Love You to Death (15 page)
“The way you’re squeezing that roll of toilet paper says a lot about you,” Tom had said. “You’re clearly trying to find out if it’s soft because it’s the generic brand and not Charmin. So you’re obviously thrifty.”
Toilet paper in hand, I’d said, “Just think, if we start dating and people ask how we met, we’ll have to tell them we met over toilet paper. And the store brand, at that.”
It was crazy how people met. I met the linebacker, Charlie Heath, when he stepped on my foot on Crescent Beach.
Opal would shake her head that I even gave Tom Greer my phone number after an opening like that over toilet paper. But our first date was magical. So was our second and third. I even liked his therapisty tone (he was a great listener) until he just up and dumped me for another woman. Whom he probably met over paper towels.
Ben and I parked on Exchange Street and walked up to the corner where Tom had been pushed in front of the speeding truck. I spotted him right away. He was leaning against the side of a building, one foot up against the wall behind him. He wore a tweed cap.
When he saw us approach, he stood up straight and walked toward us. “Detective Orr, Abby,” he said. “Hard as it is to relive the moment, I’m ready to show you again where I was the victim of attempted murder.”
He was a little too into it. Maybe Tom had engineered the whole thing. He’d had a thing against Ted Puck. Maybe Ted was a client (he’d been deeply in need of therapy, after all), or there was a gambling ring or something sinister, and Tom killed Ted, then said he’d been pushed in front of a speeding truck to cast extra suspicion on me!
Yeah, but what about Riley? That hole in his leg didn’t get there by itself. And since I’d seen him naked, I could attest to the fact that it hadn’t been there the week before we broke up.
Eh, so maybe Tom didn’t kill Ted and lie about being pushed in front of a truck. Unless he paid Riley to lie. Riley didn’t have an ethical bone in his body. Clearly!
Possible. Highly unlikely scenario, but possible. And wasn’t Ben’s motto
could?
Tom
could
have done all that. I’d share my little theory with Ben afterward.
“Tom, thank you so much for meeting with us,” I said. “Good thing it’s a warm day.”
“I’m not here to chat about the weather, Abby,” he snapped.
Keep it nice, I ordered myself. “Can you show us exactly where you were standing when you were pushed?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say ‘allegedly pushed,’” Tom said.
Oh, brother. “I’ll take your word that you were pushed. And I can give you my word that I didn’t do it. I’m here because Detective Orr thinks it’s possible that someone I know may have pushed you in some kind of sick retaliation. So, if you could show us where…”
He stood at the curb, in the center of the crosswalk zone. “I was right here.”
“Can you talk us through the moments right before and after you were pushed?” I said. “Maybe something you say will trigger something for me.”
“How do I know you won’t make something up?” he asked. “She could do that,” he directed to Ben. “I could say a tall blonde was right behind me, and Abby could play it up and say she knows a tall blonde and send you on a wild-goose chase when she’s the perp.”
Suddenly everyone was a master of cop lingo. “Tom, I can assure you that I’m not interested in sending the police on wild-goose chases. I can’t shake this one, no matter what I say or do. So don’t worry. I want to find the person who did this as much as you do. My life depends on it.”
He stared at me. “I guess it does.”
I waited for him to continue.
“Okay, well,” Tom said. “I was standing right here, waiting for the light to change. It was mid to late December, an entire year ago, so it’s not like I remember it like it was yesterday. And there was the matter of that concussion.”
“I understand,” I said. “So just say anything and everything you remember.”
“There were a lot of people waiting for the light to change, coming at the intersection from all angles. It was prime holiday shopping time. I was standing at the edge of the curb, and I didn’t even see the truck coming. Someone shoved me just when a truck was speeding past.”
Now it was my turn to flinch. That must have hurt. Badly.
“Can you remember anything about the people around you?” I asked. “Maybe you noticed the guy standing next to you? Maybe he was unusually tall or had a weird hat or maybe you noticed a woman who had long brown hair?”
“Abby, in my line of work, we call that leading the witness,” Ben said.
“I was just giving examples,” I said. Of Roger. And Mary-Kate Darling.
“You know, come to think of it, there was a really tall guy next to me,” Tom said. “Like around six foot four. If he hadn’t been so tall, he wouldn’t have registered. No one else did.”
“Can you describe this tall guy?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t say on the doofy side, with thinning brown hair. I didn’t want Roger to be the one.
“I just remember that he was tall,” Tom said. “He wore a hat, like a ski hat, I think. Or maybe that was a different guy. I don’t know. After I was hit by the truck, I can’t remember who I met in the hospital versus who I saw on the street. Anyway, it was an entire year ago.”
Roger wore a ski hat. A gray ski hat.
“Tom, do you have any recollection at all about the color of the ski hat?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Like I said, I can’t even be sure the tall guy was wearing a ski hat.”
Keep him talking,
I told myself.
He’ll say something else. He’ll remember something.
“When you were pushed, did it feel like a man was pushing you or a female?”
He shrugged. “Really can’t say. It was just a push. Hard enough for me to fall forward and get hit.”
“Well, Tom, thanks for your help,” I said. I liked leading the investigation. “We’re doing everything we can to find the person who pushed you.”
Ben eyed me. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to Tom. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” he added, handing over his card.
“Will do,” Tom said. “Oh, and Abby, I hope you’re working on your issues.”
“What issues are those?” I asked.
“You clearly have some deep-seated issues with rejection that began when your father abandoned you and your mother for the perfect blond family. I can recommend a good therapist—”
“Have a nice day,” I interrupted.
I saw Tom shake his head at Ben. What a pompous jerk.
“They’re
your
exes,” Ben said as we walked away.
“Well, I guess you’ve got a point there,” I said, batting him on the arm. “So it doesn’t look great for Roger Hunker, my coworker at
Maine Life.
He’s very tall and wears a ski cap. Shelley and I make fun of it all the time, but he wears it every day.”
“You’d think someone who’d committed a crime in a ski cap wouldn’t show up wearing said ski cap to work every day,” Ben said. “Especially when his above-average height was enough of an identifier.”
“That’s another very good point, Detective,” I said.
He smiled.
“I assume you’ve cleared Roger already?”
“I can’t discuss the case with you, Abby. But I can tell you that we’re working on all leads.”
So why did all those leads lead to me? How could that possibly be good police work?
I told him about my theory—that
Tom
was the killer, that he’d lied about being pushed and had paid off Riley.
“Now you’re thinking like a cop,” he said. “I’m impressed. That’s exactly how it works. You take all angles and you look at and into everything.”
“So what do you think?”
“Well, after you take the angle, you discount what you can immediately so you don’t waste your time. For example, Tom Greer’s hospital records discount the ‘he made up the whole thing’ theory.”
“Oh.”
He smiled, those dark, dark eyes on mine. “But it was good detective work.”
God, I love you,
I wanted to whisper. But I opted to think of new theories.
“Maybe he f lung himself in front of the truck,” I said. I hadn’t gotten to why, but with a few hours, I was sure I could.
“Actually, Fargo already checked that out. The angle he was hit suggested that he was pushed from behind, just slightly to the right.”
“Wow, you can pinpoint all that?”
He nodded.
“And with all the evidence you can collect, all this forensic-science stuff, you still think I could possibly be guilty?”
He nodded again. “Key word is
could,
Abby.”
Didn’t I know it.
F
or the past work week (it was now Friday) I’d watched Roger very closely. Mostly because he came to work every day wearing that ski cap. Then again, Ben had to be right about that. Wouldn’t he have tossed it in a Dumpster if he was the pusher? Gotten rid of identifying objects? Wouldn’t he have started stooping to disguise himself?
Thing was, how many six-foot-four guys did you run across in the Old Port? You noticed them because they were so, so tall. And I couldn’t recall noticing any in the past few months.
I stood in the doorway to the kitchenette, ostensibly waiting for the awful coffee to perk, but really to observe Roger. He was cutting a huge sandwich. Tuna fish. Lettuce shreds and tomato bits were oozing out the sides. He opened a big bag of potato chips and poured some onto his plate, then grabbed a sticky from the magnetic pad on the fridge and wrote “Help yourself. RH.”
Did someone that generous with potato chips go around pushing people, even jerks, in front of speeding trucks? Did they take advantage of pit bulls and sic them on destestable accountants?
Maybe they did if they had a huge crush on you and saw how hurt you were the night of the
Maine Life
company Christmas party the December before last. I’d taken a big breather from dating after the Charlie Heath incident. After the “he didn’t want you to be next” moment of truth. And how I let myself be charmed by Tom’s toilet-paper opener I’ll never know, but I had been charmed. There was something in his tone, his delivery, his eyes, that said:
I am a good guy. A nice guy at heart. I might dump you one day, but I’d do it nicely
.
And as I said, our first date was magical. We had so much to say, so much to laugh about. There were so many
me, too’
s. And that kiss—oh, that kiss! I almost fainted on the street in front of my apartment building. He’d made me swoon. He hadn’t been wearing that tweed cap when we were dating.
And then a month later, when I was drawing
Tom “heart” Abby
in giant red hearts on sticky notes in my cubicle, Tom was busy meeting someone else. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gotten tickets to an incredibly expensive concert (his favorite band was in town for one night only and I got us floor seats). I wouldn’t have bought a three-hundred-dollar dress. Or new shoes. Or a new tiny beaded purse. Or a new sexy bra and thong. And I especially wouldn’t have agreed to do a few semi-kinky things in bed that I was a little
eh
on (let’s just say they involved toys). Anyway, the night of the holiday party I was waiting in my cubicle, all dressed up with somewhere to go, but my date was ten minutes late. Then twenty.
“Baxter, why are you answering your phone at five-thirty!” I’d heard Shelley saying in her cubicle. “You should have been here fifteen minutes ago!” Silence. And then, “You have got to be kidding me, Baxter! Everyone is dying to finally meet you!” Silence. “Fine. I’m not upset! Yeah, you’d better make it up to me. Okay.” Giggle. Another giggle. “Okay. Bye, sweetie.”
“We can be each other’s dates,” I’d called over our cubicle wall. “I’ve been stood up.”
Her head popped over. “Oh, Shelley! You look so beautiful!” I said. And she did. She usually didn’t wear makeup, but for the party she’d gone all out, which, for her, was still natural looking but sparkly. She also had on dangling earrings—something else she never wore. And from the straps of her dress, which was all I could see at the moment, I knew she was wearing red.
She scowled. “I hate his stupid job. This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life if we get married.” Baxter was an intern at Maine Medical Center. “He’s not even a doctor yet!”
Ping.
New e-mail.
I hit Open Mail.
Abby, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I’ve met someone else and she invited me to her company party and it’s tonight, so…I would have called, but I didn’t know what to say and thought as an editor, you’d appreciate the written word. It would also give you something to save, since I know you like mementos. Fondly, Tom
So his Dear Jane letter was supposed to be my memento of the relationship?
Jerk!
And he’d clearly thought of what to say, so why not say it on the phone? Somehow a phone breakup was better than an e-mail breakup. At least he hadn’t text messaged me. That would have been really bad. “U R DMPD.”
“I give up,” I said.
“Uh-oh, what’s the matter?” Shelley asked.
“I just got dumped via e-mail,” I said. “Do you believe that?”
Shelley came around the wall, read his kiss-off, shook her head and sat in my guest chair. “I’m sorry. You okay?”
I thought I was. So why were tears welling? “I really liked the stupid jerk,” I said, feeling my fifteen-dollar mascara, specially bought for the occasion, running down my cheeks.
“What a jerk to do it by e-mail,” Shelley said. “A decent human being doesn’t do that.”
“What doesn’t a decent human being do?” came Roger’s voice. He ducked down to enter the cubicle.
Shelley explained. “But the good news is that Abby and I can be each other’s dates, since Baxter can’t make it, either.”
“I’ll be your dates,” Roger said, looking from me to Shelley.
Shelley and I almost burst out laughing. But we controlled ourselves. Roger was nice. He really was. But he sounded exactly like Snuff leupagus from
Sesame Street,
and it was hard to take him seriously as a guy.
“Let me fix my raccoon eyes and I’ll be ready,” I’d said, grateful that if I had to date jerks, I did have good friends.
“Ewww! Someone’s lunch stinks!” came Marcella’s shrill voice, startling me out of my memories of last year. “Gross!” She appeared in the other doorway, pinching her nose. “Roger, what are you killing in here? A fish? Are you gutting it or something? That stinks.”
“It’s called a tuna fish sandwich,” he snapped.
“Well, spray some Lysol. God!” she added before flitting away, waving the air in front of her nose.
Roger slammed his fist down on the bag of potato chips. “Bitch,” I heard him mutter.
Interesting. Roger had a little temper.
“We don’t usually investigate people for smashing potato chips and being tall,” Ben said. “However, the fact that he’s had a long-standing crush on you and that Tom recalls seeing a very tall guy
is
meaningful. But we’re already working behind the scenes, Abby. We’re already on top of this potential lead.”
“Why didn’t you say that yesterday?” I asked.
“I told you—I can’t discuss the case with you.”
“You discuss me with everyone else,” I pointed out.
“You’re our prime suspect.”
Oh. Again.
At least I now knew that there was someone besides me on Ben’s list. Even if that someone was clearly a long shot by what Ben was saying. Or not saying.
We were in a coffee lounge in my neighborhood. I’d called Ben the minute I saw Roger leaving the office with his smelly sandwich in tow. I told Ben I’d follow Roger, see if he was headed to, say, Henry Fiddler’s place of work to slip some cyanide into his coffee mug or something, but Ben said, “No. Under no circumstances are you to follow him. Got that?”
“I got it,” I said. That didn’t mean I had to listen.
And so I followed Roger—at a good distance, since he’d once complimented my perfume, and if he truly did have some twisted love for me, he might sniff it a mile away and turn around. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere, though. He was just walking, looking in windows. He popped into a coffee lounge and came out a minute later with a small cup of coffee, then headed back in the direction of
Maine Life
magazine.
I called Ben. “Well, he didn’t do anything suspicious.”
“Not a half hour ago I specifically told you
not
to trail him!” he yelled. “Abby, you’re the one who put him on the suspect list. That means you think he’s capable of pushing someone in front of a truck. Setting a pit bull loose in someone’s house. Pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger. Get it?”
“Now I’ve got it,” I said, gnawing my lip.
“This is serious business, Abby. You’ve got to be very careful. If it’s true that the killer is someone you know, then that person is around you all the time. A killer is in your midst.”
I shivered and wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck. He was absolutely right.
“Well, can I talk to Henry Fiddler?” I asked. “He’s not a suspect. I just want to ask him what I asked Riley and Tom. If he’s noticed anyone following him, if he’s had any accidents lately that might not be accidents.”
“Beat you to it,” Ben said. “Nothing.”
“Maybe the killer’s new thing
is
to wait until my exes get engaged and then go after them,” I pointed out. “It’s just that Henry should be warned against falling in love.”
“We all should be,” Ben said. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch. No trailing, Abby. Promise me right now.”
We all should be. We all should be. We all should be.
Do. Not. Read. Anything. Into. That. Ben was famous for his throwaway comments. Even if “exact words are important in my business.”
Arg.
“Abby? I didn’t hear you say the word
promise.
”
“I promise,” I told him.
For right now.
Later or tomorrow was another story.
I followed Roger as he left work. He was as boring as the rest of us. Not that I should generalize. He was as boring as I was. He stopped off at the grocery store and came out with one bag. A loaf of white bread stuck out. Then he stopped and picked up his dry cleaning—a pair of pants encased in plastic that he slung over his shoulder. He peered into the window of a video store, stared up at what was playing at the movie theater, then walked past his apartment building. Maybe he had a hot date? Maybe he was buying groceries for his ill mother? Not that I knew if he had an ill mother.
He crossed the street and headed toward the water. And stopped across the street from my building. The back of my building. Where my bedroom windows were.
He stood there, staring up. I turned and ran.
Ben lived close by, also in a condo on the water, like Riley. I’d called him from the street, and he told me to come over. “We’ll talk about your listening problem when you get here,” he added before hanging up.
I knocked. He opened the door, and I just stared at him. He was barefoot. In worn jeans. And a black T-shirt.
“I’m afraid to go home,” I said. “He’s probably still there, staring up at my windows! I wonder if he does this every night.”
“I’d first like to discuss why you followed him when I asked you not to,” he said, gesturing for me to come inside. “You don’t follow someone you suspect.”
“You do,” I said.
“Did I mention I carry a gun?”
Oh, again.
“Okay. I hear you. No following people,” I said. “But you have to admit that I’ve done good work. If I hadn’t followed Roger, I wouldn’t have known that he stares moonily up at my bedroom windows. That puts him at the top of the list. Not that there’s anyone below him.”
“Do. Not. Trail anyone,” Ben said, staring at me, his expression all too readable. “Are we clear on that?”
“So clear,” I said.
“Good. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”
“I was thinking I’d better get to Olivia’s. I don’t want to get there too late and wake Oscar.”
“You can’t stay with Olivia,” Ben said. “Are you forgetting your brother-in-law’s little order of protection?”
Oh. “Opal, then,” I said.
He shook his head. “Veronica filed an order, too.”
Why wasn’t I surprised. “Jolie or Rebecca,” I said. “They live in tiny apartments, but I can sack out on one of their sofas.”
“Unless one of them is the killer,” he said. “Then you’re alone in a killer’s apartment. A tiny apartment. With nowhere to run.”
“Ben, the killer isn’t after me,” I pointed out.
“You think murderers are logical people?” he asked. “You’ll stay here.”
“Here? With you?” Yes!
Thank you,
fates of the universe!
“I’ll take the couch,” he said. “You can have the bedroom.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll rif le through your papers when you’re sleeping?” I asked, glancing around. His apartment was modern, spare, masculine.
“I’m a very light sleeper. You tiptoe out of bed and I’ll hear you. And anyway, I keep any files I take home from the station—and my notebook—locked in a safe.”
“Smart guy,” I said.
He winked at me. “Tomorrow I’ll put a detail on Roger. I’ll question him again as part of the routine investigation. Ask him about you. I’ll let him know I’m talking to several friends of yours for information. I think it’ll be fine for you to go to work tomorrow. Just don’t drink anything he hands you, like a cup of coffee he got you on the way back from the kitchenette.”
“You’re discussing the case with me,” I pointed out with a smile.
“I’m assuring you that we’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe,” he said without a smile.
I nodded. “So, am I interrupting anything?”
“Nope.”
“I could cook,” I said. “As a thank-you.”
“Are you a good cook?” he asked.
“So-so,” I said. “Depends on what you have.”
What he had was pasta. And lots of it. While he sat at his dining-room table and f lipped through his notebook, one bare foot up on a chair (he even had sexy feet), I opened cabinets and drawers. Rigatoni. Meat sauce flavored with garlic and mushrooms. Crusty bread. Even I couldn’t ruin that.
And I didn’t.
“This is delicious,” Ben said after I forked a test piece into his mouth. He stood so close to me in the small kitchen. So close.
You are my boyfriend—no, my husband—and it’s my turn to cook, so I made your favorite, rigatoni Bolognese and garlic bread, and here’s a glass of wine…. Oh, you want to make mad, passionate love to me in front of the fireplace first? Sure thing!