Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  Roche interrupted. “And where were you between the hours of midnight and three a.m. this morning?”

  “Where was I?” I began blinking nervously. I was definitely on his radar.

  He nodded.

  “At home. Sleeping.”

  “Are there any witnesses? Anyone who could corroborate that?”

  “I was sleeping alone, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How did you get that scratch on your face?”

  I felt the blood drain from my cheeks as I touched the cut under my eye.

  “This?”

  I was floundering for an answer when the door behind me opened unexpectedly, causing Roche to look over my shoulder and scowl. “What is it?”

  “He claims he’s her lawyer.”

  I was confused. “Who is?”

  I turned and saw Sergeant Klish with my coffee in his hand. Douglas Gubbins, the lawyer with offices upstairs from the Courier, stood off to the side behind him. Gubbins was suited, tied, and carrying a leather attaché case. A beanpole of a man in his sixties with a neat helmet of graying brown hair, clear-rimmed glasses, and pasty skin—Aunt Lada would call him a “nebbish”—he stepped forward.

  “Ms. Glasser, I came as quickly as I could.”

  He extended his hand palm up, as if he were asking me to dance at a ball. Roche groaned. I was flabbergasted. What was Gubbins doing here? I barely knew him—our interactions had been limited to polite “hellos” in the hallway of the Courier building or in Eden’s Coffee Shop, where I’d often see him having breakfast or lunch. But that little voice inside told me not to ask questions, just to waltz out of there with him. I pushed back my chair, stood up and put my hand in his. I could swear Gubbins bowed before he led me to the door.

  “Ms. Glasser has cooperated in good faith thus far, Detective. And I am advising her, as is her right, not to answer any further queries just now. Thank you for your time.”

  With that, I heard Detective Roche curse as Gubbins whisked me out of the interrogation room. As the door closed behind us, I sagged against Gubbins’s shoulder for a moment. I was so relieved.

  “Thank you so much. Who sent you?”

  He took my arm.

  “Let’s walk and talk,” he said, and steered us down the hall toward the reception area. “Ben Wickstein phoned me on your behalf. I hope you’re not peeved about my fibbing in there.”

  “Ben called you?”

  “You needed a lawyer, pronto. They don’t have enough to charge you, but you are definitely a person of interest in a capital offense.”

  “You mean a person of interest, officially?” My voice broke. “They didn’t tell me that. Jesus.”

  “I could represent you, if you wish, until you have time to research and secure other counsel,” he said.

  “Wait.” I stopped short and spun around toward him. My adrenaline was up. “There’s no evidence. If this is just because I’m Hugh’s ex, well, that’s prejudicial. That’s . . . divorcist.”

  “Perhaps. But it is what it is. And we don’t know how far or fast this will progress. As a young lawyer, I did have experience in the county DA’s office before I went into private practice, and I can tell you these matters are unpredictable. A lawyer is necessary.”

  “This can’t be happening,” I croaked.

  Gubbins’s serious demeanor said it was.

  “Let’s hope they find other suspects,” he said.

  “How about finding the killer?”

  Gubbins nodded so vigorously his glasses slipped down his nose.

  “The killer. Of course, yes.”

  He urged me forward again, and as we neared the reception area, I spotted Grace speaking on her phone in a corner by a potted palm. She hadn’t seen me yet. But Ben, who’d been sitting next to the Hispanic woman and tickling her baby’s toes, had. The relief on his face was evident. He instantly patted the infant’s thigh, stood up and rushed over to meet us. I flushed, both embarrassed and grateful to see him.

  “Nora! Are you okay? I jumped on this as soon as Grace called me.”

  I lowered my voice. “Am I really a person of interest? Officially?”

  “Yes. But the police are on a fishing expedition. They’re trying to bait you, and they’re about to get straightened out.” He put his hand on Gubbins’s shoulder. “Doug, can we speak for a sec?”

  “Of course.”

  Grace saw me and hurried over as the two men stepped away.

  “Nor! Thank God you’re out of there. How awful was it?”

  I glanced over at Ben and Gubbins huddling together and whispering in a way that seemed urgent.

  “I’ll tell you at the nearest bar. Do you know a place around here?”

  She sighed and looked distraught. “I wish I could go out with you. I can’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Mac just called to say Otis had a tummy upset. He’s asking for me. I really should go back soon.”

  Of course she should. Grace had been at this with me for hours. Now Otis needed his mommy. I felt rotten about keeping her from him even one minute longer.

  “I’m sorry, Gracie. I’ve taken up your whole day with this mess. Can you just drop me home on your way? I’ve got some vodka in the fridge. I’ll be fine as soon as I knock myself out.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re coming to stay with us. The boys would love it. Grams is making dinner tonight.”

  “No. Otis isn’t feeling well. You need to focus on him. And I don’t think your in-laws would appreciate you bringing home a . . .” Choking up, I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a whimper. Grace reached for my other hand and squeezed it until I was able to speak again. “I don’t think she’d like you bringing home a murder suspect.”

  “A person of interest,” Ben interrupted as he joined us. “First rule of reporting, Glasser. Have your facts straight. Don’t get me started on how many so-called journalists screw that up.”

  Ben offered to give me a ride back to the Coop. I insisted that Grace go home and pay attention to her family, and she didn’t argue with me, for once. While Ben went off to the parking lot, I lingered on the station steps taking advice from my new legal representative. All the while Gubbins was speaking, I worried about how I was going to pay his hourly rate on top of all my other expenses.

  “There are some rules, Ms. Glasser. Number one: don’t leave the county. Not because the law forbids it, but because the police will likely put you under twenty-four-hour surveillance, seven days a week, if you do.”

  “How will they know I’ve left?”

  “Believe me, they will. They’ve probably already flagged your charge cards and started tracking your car’s GPS.”

  “That can’t be legal.”

  He shrugged. “Once they start following you full-time, they’ll tend to see all your actions as suspicious. It’s the observer effect. Watching changes things. Number two: don’t speak to the press.”

  “But Ben is the press.”

  “Ben is an exception—he’s already involved and sworn to stay off the record. In fact, don’t talk to anyone you can’t completely trust, including and especially friends and relatives. You have no idea what trouble can come of that. I had a client charged with insurance fraud whose sister testified against her in order to take over the family business. And my client’s husband, as well. What about your friend Grace and her family? Do you trust them?”

  I was choking up again, upset. I cleared my throat and nodded. “They won’t gossip. And as far as relatives, there’s only my aunt. You don’t have to be concerned about her.”

  I couldn’t put off calling Aunt Lada any longer. Not hearing from me at all would freak her out more than hearing from me in a state of distress.

  Gubbins frowned. “Discretion is all.” He took his car keys out of his camel hair overcoat. “Come to my office tomorrow afternoon. By then I’ll have the paperwork for you to sign and a strategy to discuss.”

  “Is that what you and Ben were talking abo
ut inside? A strategy?”

  “Oh no, no, no.” He smiled nervously. “That was about something else altogether.”

  I didn’t believe him. And I didn’t think it was a good thing not to be able to trust your own lawyer. But Ben trusted him, and he was no fool.

  “Please try not to worry too much,” Gubbins said.

  He shook my hand and then scurried down the steps. Belly roiling, I sat down on the low cement wall at the edge of the landing. Knotted muscles had a painful grip on my neck. How could I help but worry? Recognizing that Aunt Lada would be growing more anxious by the minute, I took out my phone and called her apartment at The Cedars.

  The Cedars is the assisted-living complex I found for her sixteen miles from Pequod. She’d worked as a photo librarian for the Associated Press well past retirement, but her crippling arthritis eventually made navigating the city impossible. The Cedars is much nicer than those claustrophobic urban senior residences. Lada seems happy there, and the proximity means I can visit her every week. The only downside is that I need to make up the difference between what they charge, what Medicare pays for and what Lada can afford. But I feel good about setting her up in a safe environment. She moved just in time. She’s begun to drift.

  Lada’s line trilled and trilled, eventually rolling over to the front desk. I left a message with Yvonne, the receptionist, asking her to tell my aunt that I was fine and I would visit as soon as I could. The loud rumble of a motorcycle had me shouting the last few words before I hung up.

  A dark-green-and-chrome bike—a vintage model—thundered along the perimeter of the parking lot and stopped at the base of the steps. Amazingly, Ben straddled it. I walked down to meet him, incredulous.

  “Since when is this your ride?” I asked over the engine idle.

  Ben pushed the visor of his helmet up.

  “My car is in the shop.” He patted the Triumph logo on the gas tank. “This was Sam’s graduation present. A ’92 reissue of Steve McQueen’s bike. She needed some work, so Sam left her home for first semester. She’s perfect now.”

  He pulled a second helmet from the bike’s saddlebag and offered it.

  “Hop on.”

  I hesitated.

  “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. I had a Harley in college.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just . . . I’m not ready to go home yet.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, seeming to search my face for I don’t know what.

  “Understood,” he finally said. “How about we find a bar in Massamat, or go back to Pequod and stop at—”

  “The Tea Cozy,” we said in unison. I smiled. I felt lighter already.

  I strapped on the helmet and climbed on behind Ben. As I leaned into his broad back, I was surprised by its firmness. I wrapped my arms around his center. No beer gut. He was in pretty good shape at forty-seven. But it felt strange to be embracing a man after so long, and even stranger that the man was my boss. I was used to taking assignments and editorial notes from Ben, not motorcycle rides. He put his hand over mine briefly and squeezed. I was both surprised and comforted.

  “Hang on tight,” he said.

  With a flick of his foot, the kickstand went up, the bike lowered and we took off with a jerk and a roar. Ben steered us out of the lot heading east toward Pequod, but not along any route I’d driven before. We zigged and zagged through sketchy residential streets, passing boxy houses, unmowed lawns and broken, weedy sidewalks until we met up with a narrow country road that hugged the shore.

  Ben drove faster on the winding road. I leaned in with the dip and swerve of the bike as we rounded the curves, taking pleasure in the movement and in the vibration alternately hastening and slowing between my legs. I breathed in the salty sea air. The late afternoon sunlight flickered through the bare trees, lulling me into a pleasant trance. Ben’s body blocked the wind, and the heat of him warmed my chest. Only my bare hands were cold; I hadn’t thought to wear gloves.

  As if reading my mind, Ben took my right hand from his waist and placed it inside the pocket of his parka. It felt intimate—a gesture a boyfriend might make, and I tentatively followed his lead, slipping my left hand into the other pocket. It met with something metal. About four inches long, an inch or two thick, smooth on the sides, and ridged in between. A folded knife. A big one.

  I pulled my hand out, alarmed, and felt Ben’s body stiffen. What was he doing walking around with a knife like that? Chill. You are a paranoid mess right now. I slid my hand back in.

  Eventually we made a turn onto the straightaway that cut across a bay just outside of Pequod, a strip of flat, sandy land with nothing but seagrasses and water on both sides. The landscape looked so magical in the waning crimson-and-orange light that if I had even half of Hugh’s talent, I would paint it.

  All that talent gone, I lamented, starting to slip into melancholy. Hugh would never paint again. But I recovered quickly, sat up tall and tightened my thighs around the saddle. Removing both hands from Ben’s pockets, I stretched my arms out to the sides, attempting to take in the striking beauty all around. I was perfectly balanced, thanks to Pilates. My core supple and strong. Ben opened the throttle, and we flew down the road with the wind at our backs. For a few short, ecstatic moments I forgot all my troubles. Then a dark thought swept in.

  I might not ever feel this free again.

  “Two-for-one hour” was just gearing up at the Tea Cozy. The cranberry-colored clapboard roadhouse used to be a tea parlor, though the Cozy has always served stronger brews than tea in its cups. Protected by a police department paid off by the gangster Dutch Schultz, it was the most popular of the “Rum Row” establishments that opened up near the coast during Prohibition. Mostly because Captain William McCoy, a rumrunner known for his high-quality giggle water, stocked its shelves. The Piqued like to encourage the myth that the phrase “the real McCoy” referred to the enterprising captain’s goods.

  The Cozy lived up to its adjective. The main room had a stone fireplace, wood-beamed ceilings above wide-board pine floors and booths with small, shaded lamps on the tables. Yet from the moment I entered, despite the glowing hearth and warm decor, I felt a shiver so deep in my bones I had to keep my coat on.

  Kevin Coates, the African American owner and a former state wrestling champ, signaled us from the far end of the busy bar as we walked into the room. Kevin is a leading member of Pequod’s small African American community. His roots go back to the years when escaped slaves came north and took tough and dangerous jobs on whaling ships alongside Native Americans and white men. Kevin is descended from one of those slaves who eventually became a whaling captain. The Coates family has seen a lot of social and economic upheaval in Pequod over almost two centuries. He wanted to talk about the murders.

  “You hear anything off the record? Was it a botched robbery? A home invasion? Did someone have a big, fat grudge?”

  Ben and I shook our heads. In an unspoken agreement, we feigned ignorance of anything that hadn’t already been reported. We certainly didn’t tell Kevin I’d been taken in for questioning.

  “The police are being tight-lipped so far, Kev,” Ben said.

  Kevin continued to speculate as Ben put in our order for two vodka tonics.

  “If there’s a serial killer on the loose, we should form neighborhood watch committees like they did for that Zodiac Killer.”

  A boozy woman sitting a couple of stools down the bar chimed in. “I’m going to the shelter tomorrow and adopting a pit bull.”

  After a few more similarly anxious comments, we escaped to a booth in the back.

  “People are really scared,” I said.

  Ben’s expression darkened. “Yes, they are. These murders are going to create a lot of anxiety even after the killer is caught. We’re a small town. The sense of basic personal safety is gone.” He squinted and pointed under my eye. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what happened to your face?”

  I touched the tender wound. “Nothing. Just scratched it with my nai
l.”

  If I only knew for sure that was the case, I’d feel a lot less stressed.

  “It looks angry. You should take care of it.”

  “I will.”

  We sat in awkward silence for a moment. I was grateful when Sinead O’Halloran-Rudinsky appeared with our drinks. A big-boned, muscular Irish lass in a black waitress uniform, Sinead wore her straight brown hair in a bowl cut. Unfortunately, it made her look a bit like a prison matron. She had come here from Dublin as an au pair and fallen in love with Tidy Pool Al the day he repaired her employer’s hot tub. With their twins in college and the two younger kids heading there soon, she works weekdays at the Pequod Savings Bank and weekend shifts here to earn extra cash. Somehow, she still makes it to our Pilates class.

  “Hi, Sinead,” Ben and I said simultaneously.

  “Evening, Ben, Nora,” she said, setting out the drinks. “A sick thing, these killings, isn’t it? You’d never dream this could happen in Pequod.” She reached out and touched my shoulder. “Nora, I know this must be hell for you. Even after that shite thing your ex did. And then Helene signing up for Pilates? That woman was shameless. I wanted to say something, but I took my cue from you. You were such a lady about it.”

  I felt my face flush.

  “So you knew who Helene was when she joined the class? You knew about her and my divorce?”

  Sinead nodded. “I did. Lizzie Latham told me after the Walkers moved here.”

  I turned to Ben, livid. “Did you hear that?”

  “Easy, Nora . . .” Ben warned.

  I drew in a slow, steady breath. “That’s just great.”

  “What did I say?” Sinead asked, her face coloring.

  My voice rose. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  Heads turned at other tables.

  “For jaysus sake,” Sinead whispered as she picked up her tray and skulked away to the bar.

  “Nora, if I were you, I’d keep my cool right now,” Ben said.

  “But I specifically asked you and Lizzie not to talk about that to anyone.”

  Ben watched me quietly while I steamed.