The Man on the Washing Machine

by Susan Cox

  “I think I will telephone Adolphus,” he said finally. “My solicitor,” he added to Ben.

  “I’m an attorney,” Ben said, with no relevance that I could see. Grandfather grunted.

  They didn’t talk anymore after that. Ben continued to stare over my head, and Grandfather chewed his cheek meditatively. I don’t think he would have kept doing it if he’d been aware of it.

  After what felt like hours, I watched our visitors slowly file out of the garden past Sabina’s table, where two uniformed police officers sat, talking to each person. They inspected credit cards or driver’s licenses and wrote down the answers to a series of questions before anyone was allowed to leave.

  “Names, addresses, and telephone numbers,” Ben said. “Routine.”

  He got up and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching the scene behind my back with undiminished attention.

  I heard crunching steps on the bark chips of the path and Sabina appeared and knelt down beside me.

  “This is so awful. Poor Nicole!” Her voice cracked a little. “Are you okay, Theo?” she whispered.

  “Not too bad,” I lied. “How about you?”

  She grimaced. “Not great. Kurt threw up.”

  Kurt did? I would have thought a doctor would be immunized against most horrors.

  Grandfather cleared his throat and she looked at him in confusion and then at Ben. “Mr. Pryce-Fitton, I didn’t see you. And, er—”

  “Ben Turlough,” he said economically.

  “Oh, right,” she said vaguely. “I guess I’ll be getting back to the kids and Kurt if you’re okay, Theo. Are they finished with you? Are you going up to the apartment?”

  “The police,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and began again. “They want me to stay and talk to them when they get finished. They asked me if Nicole had any family, but I couldn’t tell them much except for her sister.”

  Sabina’s brow crinkled. “She was married twice, but I don’t know anything about her exes. There was a cousin or something,” she said.

  “An uncle, I thought.”

  She nodded. “Right. An uncle. Had a weird name. A nickname? It reminded me of horses.”

  “G.G.?” my grandfather said unexpectedly.

  Sabina looked at him doubtfully. No point in explaining to Grandfather that Americans don’t understand arcane English patois. But Sabina’s face cleared. “Oh, right. No, it wasn’t that. A kind of horse, maybe? She only mentioned it once and that was years ago.”

  “I didn’t know you knew her that long,” I said.

  Her color was suddenly brilliant. “Not as long as some people,” she said, and made a peal of penetrating laughter that rang like a bell in the silent garden. Heads turned in our direction. The laugh had obviously surprised Sabina, too. Her eyes went wide and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Is Haruto okay?” I asked, anxious to get off the subject of horses and inappropriate laughter in case Grandfather hadn’t run out of suggestions. The guessing game was too frivolous for the occasion; a nickname wasn’t going to tell us much anyway and the police would find what they needed from Nicole’s phone contacts.

  Concern for Haruto reclaimed Sabina’s earlier manner.

  “Ruth D’Allessio has him wrapped in a blanket somewhere.” She sounded approving. “I’d better get back to Kurt. The police have told us we can leave. I’m going to cook for him to take our minds off things—I’ll make plenty and bring some up later, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said, and tried not to observe that Nicole’s death was already bringing Kurt and Sabina together. She gave me another hug and left.

  “Nice young woman,” Grandfather said with more approbation than I’d heard in his voice in years. He obviously didn’t recognize her as the leather and motorcycle-helmeted object of his disapproval a few days before. He was probably blinded by her knowledge of horses. When I was three years old, he had held me up on his beloved and enormous hunter, and I’d screamed in terror. Later attempts had the same result. Because he gave me no choice, I eventually learned to ride competently, but I never learned to love horses as he did and, I’m convinced, they learned to despise me.

  “They’ve put a screen around Nicole’s body,” Ben said some time later. All I’d been aware of in the meantime was the silence all around; even the birds had stopped singing, frightened away by the fire engine’s raucous arrival. The only thing unchanged was the sweet smell of the hundreds of flowers in bloom all over the Gardens.

  “Ms. Bogart?” Inspector Lichlyter had approached quietly. “I wonder if you’d make a formal identification?”

  “Isn’t that usually done with photographs?” Grandfather said with a frown.

  Lichlyter gave him a considering look. “Not always,” she said. “We’ve moved her so she looks less distressing,” she added unexpectedly to me.

  “Distressing” wasn’t the word I would have used, but I appreciated the sentiment and clung to it as we rounded the screen shielding Nicole’s body. She was lying in a long, black plastic bag, with an opening that went only as far as her chin. Supported from behind by some fortuitous bump in the terrain, her head still looked attached. She was puffy, soft and swollen and unnaturally pale, especially her lips, which were almost gray. My treacherous memory presented me with a reminder of Haruto’s pride in the temperature of his compost pile.

  I felt the swimming-ground motion I’d felt when she first fell forward out of the compost and my stomach pitched in the same way. This time the grip on my arm was the steely fingers of Inspector Lichlyter.

  “Okay?” she said briskly.

  “Yes. It’s Nicole,” I whispered. “Nicole Bartholomew,” I added more formally. “She used her maiden name. Is that all you need me to say?”

  I felt unable to move. She turned me away from Nicole the way my nanny used to when I was defiant as a child, by grasping my hand and walking around me so that I was forced to follow her lead.

  “She didn’t have any identification on her. We need her address,” she said when we’d traveled a few yards.

  “Eleven-A Fabian Gardens. Over there.” I pointed at the ground-floor apartment.

  “Right. I know that was tough. You did fine.” It sounded like ritual reassurance. “What’s your full name and address?”

  I looked at her without answering and at the young officer with the video camera who was now filming me. I turned away slightly but he followed my movement so that he stayed directly in front of me.

  “For the record,” she explained.

  “Theophania Bogart. Thirty-two Fabian Gardens. On the opposite side of the garden.” My stomach rolled again, a little more emphatically. “Is that all you need?”

  She frowned. “For now,” she said, and underlined something savagely in her notebook. “You can go, but I want to talk to you again.”

  “I’ll be at home.”

  When I did throw up, I managed to be alone behind a large acanthus. Someone handed me a handkerchief and I automatically wiped my mouth, hating the bitter taste and the loss of control.

  When I looked up Ben was politely staring at the fire engine.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By unspoken consent Ben, Grandfather, and I went up to my flat together by the back steps. Lucy came to the door to greet us, but for the first time since she’d known me, I ignored her. Ben stroked her head and she followed him into the kitchen, looking up at him and rubbing her head against his leg at every opportunity.

  The flat welcomed me as if I had lived there for years instead of days. I took off Ben’s jacket, and folded it on the kitchen counter, and wished I had a few chairs for people to sit in. If interior designers are right about a person’s living space revealing state of mind, my mind was currently full of sharp corners and hard surfaces. Ben perched on the end of the kitchen counter, but Grandfather was clearly nonplussed. He leaned his shooting stick against the dishwasher and folded his arms.

  “Does anyone want some tea or coffee? O
r there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge,” I said. I felt at some obscure advantage on my home court, even if I didn’t have any furniture.

  “Sure, I’d like some coffee,” Ben said easily. He’d become less watchful in the last few minutes, like a doctor whose patient has come out of a fever. I wondered what that meant exactly; I’ve known people who are only interested in wounded birds, not strong, healthy, able-to-fly birds. I hunched my shoulders self-consciously, as if testing my flight feathers. They felt strong again.

  “The coffee press is over there. There’s some coffee in the cabinet. You’ll have to drink it black; mugs are behind you. Help yourselves and I’ll be right back.”

  Sounding a lot more in control than I felt, I left them to it.

  I went into the bathroom, where my white towels were like slabs of snow and somehow comforting. I rinsed my mouth, washed my hands and face, and ran a comb through my hair. I stared at my reflection. It was like looking at a stranger. My eyes looked huge and dark in my pale face. The high neck of my black T-shirt gave my head an uncanny resemblance to Nicole lying in the body bag. I leaned on the bathroom counter and gripped it until the queasiness passed. I splashed some more cold water on my face and dried it with a towel, but it still felt clammy.

  When I returned to the kitchen, there was a fresh pot of coffee brewing but Ben had left. Maybe there were some broken wings somewhere to be fixed.

  “I have some Earl Grey tea, or Darjeeling if you’d like some,” I said to Grandfather. “But no teacups, only the pottery mugs,” I went on, unable to stop myself. “I bought them at a street fair from the woman who made them.” His teacups were early nineteenth-century Crown Derby. A set of twelve and their matching saucers without a single nick or chip.

  “Nothing, thank you,” he said distantly. The expression in his eyes sharpened. “I—er, hand-thrown pottery can be very appealing.”

  “I’m sorry there’s nowhere to sit,” I said impulsively.

  He waved my regret aside. “No need for a lot of chairs you don’t use.”

  “No,” I said, not sure I liked his easy assumption that I never had guests who would want to sit down.

  “The renovation—” I started to say.

  “Yes, of course,” he said a little impatiently. “I’m going downstairs to see—when you can expect that inspector person,” he said. Perilously close to admitting to an unseemly curiosity, he was pink cheeked and vigorous; stimulated by recent events rather than crushed.

  I hid my understanding by pouring a mug of coffee for myself. I looked up, expecting him to offer his cheek for a kiss and leave without further ado. Instead, he hesitated. It was like seeing a Grenadier Guard out of step with his regiment.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked a little tentatively, but as if he wanted to know.

  “Yes, I am,” I choked.

  He held out his arms stiffly and after a brief hesitation I stepped into them. He closed one around me and pressed my head gently to his shoulder. I couldn’t stop the tears from coming and felt comforted when he rubbed his hand up and down my back.

  I heard a minor commotion on the back stairs, wiped the tears and blew my nose on a neat handkerchief Grandfather handed me, and went to the door to see what was happening. Davie and Ben were struggling with a folding card table.

  “Hi,” Davie said cheerfully, apparently unaffected by the events of the morning. “Ben said you wanted a table and chairs so the lady cop could sit down.”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it again. He was right. I couldn’t let her conduct the interview while we lounged on the bed like Roman courtesans or sat cross-legged on the floor by the fireplace. Unreasonably, Ben’s tact was beginning to annoy me.

  “Fine,” I said. “Thank you,” I added to Ben.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, dry as the Sahara.

  They set the table up in the dining room, and went back downstairs to collect four folding chairs.

  “Someone gave us these for the game room at the group home,” Ben explained as he unfolded the last of the chairs. “We can do without them for a few days.”

  “I won’t need them that long,” I said. Nicole had been planning something sleek and modern for my empty dining room. I hoped the wobbly card table wasn’t some sort of portent. It looked full of ominous significance.

  Inspector Lichlyter appeared in the back door. “Is it possible for our conversation to be private?” she said without preamble. As before, the order was masked by the polite question. Unisex police academy courtesy, or the usual woman’s diffidence about giving orders? I looked at her determined expression and decided it had nothing to do with diffidence. I heard heavier footsteps on the stairs and a man’s head rose behind her back like a slow sunrise.

  “Sergeant Mackintosh will make a record of our conversation if you have no objection,” she said, starting to dig around in her shoulder bag.

  “I’d like to stay,” Ben said suddenly, “to represent Ms. Bogart.” I hadn’t expected that. He and Grandfather exchanged a look, a mere seconds’ glance, and Grandfather prepared to leave.

  “You’re her attorney?” the inspector asked.

  Ben nodded. I opened and shut my mouth without saying anything when I caught my grandfather’s eye. As clearly as if he’d spoken I heard: “Only fools, Theophania, don’t accept help when it’s offered.” I didn’t say, of course, that I thought his new chum might have his own reasons for wanting to hear what I had to say to the inspector. Maybe now wasn’t the time, but we’d been together in the garden and it still bothered me that he hadn’t asked anything about my “prowler.”

  “I have no objections, Mr. Turlough,” she said. “But Mr. Pryce-Fitton and Mr. Rillera—”

  At first I didn’t realize who she was talking about, but Grandfather said his good-byes with uncharacteristic meekness and Davie sidled up to me to whisper: “Don’t worry, Theo. It’ll all be okay. I found that guy.”

  “What guy—?” He shuffled outside and he was stomping down the stairs before I could gather my wits. I clamped my lips shut. I could only think of one guy he might mean. Charlie O’Brien.

  “Wait!” I said hastily. “Er—Grandfather.” He paused in the act of picking up his shooting stick from where he’d leaned it against the dishwasher. Feeling ridiculously like a child imparting a secret, I muttered hastily in his ear as he bent courteously toward me: “Ask Davie about the guy he found.” I kissed his cheek.

  “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, my dear,” he said distinctly. And then he closed one eye in a grave wink and he left.

  I took Inspector Lichlyter into the dining room and we all sat around Ben’s card table like an ill-assorted bridge foursome. Inspector Lichlyter took out her battered notebook and pressed it open on the table. It still bulged with extra papers and reused envelopes covered with penciled notes. She didn’t write in it much however, merely referred to it occasionally. Sergeant Mackintosh had an iPad. His fingers tapped stolidly throughout the interview and I never heard the sound of his voice.

  Inspector Lichlyter didn’t ask questions, she imperceptibly encouraged me to talk. And whether from relief or the aftereffects of shock, talk I did. An hour later, I felt I had exposed every conceivable detail about Nicole’s personal life, our friendship, and our professional dealings.

  I mentioned the missing machete and all she said was: “We found it underneath the metal screen in the fish pond.”

  “Is that how she was killed?”

  She flipped back through a couple of pages in her tattered notebook. “People are usually killed by someone close to them,” she said conversationally. “A husband. Lover. Business partner.” She paused. “It makes our job easy quite often.”

  “It can’t always be like that,” I said anxiously.

  “Ms. Bogart, do you know what a tontine is?” She didn’t seem to expect a reply so I kept silent and tried not to fidget while she wrote something fairly lengthy in her notebook in faint, hard pencil. She looked up. “
What sort of a partnership agreement did you have with the deceased?”

  I looked at the top of Sergeant Mackintosh’s head as he bent over his iPad; his hair was thinning. I kept my voice level. “A fairly standard one. I had capitalized opening the store, so officially I was to be paid back out of the profits, but we didn’t make much in our first year and this year, in practice it was usually fifty-fifty.”

  “Losses as well as profits?”

  “Of course.”

  “And in the event of one of your deaths?”

  “The survivor…” I hesitated.

  “Takes all?” Inspector Lichlyter sounded mildly inquiring.

  “It’s a standard provision. Nothing unusual, and hardly a tontine,” I said. I could feel perspiration gathering on my upper lip. “My death would have benefited Nicole slightly, since she wouldn’t have to pay me back,” I said earnestly. “But her death leaves me pretty much where I was before.”

  “But of course it did rid you of an awkward partnership with a partner who could have run up some significant debt, which you would have had to pay.”

  There was no denying it. I wondered what else she knew.

  She flipped several pages of her notebook and studied one of the pages. “You argued, I believe, the last time you and the deceased met?”

  “We had a slight disagreement,” I admitted, “it wasn’t important.” Then I remembered the telephone message I had left on Nicole’s phone, rehashing the conflict. I had been furious by the end of the message—and sounded it.

  “About money?” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “It was nothing new. It had been going on for—”

  “Ms. Bogart has been more than cooperative,” Ben said suddenly. “She’s had a serious shock and needs to rest.” He looked sleepy, even bored, but the inspector folded her untidy notes into her notebook, thanked me, and prepared to leave.