Topping From Below (8 page)

He laughs. “You want me to cook you dinner? On a first date?”

I shrug and smile. “I love a man who cooks. You can cook, can’t you?”

He writes his address on the paper and tears it out of his notebook. He hands it to me, saying, “Sure. I enjoy cooking occasionally.”

So far, I think, this is easy.

Ian McCarthy is my boyfriend. He works at
The Sacramento Bee
also, a staff reporter who covers the capitol news. I’ve known him for years, but I didn’t start dating him until ten months ago, shortly after Franny died. If I didn’t believe in serendipitous events before, I do now: when I needed someone like Ian, he appeared—almost miraculously—by my side. We were barely acquaintances at the
Bee
, the most superficial of friends, and I considered him an annoyance at first—the importunate way he seemed to edge himself into my life immediately after Franny died—but I quickly warmed to his heartfelt manner. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” he’d said simply, trying to console me.

I knew what he was referring to. Several years ago a man stalked and killed his girlfriend. She had been a TV reporter for the Channel 3 news, and the
Bee
—along with every other local paper and news station—had covered the story extensively. The man had made threatening phone calls to her home, sent her photos he’d taken of her surreptitiously, then finally cornered her in the television station parking lot and stabbed her repeatedly. Now he’s in San Quentin.

“At least you know who killed Cheryl,” I said, thinking that must be of some satisfaction.

But Ian just shook his head, a look of pain on his face. “It doesn’t help to know who murdered her,” he said, and he put his arms around me.

From that common element—violent death—Ian and I established a rapport. He understood me as no one else could; he comforted me, even helped with the funeral arrangements and memorial service.

When Franny was murdered, something inside me closed up. Her death, so senseless and violent, affected me more profoundly than even my brother’s or parents’ deaths. Even now, I find it unbearable. Ian—gentle, staid, levelheaded Ian—has been a great help to me, and the progression of our relationship has been slow and steady. When I was considering a leave of absence from the Bee, he agreed it might be a good idea. He didn’t want me to move to Davis, but when I did he was supportive. He helped me move, and he never complains about the distance between our homes. We see each other several times a week, and being with Ian is comfortable. He’s compassionate and bright and even-tempered. I find, since Franny died, my attitude toward men has changed. I know she thought I was frivolous with my boyfriends, and maybe I was. But with Ian, it’s different. I really care about him, and maybe it will lead to something more.

He stayed over last night, and he’s in the bathroom now, shaving. I’m reading the newspaper, clipping articles that depict violent acts in Sacramento. Two teenagers were wounded in Land Park in a drive-by shooting. In Franklin Villa a man was pulled from his home and beaten with a baseball bat. A woman, shot three times, was found dead on 14th Avenue, a pile of clothes near her nude body. I’ve begun a collection of articles about violence, death, destruction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them—write an article perhaps, on the growing tide of violence, and submit it to the Bee.

Ian comes up behind me and puts his arms around my neck. He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. He smells good, of shaving lotion and Old Spice, and his lips are as soft and smooth as blossoming petals. Looking at him, with his square face and crooked nose that had once been broken, you wouldn’t think his lips would be so soft. He’s a few inches taller, and a few years younger, than I, and even now while he’s dressed in a dark suit to meet with a legislator, he has an unsophisticated, farm-boyish look about him, his body beefy and strong, his fingers blunt. Even his blond hair is the flaxen color of silky tassels on an ear of corn. He’s a good-hearted man, frank and simple. I used to think he was a trifle dull, but, since Franny died, I’ve come to admire his steadfast manner.

The only area in which he is not supportive is where it concerns M. Several months ago, when I told him I was following M., Ian blew up at me in a rare display of anger.

“Why are you doing this?” he said, pacing the room, agitated, his face flushed. “Why can’t you just leave the man alone?”

“Because he killed my sister.”

Ian was clenching his fists, his knuckles white. “Then let the police do their job. Stay away from him.”

I couldn’t understand why he was saying this—he should be helping me to find Franny’s killer, not deterring me. “I can’t,” I said.

He left the house, slamming the door behind him. I don’t know why he reacted so vehemently, but I suspect he was jealous of the time I was devoting to M. Since then, I don’t mention his name. Ian has no idea what he looks like, and has no inclination to find out. He doesn’t know I still follow M. around town, or that I’m writing Franny’s story. He doesn’t know I met M. yesterday at Fluffy’s, and he definitely doesn’t know about my date with him tonight.

I’m jittery all afternoon. I don’t like deceiving Ian, but I know he wouldn’t approve of my plan for M. I think of how M. committed the perfect murder. As soon as the police read Franny’s diary, they took him into custody. He freely admitted his interest in bondage and punishment, but denied he killed my sister. With no prior arrests, no history of violent behavior, no physical evidence to place him at Franny’s apartment, they had to release him. I obtained a copy of the coroner’s report and made my own conclusions. I don’t know how he did it yet, but M. is responsible for her death.

I take a shower, then wonder how to dress. I want M. to be distracted this evening. I squeeze into my siren’s outfit, guaranteed to seduce, then lure a man to his destruction—a form-hugging red knit dress, thigh high, with the back cut down to my waist. I put on red lipstick the color of a maraschino cherry, slip on high heels, then grab a coat.

When it’s close to seven, I drive over to his house and sit out front in my car, a maroon Honda Accord, for several minutes. The darkness of the night is blue-black, the sky as glossy as ink, and the shrubs and trees, devoid of sunlight, have lost their color. There is a gathered, closed-in feeling to Willowbank after nightfall; a crepuscular claustrophobia sets in. Overhead branches and vines intertwine in a shadowy bower; walls of hedges, dense and impenetrable, form a verdant screen that surrounds and encloses. I think of what I am about to do. I could go home and let the police handle him as Ian has told me so many times. But even as I’m thinking this, I’m opening the door to my car and getting out. I head up the long cobbled walkway to the front porch and ring the doorbell. Light from inside seeps through the drawn curtains, setting the picture window all aglow. Above the door, a bug light shines down on me and makes my hands look yellow and jaundiced. I wait under the light, the night air cold on my skin.

M. answers. He greets me with a warm smile and ushers me into his home. I feel a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach. This is the man who most likely killed my sister. He is tall, with thick, dark hair that falls voluptuously over his high forehead, and he’s dressed in black: black leather shoes, black slacks, a black cashmere sweater. He looks elegant in an understated way, with a simple gold watch clasped to his wrist.

In the foyer, I get an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu. His house is exactly as Franny described it in her diary. He takes my coat, then shows me around—but I already know what to expect: earthy tones, hardwood floors, spacious rooms, comfortable furniture. It is the home of an organized man living alone, without mess or clutter. I look out the glass doors at his backyard and see his black Great Dane hunkering in the shadows. M. tells me his name is Rameau, after a French composer of the late-Baroque era. We go into the kitchen, which is well stocked and orderly, with modern appliances and fixtures that obviously did not come with the original home. While he prepares dinner, I chat with him, mentally recording each word he says. Gravid with expectation, my senses are heightened, sharply attuned to his every nuance. Perhaps I am mistaken, but regardless of his casual manner, each word he speaks and each gesture he makes seem fraught with special significance and hidden meanings.

This man is a killer, I think, and I try to keep the nervousness out of my voice. M. moves around the room gracefully, perfectly at ease. He pours both of us a glass of white wine, then goes back to the stove, checks under the lids of several pots. His geniality flusters me a little; he seems almost likable. I hadn’t expected that. I ask him what he’s cooking.

“Salmon steaks,” he tells me. “I’ll broil them in a few minutes.” He lifts the lids. “A dill sauce for the fish, asparagus with cashew butter, gingered carrots.” He looks over at me. “I didn’t make dessert. Franny told me you didn’t eat sweets.”

I freeze at the sound of my sister’s name, then slowly swallow what’s left in my wineglass and set it on the tiled counter. Instinctively, I gauge the distance to the door.

“How did you know?” I ask him, my voice barely a whisper.

He picks up a wooden spoon and stirs the sauce. “You’re not a very good detective. I’ve seen you around, following me, showing up a few too many times for it to be a mere coincidence. Besides, Franny showed me your picture.”

Watching me, he tastes the sauce, furrows his eyebrows, adds a pinch of spice. He replaces the lid and turns to me. Leaning against the counter, he folds his arms and cocks his head, smiling just a little. “As a matter of fact, she told me a lot about you. More, I’m sure, than you want me to know.”

I’m shocked into silence. I can’t believe he knew, all along, my identity. We stare at each other without speaking. I’m still stunned; he’s only amused. He looks down at my wineglass and sees that it’s empty. He gets the bottle of wine, uncorks it, and takes a step toward me. Reflexively, I tense. He sees my fear and smiles, then pours me another glass of wine.

“What were you planning to do?” he asks me, saying it as if he were inquiring about the time of day. “Why are you here?”

I tell him the truth. “I want to find out more about you. I think you killed my sister.”

I expect M. to act insulted or outraged, but he only raises one eyebrow, mildly intrigued. “You know, of course, the police don’t share your opinion.”

“They don’t have any evidence—that’s all I know.”

He nods thoughtfully. “So you came here to … what? Collect evidence? Disclose the murderer?” He is making fun of me.

“Yes,” I say, trying to hold in my anger.

“What if I told you I didn’t kill her. Would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Ah,” he says, thinking. “I suppose not.” He crosses over to the refrigerator and pulls out a head of romaine, scallions, tomatoes, and marinated mushrooms. He washes the tomatoes and begins to slice them into small wedges. His insouciance infuriates me. I want a reaction from him.

“She kept a diary,” I say. “She wrote about you. I know what you did to her.”

“‘Franny’s File,’” he says, still slicing. “The police mentioned it, of course, but I already knew about it. From Franny.” He looks up at me. “And I doubt if you knew what I did to her. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

“I intend to find out.”

“Really?” The word sounds like a challenge. He gets a wooden bowl for the salad and dumps in the tomatoes and mushrooms. He slices the scallions. “How do you plan to do that?”

I don’t know anymore. My plan was to put myself in Franny’s place. Find out everything I could about M., get him, somehow, to betray himself. Now I don’t know what to do. He is still making the salad, tearing apart lettuce leaves as if this were a friendly dinner date.

“If you really believe I killed Franny, you should stay away from me.” He takes a sip of wine and regards me with an unworried casualness. “What’s to stop me from killing you?”

I’ve already thought of this. He’s a clever man, and that’s what is protecting me. The police know of my consuming passion to put him behind bars, and if anything happens to me, now or later, they would zero in on him. It would be too much of a coincidence: two sisters, the same man. I tell him so, and he nods.

“Yes, if you die I better have a good alibi this time, hadn’t I?”

When I hear this, my body stiffens. Even though Franny’s body was decomposing when she was found, the Yolo County coroner, using a sodium chloride test on her eyes, analyzing the vitreous humor, the clear gel behind the lens, and also evaluating the degree of insect infestation and rate of bodily decomposition, and processing the scene markers—the dated store receipt on the counter, the mail in her mailbox, the time recorded on the unretrieved message on her answering machine, an open newspaper on the table—using all of these, the coroner was able to establish a time of death, give or take a few hours. M. was home alone during that time, he claimed, with no alibi.

I’m suddenly impatient with him and his indifference. I despise this man more than I fear him. “Why did you invite me to dinner?” I ask him. “If you knew who I was, why didn’t you say so?”

“You’re the one who began this charade. I was just playing along.” He adds salad dressing and mixes the salad. After a few moments, he says, “I did it for my amusement, I suppose. The same reason I started with Franny”—he looks over at me and gives an apologetic shrug—“for amusement.”

When he mentions her name, I cringe. He speaks of her as if she was insignificant. He sees the look on my face.

“Would you rather I lied?” he asks. “Do you want me to tell you she meant more to me than she really did?”

I say nothing.

He sighs patiently. “It’s been almost a year since she died. Do you expect me to mourn her still? Life does go on.”

“If you killed her,” I say, “I’ll find out.”

“How?” he asks. “Did you think you could simply come over here and trip me up? Do you actually think you’re a match for me?” He shakes his head. “I have nothing to fear from you.”