Part 15 (2/2)

He kept shaving, not responding.

”And chicken cutlets, lasagna, eggplant rollatine, and bread.” I went into the bathroom and stood behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. I leaned my head against his back. ”And mozzarella. And tiramisu.” I pulled him a bit closer. ”I heard that tiramisu means 'hold me closer' in Italian.”

”Funny. I heard it meant 'you just did a really stupid thing.'” He rinsed the razor in the basin, which was full of water, shave gel, and whiskers. He took a towel from the ring hanging next to the sink, rinsed his face, and dried it with the towel. He let the water out of the sink and then turned around to face me. ”I'm still mad at you.”

I hung my head in mock shame.

”This isn't funny, Alison. What if I had gotten beeped or called? What was I supposed to say? That nutty professor has my clothes and my car? I can't do my job because I'm trapped in her house without any underwear?”

I hadn't thought of that. ”Actually, I'm a nutty doctor of literature.”

He didn't think that was very funny, either.

I tried to give him some good news. ”I know what's missing from my office,” I said brightly.

He looked down at me.

”My files from all of my current spring courses.”

He thawed a little bit. ”Why would anyone want those?” he asked, dubious. ”With all due respect, Dr. Bergeron.”

I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. ”I don't know. But I thought we could eat some of the food that I bought and hash it out. What do you think?”

He walked into the bedroom. ”I'd be able to think better if I had my clothes.” He leaned down and took his jeans, underwear, and T-s.h.i.+rt from the basket. ”If you'll excuse me?” he asked, and closed the bathroom door. He came out a few minutes later, dressed, his hair combed. ”I used your toothbrush,” he stated. He looked at me for my reaction, but I had none. ”To brush my hair. Payback's a b.i.t.c.h, huh?”

I grimaced. ”Are you still mad at me?” I got up from the bed and walked over to him, putting my arms around his neck and kissing him. His arms hung at his sides for a few minutes, but he finally relented and put his hands around me and up the back of my s.h.i.+rt.

”You have tiramisu?” he asked, kissing my neck.

”And salami.” I put my hands into his toothbrush-styled hair.

He let me go after one last kiss. ”If you've got salami, I'm fine. Let's go downstairs so we can go over what's missing. I want to know who's in each one of those cla.s.ses.” He went over to the nightstand and put the gun in the back of his waistband.

We went downstairs, and I picked up the bag of food from the hallway floor. All of the food was in microwaveable containers, so everything was hot in no time. I put the salami and cheese on a plate, cut up the bread, and asked him what he wanted to drink. Then I remembered I didn't have anything to drink besides a frozen bottle of vodka and the leftover wine from the night before. ”How's water?”

”Fine,” he said.

I handed him a couple of plates, forks, knives, and two bottles of water. We sat at the table and dove into the smorgasbord. ”Cut me off a piece of that salami,” I said.

He took his knife and cut off a big chunk, holding it out to me. I opened my mouth and he dropped it in. I chewed on the tough piece of meat and opened my grade book. ”I'm teaching Creative Writing II, Freshman Comp, Intro to Shakespeare, Literature of the Hudson River, and Senior Seminar.”

He told me to start with Creative Writing. I ran down the list of students. ”Any of those names ring a bell?”

He plowed into the lasagna and shook his head. ”Do Hudson River.” He forked a big hunk into his mouth, sauce on his lips. I now had proof that he wasn't the dainty eater that had sat at the same table the night before.

I read off the names from that cla.s.s; three of those students were also in the creative writing cla.s.s. I went on to Shakespeare: Costigan, Martin, Carlyle, Rivas, McCarthy, Dumont, and Franklin. He perked up at the name Martin. ”She was the roommate.”

”Right.” I said.

He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ”Freshman and soph.o.m.ore years.”

”You questioned her, right?” I asked.

He nodded. ”First thing. All she did was cry and carry on. She didn't have anything to give us, and we haven't spoken with her since.” He took a piece of eggplant and put it on his plate. ”How's she been in cla.s.s?”

”The same. A pain in the a.s.s. She's on my back about returning her Macbeth report, but normal.” I ripped a piece of bread in two and layered a piece of mozzarella onto it. I looked at the Senior Seminar and read those names off: Troy, Manning, Slater, O'Toole, and Davis. He shook his head; he didn't know any of them.

We ate some more and made a big dent in the food. ”Ready for dessert?” I asked.

He stretched his arms over his head. ”Give me a few minutes. I ate a lot.”

I closed my grade book and pushed it to the side. The doorbell rang just as I was polis.h.i.+ng off the remains of my lasagna. He looked at me. ”Expecting anyone?” he asked, getting up and putting his hand to his back, drawing his gun out of his waistband and holding it close to his leg.

”No.” I got up and padded down the hallway to the door and looked through the frosted gla.s.s panel on the side of the door. It was Ray. Crawford stayed in the doorway of the kitchen, his hands in his pocket.

I opened the door and let him in.

”I was hoping I would catch you at home,” he said, coming into the doorway. He stopped short when he saw Crawford. ”What is he doing here?” he asked, eyeing Crawford nervously. He s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other.

Crawford took a few steps forward; the gun was nowhere in sight. ”We were just discussing the case, Dr. Stark.”

Ray sized him up. ”Can we have a moment, please? I need to talk with my wife alone.”

I looked at Ray and wanted to remind him that I was not his wife. Now we were in an alpha male p.i.s.sing match. I half expected Ray to undo his pants and pee in the corner to mark his territory.

Crawford stood and stared at Ray a few more minutes, the air in the hall becoming charged with pheromones, testosterone, and every other male hormone. Crawford looked at me. ”I'll be outside.”

I led Ray into the kitchen and told him to sit down. ”Are you hungry?”

He looked at the leftovers on the table, the two plates, and the two water bottles. ”You fed him?”

”Yeah. That's the trouble with cops. Once you feed them, they keep coming back,” I said. ”Do you want a plate or what?”

He shook his head and took a long breath. ”I just wanted to come by and thank you for helping me out the other night. With Klein.”

A little overdue, but nice, nonetheless.

He pushed Crawford's plate out of the way and put his hands down on the table. ”Alison, I had nothing to do with this,” he said, his tone pleading. ”You have to believe me.”

I still wasn't sure if I could believe him considering our history, and I wasn't sure I could give him the benefit of the doubt anymore. ”I guess I have to take your word for it,” I said, but it came out almost as a question.

”Thank you,” he said immediately, and then thought back on what I had said. ”I guess.” He c.o.c.ked his thumb toward the front door. ”Did he give you any idea as to who the other suspects are?”

He thinks you did it, Ray, I wanted to say, but didn't. ”No.”

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