Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  “I know. Take care of it for me.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll see you for dinner on Friday.”

  If I wasn’t in jail by then.

  “Nora?”

  “Right. Friday.”

  “I’m hoping to see you sooner than that. In my dreams. And don’t bother dressing.”

  If only we could meet there. “Night,” I said.

  It began raining. I returned to Lada’s room to check on her one last time before driving home, but it didn’t feel right to leave her alone. I decided to take a chance and sleep in the chair by her hospital bed. If I were going to sleepwalk, getting caught by a nurse in a clinic would be a best-case scenario. But when I woke in the morning, there were no signs that I’d gone “gallivanting,” a verb Lada often used to describe my post-midnight club crawls in college. Sometimes I’d visit her for breakfast if I stayed out all night dancing with friends. She was always up by 5:00 a.m., delighted to make blinis and hear of my adventures.

  It took drinking vats of weak coffee at the nurse’s station to reach my functional caffeine level. Then I spent the next few hours holding Lada’s hand through another battery of tests. Her doctor came by and gave a cautiously optimistic report but ordered more tests for the afternoon. The gloomy day passed in a medical bubble. It was actually a relief to be focusing on Lada instead of the murders. I managed to leave messages at the auction houses, but I had to stand outside in the rain to do it. The sun broke through after Lada’s pal Mort visited. She finally smiled and seemed more like herself. My spirits brightened as well.

  By midnight I was headed home, hurrying down the cedar path in the brisk night air toward the parking lot. Above me a cluster of feathery gray clouds surrounded a giant yellow moon. They made it look like the eye of a wolf. I pulled my collar up, wrapped my coat around me more tightly and jogged the rest of the way to the car.

  After I crossed the Harbor Bridge, a dark road stretched ahead. Not a single car in sight. No headlights behind, either. Sgt. Crawley’s car wasn’t parked on the shoulder where he’d waited before, but that didn’t mean the police weren’t watching. This deserted stretch of Crooked Beach Road offered plenty of secret spots for a stakeout—thick, dark woods on either side. The police could be lurking in there for the night.

  As I arrived at the Coop, the clouds moved over the moon. Cloaked in shadow, the long, low building and a small garden shed squatted between two walls of towering hemlock shrubs. The dark forest loomed at the edge of the field behind. I’d forgotten to turn on the outside light when I rushed off to the clinic and had to squint for my house key on the crowded chain. I finally remembered to use the light on my phone.

  A strong odor of cigarettes and burned rope greeted me at the doorstep. I stiffened, whipped around and scanned the driveway and bushes with my phone light.

  No sign of anyone. Silence. I slowly returned to face the door and sniffed again. I aimed the light beam at my feet and could see two cigarette butts mashed into the sisal mat. I concluded the police must’ve returned for more questions. But then I remembered I hadn’t seen Roche or Crawley smoking. I bent down, picked up one of the butts and held it closer to the phone. I recognized the eagle wing insignia on the paper instantly and went completely still.

  American Spirits.

  Something rustled the thick hemlocks at the side of the house. I flinched and accidentally dropped the phone. It bounced off the concrete step and landed in the gravel as a bright beam of light shot straight into my eyes.

  “Hey, Nora. I’ve been waiting out here so long, I had to relieve myself back there.”

  The light kept me blinking, and pretty much blind, but I recognized the voice. “Stokes?”

  “You’re out late. Been on a date?” he asked. There was a taunt in his tone I didn’t like. Stress hormones coursed into my bloodstream.

  Stay calm. Just keep talking.

  “I was visiting my aunt,” I said, discreetly stretching my foot down the step to feel for the phone. “What are you doing here? And where’s your car? I didn’t see your car.”

  The light swept away from my face toward the shed.

  “I rode my bike.”

  Spots danced in front of my eyes for a moment, but then I could distinguish the form of a bike leaning against the shed’s side.

  “These miner lamps are great, but I don’t want to wear out the battery,” Stokes said. There was a click and everything went black again. “I took the bike so I wouldn’t wake Kelly, so she wouldn’t hear me leave. Man, I had to beg her to come home. She wanted to stay at Grace’s.”

  Oh shit. Had he done something to her?

  “I think you know why she left,” he said.

  I heard him take a few steps toward me. Bile rose in my throat. My legs pulsed with tension like a runner at the starting line. The only thing I could see was Stokes’s dark, hulking form.

  “She came back, but she told me I had to sleep on the couch. I couldn’t sleep. The fucking voice wouldn’t shut up. I kept hearing this goddamn fucking voice inside my head,” he said.

  I took a step backward. There was nowhere to go—the front door was locked.

  “It wouldn’t stop. It kept needling me. Wouldn’t let me sleep. ‘Why did you do it, Stokes? How could you do it? You are a degenerate son of a bitch.’”

  Tendons pulsed on either side of my neck. If I could make a break across the field and run like the wind, I could lose him in the forest. But what if he was faster? My hand began working the keys. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. It took an eternity to maneuver them between my fingers into a spiked fist.

  “You can come to hate the person you once loved. Isn’t that true, Nora? You’ve felt that hate inside, haven’t you?”

  He took a few more steps. He came close enough that I smelled the smoke on his clothes. The alcohol on his breath. The sharp stink of his sweat. I swallowed hard. My tongue felt heavy as lead.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You probably couldn’t stand the sight of Hugh. What a scumbag that guy was. You must’ve prayed for bad things to happen to him. You imagined making them happen yourself, didn’t you? You wanted to take your revenge. Isn’t that right?”

  I clenched my barbed fist. Take one more step, Mister. Meet Gladiator Girl.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit!”

  I heard him slap his jeans, spin around and walk away from me, kicking the dirt as he went.

  “So, tell me what the hell I can do to change that, Nora!”

  “Huh?”

  “Kelly hates me. She wants a divorce. She said she hoped my dick would rot off. And if it didn’t rot off, she might cut it off like that woman in Virginia did to her husband. What’s her name . . . you know . . . Lorna?”

  I was so light-headed with relief, I had to think for a second.

  “Lorena Bobbitt?”

  “Yeah, her. But I never loved Helene. I’ve only ever loved Kelly. Help me out here, Nora. Please. You’re the only one I can think of to ask. You’ve been through it. What could Hugh have said or done that would get you to forgive him? Tell me what she wants to hear.”

  He sounded so sincere and bereft. I sat down on the doorstep and started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’m relieved. You scared me. You know there’s a killer on the loose, Stokes.”

  “Oh fuck. I’m sorry. I’m, like, crazy over this.”

  “Come inside and we’ll talk. It’s too cold out here. But do me a favor first? Turn on that headlamp and help me find my phone.”

  His hair shone with grease. He hadn’t shaved for days. Dirt discolored his fingernails. His jeans looked like they could walk away on their own. I poured Stokes a beer and myself some of the Stoli from the freezer while he fidgeted with his headlamp and avoided my eyes. He took out his pack of cigarettes.

  “Please, could you not smoke inside?”

  “Sorry,
” he said, palming them. “I started after Kelly got pregnant. I think I was scared of how everything was changing. Kelly wasn’t interested in sex anymore. We’d get into bed and all she wanted to talk about was how her boobs hurt and her ankles were sore. But Helene . . . you know she shaved her hooch?”

  I recoiled. This wasn’t an image I wanted in my brain.

  “Gee, no, I didn’t.”

  “We did wild stuff. Triple-X-rated. Things that Kelly would never get near.”

  Was that it? Had Hugh betrayed me to fuck a sex tiger? Had I bored him in bed? Is that why he cheated with Helene and the others?

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Helene was just using me, I know that now. I was a dumb-ass. A slave to my dick. All I want is Kelly back. I love her. I can’t live without her. And I want to be a family with her and our baby. You’ve gotta tell me how I can make her love me again.”

  He was frantic with narcissistic remorse. What could I say to this guy? So, your wife’s sex drive took a dip while she was pregnant. She was physically uncomfortable. She needed some extra love and attention to help get her turned on, or maybe some curated porn? Instead you gave her the shiv. You were feeling sexually neglected, so you broke her heart. Or were you so afraid of becoming a parent that you acted like a selfish child?

  But his question had me wondering if there was anything Hugh could have said to change the way I felt. Could I have forgiven him if he hadn’t gotten Helene pregnant? I didn’t know. I guess I forgave his road affair without ever confronting him. No. That wasn’t forgiveness. That was denial. My silence was complicit. Like Hillary Clinton and countless other women who stayed with their cheating men, I’d made my bed.

  “It all comes down to trust,” I said, pouring my second shot. “You have to earn her trust again. And that’s not going to be easy. It’s going to take a very long time.”

  “You think there’s a chance?”

  I nodded. Who was I to say there wasn’t? Forgiveness comes more easily to some.

  “Here’s what I think. Take it slow with Kelly. Don’t be surprised if she warms up to you and then goes nuts again. Don’t answer any ‘specific’ sexual questions about your affair. She’ll ask, but if you answer, it will hurt her in a way she won’t be able to recover from. Make sure you tell her repeatedly that you think you were an idiot. And show her that you want to be a good dad. Take those parenting classes with her. If you really love your wife and want to save this marriage, you just might be able to.”

  Stokes thanked me so intensely you’d think I’d gotten his finger unstuck from a bowling ball. He even offered to start my woodstove. As I downed my third shot of vodka and watched Stokes build the fire, I was almost certain he didn’t kill Hugh and Helene. I didn’t know how Tobias put his hands on a gun, but he must have. Yes, Tobias had to be the one who killed them, I thought desperately.

  Because currently I was the only other likely alternative.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I woke up with a start. What time was it? My head felt like a water balloon. I couldn’t recall the last time I drank so much vodka. I rolled over and lifted the cell off the night table—the battery was dead. I plugged in the charger and it buzzed almost instantly. Grace. The funeral service. Shit.

  “Nora? I’m at the chapel. Where are you?” she whispered.

  In bed. But I didn’t remember going to bed.

  “Did you go . . . you know . . . for a walk last night?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, flinging the sheets aside. “I don’t think so. Save me a seat. I’m on my way,” I said, searching for debris in my hair as I rolled out of bed and hurried to check the rest of the house.

  “Listen, Kelly went home last night. I couldn’t stop her. But don’t worry. She let Mac follow her over and warn Stokes he’d better take good care of her. Even if Stokes is the killer, he won’t dare touch her.”

  The kitchen lights were off. “Stokes came here last night,” I said.

  “He did?” Grace was incredulous. “What for? Are you all right?”

  I stopped short in the living room. The pots weren’t in front of the door. They were scattered across the floor. Shit.

  “He just wanted to talk. I’m fine. I’ll fill you in later,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on there.”

  Had I set the pots in place after Stokes left? I was so hammered last night I couldn’t remember.

  “I made it here early and spoke with Ruth Walker. You were right. They’ve already asked their lawyer to petition for guardianship. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Totally. See? I knew it.”

  I pressed my palm to my heart. This was good news. Tobias was making his moves. He could be the one.

  “They’re flying home after the burial this afternoon and taking Callie with them,” Grace said. “And something else . . . Tobias mentioned his Fund for the American Family. He said he regretted having to go back to Lynchburg right away, but he had a very important meeting with the lawyer for the fund.”

  “Figuring out how to finance it with Hugh’s money, no doubt.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Grace said. “So hurry up and get over here.”

  “Any press around?”

  “Not yet. I’ll save you a seat in the back,” she said and clicked off.

  Despite the hangover, I rallied and zapped four tablespoons of instant coffee in a mug of water and then gulped it down along with two Advil. I whipped through my closet, pulling out a black pencil skirt, black turtleneck sweater and black boots. The house was colder than usual, which meant it must be freezing outside, so I grabbed my Ushanka—the Soviet Army hat Lada gave me for my birthday about ten years ago—along with my black wool muffler. I dressed, put on eyeliner and lipstick, called Lada to check on her and flew out the door within fifteen minutes. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make a late entrance at the church, but the important thing was this: to see Tobias in the flesh. I don’t know why, but I had a powerful intuition that if I could look into his eyes, I’d know for certain if he killed his brother.

  The day was damp and cold and the sky filled with heavy gray clouds. “Gunmetal gray,” I heard myself thinking as I unlocked the car. I had guns on the brain. Mance’s stolen handgun in particular. My self-doubt still gnawed. Wake up and smell the coffee, Nora. Remember Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is that you were sleepwalking and you stole your neighbor’s gun. You’re a sleep killer.

  I did not. I am not.

  The air smelled like snow. Historically, a “coastal effect” kept snow from falling on Pequod until after Christmas, but it looked like flurries might start any minute. I wrapped the scarf around the upturned collar of my trench coat and pulled the Ushanka down over my ears. Call me Masha, I thought, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. Hugh would have wanted to paint the mysterious Russian vixen staring back at me. And have sex with her, too, of course.

  Crawley was waiting at the corner in his black-and-white on the shoulder of Crooked Beach Road. He wasn’t trying to hide his intentions anymore. He pulled onto the blacktop and followed after I passed.

  “Make a U-turn,” Lady GPS said. “Make a U-turn.”

  “Maybe this time you’re right,” I said.

  I stayed well under the speed limit, determined not to let Crawley shake me up. For distraction, I switched the radio on despite knowing it was unlikely I’d pick up much. WPQD offered pure static. The classical station crackled with more high-pitched white noise. But the Christian station came in as clear as holy water: “Why not demand that our elected officials make laws that reflect our Christian values? Abortion is only one of the crimes sanctioned by the godless in Washington,” the host scoffed. “Adultery is another. And according to the Bible, it’s punishable by death.”

  I clicked the radio off. Some of these people sounded so extreme—like an American version of the Taliban. Would the Fund for the American Family promote the kind of religious radicalism that led to violence? I suspected Tobias had already hi
red lawyers to find a loophole that would let him use some of Callie’s inheritance. He might need to wait until she turned eighteen to get his hands on the bulk of it. Would he have brainwashed Callie into donating millions to his cause by then?

  The turnoff for Charlotte’s Cove was coming up. Tobias had picked a quaint Lutheran chapel located in a farming area a few miles south—there was no evangelical church near Pequod. Charlotte’s Cove Chapel bordered one of the oldest family farms in the county. Rows of corn stretched from the edge of its yard all the way down to the shore in summer. The congregation had been lured away by larger churches built nearer to town, so the diocese closed the chapel and began renting it out as a hall. I’d attended an Animal Rescue Fund benefit there. The place didn’t have a minister; it wasn’t part of the church anymore. You’d think Tobias would want a formal Christian service for Hugh—he might be a murderer, but he was a religious one. Were the active churches too big for the modest gathering he envisioned? Were they booked?

  The white spire appeared ahead. Crawley slowed down and dropped back. He pulled over next to another squad car parked on the roadside and watched me drive on alone. Mourners’ cars lined both sides of the street. Damn! The press had gotten wind of the service—three vans with satellite dishes on their roofs had parked at odd angles in front of the chapel. A gaggle of reporters milled under leafless oaks that bordered a brick path leading to the chapel doors. Entering there would be like walking the gauntlet.

  Lizzie was on the street in a black watch cap and navy peacoat. She had her camera slung around her neck, and she’d positioned herself by one of two black hearses. She appeared to be chatting up the driver. Smart girl. She’d get some dramatic shots when they brought the bodies out. But in about ten seconds, she and the rest of the press would spot me.

  I spied a tall evergreen hedge jutting out past the chapel and remembered parking in that side lot. There was a second entrance that would offer some protection from the press. I sank lower into my seat, covered the bottom half of my face with my scarf and tugged the Ushanka down over my brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reporters turn to check out my car as I sped past the hearses and veered around the corner into the lot. Grace’s Prius and a couple of other cars were there. I parked and hurried up the steps into the chapel before the cameras could catch up.