Tips for Living

by Shafransky, Renee

  Tobias swallowed hard. “That’s right. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Do you have any idea who committed this horrific crime? Or why?”

  “None. It’s beyond tragic. Hugh and Helene both had so much to live for. Hugh had his art and a wonderful wife. They had a child they loved. My niece, Callie.”

  “It was incredibly fortunate that she happened to be staying with her aunt in the city for the weekend,” Wolf said.

  Tobias nodded. “I’d spoken with Hugh on Saturday morning just as he was dropping her off downtown with Helene’s sister before heading out to Pequod. We lamented that our schedules didn’t permit our getting together this trip. If I hadn’t been so busy with the conference, I would’ve seen Hugh before . . .”

  Tobias looked down. He paused and then cleared his throat. “Anyway. I thank the Lord for the fact that Callie wasn’t in that house with them. It was a miracle.”

  “One bit of light for you in this dark time,” Wolf noted gravely.

  “Yes. She’s a lovely child.”

  “I’m sure I speak for many people when I say our hearts are with you.”

  “Thank you, Wolf.”

  Wolf returned the thanks and the show gave over to a boxing match promo.

  Tobias had been in New York City over the weekend? Hugh would never have “lamented” not meeting with him. Hugh avoided his brother. He barely saw him after their parents died. We’d even been ambivalent about inviting him to our wedding.

  I remembered how Hugh prepared me to meet Tobias for the first time.

  “Tobias makes his living teaching biology laced with creationism at an evangelical school,” Hugh scoffed. “He married a local kindergarten teacher. They have one boy, Gideon, I assume named after the Bible.

  “Don’t be surprised when he talks about Christ like he’s a member of the family. Or his superhero best friend,” Hugh warned. “We were baptized Lutheran, but only Toby took it seriously. Really seriously. Until he left for college, we shared a bedroom, and he’d harangue me at night by reading the Bible aloud. Or quoting religious scholars. I can still hear him reciting Martin Luther’s anti-Semitic screeds. ‘We must drive the Jews out like mad dogs, so that we do not become partakers of their abominable blasphemy.’ ‘Their breath stinks with lust for the Gentiles’ gold and silver . . .’ That’s the kind of religion Tobias is into.”

  I could never look at Tobias without thinking about those words and resenting him.

  Wolf Blitzer returned and introduced footage of Callie, who was holding the hand of a frazzled, auburn-haired woman wearing a leather motorcycle jacket. He identified the woman as Helene’s sister. Callie’s aunt. The pair was exiting a grungy loft building in Chinatown, fleeing the paparazzi and rushing into a cab. Little orphaned Callie. I could finally see her face and was thankful she didn’t look anything like Hugh except for the dark, curly hair. She was so frightened and pale. What would happen to her? Who was responsible for causing all her misery? Whoever it was should be locked up forever.

  Was it me?

  I loosened my robe. Suddenly the room had turned warm and airless.

  The special report ended and I surfed more news channels. None of them reported progress on the case. My cell buzzed again from the bedroom. I dashed back to answer it, disappointed that the ID said Lizzie. I hesitated. I wasn’t eager to talk to her after Sinead’s revelation that she’d been gossiping about my divorce, but it might be something important about work. I picked up.

  “Hello, Lizzie.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “I’ve been calling and calling. You looked so upset at Eden’s yesterday. I was starting to worry when you didn’t answer.”

  “No need.”

  “Well, it’s a zoo here. People are dropping in to ask questions every few minutes. Basically, they just want to talk because they’re flipping out. There were satellite vans along Pequod Avenue with reporters filming people’s reactions. It looks like they’ve left. But the phones don’t stop. It’s so nuts in here, no one can concentrate. Ben went home to make calls and see if he could wring out any more information from the DA before he writes the front-page story. He gave me seven hundred fifty words on Walker’s career, but I can barely get any work done—”

  I interrupted. “Is that why you called, Lizzie?”

  “Oh. Well, no. Ben just phoned and said to tell you not to come in. You know, to take some time to process all this. I’ll cover you.”

  I felt a twinge in my chest. Why hadn’t Ben phoned to tell me this himself?

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said, and then it just popped out. “And thanks for gossiping about my marital history.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what Sinead said. Why would you do that, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie went silent for a few seconds. Then she groaned.

  “I guess I did say something.”

  “But I specifically asked you not to.”

  “I’m so sorry, Nora. It was the day you told your divorce story. That night Danny and I had a stupid fight over the invitations to our wedding reception. He stormed out, and I kept thinking about you and your ex. How you’d been together for so long before you made it official. Just like us. How it could end so miserably. Just like that. I was upset and went to the Tea Cozy and got a little loose. Sinead wouldn’t let me drive. She took me home. We were talking and it slipped out.” She paused. “I’m really sorry. Really.”

  I heard a car slowing down outside.

  “So, you weren’t just gossiping about me then,” I said, walking to the window.

  “No! I wouldn’t. I feel awful.”

  “That feels better.” I sighed. “Let’s just forget it. I hope you and Danny are back on track.”

  “We’re great.”

  “That’s good. This should be a happy time for you both.” I pulled aside one of the curtains. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “The press.”

  One, no . . . two white TV vans already sat at the edge of the driveway, and two more cars were pulling up.

  “Shit. There’s a small army out there.”

  Altogether, nearly a dozen people spilled out of the various vehicles. They were from the city, judging by their mostly black clothes. Some had long-lens cameras hanging from their necks. Two men lugged video packs. One labeled CNN, one FOX.

  “What are you going to do?” Lizzie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I felt cornered. I stepped back from the window and let go of the curtains, frustrated that Hugh had succeeded in turning my life into tabloid trash again from beyond the grave. But did I deserve it this time?

  “Why don’t you give me the exclusive?” Lizzie asked.

  “Exclusive what?”

  “Interview with you. I’ll come over and tell them they’re too late—we have a contract. You aren’t allowed to answer any questions except mine.”

  “I’m not giving interviews, Lizzie. I want less publicity, not more.” I peeked out the window again, dismayed.

  “Unless you talk to them, they’ll probably be there until the police announce they’ve caught the killer.”

  I winced. Lizzie could be tactless. “Great. I’ll be ordering in food then.”

  “FYI. I do know one thing about whoever did it,” Lizzie said. “It was someone they knew.”

  Only the police and the DA’s office had that information. And Ben.

  “Ben told you that?”

  “He didn’t have to. It’s obvious. There’s no mention of a robbery in the police statement. Random ‘break in and kill the rich in their mansions’ murders don’t go with the zeitgeist—too Charles Manson. We’re in the era of public executions: Sandy Hook Elementary, the Aurora movie theater. That church in Charleston. It has to be someone they knew and let into the house. They had no idea they just invited their killer in.”

  I had an unpleasant thought. I tried to ignore it.

  “Nora? Did you hea
r me? Don’t you think I’m right?”

  Was Lizzie trying to imply something here, or was I paranoid again?

  “They knew whoever killed them,” she repeated.

  I couldn’t contain myself.

  “I think you should just say it, Lizzie.”

  “Say what?”

  “You think I’m the prime suspect.”

  “What? No! That’s crazy.”

  “Is it so crazy to think anyone who knows my history with Hugh and Helene is going to entertain that idea? And judging by the amount of media here, the entire country could come to the same conclusion by the evening news. I’ll be tried and convicted in the court of public opinion.”

  “Well, if I’m going to be completely honest, it did cross my mind . . .”

  “I was right,” I said, unable to hide the hurt in my voice. “And that’s why you’re so eager for an interview.”

  “No! I didn’t mean that you killed them, only that people might suspect you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry if you have to deal with that. It’s really unfair.”

  I had to find my balance. Lizzie was only trying to help. “Lizzie, I’m not thinking rationally. I’m exhausted. I’m really sorry I misjudged your intentions. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, sounding relieved. “You’re not mad anymore, right?”

  “No, I’m not mad.” I heard another call beep. “But I have to get off now.”

  “You’re sure a sympathetic interview wouldn’t help?”

  “No interviews. Goodbye.” I clicked off and saw that the other caller was “Unknown.” I rejected it.

  I sneaked another look outside. The reporters were slouching in their open cars and vans, talking on cell phones and working on MacBooks. A few of them were eating Eden’s powdered jelly donuts and brushing the white sugar dust off their black outfits. They were in no rush to go anywhere. I wanted to scream.

  Instead I sat down on the edge of the bed and thought it over. Lizzie’s proposal actually had some merit. It might be smart to engage with the press, but in a manner I could control. Not an interview—a statement. A compassionate one. If anyone tried to paint me as Hugh’s murderous ex, I could draw a different picture. It might just be enough to get rid of these reporters, and also help clear any cloud of suspicion hanging over me. Despite Gubbins’s warning, I decided to face the press.

  My jeans lay in a clump at the foot of the bed. I pulled them on, slipped into my UGGs and returned to the living room. Remembering how washed-out I’d appeared in the bathroom mirror, I fished a makeup pouch out of my shoulder bag and hurriedly dabbed cover-up on the scratch. Then I ran “Cherry Lush” red lipstick over my cracked lips and rubbed some on my cheeks so I wouldn’t look like death. Hair fluffed. Trench coat on. I was ready. I can do this, I thought.

  “There she is!”

  They scrambled like roaches as soon as I opened the door. Within seconds, they’d regrouped at the bottom of the driveway with their gear. A barrage of cameras whirred and clicked. There were frantic shouts.

  “Ms. Glasser! Over here!”

  “What’s your reaction to the murders of your ex and his wife?”

  “Why did the police bring you in to the Massamat precinct?”

  At the last question, I shuffled back a step, startled. Someone leaked my visit to the station. Damn. That would only foster more suspicion. Fuck. The recording light on one of the video cameras flashed red. Think. Get it together fast. I concentrated on making my expression unreadable and my posture perfect and then strode slowly, purposefully ahead, heart pounding. Aiming my gaze at the camera lens, I felt like Norma Desmond going for her close-up. I stopped and took a breath.

  “I want to express how shocked and saddened I am. The Walkers’ murders are devastating. My heart goes out to Hugh’s family. And his wife’s family. It’s especially tragic for their little girl. I can’t imagine who would want to do such a monstrous thing. The police were hoping that I might have some additional information that would help them solve the case. They’re leaving no stone unturned and doing everything in their power to find the killer as quickly as possible. And I’m praying they will.”

  Boilerplate, but appropriate. And actually sincere.

  The reporters instantly began shouting more questions, ratcheting up my heart rate again. I had tunnel vision—all I could see was my front door. Shaking my head, I tried to smile and politely refuse them as I determinedly walked toward it and escaped back inside. I stole another look through the curtains. The reporters remained at the foot of the driveway, most of them talking on their phones. But one black-clad cameraman was still aiming at the front of the Coop. I jerked my head away from the window. In a few minutes, I checked again, even more discreetly. Everyone was packing gear and dispersing except him.

  I tried to ignore the fact that he was out there and went to my desk to check e-mail and Facebook. There were condolences from old friends, but still no Ben. My phone buzzed with more unknown callers. Likely tabloid reporters who’d found my cell number through illegal methods. They left voice mails. I didn’t listen to any of them. Staccato phrases popped in and out of my mind: “The killer was someone they knew and let in.” “Did you have a reaction to them moving here?” Yes, Lizzie was right. The suspicions were unfair. And awful. And scary as hell.

  I called Grace to see how Otis was feeling and give her an update. She didn’t answer. I sneaked a look out the window again. The lone cameraman waited.

  The apparatus on his shoulder seemed more and more like a gun.

  Chapter Ten

  I must’ve dozed off. The sleep had helped. I woke just past noon with a clearer head, feeling stronger and resolving not to be a prisoner in my own house any longer. Let the paparazzo have his shot. We both needed to get on with our lives. I counted to three, strode to the front door, took a deep breath and opened it. But the only things in the driveway were my Toyota and the trash can. The cameraman had left.

  Relieved, I closed the door and checked my cell phone. A concerned voice mail from Grace asked how I was doing. There was bawling in the background. She reported that Otis had recovered, and she was at the dentist with both the kids. Grace had her hands full, but like the true friend she was, she urged me to call or come over if I needed her.

  Lizzie had also phoned. She probably wanted to try selling her interview idea again. She’d obviously taken my advice on persistence; I’d give her that. Before figuring out what to do next, I turned on the TV news for an update.

  FOX had already begun airing the segment. I should have known they’d start with the sordid bits. Our wedding photographer was making money off us again. There I was, leaning on Hugh, wearing a happy bride smile and a white satin wedding gown, clutching a bouquet of daisies. The voice-over began:

  “Nora Glasser and Hugh Walker were practically newlyweds when the artist’s affair with Helene Westing resulted in pregnancy . . .”

  Offended, I pressed “Mute” on the remote. More pictures of our wedding intercut with Hugh and Helene’s “budding” romance, before they finally showed me stepping out of the Coop. I clicked on the sound. The last reporter’s inquiry was the only one they’d included: “Why did the police bring you down to the Massamat precinct?”

  “Please, no, no, no,” I pleaded with the screen as I watched the caption crawl by underneath: “Walker’s former wife taken in for police questioning.” I switched to CNN. “Police question Walker’s ex-wife” rolled by under my close-up. Even more condemning, I was smiling and wearing way too much makeup—the slash of beige below one eye resembled war paint. Ditto for the bright red blotches of lipstick smeared on my cheeks. There was even lipstick on my teeth. I didn’t appear sad at all. I came across as fairly insane. The final image was the cameraman’s shot of me peeking out the window like a fugitive surrounded and weighing surrender. It all added up to one guilty-looking woman. My knees almost went out from under me. This had totally backfired.

 
First thought: call Aunt Lada immediately. She might be watching this and panicking. The stress would aggravate her dementia. She picked up almost instantly, as if she’d been holding the phone, waiting.

  “Hello?”

  “Aunt La—”

  “Nora! Are you all right? Did the police take you in? Are you a suspect?”

  “I’m fine. The press got it wrong. I went in voluntarily—to help them.”

  “Beshot lapshe na ooshe,” she said. Don’t hang noodles on my ears. “Don’t deceive me,” to a Russian.

  “I’m not hanging any noodles, Aunt Lada. Did you get my message yesterday? I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Yes, yes. But I just saw you on TV. The headlines they put! And you don’t look so good. Are you sick? There’s a stomach thing going around.”

  “I’m just tired. Really. It’s okay.”

  “I’ve been watching the reports, Nora. It’s terrible. So terrible. I keep thinking about it. Hugh and that woman were miserable people, but they deserved each other—not this. And that poor little girl is scarred for life.”

  She was right, I thought sadly.

  “Don’t watch any more coverage, Aunt Lada. Please. It will just make your blood pressure go up. I’ll visit you tomorrow. I promise.” I was reluctant to drive to The Cedars before then. Lada could read my moods even with her compromised brain. She’d realize how freaked out I was. Best to wait until I calmed down. She sensed my reluctance to talk and chose not to press.

  “Okay. But make sure you sleep, you hear me? Take good care of yourself,” she said.

  The instant I hung up, the doorbell rang. I stole a look out the window and caught a glimpse of a camouflage jacket and Lizzie’s ginger curls. She rang again. I opened the door, exasperated. Lizzie stood there, her freckled nose scrunched up in a scowl.

  “Why don’t you answer your phone?” she pouted.

  “I meant what I said, Lizzie. Please. Give it a rest.”

  “I’m trying to make amends here. You’re worried about being labeled as an O. J. if they don’t figure out who the killer is, right? Well, I might have an idea who did it.”

  “What? Who?”