by AB Plum
Magnus, though, is wired. He shifts back and forth from one foot to the other. His eyes focus on the car with the intensity of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. He goes up on his tiptoes for a closer look and steps on my aching toe for the third time. I bite back a yelp.
“Isn’t Papá’s car awesome?” he whispers. “It’s badder than the Batmobile.”
How does he know about the Batmobile? He’s not allowed to see movies.
The pain in my toe eases, and I relegate my question to another time. I anchor Magnus’s sturdy body in front of my knees. “Do you like that yellow?”
“It’s awesome. Do you think Papá will ever take me for a ride?”
Truthfully, I don’t, but I lie. “Maybe . . . someday.”
“When I’m a good boy?” He twists his head and peers up at me—eyes shiny with hope.
“You are a good boy,” I reach over his tight little shoulders and lay my hands on his quivering chest. “You are a very good boy, and I love you.”
“Will you tell Papá?” He turns his gaze from me to his father resting one foot on the running board, oblivious to his son.
“I will tell Papá. I will tell the whole world. You are a very good boy.” I turn him to face me. Uncivilized Finn that I am, I close my eyes and plant a dozen wet kisses on his mouth.
He giggles and showers me with smooches and caresses all over my face.
When I open my eyes, Michael is glaring at us. Magnus wriggles away, waving at Detective Patel. I laugh. To hell with you, Michael Romanov.
Seconds later, brake lights winking, Michael follows our guest down the hill. We watch the cars until they disappear over the ridge.
“I wish I could see Papá’s yellow car go through the gate,” Magnus says, his voice edged with a whine. “Can I go to my room? Will you come read me a story?”
My agreement is automatic but fast. Not as fast as Magnus. He roars into the house and up the stairs yelling, “Hurry, Mamá. Hurry.”
Feet dragging, I enter the foyer and close the door. As a med student, I had that kind of non-stop, kinetic energy. Sixteen-hour shifts in ICU or in the ER or on the psych ward refueled me and the other residents when our bodies demanded sleep. Med students confirm the belief that the human brain is wired for stress. Edward and I thrived in our high-octane world.
On the bottom step, a long-buried memory hijacks me, and I have to stop. Images of him and me drunk with exhaustion, leaving the hospital, tearing off each other’s clothes in his tiny apartment, falling in bed, and making love as if we’d invented fucking. We laughed and swore sex was the best sleeping pill ever.
“Mamááá!”
“Coming.” The banister is slick under my clammy hands. There is no way Edward jilted me . . .
At the top of the stairs, I scrub the tears leaking down my cheeks. Reason and logic don’t explain everything. I married Michael, didn’t I? Without a backward glance, I jumped from feeling anxious about passing classes and pleasing supervising physicians to obsessing about becoming the perfect wife. The years of med-school adrenaline rushes were nothing but ripples compared to the repeated tsunamis marriage brought.
Fragments and remnants of memory hover in the back of my mind as I read to Magnus. He’s asleep before I finish the first page. My chest swells as I tuck him in with a soft kiss for his afternoon nap. In sleep, he resembles Michael—but without that hardness tightening the skin around his mouth and eyes.
How much longer before all three children develop that wariness of a dog about to be hit? How much longer before their spirits break? How much longer before they despise me for my weakness?
Leaving should be so simple. Simply walk away. Find a women’s shelter. Assume a new identity. So easy with three children and no work history for fifteen years.
The self-pity fills me with disgust. Disgust for leaking poison into Magnus’s room. Loathing for wallowing in the poison. Contempt for embroidering a fantasy of what happened with Edward. Unable to stay in Magnus’s room, I escape outside.
How many women working dead-end jobs, barely earning enough money to eat, worrying about their kids, would love to change places and loll by an infinity pool?
My laugh rings hollow, boomeranging across the open space, back to where I kick off my shoes. Without undressing, I jump in the warm, sparkling water.
Stupid, yes, but less stupid than exploding in a million pieces too tiny to pick up and put together again.
Chapter 39
HE
Patel’s lack of interest in listening to my story about Tracy’s “trumped up” references was infuriating. Still, I drive the Veneno slower than an Amish elder drives his buggy. Traffic whizzes past on 280, but Patel keeps his city-issued Crown Vic at a steady sixty-five. Since I don’t believe in miracles, I guess it’s serendipitous we both don’t get rear-ended.
There’s no question in my mind, the Indian detective thinks he has me worried. His snooping in my Danish school records crosses a line. What cause have I given him to become a suspect? So I gave Tracy a job interview. So what?
We approach the Cañada Road exit. Patel’s a mile ahead.
I swerve right at the last millisecond. “So long, sucker.”
The Veneno’s horsepower responds like a thoroughbred stallion. Electricity races along the skin on my arms to the tips of my fingernails. I throw back my head and laugh. Taking the route along Crystal Springs Reservoir borders on self-indulgent, but I figure I deserve ten minutes of R&R. Though sapphire-blue Crystal Springs bears no resemblance to The Lakes of Copenhagen, I remember spending some of my happiest days feeding the ducks, ice skating, and hanging out there as a small boy. Later . . . but why stir up what happened later? Patel will never discover what happened later. No matter how deeply he digs.
Trees and fields and asphalt blur together. If he digs deeper, it’s all because of AnnaSophia. Something she said during their tete-a-tete triggered his suspicions.
Otherwise, why did he turn around and return to the house?
The obvious answer is too cynical even for me. She was dressed in that damn yoga garb for Chrissakes. I’ve met nuns with more sex appeal. No, she said something. What?
Speeding past FiLoLi, I have to slow for tourists leaving the estate. On the National Register, the house and grounds draw hordes to gawk more than three hundred days a year. Twice the flowers and plants thrive at Belle Haven. My lawns and fountains and views offer the ultimate in elegance.
Yet AnnaSophia hates the place. If putting me under police suspicion let her move out, she wouldn’t think twice. She’d fabricate facts to make her case against me.
The truth is she knows nothing.
She knows I met Tracy for the first time yesterday. But I’m ready for that minor problem. So why wasn’t Patel interested in my explanation?
Why did he stay for lunch? Why do I have the nagging sense I let something drop at lunch? Something damaging. Frame after frame after frame at the table replays, but nothing leaps out. He disliked my correcting Magnus. He obviously picked up on AnnaSophia playing the martyr. But he’d already passed judgment on me at the office.
Before or after poking around at Krebs’ Skole?
At that moment, driving along the bucolic horse farms loses my interest. Whenever Patel decides to catch me by surprise, I’ll be ready.
Whipping a U-turn, I roar back onto the interstate and head for the office. Two can play Patel’s game. Everyone’s closet holds at least one skeleton. What does he have buried? With the acquisition all but a done deal, I have means, opportunity, and motive for finding out.
The cabin attendant’s take-off instructions blare behind Dimitri’s reassurances he will dig out every pertinent detail and send a full report on Patel’s family, education, and work history.
The noise bunches my neck muscles, but I hold my temper. “Has he ever been married?”
“Never.” Dimitri snorts. “No girlfriend, either—here or in India.”
“Interesting.” I click m
y tongue fast against my top teeth. “I’d say most women would consider him attractive.”
Ask my cheating wife.
In the background, the cabin attendant announces last call on electronic devices, and Dimitri says something I miss. After he hangs up, the suggestion blasts through my brain like a bomb exploding. Dimitri, typical Russian, is a true homophobe.
Which doesn’t, in this case, invalidate his opinion. Chief Tobin shares the attitude when it comes to MVPD cops in the closet.
God, how perfect. I throw back my head and laugh. Bring me some proof, Dimitri. Or even a rumor.
Chapter 40
SHE
Floating fully clothed in the infinity pool, staring at the cloudless sky through narrowed eyes, thinking of nothing, I let the current rock me back and forth. The last of the adrenaline drains away. The jitters in my stomach stop. My breath evens out, and the band around my chest loosens. I know I’ve recovered when my mind starts working—working, not churning.
Michael’s not coming home for dinner. What a gift. Better than any of the jewelry or designer clothes or fancy cars. Alexandra, Anastaysa, Magnus, and I can—will eat in the breakfast room. We’ll give Jennifer the evening off. Elise too. We’ll cook spaghetti with meatballs and fresh tomato sauce. We’ll slather our masterpiece with shaved Parmesan. We’ll forego veggies—decide on salads on the fly. We’ll make brownies and ice cream and pig out.
We’ll go to bed late.
Euphoric, I climb out of the pool. My clothes weigh a ton, but they feel as light and airy as silk lingerie. I strip, stand under the shower and see us making today the best day ever.
Chapter 41
HE
Three blocks from work, twenty minutes after ditching Patel, I detour into Shoreline Park. No volunteer ranger at the front entrance. Not that I need a reason to visit. I can always claim I’m a bird lover. On my right, three kites whip around in the breeze. A breeze always blows in off the Bay, but does nothing to mask the stench of salt marshes. Smog covers the East Bay hills. Perpetual sunshine blazes on my side of Paradise.
Even after the acquisition finalizes, I’m certain I’ll keep Belle Haven. And the penthouse at Moffett Field. Sell the San Francisco apartment. The weather’s not that great.
Two left turns take me into the municipal golf course parking lot. The stink of rot and decay fades. I inhale. Hard to believe a landfill lies under the asphalt, restaurants, lakes, amphitheater, and greenway. I can’t help it, I laugh.
A quick check behind me and on all sides. Not a single golfer in sight. No groundsmen or anyone to see my next step. I lower the window.
The clack of my burner cell phone, tossed in front of the Veneno, adds a percussive note to the cacophony of honking, foraging Canada geese.
What a perfect place for Tracy to die. Not in this exact spot, but close enough I’m tempted to wheel by where we feasted last night.
Not a smart move, I know and pull forward. The Veneno’s wheels crush the cell phone, but I back over the pieces one last time. I shift into PARK, step onto the asphalt, and pick up the debris I can now dispose of in random spots en route to the office.
The triumph pumping into me loses some excitement as I approach the ranger’s shack. Still no one there to give me a big smile and wish me a good day. Dimitri would understand the desire to celebrate. Brag a little. Disposing of Tracy and disposing of my phone are prime examples of perfect problem resolution. My adrenal glands start squirting into my brain.
God what a thrill to go by Scimetrx. Observe the propellerheads with their thumbs up their asses. Maybe study Patel without his awareness. If he’s even at the crime scene.
“Crime scene,” I say it out loud, rolling crime off the tip of my tongue. Crime—a hard, no-shit word.
On auto-pilot, I search my work phone for Scimetrx’s CEO. His name has slipped my mind. He’s a cipher player. The name of his company sucks. His name appears on the LED. Bill Boggs, CEO and President. I roll my eyes. With a guy named Bill Boggs, is it worth the risk to drop in?
In case he’s out, I tap CALL. Damn, Romanov, you’ve got balls.
He answers his own phone in a high, boyish tone of awe. “Mr. Romanov? What can I do for you?”
So I tell him, and turn the Veneno toward the back entrance to the park.
Chapter 42
SHE
Targeting six o’clock as the time to serve our spaghetti dinner, the kids and I start gathering our ingredients around three-thirty. The four of us—three, really, because Alexandra wears a long face—laugh and laugh and laugh. Our general ineptitude spawns more laughs.
Questions about what I ate growing up, where I grew up, why I dropped out of med school intersperse the prepping and cooking. I respond truthfully, but carefully, giving more details about what I ate than why I dropped out of my residency. They only know I have more than a fifth-grade education because Michael joked one day about a cut I tended for Anastaysa.
Leave it to your mother, a med-school dropout, to make a big deal of a scratch.
The memory blurs as I steer us back to Finnish dishes I grew up with thanks to my mother’s fierce loyalty to her native country. None of my children has ever tasted any of my favorite foods since Michael hates all things Finnish—me especially. Tonight is a rare occasion for me to give any details about my parents in Finland and our lives later in Minneapolis.
Out of the blue, Alexandra interrupts, “How far is Minneapolis from Montreal?”
“Oh-oh. Is this a test?” I step back so Magnus can crank the pasta maker.
“The question is very serious.” She tosses her head—a gesture her father abhors and plants her hands on her hips. “Don’t you know anything?”
“Alexandra.” Anastaysa stops chopping tomatoes, goes to her sister and whispers something inaudible over the buzz in my head.
My God, Alexandra sounds as condescending as her father.
“Mamá, are you crying?” Magnus hugs my knee.
Not wanting to lie, I blink rapidly, then rub my eyes. “Onions. They make my eyes water. Can you hand me a paper towel?”
Anastaysa pinches her sister’s arm.
“Owwww.”
Anastaysa glances at me, then nudges Alexandra toward me.
“I apologize for my rudeness, Mamá.” Flat tone, accompanied by a pout that brings an image of Tracy Jones.
“Thank you, Alexandra.” I graze her cheek, careful to caress her skin as lightly as a feather, and force back visions of Tracy.
“I need to go to the bathroom. May I be excused?” She presses her lips together and avoids eye contact.
“Of course.” My voice thins, and I feel close to tears. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Yeah,” Magnus shouts. “I’m making tonsa ’sgetti.”
“I’m not hungry at all.”
“Not even for ice cream?” Magnus asks.
She flinches, catches me staring at her, shrugs. “Especially not for ice cream.”
“You love Monsieur Lefebvre’s ice cream,” Magnus points out.
Anastaysa calls, “Magnus? Come help with the brownies.”
“I hate ice cream.” Stepping an arm’s length from me, Alexandra crosses her arms over her chest. “I hate . . .”
The unfinished sentence hangs. Arms open wide, I take a step forward.
Chin up, eyes blazing, she steps back.
“Go on to the bathroom.” I drop my hands at my side. “Perhaps after supper, we can talk?”
“I have lots of homework tonight, Mamá.” Not condescending this time, but definitely the patronizing inflection I’ve grown to hate.
Hand clenched, wanting—needing—to grab her and hug her, I take a few deep breaths. I can deny the truth, but Michael has wounded our children. How long before all of them acquire my aversion to being touched?
Is there any chance the police will first find him guilty of that poor girl’s murder?
Having grown up doing dishes with my parents, I call to Alexandra’s back, sugge
sting we clean up the kitchen after her trip to the bathroom.
Alexandra shakes her head, “I have homework. Besides, Papá says Romanovs don’t wash dishes like serfs.”
“Your father is entitled to his opinion,” I snap, then add in a calmer tone, “but I think serfs disappeared with the czar.”
“Who’s the czar?” Magnus asks.
“Like a king. In Russia,” Anastaysa replies.
Magnus frowns. “We don’t live in Russia.”
Exactly. And your father’s not a czar or a king or a prince—except in his own mind. I clamp down on my thoughts. “That’s right. We live in the U S of A—land of the free.”
Anastaysa stares. She’s lived with so much sarcasm, I bet she picked up my double entendre. I wink, then arch my eyebrows.
“Alexandra, go study. If you can’t stand hearing all the fun in the kitchen, come join us.”
She doesn’t join us—even though we’re laughing like people who just learned a new behavior. Unfortunately, in less than an hour we return the huge kitchen to spotless. Magnus yawns repeatedly but insists he’s awake. I send him to brush his teeth. Anastaysa hangs back. She keeps finding another spoon or dish or crumb or fingerprint to scrub.
Carefully, I give her a hug, releasing her the instant she tenses. “Don’t you have homework?”
“No, but I’m rewriting my short story.” Her voice is low and shy. “I’m trying to figure out how to write it so Papá will like it.”
My throat closes, but fury hisses out of me. “Sonuva—”
Her mouth drops.
“Sonuvabitch.” I finish the expletive—my whole body tingling with what has to be carb overload. “Don’t change a word for anyone but for yourself. Understand?”
“Are you okay?” she whispers, eyes widening.
Aware she may think I’m drunk, I exhale and give her two palms-up. “I am very okay. And so is your story. It’s a wonderful, funny, original story that is very okay. Understand?”