by Sharon Potts
“I do.”
“My father was brilliant. He knew just what buttons to push. How to enrage the opposition.”
“It sounds like you’re very angry with him. Do you want to believe he was the target?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just curious why you stopped considering your mother’s business associates.”
“My father got a lot of people to hate him.”
“And that’s your basis for believing him to be the target?”
“My father didn’t care who he offended. He wanted to be sure everyone understood exactly how he felt. Even if he knew he was making people angry enough to want to kill him.”
“So free speech is a crime, Jeremy?”
His throat tightened. “It is when you value it above your family.”
Chapter 23
Just after nine a.m., Jeremy turned the Corvair onto the MIU campus. It was congested with slow-moving cars cruising the full parking lot. Several were parked up against the curbs with the “No Parking” signs. It had been almost two weeks since his mother’s car had been towed away. He’d made no effort to reclaim it. It just hadn’t been a priority.
A car was pulling out of a legitimate parking spot. Jeremy zipped around a curve to get to it before another car cut him off.
He was annoyed after seeing Lieber this morning. He could tell the detective didn’t trust Marina. And why was Lieber making it seem as though Jeremy wanted his father to be the reason for the murders? If his father had incited the killer with his glib talk, then he was responsible. Jeremy was merely telling it like it was.
He cut the engine.
Some kid was staring into the car. “Nice car. What is it, a Corvette?”
“Corvair,” Jeremy said, slamming the car door. He headed toward the campus. He didn’t care that Lieber doubted him; Jeremy was sure he was on the right track. And he’d find another source to prove it.
Students were swarming over the quad, congregating under the trees. He debated going over to the economics building, but didn’t want to risk running into Winter. Marina didn’t have a class until eleven, so there was no chance he’d bump into her.
On the path toward the cafeteria, Jeremy spotted two people in brown tee shirts, Queso and Liddy, the café jers. He called after them. They waited for him to catch up. Liddy’s curly black hair was tucked under a baseball cap and they were both wearing sunglasses as though hoping not to be recognized. They would have done better wearing different shirts.
“How’s it going?” Queso asked. “Anything new about—” He rubbed his neck like he had an itch. “You know, your dad.”
“Not really,” Jeremy said. “Hey, you guys have time for coffee?”
Queso and Liddy exchanged a look. “Sure,” Liddy said.
They sat at a table a distance from the other students. The outdoor eating area bordered the edge of a man-made lake with a fountain at its center. A running path went around the lake’s circumference. Several joggers, the wires from their iPods dangling from their ears, ran by.
Jeremy used to go jogging every day, but hadn’t run in weeks. Jeremy had stopped doing many of the things that once seemed so important to him.
“café j meeting today?” he asked Queso and Liddy.
They looked confused. “Oh, you mean this?” Queso said, pulling on his tee shirt. “No. No meeting. A few of us have been wearing our café j shirts since your father— you know.”
“To keep his memory and the movement alive,” Liddy said.
“Have you been allowed to hold meetings?”
“Winter doesn’t exactly know about them.” Queso scowled over his sunglasses at Liddy. “What? You think I shouldn’t say anything? You think he’s going to squeal to Winter? Come on, Liddy. Get real.”
“Fine.” Liddy dipped a pastry into the café con leche she’d ordered at the La Carreta kiosk in the food court.
“You don’t trust me?” Jeremy said.
“Not you,” Liddy said, “the administration. We already have a reputation as troublemakers.”
“Are you afraid SWEET might try to do something to you?” Jeremy said, deliberately dropping the name. “Maybe get you all expelled?”
“They can’t touch us,” Queso said.
“How do you know about SWEET?” Liddy said.
“Everyone knows SWEET’s one of the biggest donors to the school. That they hated my father.” Jeremy sipped his coffee. He’d ordered it American-style, but it tasted like diluted espresso. “I can’t imagine they’d be happy knowing his legacy lives on.”
“That’s an understatement,” Queso said.
Flakes from Liddy’s pastry had settled on her brown tee shirt and she brushed them off. “Your father said he’d be damned if he’d let anyone compromise his academic freedom, no matter how much money they gave to the school.”
Sure. His father would have said that.
“And after they threatened to cut off funding,” Queso said, “your father got like really upset.”
SWEET had threatened to cut off funding?
Liddy licked her fingers. “So your father sent articles and letters to the editors of all the major newspapers and really pissed Winter off.”
“Yeah,” Queso said. “Remember when Winter interrupted one of our meetings and asked D.C. to come to his office? We stood in the hallway and could hear them yelling, even with the door closed.”
“Winter said,” Liddy changed her voice in a parody of the dean’s affected one, “‘If you don’t stop of your own volition, Dr. Stroeb, I’ll have no option but to curtail your partisan activities myself.’” She changed her voice back to normal. “But Winter knew he couldn’t do much— D.C.’s a tenured professor.”
“And then there was the fire in D.C.’s office,” Queso said.
“What do you know about the fire?” Jeremy said.
“Nothing,” Liddy said, gathering up her books.
“There’s a story going around that a bunch of anti-Castro extremists did it,” Queso said. “But that’s bullshit.”
“Bullshit?” Jeremy said.
“I’ve got class,” Liddy said.
Queso looked over at her. “We know all those rich Cuban guys— Juan Lopez, Fernando Calderon, Luisito Padron. Those ass-holes are too busy color coordinating their Ralph Lauren shirts and sweaters. You think one of them would take a chance setting a fire and messing up their clothes?”
“Then who do you think did it?” Jeremy asked.
“I’ve got to go.” Liddy adjusted her sunglasses.
“Do you think it was someone from SWEET?” Jeremy’s mind was racing. The connection seemed so obvious.
“Are you kidding?” Queso said. “Those guys swipe their Amex cards— not matches.”
“Then who?” Jeremy’s coffee had turned lukewarm. “Winter?” Jeremy said suddenly.
“Shhh,” Liddy said, glancing around.
“So Winter did it, then started the rumor about the anti-Castro extremists.” Jeremy had lowered his voice. “As a warning, right?” He could feel his heart pumping. “He certainly had a motive. Winter was the one who cared the most about SWEET’s funding.” That’s where Marina had been leading him. Winter had killed his parents. Jeremy felt a surge of relief or redemption, he wasn’t sure which.
“Winter didn’t set the fire,” Liddy said.
Jeremy took a second to regain his bearings. “But he must have.”
“You know who did it, Liddy?” Queso said. “Why didn’t you say something to me?”
Liddy glanced around. “Keep your voice down.”
Queso leaned across the table. “So who was it?”
She mumbled something.
“You’re kidding,” Queso said.
“Who?” Jeremy said. “Who set the fire?”
“His graduate assistant,” Liddy whispered.
“What? You mean Marina?”
Liddy nodded.
“That’s the stupidest thing
I ever heard,” Jeremy said. “Marina doesn’t care about the funding. She’s not involved with any Cuban extremist movements.”
“I saw her.”
“You couldn’t have,” Jeremy said.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Liddy’s full cheeks flushed. “I saw her come out of the office, then spray paint the door— Cuba Libre.”
“That’s impossible. She admired my father. She’s helping me find his murderer. Why would she set fire to his office?”
“Don’t believe me. That’s the problem with everyone. Why believe a troublemaking student about anything?” She gathered up her trash and stood up. Queso did the same.
“Why?” Jeremy asked. “I asked you why?”
“Maybe you’d better ask Marina,” Liddy said. “Given that she’s clearly so interested in helping you.”
Chapter 24
Marina’s beat-up yellow Toyota was parked next to Mrs. Lambert’s old Chevy. The green lawn glistened in the morning sunlight as though the old landlady had just watered it, but there was no sign of her. Hanging from rusted chains, a wooden swing swayed back and forth despite the lack of breeze.
Jeremy stood outside Marina’s backyard apartment for a good ten minutes without moving. Through the dirty windows, he could see the blinds were closed and there were no lights on inside.
What was he going to say to her? If he confronted her about the fire, what did he expect her to do? Fess up? Tell him it was an accident, a misunderstanding? More likely, she’d just deny it. Then where did that leave him?
Not knowing. Not knowing if she set the fire. Not knowing if the past couple of weeks with her had been some kind of game on her part.
And if she had set the fire, why? Was she hiding some personal vendetta against his father? And if she was, what did that imply?
But she couldn’t have done it. The idea that Marina may have killed his parents was beyond his threshold of acceptance.
He raised his fist to knock on the door. No, she couldn’t have done it.
The door opened. Marina was trying to stop the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She wore a too-large white terry robe with a partially torn-off sleeve and her hair was in damp ringlets, as though she’d just come out of the shower. Her face had a glow, like a child’s after some exertion. How could he even have considered Marina had deceived him?
“I thought I heard someone outside.” She stood on her toes and pulled his face toward hers, dizzying him with a kiss. “I imagined, perhaps, it was a peeping Tom or the neighborhood rapist,” she breathed into his mouth, “but I’m relieved it’s only you.” She licked his lips. “Playing hooky today, mon amour? Couldn’t wait, could you? I’m glad. I’ll play hooky, too.” She closed the door behind him and placed his hands inside her robe. “Mon dieu. So cold. And I’m like an overheated engine, no? Because all I could think about is being with you. And here you are. Right out of my dreams.” She unbuttoned his shirt, then looked at him quizzically. “Is something wrong? Has something happened?”
Using all his willpower, he took his hands off her breasts. “Can we talk?”
“Oh my God. Something’s happened. They’ve found the murderer, haven’t they?”
Jeremy picked up a pile of students’ tests that were lying on the futon and threw them on the floor. He sat down, his legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him. Marina slid next to him and massaged the back of his neck. Her robe had fallen open exposing a hard, brown nipple. He turned away and stared at the thin white lines in his pin-striped pants.
“Tell me about the fire in my father’s office.”
“The fire?” She stopped rubbing his neck then resumed after a pause. “Yes, of course. Didn’t I tell you? It happened a few months ago. Some Cuban expatriates did it. Exiled Cubans who hate Castro. They were angry about your father’s stand against the embargo. What’s happened? Did they catch someone? Is that why you’re behaving so strangely?”
Jeremy’s mouth was dry. “Did you do it, Marina?”
“Do it? What do you mean, did I do it?”
“Did you set the fire in my father’s office? Did you spray paint his door? Did you—” But he couldn’t ask any more questions.
“How could you ask me such a thing?” She plucked angrily at her wet curls. “You think I set the fire? You can possibly believe that of me?”
“I just need to hear you say it. That you didn’t do it.”
“I don’t understand you, Jeremy. What have we been doing night after night? All the papers, all the work, trying to find your father’s murderer.”
“My parents’ murderer.”
“Yes, your parents’ murderer. Trying to find your parents’ murderer. And do you imagine I could have ever wanted to hurt your father? Have you not seen how I admired him? Adored him? How could you accuse me?” She reached over for a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it.
He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. “Someone saw you, Marina.”
The round red lips disappeared into her mouth like a deflating toy. She was staring him straight in the eye. He did that when he was lying. He’d look the other person straight in the eye. But she wasn’t lying. She hadn’t deceived him.
“Impossible.” The ashes from her cigarette fell onto the futon. “It’s impossible. Either I’m being mixed up with another person or someone’s lying.” She took a quick puff on the cigarette. “Who told you this story?”
“It’s not important.”
“It’s important to me to know who my accuser is. Why won’t he come forward if he’s telling the truth? Why hasn’t he reported me to the police? If I set the fire in your father’s office, I’d be a likely suspect in the murder, no?”
Why hadn’t Liddy told anyone? Marina had a point. If Liddy had really seen Marina, she certainly would have told someone. Especially after the murder.
“So you have no answers for me, my Jeremy. Just accusations. You hear a rumor, a lie, and you’re quick to believe it. Ready to believe a stranger over me. I don’t understand, Jeremy. Has nothing I’ve done or said meant anything to you?” A single tear raced down her cheek. She wiped it away.
He wanted to reach for her, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
She picked up the papers Jeremy had thrown on the floor. Her robe fell open; she quickly closed it and tightened the belt.
Let it go. Let it go. But the words slipped out of him. “The person said she saw you spray painting my father’s door.”
Marina stopped what she was doing and straightened up. “Who is she, Jeremy? A student at the school? I have many students.” She held up the stack of papers. “Many of them don’t like me very much; did you know that? I’m a tough grader, they say. Some call me unfair. You don’t suppose this person— this trustworthy eyewitness of yours— may be one of my students, do you? Perhaps a student I gave a poor grade to? A troublemaker?”
Of course. That had to be it. Liddy was being vindictive. A troublemaker. She’d even called herself a troublemaker, hadn’t she?
“Oh, my Jeremy, come here.” Marina opened her arms. “Someone is playing with your head, mon amour. Someone who is perhaps jealous of our relationship.”
Her robe slid to the floor. She pressed her naked body against him. He could feel himself respond to her touch. Regardless of the disorder in his head, his body had its own agenda. “Don’t you know how I felt about your father, Jeremy? I could no sooner hurt him than I could you.” She touched herself between her legs, then rubbed her moist finger over his mouth, leaving behind her powerful scent. “You believe me, don’t you?” Her flecked cat’s eyes penetrated his. “Because if you didn’t, mon amour, I don’t know what I would do.”
Chapter 25
Marina heard the growl of the old Corvair’s engine as it pulled out of the driveway. How ironic he’d chosen to drive his father’s car. The car she…d come to identify with the man— unconventional, contrarian, uniquely beautiful.
She turned on the burner to boil
water for a cup of tea and tightened the terrycloth robe around her. She was cold despite the stagnant heat in the apartment and the smell of sweat and sex that hung over her like a heavy drape.
She hadn’t cooked tonight. He had come over too early and upset her schedule. Then she had become disoriented by his disturbing confrontation, and all she could think about was trying to set things right with him.
She had been planning on making papas a la huancaina— a favorite of hers from her childhood. She’d thought about her grandmother early this morning when she’d gone to the Peruvian market to buy potatoes, cheese from Mayobamba, hot peppers, and black olives. The last time she’d seen her grandmother was the day her own mother had dragged Marina off and put her on a plane for France. Her grandmother wore an apron and smelled like garlic and spices. Marina had clung to her, mixing her own tears with the perspiration on her grandmother’s neck. “Don’t let her send me away,” Marina had begged.
“No llores, preciosa,” her grandmother said. Don’t cry, precious. “You come back soon. I’ll be waiting.”
But her grandmother hadn’t waited. Six months later, Marina received a cursory note from her mother that her grandmother had died.
After that, Marina wanted no memory, no association with that earlier life. She spoke only French. Cooked only French. Was only French. Until the day D.C. had reawakened something in her.
Her car wouldn’t start. She’d been standing beside it in the school parking lot, kicking the door.
“That’s not likely to be effective,” D.C. had said. He was carrying his laptop and a load of papers to his own car. She had been his graduate assistant for the past three months, but he’d always been reserved and formal with her. She had craved more of this brilliant, contentious man, but had been reluctant to approach him— knew it would be futile. His gold wedding band was too shiny, too conspicuous. So she had settled for being a dazzling protégée, a worthy student, reading every word he wrote, and becoming his most vocal advocate. “I can try jumping it,” he said.
“Do what you like,” she said.