Part 10 (1/2)

”If I give you a couple of plates, would you set the table outside?” He rummaged around in the cabinets and came up with a couple of blue-tin plates with white speckles, forks, knives, and some paper napkins.

I went outside and put everything on the table. When I went back in, I gathered the salads, drinks, the b.u.t.ter, and some condiments. He put the lobsters in a big bowl and got some nutcrackers out of one of the drawers. Once outside, he surveyed the table. ”What else do we need?”

”I think we're fine,” I said, and sat down at the picnic table.

He sat down across from me. We were perpendicular to the ocean and both had a sideways view.

”Seriously, though,” he said, and picked up a lobster, ”do you want something to tie around your neck?” He waved the cooked lobster in front of my face.

I shook my head. ”I'll take my chances.” I took the lobster and put it on my plate. Actually, I had no idea what to do, so I fooled around with my drink until he put his lobster on his plate. As soon as he made his first crack with the nutcracker, I followed suit. He pulled a big piece out of one of the red tails, dunked it in the b.u.t.ter, and dropped it into his mouth.

He attacked the sh.e.l.l some more and pulled out another giant piece of white lobster meat. He held it over to me. ”Here.”

I held my plate up and he dropped it in the middle of the potato salad. At this point in our suspect/cop/we're-just-friends part of our relations.h.i.+p, I didn't think opening my mouth and being fed was appropriate. I cut the chunk of lobster into smaller pieces and ate it. When I was done with that, he handed me more, seeing the trouble I was having with my own crustacean. While I ate, he asked me where I was from.

”My parents were from Montreal, but I was raised in Tarrytown.”

”Do they still live there?” he asked.

I shook my head. ”My father died when I was a senior in high school, and my mother died two months before I got married. She made me promise to go through with the wedding.” I laughed, even though the thought of her last days was still a source of pain. ”I guess it was her dying wish that I not spend the rest of my days alone.” I looked away quickly so that he wouldn't see the pain, or tears, in my eyes.

”No pressure, though,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

”I think she had an inkling about Ray's shortcomings, but she would never say anything. She was old school-better to be married to a b.u.m than not married at all.”

”My mother wanted me to be a priest,” he blurted out between mouthfuls of potato salad.

I held my hands up like a scale. ”Homicide detective, priest. They're similar. You're still hearing confessions.”

”The celibacy thing would have been a huge stumbling block for me.” He handed me some more lobster without looking up.

For you and the faithful female flock, I thought. ”Father What-a-Waste.” It was out of my mouth before I realized that I had spoken.

He looked at me questioningly. ”What?”

”Father What-a-Waste. I read that in a book somewhere. Handsome priests who turn on female paris.h.i.+oners are called Father What-a-Waste.”

He let out a big laugh. I had to stop saying the first thing that came into my head. Now he knew that I thought he was attractive. I felt like I needed a complete refresher course in male/female interactions. I didn't think you were supposed to reveal the attractiveness factor until much later in a relations.h.i.+p, but my timing was off on everything now. I was relieved when I heard the insistent beeping of my cell phone go off in my bag, inside the house. Crawford looked down at his waistband and checked his beeper, but I knew it was mine. I jumped up, went in through the screen door, and grabbed it out of my briefcase, which was resting against the leg of the s.h.i.+p's-wheel coffee table. I answered it just before it went to voice mail and heard Ray's voice.

”Well, I'm out of jail,” he said, obviously mad at me for not checking on him sooner.

I wanted to scream, ”We're divorced, you a.s.shole!” but I didn't. I wasn't sure how to react so I didn't say anything. I wouldn't have been that upset had he spent the night in lockup, or whatever the cops call it when you're thrown in a cell with a dozen unwashed men and given bologna sandwiches to eat.

”Are you there?” he asked.

”Uh, yes,” I said. I still wasn't sure what this had to do with me. I had called Mitch Klein, which was my only partic.i.p.ation in Ray's situation and all I was going to do to help him, philanderer and possible murderer.

”I thought you would want to know that I'm out,” he said.

”That's great, Ray. Did you connect with Klein?”

”Yes. He got me released. The police don't have anything to go on except the fact that I once had your keys in my possession and that I . . .”-he hesitated for a brief second-”. . . knew Kathy. From intro bio.” Liar. He waited a moment and then changed the subject. ”Where are you, by the way?”

”What?” I asked.

”Where are you? I called school and Dottie said that you called in sick. And you're not home, because I tried you there.” His tone was proprietary and not concerned at all, and I didn't like it.

I looked through the picture window and saw Crawford spread out on the chaise, facing the ocean with his shoes off and his fingers laced across his stomach. The outdoor table was covered with the lunch debris. A mixture of guilt and awkwardness flooded over me. I couldn't tell Ray where I was exactly, but I wasn't sure why I had to lie entirely. ”I'm at the beach. I needed a break.”

”You don't have a car. How did you get there?”

I cleared my throat. ”I'll call you later, Ray.” I flipped the phone closed and put it back in my bag. Before I was outside, it began ringing again, but I ignored it.

In the two to three minutes it took for me to have my conversation with Ray, Crawford had fallen into a deep sleep on the chaise lounge, one foot touching the deck, and the other bent at the knee. His mouth was open, and his s.h.i.+rt had ridden up to expose the s.p.a.ce between his ribs and his waistband. The top b.u.t.ton on his jeans was open, I guess in an attempt to make room for more food. I averted my eyes quickly, feeling as if I had just walked in on him in the shower. At my age and under the constant tutelage of Max, I should have been able to deal with looking at the flat stomach of a very attractive man, but I felt like a Peeping Tom. I slipped off my shoes and headed out into the sand and toward the water, putting as much distance between myself and the snoring detective as I possibly could.

Thirteen.

There were only two ways to go on the beach without either getting wet or hitting road-north or south. I chose south and started walking, enjoying the feel of the wet sand between my toes and the occasional splash of chilly ocean water on my legs. I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost three o'clock. I was in no rush to leave, but knew that I had to get home by ten or eleven in order to get ready for work the next day and get enough sleep in order to face my cla.s.ses with a modic.u.m of composure. I pushed the thought of the two-hour car ride out of my head and the probable traffic that we would face and enjoyed meandering down a deserted beach, destination unknown.

In the distance, I saw a hazy amus.e.m.e.nt park sticking out into the water, almost a mirage. I remembered from my teenage years that it was the boardwalk and amus.e.m.e.nt park at Seaside Heights, the after-prom destination of most high schoolers of my generation. I figured it was about five miles from where I was, going south. I wondered how long it would take me to walk that far in sand, barefoot.

I walked for about an hour and didn't feel any closer to Seaside, but I was so relaxed that I hadn't even thought about the last few weeks. In the distance, I saw a dune buggy approaching, its giant wheels carving huge tread marks in the damp sand. To my amazement, the driver pulled up next to me and stopped.

A young man wearing a tan police uniform with a badge on the sleeve that said LAVALLETTE POLICE DEPARTMENT looked right at me. ”Afternoon, ma'am.”

The ma'am thing. I hated that. ”Hi.”

”Are you”-he consulted a clipboard hanging from the dashboard-”Alison Bergeron?”

Great. Interrogated in two states. I nodded. Facing west, I had to shade my eyes from the sun, which was now low in the sky.

He picked up a cell phone, dialed a number, and handed it to me. It was Crawford. His voice crackled on the other end. ”What is with you and walking? I woke up, and you were gone.”

”I figured you were doing surveillance, and I didn't want to disturb you.”

”Funny.”

”You didn't have to call the police.” I looked at the young cop, who was pretending not to listen but was hanging on every word. The side of the dune buggy said LPD. ”You didn't have to call the LPD.” How many cops could Lavallette have? Three? And now one was dispatched to look for a wandering English professor. Must have been an exciting day in the station house. ”You've either greatly overreacted, or you're too lazy to go out and find me.”

”Just get in the car and ask him to drop you off at the back of the house. I'll be outside,” he said, and hung up.

”It's a dune buggy,” I yelled into the phone, but he had hung up. ”Would you mind driving me back down? It's north of here. I'm not exactly sure where the house is, but my friend will be outside.” I hoisted myself into the dune buggy, and he gunned the engine.

A few minutes later, and after a nice conversation with Ted, the cop (who really wanted to teach surfing in Hawaii I learned), I was deposited at the back of the beach house. Crawford was standing on the deck with his arms folded over his chest and gave me a stern look. ”You could have left me a note.”