Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  I motioned her inside and shut the door.

  “At least the press took off,” she said.

  “For now.”

  Lizzie sat down on the couch, clasped her hands in her lap and looked up at me, excited.

  “What’s your idea?” I asked.

  “You agree it’s my story if what I tell you checks out?”

  “For God’s sake, Lizzie, yes.”

  “Well, I remembered something Sinead told me driving home from the Tea Cozy that night. She said she’d heard of the Walkers before but didn’t realize you had a connection to them. She heard about them from the guy who built Pequod Point.”

  “The Miami developer. The man who lost it?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “Mr. Miami came into the bank to meet with Sinead’s boss. She heard the whole conversation. Seems he’d raised the cash to buy his house back, but too late. The bank accepted the Walkers’ offer the day before. The guy was extremely agitated about it.”

  “It’s quite a stretch from there to murder, Lizzie.”

  “No, wait. He told Sinead’s boss he’d tracked the Walkers down and made an offer with a healthy profit. He explained to them that he’d built the house for his wife, that she loved her pottery studio, etc., etc. He pleaded with them. The Walkers said no. The next day, they had their lawyer call and tell him to lay off. Or face a restraining order.”

  “Well, that was harsh,” I said, taking a seat in the wicker armchair across from Lizzie. This was getting more interesting.

  “So, he comes into the bank and tells his story to Sinead’s boss. Asks if there’s anything the bank can do to help him get his house back. He’ll pay. The boss says sorry, there are rules. Mr. Miami calls the Walkers a few choice names, blames them for his wife lapsing into a serious depression and then splits.”

  “Okay . . .”

  She pulled a paper from her jacket pocket and handed it to me. “I went back to our Lifestyles piece on the wife. These are the names, right here.”

  “Diane and Jeffrey Volani spend the rest of the year in Miami Beach, Florida,” I read.

  “I found their number through the reverse directory. I had a hunch. I thought I’d call, and if Mr. Volani answered, I’d say something like, ‘Lizzie Latham of the Pequod Courier here. My sources tell me you were seen turning into the driveway of the house you built on Pequod Point this weekend. You may have been the last person to see the Walkers alive. Any comment?’”

  “Smart. Take him off guard. See what kind of response you’d get.”

  “Right. And if the wife answered instead, I’d pretend interest in one of her lovely urns for my wedding centerpiece. Chat her up. Try to learn if her husband had an alibi over the weekend. But I didn’t talk to either of them.” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.

  “So, what happened?”

  She mimed talking into her phone. “‘Hello, may I speak with Jeffrey Volani?’ I ask. An old man’s voice answers, ‘I’m sorry. Jeffrey is out of town.’ Bingo. Out of town in Pequod, maybe? ‘Oh. Then may I speak with Diane?’ But there’s this really loong silence from the old man.

  “‘Who is this, please?’ he finally asks, but his voice sounds all funny. Something tells me not to say I’m a reporter. ‘It’s Lizzie Latham. From their old neighborhood in Pequod.’ Not a total lie, right? He chokes up. Turns out the old man is Jeffrey’s father, and he tells me that on Labor Day weekend, Diane Volani killed herself.”

  “Whoa.” I let out a long breath.

  “Volani’s dad was eager to talk to someone who knew them when. It felt kind of icky to mislead him, but check this out: he told me that he moved in with his son because he’s ‘very worried about his mental condition. The toll this has taken.’”

  “I see where you’re going with this.” I stood and began to pace. “If Volani Jr. already blamed Hugh and Helene for his wife’s depression, he’s got motive. And if he’d been brooding for months, he could have snapped when she killed herself. He could have completely cracked . . .” At last, a viable suspect. Someone enraged at both Hugh and Helene. Someone unhinged. I stopped pacing. “Great job, Lizzie.”

  She glowed. “Yeah? It means a lot that you think so.”

  Sometimes, under all Lizzie’s competitiveness, I forgot that she wanted my approval.

  “I called upstairs to see if Gubbins could add anything, but he’d left for lunch,” she said, getting up. “Listen, I need to go back to the office. I’ll take the information to the police after I talk to Gubbins. If this Volani guy turns out to be the killer, I’ll be ready to run with the story before anyone else.”

  “I don’t understand. What does Gubbins have to do with it?”

  “He handled the Pequod Point purchase for the Walkers.”

  The chances of finding Gubbins lunching at Eden’s were good. And if I guessed wrong, I’d try the pizza place on Bridge Street or pop over to his office and wait for him there. No media vans were visible on Pequod Avenue, so I was fairly confident the press wouldn’t accost me. I parked and strode into the coffee shop, impatient to confront my lawyer. How could he withhold such an important piece of information? How could I trust him?

  Gubbins sat in the last green-leather booth at the back of the room, wearing his shiny brown suit, eating a piece of pie. He didn’t notice me come in. His attention was split between the pie and the TV on the wall. FOX News was reporting on another round of deadly flooding in Haiti. I paused for a second and took in the heartrending images of homeless, grief-stricken survivors covered in mud, of inconsolable children crying for missing parents. That put things in perspective. I said a silent prayer for them and continued across the red linoleum floor, plunking down across from Gubbins, giving him a start. I kept my voice low.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you were Hugh and Helene’s lawyer?”

  Gubbins pushed away his slice of key lime pie and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “It wasn’t relevant.”

  “Of course it was relevant. And what about legal? Or ethical?”

  “I did not solicit you, Ms. Glasser. Ben Wickstein solicited me on your behalf.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I was the Walkers’ attorney for a single real estate transaction. They’re dead now. As such, they’re no longer my clients. But since they once were, confidentiality seemed appropriate.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “I really do take offense at your implication.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “If you prefer not to accept my representation, that’s fine.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “So, for the record, you still wish to be my client?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “And you agree to listen to my advice?”

  I nodded. At that moment, I could imagine Gubbins in a courtroom pretty easily.

  “I saw that you spoke to the press,” he said, gesturing at the TV screen. “I hope you’ve gotten that out of your system. It’s dangerous territory. I’m not sure you’ve created the desired effect.”

  I bit my lip. “You mean I made it worse.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But I felt I had to say something. I’m nervous about the way people are viewing me in all this.”

  “Once again, I advise you against it. The media is tricky. It’s easy to give the wrong impression.”

  He’d been right about that. What was the matter with me? If I was going to trust anyone, it should be him. I had to bring him up to speed on Volani. As he signaled for his check, I bent my head toward him and whispered, “You knew the previous owner of Pequod Point, right? The man who tried to buy his house back? Jeffrey Volani?”

  “I’ve spoken with him, yes.”

  “The police need to focus on Volani.”

  Gubbins gave me a questioning look.

  “He was angry with Hugh and Helene. He blamed them for his wife becoming depressed because she co
uldn’t have her house back. Well, the wife committed suicide a couple of months ago. It destroyed him. And I learned he wasn’t in Miami the night of the murders. He was ‘out of town.’ He could’ve come here to take his revenge . . . maybe.”

  Even as I proposed Volani as the killer, I had reservations. The scenario suddenly seemed too far-fetched. Why would Volani slash the painting? Pose the two in bed? If he were trying to frame me, he’d need to have known my history with Hugh and Helene, and that I lived in Pequod. It was doubtful he even knew I existed. Or had he done research on Hugh and discovered our connection? Or had I just latched on to Volani because I was desperate to find a suspect? My mind was on fire with arguments and counterarguments.

  Gubbins sighed. “Who told you all that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Well, it’s impossible. He couldn’t have killed them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he faxed me last night from Dubai. He’s developing a hotel there. He saw the news about the murders and wanted to know if I had the name of Hugh Walker’s estate attorney, so he could try to buy Pequod Point again. True, Mr. Volani is obsessed with that house, but he was in Dubai on Saturday night. He can’t be in two places at once.”

  I slumped down in the booth, deflated. An older waitress delivered the check and began to clear the table. Gubbins took out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill and set it down to pay.

  “Thanks, dear,” he said. “I hope it’s not too much trouble to break that hundred. I don’t have anything smaller.”

  “No problem, Mr. G.”

  As she reached for the money, she caught sight of my face and did a double take. She deliberately avoided my eyes and slipped away to bring Gubbins his change.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I groaned. “The way she looked at me. I did make it worse. It’s like everything is conspiring to make me look guilty. Even my own efforts.”

  “Try to keep calm, Ms. Glasser.”

  “But I’m worried. Do you know the way Hugh and Helene were murdered? Do you understand what’s happening here?”

  “I do.” Gubbins nodded, his expression grave. “The killer set the scene to frame you.”

  I leaned back and felt some of my tension drain. Gubbins believed what Ben believed.

  “So that’s your take, too?”

  “We’re dealing with mental illness, Ms. Glasser. A very sick, but very clever person did this. Someone diabolical.”

  I shuddered. “Yes.”

  “But, since the police haven’t come to your house looking for evidence, I believe they subscribe to the theory that whoever murdered the Walkers is trying to implicate you. The lack of a warranted search of your premises is a very good sign that the police are not buying you as the killer. You’re a person of interest because of your relationship to the victims. I truly doubt you’re the focus of the investigation.”

  I straightened up. “That’s excellent,” I said, slapping the table. I had to refrain from breaking into a happy dance.

  Gubbins scowled. “Now, listen to me. Keep a low profile. Stay away from the press until the police find the murderer, which they will. This is a small town. Someone will have noticed something that will lead them in the right direction.”

  Gubbins’s optimism gave me back my appetite. I told him I’d meet him at his office in a few minutes to sign the papers that said I was officially hiring him. When he left, I ordered a large container of Eden’s legendary clam chowder at the register. While I waited for my soup, my own voice began speaking from the TV set. I glanced over my shoulder. On the screen, a deranged-looking version of myself was making a statement. I wanted to fall through the floor. What a stupid mistake I’d made taking on the press. The other patrons in the coffee shop were turning their heads from me to the TV and back again, stunned. I lowered my eyes and focused on a bowl of mints by the register until the waitress handed over the container of soup. She took my cash in silence.

  “Keep the change,” I mumbled and quickly headed for the door.

  As I reached the street, a woman I recognized as the wife of Kevin, the Tea Cozy’s owner, walked by with her little boy. She pretended she hadn’t seen me and looked away nervously.

  Pequod’s Pariah. That’s what I’d become. That’s what I’d remain until the police caught the killer. I cringed. I hadn’t been convicted, but I was already in solitary. How long would it take for the police to do their job? Judging by my interview with Roche, they didn’t have any suspects. If one of Pequod’s residents had “noticed something,” I wished they would hurry up and report it.

  I crossed the street to the Courier building, planning to stop in and see Lizzie before going upstairs to sign Gubbins’s legal papers. She needed to know that Jeffrey Volani had an alibi. I purposely slowed down to see if I could spot Ben through the front window. He wasn’t at his desk. No jacket on his chair. No motorcycle out front, although he might have parked in the small lot around back. I felt like a schoolgirl with a crush.

  I stepped into the office. Lizzie was at her desk in the corner just getting off the phone. Still no sign of Ben. It was probably for the best. Our first post-kiss encounter was going to be awkward. I’d rather not have Lizzie witness it.

  “I just spoke to Gubbins,” Lizzie said, shaking her head, disappointed. “Looks like Volani was on the other side of the world. Too bad. I thought I had him.”

  “It was first-rate investigative work, Lizzie.”

  “Thanks.” She studied me and frowned. “Remember what Ben said. You sure it’s a good idea for you to come back to work today?”

  It occurred to me why Ben would prefer I stay home. He could dodge the discomfort for a while longer.

  “I’m not here to work. I have an appointment upstairs.”

  “Oh.” She gave me a knowing look. “Going with local counsel. Good idea. Really good.”

  Gubbins was in a conference, so he’d left the papers with his receptionist. I filled them out and then headed back downstairs. My phone rang as I reached the landing.

  The caller ID read “Grace.” I picked up.

  “Why can’t that Detective Roche control his people? Someone deliberately leaked your visit to the police station. They had to know the media would jump on it and label you a suspect. I’d like to strangle whoever it was. You were brave to go out and talk to the press, Nora.”

  “How do you think I came off?” Like a guilty, mentally disturbed ex-wife?

  “You seemed . . . sincere. To me, at least.”

  “You’re not a very good liar. How’s Otis?”

  “Better. Come for dinner.”

  I was feeling too low. Like I might contaminate the kids with despair. “Thanks. Another time.”

  “C’mon, Nora. Don’t isolate, honey.”

  “I’m not. I’m just. I’m just . . . not in the mood.”

  “Okay. I won’t push you today. But we’re here for you. Remember.”

  “I know. You’re the best.”

  I signed off. As I passed the Courier’s office door, I saw Lizzie’s dad through the glass panel. Mayor Latham was sitting across from Lizzie at her desk, talking animatedly.

  About the murders, I was sure. That was all anyone was talking about.

  Shoot me now.

  Back at the Coop, I devoured the chowder and checked e-mail again. Still nothing from Ben. I berated myself for being naïve. What I’d begun to think of as Our First Kiss was probably the result of too much vodka. While I stretched out on the couch with my laptop, trying to determine whether I was disappointed or relieved, an e-mail with the subject line Funeral arrived. I was stunned to see who the sender was: twalker@fundfortheamericanfamily.org. I clicked on it.

  Dear Nora,

  I caught your statement on the news and though we have never been close, your grief touched me deeply, along with your willingness to help the police. Christ, in his infinite compassion, forgives Hugh and Helene. I’m glad t
o hear you have forgiven them, too.

  I’ve arranged for the funeral to be held at 10:00 a.m. this Friday here at the Charlotte’s Cove Chapel. There will be a larger memorial in NYC at a later point. This is exclusively for family and a very few local friends. I’m sending this in hopes you’ll attend. You were such an important part of Hugh’s life.

  Go with God,

  Tobias

  At least Tobias didn’t suspect me of killing his brother; he’d interpreted my unhinged appearance as angst. He was showing empathy, reaching out. But this was such a turnaround from the arrogant Tobias I remembered. So was his emotional response on CNN. Could Hugh’s death have changed him, at least for now? Still, I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to attend. I doubted he’d cleared the invitation with Helene’s family. They probably wouldn’t appreciate seeing Hugh’s ex at his funeral.

  I felt beaten up emotionally and physically. A movie might be comforting, I thought. I’d checked a DVD out of the library a few days earlier but hadn’t viewed it yet: Double Indemnity, a classic film noir starring Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck. Watching it turned out to be a bad idea. The two of them were so evil, so icily calculating in their attempt to commit the perfect murder, that they only increased my stress. I shut the film off halfway through and, despite the early hour, headed to bed. I was so tired in my bones, I thought I might sleep for a year.

  Click. Turn off the lights in the living room. Was “The Point Killer” as clever as the killers in the film? Click. Turn off the lights in the hall. Would the plot to frame me succeed, or was there a flaw in the plan? Click. Turn off the lights in the bedroom. If you find the lights on in the morning . . . you’ll know. You’ll know if a frame-up is wishful thinking. Or if you’ve started sleepwalking again.

  Pitch this after Ben cools down?

  Tips for Living

  Piqued? Do Your Civic Duty

  Ever wonder if instead of protecting you, the local police are out to get you? I’m talking about those speed traps, peppered all around Pequod. Nice way to fill the town’s coffers, eh? Where are the police when a Summer Person in an Escalade speeds through a crosswalk and nearly flattens a pedestrian? They’re lying in wait at one of those back-road snares hoping to ambush one of us. Why not take your morning coffee, cruise by a few of the setups until you discover where the cops are hiding? Then park a half mile ahead and flash your lights to give drivers a heads-up. No problem if you’re caught. Just say, “Officer, I’ve got an electrical short and I’m testing my headlights.” Vive la Resistance!