by Doug Burgess
“She? Wait…Alicia?”
“Yup.”
“Wow,” I breathe. “Have you talked to her yet?”
“No. The Staties had a go at her after Marcus disappeared, of course, and they’ve been up to Fogland Point a few times since. It’s their case, after all. I’m just the errand boy now.”
I can’t help but catch the note of bitterness, but my wheels are turning. The fever has burnt itself out, and now all I can think about is escape from this wretched linoleum cell. But I must move cautiously. “Mhmm,” I say, casually, “I suppose, though, there can’t be any rule against you paying her a visit. You could say you need to search the house.”
He nods, distracted. “That’s true enough. We just got confirmation on the fertilizer purchase this morning. I’m still waiting on a warrant. The judge comes in at ten; should have it pretty soon after that.”
“And if you go, and she happens to be there, you might ask a few questions…”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I wanna come!” I’m sitting upright in the bed like a kid on Christmas morning.
Billy jolts out of his reverie. “What? No! Don’t be ridiculous. It’s police business!”
“That’s just the point. I know this woman. If you show up with your sirens and your badge, she’ll clam up before you reach the porch. But if I come along it’s more…social.”
He is still incredulous. “She hates you, David. You told me so yourself.”
“Only when she thought I fucked Marcus. I just wandered into their orbit. Imagine, she’s been cooped up in that house for weeks now without a soul to talk to. Honestly she’s probably dying for a good long chat.” I’m completely making this up as I go, but it sounds plausible, no?
Billy shakes his head. “I don’t think we can do things like that.”
“We? What, you and the Staties? You’re suddenly best buds now? It’s their case, you said. Do you think they give a rat’s ass what you do?”
Billy Dyer never liked getting his manhood jabbed, and I always knew just where to prod. But a decade is a decade, and his armor is thicker. He puts his palms on his knees and strives for an air of patience. “Even if that’s true,” he tells me reasonably, “there’s gotta be rules about interrogating suspects with civilians present. It’s just…not done.”
“So what exactly was I doing up at the Armstrong house a few weeks ago? This is Little Compton, Billy. You couldn’t even afford a squad car until last year. Think I don’t remember that golf cart with the flashing lights on top?” He flinches; the golf cart is a sore point with him. I press home my advantage. “You didn’t think I was too much of a civilian to go talk to Marcus for you. I was one of the last to see him alive, and the first to find his corpse. Not to mention poor Wally. I’m as much in this case as you are, and it’s your fault.”
“You’re still sick,” he says, grasping at his last defense.
“I’m being released today. In fact, I was just about to start packing.” Suiting action to the word, I pull myself out of bed and begin throwing random objects into my backpack. As if on cue, the nurse arrives, scowling fiercely. She sees me out of bed, my white bottom gleaming like porcelain under the fluorescent lights as I struggle into my jeans. Hands on her hips, she fixes me in a there-will-be-no-breaking-the-rules glare. “Now, you’re not going to be difficult, are you Miss Hazard…”
“MISTER.” Amazingly, it is Billy that corrects her. His face is flushed. They stare at one another for a moment, and irrelevantly I think how much she, with her teased blond hair and pug-dog expression, reminds me of Debbie Antonelli. I’ll bet she’s a cousin. But something has snapped in Billy; maybe he sees the resemblance too. He turns to me. “Leave the rest of your stuff. I’ll come for it later.”
“Patients can only be discharged by the doctor on duty!” the nurse bleats.
“Official police business!” Chief Dyer roars back. “You get away from that door, or I’ll bring you in for unlawful obstruction of justice.” When this seems to overwhelm her, Billy takes a menacing step forward. “Move your fat ass!”
The nurse jumps to one side, still holding her clipboard over her bosom like an inadequate shield. Her eyes are huge. Gently, I take the clipboard from her trembling fingers. Sure enough, it gives statistics for “HAZARD, Rosalie.” I black out the offending word and write David above it, adding PhD for good measure. “There,” I say, patting her on the shoulder, “it’s official. Rosalie Hazard was never here at all. And Dr. Hazard has discharged himself.”
I can hear Billy chuckling in the hallway. I take his hand as we head for the door, and he lets me.
The drive up to the Armstrong house is long and lined with poplar trees. No one has swept up the leaves. The house looks much as it did when I saw it last, but even more desolate. “Are you sure she’s home?” I ask.
Billy just points to the car in the driveway, a black Mercedes SLE that probably traveled in the Calliope’s hold, until ship and master disappeared.
Alicia—or Crystal—greets us at the door in a tattered pair of leggings and a purple sweatshirt with “YOLO” stenciled on the back. Her hair hangs damp around her shoulders, dark roots grown out beneath the blond, and her face is shiny without makeup. In her hand is a dirty mug half-filled with something I don’t really believe is coffee. All in all, a far cry from the coiffed perfection of a few weeks before. When she sees me, we both flinch.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Mrs. Rhinegold?” Billy moves confidently into the space between us and pulls out his badge. “I’m Chief of Police William Dyer. I know you’ve talked with my colleagues already, but I was hoping I can ask you a few questions?”
“You’re a cop? You don’t look like a cop. And what did you bring him for?”
“Dr. Hazard is a very important witness. I just wanted to make sure both your stories correlate.”
Alicia narrows her eyes. “Yeah. That’s a great idea. You might start by asking the good doctor here how he keeps happening on the scene when bodies turn up, like Angela fucking Lansbury. Want my opinion: he’s got you all suckered.”
“That’s a very interesting theory,” Billy agrees affably. “And let me add my condolences on the loss of your husband. It must be a terrible time for you. Grief, that is.”
It is an overcast day in early December, but Alicia is squinting so much it could be a blinding August afternoon. “I’m devastated,” she answers in a flat tone. “Anything else?”
“Just one little thing,” I put in, countering her Angela Lansbury with Peter Falk. “How’s your garden coming along?”
We both look over to the bare stretch of crab grass, already browned and covered with dead leaves. An overturned wheelbarrow adds to the effect. “Huh?”
“Better get a move on,” I advise. “It’ll be early frost any day now. Need a hand with the sod rolls?”
She crosses her arms. “Are you drunk or something?” That’s pretty rich considering the sharp, pungent smells wafting our way.
Billy chimes in on cue. “It’s such a nice yard, but it needs a bit of upkeep, doesn’t it?” He looks around elaborately. “You considering any big landscaping projects?”
“Of course not. I hate this house. Always did. This was Marcus’s little pet project, not mine.”
“Huh.” Billy strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You’re gonna have a heck of a time getting rid of all that fertilizer then.”
Now the silence is absolute. Alicia stares at us both. Her mouth is not actually open, but there is a slackness to her face that was not there a moment ago. It’s as if the spool inside her has wound itself out. “Fuck it,” she says finally. “You’d better come inside.”
Billy and I follow her into the cavernous front hall. It is morning, but the curtains are drawn and the lights switched off. Billy trips on the carpet edge and swears to himself.
; “Couldn’t pay the electric bill,” Alicia calls over her shoulder. It is not an apology. “It’s a bit brighter in the living room. Come on.”
I make my way mostly by instinct. The living room is indeed brighter since there are no curtains to cover the windows, and the floor is polished pine. There is no carpet, either, no pictures on the walls or books on the shelves, nothing on the fireplace mantle, save an empty Starbucks cup. A nubby blue sofa, two folding chairs, and a coffee table of indeterminate age huddle together in the center of the room and seem to apologize for their presence. “Sit,” Alicia commands.
We each take a folding chair, and Alicia spreads herself across the couch. There is a looseness to her movements, like an actor relaxing in her dressing room after a long performance. But her fingers drum a tattoo on the cushion. “So,” she says, “the fertilizer. What’s the big deal? Marcus had the landscapers coming later that week and needed it done. I did it for him. End of story.”
“That was very helpful of you,” says Billy.
She just shrugs.
“But you couldn’t have had the chance to lay it down, all the same, right? I mean you’d need a contractor for that.”
“No, I never had the chance.”
“So it must be in the garage? I’ve got a warrant here.” He makes a great business of searching through all his pockets before finally producing it. “Yup, here we go. Can you just show me the fertilizer? Then we’ll be on our way.”
Alicia hasn’t moved, but her whole body tenses. “I don’t think it’s in the garage.”
“No? Maybe the boathouse? Or did they just leave it in the yard?” Billy leans in, drops the polite mask. “Or did you tell the Allies’ deliverymen to load it right into the Calliope’s hold? Kinda foolish, wasn’t that? They remembered it at once. Why would anyone need twenty-six bags of fertilizer on a boat?”
Her face becomes even shinier. “Marcus said to put it there! I don’t know why! That’s what he said!”
“Oh, come on now,” I interject. “You two were barely speaking the night I met you. I have a hard time imagining you doing his errands for him.”
“What do you know about it?” she snarls.
“Quite a lot, actually. I know, for example, that the Molinari family wanted Marcus dead. And that you could have contacted them any time. Pretty simple, just one phone call—to Anthony, wasn’t it?—and you’re a very wealthy widow.”
She pales at the name, but still manages to look incredulous. “That’s what you think. Anthony wouldn’t have wasted any time on me. I’d be gone as fast as Marcus.”
Billy smiles gently. “That’s not really true though,” he puts in. “You’re very persuasive, Mrs. Rhinegold. You must have been, to get this far. You could easily have painted them a pretty picture: captive spouse, afraid for her life, loyal to them all along. Even if they didn’t buy all of it, they’d be damn grateful to hear from you. Then they gave you your instructions: purchase the fertilizer, rig up some kind of explosive device, and make damn sure you were away when the fireworks started—”
“No!” Alicia swings her legs round and sits bolt upright. “That’s horseshit! I never called them.”
“Wifely fidelity?”
“They would have killed us both!”
“Okay, okay,” Billy holds up his hands. “Let’s say you’re right. It doesn’t change anything. You still wanted out from this life, this marriage. You didn’t need the Molinaris to tell you how to blow up something with fertilizer. You just needed Google.”
“I never—”
“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Rhinegold. The contusions on his body suggest he was blown clear of the Calliope when she exploded. We know that much; it’s only a matter of time before we find the wreckage. We also know that the same day he disappeared, you ordered twenty-six bags of highly combustible fertilizer loaded right onto the boat. If you can’t explain these facts to me, you’ll very likely have to explain them to a jury.”
Alicia is on her feet, furious. “I’ve had enough! I know my rights! You get the fuck out of here!”
“You can certainly refuse to answer, but you can’t really make us leave, Mrs. Rhinegold.”
Things have reached an impasse. Alicia is shaken but adamant; Billy is cool but not hopeful. “Crystal,” I say softly, hoping her real name will reach past her defenses, “this isn’t helping either of us. Let’s just leave the fertilizer for a moment, okay? Did you know Marcus was actually Kevin Johnson?”
“Who?” she answers blankly.
“Never mind. You knew him as Kevin Wales, I suppose?”
Slightly mollified, she sits again. “Yeah. That’s what he called himself. He was a real live wire back then. Lots of fun. I liked him a lot.”
“Did you know about his other…interests?”
Her mouth hardens, and I brace myself for a torrent of obscenity. Instead she just shrugs. “Not at first. He didn’t come on like that. You know, faggy. But he was different than the other guys round the club. Quieter. Like he was thinking things out. Most of these goombahs, they come at you with big smiles and billfolds flashing, but not him. I actually went after him, can you believe it?” She shakes her damp curls. “What a fucking moron. I should’ve seen he was just scoping us out. Didn’t matter which he ended up with; he took more time choosing a car than he did marrying me. But what did I care? He was on the way up, anybody could see it. I’ve seen marriage proposals come from three whiskey doubles and a lap dance—why should mine be any less successful?”
“But then you found out about his interest in men,” Billy puts in, rather bluntly.
“No. That came later. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to do the job, believe me. We went at it pretty regular at first. Then it tapered off. But I figured he was just stressed. I tried. I actually think I loved him then. So much that when he came home one day, handed me a plane ticket, and told me to pack whatever I needed for the rest of my life, I didn’t hesitate. I followed him like a good little wifey.”
“Why should he take you at all?” I wondered. “If the marriage was just a front for the Molinaris, why not just leave you with the rest of his abandoned identity?”
“Hey, fuck you!” Alicia shouts, all her rage returning at once. “Who do you think you are? Marcus might not have been the man I thought he was, but our marriage wasn’t just a sham. I liked him. And I think—I know—he liked me.”
“There’s another reason,” Billy adds. “From all I’ve been able to understand about him, Marcus Rhinegold was almost preternaturally careful. He planned his escape from the Molinaris meticulously; the FBI said it was the best they’d ever seen. He couldn’t risk leaving Alicia—Crystal—behind, because if he did, the Molinaris would know what he was up to instantly. Not to mention she would have given them enough information to track Marcus down themselves. By taking her, he bought himself some time, and also a possible return ticket. If things went wrong, he could just fly home with her and say they were on vacation or something. She was his insurance policy.”
Alicia considers this. “Yeah, that does sound like him,” she admits. “He was a great one for plans. But even if that was part of it, it wasn’t all. I knew him, don’t forget, better than anyone. At bottom, he was a very lonely man.”
“Yes,” I say, “he was.”
“And you know, for a while it was actually fun. We went to Paris, Biarritz, Monte Carlo, then picked up the Calliope in Villefranche and bounced around the Med. I liked the life. It seemed almost romantic, like some movie: two exiles on the run from the mob. It was romantic, all right, but I wasn’t the lead. First, he started working his way through the crew: stewards, deckhands, even some engineer from Porto they brought on to fix the diesels. He had this big scene laid out for them. Drinks on the aft deck, lots of fancy talk, more drinks, then a quick tussle in one of the empty cabins. With me just a few feet aft, snoring away. Well, it didn’t
take that long to find out. Then, finally, I knew what my marriage was. I knew what my life had become.”
Alicia looks down into her half-empty cup, considers it for a moment, puts it to her lips.
“You must have hated him,” I say quietly.
“Oh, sure,” she agrees. “At first. I hated him like poison. But it’s not so easy to keep hating someone you see every day, all day. Not unless he’s a crud or a psychopath, and Marcus wasn’t either of those. I’ll say that much. He was decent, in his way, and I don’t think he ever meant me harm.”
“You sounded pretty bitter that night.”
“Of course I was. You would be, too. But don’t read so much into it. I was bored, frustrated, angry. At least when we were in Europe, we kept moving—but now, suddenly, we were stuck here. Stuck with me playing the role of Lady Di or some crap, and Marcus off doing little errands in the town. I thought I’d go shithouse crazy.”
“Errands?” Billy interrupts, looking interested. “What sort of errands?”
Alicia shrugs again. “Some family stuff,” she says dismissively. “That’s why we came here in the first place. He had a relative somewhere. Thought she might be able to help him. With what, I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t either. By that point he was just exhausted. Sometimes I think he just wanted to rebuild that big ugly house as a mausoleum: finish it, furnish it, then blow his brains out right in the living room. He liked grand gestures.”
There is a quiet kind of sadness to her now, very different from the brittle anger before. I feel like I am seeing her for the first time: not a murderous spouse, or a greedy one, but a straightforward and rather stupid woman who gave her life to a man she couldn’t possibly understand. “Crystal,” I say earnestly, leaning toward her, “who do you think killed Marcus?”