An Eye for Murder (24 page)

“What happened?”

“Since it was a first offense, and there were disagreements between some of the witnesses, I did not go to jail. I received community service. And probation.” He took the sprayer off his back and attached a hose to it. “Of course, that was thirty years ago.”

“And you’ve had a card since then.”

“Yes. But you see, the rules have recently changed. Before, only convictions within five years of the application were grounds for rejection. But now any conviction, at any time can be a problem.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. Can’t you explain?”

“I tried.” He shrugged. “But they do not believe me.”

“Why not?”

“What is my name, Ellie? Where am I from?”

A finger of anger slid down my spine. In America, it’s not supposed to matter if your name isn’t Smith or Jones, if you’re a law-abiding citizen. “How do you do it, Fouad? How do you maintain your equanimity?”

He smiled. “The Koran says, ‘I do not control for myself any harm, or any benefit except what Allah please.’ I try to yield to the will of my God.” He pointed the hose of the sprayer toward the yews. “And,” his eyes twinkled, “I keep the guns hidden in my truck.”

We were spraying the yews when a red Honda cruised around the corner and stopped at the curb. The driver’s side door opened, and David uncurled himself from the seat. He was wearing light khakis, a turquoise shirt, and loafers without socks. Raising his sunglasses off his eyes, he started across the grass toward me. His hair glinted in the sun.

A visceral ping shot through me, and I took a few steps toward him. We stopped a few feet away from each other. With Pavlovian smiles on our faces. Time stood still.

Fouad cleared his throat, and at the same time, Rachel bounded out of the house. “Mom, did you see my—” She stopped when she saw David. I watched as she slowly sized him up, her eyes taking in his clothes, his white hair, his smile.

“Rachel,” I said, “this is David Linden. David, this is Rachel. And Fouad Al Hamra, my friend.”

Rachel sidled up, gave him her hand, and snuck a look at me. “Hi.”

“Hi, Rachel.” He took her hand and kept it in his for a beat. Then he turned to Fouad and shook his, too. He took his sunglasses off his head. “I was in the area,” he said. “I’ve been trying to find a woman who worked at Iverson’s. She lives in Mount Prospect.” Mount Prospect is a few villages west. “But it seems she moved into a nursing home a few months ago…” His voice trailed off. He folded his sunglasses and stuffed them in his shirt pocket.

I couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he. “Tell you what. You and Rachel go inside while I finish up with Fouad. Then I’ll make some iced tea. Rachel, make sure he feels at home.”

Rachel tossed her head importantly.

I watched them go, then turned to Fouad. He was smiling too. Dammit. Couldn’t anybody do anything but smile?

“You do not need to be here, Ellie,” he said. “I can finish up.”

“No, I want to help.”

As we sprayed, the tinkle of the piano floated out the window. Rachel never touches the piano during the summer, but she was playing the piece she’d learned for her recital. When the piece was over, I heard the occasional plink of a chord. I came inside and washed my hands. David and Rachel were on the piano bench, their heads bent over the keys.

“The arpeggio, with its sets of thirds and fourths, is just a series of numbers,” David was saying. “What they call a mathematical progression.”

Rachel turned a puzzled face toward him. “What do you mean?”

“There are rules about what chords follow other chords, how different melodies are supposed to be combined, right?”

She nodded.

“It’s no accident. There’s a simple numerical interval or ratio between beautiful sounds—they’re related to each other. Like this.” He played a chord in G major.

“What about this?” She played a G-minor chord.

“Same thing,” he smiled. “All you did was change the ratio on the bottom third.”

She studied the keys. “Two whole steps to one and a half.”

“You’re pretty quick.” She beamed.

“Music and mathematics are closely related. In fact, they say that playing an instrument can make you better at math.”

Her face turned skeptical.

“It’s true. Scientists are finding that music and brain wave activity are built on the same kinds of patterns.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll practice more.”

He laughed. “Can’t put one past you, can I?”

I slipped into the kitchen and made a pitcher of iced tea, then carried it into the family room. “Who wants some?”

Rachel whispered to David. They both looked up. “Uh, Mom? We have an idea.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“We’re both kind of hungry,” David said. “How about if I take you both to dinner?”

“Dinner?” I grinned. “You said the magic word.” He winked at Rachel.

Chapter Thirty-four

I showered and threw on a pair of slacks and a blue top that makes me look like I actually have a neck. We piled into David’s car and drove to the Italian Gardens, a small restaurant with a statue of Venus de Milo in a fountain out front. Rachel pulled out a penny and flipped the coin into the fountain. It bounced off Venus’s torso and plopped into a shallow pool glittering with other pennies and an occasional dime.

“Don’t you want to know what I wished for?” She edged toward the door.

“If you tell me,” I said, “it won’t come true.”

Her eyes flitted from me to David. My cheeks got hot.

A wave of garlic eddied out as we stepped in. The place was crowded, the tables covered with red and white checked cloths and candles in small woven baskets, layers of hardened wax dribbling down their sides. Most of the tables were filled. Accordion music spilled out of speakers.

The maitre d’ sat us near a saltwater aquarium filled with tropical fish. Bursts of yellow, blue, and orange glinted through the glass. I’d been a regular here after Barry and I separated. One night, after I’d had too much to drink, Vincenzo, the owner, made a pass at me. Nothing happened; he’d had more to drink than me. A few days later he confessed it was just as well. Fish were his real passion. They didn’t talk back, and they didn’t care if he respected them in the morning.

The bluish light from the tank lit our menus as a waitress took our drink orders. Rachel asked for a Coke, and David ordered a bottle of Sassicaia, a Tuscan wine which he said was better than Chianti. I saw approval on the waitress’s face.

Rachel inherited my mother’s Southern charm, a trait that apparently skipped me, because she chattered away, peppering David with questions about Philadelphia, cheese steaks, and the Liberty Bell. Then she moved on to parlor tricks. We were going to play a game, she announced.

“Here’s how it works.” Her blue eyes brimmed with authority. “You have to think of things that go together like

‘pen and ink,’ ‘milk and honey,’ things like that. We go around the table really fast, and the person who can’t think of anything is out. Okay?”

“Okay,” David nodded.

I dreaded what was coming. I can’t think on demand. I’d make a lousy quiz show contestant.

“I’ll go first,” Rachel said. “Jack and Jill.” She smiled triumphantly. “Now you.” She pointed to David.

“Black and blue,” David said without missing a beat.

Four eyes gazed at me. Oh God. Now he’ll see how lame I am. My eyes darted around the room. Saved. “Salt and pepper,” I said in relief.

Rachel curled her lip. A trace of mother-daughter competition, perhaps? “Birds and the bees,” she declared. “Romeo and Juliet,” David said.

“Uh, uh, the Jets and the Sharks,” I said.

“Show and tell.” Rachel was pretty good at this. “Bonnie and Clyde.” So was David.

My turn again. I stared at the fake stucco patterns that swirled across the ceiling. I drew a blank. “Um—”

“Come on, Mom.”

“Redford and Newman,” I blurted out.

“What?” Rachel drew herself up. “Who are they?”

“Two guys who were in a couple of movies together.”

David looked at his plate. His mouth twitched. Rachel caught it. “You’re out,” she said imperiously.

I shrugged.

David laughed. “Don’t feel bad. I was hanging on by my fingernails.”

“Come on, guys. Let’s do it again,” Rachel said with the confidence of someone who knows she’s going to win. Thankfully, the waitress interrupted with our meal. Rachel and I debated whether she should use a knife and fork with her pizza or pick it up in her fingers. I lost.

As we walked back to the car, two searchlights swung back and forth in a wide arc piercing the night sky. I wondered who or what was lost, relieved for once it wasn’t me. When we got home, Rachel made a pretense of yawning and went upstairs.

I found a bottle of amaretto and two brandy snifters, and carried them into the family room. I poured and handed one to David. In the back of my mind, I knew I had to tell him about Paul Iverson and his mother. But I didn’t want to break the spell. Like Scarlett, I’d think about it tomorrow.

David rotated the glass in his hand. Shafts of light shot through the amber liquid, and patterns of tawny light danced across his hand.

“Nice effect.” I settled down on the couch next to him.

“How would you do this in video?”

“Smoke and mirrors,” I said.

He smiled through half-closed eyes. I was aware that our bodies were close together. I drained my amaretto. His hand rested just inches from mine. He covered it with his and lifted it to his lips. I shivered. He pressed his mouth against my wrist. Something inside me swelled up. He slid my hand around his neck and drew me close. His lips grazed my neck, my cheeks, and stopped at my mouth. I tasted the amaretto on his tongue and wondered if he tasted it on mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck. His kisses grew urgent, and his tongue sought out mine. His fingers stroked the side of my face. I slid down on my back. He moved on top of me. I smelled the faint scent of soap behind his ears. His hands left my face, caressed my neck, my shoulders, my breasts. I trembled, feeling his weight press down on me.

Then abruptly, I felt space between us. I opened my eyes.

He had pulled away. My breath was coming in short gasps. “What?” I whispered hoarsely.

He shook his head and moved to the edge of the sofa, where he dragged himself to a sitting position. “I’m sorry.” The back of my eyes ached. I tried to steady my breathing.

“What is it?”

“It’s not you. I—I—”

“Is there someone else?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was proof enough. I stood up. So did he.

“Well,” I said slowly, “I guess that’s it.” I saw regret on his face, as if he wanted to say something. I raised a finger to his lips. “No,” I whispered. “Don’t apologize. It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t.

I walked him to the door. The cicadas had already started to chirr. When I was young, the serenade of the cicadas at dusk was the first sign that summer was finite. That the sweet, languid days would eventually end. Since then their song has always sounded bittersweet.

I went to bed and burrowed under the sheets, feeling the empty space next to me. Images of David drifted into my mind. His thick white hair. Smooth skin dusted with gold. The way his jaw worked when he was upset. I would probably never see him again.

I closed my eyes and raised my T-shirt. I put my hands on my breasts and stroked my nipples. My fingers moved in tiny circles, caressing the skin around them. My back arched under the sheet. My hands glided down to my abdomen. His hands. Then lower. They stayed there until my breath came in short little gasps and a soft moan escaped my lips. The cicadas sang. The bed was still empty.

Chapter Thirty-five

Rachel and I loaded her two duffels, sleeping bag, and backpack in the car and headed off to Wisconsin. Just past the state line, the scenery changed from suburban sprawl to farmland, and we smelled grass overlaid with manure. Clumps of blue wildflowers mixed freely with Queen Anne’s lace at the side of the road. We drove through small towns with church spires on one corner and bare-chested bikers with flag bandanas on another. The Heartland.

Rachel didn’t talk much, preferring to pop her gum. But a few miles from camp, she said, “I like David.”

“I think the feeling’s mutual.”

She looked over. “Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded, as if she knew not to push it.

Silver Lake Camp was the kind of place I wished I had gone to. Nestled beside a small lake, the camp had a heated pool, a climbing wall, all the requisite land sports, and horses. Rachel had begged me to let her take riding lessons, and I said okay. Never having ridden myself, I missed out on that sexual-awakening thing that makes young girls obsess over horses. Maybe Rachel would tell me about it.

As we hauled her bags into her cabin, another camper and a woman were already inside. The camper, a plump little girl with long black hair, was trying to unpack her duffel.

The woman—I assumed her mother—was blond and rail thin. Wearing a halter top, shorts, and three-inch sandals, she watched her daughter struggle with the duffel bag without lifting a finger to help.

The two girls checked each other out. Rachel introduced herself, and then, digging into her backpack, asked if the other girl wanted to listen to music. The girl, whose name was Emily, nodded. Rachel unpacked her speakers from her duffel, and set them on the lower cot of a bunk bed. Seconds later, Britney Spears blasted through the walls of the cabin. The girls started to sing.

Meanwhile Emily’s blond mother, her roots noticeably darker than the rest of her hair, struck up a conversation. Within five minutes I knew she was divorced from Emily’s father, wintered in West Palm, spent summers abroad with her European boyfriend, and had a son on a camping trip in Alaska.

I watched the girls out of the corner of my eye. Rachel unpacked her toilet articles, took out two Q-Tips, and proceeded to stick them up her nose. That brought peals of laughter from Emily.