Love Nest (2 page)

“Fine,” he said, standing flat-footed in a yellow T-shirt and tight corduroys that pulled at his crotch. He was a farfetched copy of his father, with a shock of white-blond hair and a child’s face levitating over an explosive chest, with muscles shifting in his long arms. He had strength but no grace, no agility, no swift step, only a clumsy one.

Regarding him doubtfully, she said, “I can tell you’re not.”

His ears, like his father’s, had large lobes that colored first when he flushed. Baby whiskers pricked his chin, which was prominent, like hers. She knew he was fighting tears, a battle he had always been urged to win.

“I know what you’re feeling,” she said and saw his lower lip tremble.

“I’m not feeling anything.”

“We’ll all miss her.”

He shied away from her, stumbling. His room was a mess. Books and magazines on the floor. An accumulation of clothes. Nike sneakers with long, trailing laces. She caught up to him.

“We all loved her, baby.”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“We don’t have to.” She flurried fingers through his soft-spun hair, easily picturing him bald like his father and knowing too soon he probably would be. “But I think we should.”

“
You
didn’t love her.”

There were fleeting instances when she regretted having a son, though a son had been her burning wish. She remembered the delivery, forceps required, his cry an eerie one, his breath not yet smelling of the world when he first came into her arms. She remembered his greedy mouth, her finger trying to satisfy it, and the nurse, impatient but not unkind, telling her it was not her finger he wanted. The irony of her reply passed well over the nurse:
You’d think I’d know
.

She said gently, “You’re wrong, Wally.”

If there was a response she did not hear it. His head was turned, his eyes on a wall, as if he needed noise from the stereo.

She said, “When you’re grown up and ready for marriage, it’ll be a princess.”

“When’s the funeral, Mom? When are they gonna fling her into the grave?”

He was a hair’s breadth from hysteria, and she said no more.

When she returned to the study William Rollins had his coat on. Some bourbon remained in his glass, and he downed it. Her husband came away from the fire with a smile, scratched his chest, and said in his rich voice, “William and I have reassured each other. Nobody has anything to worry about. Unfortunate what happened, but it happened.”

Rollins glanced behind him.

“I’ll take it,” she said and relieved him of the empty glass before he could place it on the imposing book cabinet of carved cherry, somebody’s heirloom she had paid top dollar for at a Beacon Street auction in Boston. “Every business has its problems.”

“That’s what I told him. Right, William?”

“Words to that effect,” Rollins murmured.

She peered at him and said, “Do you want another drink, one for the road?”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Wise of you to know that,” Alfred Bauer said. “Harriet will see you to the door.”

They did not speak until they reached the foyer, where Rollins placed himself impassively under the chandelier, adjusted his spectacles, and fixed his scarf. Harriet Bauer freed the bolt in the lock and gripped the doorknob without turning it. Her smile, planted inches from his face, revealed her gums.

He said, “You smell like a gymnasium.”

“Does that offend you?”

“You know it doesn’t.”

“Are we sparring?”

“Don’t we always?”

“Are you making a pass?”

“Hardly,” he said.

“Why not?”

“It would amuse you.”

“No,” she said, “it would amuse Alfred. You’re such a neat package of a man, William. Quite unreadable when you want to be. Are you an alcoholic?”

He shook his head.

“Good. That would have worried us. Are you queer?”

He gathered himself to reply but then did not bother.

“I didn’t think so, but Alfred wondered.”

“Then why didn’t
he
ask me?”

“Some things I do better.” She opened the door and cold air barged in. A wind had kicked up and sounded like church voices swelling into a hymn. She said, “You’re taking this very well. I know in my bones Melody meant something to you. I’m bothered I don’t know how much.”

“Who killed her?” he asked quietly.

“That’s the big question.” They each listened to a stampede of leaves. “Let’s hope it wasn’t one of us.”

He stepped past her, braced his shoulders, and glanced back. Her smile was faint.

“Someone must tell Rita,” she said.

The name chilled him.

“You do it,” she said.

He started to speak, but the door closed on him.

• • •

The ambulance attendants shuffled in, bundled the body in a red rubber bag, and carted it away on a litter. With his back to the empty bed, Sergeant Dawson telephoned Chief Chute at his home and apprised him of events. The chief, who had dozed off while watching television, said, “Take it slow, Sonny. I’m not all that alert yet. Tell me again about the tip.”

“Dispatcher said it was a muffled voice, could’ve been male or female or even a kid’s. All it said was somebody was dead at the Silver Bell, room forty-six. A cruiser in the vicinity got there in minutes.”

“We got the voice on tape?”

“Yes,” Dawson said. “Billy has taken pictures and is still dusting, and later he’s going to vacuum. I’ve got guys checking the other units, but it seems nobody saw or heard anything. Most of the units on this side are unoccupied.”

“Tell me about the victim.”

“The body was lying unclothed on the bed. Somebody with strength had worked her over. Her face was messed up, but I recognized it. She wasn’t local.”

“Thank God for that. So who was she?”

Dawson had wrapped the telephone cord around his wrist. Meticulously he freed it. “Melody,” he said, and there was a sizable pause from Chief Chute.

“Sonny, I’m sorry.”

“Everybody used her, absolutely everybody.” Rapidly he regretted his words. Stretching the cord to the fullest, he carried the phone to the window and separated the drapes. The moon, at its influential fullest, beamed in like a voodoo eye.

“Sonny, I hate to ask you this, but it’s important. You can lie a little if you want, but I’ve got to have an answer. Did you ever … I mean — ”

“I know what you mean.” He was quiet for a moment. “No, Chief, not really.

Chief Chute’s sigh filled the phone. “I remember when life was simple, the town little. ’Course I wasn’t chief then, just a plain old patrolman having a coffee at Lem’s and talking to the girls from town hall. Did I ever tell you that’s how I met my wife?”

Dawson closed the drapes.

The chief said, “I don’t suppose you’ve notified the district attorney. Do it, Sonny, do it now.”

“I was hoping you would. I was hoping you’d convince him to let me take charge of the case.”

“Sounds like you already have.”

“Tell him we’ll sew it up for him. Tell him I’ve already got leads.”

“Would I be telling the truth?”

“More or less. I’m ninety percent certain it was the Bauer boy who made the call.”

The chief’s intake of breath was sharp, and Dawson could picture him digging his toes into his slippers and smoothing his fuzzy hair. His voice was low. “The Bauers scare me.”

“I can handle them.”

“And the Italian woman, Rita whatever her name is. Can you handle her?”

“I’ll use kid gloves.”

“No pun intended, but she’s a heavyweight in every sense of the word.”

“I realize that.”

“You’re not planning on hiding anything, are you, Sonny? I mean anything major.”

“You trained me too well for that.”

“No, Sonny, neither of us are what you could call trained. We play it by ear. That’s what scares me the most.”

“I want only what’s best for the town,” Dawson said in a colorless tone. “Trust me.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Sonny. Why should I stop now?”

Dawson put the phone away and then looked into the bathroom, where Officer Lord was still in a crouch, a smudge of gray powder on his nose. “Did you hear all that, Billy?”

“No, Sonny. I never listen in on other people’s conversations. But I’d like to give you some advice. If you don’t mind. If you won’t get mad.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve got to learn to cover your ass.”

Leather-and-chrome furniture and potted plants of a lush variety marked the lobby of the Silver Bell. The night clerk, a retired fire fighter named Chick, lifted his rumpled face when he heard the doors open and fidgeted when he saw who it was. “I don’t know anything, Sonny. I swear to God.” In the crosshatch of a weathered cheek was a black mole that jiggled like a spider in its web when he spoke. “You want, I’ll sign a paper.”

Sergeant Dawson splayed his fingers against the edge of the reception desk. “Take it easy. As far as I know, we’ve always been friends.”

“Always!” the clerk affirmed. He had chalk white hair and the blazing eyes of an insomniac. His employment was an act of charity by the manager, Mrs. Gately.

“You know who it was, don’t you, Chick?”

“I knew her only a little, that’s the truth. She signed in late last night, no luggage, alone, like always. I said two words to her, that’s all.”

“What were the words?”

“Hello.”

“That’s only one. What’s the other?”

“I forget.” His mole twitched. “Sonny, why are you doing this to me?”

“What name did she use?”

“Barbra Streisand. She liked to make jokes. Time before it was Tina Turner. I didn’t know who Tina Turner was till somebody told me. Sonny … I can guess how you feel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you went out of your way for her.”

“No, it’s like you said, Chick. You don’t know anything. Where’s your boss?”

“Waiting for you. I called her, she came right over.”

Dawson turned on his heel and walked beyond the reception counter, past a potted plant and a charcoal sketch of a raptorial bird. The clerk called after him.

“Sonny!”

“What?”

“Hang loose.”

Dawson did not knock on the office door, simply opened it, strode in, and smelled coffee, freshly made. The delicate pot was on a tray, part of a service set, cups and saucers included. “I suspect a long night,” Mrs. Gately said from the shadows of her desk. A gooseneck lamp with a slender fluorescent tube cast the only light, mostly on her well-structured face. “Help yourself.”

He lifted the pot and, not bothering with a saucer, poured coffee into a cup. The cup was china, the silver sterling. “I rate.”

“No,” she said. “I do.”

He dribbled cream, stirred, and took a cautious swallow, eyebrows bent in. Mrs. Gately rose soundlessly and stood, with polished fingernails grazing the desk, a trim and shapely figure in a navy blue blazer and a straight gray skirt, the skirt tight across her hips. Her hair, stylish in its curl and cut, possessed striking tones of silver. Her nose was aquiline. She had a kind of grave beauty that needed no smile and prospered with age. She was nearly fifty.

“There’s not much I can tell you.”

“You surprise me,” he said, his mouth down at the corners.

“What do you expect, Sergeant? Tears? I don’t cry for anybody.”

He remembered her husband’s funeral, the wake at Lundgren’s, and the quick service at Christ Episcopal Church, no tears then either. He said, “I thought she’d stopped coming here.”

“That’s what you wanted to think.”

Her voice had become cold and measured. His seemed twangy. “Who was her client?”

“Assuming she had one, how would I know? Her arrangements were discreet.”

“Where’s her car?”

“Look in the lot. Gold Mazda. She was doing well.”

“Did you talk with her?”

“Briefly. Late this morning. I told her to behave herself.”

He dropped his cup. He did not think that he meant to, but there, suddenly, probably on purpose, were the broken bits, with some of the spill on his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he said and started to stoop.

“Leave it,” she said rigidly, and he straightened and sidestepped the damage. She slipped away from the desk, diminishing her face to shadow. “We don’t like each other, do we, Sergeant?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Perhaps we blame each other.”

“I was doing my job.”

“You were suspect.”

He kneaded his brow, as if his mind were sore. In the secrecy of his mind, Melody shimmered. Whole and healthy, her wealth of auburn hair swirling past her shoulders, she smiled at him. “Do you know what I wish, Mrs. Gately? I wish we could be open with each other.”

“I told you months ago I don’t trust policemen. I don’t trust their motives or their mentality, but for some reason you think you’re different.”

“I am.”

“Why? Because they call you
Sonny
? Because they love you at Lem’s? Because you seem to care for people? Sorry, Sergeant, it doesn’t wash.”

“I thought we were on the same side.”

“The same side of what? The tracks? Hardly.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Paige.”

She bristled, not at the epithet, but at the use of her given name, which was her mother’s maiden name, the family one of Andover’s oldest. Taking slow steps, she carried herself closer to him. “Do you remember a long time ago I told you Melody was messed up, really messed up? You asked what it was — drugs? — and I told you straight. Men, your age.”

“And Bauer’s.”

“That’s right, Sergeant. Your rival.”

“Don’t make it sound dirty.”

“What was it?” She took another step forward, her mouth severely set, as if her words had a bad aftertaste. The toe of her pump crunched china. He could smell her scent, faintly cinnamon. “You have interesting eyes, Sergeant. Green. Real green. That’s what attracted her.”

“So much you don’t understand.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I wanted what was best for her.”

“Be careful of what you say, Sergeant. You have the right to remain silent.”

He tightened as her ironic face half smiled, the movement of her bright lips scarcely perceptible. He looked for sympathy of a sort in her eyes. It was there all right, but it was not real. It was parody. Without warning she grasped the lapels of his check jacket.