Part 13 (2/2)
”We ran into each other at the Apple Pan.”
I look at her. Look at her and can't figure out a thing.
”With Bill,” she adds. ”We went to get a quick sandwich, and she was leaving as we were arriving.” just daring me to ask still more.
”What's her name?”
”I can see you're a cop's sister.” She laughs, the sound like an unbearable silver bell. ”Ina. Her name's Ina. Now do your sister-inlaw a favor and hold that pan for me while I pour.”
I hold the cake pan steadily, watching her coolly, watching her watch me, wondering what I know or what I think I know. She empties the batter with great precision, twisting the bowl, shaking it just right to dispense everything evenly. Not a drop is left when she finishes. It is all very simple for her, and for every shake of my hands, hers become steadier still. I have nothing on her.
The next day, I stop by Bill's office with a surprise box of gingerbread and the excuse of needing to renew my driver's license nearby.
”So I heard you ran into an old friend of Alice's.”
He turns and looks at me.
”She told me you ran into a friend of hers.”
”She's got old friends everywhere,” Bill says, wiping his fork off with a napkin. I can see him thinking, but I'm not sure about what.
”Hmm. But this one you ran into together.”
”Yeah?”
”Ina. Her name's Ina.”
”Ina?”
”At the Apple Pan.”
”Right. That's right. Ina,” he says. I can't read him-can't read Bill, whom I always, forever could read. But I think I detect a whiff of confusion.
”So I guess she told you that Lois Slattery took off for San Francisco.”
”I don't know.” Bill swipes a large forkful into his mouth. ”They were talking while I was paying the bill. They went to the ladies' room together.”
”Did you know Lois had left town?”
”I don't really keep tabs on Lois Slattery,” he says, shaking his head. ”I leave that to her probation officer,”
He hooks an arm around me. ”Just between you and me, I'm kind of glad she's not around, needing Alice to take care of her all the time.”
”Was Alice giving her money?” I blurt out.
”Money? No, I don't think so. No.” He wipes his hands with his napkin.
His brow furrows ever so slightly, and my heart rises in my chest.
I struggle with the urge to put my arms around him and comfort him as I see cracks appearing all around him, spreading. He does see them spreading, doesn't he? How can he not?
Two days after seeing the second newspaper article, I determine to carry out an idea that I've formulated all night long, lying in bed, unable to sleep, hoping against all reason that Lois will call, her voice sizzling in my ear.
Was it all about Joe Avalon? Was he the center of this ugly story? He was in my brother's home, maybe in his bed. Edie Beauvais gone. And now, maybe Lois, too. Of course, Alice was the one everyone had in common. Everyone.
Remembering now, at parties, Alice and Edie huddled in a corner, smoking conspiratorially, giggling and flas.h.i.+ng glances, legs swinging, rocking as they shared an ottoman, so close they were like one grinning, dangerous thing. Alice in common.
And there was mostly this: a D.A.'s investigator with a wife caught in the middle of something so lurid? However peripheral her role, it wouldn't matter. In the papers, in City Hall, it wouldn't matter. Years of hard work shot through.
As I leave my apartment that evening, I put on an old hat with a veil that hangs over my face, cobweb thick. When I arrive at the police station, I remind myself that this is not Bill's precinct, is a world away. No one will recognize me, I tell myself. Nevertheless, the dove gray veil hangs low and I try not to make eye contact with anyone as I walk into the dingy, sticky-walled station house.
I ask to speak with the detective a.s.signed to the Linda Tattersal case, and the squinty-eyed deputy at the desk gives me a long look.
”That'd be Detective Cudahy, Miss. Can I tell him what it's about?” His finger is poised on a b.u.t.ton on the control board.
”It's private,” I say quietly, through the veil. ”Is he in?”
The deputy looks at me again, then pushes the b.u.t.ton, speaking into the microphone: ”Cudahy ... someone to see you.”
I sit on the adjacent bench to wait. It is several minutes before a s.h.i.+ny-faced man with a gritty scrub of red-blond hair walks toward me, sleeves rolled up over his red forearms. He pauses at the station desk for a moment, conferring with the deputy.
”Miss? Come with me,” he says at last, waving his arm.
He lets me pa.s.s in front of him, then guides me into a small office that smells of burnt coffee and Lysol.
He leans against the front of the desk as I sit down across from him.
”So ...?” he says.
”I'm not sure ... I hope I'm not wasting your time.
”Not yet,” he says with a faint smile. ”This Linda Tattersal. From the papers. I may ... may know her.” ”But you're not sure,” he says, pus.h.i.+ng the door shut with his outstretched leg.
”I know a woman named Lois who lived in Rosecourt.”
”That so?”
”At the Locust Arms.”
”I see,” he says, arms folded across his chest. ”You always wear a veil like that in this heat?”
I feel my face turn warm. I try to lift the veil, catching it on my eyelashes.
”Let me help,” he says, reaching out and pus.h.i.+ng the veil up. My hand wavers.
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