Love You to Death (5 page)

B
uzz! Buzz-buzz!

Please be Jolie or Rebecca,
I thought, running to the intercom at my apartment door. It wasn’t yet five o’clock, though.

“It’s Detective Orr” came the deep voice. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

I buzzed him in, then glanced at myself in the hallway mirror. I’d changed from my look-better/feel-better outfit into a white tank top and yoga pants. Should I dress more appropriately? Perhaps the not-trying-too-hard look was best, so as not to appear even more suspicious. I pulled the elastic band out of my hair and finger combed. I had no idea what cold-blooded murderers looked like, but for some reason I assumed their hair didn’t look like Charles Manson’s.

Knock. Knock.

I opened the door, and Benjamin Orr filled the doorway. I stared at him, unable to believe the guy I had thought about 24/7 as a teenager was now standing a foot in front of me, looking like a god. He was so close. So—

“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” he said. “But I would like to ask you more questions.”

I glanced behind him. “No partner?”

“He’s investigating other areas. May I come in?”

I held open the door and he stepped inside my tiny foyer. He took off his black wool overcoat and hung it on my coatrack, then followed me into the living room.

“So I’m not the only suspect,” I said, my shoulders relaxing for the first time. “I just made a pot of coffee. It’s French vanilla, though.”

He nodded. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”

I was surprised that he followed me into the kitchen, which wasn’t big enough for one person to turn around in, much less two. He stood in the archway, watching me. No—that wasn’t quite accurate. He was watching, period. Perhaps looking around for a gun hidden inside the toaster oven or the cookie jar—not that I had one. As I filled two mugs, he turned and leaned against the side of the archway. Now he could watch me and take in my entire living room.

“I might as well just tell you, Detective Orr,” I said, “that—”

“Call me Ben,” he said. “I checked. We did go to high school together.”

No kidding.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said. “From your yearbook picture.”

I scowled. “I looked like a prepubescent boy in that photo.”

He laughed, but I wasn’t kidding. I’d been short and skinny, without a curve. My hair had been a weird length between my ears and chin. And you could have played backgammon on my chest.

“What I was going to say, Ben, was that I heard you took my brother-in-law’s gun into evidence. I didn’t even know he had one.”

“It wasn’t the murder weapon. We knew that just by looking at it. But we wanted to take a closer look at it regardless. Do
you
own a gun?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said, holding out his mug of coffee. “I’ve never even touched one.”

“Then how were you planning on killing Henry Fiddler?”

“What?”

He’d so startled me that the coffee shook over the edge of the mug. He took it from me, then grabbed a napkin from the counter and blotted my hand and the mug. He sipped. “Very good,” he said, leaning back against the counter ever so casually, as though we were old friends. “I usually don’t go for flavored coffee, but I like this.”

“Back to that question,” I said, trying to rip open two packets of Sweet’n Low at the same time. My fingers wouldn’t work. “About Henry?”

He set his mug on the counter, took the Sweet’n Low from me and shook them into my mug, then grabbed a spoon from the dish drain and stirred for me. He handed me the mug. I couldn’t even manage a thank-you.

Out came the notebook from his pocket. “According to a salesclerk at L.L. Bean, Abby, you said, ‘I am going to kill him.’ In reference to Henry Fiddler, who ditched you in L.L. Bean. You reiterated your intention of killing him this morning. My partner and I heard that with our own ears.”

“No! I was just…” But it sounded stupid even to me.
It’s just an expression, Officer. You know, people say they want to kill people all the time. But they don’t do it!

Thing was, some did. Obviously.

I needed to get out of this kitchen. I moved past Ben. I felt his eyes on my back as he followed me into the living room.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “we did need to alert Mr. Fiddler to the threat you made against him. He’s under protective detail.”

“What? But that’s crazy! I’m…” Once again, what was I possibly going to say? I sat down on my sofa and stared at my feet.

He sat on the chair across from the sofa, sipped his coffee, then put down the mug and faced me full on. “Abby, I’m going to be straight with you. You seem like a very nice person. You have a nice family. Nice friends. A good job. I think anyone who knows you would understand that sometimes perfectly sane, perfectly nice people
snap.
You finally started dating again, and what happens? Your new boyfriend breaks up with you. Then you see the engagement announcement. You snapped. It’s okay to say so, Abby.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression backing up his choice of words.

Do not hyperventilate. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “I didn’t kill Ted,” I said.

He sat back, silent.

“And I have no intention of killing Henry!” I added. “I just said it because I was angry at him for ditching me the way he did in L.L. Bean. People say it all the time! They don’t
mean
it.”

“Where I come from, Abby, which is the Portland police station, they do mean it. Saying you’re going to kill someone is a threat. But I do have good news for you, too. The phone calls you made to your friends and the two you received from your sister put you home during a large portion of the time frame in which Ted was killed. Still, it’s humanly possible that you managed to shoot Ted and get back to your apartment within twenty minutes.”

This was crazy! “I didn’t kill Ted,” I said again. “You have to believe me.”

“I believe in evidence. Motive. Means. Opportunity.”

“Don’t tell me there’s evidence,” I said. “There
can’t
be. Unless someone is framing me!”

“I can’t discuss the case with you,” he said. “Unless it pertains directly to you.”

What did that mean? Apparently it all pertained to me.

“Could someone be framing me?” I asked. “Did you find something of mine near Ted?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re just at liberty to scare me to death?” I asked.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Abby. I’m just following up. That’s all.”

“Are we done?” I asked. Ironic. All I’d wanted for so long was to be having a long, involved talk with Benjamin Orr.
Now
all I wanted was for him to leave me the hell alone.

“Not yet,” he said. “I need a list of all your boyfriends, in order, plus all your dates—blind dates, one-shot dates, one-night stands.”

Oh, brother. “Why?” I asked.

“It’s just all part of the follow-up,” he said.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you ever answer a question?”

He smiled. “If I can.”

Huh. Now I didn’t have a question. “I’ve never had a one-night stand,” I said. “And I’m not a serial dater.”

He eyed me. “I’ll need full names, phone numbers and addresses if you have them, and when the relationship began and ended. Annotate as you see fit,” he added. “Anything you’d like to say about the relationship would be helpful. I’ll need the list by tomorrow morning.” He stood.

“Um, about this list,” I said. “How far back should I go? The past few years? College?”

“You can go back to kindergarten if you had a boyfriend then,” he said.

“You’re not serious. You want to know about the crush I had on Raymond Phipps in kindergarten?”

“I remember Raymond Phipps!” he said, smiling. “He used to beat me up once a week.”

I really did have bad taste in men. Starting in kindergarten.

“Anyway, yes,” he said. “List everyone.”

Great. This was going to be embarrassing.

“Thanks for the coffee, Abby.” He headed toward the door and retrieved his coat.

I followed him. “Ben, for the record, I didn’t kill Ted. I didn’t even
want
to kill Ted.”

“Duly noted,” he said, opening the door.

“By the way,” I said, “what’s going to happen to Clinton, Ted’s pug? Is his fiancée taking him?”

He nodded.

There was no way Mary-Kate was a dog person.

“Thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. Oh, and again, Abby, don’t leave town.”

My penchant for picking heartless heartbreakers really had begun in kindergarten, when I developed a mad crush on Raymond, a thin blond boy who had the best lunches in the best TV-character lunch boxes. There would be a sandwich, always something good, like bologna on white bread with mustard, one slice of American cheese and a Hershey bar—a whole one, not a miniature—an apple or orange, a thermos of Hi-C and a small bag of potato chips. My mother packed a protein, a carb, a vegetable and a fruit every single day in one of those dull soft mini coolers. After holidays I would find one piece of my Halloween candy, doled out for an entire year.

Anyway, age five was a toughie for me. I’d understood in a way I hadn’t before that my father didn’t live with us because he lived with another family, with another mother and other children, one of whom happened to be in my class. Every morning, Olivia who was a very nice five-year-old, reported in about the morning at our dad’s house. “Daddy woke up me and Opal and then he made eggs and pancakes and then he gave us each two kisses and a special quarter for our piggy banks.” Much later I found out that Veronica had instructed Olivia to give me the morning reports so that I wouldn’t feel left out.

Veronica had to know that
left out
was the first thing I’d feel. I’d known my stepmother for my entire life, and I still didn’t understand her.

Anyway, the more left out I felt, the more fixated I became on Raymond and what was inside his lunch box. A few weeks into my secret, silent crush on Raymond, he yelled, “Would you quit looking at me already? If you want a potato chip, just ask.
God!
”

My first humiliation. Everyone had laughed at me. Except Olivia. I remembered that.

“I heard he pees in his bed,” she’d whispered to me.

And just like that, my crush was gone. If only adult crushes were that easy to snap out of.

I sat down at my computer and started a Word file:
Abby Foote’s List of Romantic Involvements.
I couldn’t call it a boyfriend list, since I couldn’t call many of the guys I’d dated
boyfriends.
I added Raymond’s name, then
Kindergarten. Got over him when I heard he was a bed wetter.

Stephen Fingerman. First grade. First boy to have a crush on me. Did disgusting boy things, like stretch out his eyes and eat bugs. I fell hard. Ignored me when new girl from Russia joined our class. Last I heard, Stephen was preparing paperwork to marry a Russian mail-order bride.

Dylan Gold. First boyfriend of early teen life. Broke up with me in the cafeteria of my school, right in front of Olivia. He sidled up next to us, squeezed his tray between ours and said to me, “I can’t go out with you anymore because I like your friend. There, I said it, okay.”

My heart dropped. So did the cellophane-wrapped tuna sandwich I’d just taken from the rack. He liked Jolie? She was really my only friend at this school besides Olivia, who really wasn’t my friend then.

“So will you find out if she likes me?” Dylan asked, his gorgeous blue eyes suddenly puppy-dog hopeful.

“Are you on some kind of drug?” Olivia said to him. “Ask her yourself.”

Dylan added onion rings and French fries to his tray. “I would, but I don’t know where she goes to school or where she lives or what her name is.”

Huh? “Which friend are you talking about?” I asked.

“The tall blonde with the hot boots with all the laces,” he said. “I saw you guys at the mall last weekend and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re talking about my sister, Opal. And she’s
twelve.
”

Dylan turned red. “Oh. Well, she doesn’t look it.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “She
stuffs,
okay?”

He eyed my chest, then Olivia’s, then shrugged and headed on down the line.

“That was your boyfriend?” Olivia said. “Nice guy.”

“We were only going out for a few days,” I said, then half lied about a stomachache.

Transferred later that year to private school,
I added to the brief version I wrote for Ben. For all I knew, Dylan and Ben were best friends from Little League or something.

Marco Cantinelli. Dated for one month in college. Lost my virginity to him my freshman year. So did my roommate. And our entire floor.

Jonathan Alterman. Dated for one year when I was a college junior. The pig latin king. Last I heard, was living on kibbutz in Israel.

Slade. Just Slade. First boyfriend postcollege. He didn’t talk much. Would not kiss on the lips, like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman.
I dated him for one month anyway and loved every minute of it. Told me he was moving to Alaska to fish, but I saw him in various Portland hot spots for years afterward.

Charlie Heath. Dated for six months, two years ago. Broke up after he injured my aunt during bouquet toss at my sister Olivia’s wedding. Did not respond to letter from my aunt Annette containing bill for the deductible portion of her E.R. bill. Never saw him again.

Tom Greer. Dated for four months until December of the year before last. He broke up with me via e-mail at work.
I can’t make it to your company Christmas party tonight, sorry. I’ve met someone else. You know I can’t handle confrontation.

Riley Witherspoon. Dated for two months. Really liked him. Dumped me in February after issue declaring him Best CPA in Portland hit the stands.