Playing the Game (43 page)

Al scowled. “Tell me about your most recent fight.”

“I’ve already gone over this with you. We covered it all with Detective Turner’s questioning.”

“Tell me again.” He was all business.

“Fine. We were at our neighbor’s house, the musicians, at a party. It was early spring. April, I think. I’d already realized that I was never going to fall in love with Don the way he loved me by then. I knew I couldn’t give him what he wanted, that it had been a bad idea to marry him. But it was becoming apparent exactly how bad an idea. I think Don was also starting to realize that I wasn’t the woman he thought I was. He thought he had married some goddess. I could never live up to his image of me.”

“Get to the point,” Al interjected.

Roxanne was undaunted. She forced herself to recall that time yet again. This time, all the feelings came flooding back with clarity.

“He didn’t want to go to the party. I did. I told him he didn’t have to come with me if he didn’t want to, but I was a big girl and I could certainly handle going alone. He said that he knew that was what I wanted—to go alone so I could pick up some other man. I denied it even though he didn’t listen. He didn’t believe me.”

“Was it true? Were you looking for someone else?” Al asked.

“No. At the time I felt restless. I just needed to get out. So we both went. He drank a lot. He didn’t like the crowd. They weren’t his people. They were music people and assorted neighbors. I had a great time. He tried to stick to my side, but I didn’t let that stop me from talking to anyone and everyone.”

“Talking?” Al raised a brow.

“I talked and laughed and joked and had a great time. He drank and drank. Don was normally a very nice guy with a very gentle disposition, and he didn’t usually drink much. That night he wasn’t himself, in a big way. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, I remember him being unusually belligerent. At one point, I called him on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dragged him to a private corner and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing being so rude. He said it was better than being too friendly. I laughed at him. Then he would have slapped me if he weren’t so drunk and slow. I caught his hand. I told him if he ever tried anything like that again I’d divorce him. He was practically in tears with apologies after that.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I walked away from him. I was very angry. Outraged. I had no sympathy. I said …” She paused.

“What did you say, Roxanne?” Al’s jaw was tense. It made her uncomfortable. But she looked him in the eye and told him what she said to Don that night.

“I said, ‘Maybe I should divorce you anyway.’”

“Then what did you do? Is that all? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hear any more of this anyway.” Al put one hand over his face and turned away from her.

“You knew we had problems all along, Al. Why so squeamish now?” She wasn’t about to apologize to Al for anything. She owed Don, even though she couldn’t do a thing for him. But he was the only one.

“You’re still a bitch aren’t you?”

She flinched inwardly. “It’s like being an alcoholic. You never really get over it, you just do your best to behave.” Roxanne thought of her mother. Her mother had done her best, but it hadn’t been good enough had it? She stood abruptly. She wasn’t her mother. She was stronger than her mother. She only had half her mother’s genes.

“Where are you going?” Al stood.

She wheeled around. “What the hell do you care?” She knew she wasn’t playing fair now, but he’d hurt her with his words and his sympathy for Don at a time when she needed reassurance.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been too hard on you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Look at us. We’ve come too far, been through too much already, to be acting like this. Rox, please. Stay.”

That made her snap. “Don’t say that! That’s what Don used to say. Don’t beg me. Don’t apologize to me. Don’t even be nice to me. I don’t deserve it…” She covered her face with her hands and turned away from Al. How could she explain it to him? There was no explaining it. She would have escaped the room then, but the phone rang.

She answered it automatically, not thinking. Luckily, it was only Laura.

“Rox? What are you doing answering the house phone? I called to let you know Lindy’s been transferred out of intensive care today. She’s doing really well. Tim just told me about it.”

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

“I can imagine. Only a few more days and it’ll all be over. Your case won’t get past the probable cause hearing.” Laura paused like she had something important to say and Roxanne felt that sickening dread spread through her in a way that was becoming all too familiar lately.

“By the way, did you read the sports page today?”

“You know I haven’t been reading the papers.”

“Barry is rejoining the team in Phoenix later today. A statement was released from the Celtics PR office on his behalf. Are you up to hearing it?

“Let me have it.”

“Says that due to the inordinate amount of interest and speculation of the media with regard to his involvement with the murder suspect in the Donald Boswell III case, they felt compelled to release an official statement on Barry’s behalf. The same one he gave to the police. It goes on to say that he wasn’t involved with you until recently and that it was a very casual relationship, never at any point serious, and in fact it was mostly business related. But it also says he thinks you’re innocent and that’s why he bailed you out and that he would continue to help in the future in any way he could. That’s all he’s going to say on the subject, and he won’t talk to the press about anything, including basketball, if they keep asking him about you.” Laura finished.

Roxanne took a deep breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her gut clenched and unclenched as if it weren’t sure how to feel. She knew all this, but hearing it comforted her and upset her at the same time. It would always be that way with Barry.

She spoke after steadying herself. “That’s the official line, all right. It’s the unofficial one too.” She signed off the phone with Laura after making her promise to visit later.

The doorbell rang and her first thought was that one of the reporters had gotten up enough nerve to risk it. Al answered while she waited with Bonnie, hovering in the hallway near the door. It was a messenger delivering a large envelope for Al. He was cautious at the door, well past paranoid, Roxanne thought. What did he think the reporters were going to do? Send them a questionnaire in the mail? Or maybe he thought Penelope would resort to letter bombing.

He walked toward her down the hall. “You really are getting cabin fever if you have to run to the door and watch me open it.”

He sat back in his chair at the kitchen table with the envelope. She didn’t want to join him. She stood a few moments looking at her chair with disgust. She was transferring all her dislike for the situation onto her kitchen, and especially that kitchen table and chair.

“Let’s go up to my bedroom and talk.” The words were out before she realized what they implied. She looked at him with apprehension.

He looked up from the manila folder at her. It took a second for the comment to register with him. “Pardon? Your bedroom? You want me to come up to your bedroom with you? Rox, I’m not the enemy. I’m your friend. No need to lure me to the battle zone.” He looked back down at the papers he’d removed from the envelope. The only sign that the invitation had shaken him was the twitch of tension in his shoulders. But she saw it.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I have a desk and chairs up there. I’m sick of this kitchen is all.” That was as close as she was going to come to explaining herself. She didn’t mean it the way he’d interpreted it. “And what the hell kind of crack is that about my bedroom being a battle zone?” She smiled in spite of the apparent insult.

He looked up at her again as she finally sat down. He studied her face for a moment, his eyes growing serious. Then he sighed deeply. He cleared his throat. “I was joking. I knew what you meant about getting out of the kitchen. This is the report from the detective about Mark. We know where he is. As we suspected, he’s in hiding. Any reason why he should be hiding?”

“Maybe he needed to get away for a while.” She looked out the window at the ocean. “Sounds like a good idea to me right now.” Roxanne got up, turned on her heel and went up to her bedroom. The feeling of malcontent hadn’t entirely pervaded the air here yet. She couldn’t wait until all this was over and she could get rid of this house.

If Al was ever going to get paid for all this work he’d been doing on her behalf, she’d better sell the house for a lot of money. Roxanne decided she would pay him his regular fee. No discounts. She sat at her desk, took out a notebook and started a log of Al’s work from when he first started. She had already paid him for the divorce papers that were served on Don. That’s as far as they’d gotten with their divorce. She almost laughed out loud as she glanced out the window toward the ominous crashing waves. A thought snaked through her mind. What if Mark refused to come back to testify for her?

Melvin knew he should have waited until Penelope got home the moment he pulled the letter from under the false bottom of Don’s brief case. He wondered if Don had put it there, or if Penelope had done it. He looked over its contents.

Penelope barged into the room and then stopped short when she met his eyes. “Therese told me she let you in here,” she said as she glanced at the paper he was reading.

So she knew after all.

“You had no right coming in here.” Her voice was cold, calculating, but her eyes flickered, avoiding his. She moved forward and reached out to snatch the letter from his hands.

But Melvin knew what she was going to do. He knew what she was up to now. He spun around, keeping the precious paper from her. There was no doubt it was genuine, and there was no doubt what it meant.

“Give that letter to me, Mr. Lipman. That was not meant to be read by strangers. It could be misunderstood.”

“Oh, there’s no misunderstanding, Mrs. Boswell. I understand everything perfectly. This is a letter of intention to commit suicide.”

“That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t say that.” She gathered her aplomb.

“Oh, it’s classically ambiguous and shadowy all right. But under the circumstances, it reads like black and white. And it would to any jury in the world.” Melvin watched her.

“What’s the matter with you? What’s gotten into you? Have you forgotten? You work for me.” She looked wild for a moment, and sexy as hell. Then she calmed down to her indignant stance before returning to her collected, controlled self. She turned and walked toward the desk. The large dark hued furniture had been her husband’s. But it suited her.

Right now Melvin wished he never bothered cajoling his way in here to take a look at the insurance papers. Watching Penelope look up and stare back at him, his stomach turned.

“Look, this…letter was written the day before Donald died. I know it implies he was desperate, but I’m sure it was never meant to be more than a therapeutic exercise.”

Melvin couldn’t decide if she really believed her own words or not. Yesterday he would have given her the benefit of the doubt.

“Mrs. Boswell,” he began, but he didn’t know what he was going to say.

“All right. Have it your way. If you think it’s that important, if you think it’s imperative that the police see this, then I’ll give it to them.” She looked at him unblinking, with her hand extended. “Give me the letter, Mr. Lipman. I will give it to Detective Turner. First thing tomorrow. We will let him determine that the letter is meaningless being the expert that he is. Then we may both proceed with clear consciences.” This time she smiled.

He put the letter into her hand. She nodded, folded the paper and turned from him. Walking back toward the door, she said, “I think you’ll find the insurance papers you’re looking for in the top drawer of the desk.”

Melvin stared at the doorway she walked through, knowing she wouldn’t give that letter to Detective Turner. But he also knew she would never destroy it. The letter of desperation written by a son to his mother validated everything she was doing. She would keep that letter all right, good and safe.

Now, Melvin thought, the only question was, what was he going to do about it?

Chapter 22

ROXANNE STOOD at the rail, letting the ocean’s cold winds blow through her. But she was not cold. She looked out toward the distant, murky horizon until her eyes were slowly drawn into the shoreline.

Then she saw him standing on the rocks with the water lapping at his legs. He was unmoving. His clothes hung soaked and torn and the wound on his head bled hideously. Donald looked up at her.

She should be alarmed, frightened. He laughed, a loud, echoing gurgle. Then he raised his rigid arm and pointed a gun straight at her.

“Donald,” she said, but she was still not afraid. She didn’t move. She waited. He laughed again, louder this time, and he turned. His whole body turned to face in another direction. The gun was pointed at someone else now. Her eyes followed the line of his aim until she saw what it was that stood in his sights.

“No!” she screamed. But Donald didn’t hear her. “No, don’t!” She yelled again as he cocked the trigger. A surreal glow seemed to surround him.

Barry stood there, unmoving. Unaware of the danger.

“No, please. Run!”

Donald shot the gun into an explosion of light and sea mist and when it all cleared, they were both gone.

“Nooo!” The scream woke her with the sudden shock that it was her own. Her hands swept up to her face. There were tears on her cheeks. Beads of sweat dotted her temples. The sensation of being terrified was still with her as she fought the accelerated beating of her heart in an attempt to regain calm. Pushing the covers aside, she rose from her bed and went to the window. She had to convince herself none of it was real. But the struggle for rational thought was difficult as her heart pounded louder, demanding to be heard over the calming notion of reality. There was no free will involved as she reached the window and her eyes searched the rocky shoreline. There was no thought that she should or should not see something there.