Once back in his kitchen, she finished her coffee, rinsed the carafe, and tossed the coffee grounds into the trash. That’s when she noticed she had thrown the grounds on top of a small book lying in the waste can meant for garbage.
She carefully lifted the book out with two fingers and brushed it free of trash. It was in the wrong bin. She smiled at the charming Old English, lavender and lace design of the book jacket, heralding a collection of Emily Dickinson love poems. Where did this come from? Chip must have been cleaning out his college bookshelf. Love poems? Really? Although far from an uncultured dolt, he wasn’t likely to play Cyrano to anyone’s Roxanne. Although she could count on him to come up with a romantic gesture at just the right time, reading rapturous love sonnets to her wasn’t in his play book.
She shrugged and tossed the poetry book into the correct container for recyclables. She glanced at her watch—might as well open her law office early. Even though she had scant work to do at the office, she didn’t want to waste the day sitting around his empty house.
The book left her mind until evening, after she closed her office for the day and came back over. They sat on the screen-porch that ran across the back of his house sipping wine and looking out on the back yard rimmed with full blooming Hibiscus bushes of all tropical colors. The sun had set much earlier, yet evenings are seldom cool during a Florida summer. No breeze that night. Yet, they were comfortable wearing shorts and sitting under the draft of the silent slow-moving wicker blades of the ceiling fan.
“Your dead body today...homicide?” she asked.
“Nasty. Guy shot in his shower. Not my case—it’s Jaworski’s. He joked if his wife ever shoots anyone, it’d be in the shower stall so the blood wouldn’t get all over the room.”
“There you go,” she said. “You have a clue already, the murderer is a woman.”
“Yeah, normally I’d bet on the wife, however this has a different sense of viciousness about it. Cold-blooded like the perp just opens the shower door, shoots him, and walks away.”
“Was the water still running and the shower door found closed?”
“How’d you guess?”
“A woman would take time to close the shower door after shooting him so water wouldn’t spray the bathroom floor.”
“I’ll mention that to Jaworski.” He smiled and fell silent.
Enough sharing of his job for one day, she figured. She didn’t want him describing details anyway. She could tolerate most crime scenes and dead bodies didn’t bother her as long they were all cleaned up and under a nice white sheet. “Hear that cicada?” she asked.
“That’s a male vibrating for its mate.”
“Save the innuendos for later, please. I’ll tell you when to start vibrating.” The thought brought the love poems back to her mind. With a slight laugh, she asked about his interest in poetry. “Did you find an old poetry book lying around from your college days? You ever wonder how many old English Lit books have made the journey from the bookcase to the attic, yet never to the trash? I wonder how many homes have at least one old textbook that somehow just can’t be thrown away?”
He glanced over at her not catching on.
“Emily Dickinson...Love Poems. In the trash.”
“Oh that.” He went on explaining matter-of-factly. It seems a former girlfriend had phoned yesterday with the usual, how was he, how had he been doing? He brushed her off politely; he wasn’t interested in connecting again, especially with her. She said she understood, nevertheless they should meet briefly anyway, as she had something that should be returned to him.
Sandy couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.
They had met for coffee yesterday evening, he explained. She put the book of poems on the table saying she had to give it back to him. He protested saying he’d never given her such a book and didn’t want it. She insisted that he had forgotten, it stirred too many painful memories for her, and she couldn’t bear to throw it away. He took it as he left to placate her and tossed it when he got home.
“I threw it in the trash,” he said. “That was bad, right? I should have donated it to the used book store.”
A former girlfriend had phoned? And they met yesterday? “What’s her name?” Sandy tried to make it sound casual.
It didn’t work with the detective; he dealt with human nature all day long. He caught her meaning and smiled. “It’s old news, Sandy, before I met you. Never actually a girlfriend, I saw her once, maybe twice. We never got it on, which is what you’re asking.” He reached over and squeezed her thigh reassuringly. “Forget it. Her name is mud. End of story.”
It had better be the end of the story for the girlfriend as well, she thought.
Sandy recalled her own fondness for Emily Dickinson. She told him, “I remember: ‘Wild nights, wild nights. Were I with thee, wild nights should be our luxury.’ How does the rest of it go...I can’t remember?”
“What does it mean?”
“Whatever you want it to.”
“Poets have it made,” he said. “What they write doesn’t have to make sense.”
“I loved that poem. Typed it out and pasted it above my study desk in law school. To tell the truth, I had a little unrequited love thing going with this hot drama major at the time. Some of the liberal arts girls were changing their majors, so they could audition and get close to him. I’d never go that far. Okay, maybe it occurred to me.”
She was tempted to go into the kitchen right then and rescue the book from the trash to see if that particular poem was in there. Yet, if he didn’t want the book that was fine. She certainly didn’t want any reminder of a former lover around.
After dinner that night, Chip had taken a shower and was watching TV in the bedroom, while waiting for her to come in. She was reading in the living room, when her mind went back to the book of poems. Perhaps the Emily Dickinson poem she loved was in that book. Who was she kidding? For an instant, she was back in high school curious if he had inscribed it with “Love Forever” or something tender and sexy.
The former lover had obviously contrived to return the book as a device to start up with him again—Sandy was sure of that. No doubt all glammed up for her one last play for him, sitting up straight with stomach in and boobs out, smiling seductively trying to lock eyes with him as she pushed the book across the table, perhaps accidentally touching his hand.
Sandy wasn’t dead serious about Chip; even so, she had a good thing going. Her career as a defense attorney working for herself was just getting started. Although it was too early to think about marriage, she certainly didn’t want a former lover mixed in with her very satisfying romance. Unfortunately, being in love does make you vulnerable to such emotional upsets.
Would she be broken-hearted if she lost him? Sure, but it wouldn’t be fatal. So far, it was a satisfying, loving relationship, and they don’t come along too often. When they do, you hold on to them until...well, until you want to let go.
How much or how little she loved him was beside the point; she wasn’t ready to give him up and certainly didn’t want anyone else on the scene. She recalled her grandfather once telling her, “Honeychild, y’all hold on to what y’all got, until y’all gets, what y’all wants.” She smiled remembering her grandfather was from up in New England but enjoyed doing his cowboy drawl.
She was on her way to the kitchen and headed for the trash bin, when he called to her from the bedroom. “Be right in,” she answered. She retrieved the book from the recyclable bin and sat at the kitchen table.
She was pleased to note the coffee grounds hadn’t stained the old-fashioned filigree book jacket. Strange. She now noticed the book cover was slightly smaller than the book. It didn’t quite fit. She flipped through. It wasn’t a printed book of poems at all. It was handwritten with a few blank pages at the back. It appeared to be someone’s diary.
She scanned a few pages and could see they were well-thumbed. In the margin of the first page was boldly written: “Crazy stuff this guy!” Her curiosity e
asily overcame her guilty voyeuristic feeling, and she couldn’t stop reading. The first sentence started, “After the first date, he finally got around to what I wanted when I first saw him!” She shouldn’t be reading this; she snapped the book closed. Who on earth had written this?
Slowly she opened it again. The page began to describe occasions of intimacy in lurid detail. Her head started feeling warm before she had finished the first page. This was blatant erotica. Not particularly well-written. Nevertheless, it was all there with no attempt at delicacy.
A tense feeling of shock and embarrassment came over her. After a few pages, she felt light-headed. The words began to blur. She slammed the book shut and jerked her hand away as though it were hot. She glanced around even though she knew no one was watching. She placed the book back in the trash and stood there in the kitchen looking up at the ceiling and regaining her breath.
A moment earlier, she had been embarrassed for reading some other person’s erotic thoughts, now she was uncomfortable recognizing it had excited her. Then the excitement left her as quickly as it had come, as a disturbing thought rushed into her mind. Could the exceedingly capable male whose activities were described be Chip? Instantly, the diary was no longer titillating—it was horrible.
Chip would never participate like that. It couldn’t be him. He certainly had never asked Sandy to abandon herself to the extent just described. Was this somehow her fault? Was there another sexual level she should have taken him to? Where was the edge of normal, the line you’re not supposed to cross?
It couldn’t be Chip in the diary. But if not, why had the woman given it to him? Her head was then full of images, and it was Chip with his faceless no doubt beautiful partner.
After a moment, she reached back down drawn like a magnet and again closed her fingers around the book. Did she hold in her grasp an erotic log written after each steamy episode? The uninhibited thoughts the woman had spent hours reliving and carefully documenting? Happenings most women have never experienced and most would never care to? The writer might well have kept it bedside ready to relive the lascivious memories.
Considering the effort and emotional energy needed to create such a personal document, it seemed incredible the writer would let it leave her hands and so easily give it away. Perhaps this replay of the sex they had shared was to be a clever aphrodisiac given to Chip in the hope of arousing his interest enough to desire her again. If she wasn’t writing about Chip, then why give it to him? He’d read it and realize immediately that he wasn’t the male depicted. She’d come off kooky and he would distance himself from her even more.
This was becoming ridiculous. Get real. It was none of her business. The male wasn’t Chip. So what if the sex wasn’t mainstream? The diary characters were still consenting adults enjoying each other’s body; why deny it? The episodes were no doubt exaggerated. Indeed, the woman could have fabricated entire fantasies. Even if true, Sandy didn’t know if Chip was the man depicted.
He didn’t seem secretive about meeting the woman and receiving the book. He might have thrown it away not noticing the diary hidden under the poetry book cover. Perhaps he did read it and was unmoved and disinterested, as it had nothing to do with him.
She remembered he had graciously overlooked a major indiscretion of hers some months ago; the least she could do was accept this situation with a degree of trust.
All the rationalization didn’t clear her mind. Her imagination was beyond composure at that point; the images were still there. And now he was beckoning from the bedroom for her to join him. She knew what was waiting for her, if she wanted it. Why did she feel she’d be slipping into bed with a stranger? What if his hands were no longer the familiar hands that had always touched her? What if they were no longer special? What if his naked body felt different, and the lovemaking was unfamiliar. Should she take such a chance?
Silly, of course, yet she was not going into that bedroom and onto the same king-sized bed where the described performances might possibly have been staged. She didn’t want to be in bed with the possible diary man.
She gave Chip an excuse for unexpectedly leaving and escaping to the refuge of her safe little apartment.
Chapter Three
How marvelous that just looking out on a sunlit Florida morning can improve your disposition. Having slept surprisingly well, Sandy felt better waking up in her own twin-sized bed in the cozy nook of her studio apartment. Nevertheless, soon after awakening, the players in that erotic diary slipped back into her mind.
She would dismiss them, of course. In the light of morning, they were at most exaggerated cartoon characters who had no place in her world. Too bad, they didn’t stay out of her mind.
A smiling Martin Bronner unexpectedly greeted her at the law office door when she arrived. He eagerly waved a pink message slip as though it were a winning lottery ticket. The two young lawyers were not officially law partners; yet they did share the office and an increasing slice of each other’s life. Not the romantic part. Early on, she had gently squelched his hopes for a romance. Even so, he would catch himself having dreamy thoughts about her.
They definitely had become friends in spite of being mismatched. she could be audacious and brash. Martin, in every sense of the word, was a gentleman. He kept his world well-ordered. She took the world as she found it. He would politely walk passed a closed door. She wouldn’t hesitate to listen at the door and then peek inside—especially if it were marked “Private.” He was comfortable with crime only in the abstract, and would walk a wide circle around a dead body. She’d step over it. They were complementary forces and made a remarkable though unlikely set of office mates.
He was ten years older—around forty, and nice looking in a button-down sort of way: neatly trimmed short hair and inevitably dressed too conservatively for Florida. He had never worn a collarless shirt of any type out in public in his entire life, not even in grade school. Back when they first met, he had recently taken over the small office building from his father and was using one office in the suite of offices for his modest one lawyer practice. She had moved in while they pursued their one and only important lawsuit, a wrongful death case they had recently won. They were waiting for the sizable settlement money to materialize and their fame to spread. After that, multitudes of important clients would surely be pounding on their door.
That settlement money better show up soon, as she had violated her carefully crafted budget rules by occasionally hitting her credit card to cover day-to-day living expenses. Fortunately, her expenses were low.
Her small studio apartment cost almost nothing. Her clothing would possibly last considering she regularly ran around in jeans, sometimes in the office. Eating regularly was overrated. She did owe Martin for untold lunches. He didn’t know she was keeping score. He was also covering her office rent and expenses. He was calling it a gift. She had a careful record of how much she owned him.
Her primary hit was the monthly payment on her precious Mazda MX-5. Even if financial disaster struck, it would be the last to go. She’d give up her apartment and live in the car, if necessary. Of course, she had no business driving a late model sporty convertible, but logic was beside the point.
In the process of pursuing that one big lawsuit, they had become friends, and the office arrangement was good for them both. She stayed on renting a small office from him, even if she could have afforded something else, because she liked it there. And good for him, because he’d be pleased to be around her 24/7.
“Don’t often get phone messages. Someday, I’ll waltz in here and there will be a pile of lucrative messages waiting for me.” She took the pink slip from him. “Anyone wanting my money is out of luck.”
“It’s a call from the Inmate Advocate at the county jail. A prisoner specifically asked for you. Shall I have it bronzed?”
“Not yet, it’s probably another DUI.”
“No, they said the prisoner was being held for murder.”
“Frame it!” she yelled.
She stared at the number for a moment before reaching for the phone. “This might be it, Martin. Finally, the serious case I’ve waited so long for.”
Just a few months had passed since she received her law license, yet Martin knew that becoming a successful criminal defense lawyer was her lifelong dream. “I‘ll cross my fingers for you,” he said.
She rushed out of the office eager to meet with the prospective client and stopped only to grab a takeout coffee on the drive to the county jail. In the jail parking lot, she sat in her Miata convertible and considered the building. She had been there many times, most recently to talk with one client arrested for DUI, and another who wiped out a phone pole while driving with a suspended license.
Today, she’d walk in, show her ID, get a visitor’s badge, and all would be the same except this time eyes would be watching her. This time everyone knew she was the defense counsel for a murder suspect. This time it was a big deal. She was ready. She loved it. She sipped the last of the coffee and got out. She’d leave the top down—it hadn’t rained in weeks. If her car was safe anywhere, it would be there with a dozen deputies milling about.
Once checked in and given a visitor badge, she followed a deputy out of the booking area. There were no permanent cells in this section of the facility; however, inmates checked her out as she passed the row of glassed-in rooms holding those in the process of admittance or release.
The deputy led her into one of the conference rooms. The room was ringed with windows and the deputy stood outside by the door. She entered and found herself standing across from a reasonably-attractive, fortyish, dark-haired woman running her palms up and down the legs of her orange jumpsuit eager for anyone to listen to her complaints. Sandy knew trouble when she saw it.
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