Icing Allison

by Pamela Burford

  “Yeah,” I said, “that sort of made it public knowledge.”

  “It has to be clear to everyone why she went after her friend’s husband. It wasn’t for his looks alone. She thought she could get him to leave Allison and marry her, and that they’d live off the juicy divorce settlement.”

  “Well, she had to know he wouldn’t get a settlement after only four months of marriage,” I said, “prenup or no prenup.”

  “I don’t know, is she that smart?” Brenda asked.

  “Smart enough to engineer these schemes,” I said.

  “But not smart enough to think them through, to make them work.”

  Unless, I thought, Skye had thought it through this time. I tried putting myself in her place. You know your married lover hasn’t a prayer of receiving a lucrative divorce settlement after a scant four months of marriage, but a bit of casual questioning reveals that he expects (wrongly, as it turns out) to inherit millions in the unlikely event his wealthy wife kicks the bucket. What would your next move be?

  I guess it depends how ruthless you are.

  “I’m curious,” I said. “When’s the last time you spoke with Allison?”

  “Christmas Day. She sent the kids presents. I called so they could thank her.”

  Which explained why Allison’s phone showed a call from Brenda that day. I mentally debated for a moment, then said. “What if I told you that someone arranged to be with Allison at the nature preserve the next morning, before she left for Australia?”

  Brenda went pale as the implication sank in. She stared at me without blinking, then croaked, “Who?”

  “I wish I knew.” I thought fast and came up with a plausible-sounding fib. “She, um, mentioned it to her mom. Only that she was going to, you know, be with someone there, but not who. The person told her not to talk to anyone else about it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” she said.

  “I’m not saying it was. There’s something else. Her camera is missing.”

  “Missing from where?” she asked.

  “From her body.” Just saying the words brought to mind a ghastly image I wish I could forget: Allison Zaleski staring up through several inches of clear blue ice.

  “How do you know she had a—”

  “Trust me,” I said, “she wouldn’t have gone into those woods without a camera. The one she had with her that morning was pretty hefty and had a neck strap.” At her silent query, I shrugged. “My detective buddies. We talk.” It was the easiest answer.

  “So the police are involved?” she said. “I thought they considered it a cut-and-dried accident.”

  “Well, they can’t ignore compelling evidence that points to a different conclusion, can they?” At least I hoped not.

  “Isn’t it possible the camera strap slipped off her neck while she was trying to, um, get out of the water?” Brenda asked. “That it ended up at the bottom of the lake?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely. So.” I spread my hands. “Any ideas?”

  She gave it some thought. “Well, I hate to say this, but...”

  “Oh, go ahead,” I said. “It’s just the two of us. What are you thinking?”

  “Well, you said that whoever met Allison in the woods that day told her to keep the meeting secret.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “It probably doesn’t mean anything, but like I said, that’s the same thing Skye told me before she came over last June. ‘Don’t mention it to anyone,’ she said. ‘It’s strictly hush-hush.’”

  14

  Sit! Stay!

  AFTER WE REACHED Penn Station, Brenda and I took the stairs up to the main LIRR level. There we separated, she to meet her friend Donna for dinner and Les Mis, me to join my fictional Connecticut pal at a jazz club. As soon as she was out of sight, I caught the next train back to Crystal Harbor.

  Once the train had emerged from the East River Tunnel and I could count on decent cell-phone reception, I texted Martin, who was tending bar at Murray’s, and asked him to alert me if Skye showed up. I already knew she was a regular at the pub—her Facebook profile was filled with boozy selfies taken there.

  More than an hour later, as I beeped my car in the train station parking lot, he texted back: She’s here. It was still snowing lightly as I drove toward Murray’s. I tried to formulate a game plan. I’d gotten Brenda’s side of the story and was eager to hear Skye’s. But how to persuade her to open up to me? I had her pegged not only as irascible and self-serving, but innately suspicious as well.

  As it turned out, I never got the chance to try. I parked a couple of doors down from Murray’s and hurried toward the entrance, only to see a burly young man slam out of the place, with Skye in hot pursuit.

  “Emilio, wait!” she screeched. “Come back!”

  Within seconds the fellow had sprinted halfway down the block, where he jumped into a black SUV and skidded down the street, nearly ramming a pickup truck in his haste to vamoose.

  Nick had followed Skye outside, looking like an abandoned pup that’s been kicked countless times yet keeps coming back for more. Not exactly the image of a sexy alpha male, I don’t care how good-looking you are.

  Sure enough, she turned on him, shoving him hard in the chest and yelling, “You did it again, you worthless loser! Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  He mewled something I couldn’t quite make out, though I was able to catch “lonely” and “need you” and “make it work.”

  Good grief, did the man have no pride? I’d assumed that scene yesterday in his house, when Skye had tried to make off with everything of value she could carry, had spelled an end to their affair. Yet here he was, back for more abuse.

  Skye stalked across the street to her yellow Kia, parked haphazardly in front of a hydrant. Nick trailed her, whining and pleading. He narrowly missed getting his fingers broken as she slammed the door, after treating him to the affectionate little adieu she reserved just for him: “Go to hell!”

  He stood in the middle of the street amid drifting snowflakes, staring after her car as it sped away and zipped around the corner. A red Cadillac rolled to a stop behind him. The driver leaned on the horn. Still Nick didn’t budge.

  “Nick.” I crossed to him and tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

  He jerked out of my grasp. The driver’s window of the Caddy rolled down, and the old guy behind the wheel urged Nick to abandon his fruitless vigil, only he didn’t put it quite so politely.

  “That’s enough, Nick.” I seized the collar of his black leather duster and forcefully hauled him onto the sidewalk. “Let’s go inside for a beer. I’m buying.”

  “I need to go after her—”

  “No. You don’t.” I shoved him through the doorway and into the warm, and warmly lit, interior of Murray’s Pub. The worn floorboards perfumed the air with the mild and not-unpleasant scent of a hundred-plus years of spilled beer. Bluegrass music played in the background at a volume compatible with normal conversation.

  There were about as many patrons as might be expected on a snowy Thursday night. Two men sat at the bar, separated by a couple of barstools but enjoying a friendly chat about the football game being shown on the TV—blessedly silenced, with closed captioning. Two young couples occupied the booth closest to the door. Three middle-aged women sat at one of the wooden tables, drinking martinis and laughing tipsily.

  Martin stood behind the bar, pouring a shot of bourbon for one of the guys and talking football with them. As I steered Nick toward the booth at the far end of the pub, I caught the padre’s eye. To the casual observer, his expression remained unchanged. Nevertheless, the two of us managed to squeeze an entire conversation into that one silent glance. We’d both had our fill of the tiresome drama that was Nick Birch and Skye Gillespie. Martin didn’t know what I was up to at the moment, but whatever it was, he had my back.

  And yeah, you make a good point about our ability to communicate without words and doesn’t that mean something and what the heck do I intend to do about
it.

  I don’t know, okay? And I certainly didn’t have time to think about it just then as I pushed poor, dejected Nick into the booth with a firm order to Sit! and Stay! I hadn’t spent all those years training headstrong pups for nothing.

  I crossed to the bar and greeted the football fans, whom I knew from around town, then asked Martin for a pitcher of beer and some fried calamari. Oh yeah, and some nachos, too. I’d skipped dinner, and something told me Nick would benefit from anything that wasn’t a chicken pot pie.

  “The food will be a few minutes. I’ll bring it over.” The padre pushed a full pitcher and a couple of glasses across the bar. Quietly he said, “You know what you’re doing, Jane?”

  “Nope, but I’ll figure it out.”

  Back at the booth, I poured the brew and watched my companion drain three-quarters of his glass in one pull. As I gave him a refill, I decided Nick was not getting behind the wheel again tonight. I’d snatch his keys if necessary and either give him a ride home or put him in a taxi. As for myself, I intended to nurse the one glass.

  He looked leaner than when I’d first met him a couple of weeks earlier. He was unshaven, his dark-blond hair lank and dirty looking. Those amber eyes I once thought so dreamy were now puffy and bloodshot, making me wonder if he’d gotten a head start on his drinking before going out in search of Skye.

  I wasn’t without sympathy. The guy might not have been Husband of the Year, but he was alone and hurting, having just lost both his wife and his girlfriend. The first loss was a tragedy, the second not so much. He didn’t see it that way, of course.

  “If she’d just let me talk to her,” he said. “I know I could bring her around if she’d just listen.”

  Good riddance, I thought. You should count your blessings. But what I said was, “This isn’t the way to win her over, Nick. Ambushing her every time she goes on a date.”

  “She’s hooking up with these random guys.” He took another long gulp. “She doesn’t know anything about them. She’s going to get hurt.”

  “How’s it going with the prenup?” I asked. “Are you making any headway getting it overturned?”

  He made a rude noise, dismissing the idea with a wag of his hand. “That lawyer doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He’s a damn thief, like Skye said. I should’ve listened to her. See, this is why we need each other. We’re good for each other. I just have to make her see that.”

  I needed to broach the subject while he was still coherent. “Can we talk about Allison?”

  Something flitted behind his eyes, something dark that I couldn’t pin down. “Allison...” he murmured. “It didn’t have to be like that.”

  I willed my voice to remain pleasantly neutral. “Didn’t have to be like what, Nick?”

  He looked at me, then at our surroundings, as if to remind himself where he was. He shrugged and took a drink before answering. “She never loved me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that can’t be true.” Allison had loved Nick, or thought she did, during those early days when she’d been reeling from Mitchell’s death.

  “She didn’t want my baby,” he said.

  “Maybe she just needed time,” I said. “I mean, you two weren’t married that long.”

  “She’d wanted his baby.” Nick’s expression was harder than I’d ever seen it. “An old man’s baby. They went to specialists. Fertility doctors. She wanted a kid of his so bad, she would’ve done anything to make it happen. But not my kid, nope. No interest.” His glass was almost empty again. He lifted the pitcher and topped it off. “She didn’t even want my name. She kept his name. Zaleski. She kept her dead husband’s name when she had a live husband right there in her bed. You have any idea how that made me feel? It’s like she knew all along I was temporary.”

  My invisible antennae twitched. “What do you mean?”

  “Huh?” He struggled to focus on my face.

  “What do you mean you were temporary?” I asked.

  “Temporary, you know,” he said. “As in she was going to divorce me.”

  As casually as I could, I asked, “When did she tell you that?”

  I held my breath, wondering if he was tipsy enough to blurt out a truth that went counter to the official version: that he’d learned of Allison’s intention to divorce him from Sten during her funeral reception.

  Nick squinted as if to bring my face into focus. He rubbed his eyes. “What?”

  “When did Allison tell—”

  “She didn’t tell me,” he said. “She kept it secret. She was going to spring it on me when she was good and ready. You know that. You were there.”

  Was he telling the truth? Jim had speculated that Allison might have let her divorce plans, or at least her knowledge of the affair, slip on Christmas night when she and Nick had argued about his getting fired and covering it up. Jim had thought it possible that Nick had invited her for a walk in the woods the next morning—supposedly to talk things through, to clear the air, but in actuality to ensure he’d end up a wealthy widower instead of a broke divorcé.

  Maybe I should have gotten him drunker before asking.

  Martin appeared with our food, along with plates, forks, and napkins. The ambrosial smells made my head swim. Before leaving us, the padre held my gaze for a fraction longer than necessary.

  When Nick ignored the food, I piled fried calamari and nachos onto a plate and plunked it in front of him, with a firm command to eat. Only then did I begin filling my own grumbling belly.

  I watched him pick halfheartedly at the food, wondering how best to proceed. When he drained yet another glass of beer, I decided it was now or never.

  “So here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m wondering who was with Allison at the preserve the morning she died.”

  He looked at me. His eyebrows knitted together.

  “Because, you know, someone either went with her or met her there,” I continued, as offhandedly as if I were discussing the weather. “I was just wondering if it was you.” I popped a breaded squid tentacle into my mouth.

  His words were slightly slurred when he said, “I’m not into that outdoors stuff. I tried to tell her. It’s just not for me, you know?”

  “She tried to interest you in things like that?” I asked. “Hiking?”

  “Hiking, kayaking...” He waved away the memory, nearly knocking over his glass before I righted it. “I get my workouts in a gym. Climate-controlled. Lots of mirrors. Why do I need to risk my neck skiing and that crap?” He pointed to his own face. “This is a valuable commodity, Jane. It’s my livelihood. I get it banged up falling down some mountain or something, what then? Huh? What then?”

  What livelihood? One soda commercial. Well, plus a sideline in marrying wealthy widows.

  I shrugged. “But a simple walk in the woods. No mountains to fall down.” Just a half-frozen lake to fall through. “I’m thinking maybe you wanted to kiss and make up with Allison, you know, after your fight Christmas night.”

  He frowned. “How do you know about the fight?”

  “You told me.”

  A pause. “Was I drinking?”

  “Um, yes, but—”

  “What else did I say?” His frown had deepened into a dangerous scowl, bringing to mind his argument the day before with Skye. I hadn’t been able to see their faces then, but I’d heard him. The whipped pup had been noticeably absent. In its place had been a full-grown Rottweiler. Nick Birch had a temper, and he was fond of the sauce—always a winning combination.

  Reflexively I glanced over to the bar. Martin was behind the beer taps, drawing a brew and chatting with the guys. His gaze flicked in my direction for a fraction of a second. It was long enough. I relaxed.

  I said, “That’s all you told me.”

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  If the padre weren’t keeping such a close eye on our conversation, I might not have leaned in and said, “Why? What are you worried you might have blabbed about?”

  After a long, tense minute he
sat back, picked up his glass, and took a deep drink. “What makes you think someone was with Allison? In the woods that day.”

  “Well, I’m friends with a couple of cops,” I said. “Detectives. The ones who were here last week, remember? They know all kinds of things that aren’t public knowledge.”

  There I was, playing the cop card for the second time that night. Well, what was I supposed to say? I got ahold of your dead wife’s secret video diary. It was chock-full of all kinds of interesting stuff you wouldn’t want folks to know.

  Nick did not look happy. “How are the cops involved? I thought they already decided her death was an accident.”

  “Hey, they don’t tell me everything. Oh, but here’s something else, just between us.” I leaned forward again. So did he. “It seems her camera is missing.”

  “She had a bunch of cameras,” he said.

  I watched his face, just as I’d watched Brenda’s face a few hours earlier when I’d imparted the same information—on the alert for some kind of incriminating reaction. In both cases the results were inconclusive. I reminded myself that Nick was a trained actor.

  “I’m talking about the one she had with her in the woods that morning,” I said. “The big Nikon with the neck strap. They can’t find it. It wasn’t on her body and they don’t think it’s in the lake.”

  “So the cops are really looking into this?” he asked.

  I shrugged again. “You’d have to ask them. I guess they figure if they could find her camera and, you know, look at the pictures she took, it might show them who was with her that day. Any thoughts on who it could be?”

  He stared into the bottom of his glass as he drained it. “No idea.”

  15

  Do Something with This Already, Will Ya?

  THE NEXT MORNING I found myself, for the second time in less than three weeks, hiking through the frigid woods.

  Okay, maybe frigid is an overstatement. That day Martin brought Sexy Beast and me to this preserve to go skating, it had been bitter cold. The temperature was much milder this morning, as it had been during most of January. I wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, just my cream-colored anorak. Unlike that previous visit, however, when the ground had been relatively free of snow, I was now breaking trail through several inches of the white stuff. Sometime during the night, it had finally stopped snowing. The sun peeking over the eastern horizon cast long shadows.