Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  Doing research on the current value of Hugh’s drawings felt mercenary, but I needed to be practical. The numbers on the Artworldprices.com database were encouraging; one of the drawings had sold for $33,000 last month. Granted, the sketches in the Loving Nora book were small, but now they were part of the Hugh Walker legend, and the scandal would only increase their worth. I heard that happened with Carl Andre’s work. His story was legendary in the art world.

  The infamous sculptor had been acquitted of killing his wife back in 1988. He claimed she was opening the oversize window in their apartment when she lost her balance and fell thirty-four floors. Andre was built like a bull. His wife weighed ninety-three pounds. When the police arrived, he had fresh scratches on his nose. Scratches. He was found innocent despite the incriminating marks.

  Even with a discount for a quick sale, the money from selling Hugh’s sketches should take care of my legal bills and Aunt Lada’s expenses, plus some. The cash could save us both.

  I logged off Artworldprices.com. The caffeine high had petered out, and my energy was flagging. I shut the computer, laid my head down on the desk and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I thought. The smells of pencil shavings and furniture polish invoked kindergarten naps. I must’ve dropped off.

  A faint rattling in the rear office woke me. It sounded like someone jiggling the handle on the building’s back door. Or jimmying it, attempting to break in. My first thought: the rock thrower. Was that cowardly bastard back? Or was it a thief after our office computers? Then the black van flashed through my mind.

  I heard the creak of the door opening and I bolted, lurching in the dark toward Ben’s desk. The bat. Where was his baseball bat? I knelt down and groped. My hand found the smooth wooden knob. I grabbed it and jumped up. Gripping the neck with both hands, heart racing, I lifted the bat high over my shoulder as the lights popped on. Ben stood in the doorway of the back office, still wearing his coat, with his hand on the light switch. As our eyes met, his face flushed. Mine burned. I must be beet red.

  “Nora? What the hell . . . ?”

  Embarrassed, I lowered the bat.

  “I thought . . . I thought you were a robber. Or the rock thrower, breaking in to smash up the office. I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”

  “I got my car back this morning. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone.” He pointed to the Pequod Liquor box by my left foot. “I came for my wine. I bought a case to have around for the holidays and keep forgetting to take it home.” He checked his watch. “What are you doing here this time of night?”

  “I was checking my e-mail. The police took my computer. And my phone.”

  “Right.” Ben looked at his shoes. “I heard.”

  Long silence. I wanted to crawl under the desk. Being around Ben felt even more awkward than I feared. Should I say something? Suggest that we forget the kissing incident? Chalk it up to the heightened drama of the day? I leaned the bat against the wall.

  “Well, it’s late. I suppose I’ll be on my way.” I squirmed. My nervousness had me sounding so phony.

  Ben raised both palms, beseeching.

  “Nora. Please. I have to apologize. It won’t happen again, believe me. I had no right to do what I did. I crossed the line. It was unethical. It was a Clarence Thomas move—an abuse of power and against everything I stand for. When you didn’t respond, I understood what an unfair position I’d put you in. I’m sorry.”

  How could he think I didn’t respond? Was I that rusty? I really went for that kiss, but he thought I was a cold fish.

  “Is there any way you can forget what I said in my voice mails?” he went on.

  “Voice mails? I didn’t get any voice mails from you.”

  “I left you three messages since yesterday morning.”

  “No. There were messages from Grace and my aunt. And from Lizzie and Gubbins. The rest were from ‘unknown callers.’ Probably tabloids. I didn’t even listen. I erased them.”

  Ben looked puzzled for a moment. “Wait. I called you from home . . . I just got a new Internet phone.” His whole body seemed to relax. “Your cell wouldn’t have recognized the number.”

  Wait. Ben was the unknown caller? He’d really tried to reach me?

  He moved out of the doorway, sat down on the edge of his desk and smiled. “You weren’t avoiding me.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He’d been worried that I hadn’t wanted to connect. Concerned he’d offended me. I realized I was smiling, too.

  “I was afraid you were going to quit,” he said.

  He was really worried. I’d had it all wrong. I felt sorry I’d misjudged him.

  The phone in his pocket rang.

  “Hold on.”

  He took out his BlackBerry, glanced at the number and lifted an index finger.

  “It’s my guy,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “Wickstein here.” He grabbed a pen off his desk. “Okay. Go ahead.” He jotted notes on the back of an envelope. “Autopsy confirms both deaths caused by single .22-caliber GSW to the head.”

  I winced. He stopped writing and listened, his face darkening.

  “Say that part again.” He wrote some more. “Uh-huh. Huh . . .” He looked at me, expressionless. “Anything else?” He put the pen down and continued listening for another excruciating minute. “Thanks. I owe you.” He hung up and frowned.

  “What?”

  “Three factors triggered the warrant.”

  “Three factors.”

  “One, the FBI report came in.”

  “FBI? When did the FBI get involved in this?”

  “The county uses the fed’s profiler on multiple murders.” He read from his envelope: “Crime scene of a disorganized type. Consistent with a killer who has been rejected or humiliated.”

  “But that fits him.” My heart sped up. “It fits him exactly.”

  “Who?”

  “Stokes Diekmann. He was sleeping with Helene. And she dumped him.”

  Ben crossed his arms. “Really. I would never have called that one.”

  “I have it from a reliable source. Kind of.”

  “That’s valuable information. He’s worth checking out.”

  He left the desk and walked toward me, stopping inches away. He looked me square in the eyes.

  “The profile also fits you.”

  I blinked nervously. I knew that too well. But I balked at the idea that Ben might suspect me. He didn’t even know about my sleepwalking.

  “True, but . . .”

  “Number two: the DA has an incriminating document that your ex-husband kept.”

  “What?” I stepped back, alarmed. “What kind of document?”

  “On the advice of his lawyer, Hugh kept a diary during the period you two were divorcing.”

  “No.” I was incredulous. “He did not.”

  “In case things got out of hand, which they apparently did, once. He made reference to you trying to stab his painting. The same painting I told you was slashed at the crime scene. Somehow you never mentioned that.”

  “Shit.” I looked away.

  “And you cut him.”

  I turned back and faced Ben. “Believe me, that was an accident.”

  He nodded. “The third factor is a witness who can place you at the crime scene shortly after the murders.”

  “Let me guess . . .” I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “Stokes Diekmann.”

  Ben poured some Beaujolais Nouveau into the two mugs on his desk and offered me one. I took it, gulped half of it down and continued pacing the room like a big cat in a small cage. Wide-awake now, I ran my story by him, including my encounter with Stokes at Pequod Point and my suspicions about the deaths of Stokes’s in-laws.

  “I think Stokes is a vengeful guy. He must’ve despised the Walkers. Helene used him. She cock-teased him in front of Hugh. Hugh turned around and humiliated him in front of her and their friends. I think Stokes killed the Walkers and arranged the evidence to frame me, just like you said
. Then, to make sure everything is buttoned up, he goes to the police and tells them I was at Pequod Point that morning. I’m really worried about Kelly. How can she be safe with him?”

  “Stokes didn’t go to the police. They went to him.”

  I stopped pacing.

  “They’re interviewing everyone who might have had regular contact with Helene and/or Hugh. That includes your Pilates crew, Kelly and Stokes—he’d have been at the alley on occasion when your class was held, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stokes told the police he found you . . .” Ben checked his notes. “The way he put it was that he found you ‘crawling around the crime scene.’ Is he lying?”

  “No.” I looked down and fidgeted with the mug handle.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were there? You’ve done a lot of evading, Nora. Pretending you didn’t know the painting had been stabbed. Leaving this little adventure out.”

  It pained me to ask. “Do you actually think I’m guilty, Ben?”

  I wanted him to believe in my innocence, even if I had doubts.

  “Of course not. I’d just like to know why you didn’t tell me.”

  Relieved, I turned away and put the mug on my desk, suddenly finding the stains on the wood very compelling. I ran my finger over them. It was scary to feel this vulnerable with him.

  “I was embarrassed,” I said finally.

  I could feel Ben watching me for a few moments before he spoke. He cleared his throat.

  “At the beginning, I used to go to the cemetery every day before and after work. In my head, I knew Judy was dead, but I couldn’t make it feel real. I had to sit there on the ground next to her gravestone every day, twice a day, so it would sink in. I never told anyone.”

  I stilled my hand and looked up at him.

  “Maybe it was something like that for you,” he said. He was looking at me expectantly, his soulful brown eyes asking for confirmation.

  “That must’ve been it,” I said.

  I didn’t mention that I also spied on Hugh and Helene while they were alive, and that if my eyes had been lasers, I might have happily incinerated them.

  “Understandable.” He nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself.” He picked up his BlackBerry and made a note. “I’ll reach out to the editor at the Catskill News and ask to review the material on Kelly’s parents’ deaths—to see if there was even a whiff of foul play. And I don’t think we should worry about Kelly, in any case. If it’s Stokes, he’d be playing it cool right now with the police looking around here so closely.”

  “That’s what Gubbins said. I guess it makes sense.” I walked over to his desk tentatively. “Checking out the Catskill story would be really helpful. I appreciate it.” Did I really want to pursue this?

  “Ben?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Who?”

  “The voice mails.”

  He stared down into his mug of wine like it was an oracle that would tell him his fate. Then he set it aside and met my gaze. I felt my whole body quake.

  “You’re sure you want to know?”

  I nodded.

  “The first one said I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

  I suppressed a slight moan. So, it was the same for both of us. The kiss meant something.

  “The second said I was sorry if I shocked you, but I’d been attracted to you since you first walked into the office. Then when I heard that you might be in trouble . . . well, I realized it was more than attraction. I realized how much I cared. ‘What the hell are you waiting for, Ben?’ I asked myself. ‘Let her know how you feel.’” He paused.

  Yes, please. Don’t stop. Tell me how you feel.

  “And the third said I was having a big problem.”

  My face fell. “Oh.”

  “I asked for your help,” he said.

  “With what?”

  “Figuring out how to get to know you better. After all this time, it’s not the easiest thing for me . . .” He trailed off.

  I stepped closer to him. I could feel the heat from our bodies mingling. What was that scent? It was a familiar, happy smell that reminded me of going to the movies. Good & Plenty licorice candy. That was it. Ben smelled like licorice candy. I breathed him in.

  “In my experience, when you’re trying to solve a problem, it’s best not to overthink it,” I said.

  “Good advice.”

  “You have to do something to relax your mind and then the answer appears. Or at least part of it does.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No, like this.” I leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  Wave after wave broke through me. One final arch of my back and I collapsed in sweet pleasure-pain. Electric shocks were still running up and down my calves from pointing my toes like Anna Pavlova. Ben rolled off me. We were both panting.

  “Now I know why the French call it a little death,” I said, gazing up at the stars through the skylight over his bed. “We’ve definitely gone to heaven.”

  We turned to face each other. Ben ran his hand along the curve from my waist to my hip.

  “You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Let’s spoon. I haven’t spooned in years.”

  As Ben wrapped himself around me, I marveled at what a wreck we’d made of his bedroom in our deliriousness: clothing flung onto furniture and into corners, his nightstand overturned. A clear glass lamp filled with seashells had landed on his sheepskin rug—intact, at least. A watercolor of Pequod’s harbor hung askew on the wall where he’d pinned me. We’d gone at each other with such hunger and abandon. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this alive again. My body was tingling. Out of the deep freeze into the sun. I smiled; Ben was such a passionate man, all this time disguised as a porcupine.

  Even as I was appreciating our connection, I was fighting off demons. This can’t go anywhere. This isn’t good. This is the worst possible time to find passion again. I don’t know if I’ve done something terrible or not. I spotted a windup alarm clock lying on the floor by the glass doors to Ben’s balcony. In a few hours, I’d be back to grappling with my status as a murder suspect.

  “God, it’s almost three o’clock in the morning,” I said.

  “You have somewhere to be?”

  Despite my anxiety, I laughed. “No.”

  “Nora?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  “You mean do I sleep around?”

  “No, I . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s none of my business.”

  “You’re my first since the divorce.” I groaned. “Why does that feel like I just told you I was a virgin?”

  He found my hand and squeezed it. “I’m flattered.”

  “What about you?”

  I already regretted I’d asked. The answer wouldn’t feel good either way. I wanted Ben red-blooded and lusty. Thinking of him living like a monk for years would be a turnoff. It was okay for me to grow cobwebs between my legs, not him. A double standard, I knew, but that’s how I felt. On the other hand, I’d hate to be merely one of a number of women he’d bedded since his wife died. No win.

  “I’ve had a few encounters,” he said. “They didn’t feel like this.”

  “Can you define ‘this’?”

  My heart sped up, anticipating. He waited a good long time before he spoke.

  “There was this giant door inside me and it was closed. We stood in front of it, you and me, and then we opened it together. The whole damn ocean was on the other side. We dove right in.”

  I felt him grow hard against the small of my back and we made love again. This time very slowly, and we stayed on the bed. We lay quietly afterward, listening to each other breathe. For a few minutes, I felt happier than I’d felt in years. And then I remembered. Watching the tiny, blinking white light of a plane make a trip across the skylight, I envied the night travelers on board. I wished with all my heart that Ben and I could be up there flying far, far away. Thou
sands of miles from all the trouble I was in.

  “Ben, tell me this will blow over. The police will catch the killer and leave me alone.”

  He didn’t answer. I turned to find my new lover fast asleep. You are beautiful, too, the way the silver sprinkled along your hairline catches the light, the way your chin cleaves perfectly in two around that dimple. How could we have been just inches apart day after day without this happening earlier? Timing truly is everything, isn’t it? I closed my eyes, exhausted. I’d wake up with Ben tomorrow and he’d tell me it would all be okay. Really, how could it not be, eventually?

  My hands were stinging and throbbing. The agony jerked me out of a deep sleep. Hot water scalded my fingers, and I yanked them toward me instinctively. Where was I? It was dark. Water splashed and flowed into a hot puddle around my feet. I smelled lemons. A sick, familiar feeling churned in my belly. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

  Still disoriented, I stepped backward, my eyes adjusting to the low light. I saw a sink directly in front of me. Water poured from its faucet, running over the lip of the sink onto the floor. This was a kitchen. Ben’s kitchen. My pulse raced as panic took hold.

  I stumbled forward and shut off the water quickly. How did I get here? No. This couldn’t be happening. After so many years? But the last thing I remembered was falling asleep next to Ben, and now I was naked in his kitchen washing my hands in his sink. More than washing. Scrubbing them raw. This was real. I looked from the lemon dish soap to my hands. What did this mean? the small voice in my head whispered.

  Will these hands never be clean?

  What?

  Here’s the smell of blood still.

  Lady Macbeth. That was Lady Macbeth’s lament.

  All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

  Guilty Lady Macbeth had tried to wash off blood. She and I shared an affliction. Sleepwalking.

  Breathe. Breathe, dammit.

  Diary entry:

  After meeting with my lawyer yesterday, as per his counsel, I am keeping an official record of any aggressive actions on the part of my wife, Nora Glasser. Let me state, also for the record, that I take no pleasure in doing so. My lawyer insisted, after learning that Nora had tried to knife Self-Portrait with Pregnant Helene, and that she also sliced open my hand, accidentally, I believe. (“Mr. Walker, your career is in that hand.”) Should there be any more incidents, he advises seeking a restraining order. So far this week, the only event worth noting: Nora picked up some more of her belongings from the loft. She knocked a framed photo of me off the shelf and the glass broke. Another accident, she said.