The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

by Laura Lippman (ed) (epub)

  Nothing remains of your home. Every structure south of Avenue N or east of 12th Street is gone. Destroyed buildings near the beach created a pile of debris. Pushed by the wind and waves, it plowed through everything in its path.

  The authorities tried burying the victims at sea, but within two days the corpses washed back ashore. Instead they’re burning them. The toll was so enormous that the pyres still burn, filling the air with ash and the stench of charred flesh.

  Jewelry or other possessions are often the only way to identify the dead. Amongst the recovered remains I found the watch you described. Your husband, Wendell, is listed among the dead. The other man you requested information on, Jamieson Maret, was severely wounded. He expired in the makeshift hospital here three days after the storm.

  Please accept my condolences . . .

  Laying down the letter, Amelia wiped a tear from her eye. Donald still stood beside Arthur, his head bowed. While Arthur maintained his stoic control, Amelia could see his eyes were full.

  She opened the box. There was Wendell’s pocket watch, sitting on a bed of tissue paper. She stared at the dented cover; smelled the seawater in which it had been immersed.

  Amelia stood up and held the box out to Arthur. “Please secure a graveyard plot and bury this watch there. Have them place a headstone above it with Wendell’s name and years. Also, send Elizabeth to me. I shall need black outfits.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said.

  “I could never believe something like this could have happened,” Donald said as Arthur left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Amelia looked at Donald. After a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm they were alone, Donald stepped toward her, smiling. Amelia fell forward against him, grateful at last to be enfolded in his loving embrace again.

  ED KURTZ

  A Good Marriage

  FROM Thuglit

  1

  We were at the Allens’ anniversary party, which I hated, and Hannah hated it too. It was not as though we didn’t like the Allens—Joe Allen, anyway, a big, fat, affable bear of a man—it was all just so tacky. I was of the opinion that notifying other people of one’s forthcoming birthday was vulgar enough (Don’t forget my gift!), but an anniversary always seemed like a private thing, a husband/wife thing, nothing to do with me or my debit card. Joe could buy his wife lunar real estate for all I cared, just leave me out of it. As far as I knew, Hannah felt much the same way.

  But Joe insisted, and his wife made sure to send us their wish list by e-mail, so with twin engine grumbling we went and presented them with the Waterford vase they wanted. She cooed hungrily over the damn thing and he nodded with appreciation. There were a lot of people there. The gifts were piling up in the corner by the fireplace. Finally, after the inimitable Mrs. Allen opened their (her) last gift, the assemblage was freed to drink, drink, and be drunk. A trio of hulky guys whose guts were threatening the structural integrity of their shirts swarmed the keg. Hannah and I opted for the crappy boxed wine.

  “Jesus,” she snarked in my ear, “what a disgrace.”

  I sucked at a mouthful of supermarket zinfandel and nodded. That’s what husbands seemed to do best around here: nod. Even the troglodytes huddled around the keg were nodding like junkies while they took turns filling up red Solo cups.

  “We’ve been married seven years,” Hannah hissed. “Way I see it, these people all owe us back pay.”

  I laughed, felt some of the wine work its way up into my nasal cavity. Hannah tsked and went in search of a napkin as it dribbled from my nostrils. I felt a little stupid, and maybe more so when a woman in a powder-blue summer dress covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her giggles. Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I smiled at her and shrugged. What are you gonna do?

  The napkin flew to my face like a surface-to-air missile and Hannah, always the second mother to me, smeared it all over my face, her brow tightly knitting as though she were defusing a bomb. I took over from there, gently taking control of the napkin to prove that yes, I was wearing my big-boy pants today, but thanks for your assistance.

  “What do you think?” she asked, her voice without a suggestion of tone.

  “I think it’s a miracle I didn’t ruin this shirt.”

  “No, I mean her. What do you think of her?”

  My head jerked up, mouth hanging open. Hannah gestured with her chin—a nice, subtle chin, I’d always thought—at the blonde in the summer dress. I tried not to look at her again, but it was automatic, like the old “Made you look!” game kids play. Now she looked discomfited, perhaps a bit distressed. She dropped her eyes and disappeared into the throng of partygoers.

  “I don’t know her,” I said. “Never saw her before. Friend of Katherine’s, I assume.”

  “You know that’s not what I asked.”

  “You asked me what I think. I don’t think anything, because I don’t know anything about that woman.”

  That woman. Appropriately disparaging, I thought. Clintonesque, as in Oh, that woman.

  “You were looking at her. She tittered.”

  “Tittered?”

  “Tittered.”

  “It’s a party. People are having a good time, Hannah. Don’t make such a—”

  “Don’t you dare,” she growled low, her lacquered nails digging into my arm. I winced, held my breath. This was getting ugly fast. Spiraling out of control. “Is she pretty? Did you like her ass? You could practically see it through that dress, you know.”

  I knew, but I didn’t say I knew. I just made a straight, clenched line of my mouth and felt my stomach make a fist.

  “It’s nothing,” I said at some length. “Nothing to worry about. I promise you that.”

  Hannah’s lips spread apart to show her perfect, picket-fence teeth.

  “I think we both know what your promises are worth,” she hissed at me.

  That stung, but I kept silent. Because of course she was in the right. I had lied, and it only takes one to dissolve trust like a tab of Alka-Seltzer. Liars are like alcoholics: no matter how forthcoming and honest they are after the fact, they can never not be a liar again. It is a stigma, an ever-present black cloud that never gets burned up by the sun. The ex-drunks carry those chips around in their pockets, and I carried my guilt. Hannah never let me forget about that.

  Joe came around then, a bottle of Mexican beer in his meaty hand and a toothy smile plastered across his face. Hannah immediately released my arm, assumed her role as the one everybody liked, the chipper optimist.

  “Having a good time?” Joe barked.

  “A great time, Joe,” my wife said. “Thanks so much for inviting us.”

  “I don’t even know half these people—Katherine’s coworkers, ‘the girls from the office,’ you know.”

  “Invite one and you have to invite them all,” she said pleasantly, cheerfully. “We move in packs.”

  She winked. Joe chuckled, squeezed my shoulder. I was covering my arm with my hand, concealing the broken skin, a cluster of red half-moons where Hannah clutched me with her talons. The music fell silent and the murmur of a dozen overlapping conversations rose up to fill the hole when Katherine came bouncing over, seized Hannah by the wrist, and bellowed, “Come on, help me pick some more songs!”

  Joe’s wife dragged mine across the room, Hannah’s eyes big and helpless. Neither of us really cared much for Katherine, though we maintained that dirty little secret discreetly. I felt a pang for my wife, having to deal with her, but dismissed it when Joe pulled me into a crushing sideways hug, sloshing his beer all over the floor.

  “You guys are so awesome together,” he drawled, his tongue thick with the buzz. “We’re going to be like that, me and Kathy.”

  I tried to imagine Katherine drawing blood from Joe with her fingernails. The picture didn’t fit.

  “Hey, I’m gonna get another beer,” Joe said. “You want anything?”

  “No, I’ll just mingle.”

  “Mingle,” he chortled. “Y
eah, you mingle.”

  With that he lumbered off in search of a new beer to spill all over his guests. A new tune came blaring from the Allens’ surround-sound speakers: Top 40 stuff, all sugar and sound effects, definitely not Hannah’s choice.

  For once I was left on my own, so I didn’t waste any time; I made a beeline for the tightly grouped revelers, following the blonde’s path. After receiving a few accidental elbows to the ribs and stepping on some poor woman’s toes, I spotted her through the sliding glass door on the back patio. She had both hands on her drink and swung her hips side to side with the music. A quick scan of the room revealed no Hannah within view, so I slipped outside among the mosquitoes and leaning tiki torches.

  She wasn’t talking to anyone, just swaying by herself, probably enjoying the hold the red drink in her hand was beginning to take. I slid up beside her and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” she said, the words syrupy.

  She really was beautiful, objectively speaking. Dazzling blue eyes, like gems. Bee-stung lips. I swallowed dry and frowned.

  “Listen, my wife . . .”

  “I figured that’s who that was. If looks could kill.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Do you always try to pick up women when you go to parties with your wife?”

  A faint grin played at her mouth, but it was the admonishing kind. Tsk-tsk, young man. You ought to know better.

  “Pick up—? No, I’m not. I’m not.” I shifted instantly into defense mode, which was my default gear. “That’s not it at all. It’s just—well, I think you should leave.”

  “Leave?” Her playful incredulity suddenly became a lot less playful.

  “Yes. Right now, actually.”

  “You’re serious.”

  She wasn’t swaying anymore. The music shifted to a Leonard Cohen song. More Hannah’s speed, which meant she was hopefully still occupied with Katherine.

  “You have no idea how . . . possessive she gets. That little thing with the wine back there?”

  “Terrible stuff, isn’t it?”

  “It’s awful, but please—”

  “I don’t even know why I’m here, to tell the truth.”

  “Great, then really, you should go.”

  The blonde assumed a bemused expression, a matronly look of utter disappointment. I heard the back door slide squeakily open behind me and gave up.

  “Is my husband bothering you?”

  My eyes slid shut and a sigh whistled past my lips. Hannah’s arm hooked mine and the blond woman laughed the way women do in awkward social situations. I’m an expert on that laugh.

  “No, not at all,” she said. Then, conspiratorially: “But I think he’s a little drunk.”

  I wasn’t, of course. Not even close. Hannah apologized for me anyway (“I’m so sorry, he never seems to know when enough is enough”) and, with a courteous if formal goodbye, she ushered me around the side of the house to the car in the driveway. Not through the house, no “thanks for the party” to the Allens, but around the house. In the dark, like a couple of goddamn thieves.

  Or not like, because when I slid into the passenger seat of my wife’s Acura (she always drove, always insisted on unlocking and opening the door for me), she handed me her baggy purse to hold on to, whereupon I immediately took notice of its largest, most conspicuous occupant. The Waterford vase we’d given to the Allens no more than an hour before. An act of aggression, however mild; a subtle “fuck you” to the woman she loathed and my friend who always annoyed her with his loud voice and gregarious demeanor. Joe and Katherine would spend a while sifting through their gifts later on, frustrated with the absurdity of the lost vase. It was right here! Where could it have gone?

  Tricky, slippery Hannah.

  She stabbed the ignition with her key and cleared her throat in time with the rumbling of the engine. Home.

  I could tell things were about to get bad again.

  2

  The mewling cries wafted up through the air-conditioning vents, from the basement to every room in the house. I hated it, that awful, pitiful sound, but I shut it out of my mind. Pretended as best I could that it wasn’t really there at all. One of the secrets to a good marriage: put those things you just can’t stand out of your head. Nobody’s perfect.

  I was in the spare room, once considered the future location of our first child’s bedroom, since loaded up with towers of boxes, the minutiae of a shared life. The notion had occurred to me that it might make a decent home office. Upon expressing this thought to Hannah, her eyes went wide with delight—“No, no,” she exclaimed, “a crafts room. Yes, that would be perfect.”

  So I was prepping the room for Hannah. Hannah and her crafts. And all the while the woman in our basement howled miserably: No, why, why, why are you doing this to me. A familiar line, a cliché. I was beginning to think that people based their words on oft-repeated lines we hear on television. The brain references the sundry crime programs they’d seen over the years, the dozen or so kidnapping scenarios, and it knows right off what the right words are. How often does it work on those shows? I wasn’t sure.

  I could take the doors off the closet, make it a nice little space for a sewing table. Soon Hannah would have two workrooms, this and the basement. She had so many hobbies.

  In the late afternoon she emerged from the basement, shut the door, and locked it with her key. Her face was spotted with sweat and I thought maybe there was a small spattering of blood on her tank top. I wasn’t looking too closely. I never did. She went right past me in the kitchen, hustled for the back of the house to take a shower. Just like she’d been working out. Which I guess she was. It wasn’t easy, what she’d been up to.

  Hannah chose a restaurant for dinner, didn’t feel like cooking. I said I’d be happy to whip something up, but her mind was made up. She knotted a tie around my neck, still displeased with the way I did it, and we hopped into her Acura for a quick jaunt to a new Caribbean place she read about in the paper. She complained about Kathy Allen the whole way.

  “Can you believe her? She asks what I want to hear, we’re sitting together by the stereo and she smells, by the way, and she asks, ‘What’s your poison?’ And then she just plays her own crap anyway.”

  I almost reminded her about the Leonard Cohen song, but I choked it down.

  The place was called El Carib and it was full of tropical fish tanks and bustling waitresses. Televisions mounted in the corners of the ceiling played soap operas with the volume turned down. After we sat down I kept my eyes trained on the laminated menu. She asked me how the crafts room was coming along and I muttered something vaguely encouraging. I didn’t look at the waitress when she came around to take our order. If she murdered somebody right then and there and the police asked me to describe the assailant, I couldn’t have done it. I had blinders on. Sometimes I forgot, but not then.

  Hannah pointed to something on her menu, asked if it had bananas in it. The waitress said she didn’t think so and Hannah made her go back to the kitchen and make sure. When she came back positive that the dish—I don’t remember what it was—was banana-free, my wife ordered it for both of us. I ate it like a prison meal, pausing occasionally to sip at my water and nod at Hannah while she talked about the thriller she was reading and our HOA and didn’t the new mail carrier seem a great deal friendlier than the old one? Neither of us so much as alluded to the elephant in the basement.

  Poor woman.

  3

  Monday I spent my lunch break with Patricia. I drove to the diner like a fugitive, taking odd turns, a circuitous route, terribly careful that I wasn’t being followed. She was waiting for me in the last booth by the restrooms, a scarf on her head and enormous sunglasses disguising most of her face. I had to laugh. When I sat down across from her, I grumbled, “What’s the password?”

  “Swordfish” was her reply. She liked the Marx Brothers. I introduced her to them.

  Patricia was an administrative assistant at my office for the be
tter part of two years before she got married and resigned. We were friendly, but not friends. I didn’t miss her when she left. Less than a year later she was divorced and came around for a lunch date with one of her old coworkers. She and I got to talking, and inside a month we were sweating in a tangle between musty sheets at her apartment. I had “gone home sick.” I was never on guard at the office, not like I was at home.

  She was sipping at a Bloody Mary and I ordered the same. I was so used to letting women make my decisions for me, I couldn’t see why it should be any different with Pat. Still, she crooked her full red lips to one side and said, “You can get whatever you want.”

  “This is fine.”

  “You’re tense.”

  “Hannah,” I said. It was all that needed saying.

  “Divorce her.”

  “Pat—”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I know.”

  I signaled the girl behind the counter for another one. Pat fired up a long, slim cigarette and exhaled like a femme fatale from some old noir movie. She certainly looked the part. Red hair, shoulder length, skin like alabaster. I didn’t have a type, and even if I did, Patricia probably wouldn’t be it. But still, we fit.

  A couple of weeks earlier I had told her I loved her. Damnedest thing, didn’t mean to say it, even if I was thinking it. Of course, just thinking didn’t necessarily mean it was true. All the same, I said it, and she parroted it back to me. I loved her and she loved me. We were in love. And I was married to somebody else. What a bastard.

  “I want you,” Pat said, slipping off her sunglasses to gaze at the stream of blue-gray smoke spilling up from her cigarette’s ember.