Tips for Living

by Shafransky, Renee

  He looked dazed.

  “Ben?”

  He finally blinked.

  “You’re insane,” he said quietly.

  My heart stopped.

  He shook his head. “You really think I’d believe you murdered the Walkers because you walk in your sleep? I’ve been sitting one desk away from you for more than two years now. I’ve seen you,” he began ticking off fingers, “depressed, disappointed, sad, confused and, yes, angry—to name a few of your darker moods. I know what you’re capable of. Not murder. Not you. I know your heart, Nora.”

  And that heart was singing. It meant so much to hear Ben say he had confidence in my essential goodness. Especially after he’d witnessed my less attractive attitudes.

  “I only have one question,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Will you ever trust me?”

  I looked down, uneasy. “I want to. I really do.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m afraid. I didn’t see that seismic betrayal coming with Hugh. I feel like I should have. Like there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Nora. It’s not your fault.”

  I looked up. “No?”

  Ben reached out and touched my cheek. “You’re supposed to trust the person you’re in a relationship with. That’s the whole point.”

  Of course it was. So simple. So true.

  “Loving someone is a risk,” he said. “A leap of faith you have to take if you go all-in.”

  I knew he was right, but could I let myself jump? I wanted so much to be brave. Ben wiped a tear off my cheek.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded a little uncertainly.

  “Okay. Now we have to put everything into getting these charges dropped. I can call the criminal lawyer in the city—his name is Marhofer—and put him in touch with Gubbins to bring him up to speed. I think Gubbins will cooperate.”

  I noticed a traffic ticket sticking out of Ben’s coat pocket.

  “Looks like you had your own run-in with the police today,” I said, trying to lighten things up.

  He nodded and pulled the ticket out.

  “I hit the Old Route 20 speed trap.” He shrugged and smiled. “I was in a rush to see you. I should’ve known Pequod’s finest would be out with their radar guns, even in a snowstorm.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at the ticket. A storm had started brewing in my brain, complete with thunderbolt. Ben sensed something was up.

  “What’s going on, Nora?”

  “I have an idea. It’s a long shot, but it’s something.”

  “What?”

  “Traffic signal 2234. Late last Saturday night. Or early Sunday morning.”

  Ben sat there for a moment and blinked, taking in my words. Then he stood up quickly, excited.

  “That might work. I’ll tell Roche. And Gubbins. Cross your fingers. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  He kissed me and rushed out.

  “Traffic signal 2234” was Ben’s story in the works at the Courier about the signal at the expressway exit. Almost everyone who drove out to Pequod from the city took that route, unless for some reason they wanted to drive an extra half hour and backtrack on a long detour.

  Just before the county highway supervisor was removed from office on charges of embezzlement and corruption this summer, he’d had his department install a camera at the intersection to record “no right on red” violations. But there were complaints. It looked as if the pressure reader under the pavement had been placed in the wrong location. If a vehicle that was about to turn went over the stop line by even a few feet, the camera would take a photo. A few weeks later, a ticket for an illegal turn arrived in the driver’s mailbox. Was it the highway department’s ineptitude? Or was it intentional, to generate more tickets and fill the county’s coffers? Ben was looking into it.

  If there had there been a red light when Abbas exited the expressway on his way to kill Hugh and Helene, and if he had driven his BMW over the stop line, we’d have photographic proof that he was in the area during the time of the murders. That is, if Detective Roche would agree to check it out. Those were a lot of ifs. But, as Ben said, maybe we’d get lucky.

  And I especially liked that he’d said “we.”

  Orderlies moved me to a small room upstairs where another officer guarded the door. When they left and I heard the lock click, claustrophobia set in. I looked around in a panic. The bare room had a tiny window and no TV. No phone. This was a hospital room for prisoners. I’d done nothing to deserve it, but they were treating me like a criminal when Abbas was the guilty one. Were they holding him up here, too?

  Almost instantly, I felt nauseous at the thought of Abbas staying anywhere near. I saw him towering over me in the blowing snow, pointing the gun at my head, the barrel like a long, black tunnel. I began to sweat and shake. I heard his cold, hollow voice. “It will be quick. You will not suffer.” I had the urge to run. I scrambled out of bed, yanking pointlessly at the handcuff as it cut into my wrist. I slid to the floor, chained and in pain, stuck in a nightmare of Abbas’s making. I started to cry. Was that psychopath perfecting his story? Would he send me to a place much worse than this? It was still a terrifyingly real possibility.

  A female nurse arrived this time and gave me a stronger sedative to help me sleep. Even if I hadn’t been handcuffed, I had about as much of a chance of sleepwalking as a bowl of Jell-O. I didn’t know if anyone checked on me during the night, because I was practically comatose. The next morning, the male nurse was back with oatmeal and orange juice. And Sanka.

  “No coffee?”

  “Not on your list,” he said.

  “Oh.” I frowned, imagining a withdrawal headache to add to my troubles. “When are visiting hours?”

  He looked at me sympathetically. “I’m not sure. You’re in a . . . a special unit. I can ask, though.”

  I shrank back into the bed. “I see. Well, could you please tell the officer outside I’d like to make a call to my lawyer right away? I’m entitled to that, at least.” I wanted to learn whether Gubbins had any news from Ben on the traffic signal. Or if he’d heard from the criminal lawyer.

  “Sure.”

  I ate, skipped the Sanka and lay there waiting. And waiting. No phone. No visit from Dr. Patel with word on the lab tests. No headache from caffeine deprivation, either. Thankfully, the drugs must’ve short-circuited that. I pressed the nurse call button. Why hadn’t anyone delivered a phone yet? Surely, they’d have to allow contact with my lawyer. My anxiety level was beginning to climb again. Could I get more Valium?

  Finally, the door opened. Gubbins and Detective Roche walked into the room together. Roche looked rough, like he hadn’t slept or shaved. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Gubbins was in another shiny suit, freshly showered and smiling. A good sign. I sat up, eager to hear the news.

  “Good morning, Ms. Glasser,” Gubbins said.

  “What’s happening?”

  Detective Roche positioned himself at the foot of my bed and cleared his throat.

  “We are in possession of a photograph of Abbas Masout’s car, taken at 12:28 a.m. last Sunday, November fifteenth, 15.3 miles from Pequod Point. We ran preliminary tests and found a trace of blood on the driver’s seat upholstery. Probably off clothing Masout disposed of. We don’t know whose blood it is yet, but I’m willing to speculate. We also recovered shell casings indicating Mr. Masout’s gun discharged multiple shots at the site where we found him yesterday, in addition to the shots fired inside. Foot and handprints corroborate your story. You were in a prone position when he fired and no threat to him.”

  “So, you’re charging Abbas?”

  Roche nodded. “For the murders of Hugh and Helene Walker. And the attempted murder of you.”

  “You mean I’m not a suspect anymore.”

  “You’re cleared of all charges, Nora,” Gubbins said. “It’s all over.”

  I moaned and fell back against the pillows, absorbing the news. Deliverance. I wanted to
leap out of bed and hug him.

  “Except for your testimony in court,” Roche added. “Good detective work, Ms. Glasser. You helped put the puzzle together.” He came to my side and unlocked the cuffs.

  “Free as a bird,” he said.

  I rubbed my sore wrist and looked at him reproachfully. He pulled his shoulders back and straightened his posture.

  “I was doing my job. I’m never sorry about that. But I do regret how it came down on you.”

  “Could you do me a favor, then?”

  He eyed me warily. “What’s that?”

  “There’s another sketchbook. The one Abbas told you I’d stolen. It’s mine. It’s at Hugh’s studio. There’s a picture of Carrie Fisher on the cover. I’m assuming the studio is off-limits. Could you arrange to get it back to me? It’s quite valuable.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You mean the notebook on ‘Women’s Changing Hairstyles’ you had in your purse?”

  “Uh-huh. And there’s also a red Swiss Army knife, engraved to the ‘World’s Best Dad.’”

  “Sorry. Everything in that studio has been logged in as evidence for the DA. It stays with the police.”

  “For how long?”

  “I can’t really say.”

  “Please. Can you at least release the notebook? I need to sell it. I have a cash-flow situation.”

  Gubbins piped up behind him. “I’d like to have a word with you about that, Detective Roche.”

  The door opened again and Dr. Patel walked in.

  “Gentlemen, would you please step outside?”

  It couldn’t be soon enough for Roche. He took my cell phone from his pocket and set it next to me on the bed. “That’s it, then. I’ve left your computer with Mr. Gubbins here.”

  Gubbins placed his attaché on the nightstand, opened it and removed my laptop.

  “I’ll let Ben know about the dropped charges. And don’t worry about anything else. We’ll speak later,” he said, closing his case and following Roche out the door.

  When we were alone, Dr. Patel approached the bed and looked at the skin on my wrist where the handcuffs had chafed.

  “I’ll give you some cream for that. I’m happy to see your troubles with the law are over. How are you feeling today?”

  “Pretty damn good. Have my test results come back?”

  “They have. Do you drink a lot of coffee, Ms. Glasser?”

  “Every chance I get. Why?”

  “You’ll need to stop drinking coffee immediately. No dark chocolate, either. Caffeine is your problem. Caffeine leaches calcium and magnesium. The tests show that your calcium is low, but more seriously, you have quite a severe magnesium deficiency.”

  “I do? Is that dangerous?”

  “It’s probably responsible for the exhaustion and arrhythmia. It can cause a host of other difficulties over time. Confusion. Violent muscle spasms. With severe magnesium deficiencies, we’ve even seen brain seizures. And parasomnias.”

  “Parasomnias.”

  “Yes. Like night terrors, for instance. Or sleepwalking.”

  That gave me a jolt.

  “Sleepwalking? You’re sure of that?”

  “Have you . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said excitedly. “I’ve been walking in my sleep recently. A couple of times. It was a problem when I was a kid. But the doctor said I’d grow out of it after puberty. I thought I had.”

  “You probably did. But if you have a predisposition, it can become a ‘weak spot.’ It’s likely been triggered by this deficiency. I want to observe you for another day or so, but my thinking is, if we replace your magnesium and cut out coffee, your arrhythmia and the sleepwalking will cease.”

  I fervently hoped the problem boiled down to coffee and magnesium.

  “You think I can be cured?”

  “I’m very optimistic, but of course, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Today is Sunday, right?”

  “Yes. It’s Sunday,” Dr. Patel said.

  A week since the bodies were discovered—a life-changing week, to say the least. Having ascertained that my heart held a steady rhythm, Dr. Patel ordered my release. After two nights under strict observation, the night nurse reported that I had not done any sleepwalking. It seemed Dr. Patel’s prognosis was correct. His only prescription besides magnesium pills and a ban on caffeine was “pleasure and leisure.”

  “Don’t jump right into anything. Take it easy for a couple of days. Stay home. Read books. Watch movies. Drink wine, in moderation. Enjoy the company of your loved ones.”

  That would be Aunt Lada, Grace and Mac and the boys and, maybe, Ben. When he picked me up at the hospital, I asked if he could stay at the Coop for the rest of the day.

  “Unless because Sam is home you’d rather . . .”

  “Sam is busy hanging out with his other friends who are home on break. It would be my pleasure.”

  The temperature had remained cold since the storm, which meant the snow hadn’t melted. The sun shone on a beautiful, shimmering wonderland as we turned onto Crooked Beach Lane and approached my driveway. A few dogged city reporters waited there. They were eager to get a statement from the woman who had faced down her ex-husband’s murderer. Ben shooed them away. “Unless you want to stay and help me shovel this snow,” he said. “Seriously, Ms. Glasser will call you if she decides it’s in her interests to speak to the press.”

  Then he accompanied me inside and insisted I go right to bed while he brewed his favorite tea for us. “I was hoping you’d invite me to stay. I brought supplies,” he said, pulling two tea bags out of his coat pocket.

  I fell asleep before the water boiled. When I woke, Ben was in bed next to me, reading my April Krim book on artists’ muses.

  “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Eleven hours.”

  “Wow. Catching up, I guess.”

  He tapped the book. “Interesting women. Most of them talented in their own right. Passionate. Generous. But some of these male artists . . . It’s disappointing to read how they treated the women who loved them. Let’s just say these sons of bitches are best known through their work.”

  I closed my eyes and mused on Ben’s observation. Was Hugh “best known through his work?” If I could go back in time and leave that art gallery before he introduced himself, would I? Did I regret our entire relationship? No. But I let the admiration I had for his talent and success overshadow his hurtful behaviors. I got hooked on being his muse and betrayed myself. I had to forgive me before I could forgive Hugh. It was time to do both.

  I opened my eyes and looked over at Ben.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “You are pretty terrific,” I said.

  He smiled, kissed me, went off to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of mushroom soup from a pot that Grace delivered. I thanked him, drank the soup and dropped off to sleep again.

  For the next two days, I happily heeded Dr. Patel’s advice and stayed home. I kept tabs on Aunt Lada, who was lucid and recovering well. The first time I called, she wanted to talk about Abbas.

  “I remember him from your wedding. He was such a charmer, that one. But na yazeekey myed. A na seardsea lyod.”

  A tongue of honey. A heart of ice.

  “I don’t want to . . . I can’t talk about him, Aunt Lada. I’m just glad it’s over.”

  Since I’d panicked in the hospital, I’d used Ben’s method and put up another curtain to keep that monster out of sight. I never wanted to think about Abbas or my terrifying night at Pequod Point again.

  I spent much of the time reading a delicious mystery novel and watching Harry Potter movies with Grace and the boys. They’d brought DVDs from the library. I told Ben it wasn’t too rushed to invite Sam for lunch and was pleased to discover his son was a delightful kid with an interest in history and politics. We had a lively discussion about the rise of fake news. The days ended making love with Ben. And at night there was still no sign that I’d done anything but
sleep peacefully.

  On the morning of day three, I took a magical walk across the snowy farm field into the glittering, frosted woods. I followed a half-frozen stream, water gurgling beneath the ice floe, and circled back to the top of the road where Crawley had parked to keep tabs on me when I was a person of interest. No police car. Just a snowbank. The hunt really was over.

  Only the money worries remained. I still had to pay for Gubbins’s services, my own and Lada’s rents and the clinic bills. I called Gubbins, hoping he’d be amenable to negotiating a payment plan until the police returned the Princess Leia sketchbook.

  “Good news. I’ve convinced the DA to accept slides of the sketchbook to use as evidence at the trial,” Gubbins said, clearly pleased with his win. “I warned them that the book was an important source of my client’s financial stability. ‘Your withholding it directly affects the physical well-being of Ms. Glasser and her aunt, a senior citizen,’ I said. They agreed to return the original to you by next week, as long as you can prove ownership.”

  “Thank you. That’s fantastic. I have a letter from Hugh saying Loving Nora was a gift. Does that help?”

  Gubbins paused, and I worried that the letter wouldn’t do. Finally, he said, “I know a handwriting expert. If he verifies your letter, that should be completely acceptable.”

  My brilliant lawyer.

  “But they insist on holding the knife until the trial is over.”

  “I’ll let Ben know. It belongs to him. Thanks again.”

  “One more thing. I took the liberty of calling Sotheby’s and asking an appraiser the approximate value of a sketchbook by Hugh Walker. He wouldn’t give an estimate without seeing it first, but he was extremely eager to have a look. When I told him that the police were holding it for a few days in a criminal investigation, he indicated that would increase its value substantially.”

  Just like that, “snap,” my money troubles were over. Like one of Damien Hirst’s flies, I heard Abbas hiss. I shivered and shook off the memory.

  “Nora?”

  “Wonderful,” I told Gubbins. “Just wonderful.”

  I drove to the Courier office in the afternoon on Wednesday, unlocked the door and turned on the lights. We were basically closed through the holiday. Ben had put the Thanksgiving issue to bed the night before, except for the weekend calendar. I’d come in to finish it. Afterward, I planned on joining him and Sam at the Pequod Food Pantry, handing out fresh turkeys to some of the town’s less fortunate residents to take home and cook.