It wasn’t even noon, but I caught myself drifting over the yellow line more than once on the way home. The car rental calls would have to wait. All I could think about was resting my head on a pillow and closing my eyes. I arrived at the Coop, too tired to address the last remnants of disorder the police had left: a kilim to roll out, books to return to the shelves and a desk to reorganize. With my remaining speck of energy, I gathered materials from the kitchen instead: three frying pans, two large soup pots and two smaller saucepans.
Now that I knew for certain that I was sleepwalking again, I also knew it was a possibility anytime I slept, even in the middle of the afternoon. I wanted reassurance that my wandering was taking place indoors exclusively, the way it always had in the past. The pots and pans would function as a simple alarm system. A noisy barrier that would wake me if I tried to leave. I placed them just inside the front door, and then I hesitated. Did I really want to test myself? If this alarm went off, it would mean I could have gone to Pequod Point the night of the murders.
The answer was yes. I had to know.
I retreated to the bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then I crawled into bed, left Grace a message with my new number and phoned Aunt Lada. She wasn’t in her room. The call rolled over to Yvonne at the front desk.
“Hi, Yvonne. Do you happen to know where my aunt is?”
“Hiding out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trash-talking magazine people found her. So, you used to be married to dat man got killed with his wife? He sneak out on you and give her a baby?”
“Oh God.”
“They been bugging your auntie. Calling her day and night since yesterday. She tell me she turning her phone off.”
I sat up. “I’m coming over.”
“No need. She okay. Just layin’ low. Say she needs a rest.”
“I still think I should come.”
“I think you just make her feel bad for making you feel bad.”
“Okay . . . but listen, I have a new phone number. Can you please make sure she gets it? And ask her to call me?”
“No worries. I’ll stop up there before I leave tonight.”
I gave Yvonne the number and thanked her.
“Nora?”
“Yes?”
“You take care of yourself.”
I hung up, feeling protective of my aunt and angry with the press for invading her privacy. I contemplated driving to The Cedars despite Yvonne’s advice, but I was dying to sleep. I must’ve dropped off right away because when the doorbell rang, I woke with the phone on my chest.
Apparently, I hadn’t slept very long—light still streamed in at the corners of the bedroom curtains. My phone said 2:06 p.m. I rolled out of bed, went over to the window and gasped as I spied Ben’s car in the driveway. There was no pretending I wasn’t home; my car sat right next to his. Besides, my heart wouldn’t let me shut him out. Two tiny hands had just grown from the center of it, and they were reaching for him. Ambivalence quickly snatched them back. The problems I’d recognized last night had not gone away. I was still a sleepwalker. The police still suspected me of murder. On some level, I still suspected me of murder. I couldn’t see how Ben wouldn’t.
The doorbell rang again.
“Just a sec!” I shouted, scrambling for the bathroom.
I checked the mirror. Major bed head, but still kind of sexy. Take a moment, Nora. Breathe. I managed to compose myself before strolling into the living room as casually as possible. I pushed a couple of pots away with my foot. How to explain them? Opening the door sent the rest clattering across the floor. I winced. Ben registered the noise and pulled back slightly.
He held a bouquet of red roses. Totally old school. Sincere. Adorable. Ben wasn’t ambivalent.
“You in the middle of something? Is this a bad time?”
He looked at me questioningly and held my eyes. My stomach fluttered. We stood there for a few seconds, pulsing with electricity. Despite everything, I wished he would kiss me.
“Nora, listen. I want you to know I realize the strain you’re under with this goddamn investigation. But we need to talk. Can I come in?”
I stepped aside to let him pass. He closed the door and took in the collection of cookware near his feet, puzzled. I should risk it. I should tell him about the sleepwalking right now. My mind raced through pros and cons and got stuck on “he’ll think I’m guilty.” If I could just go somewhere and think. I opened my mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
“I got a great deal on the rent, but the roof leaks,” I said, disappointed in myself. It felt crummy to lie to him.
“That’s too bad.” He glanced around at my living room, nodding his approval. “Your place is nice. Eclectic.”
He offered the roses, partially wrapped in clear cellophane and tied with red ribbon.
“These are for you,” he said, holding my gaze again.
“Thanks.”
As I reached for them nervously, a thorn pricked my index finger. “Ow.” I winced.
“Sorry.”
I began sucking the blood from the tip.
“Here. Let me,” Ben offered, tucking the bouquet under his arm. He coaxed my finger out of my mouth and inspected it. His touch undid me. I felt my knees turn to jelly and I swayed a bit.
“Let’s get this under some cold water. Where’s a sink?”
A cold shower was what I needed. Ben held up my dripping finger, and I led him to the kitchen. The faint citrusy aroma of his aftershave wafted into my nostrils, mixing with his licorice scent. The combination was an instant aphrodisiac. He leaned across me at the sink to turn on the faucet, and my entire body flushed.
“Just hold it here for a minute,” he said, guiding my finger under the cool stream. The water felt soothing on the tiny, throbbing wound. But all at once my jaw clenched as I remembered last night, standing naked at Ben’s kitchen sink with pulsating hands.
“You have a vase?” he asked.
I jutted my chin toward the cabinet next to the fridge, afraid my voice would reveal how upset I was.
“In here?”
I nodded. Ben opened the cabinet and found the empty kosher pickle jar that I’d denuded after finishing the pickles Aunt Lada sent home with me a few weeks earlier. He set it on the kitchen counter.
“And where’s your garbage?”
Still silent, I indicated a lower cabinet. He frowned at me, perplexed.
“Okay, Harpo.”
He gently nudged me aside, pulled out the trash bin and took the fattest Swiss Army knife I’d ever seen from his pocket. The knife I’d discovered riding back from the police station with him. He noticed me looking at it.
“This is my lucky charm. A Father’s Day present from Sam. It’s called the Champ. There are wire cutters, a metal saw, a magnifying glass . . . The only time I don’t carry it is when I fly, which is too bad because they could probably use it to repair a 747.”
He opened the scissor attachment and began snipping the rose stems into the garbage. Watching Ben handle the roses—the relaxed, confident way he moved—was calming. I was impressed that he cut the stems on a slant to let them drink more easily. I liked that he carried a lucky charm from his son. I liked everything about him at the moment.
“So, you took off last night, and now you’re not speaking to me.” He began placing the roses in the vase. “How should I interpret this?”
I shut off the water and cleared my throat. “I guess you didn’t see the note I left.”
Ben stuck the remaining flowers in the jar. He reached into his other pocket, pulled out a folded square of paper and opened it.
“You mean Dear Ben. I’m not ready. I’m sorry.” He balled up the paper and tossed it into the open trash, frustrated. “I can’t accept this. You only gave me the lede. What’s the rest of the story?”
Tongue-tied again, I avoided his eyes and inspected my puffy, wrinkled finger. It stung like the devil.
“Nora.”
; Could I trust him? I had a lousy track record picking trustworthy men. I replied with a halfhearted shrug and looked up.
His brown eyes blazed at me as he spoke. “You think it was easy for me to let it happen last night? To open myself up? You think I didn’t want to run? I did. But I said, you can’t let this one go because you’re scared of losing someone again. This one’s special.”
“Ben, I—”
“It took me hours to work up the guts to come over here to talk. To tell you I reject your ‘Dear Ben’ note. I’m not going to knock down the castle door again to reach you, Nora. I’m not going to plant the magic kiss that wakes you up. You’ve got to meet me halfway, for real, or . . .”
I didn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. I didn’t want to lose him.
“Shhh,” I said, putting my swollen finger to his lips. And then I kissed him until we were swimming in the ocean again.
Our bodies floated on dark swells by the time we finished. We lay there, letting the current slowly draw us to shore as we held hands, utterly spent. Ben finally rolled over and brushed my hair off my face.
“I think you have a right to know that I’ve been harboring elaborate fantasies about you for at least six months,” he said, grinning.
“That’s kind of kinky,” I teased.
“You think?”
“How did reality measure up?”
“Far superior.”
He kissed me. But when our lips parted, I could tell we both felt the mood shift.
The gloom of the murder case had moved in. We couldn’t avoid it. Ben sat up and turned on the lamp on the night table.
“So, what have you heard from Gubbins about the case?”
“Nothing yet. But Kelly confirmed that Stokes and Helene were having an affair. She says he’s going to tell the police before they discover it.”
“He’s got motive. That should make Roche take a closer look at him, at least.”
“Grace says Stokes isn’t clever enough to orchestrate a frame-up.”
“If twenty-five years as a journalist have taught me anything, it’s that people are like onions. Lots of layers.”
That was me, for sure.
“You’ve already peeled off one of his and discovered adultery. Who knows what else is underneath?” Ben shook his head, worried. “There’s nothing on his in-laws’ deaths from my contact at the Catskill News yet. I wish the police would find the damn murder weapon in this case. A trace on that gun would be a big help.”
I was about to tell Ben my new theory about Tobias, and the plan with Grace, but he’d caught sight of his wristwatch and looked stricken.
“Shit. It’s almost seven p.m.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sam’s on his way home for Thanksgiving break. I’m picking him up at the airport. He’ll be landing at 8:05. It’ll take me more than an hour and a half to get there, even without traffic. I lost track of the time.”
You’d better get moving then.”
He looked uncertain.
“I’m fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry,” I said.
I was actually relieved Ben had to leave and I didn’t have to come up with some lame excuse about why he needed to go home before I fell asleep. (“It’s not you, Ben. I’ve never been able to share a bed.”)
He hopped out of bed and began dressing, hastily. Then he hesitated.
“Nora, I’m sorry to run out.”
“Go. Go. Go,” I urged.
“What was the idea you wanted to tell me?” he asked, pulling on his jeans.
“It can wait.”
He stuffed his socks in his pocket and slipped into his loafers. “We’re driving into Manhattan from the airport so Sam and I can visit with his grandmother for a couple of days. We’ll be back Friday afternoon. How about we have dinner Friday night?”
“You don’t mean with Sam,” I said nervously.
“No, just us. Of course, I’d like you two to meet. But I don’t want to rush you.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He handed me his phone. “And put in your burner number, okay?”
I nodded and entered the number as he buttoned his shirt.
Ben leaned over and kissed me again. Then he took his phone and grabbed his jacket. “If you talk to your landlord about the leaks in your living room, you can mention that the Courier is doing an exposé of local slumlords.”
“We are?”
“No, but it might speed things up.” He winked and then grew serious. “And do me a favor. Double-check that your doors and windows are locked tonight.”
I started to nod but stopped. “Hold on. I’m confused. If I’m being framed by someone, I’m not in danger. The killer needs me alive to take the blame.”
“That’s our theory. And it’s probably true. But nothing is a hundred percent until they catch this maniac. So, lock everything, please. And don’t open up unless you’re sure who it is.”
The way Hugh and Helene had been sure?
Before Ben’s car even left the driveway, I felt apprehensive about seeing him again. It wasn’t clear what we were doing. Had we crossed the Rubicon that afternoon and entered a bona fide relationship? Ben said he didn’t want to rush me. And I needed to find the courage to tell him about my freakish nocturnal habits before we got in too deep. The faith to believe he wouldn’t question my innocence. But since the debacle with Hugh, courage and faith were not my strong suits.
Dispirited, I put on my robe and went to regroup the pots in front of the door. This was no way to live—building a moat with kitchen equipment every time I went to sleep. There had to be a better solution. I decided to make coffee and at least do some research on sleep clinics. After this murder was solved, when I could get treatment without arousing suspicion, I’d book an appointment.
Entering the kitchen, I noticed Ben’s good luck Champ on the rim of the sink. I picked it up. An engraving etched into the red plastic handle read: “World’s Best Dad.” No wonder he always kept the knife close. He’d be upset to discover its absence. Apparently, he’d already realized it was missing; I heard his car pulling back into the driveway.
It wouldn’t do for Ben to be late picking up Sam on my account. Knife in hand, I rushed to the front door, pushing the pots aside again. When I pulled the door open, the hardened faces of Crawley and Roche delivered a virtual punch to my solar plexus. Crawley was in uniform and Roche was dressed in his usual cords and tweed jacket, this time with a navy duffel coat over them.
“We’d like a few words, Ms. Glasser.”
I recovered quickly. “Not without my lawyer,” I said, clutching Ben’s knife inside my fist.
“Actually, this is about your neighbor.”
“My neighbor?”
“We have a couple of questions about the property nearby in relationship to the murder case.” He peered over my shoulder to the inside of the Coop. “I see you’ve almost put the place back together. Sorry about the upset.” He noticed the pots on the floor and looked puzzled. “Did we do that? We try not to be unnecessarily messy. I’m afraid we don’t always succeed.”
I hesitated. Would a refusal reek of guilt? How could it hurt to give them five minutes about a neighbor? Especially if it would help them solve the crime. I waved them inside. Crawley stood by the door like a sentry. Roche strode over to my dining table, pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat with his legs spread out cowboy style. He gestured for me to sit next to him, but I caught a glimpse of my father’s picture on my desk. His eyes warned me against it.
“I’d rather stand,” I said. “How can I help?”
Roche scratched his chin before he spoke.
“I heard they’re planning a big show of Hugh Walker’s work in New York. I hope that doesn’t upset you too much.”
You were right, Daddy. I need to be wary.
“I thought you said this was about my neighbor?”
Roche raised a palm. “Just empathizing, Ms. Glasser. The show would stir up a lot for me if I wer
e in your shoes. This is about your neighbor. Sergeant Crawley received a call this afternoon regarding a building on the other end of your property. A farmhouse.”
I nodded. “You must mean Jack Mance’s place. He’s my landlord.”
“We understand it’s a summer home, uninhabited since early September. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Seems the meterman came by this morning and found a broken window at the back—near where he takes his reading every month.”
“A burglary?”
Roche ignored my question.
“The power company contacted Mance. Mance tried to call you so you could take a look for him, but couldn’t reach you.”
“That’s because you took my ph—” I stopped. The son of a bitch was toying with me.
Roche smiled. “Apparently, he tried you earlier in the week, too. He’s been a little worried about you, given everything that’s going on. At any rate, he spoke to the good sergeant here and reported the break-in. Sergeant Crawley investigated. Mr. Mance provided a list of valuables to look for. The place had definitely been burglarized, but only a few small items were missing. One in particular prompted Sergeant Crawley to contact me. As a county detective, I don’t generally get involved in a local theft, but we believe this item has a direct connection to the case.”
“What did they take?”
“A metal lockbox.”
“Nora? It’s Jack Mance. Landlord and bon vivant. David and I have some friends out for the holiday weekend. Don’t be a stranger. Come by for a drink this afternoon. Put a face to the name.”
Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend. The opening of vacation season the spring I moved to Pequod. I’d never met Jack Mance or his partner. A realtor from Town and Country Properties had shown me the Coop and handled all the paperwork. That weekend was the first Mance had visited his house since I’d become his tenant. He sounded very gay and very nice. And funny. It was about time I ventured out and socialized with new people in Pequod. Grace, Mac and the kids made for a limited selection.
“Delighted,” I said. “What can I bring?”
“Your charms, and a bottle of olives, if you have them. Corwin’s Market was out.”
Tips for Living Page 21