No Safe Place

by Fitzwater, Judy

  I felt myself being drawn toward him. He stood there beckoning like a huge piece of chocolate cake tempting a highly allergic addict, looking oh, so delicious. Until I took a bite, and then I was always so sorry I gave in because the pain that followed could never be worth the momentary thrill.

  I have no idea how long the phone had been ringing before I finally forced myself awake. The clock read 4:17 a.m., and all I could think was that something had happened to Cara.

  I fumbled for the receiver and managed a feeble, “Are you all right?”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “James?” I pushed myself up, totally awake, and switched on the light. The caller ID showed a number with California written above it. A quick calculation put the time on the west coast at 1:17 a.m. “What’s wrong?”

  “I heard about Stephen’s body.”

  My chest heaved, and silently I cursed James, Stephen, even myself. If I’d had any idea James would find out, I would have called him. All my instincts told me it’d be best for everyone if the person or persons who slipped that body into the bay thought it was still there. Now James knew. And that meant other people did, as well.

  “Who told you?” I demanded.

  “One of the guys Stephen and I worked with a few years back is now with the FBI. He was there when the ID came through. He called me. I wanted you to know Stephen’s belongings are in transit. They should be delivered to the unit you rented sometime Friday. But, Elizabeth…”

  I closed my eyes. I should have known there was more. “Just tell me.”

  “The storage area I had them in was broken into tonight. There may be something in his belongings…. Look, I’m booking a flight first thing in the morning. I should be there by afternoon, your time.”

  I ran my hand through the tangled mass that was my hair. I’d let it dry naturally, too exhausted to blow it straight before I went to bed. Now it was a mess.

  Pushing the panic out of my voice, I tried to sound natural, all the while knowing the firestorm that had always surrounded Stephen was about to envelope me again. It was not a place I wanted to be, not a place I wanted my daughter anywhere near.

  “I’d really rather you didn’t,” I said.

  “I’ll call you from Reagan National.” Click.

  “No,” I shouted to the dial tone. I dropped the receiver back into the cradle.

  Damn, damn, damn! This man, whom I knew so little about, was coming here, to my home, into my life, into my daughter’s life, and there was little, if anything, I could do to stop him.

  I grabbed my terry cloth robe off the foot of the bed and wrapped it around me. My anger was giving me a chill. I needed to redirect it, to get busy. I liked to be at my office in plenty of time to prepare for class, so I might as well get up. It wasn’t as if I was going to be able to go back to sleep. And I had plans to make. The sooner I got Stephen—and James—out of our lives again, the better.

  The first thing I had to do was to get Stephen’s body back into the ground. Cremation would be better, and it was what he’d wanted in the first place, but Cara had been so upset. She’d wanted a place to grieve. If I hadn’t given in… No. They still would have stolen the body. And none of this was her fault. I would never have her thinking it was.

  My first call would be to the morgue. I’d have him picked up by a different funeral home. Have him cremated this time. I’d watch it done if that was what it took.

  Then I’d need to call Cara and let her know James was flying in.

  And I should go to the insurance company and pick up the cashier’s check for Stephen’s insurance. Go by the bank. Distribute the money among my accounts. Finalize Stephen’s death. And I’d have to do it all before my ten-thirty class.

  It had surprised me to discover I was still his beneficiary. We were still legally married, but I don’t know why. We hadn’t lived together in more than six years, except for the occasional weekend when he flew east to visit Cara. I moved out of our house the month that Cara went away to college. I don’t know why I called it ours; he was so seldom there. He’d sold it two years ago, once he’d finally accepted the fact I wasn’t coming back. I would have thought he’d sign everything over to Cara then. Two million dollars. God, just let it be enough.

  Light streamed through stone archways, dappling the covered walkway. As I headed in the direction of my office on the first floor of Pearson Hall, Ian Payne fell into step next to me. I really did not feel like talking, not to him, not to anyone.

  “Rough night? You look as though you’ve been conversing with the dead,” he said in that clipped English accent of his.

  I stopped cold and turned to stare at him as the blood drained from my face.

  “Sorry. Just a figure of speech. Are you all right? I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find Ian intriguing. He was new to campus this spring semester and had caught the eye of almost every unattached female from student to dowager.

  But, as attractive as he might be, the uncanniness of some of his comments—like the one he’d just made—and the boldness of his eyes made me uncomfortable. I had no use for flirtation, or even casual conversation.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Ian added, cocking his head and offering an impish grin. “I thought we might grab a cup of coffee.”

  Despite the clear, sunny skies, it was cold, even for early April. I’d thrown a short coat over a turtleneck and jeans and pulled my hair back at the nape of my neck. It would have to be curly today. I hadn’t had the energy to wash it again and straighten it, and, frankly, I didn’t give a damn. At least, I hadn’t until Ian approached me.

  “I’ve got papers to grade,” I told him.

  He lost his grin. This was his third offer; I’d probably not get another.

  “You sure?”

  No, I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t think he was just talking about coffee. Ian was tall, athletic, academic, with a worldly kind of charm, and I hadn’t had a man other than Stephen interested in me for some time. He had just enough of an accent to make almost everything he said sound a bit more astute than it would have coming from someone else. And he had an endearing way of lifting one eyebrow that had almost the same effect as a wink.

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe some other time,” he offered as he began to turn away.

  “No, I mean, I think some coffee might be nice.” I looked at my watch. It was close to noon. I’d done everything I’d needed to do this morning, and I needed a distraction. James would be here all too soon.

  After all, wasn’t opening myself to new experiences the reason I’d gone back to school to get my doctorate in the first place? I’d wanted to find an environment where I’d have some control, one as far away as I could get from the “real” world Stephen had lived in.

  Died in.

  I tried to smile. “Could we add a sandwich to that coffee? I didn’t have breakfast.” Or lunch or dinner the day before, but he didn’t need to know that.

  Ian raised his eyebrow, obviously pleased, and a smile again tugged at his lips. “Certainly. Shall we take my car?”

  He really was a charming man. A man with light-blue eyes, longish dark hair and skin as pale as my own. Physically, nothing at all like Stephen. There was no harm going with him. Besides, I needed to eat.

  He steered me across the grassy common area toward the faculty portion of the parking lot. His car was a red BMW. He opened the door for me, and I felt as if I were climbing into someone’s midlife crisis.

  I didn’t know much about his personal life, just that he wasn’t married, and that he taught in the philosophy department housed down the hall from mine. One thing I did know: someone was paying him a lot more than they were me. Or he had some other source of income. The seats were leather and the dash had all the bells and whistles room would allow.

  He moved around to his side of the car. Lean and smooth, he was in good physical condition, surprising for a professor of philosophy. I had n
o idea how old he was. He’d entered that ageless phase that many men slip into. He could have been thirty-five. Or forty-nine. I wondered if he realized I was forty-four. But why should it matter? This was not a date.

  “There’s a place not far from campus,” I told him as he slid behind the steering wheel. “The menu’s a minefield and the service is lousy, but it has one thing that makes it irresistible—no student would be caught dead inside.”

  He nodded his approval, and I gave him directions. He maneuvered onto the beltway with a confident and deliberate driving style that defied my midlife-crisis theory. In less than fifteen minutes, we were seated in a back booth, away from most of the noise of the little diner. Ian slid to the end of his bench, his back against the wall, and took a quick survey of the place. It had the requisite amount of chrome, pink Formica and gray tile, all of which were better if not examined too closely. Early sixties music played on the oldies station.

  “The ambiance of this place…”

  “Is dreadful,” I finished. “Order the tuna salad. The shrimp salad is excellent, too, but only on a Monday.”

  “Like leftovers, do they?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Our waitress handed Ian a menu and then looked at me. “Tuna salad on unseeded rye, dill pickle, tap water with ice. You want slaw today?”

  I did a quick calculation. It was Thursday. Monday and Thursday were slaw days. “Sure.”

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, without opening the menu. “Do you have iced tea?”

  “I think we may have some mint somewhere in the back of the fridge. Want me to look?”

  I gave a slight shake of my head.

  “Maybe some coffee…”

  Again, I shook my head. “Tell you what, do you have hot water and a tea bag?”

  The waitress nodded and disappeared.

  “So, Elizabeth…” Ian began, studying my face, his eyes kind. “One more month of classes before we bump this crop of glassy-eyed malcontents up to the next level. Another year of ungodly tuition in exchange for a C average and one more column of credits on the transcript.”

  “Not all of them are like that,” I defended. “I have three this year who are enthralled with the Metamorphoses.”

  “Tales of transformation. Do you really think a nineteen-year-old will find any of it relevant?”

  “We’re all in the process of changing, becoming, evolving. Or we should be,” I insisted.

  “Your idealism is admirable.”

  “Your skepticism isn’t.”

  “Spare me. You’re teaching Ovid to a roomful of—”

  “It’s a seminar class.”

  “Of course it is. Can’t fill a whole room with Ovid fans, but you say you’ve got three. And the other seven or so?”

  “I like to think I’m planting a spark that may someday catch fire.”

  “But will most likely go out. This is, what? Your second year teaching? Most of the students here major in beer and minor in pot. Yet the powers that be expect us to pretend we’re a Mecca for culture and knowledge.”

  “You’re awfully cynical for a philosopher.”

  “A professor of philosophy, a considerable difference.”

  “So what was it that made you turn?” I asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “A handful of students out of a hundred a semester finding the beauty in Ovid or Homer is enough for me, as long as only a dozen or so who finish the course actually consider it rubbish. The ones in between can fend for themselves. So what happened? When did you lose it? When did you no longer care what your students were thinking? Did one of them somehow let you down?”

  I’d hit a nerve. It showed in his face, a slight sag to his jaw and a turn of his head so he was looking at me only out of the corner of his eye.

  “Actually, one of them did,” he said. “A particularly talented young man whom I’d prefer not to discuss.” He faced me. “But I’m afraid my current attitude is more of an adjustment problem. Most of my experience has been at large universities. This is my first time at a private school filled with the privileged elite. I’m certain I’ll find some redeeming qualities in the little beggars given time. But enough of this nonsense. Tell me about your summer plans. Are you heading off to Greece or Rome? Joining up with some archeological dig?”

  Summer plans. I couldn’t see past this evening, let alone to the summer. The thought hit me like a blow to the stomach. What did I think I was doing? Just about now, what was left of Stephen’s body was being picked up for delivery to the funeral home I’d called this morning, and I was out having lunch with some man.

  I grabbed my purse and got out my wallet. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Of course it was. What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving.” I scooted toward the end of the booth, a ten-dollar bill in my fist.

  “If it was something I said, allow me to apologize.”

  “It wasn’t. I just don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Please…”

  I reached forward to lay the money on the table. Ian grabbed my hand.

  “I know about Stephen.”

  Chapter 3

  I jerked back my hand, along with the money, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “What is this?” I demanded.

  There was a back exit not twelve feet away at the end of the narrow row of booths. I tried to stand, but Ian was already on his feet, blocking the end of the booth. He was a big man. Funny how that quality, so attractive a few moments earlier, had suddenly become ominous. I plunged my hand to the bottom of my purse. It tightened around a canister of pepper spray.

  I could scream. But surely if Ian meant me harm he wouldn’t be so stupid as to try something in a public restaurant, especially when students had to have seen us leave campus together.

  “What I meant is, I know that your husband just died,” he said softly. “You must be under considerable stress. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to talk about anything. Please stay, let me buy you lunch. You need to eat.”

  I hadn’t told anyone at work about Stephen. When I moved out, I took off my wedding ring. For all anyone at Gilman College knew, I was divorced, or a spinster with an out-of-wedlock child. I didn’t care what they thought.

  I looked at him. His posture was relaxed, not at all threatening. He seemed sincere. Of course, so had Stephen when I met him.

  “Who told you?” I asked.

  “Nobody. I read the obituary. Stephen Larocca.”

  “I wasn’t listed.”

  “No, but you carry his name, and I saw you leave campus the afternoon before with your daughter. She was crying. You seemed distracted.”

  Actually, I’d been in shock.

  “Then you were on leave for two days,” he continued. “It had to be your husband. Or your brother. Frankly, you don’t look Italian. Your daughter does.

  “I would have sent you flowers,” he added, “but I didn’t want to intrude. And if I’d been wrong, think how embarrassed I would have been.”

  I wasn’t about to be taken in by the lift of that eyebrow or by the softness of his tone, not, at least, without a few more answers.

  “Why were you reading the Washington Post obituaries if you just moved here?”

  He smiled. “I know this is going to sound morbid, but it’s an old habit. It’s a way for me to get to know the names of the families who populate a place, the old guard. It makes me feel more at home. I’ve moved around a lot.”

  I wasn’t really buying the “old habit” thing, but professors could be quirky. If this was his quirk, I’d known stranger.

  “You’re from England originally,” I said.

  “A long time ago. My mother was English. My father was in the U.S. Diplomatic Corps. Once his tour was up, he stayed in London as an expatriate for a while until he came to his senses and moved the lot of us back here.”

  The waitress came up, and Ian slid back into his
seat.

  “Two tunas with coleslaw and two ice waters. Darn. Forgot your hot water and your tea.” She set down the plates and glasses and disappeared again.

  “I’m sorry,” Ian said. “I shouldn’t have intruded into your personal life. I just didn’t want you to leave. Don’t you ever feel like you’d give almost anything to have an intelligent conversation with somebody—anybody—over the age of twenty-five?”

  I understood about the over-twenty-five deal. I also understood about the over-twenty-five-opposite-sex deal. What I didn’t understand was why Ian had chosen me for his discussion partner when there were others more willing than I.

  There were three possible explanations for Ian’s behavior, and I didn’t like any of them. Somehow he knew Stephen, or knew of him or was mixed up—damn, I really was paranoid—with whatever Stephen had been mixed up in. Or, he was far more interested in my life than was healthy for either of us. Then again, maybe he had simply heard gossip about me in a small college where talk and speculation were the answer to everyday boredom. Like it or not, I needed to know what motivated him.

  I looked at my watch. James couldn’t possibly get into town for hours yet. In the meantime, Ian and I could talk. We could eat. I knew exactly where my pepper spray was. And I knew how to handle the small pistol that was also in my purse. I knew it was illegal to carry it, but I also knew, with Stephen’s body turning back up as it had, I didn’t have a choice.

  I checked the phone again. The dial tone was definitely there. Cara had called a few hours ago to see if Janes had arrived, so I knew it had to be working. I carefully seated the receiver back into its charger. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening. What had happened to James? He had my phone number; he’d called me last night.

  The phone rang with my hand still on it and I jumped.

  “Mom.”

  “Cara?”

  “Turn on the news.”