora.”
How was he so tuned in to what I was thinking?
“Draw a curtain in your mind,” he instructed.
I tried to do what Ben said. A plush, blue velvet curtain like the one they have on the stage at Pequod High School appeared and blocked the horrific image. The sick feeling passed. I opened my eyes and they met Ben’s. I could feel how present he was. So with me. So there. More than a boss, a friend.
“That’s not all.”
I shifted in my seat, bracing myself.
“Finish your vodka first,” he said.
I drained the rest of my drink.
“There was a painting on the wall in their bedroom. Of Helene Walker with Hugh wrapped around her when she was pregnant. You know it?”
I nodded, cringing internally as I pictured the mutilated painting. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“The canvas had been slashed up with one of their kitchen knives.”
I feigned surprise. “Oh my God.”
“As if killing them once wasn’t enough.” He hesitated. “And the bodies were posed.”
I gulped. “Posed?”
“Posed naked. In the bed. To mimic the painting.”
I could feel the skin on my forearms prickle and the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. I closed my eyes again and saw the scene as if I were the killer: my gloved hands pushing and pulling Hugh’s limp torso and limbs into a fetal position; adjusting his faceless head; arranging Helene’s hair on a snowy-white sheet like a stylist composing a macabre magazine spread. Pollock-like blood spatters on the wall behind her. How could I see it so clearly if I hadn’t been there? I let out a whimper.
“Use the curtain, Nora. Don’t dwell.”
I drew the curtain quickly and masked the bodies. When my lids fluttered open, I saw how worried Ben looked.
He gave me a strained smile. “You all here?”
“Uh-huh. How did you know about the curtain thing?”
“I used to keep seeing Judy in my mind. In that hospital bed. Skinny, bald and full of tubes. I had to figure out something to keep from torturing myself.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Only in happier places.” He checked the room again to make sure no one had started paying attention to us. “Someone is trying to set you up, Nora.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, it does. You’re perfect.”
“How could the police believe I’d commit a double murder, leave all those clues to incriminate myself and stick around? They’d have to think I was an idiot.”
“Or very smart. Trying to make yourself the obvious suspect so they’d view you as too obvious. The person trying to frame you is hoping the police will think you’re attempting to con them. The killer would have to be someone familiar with your history.” He glanced at Sinead. “We don’t know who else Lizzie and Sinead shared your story with in the past few months. Not to mention the ones who read the press on you in the past. By now there’s a long list, I would guess.”
Maybe Ben was onto something.
“You really believe that I’m being framed?”
“I’m sorry, but it looks that way.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“If the DA does bring charges, I know an excellent criminal attorney in New York. For now, you’re better off sticking with Gubbins. He’s got connections. The DA knows him. Hiring a city lawyer will only make you seem guilty.”
“Excuse me for a second.”
“Sure.”
I slid out of the booth and made a beeline to the ladies’ room, lurching through the door and rushing into a stall. I locked the door, sat on the toilet and inhaled deep breaths with my head between my knees. When I finally settled down, I reviewed Ben’s information: the victims had been brutally murdered and then posed to mirror the painting, which had been savagely slashed. Both acts reinforced the idea of revenge. Add the fact that Hugh and Helene knew their killer and it would all seem to lead to me, the “hell hath no fury” suspect. Maybe someone was setting me up.
Better than having killed them yourself. But which was it?
I frantically ran through more possibilities. If Hugh was up to his old tricks despite those happy-couple pictures with Helene in the press, the murderer could well be another woman he’d slept with—some insanely jealous “psycho fuck.” She could’ve slashed the painting and posed their bodies. And what about the idea of their drug dealer having gone all Scarface on them? That was still a reasonable guess. I wasn’t necessarily the only person with a motive to whom they might have opened the door.
I looked down and noticed something had fallen out of my pocket onto the floor. Hugh’s letter again. I’d instinctively understood Roche would view it as incriminating.
As I picked the letter up, the restroom door squeaked open. I shoved the paper deeper into my pocket. Heels clicked across the tile floor into another stall. I stood and walked out to the sink to splash water on my face. What I saw in the mirror made me even more distraught. No wonder Ben asked about the scratch. It had become elevated and angry. There was a small dot of pus in the center—a
sign of infection. It looked like a tiny erupting volcano. I winced as I dabbed it with a wet paper towel and cursed my uneven fingernail.
And what if your fingernail wasn’t the culprit? That scratch, the twigs and the leaves could have come from thrashing through the woods at night. Fleeing Pequod Point in your sleep the night of the murders. You can’t dismiss the idea completely.
I threw the towel into the trash and silently lectured myself in the mirror.
Nora. Just cut those damn nails before you scratch your face again.
Still feeling fragile, I left the ladies’ room and made my way back to the booth just as Hugh’s neighbor, Sue Mickelson, appeared on the TV screen over the bar. She wasn’t in her sweats anymore. She sat, dressed alluringly in black riding pants and a red silk shirt, on a massive white couch in what I guessed was her living room. I heard her say, “They were such an attractive couple, and they seemed so in love,” as I slipped into the booth across from Ben. He was staring at his BlackBerry, looking grim.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I just checked the Courier’s e-mail.”
He passed me his phone, and I read:
Dear Tips for Living,
Why didn’t you print my letter? Are you afraid your readers would agree your column is garbage? Where do you get off making fun of our problems? You act like you’re better than the rest of us. I’m warning you again. You need to stop. You’re going to be sorry if you keep this up.
Mad as Hell
“Two letters in one week. A real fan,” I said evenly, though I was dismayed that Mad as Hell was continuing the campaign.
“That’s three letters total from this ‘fan.’ It’s an obsession now. I don’t like the tone. The column is off.”
“But that means the intimidation worked,” I countered.
“It’s off.”
“Permanently off?”
“We’ll see.”
I was upset. “You’re really going to kill the column because of one disgruntled reader.”
“Like I said, the town is tense. We’re not going to add an edgy column to the mix. Especially when it inspires hostility toward you during an investigation of your ex’s murder. Do a follow-up on the ‘Canines for Heroes’ story. It’s been almost six months,” he said, standing up. “I’m taking you home. You look exhausted. No arguments.”
Funny, Ben seemed very much like a boss again.
I hunkered down on the motorcycle, held on tight to Ben, and felt the wind’s bite through my trench coat as we rode into the dark evening. Not even six o’clock and the sun long gone. The trip home from the Tea Cozy took only minutes, but if we’d driven any longer, my legs would’ve frozen in straddle position. We turned down Crooked Beach Lane. The bike bounced and rattled on the unpaved road. The moon hadn’t risen above the trees yet, and the Triumph’s single headlamp cast the only light as we pulled up in front of the Coop. I climbed off stiffly, handing the helmet back to Ben. He dropped it into the saddlebag.
“Listen, about Tips,” I said. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best. For me, for the town. All I ask is you keep an open mind.”
He nodded. I sensed something else weighed heavily on Ben’s mind, but he was quiet. I couldn’t see his expression through the shadowed visor on his helmet.
“Well, thanks for everything,” I said. “I mean thanks for calling Gubbins, for the ride, the drink. The intel.”
No “you’re welcome” was forthcoming. There was only the sound of the idling bike engine while Ben sat there looking like Darth Vader. What was going on with him?
“Okay, then, good night,” I said.
I started for the door and Ben’s hand shot out unexpectedly. He caught my arm, spinning me back. What was he doing? He flipped his visor up and fixed me with his eyes. The air between us began to vibrate. My pulse soared as he pulled me closer. His warm body was trembling. I could smell his spicy scent. He lifted my chin and kissed me full on the mouth. A deep, passionate kiss that left me breathless. I liked how it felt.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and quickly popped the visor back down.
He kicked the bike stand up, rolled out of the driveway, and roared off into the night before I could gather my wits. I wasn’t cold anymore. I stood in the driveway, flushed, my heart racing, trying to take in what had just happened. He was my boss. He was my friend. He was my boss. He was a man. He was my boss. He tasted good.
What had that kiss meant? How long had Ben been attracted to me? Did I miss the signs? Or had he given in to a spontaneous urge? Why the approach now, after the police labeled me a person of interest in my ex-husband’s murder investigation? My head was trying to tell me that what just happened was wrong even as my body said it was right.
I heard the faint crunch of gravel behind me and I spun around, frightened. Nothing but darkness. The sound was there and then it wasn’t. I listened closely. Nothing. Then crunching again. I whipped out my keys and hurried to unlock my door. Safely inside, I switched on the outside light and peered through the window. Something moved at the end of the drive in the shadows by the trash can. Then it was gone. Probably a raccoon trying to dine on the garbage.
I checked the door’s lock, peeled off my coat and wrenched off my boots. Still abuzz with adrenaline, I marched to the kitchen, removed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, poured a shot and drank it down. Tracing my moistened lips with my finger, I closed my eyes and relived Ben’s kiss. I forgot my heart could flutter at the thought of a man. Ben’s eyes. Soft beagle eyes. How had I not noticed Ben’s eyes before?
Hold on. Eyes or not, this was complicated. Had Ben really gotten over his wife? How much emotional baggage was he carrying?
Mad. Sad. Glad. Bad. Jumbled. That’s what I was feeling. Part of me wanted to snuggle up under the covers and fantasize about Ben. But the other part was resisting. I made my way to the bedroom, hoping I’d finally manage to sleep deeply.
Maybe I’d dream about him.
Chapter Nine
I woke naked and cold, tangled in sheets with the cell phone vibrating next to my head. The lights in the bedroom were blazing. I thought I’d turned them off? I grabbed the phone as the buzzing stopped. Unknown Caller again. Should I try Grace? Not now. I needed to check the news on the murders.
I wrapped myself in my blanket and went to the bedroom window first, parting the curtains to check the garbage can. It stood upright. No trash in sight. If a raccoon had been foraging out there, it hadn’t done any damage. I thought of Ben for a moment as I trundled out of the bedroom, still amazed and confused by what had happened.
I paused when I saw that the lights in the hallway were on. And in the bathroom, too. I didn’t remember leaving them on, either. Had fatigue made me forgetful or . . . I pulled the blanket around my body more tightly.
Stop.
There was good news in the medicine cabinet mirror. The antibiotic cream that I did remember putting on before I went to bed had worked. The scratch was healing. I dropped the blanket, snatched my robe off the hook and headed for the living room to switch on CNN.
They were already in the midst of airing Point Murders: Special Report. A graphic labeled the petite Latina woman onscreen as the Walkers’ housekeeper. She was exiting her home and explaining tearfully in Spanish what her teenage son translated as: “The district attorney told her not to talk to anyone.” Could the housekeeper have killed Hugh and Helene? She was such a tiny, frightened-looking woman. She seemed genuinely upset. It was hard to picture her putting bullets in people’s heads and posing dead bodies.
But you’ve already pictured yourself doing it, haven’t you?
The glass exterior of the Masout Gallery in Chelsea appeared next. A voice-over identified it as the gallery that represented Hugh Walker. The program cut to a dapper but grief-stricken Abbas standing outside his loft building on West Twenty-Second Street, flanked by some of the artists he represented.
“I am so very sad to lose my good friend. I am sad f
or the families and sad for the art world,” he said. “Hugh was a great talent. One of the finest artists of the twenty-first century.”
What a loss for Abbas. He’d supported Hugh all through the lean, early years. Even helped him with rent. “Abbas basically adopted me,” Hugh had said.
As the report shifted into a teaser for a documentary on southern India, I began fixating on the lights again. Why had all the lights been on this morning? Instinctively, I rushed into the kitchen. Why hadn’t I thought of this yesterday? I checked my knife rack and calmed down. I was reassured to see all the knives in place.
Coffee next. There was still half a pot from yesterday. Screw it. I poured a mug full and zapped it in the microwave.
“This is Wolf Blitzer for CNN’s special report: The Point Murders. Coming up next, we’ll have Tobias Walker, the brother of murdered Hugh Walker, with us here in the studio.”
Tobias. The last time I’d seen Hugh’s brother was at my wedding.
I grabbed the coffee and rushed back to the living room, only to have to wait through a commercial. As I chugged the bitter brew, I thought back to the way Tobias behaved at the hospital during Hugh’s heart event. He’d put a picture of Jesus under Hugh’s pillow and sat there reading articles from Christianity Today and The New Baptist Newsletter to his half-conscious brother—his captive audience. Then he organized other ICU families for daily prayer circles in the waiting room, giving out prayer cards to the doctors and nurses. Hugh had been mortified.
Wolf was back.
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Walker. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you, Wolf.”
Sad, red-eyed Tobias sat across from the CNN host. Tobias’s familiar face sent another tremor of grief through me. There had always been a strong family resemblance between the brothers. Tobias was the taller, skinnier, less sensual version. With Hugh dead, it pained me to observe their similarities.
“I understand you had just come from Virginia to New York City on Friday for a ‘Save the Family’ Conference,” Wolf said. “And on Sunday morning you received the shocking call that your brother and sister-in-law had been killed.”
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