Expose

by Danielle Girard

Colleagues, he reminded himself. No. Well, yes, they were, but they were more than that—they were friends. Good friends. Hal suspected Schwartzman saw him outside work more than anyone else. And that was true for him as well. They’d naturally started to make plans for the weekends, and if a few days passed without seeing each other, it felt strange.

  Friends.

  Schwartzman emerged from the bedroom wearing maroon corduroy slacks and a sweater with black boots. Her hair was pulled away from her face, the dark curls softened into waves. “Sorry about that.”

  He rose from the couch. “You look good.” He made an awkward wave beside his head. “I like the hair.”

  “I tried to tame it a bit. I’ve got this gadget that’s supposed to help, but I’m hopeless with it.”

  He pictured the box of curlers his sisters used to plug in beside the sink in their shared bathroom when they were kids.

  Schwartzman carried a leather satchel the color of caramel over one shoulder. Not much for the overnight. His ex-wife, Sheila, had rarely left the house—let alone gone away overnight—without an assortment of wardrobe changes. In case it was too cold. Or too hot. Or if the event had been fancier or more casual than she’d expected. What others thought of her had meant a lot.

  Surely, Schwartzman would also be considering what his family might make of her—both as an individual and as a friend to Hal. But he liked that she understood the outfit wouldn’t matter. She had clearly taken the time to look nice, although she always did. But she hadn’t gone nuts with it. She looked like herself.

  She collected her purse from the dining table and glanced around the room as though for something she might have forgotten. He took her bag as she locked the front door and handed him the car keys.

  “Do you mind driving?”

  They were taking her car, which was newer, nicer, and also larger. Hal drove an old Honda Accord when he wasn’t in a department car.

  “Not at all.”

  As Hal drove them out of town, Schwartzman asked about his weekend, and he told her about his trips to Berkeley, the retired detective Gambini, who still hadn’t called him back, and the professor’s house.

  “Did you meet him—the professor, I mean?”

  He told her how he’d gone by the house, seen whom he thought was the professor with his gardener.

  “Maybe we should go there,” Schwartzman said.

  “To the house? I went.”

  “But you didn’t talk to him,” she said.

  “What’s he going to tell us?” Hal glanced at the clock. They had time. He’d told Tasha he’d be there around ten a.m., but she’d expect him to be late. He was always late to family functions. “Something he forgot to tell the police fourteen years ago?” Hal added.

  “Maybe something he didn’t want to tell a police officer.”

  “What am I?”

  “Maybe you’re someone who knew Aleena Laughlin,” she offered and then seemed to think better of it. “Maybe I’m someone who knew her. You look a lot like a cop.”

  He laughed. “Okay. We can try.”

  “Plus, I’ve never been up to the Berkeley hills,” she said.

  “So if nothing else, it’s a scenic drive.”

  Hal drove past the campus, then up the hill where the roads wound and wandered as though they’d been planned by someone on a leisurely stroll. The busiest of the thoroughfares was hardly wide enough for two cars to pass, and certainly not if others parked along the curbs. The farther up the hills they went, the larger the houses grew, like plants in increasingly fertile soil.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

  And he had to admit, it was a beautiful area. The homes were old shingled monstrosities, their gardens lush and green, filled with tufts of grasses and lavender shrubs peaked without their purple blossoms, and the bushy, green shrubs that would, come spring, bloom giant heads of white or blue or pink hydrangeas. Cobblestone retaining walls and narrow sidewalks cracked from the roots of the giant oaks that lined the streets.

  Hal made a U-turn and parked opposite the house, his preference for an easy exit.

  There was no one in the professor’s yard, so he took the time to really study the house. It was stunning, set on a small nob on the hillside that raised it above its neighbors. It also had one extra story, pushing its height toward the sky. A small third-floor turret stood like a raised fist of success off the far side of the second floor.

  “It’s well kept,” she said. “I can’t imagine renting out this place to some student.”

  “Professors don’t make much money,” he said. “Guy probably needed the eighteen grand.”

  She nodded. “That’s a lot of money.”

  The house’s pale, blue-gray shingles were freshly painted. White trim gleamed in the sunlight that illuminated the house at its raised position on the street. The front door a solid, shiny black. Hal had Googled Professor George Ramseyer. He’d written a book—something about Greco-Bactrian antiquities. Greco-Bactria, he had learned, had been a kingdom in Central Asia from 250 to 125 BCE, its center in the north of present-day Afghanistan and its borders reaching into present-day Pakistan. It was hard to imagine it being a bestseller, but perhaps there was a market for that sort of book. Or maybe he assigned it to all his students.

  Schwartzman cracked her door. “Might as well see if he’ll talk to us.”

  “You’re the friend of Aleena’s.”

  “Right.”

  “And who am I?”

  “My friend,” she said quickly.

  The two of them crossed the quiet street and started up the stately front steps. Two cement rabbits hunched opposite each other at the break in the stairs. Hal hadn’t noticed them before, but their presence suggested a woman lived in the house as well. Or had.

  To the left side of the house, beneath the turret, a carefully trimmed hedge hugged the house like a belt. Hal studied the rose garden, recalling the professor’s anger at his gardener. The rosebushes looked fine to him. An insect flew by with a roaring buzz, and Hal caught sight of a dragonfly. It hovered like a tiny helicopter, displaying the dull browns of its body and head. It looked so benign. But he didn’t think of them that way anymore, not after the one that had come out of Aleena Laughlin’s mouth.

  Somewhere nearby was the mewing of a cat. Hal stepped down the path toward the rose garden. Beyond it, several steps led down to a basement door, also painted black. The cat sat at the base of the stairs, whining at the door. It stopped as soon as it caught sight of him and padded over, stopping to wrap itself around Schwartzman’s feet.

  When the cat finished its loop, they started for the front door.

  Curtains in that front room shifted. “Someone knows we’re here.”

  Schwartzman rang the bell, and he stepped behind her as they waited on the porch.

  Shortly, the door opened to a man dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt. His hair was wavy and steel gray, curling over the top of his ear and collar with the look of someone who hadn’t found the time to book a haircut. As he stepped outside, he pulled on an overcoat, as though they’d caught him in the process of leaving. “Is it raining out there?” he asked, moving past them to stare up at the sky. His eyes took on a disappointed cast. “Not yet. It’s going to.”

  Hal glanced up at the clear sky as the man grabbed an umbrella from a stand by the door, tucked it under his arm, and then lifted a small leather duffel.

  “Professor Ramseyer?” Schwartzman said.

  “Yes,” he said distractedly as he shut off the lights in the front hallway and patted his pockets. “For heaven’s sake,” he muttered, dropping the duffel again.

  The door swung open as the man headed back into the house. The cat hurried behind him.

  “Professor,” Schwartzman repeated, a little louder.

  Schwartzman took a step inside, but Hal remained on the porch. “Professor, I was hoping I might take a few minutes of your time.”

  The sound of footsteps traveled through the house. She
gave Hal a look, and he shrugged, studying the large foyer that led to an open living space to the right and a dining area on the left. The old floors were parquet and probably original, covered in worn Persian rugs that had faded from years of sun and wear.

  Along the walls of the entryway hung framed pieces of art, photographs, and the occasional artifact. Hal scanned them for something similar to the weapon they’d found, but the artifacts were all broken pieces of ceramics or bits of carved wood. There were several photographs of groups of people—family, perhaps, a mixture of adults and children. He recognized younger versions of the professor in the images. The last framed item was a children’s crayon drawing of a jungle scene. Not exactly deadly.

  The professor returned. “Found them,” he announced, dangling a set of keys from his finger, as though they’d all been waiting to leave together. The cat was only a half step behind. As he reached down for his duffel, the cat tucked itself under his arm.

  “Stop it, Tennyson,” he said, nudging the cat away. He lifted his duffel and the umbrella.

  “Her name’s Tennyson?” Schwartzman asked in an effort to keep him from leaving. “Like the poet?”

  “The name wasn’t my choice,” the professor said, casting a look of annoyance at the cat.

  “She’s sweet,” Schwartzman said.

  The professor looked up. “She’s older than God, I swear, and the most dog-like cat I’ve ever known.”

  “Dog-like?” Schwartzman repeated. “How do you mean?”

  “She follows us around from room to room, hates to be alone. She’s totally social even with strangers. Very un-cat-like.” The professor took a step toward the stairs.

  “It looks like you’re on your way out,” Hal said, and the deepness of his voice appeared to startle the small man.

  He met Hal’s gaze, but there was no fear on his face. “I am. My wife’s sister is the head curator at the Legion of Honor art museum. I’m heading to a private event there.”

  “A private event on Thanksgiving?” Hal asked.

  “Indeed,” he said. “It’s for their major donors—people who gift millions each year—and I’m due at her house . . .” He set the duffel down to check his watch. “Oh, twenty minutes ago.”

  He wore no wedding ring, but a gold signet ring encircled the pinkie finger of his right hand, some sort of school or club insignia on its flat face. It was a strange affect, a pinkie ring on a man. Perhaps it had fit on his ring finger when he was younger and trimmer.

  “I am sorry you’re running late,” Schwartzman said, taking a half step closer. “I’m visiting and was hoping I might speak to you for a few minutes.”

  The professor paused without lifting the duffel again. He examined her face, his lips tugging toward a smile. “Were you a student?”

  Hal held his breath, half wishing she’d lie.

  “No.”

  The smile faded, leaving his lips a thin line. “Oh.”

  “I am a friend of Aleena Laughlin,” she said, sounding surprisingly sincere.

  “Aleena . . . ?” The professor repeated.

  “Laughlin.”

  “No,” the professor said.

  “She was a student during the 2003–2004 school year,” Schwartzman added.

  He frowned. “She can’t have been a student of mine. I was away that year on sabbatical. My third, I believe. I was in India.”

  “Yes,” Hal confirmed. “We know.”

  He looked between Hal and Schwartzman, as though trying to gauge their relationship. “Aleena,” he repeated.

  “Her maiden name was Safar,” Schwartzman offered, and he nodded his head.

  “Yes,” he said then. “I know who you mean.” He shooed the cat outside. “Go on, Tennyson. Out.”

  The cat took a few steps toward the door when Ramseyer hurried across the threshold, using his duffel bag to push the cat out.

  Once the door was closed and he’d locked it with his key, he faced them. “I don’t know anything about that night,” he said, lifting his duffel again. “But I’m willing to speak to you, of course. I’m afraid that would have to be Monday. You can call my office at the university and leave a message.”

  With that, he walked down the steps. Hal considered offering to help him with the duffel, but he was surprisingly agile for a man who had to be in his eighties.

  The cat sat on the porch, watching him go, and then turned her attention back to Schwartzman and pressed against her legs again.

  “That wasn’t that helpful.”

  “No,” Schwartzman agreed, squatting down to pet the cat, who walked its claws up the front of her pants like a dog ready to play.

  “That is a weird cat.”

  She pushed the cat down off her pants, and they headed back to the car. The only good news was that, if the traffic wasn’t too bad, they’d be almost on time to his sister’s house.

  40

  Schwartzman sensed Hal’s disappointment after leaving Professor Ramseyer’s house. On their way to Sacramento, she realized that she was partially dreading the visit to Hal’s family. She didn’t feel festive, and meeting all of them at once filled her with anxiety. But he had enough to worry about, so she pretended everything was fine, asking questions about his niece and nephews, about his sisters and brothers-in-law, and repeating their names in her head over and over to commit them to memory.

  After a quick stop at a Lucky grocery store to buy a bottle of wine, they arrived at Hal’s sister Tasha’s house. She’d been hoping to find a cute bakery and bring a nice baked something, but everything was closed. Of course it was. She might have baked something, but she hadn’t done that in years, and it would have meant looking up a recipe and then wishing she knew how to make her mother’s desserts. Her mother was a wonderful cook and an even better baker. When had she last celebrated Thanksgiving? She always worked holidays.

  It was almost three in Greenville. Her mother would be getting ready for her club dinner. Would they even serve turkey? Would her mother eat that or simply order her favorite item on the menu—the Nicoise salad?

  Nicoise salad for Thanksgiving. It sounded awful. Schwartzman should have been there. She should have figured out a way to be with her mother, her only family. They might have met in Atlanta or Florida.

  What would her mother tell her friends about making plans with her daughter? Would her mother admit that she and her daughter hadn’t even entertained the idea of sharing the holiday? That they hadn’t spoken about spending the holidays together—not in any concrete terms anyway—for eight years?

  The greeting at Tasha’s house was a big affair. In a matter of minutes, she’d met his mother, Faith, his two sisters along with their husbands, his four nephews, and a niece. It was a loud group, and Hal’s sisters were soon teasing him about putting on a little weight while the brothers-in-law talked over each other, preparing for an afternoon basketball tournament.

  The afternoon passed in a flurry of cooking and storytelling. Louis Armstrong and Thelonious Monk played on the stereo, with the occasional Kermit Ruffins thrown in, all music she’d heard riding with Hal. Hal worked in the kitchen with his two sisters.

  Schwartzman would have loved to be in there with them, helping and listening, but they’d made their opinions clear on too many cooks in the kitchen. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but Hal’s sisters surprised her. They were tall women, which was not a surprise, considering Hal was six four. But they were big personalities, too, so different from their brother.

  Where Hal balanced his size with a soft voice and slow, calm movements, his sisters moved with full energy, navigating around each other in the kitchen not by avoiding each other but by taking hold of each other—by the hips, the shoulders, the waist—and moving the other out of the way. Their voices, too, were big—throaty and deep—and they laughed with their entire bodies, gripping their bellies and leaning in.

  Even watching them took energy. And yet, when they were around Schwartzman, the frenzy calmed somewhat, a
s though they respected her newness and wanted her to be as comfortable as possible.

  Rather than feeling forced, the ebb and flow of that energy seemed completely natural, as though they understood the rest of the world moved at a slower, calmer place. They were lovely—all of them—and seeing Hal among his family made her appreciate him more. Schwartzman had the strong sense that she would have loved to be jostled and moved about by those sisters, by Hal.

  The idea made her cheeks flush.

  Why hadn’t her parents had more children? What she would have given for a brother or sister when she was young. What she would have given for one now.

  Schwartzman studied the pictures around the room, trying to imagine Hal as he’d been in the images. Rail thin, gawky with an Afro, almost always wearing a basketball jersey, a ball in his arms cradled like a baby. Or in his prom picture beside a voluptuous girl who looked five years his senior. Or as a chubby baby, being held by his daddy while his mother sat on the arm of the chair, her hand wrapped around her husband’s shoulder.

  When they sat down, dinner was a loud, raucous affair. She felt as though she were watching a Cirque du Soleil show where a dozen magnificent feats were occurring simultaneously, each on a different section of the stage, impossible to view all at once.

  In her own experience, Thanksgivings were long, quiet dinners with her parents. Her aunt, Ava, came occasionally, but the adults—and her father and aunt in particular—were cerebral people. They didn’t banter. They didn’t share funny stories for the sake of a laugh. They often discussed politics or the law, subjects dull to a young girl. Schwartzman recalled that she normally brought a book to the table to read while the adults talked.

  One Thanksgiving, she had been reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series and finished Farmer Boy only partway into the meal. She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom and ducked into her room for the next book in the series. After smuggling it back to the table, she’d read until the adults had finished their coffee and dessert and had retired to the den to sit by the fire. She’d followed them and read there as well.

  Here, it would have been impossible to read. The cousins bantered about school and teased one another about girlfriends. Meanwhile, the adults relived Thanksgivings past. At the head of it all was Faith Harris, who wore an enormous smile as she laughed, the queen of the room.