That’s when I heard it, the ping of something metallic and small hitting the dull parquet floor.
“Take it,” I told him, not seeing what it was, a coin perhaps. Or the rabies tag falling off his collar. I knew I had to find out what it was before leaving.
Dashiell’s mouth was right on the floor for a moment, which meant he was scooping something up with his tongue, something too small to get his teeth around. Then I heard it against his teeth as he chewed on it, trying to determine if luck were on his side and he’d picked up something edible, because don’t all dogs believe in their hearts that they aren’t fed nearly often enough?
I called him over, whispering in case someone were in the hall. It was a quarter to five now, time to get out of here.
I heard someone outside and froze in place. Dashiell was approaching me, and the sound of his nails click-clacking on the wooden floor seemed as loud as hailstones on the roof of a car. I signaled him to lie down by raising my arm over my head, then crept up to him and cupped my hand under his jaw.
“Out,” I whispered, hearing the footsteps in the hall stop just outside Stewie Fleck’s door.
But he couldn’t get in, could he?
Unless the super had his keys.
Or he had an extra set over the jamb or under his ratty welcome mat.
Could he see light coming from under the door?
Crouched next to Dashiell, whose breathing seemed as loud as a respirator, I looked down into my hand at the saliva-covered key Dashiell had dropped there. It must have fallen out of the tissue box as he was annihilating it.
When the doorknob turned and rattled, my heart jumped, and while I was nowhere near as paranoid as Stewie, having only one lock on my cottage door, I was grateful I’d been paranoid enough to lock Stewie’s door behind me.
He rattled the knob again, which was about as effective as kicking the flat tire you found on your car. I heard his footsteps as he walked away, then the click of the front door closing.
I opened my hand again and looked at the key that Stewie had hidden in his own home. What did he think, that just because he lived in New York City someone would break in and paw through all his worldly possessions?
I stuffed the torn tissue box and all the tissues into a dog pickup bag, waited an extra minute, heart still pounding, shut off the light, and let Dashiell into the hall, slipping out after him and locking all three locks, the key Dashiell had found in my other sweating hand. Then I looked for the stairs, because his darkroom would be in the basement, wouldn’t it?
We didn’t meet anyone downstairs. The building probably only had a part-time super. I tried to keep my eyes up; this was water bug territory if ever I’d seen it, and while I’d face a snarling dog or walk into a lion’s den, so to speak, bugs were a horse of another color.
There were eight doors in the basement, all but one locked. I dumped the remains of Stewie’s tissue box in the compactor room and went back to try the key Dashiell had found in each of the other locks, hoping one was a utility closet, with water, that Stewie used as a darkroom. At the fifth door the key moved and the tumbler turned over. I felt my heart start to pound again.
I found a light switch on the left, and as soon as the light went on, I inhaled hard enough to pull the whole room down into my lungs. There on the wall, over the sink and shelf full of trays for chemicals, and hanging on a wire, pinned up to dry, looking eerie in the glow of the red safety light, were photos of me.
Dashiell and I squeezed into the small room and, not knowing how Stewie would react to having lost his keys, or how soon after the locksmith let him in he’d notice his tissue box was missing, I locked this door behind me too.
Dashiell sat, and I began to look at the photos, one hand leaning on the counter for support.
I had been captured doing t’ai chi on the Morton Street pier, then holding the fence open for Dashiell as we were leaving.
There was a shot of me walking on Hudson Street, Dashiell heeling at my side. And several shots of me entering and leaving Lisa’s building, even one of me looking out the window, at night. It seemed Stewie had more than just a Nikon with a telephoto lens.
There were close-ups, too. And shots at the dog run, most of me practicing the form, but some of me sitting on the bench and watching the dogs play. And one of me holding someone’s cute Jack Russell puppy on my lap. There were even shots of Dashiell, but those were off on the little piece of wall to the right, opposite the side where Stewie kept his enlarger.
Then I noticed something else. The pictures of me all over the wall seemed to be tacked over other photos. In several places, I could see the edges of other pictures sticking out.
I leaned forward and pulled out some pushpins, carefully taking down a photo of me frozen in the middle of Cloud Hands, my arms moving from one side to the other in front of my chest, eyes on the horizon, knees bent, in Lisa’s black leggings and sweater, her heart necklace dangling from around my neck. Under it, there was a similar photo. At first glance, it looked identical. But it wasn’t.
There was a pull chain hanging down in the center of the tiny room. I gave it a tug and turned off the safety light. Then I leaned over the counter and looked at the picture again. Not me. It was Lisa.
I took out the rest of the tacks, exposing the prints underneath. There was Lisa dressed in black, doing Cloud Hands, wearing the same black shoes that I now practiced in, her hands moving like nimbi across the afternoon sky.
Under each picture of me, there was one of Lisa, sometimes two or three—Lisa walking in the Village, talking on the phone, walking her Akita, at her window late at night. Lisa, that little braid in her long curly hair, a smile on her pretty face, walking arm in arm with Paul. And in the pile of prints near the enlarger, me with Paul and Dashiell, and Paul leaving the Printing House alone.
The last two photos in the pile were pictures of me. In one I was leaving Lisa’s building, Dash at my side, carrying a bunch of roses, twelve of them to be exact. And in the last, I was tossing those same roses into the trash basket on the corner. He must have used high-speed, professional film; every petal was in focus.
T’ai chi had certainly taught Stewie Fleck patience. No hunter had more successfully captured his prey.
I listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, opened the door and looked out into the dimly lit hallway. I shut the light, locked the door, and dropped the key in front of it, pushing it as close to the sill as possible with my foot. Then Dashiell and I moved quickly and quietly out of the basement and out of Stewie Fleck’s building, blinking when we emerged into the comparatively fresh, clean, bright air of Bedford Street.
Unused to the light, I didn’t see him leaning against the building, just to the side of the door, until he’d actually grabbed my arm.
32
“Rachel,” He Said
“Rachel,” he said, surprised, but not half as surprised as I was, “what are you doing here?”
He looked pleased, the fool.
“I came to see you,” I said, “to see if you were here, you know, if you felt like a beer or something.” God bless adrenaline. “I didn’t even see you standing here. I must have passed right by you,” I said, thinking no one, not even a vegetarian, could be stupid enough to believe that lie.
“I didn’t see you either,” he said, frowning. “I must have been looking the other way.”
“So, how about it?”
Stewie looked lost in thought.
“A beer? My treat.”
“A beer? Oh, no, I can’t. I’m waiting for the locksmith. I lost my keys somewhere. I’m locked out.”
“Bummer,” I said, his keys as heavy as an anvil in my jacket pocket. Dashiell was sitting now, and I reached down to touch his head, for my own comfort as much as his.
“You’re wearing it,” Stewie said suddenly.
I looked at him and followed his eyes down to my wrist. Then I lifted my arm, as if I were about to do Push Hands, or defend myself from a blow, and Stewie�
�s hand closed around the silver heart.
“It was Lisa’s,” I said.
“But I never saw her wear it,” Stewie said.
“No,” I told him, “I don’t think she ever did. It was still in the little bag from Tiffany’s, brand-new, not a scratch on it. It’s so beautiful,” I said, “such an extravagant gift. I thought someone should wear it.”
Stewie beamed at me. “Yes,” he said.
And that’s when I thought of a Chinese proverb I’d found in one of Lisa’s books. He who asks a question is a fool for five minutes; he who doesn’t ask a question remains a fool forever.
So I asked.
“Did she write that note to you, Stewie?”
He dropped the heart and I dropped my arm, putting my hand back on Dashiell’s head. Stewie took a step to the side, away from me. “What do you mean?”
“What happened, Stew? Did you tell her you loved her, that it was you sending the flowers, not Paul, that you’d sent the bracelet, hoping that since Paul was no longer in the picture—”
“No!”
“What did she say, Stewie? Did she laugh at you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do, Stewie. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t. I don’t know.”
“There’s something you want to tell me now, isn’t there?”
“You’re out of your mind,” he said, a little on the loud side.
I felt Dashiell’s head move. He was looking at Stew now, too.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. I never—”
But he didn’t get the chance to finish, because that’s when the locksmith arrived, and I wasn’t sure if I should be annoyed or grateful, because it was pretty quiet on Bedford Street and Stewie Fleck was looking more than a little bit crazy.
“Mr. Fleck?” He was carrying a metal toolbox, and the patch on his navy blue work shirt said “Hudson Hardware.”
“That’s me,” Stewie told him.
“Too bad we couldn’t have that beer,” I said. “I think we need to continue this.”
But Stewie just turned, and he and the locksmith headed inside.
“Catch you later,” I said. But the door had already closed, and at that point, I didn’t know if Stewie Fleck would have heard me if it hadn’t.
33
Better Safe Than Sorry
Back at my cottage, sitting on the steps that led upstairs, just staring at the front door, I decided to add another lock or two. Better safe than sorry, as the condom ads say.
Not wanting to move, or unable to, I took the names and numbers I needed from my pocket and sent Dashiell for the cordless phone.
“Barb? Hi. This is Michelle, from the gym? Fine. Just great. Okay, I’m wondering if you can help me out here,” I said, lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper. “Yeah. I spilled my Coke.… Right. She told me exactly the same thing. And I’m trying like hell to get off it, drink Water Joe instead, yeah, springwater with caffeine in it. Right. She told me that very same thing. Carrot juice. And make sure the carrots were grown without pesticides. So, Barb, here’s the thing, I spilled my Coke on the appointment book, and we can’t do Janet’s check, so I’m calling to verify, it looks like your name here in the book, but I can’t see if it’s checked off or what, so did you make that training session with Janet last Friday? Four? Great. Thanks a bunch.”
I dialed the next number.
“Sandy? Hi. This is Michelle from the gym. How are you? Yeah, me, too. Listen, Sandy, I wonder if you could help me out here. There’s been a little mix-up at the gym. Well, the truth is, I spilled my coffee on the appointment book. Yeah. That’s what my mother used to say, too. Anyway, we’re doing payroll, you know, and I need to verify if you were in for your five o’clock with Janet on Friday, because the place where she’d check it off is like rotted out from the coffee. You were? Great. Oh? Oh? No, of course she’ll still get paid. Twenty minutes late? Because she had to what? Oh, right. Take her puppy out. Tell me about it. Half the time she sends me. So was she like all sweaty when she came back? She likes to run with Pola, get her tired fast so she can get back to work. Yeah, right,” I said. “No, no problem. We don’t dock the trainers for lateness. Yeah, she is the best, isn’t she?”
But, of course, she could have run home to walk the dog. Just because she had the opportunity to do the killing didn’t mean she did it.
Did it?
And just because Howie had tickets to Cats, that did’t mean he bought them on Friday afternoon.
And just because Stewie Fleck was stalking Lisa—Jesus, and now me—that didn’t mean he had killed Lisa and Paul.
Did it?
After all, hadn’t O. J. Simpson stalked his wife? Yet at his first trial, he got off. Apparently those jurors didn’t think there was much of a connection between stalking and murder. Even though lots of other people did.
And when push came to shove—and I had every intention of pushing and shoving Stewie Fleck again—wouldn’t he vehemently claim that what he’d done had been perfectly harmless? Whom, after all, had he hurt, taking pictures and sending presents?
But just the thought of that revolting little creep watching me, photographing me, following me, made me feel sick.
When I checked my watch, I saw it was almost time to go. Sword class was at seven, and I had to get there before any of the others arrived.
Climbing the stairs, I couldn’t see light coming out into the hall from an open door, nor could I hear anyone talking. There were no jackets hanging on the hooks in the hall, no street shoes in the little cubbies that, except during class, held people’s t’ai chi shoes.
The door was locked. So far, so good. I opened it, turned on the lights, and, out of habit by now, changed to Lisa’s black shoes. I went to see if Avi was in the office, because sometimes he’d be holed up in there with the door locked and the rest of the lights off. But not this evening.
I dropped Stewie’s keys next to the couch where he had tossed his jacket before the lunchtime class and pushed them with my foot so that they were half under the couch and half sticking out. Then I sat on the floor against the wall with Dashiell at my side, wondering how a nice girl like Lisa got herself mixed up with so many people who had the motive, means, and opportunity to do her in, wondering which one had, wondering whether—no, not wondering, fairly sure that—whoever the killer was, was already looking hard in my direction. It was only a matter of time now until the cousin shtick was going to wear thin, thin enough to see through, if it hadn’t already. At least one of them already knew where I lived.
Janet came first. I could hear her on the stairs. I could smell the organic chamomile and aloe shampoo I’d seen in her bathroom, and anyway, by now I knew her footfall. I heard her plunk down a heavy backpack and put one shoe up on the top of the shelves where the shoes were to unlace it, then the other, and then she walked into the studio and called Dashiell for a head scratch.
“Sorry you couldn’t wait,” she said. “I was going to treat you at Charlie Mom’s again.”
“Did you go already?” I asked.
“Uh-uh. Truth is, it would have been a bust anyway. People show up,” she drawled, “they don’t even call, and the policy is”—Janet sighed—“the policy is never to let a dime walk out the door. I might look elsewhere soon, you know.”
“Where else have you worked?” I asked, pulling my socks up tight and smoothing my leggings over them.
“Oh, I was at the World Gym two years ago, and last year I worked on Christopher Street, where I am now, but I also taught classes at the Club, on Varick.”
“Where Lisa’s boyfriend worked?”
“I heard about that,” she whispered. “It was on the news. Jesus,” she said, shaking her head. “You know, when I moved here from Texas, everyone I met said the Village was the safest neighborhood in New York City. I don’t know. What is this world coming to, you can’t walk around the neighborhood anymo
re without getting killed? Is that hers, too?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“That silver bracelet you’re wearing. Was that Lisa’s, too?”
I picked up the heart and let it drop.
“Yeah. I found it with her stuff. But I don’t think she ever wore it. It looks brand-new.”
Janet held the heart and read it.
“I don’t know why not. I sure would have. It’s nice. Don’t you think so?”
I nodded.
“I guess Paul got it for her,” she said.
“I guess.”
I watched the muscles in her cheeks jump.
“Are you staying for class?” she asked.
“I think I’ll just watch. I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“Sure you are. You can do it. You can do anything you set your mind to, don’t you know that, woman?”
“I’m going to pass,” I said.
Janet shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we can still have dinner if you want. Charlie Mom’s, after class?”
“Sure. Sounds great.”
Then she turned, because we heard someone on the stairs, someone walking slowly. “Howie,” she called out.
“It’s m-m-me,” he answered.
A moment later Howie and Avi walked into the studio. Avi had a bag from Staples with him. Howie looked at me and smiled, then sat across from me. Avi put his package down on the couch and joined us all on the floor, sitting in a circle around Dashiell. Then three other advanced students arrived and greeted us, a really skinny guy with a ponytail like Avi’s, a short, muscular black man whose biceps rivaled Janet’s, and a woman of seventy or seventy-five, thin and lithe, there perhaps to prove the point that t’ai chi helps you to live longer.
Avi stood, and everyone went to the supply closet and got swords. I sat with Dashiell watching the ritualized movements, the sword as an extension of the hand, an extension of one’s chi. And while I was watching, I heard Stewie Fleck on the stairs, heard the squeak of his sneakers, heard him changing his shoes, and then he was there, a few feet away, looking around the couch. I turned to watch the class, hearing the jingle of Stewie’s keys being scooped up from the floor and dropped into his pants pocket, waited while he got his sword from the closet, then turned to look at him as he passed where I was sitting to join the class, making a point, it seemed to me, not to look at me.
The Dog Who Knew Too Much Page 19