Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  “Pay dirt,” he said. “I found her jeans in the dryer. There was a receipt in the back pocket from Mao’s Take-Out. It went through the wash, but you can still see the date and time. Saturday night. She washed them Saturday night.”

  I didn’t remember washing my jeans. I must have done that when . . . Oh God. My knees began to buckle. I thought I was going to be sick.

  “Well, well,” Roche said, smiling. “Bag them both and get the jeans to the lab.”

  He set Princess Leia down on the table. Then he reached into his jacket and offered me his phone.

  “You can make that call to your lawyer now if you like.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was almost eight o’clock by the time the police left the Coop. Gubbins had agreed to wait at his office. I drove down Crooked Beach Road toward town, pushing the speed limit, anxious to see him.

  “In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right,” Madame GPS said. “In six hundred feet, your destination will be on the right.”

  “That’s in the middle of the fucking trees, you idiot,” I said.

  As I reached the darkest, most deserted stretch, the lights seemed to come out of nowhere. Intense white flashes in my rearview mirror. I squinted. Whoever was driving hadn’t realized they still had their high beams on. Annoying. The vehicle continued to gain ground until my Toyota flooded with light. I slumped down to keep the glare from the mirror out of my eyes.

  “Come on, buddy. Turn your brights off.”

  The lights were inescapable and they were blinding. Slowing, I steered toward the shoulder to give the driver room to pass, but another car appeared in the oncoming lane. I tried again, moving from the road toward the shoulder, but the same scenario repeated. Oncoming car. No passing.

  “You have reached your destination. You have reached your destination.”

  The tailgater hovered alarmingly close as we neared the bridge. I gripped the steering wheel, unnerved.

  “What is your problem?”

  Crossing the bridge, the vehicle hung back a bit. I breathed easier. But as I turned onto Pequod Avenue heading into town, it followed. When I reached the Courier building and pulled over, I could finally see the beat-up black van speed by. It looked like the driver was male. Was he a cop working an unmarked police tail? Did he need to brush up on his surveillance skills, or was he intentionally trying to intimidate me? Or was the driver simply a jerk? I couldn’t tell. The ordinary could appear ominous in my state.

  Gubbins buzzed me into his office. His staff had already left. We met in an empty reception room.

  “Thanks for staying,” I said, still jangled. I was desperate for him to stop the runaway train that my life had become. I didn’t care anymore that he had Dr. Spock hair, a shiny suit and an unctuous manner. I really did need a lawyer, and Gubbins was the best choice for now.

  “The police took my place apart. I had to get out of there, at least for a while. They went through everything. They took my phone and computer—and my jeans.”

  Gubbins’s brow furrowed.

  “Your jeans?”

  I swallowed. “Yes. From the wash.”

  Even if I had been sleepwalking the night of the murders, that didn’t necessarily mean I’d killed anyone. Right? Doing laundry wasn’t a crime.

  “I’m sorry the police were so disruptive. Would you like to stay at The Pequod Inn tonight? I could give them a call.”

  A pricey tourist draw, the only hotel within town limits was a historic site—a former whaling captain’s home. I couldn’t afford the $300 they’d charge.

  “No, thanks. I’ll manage. But look,” I began pacing, “they’re clearly more interested in me than you thought. What I can’t figure out is why they came and took my place apart but didn’t arrest me? Not that I want to go to jail, but what’s going on?” I stopped in front of Gubbins and clasped my hands on my chin to keep from wobbling like a bobblehead doll. “If this is some kind of mind game, it’s working.”

  “Try to calm down. The judge must’ve decided that they only had probable cause for a property search at this point. If they’d found the murder weapon in your possession or evidence that placed you at the crime scene, that would justify an arrest warrant.”

  I knew that. I wasn’t thinking straight. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second and tried to slow my racing thoughts.

  “Listen, I have another idea about who the murderer could be. I didn’t tell Roche. He’d assume I was trying to take the heat off myself.”

  I was desperate to share my suspicions with Gubbins and have him use his resources to make the case. He might have an investigator on his staff who could check Stokes out. Someone shrewd, like Paul Drake, the PI on Perry Mason. I’d come across DVDs of the 1950s TV series at the library. Mason was an imposing criminal lawyer with a baritone voice. Both men wore suits with quarterback shoulder pads. They always uncovered the truth and sent the right party to jail.

  “You’re shaken up. Let’s get you settled first,” Gubbins said, leading the way into his inner offices.

  We entered an impressive conference room. Gubbins waved me toward one of the six red-leather swivel chairs surrounding a large glass table. His decor was more sophisticated than I expected: modern Italian-looking furniture, George Nelson lamps. I zeroed in on the espresso machine on his granite-topped bar. It had been a very long, draining day, and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Mental clarity was imperative if I was going to set out my theory for him.

  “You know, I could really use a cup of coffee. Would you mind very much?”

  “It would be my pleasure to fix you one,” he said.

  While Gubbins popped off a pod of Arpeggio, I walked over to the front windows and parted the gray silk drapes. Corwin’s Market had closed a few minutes earlier, but the inside lights were still on—I could read the ORDER YOUR THANKSGIVING TURKEY NOW sign above the entrance. The manager was doing his usual slapstick routine of collecting shopping carts from the sidewalk and struggling to fit them together while they rolled back toward the curb.

  Further down Pequod Avenue, a young woman carried a laundry bag out of the Laundromat. The rest of the stores visible from here were already dark, most of the parking spaces empty. There was no sign of the black van.

  “What are you looking for out there?” Gubbins asked.

  Once again, my lawyer had shown himself to be astute.

  “The van that was tailgating me before,” I said, returning to sit at the conference table. “It’s gone. For a minute, I thought it might be a cop keeping an eye on me. But I’m pretty sure I was just paranoid. I’ve been looking through a dark lens lately. It was some guy in a hurry.”

  Gubbins frowned. “Tell me if he shows up again.”

  He rubbed a twist of lemon on the rim and set the tiny espresso cup and saucer down on the table.

  “Drink this and collect your thoughts while I try Thomas O’Donnell.”

  “Thomas O’Donnell?”

  “He’s the county magistrate who issued the warrant. He can tell us what new information sparked the search—they must have something they didn’t have two days ago, and we need to know what it is,” he said, adding, “I’m close with his sister Mary—the state’s lieutenant governor. We went to law school together.”

  Douglas Gubbins, man of contradictions. A small-town lawyer with a power broker’s contacts.

  “I missed him at the office, and he hasn’t picked up his cell. He doesn’t take calls once he’s home. But he usually stops at the Massamat Steak and Brew first,” Gubbins said. “I want to try him one more time.” He checked his watch. “He should still be sober.”

  Seeing the expensive watch on Gubbins’s wrist reminded me of the wealthy collector Hugh and I had known who dressed exclusively in tracksuits. He wore them everywhere—to openings, patron dinners, auctions. He wouldn’t attend any event that enforced a strict dress code. “No matter how poorly a man dresses, you can tell how much money he has b
y what kind of watch and shoes he wears,” Hugh had said when the collector showed up to a Christie’s auction in his usual attire and purchased nearly $2 million worth of art.

  Despite his cheap suit, Gubbins wore a Rolex and Ferragamo loafers. Between flashing that hundred-dollar bill at Eden’s, the watch and the shoes, it looked like my country lawyer was highly successful. I just prayed he still knew his way around the county criminal court from his days at the DA’s office.

  “There’s the phone if you need it.” He indicated the slim, black cordless on a stand. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, and then you can tell me all about the murderer.”

  What was that tone I’d just detected? Was Gubbins humoring me? I chalked it up to more paranoia.

  The espresso tasted strong and smooth—just what the doctor ordered. I was tempted to phone Grace to tell her about the police search, but she’d be outraged. She’d insist I come to her place and stay the night. She and Mac would want all the details. They’d ask about Gubbins’s strategy. I couldn’t handle another interrogation. And I was beginning to feel discomfited at my recurring role as the needy friend.

  A stack of Time magazines lay on the table. The cover on the top issue read “Exodus: The Refugee Crisis.” It had a photo of a father carrying his child on the long and dangerous journey to a foreign land that might or might not take them in. Eager for distraction, I perused the story while I finished the coffee, but I couldn’t concentrate on the words. I took the cup to the bar to rinse it. As I watched the clear water swirl down the drain, I suddenly felt guilty. Guilty about the waste. About squandering such a precious resource. There were thousands of refugees who had no access to clean drinking water. Or food and shelter, for that matter. They lived in mud and filth. I felt guilty for not helping them, for not having adopted an abused dog, for having two legs while Eric Warschuk had only one. Guilty for everything I did, didn’t do, was or wasn’t. Where was all this guilt coming from?

  You’d think I’d killed someone.

  I was jittery, on edge. I should never have had that espresso. When Gubbins opened the door, my heart jumped.

  “O’Donnell didn’t answer, but I managed to reach Ben. I told him to try his contact at the DA’s office to find out what prompted the warrant.”

  I groaned. “Do we have to involve Ben?”

  Gubbins gave me a questioning look. “I can assure you he doesn’t mind helping, and we need every resource we have. So . . . what’s this theory you’ve developed? We’re done with Jeffrey Volani, I hope.”

  “We should look into Stokes Diekmann. He was sleeping with Helene.”

  Clearly interested, Gubbins sat down. I began to share my suspicions about Stokes, reporting on the sexual dynamics between him and Helene, as well as Hugh’s response to them at the bowling alley.

  “Helene was using Stokes to provoke Hugh, and I’m sure both men knew it. Eric Warschuk saw them all behaving badly at the Thunder Bar. He can confirm the affair and the tension.”

  Gubbins listened intently from the swivel chair next to mine, his hands in prayer position under his chin, his eyes distorted and magnified behind thick glasses. Big as fly eyes. He was quiet.

  “Stokes was also on the ambulance team that was assigned to pick up the Walkers’ bodies for the coroner. But he couldn’t do the job. He couldn’t even make himself go into the house. He abandoned his post. He was very nervous. I think he couldn’t face bagging his victims’ bodies. Especially in front of the police.”

  Gubbins was studying me closely.

  “How do you know all this? Who told you?”

  His speed in analyzing my “testimony” and finding the hiccup was impressive. He could go toe-to-toe with Perry Mason any day. I had to trust my lawyer and tell the truth.

  “I was at Pequod Point the morning of the murders. I saw it all. I drove Stokes to work from there.”

  I didn’t give Gubbins a chance to ask why I was at the crime scene. I launched into an account of the strange way Stokes had behaved in my car.

  “He wanted to talk about dead bodies. His in-laws’ dead bodies. They were asphyxiated by a malfunctioning boiler . . .”

  “Yes. I read about that in your interview with his wife. Terrible thing. That’s how the Diekmanns came into the money to buy Van Winkle Lanes. ‘A dream built on tragedy,’ I believe you wrote.”

  “You’ve got an amazing memory. You’re right. Stokes’s dream to own a bowling alley was made possible by his wife’s inheritance.” Oh Jesus. It hit me that Kelly was living with a likely murderer. Would he hurt her? “But listen . . .”

  I began spinning the story like a Grimms’ fairy tale.

  “Since that car ride, I’ve been thinking . . . Stokes told me he was the first to find the bodies of his in-laws. In their bed. You should have heard the way he spoke about them. He hated them. Suppose he caused that carbon monoxide leak so that he and Kelly could inherit their money? Suppose he was the one who killed them? And just in case there’s something he missed, he makes sure he’s the first person at the scene. That gives him more control of the situation and an excuse for any of his prints, DNA, etcetera being found in the house, right?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And now we have Hugh and Helene, another couple that Stokes knew. They were also found dead in bed. Coincidence? Or did Stokes kill again? He was Helene’s spurned lover. He had two motives: jealousy and humiliation. I’m sure he hated the Walkers. He could have murdered Hugh and Helene. He could be framing me for it. And now Kelly could be in danger.”

  Gubbins nodded solemnly. “So you went to Pequod Point. Why?”

  “Wait. What do you think of my Stokes theory?”

  “I’d like to know why you went to Pequod Point.”

  I felt myself squirming under Gubbins’s gaze. “I was curious, I guess.”

  “Curious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember, I’m on your team, Ms. Glasser.”

  I sighed. “Okay. All right.” I stood up and walked to the bar, then turned around and faced him reluctantly. “You might not believe this, but I really don’t know why I went. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was upset when I heard about the murders. I couldn’t accept what had happened. I guess I needed to make it real.”

  Gubbins nodded. “That makes more sense.”

  “The point is, Stokes was acting guilty about something that morning. He wouldn’t go into Hugh and Helene’s house. He left the scene. He was talking about seeing dead bodies. He seemed haunted by them. Crazed, in fact.”

  Gubbins adjusted his glasses. He didn’t speak.

  “Well? What do you think?” I pressed.

  “It’s clear you’re a writer,” Gubbins said, leaning back in his chair. “There might be something to it. But we’ll need a better witness to the affair than Eric Warschuk if we’re going to interest the DA.”

  “Pardon me, but Eric Warschuk is a decorated war hero who gave his leg for his country.”

  “Yes. I also remember reading that a few months ago, in your article about him adopting a dog.”

  I was astounded. Did he have a photographic memory?

  “A very moving piece. But you reported that he’d been under psychiatric treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. As a witness, he’s compromised.”

  “Dammit, of course.” Where was my head? Cross-examination basics. I’d blown my case.

  Gubbins rubbed his chin. “There may be someone else who knew about the affair . . . perhaps those people Hugh and Helene went bowling with? The ‘artsy’ couple?”

  “Maybe. But I have no idea who they are.”

  Gubbins made a note. “I’ll look into it. As for Kelly, I wouldn’t worry. If Stokes is our man, he’d be playing nice these days so as not to attract suspicion. Now . . . you said the police took your jeans from the wash. Did you launder them the night of the murder?”

  “I guess so,” I said, exasperated. My jeans weren’t what I wanted to focus on.

  “Did the polic
e take anything else?”

  “A Chinese food receipt they found in the pocket.”

  “Do you remember the date on it, perchance?”

  “From the same night.”

  Gubbins scowled and made another note.

  “That confirms the jeans were laundered close to the time of the murders, which looks suspicious. They’re going to test the jeans for evidence that could place you at the crime scene. Soil type, carpet fibers, etc. Washing doesn’t fully eliminate all substances. Blood, for instance. Blood is very hard to eradicate completely.”

  I suddenly saw grisly flesh on blood-soaked sheets. I felt bile rise in my throat.

  Gubbins paused, pushed his glasses further up his nose and gave me the stink eye this time. “As your lawyer, and this is important, Nora, I need to know exactly what I’ll be dealing with. I can’t help you if there are surprises. Are they going to find anything?”

  My heart began pounding. What if I was at Pequod Point that night? If I had some kind of soil on my jeans they could trace to that area . . .

  “Jesus. What do you think? Of course not. Absolutely not.”

  The way he stared at me while tapping his pen on the table had me worried. The fake smile that followed increased my suspicion: he didn’t believe me. Did he think I might have killed them?

  “All right then,” he said, opening the brown leather folder in front of him. He pulled out my contract. “Now for the retainer. With this new development, discovering what triggered the search warrant will require more time . . . What if we start with say, fifteen thousand dollars, and see how far it takes us?”

  I waited for him to say he was joking.

  “Nora?”

  “Would you consider letting me pay in installments?”

  It was almost 9:45 p.m. I’d come downstairs to use the PC in the Courier office, peeking through the door glass first to make sure Ben wasn’t working late. On top of everything, his rejection still stung. My eyes watered from the strain of reading in the dark. I’d kept the lights off. I didn’t want any of the Piqued who saw me as the murder suspect ogling through the window.