Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  Esmond shook his head, repeating, “You’re kidding.”

  Tamra asked Doug, “Are you sure someone didn’t push her?” Her tone carried no dismay that Gillian was dead, only incredulity regarding the manner of her death. What’s more, Tamra had raised the very question that I myself kept asking.

  Doug told her, “At the moment, we have no reason to suspect foul play, but the coroner’s findings could change the course of our investigation.”

  “Coroner?” asked Esmond. “Investigation?” His voice at last conveyed concern.

  “A death from any unnatural cause, including accidental causes, will always trigger an investigation.”

  “Maybe we should sit down,” said Tamra. “Let’s go to my office.”

  With a wordless nod, Esmond followed her out of the studio and into the hallway, as did Doug and I. Tamra’s and Esmond’s bare feet gently slapped the vinyl floor as we made our way past the cans of paint and filed into a room near the front door, the same room I remembered as the headmistress’s office during the kooky, tyrannical reign of Miriam Westerman. But Miriam was gone, and so were all her trappings.

  The room was now white, of course—blindingly so in the afternoon sunlight that slid through the bare windows in broad, hot shafts. Tamra’s desk was a simple plank of white laminate suspended over two file cabinets, also white. The only other furniture in the room consisted of several director’s chairs, all with slings of natural-colored canvas. One of the chairs was behind the desk; the others were clustered in front of it. “Gentlemen?” said Tamra, suggesting we sit as she seated herself at her desk.

  Esmond sat toward the end of the desk, nearest Tamra. Doug and I sat side by side, loosely facing the other two. I instinctively removed my notepad from my jacket pocket and unscrewed the cap of my pen.

  Esmond heaved a sigh, as if clearing his thoughts. “Now, then,” he said to Doug, “perhaps you could describe what happened. Back in the studio, you took me unawares. I’m afraid nothing registered.” He now looked flushed instead of pale; beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Had the news of his wife’s death finally made an impact, I wondered, or was he simply reacting to the heat of the sun-filled room?

  “Of course,” said Doug. He reviewed the events of that morning—the presumed time of death around eleven, the discovery around noon, and the coroner’s initial theory of the fall, which did not imply foul play. Having established this timeline, he then asked Esmond, “You and Miss Thaine were at the house this morning, correct?”

  “Yes. It was most distressing. We had words. Gillian was on particularly bad behavior today—on a rampage, one might say. She was horrible; she slapped Tamra. Then I behaved badly; I slapped Gillian.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I’m at a loss to say. It was earlier rather than later.”

  Tamra said, “It was around nine, Sheriff. A newscast was starting on the car radio when we drove away.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “We drove directly here to the institute.”

  Esmond added, “We’ve been here all day, working—painting and such.”

  I asked, “Has anyone else been here?” My meaning was transparent enough; I was asking if they’d had witnesses who could verify their whereabouts.

  Esmond replied, “No, unfortunately, we were alone the whole time—not much of an alibi.”

  “Who said anything about alibis?” asked Doug. “I’m assuming Gillian’s death was accidental.”

  Tamra folded her hands in front of herself on the desk. “To be perfectly frank,” she said, “if Gillian’s death was accidental, there was an element of serendipity to it—kismet, if you will.” She turned to Esmond, telling him, “I’m sorry. I mean no disrespect for the spirit of one who has passed, one you have loved, but in the case of Gillian, it’s difficult to take a charitable view of her ‘divine consciousness.’ Her meanness of spirit was coupled with a propensity toward physical aggression, a combination altogether at odds with the cosmic energy that creates and maintains the universe.”

  Esmond nodded forcefully, in full agreement. “Gillian’s shakti was way out of whack. Her death has restored a certain harmony to the absolute.”

  Under my breath, I asked Doug, “Taking notes?”

  Struggling to ignore me, he told Esmond, “I’m glad you’re taking this so well. I can appreciate that there were problems with your marriage, but still, your wife played a prominent role in the Dumont business community. I’m sure she’ll be missed.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that, but I echoed stock sympathies to Esmond, concluding, “It was a privilege to know Gillian. Say what you will about her, but I have never known anyone with a keener mind for numbers and the intricacies of finance.”

  Esmond listened patiently, bobbing his head in deference to my testimonial, if not quite buying into my flattering assessment of his late wife’s skills. Then his eyes bugged open and a smile lit his face. “Hey!” he said with a finger snap. “Speaking of numbers and finances, I just thought of something. With Gillian gone, our previous arrangements are now null and void. Control of my assets reverts to me.” With an odd noise, something between a laugh and a growl, he added, “I should never have agreed to her trusteeship in the first place.”

  Sitting back in her chair, absorbing the implication of Esmond’s words, Tamra broke into a smile. “Unless I’m mistaken, there could be far more at stake here than the patent monies you earned twenty-odd years ago. Gillian became a wealthy woman in her own right.”

  Doug agreed, “Wisconsin probate law is always partial to the surviving spouse.”

  “Well, then!” Esmond sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. “Tamra, fret not. Your worries are over. Our worries are over. I promise here and now”—he raised his right hand—“to fund personally the Dumont Institute for Eastern Studies. And I assure you, this worthy endeavor will be funded very generously.” With a wink at Doug and me, he added, “I’ve got witnesses.”

  Though I felt he was counting unhatched chicks, it did seem a reasonable assumption that, one way or the other, Esmond would profit from his wife’s death. As I mulled the implications of this as a possible motive for a possible homicide, Tamra pulled from a file a long handwritten list—presumably the institute’s wish list—and began checking off certain items. Esmond scooted his chair to the back of the desk, next to Tamra, and grabbing a pencil, he began working with her, amending the list.

  I again noted that Esmond was left-handed.

  Tamra was right-handed.

  As Doug and I had delivered our “devastating” news, our mission there was complete, so we rose, taking our leave. Engrossed in their planned spending, Esmond and Tamra barely looked up to say good-bye.

  But just as I was heading out the door, Esmond called, “Oh, Mark?”

  Doug and I stepped back inside the office.

  Esmond continued, “Gillian was making an awful fuss about those curtains, but they looked just fine to me. Please extend my compliments and apologies to Neil and the designer.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “And please do tell them to proceed. The entire project is a go.”

  Tamra’s eyes moved from Esmond, returning to the list on her desk. She gave his free hand, his right hand, a fond squeeze.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I never did hear from Neil regarding the outcome of his search for Todd Draper that morning, so when I returned home from the office sometime after five, I was surprised to find Todd waiting for me, but not Neil.

  Entering the kitchen through the back door, I called, “Anybody home?” I knew the answer, as I’d already seen Todd’s car parked in front of the house, so the question was simply meant to announce my arrival.

  “Hey, Mark!” said Todd, stepping into the kitchen from the dining room with a towel tucked through one of his belt loops. “Neil said he might be late, so I thought I’d get dinner started.” Sure enough, grocery bags lined one of the counters, and a heap of fres
h produce peeped out from the sink.

  “Todd, you’re a guest,” I protested. “You shouldn’t bother with that.”

  “Don’t be nuts. I had all day to myself, so I thought I’d make myself useful.”

  With an uncertain smile, I asked, “What about the Reeces’ curtains?”

  “Oh, that.” He rolled his eyes, stepping to the sink and running some cold water. “Neil caught up with me after Gillian threw me out this morning. He spotted my car at that coffee shop at the edge of town. We talked. He explained that Gillian wanted me back on the job, and he agreed to lay down the law to her—the curtains are to be installed as delivered. After we shoot the photos, she can do whatever she wants, but till then, this project is ours. My crew can get a fresh start in the morning.”

  “So Neil returned to the house?” I slipped off my sport coat and hung it over a chair at the kitchen table.

  “I assume so.” Todd began breaking up a head of lettuce and rinsing it. “I didn’t hear back from him, so everything must be on track. He needed to drive over to Green Bay to meet a cabinetmaker, so he said I should make myself at home if he wasn’t back by five.” Wiping his hands on the towel, Todd turned from the sink. “Can I get you a drink?”

  I laughed. “I should get you one. What would you like?”

  He thought a moment. “Oh, keep it simple—vodka, rocks.”

  “My anytime favorite. Have you ever tried it with a twist of orange peel?”

  “No, but it sounds … interesting.”

  So while Todd returned his attention to the vegetables in the sink, I moved to the refrigerator, took out an orange, and pulled a frosty bottle of Japanese vodka from the freezer. As I was reaching to get glasses from a nearby cupboard, the back door swung open.

  “My,” said Neil, entering with a grin, “isn’t this a domestic scene?”

  “Welcome back, stranger,” said Todd.

  “Hi there, kiddo.” I stepped to the door, wrapped Neil in a loose embrace, and gave him a quick kiss. “What took you so long?”

  “Ugh!” He hung his keys on a hook near the door, tossed a few files on the counter, and loosened his tie. “I keep forgetting that Green Bay is a full two-hour drive from here. And there were some problems with the cabinet guy; we needed to work on some changes. And then—”

  “Never mind. You’re back. Ready for a drink?”

  “Please.” He slipped off his corduroy blazer and hung it on another chair as I set about pouring our drinks.

  Todd told Neil, “I’ve got the salad going, but I wasn’t sure about the sauce for the meat.”

  “No problem. I’ll handle it.” Neil opened a drawer and pulled out a wire whisk, asking, “Is your crew lined up to give it another try in the morning?”

  “All set. And how was your man-to-man with Gillian?”

  “It went just fine. In fact, she even agreed to stay clear of the house tomorrow so you can work in peace.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Clearly, neither Neil nor Todd had yet heard that Gillian was no longer in a position to pester them—or anyone else. I felt compelled to deliver the news quickly, but decided that downer could wait until everyone had a drink in hand.

  Moments later, the three of us stood facing each other at the center of the kitchen, glasses raised. “Well,” said Neil, “the day got off to a rough start, but this is decidedly better. Cheers, everyone.”

  “Cheers,” echoed Todd. “To friendship.”

  Wordlessly, I joined them touching glasses. We drank.

  “Say, now,” said Todd, eyeing me over the rim of his glass, “the orange twist is a wonderful touch. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “We’ve always liked it,” said Neil.

  I took another sip—more precisely, a hefty mouthful—and swallowed.

  “Cat got your tongue?” asked Neil.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “Guys? Something happened today, something quite disturbing, and it seems you haven’t heard about it.”

  They glanced at each other with raised brows. Skeptically, Neil asked me, “More disturbing than the flurry of bitch slaps?”

  “Much worse, I’m afraid. Gillian Reece will have nothing more to say about the curtains, the fringe, or any other aspect of the new house. She died today. Apparently it was an accident, a fall from a ladder in the living room.”

  Neil and Todd again glanced at each other, but this time their faces fell.

  I added, “The circumstances struck me as suspicious, but Doug and Vernon are working on the assumption there was no foul play.”

  Neil explained to Todd, “Doug and Vernon are the sheriff and the coroner.” Then, as the full impact of my news hit Neil, he gave a pained groan. “I’m … I’m stunned. Gosh, poor Gillian. I’m first to admit, the woman had some ‘issues,’ but who doesn’t?”

  “I can’t believe it either,” said Todd, shaking his head. “Lord knows, I didn’t much like the woman, but hey, I’m used to working with difficult clients.”

  Thoughtfully, Neil added, “After all’s said and done, I actually did like Gillian. She was a pistol, but we got along, and no client has ever given me freer rein. We built a great house together.”

  I wrapped an arm around Neil’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I know you liked her. But truth is, I can’t think of anyone else who did.”

  Todd asked, “And that’s why you find her death suspicious?”

  “Well, sure. She may have fallen from the ladder, but she could also have been pushed. And she didn’t fall far—maybe ten or twelve feet. It seems strange that such a short drop would be fatal.”

  Neil said, “I assume there’s an investigation under way.”

  “Absolutely. Doug’s crew was conducting the usual search for physical evidence, and Dr. Formhals is conducting an autopsy. We should know more tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow,” said Todd, raising a finger, “I hate to sound too pragmatic, but with Gillian gone, what about the curtains?”

  “Yeah,” chimed Neil. “What about the whole house?”

  Setting my drink on the table, I explained, “I happen to know the answer to those questions. Doug and I met with Esmond this afternoon, and he mentioned that I should ask both of you to proceed. He specifically said I should compliment you on the curtains, Todd.”

  “Oh? Nice of him to think of that when he’s faced with such personal tragedy.”

  I paused before reporting, “He didn’t exactly seem grief-stricken. In fact, he said Gillian’s death restored harmony to ‘the absolute,’ or words to that effect.”

  “Oh, brother,” said Neil. “Sounds more like his yoga pal, Tamra.”

  “She, too, had a few choice cosmological observations.”

  “Huh?” asked Todd.

  As Neil filled him in regarding Esmond’s background with Tamra Thaine, the three of us pitched in, preparing our evening meal.

  News of Gillian’s death effectively squelched the party atmosphere that had filled the kitchen when I was pouring our first round of drinks, and the mood became subdued, if not quite somber, as we fussed with dinner. When three gay men conspire to cook, it’s inevitable that a few bons mots will be lobbed about, so we weren’t above injecting our kitchen duties with a note of levity. Still, we limited our laughter to convivial chuckles, eschewing the shrieks and howls that might otherwise have colored the preparations.

  When our meal moved from the kitchen to the dining room, I opened a bottle of wine and Neil lit a pair of candles on the table. In light of that day’s events, I couldn’t help feeling that the flickering tapers, a festive touch, also projected funereal overtones. Neil and I took our usual chairs, and when Todd sat down, we both realized that he now occupied the spot where Gillian had sat only two nights prior. Strangely, this simple observation seemed to reinforce the reality of Gillian’s death, the surety that she would not return, the knowledge that she was no longer of this world.

  Our dinner conversation covered our appreciation for Todd’s sal
ad and Neil’s roast, then moved on to a variety of topics—Neil’s meeting with the cabinet guy (too long, but productive); Todd’s experience working with our Chicago friend, Roxanne Exner (a perfect client, though Neil had coached her); my day at the Register (other than the main event, dull); and Glee’s planned photo feature in the Sunday paper (now spiked).

  Although we tried not to dwell on Gillian, her unexpected death had an irresistible tug on our conversation, which kept drifting back to her. At one point, Todd put down his fork and knife, heaved a long, breathy sigh, and told us, “I wish I’d kept my anger in better check this morning. My God, now she’s dead. I shouldn’t have let her rile me so.”

  “Todd,” I reminded him, reaching across the table to pat his hand, “the woman slapped you.”

  “And then you left,” said Neil, taking Todd’s other hand. “You acted with great restraint, more than I could have shown.”

  Anyone walking in just then would think we were having a seance.

  “You guys are so supportive,” Todd told us, jiggling our hands.

  “What are friends for?” said Neil. “Besides, I’m feeling a bit guilty myself. I was awfully hard on Gillian today.”

  She had it coming, I thought, letting go of Todd’s hand, sitting back. I told Neil, “Let’s just say you delivered a much-needed dose of tough love.”

  Neil allowed a soft laugh, sitting back also. “You wordsmith, you.” Under his breath, he said to Todd, “Mark’s a writer—as if you couldn’t tell.”

  “As if I didn’t know. Your reputation precedes you, Mark.”

  Embarrassed by this flattery—from a friend, in my own home—I quickly changed the topic, asking Todd if he’d had any ideas for the curtains in my den.

  He replied coyly, “I’ve been horsing around with some sketches.”

  “Oh?” asked Neil, on full alert. “Anything you’d care to share?”

  “Not just yet.”

  Neil persisted; Todd stood firm; I laughed at their good-natured banter. We had successfully set aside the grim subject of Gillian’s demise.