Topping From Below (9 page)

I don’t say anything, so he puts down the salad tongs and continues.

“Your sister’s death was tragic, but I’m not responsible. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m not convinced of that.”

He is silent. The steam from the asparagus hisses beneath a slit in the lid. He reaches over and turns the heat down.

“Let me tell you what I think,” he says finally. “You want someone to blame. You want to avenge Franny. That’s understandable—that’s human nature. But I think you want something else, something only I can give you: answers. That’s why you’re really here. I knew more about your sister in the five months we were together than you knew about her in a lifetime. You treated her like a casual acquaintance. You didn’t know her at all, and now you feel guilty, you feel remorse. You’re here to make amends.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Then tell me—why are you here?”

For a moment, I’m confused. Then I shake my head in disgust. “You’re twisting things around,” I say. “I have nothing to feel guilty about. I’m not the one who mistreated her. I’m not the one who turned ‘Franny’s File’ into a diary that reads as if it came out of a book on sadism.” I look down at my hands and see that I’m clenching them. I relax. “But you’re right—I am here for answers. I came here to fill in the blanks, to learn more about you, to find out if you killed Franny.”

M. is silent for a minute, then he says, “You don’t know what you’re getting involved in.” “I’ll take my chances.”

He gives me a steady look, his eyes level and unblinking. “All right,” he says. “We’ll play your game if that’s what you want. But first let me do you a favor and issue another warning: you’re not going to like the answers I’ll give you. You’d be better off to go home, resume your life, forget all about me.”

I say nothing.

He waits, giving me time to change my mind. I choose to ignore his warning.

“Very well,” he says finally. “I didn’t kill Franny, but I can fill in the blanks for you. I can reveal your sister.” He hesitates, then says, “You want information, you want to know what really happened between Franny and me—I’ll tell you. But your curiosity is going to cost you.”

I look at him with distrust and this makes him smile.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Cost me what?”

“Time,” he says. “A portion of your life.”

His reply mystifies me.

“You want information about Franny—I’ll give it to you. But don’t think you’ll get all the answers during dinner. This will take time. Months, perhaps. And you may not get any answers tonight. Think of our … what shall we call it? An alliance? Think of our alliance as an ongoing process of discovery.”

This seems too easy. “What’s in it for you?” I ask. “Why are you willing to do this?”

He places the salmon steaks under the broiler. “To amuse myself,” he says finally. “For no other reason.”

“This is just a game to you, isn’t it?”

“Precisely.” He picks up my glass of wine and puts it in my hand. “Well, how badly do you want to know?”

I pause, then take a sip of wine. I could—and should—walk away. But our lives were thrown together, an unholy alliance to be sure, the day Franny died. I know he won’t intentionally incriminate himself, but even clever people make mistakes. Let him play his game, let him have his fun—it’ll only help me tighten the noose around his neck.

“Bad enough,” I say.

He picks up the salad bowl and starts to take it into the dining room. “You may be a challenge, after all,” he says as he passes me. “Franny, although dear, was no challenge whatsoever.”

And I may be more than you bargained for, I think, following him into the dining room.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

I have been to too many funerals, Billy’s, my father and mother’s, and then Franny’s. They are all buried at the Davis Cemetery, lined up in a row. I wouldn’t have made it through Franny’s funeral if it hadn’t been for Ian. We weren’t lovers then, or even friends really, but he came over early that morning to see if I needed help—which I did. Desperately. Maisie, my best friend who also works at the Bee, had offered to stay with me, but I’d turned her down, wanting to be alone with my grief. I’d got through my parents’ and Billy’s funerals without assistance, and I thought I could manage Franny’s as well. But on the day of her funeral, I started to unravel.

I lived in Sacramento then, in a small house near Mc-Kinley Park, and when Ian rang my doorbell that morning, arriving unannounced, I was in a slip and dark nylons, still not dressed, my nerves frazzled. He’d worn a black suit and his body filled the doorway, blocking out the morning sun. His blond hair was slicked back, and despite his six-foot-plus height he looked like a young boy who was worried he’d done the wrong thing, worried he shouldn’t be here and that I’d send him away. He waited in the living room while I went back to finish dressing. The bedroom closet was much too small, only half the length of the wall, and it was recessed behind white louvered folding doors that opened and closed like an accordion. Suddenly, I began throwing my clothes on the floor. Then I emptied out my dresser drawers, and when Ian heard them crashing to the floor, he came running into the room.

“I don’t know what to wear,” I told him.

He put his arms around me, trying to give comfort, but I pushed him away. “Leave me alone,” I said, suddenly feeling angry. “I don’t want you here.”

A pained expression crossed his face. He sat on my bed and began folding the sweaters and slips and bras I had carelessly flung onto the floor.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I said. “She shouldn’t have died like that.” My voice was dismal and frayed, unraveling at the ends of my sentences.

Ian stood. Tentatively, he reached out again, but this time I didn’t push him away. He pressed me to his chest and stroked my hair, saying, “Shhh, shhh,” even though I wasn’t making any noise.

I stood there and let him comfort me, this man dressed for a funeral, almost a stranger to me until recently, and kept my head pressed to his chest. With his palm, he rubbed the top of my head, messing my hair even worse, his hand so large it seemed to belong to a Titan.

“I do know what it’s like,” he said softly. “It took a long time for me to get over Cheryl’s murder. I’m still not over it. We got in an argument the day she was killed. I was so angry with her. So—” Ian shook his head, remembering. “I know this won’t help,” he added, “but it does get easier with time.”

“No,” I said. “It won’t get easier. I won’t let it. Not until I find out who killed her.”

Abruptly, Ian shoved me away. I looked up at him, surprised. In his eyes, I saw something strange—anger, maybe, but something more than that.

Sharply, his jaw clenched, he said, “You’re not going to do anything about Franny. The police will handle it. Do you understand?”

Stunned by his outburst, I didn’t say a word.

“Do you?” he said, raising his voice, the words whipping out.

I backed away from him, hurt that he was yelling at me now, at a time like this, not understanding.

Immediately, Ian was contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get angry. It’s just—” He hesitated, then began again. “Cheryl meant so much to me. Dying the way she did, it was hard. And now, with you, the last few days …” His voice trailed off. “Maybe I’m being overprotective, but I just don’t want anything to happen to you. It could be dangerous to look for her murderer. You have to let the police take care of this. Do you understand?”

I nodded, still confused at his outburst. Then I looked around the room, at my scattered clothes, feeling at a loss. I needed to get ready for Franny’s funeral, but I couldn’t seem to move. Thinking of how Franny was killed, I bit down on my lip.

“Don’t do that,” Ian said firmly. “You’re bleeding.” He massaged my lip out from between my teeth, wiped my mouth with his handkerchief. I swallowed my memories of Franny, all the pain; it disappeared when I heard the scolding in his voice:
Don’t do that
. The pain was buried in me somewhere, safely out of reach. I felt nothing then. I surrendered to him, let him take over completely. I stood before him, numb, while he finished dressing me, talking to me in a very calm, reassuring voice, as if I were his child.

During the funeral, Ian held my hand. I was in a stunned, numb state, and didn’t pay much attention to the minister at the church, although my eyes had been glued to his face. And at the cemetery, I still clung to Ian, fearing that if I lost his hand, I might lose myself. At some point, I remembered thinking how odd it was that I was holding on to him instead of a close friend, instead of Maisie. But then I recalled Cheryl Mansfield, and thought how fitting it was that death brought me and Ian together. Except for Ian, no one at the funeral could really understand how I felt. Losing someone from a brutal murder, as I lost Franny and Ian lost Cheryl, is different than losing someone from an illness or accident or old age.

I walked around in a dreamlike state, waiting for the funeral to end. I’d expected a simple ceremony, with Franny’s friends and a few of my own. But hundreds of people had shown up, most of whom I didn’t even know. My friends and coworkers from the Bee were all there, and all the neighbors had come, and the few friends I’d seen with Franny over the years. But who were all those other people? Store clerks where she went shopping? The boy who delivered her newspaper? Curiosity seekers? Or had Franny formed a network of acquaintances all over Sacramento and Davis that I hadn’t been aware of? There was a distinguished-looking man in a very expensive suit; a group of little girls, in brown Brownie uniforms, huddled together; an extremely fat lady who had trouble walking; two men in wheelchairs—who were all those people? I felt cheated, that I had missed out on part of her life—
most
of her life—just as I felt cheated because of her death.

After the service, a few friends came back to my house. The entire time, I sat mutely on the sofa next to Ian. He held my hand in his lap, clasped in both of his. Maisie had taken care of all the food and drinks, and she was busy arranging platters of sandwiches and cakes on the dining room table. She’s a few years older than I, and at least fifty pounds heavier, with thick calves and deeply tanned skin. She brought Ian and me a plate of food, patted me on the arm, then went back to the kitchen. People milled about, speaking in hushed tones. They would come up to me and say something nice about Franny; I would smile politely, not saying a word. Ian had to thank them for me. If I was to say anything, I was afraid I would cry, which I hated to do.

At last, I started to come out of my daze, and a weariness set in. Everyone was still talking about Franny, and I wished they would all go home. I sighed, but it stuck in my throat and came out as a ragged sob. I leaned my head against Ian. I didn’t want to hear another word about Franny.

Ian, as if he sensed this, had leaned over and said quietly, “Did you want to go outside now? We could take a walk.”

I nodded and, with my hand in his, I followed him out the door. The air was warm and breezy, a perfect spring day. It felt good to be outside. I was feeling claustrophobic in the house, although I didn’t know it at the time. Closing my eyes, I listened to the birds singing in the treetops, to a car pulling out of the driveway, to the sad bleat of a broken truck horn. Ian put his hand on my shoulder.

“Why don’t we go to my house?” he’d said. “You can spend the night with me. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I can’t.”

“People will be leaving soon. You don’t have to stay—Maisie will take care of everything.”

“I want to stay here tonight. In my own home.”

Ian didn’t say anything; he rubbed my shoulders, the back of my neck. Finally, he said, “I’d feel better if you came home with me. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to. I’m going to stay here.”

“All right. I’ll stay with you, then.”

Later that night, when Ian was asleep on the couch, I snuck over to Franny’s apartment. The police had sealed it off, and I was unable to enter. I stood outside the door, the night air cool, the sky black, waiting, just waiting—for what, I have no idea.

Three weeks later the police released the apartment. Franny had paid the rent until the end of the month, and I convinced the apartment manager to give me a key. That night, I drove over there. I went into her living room but didn’t turn on any of the lights. A dizzying sense of helplessness washed over me. I went around to the couch and curled up on it. The apartment had been professionally cleaned and painted, and I could still smell the odor of fresh paint. But underneath that, embedded in my memory, was the foul stench of a dead body. No amount of paint can remove that smell from my mind. When Franny was found, the police removed her body before I arrived—but the odor had lingered. It had permeated everything in the apartment: the curtains, the furniture, the carpet. And, as I sat on her couch that night, I could feel Franny’s presence, lingering, like the odor from her body. The smell was in my imagination, but in the darkness of the room it came back to me and made me want to take small, shallow breaths. It saddened me to think I associated Franny with a smell so foul. A tear rolled down my cheek. She didn’t deserve to die the way she had. And at that moment, still sitting on her couch, I swore to her that if the police couldn’t find her killer, one way or another, I would.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

I live in a small custom-built house on the corner of Torrey and Rosario. Actually, it’s a duplex, but it’s on a corner lot and from the road it looks like a single-unit home. My landlord, a man who lives in the older part of Willowbank—just a few blocks from M.—is retired, but he used to own a small construction firm in Davis, and he built this duplex himself, adding personal touches that one doesn’t normally find in a rental: a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, wood paneling in the living room, built-in oak bookcases, parquet floors in the entryway and dining area, and walls decorated with textured wallpaper in patterns of autumn leaves and blades of grass. His tastes are reflected throughout the duplex, and he did a good job with the area in which he had to work. But the house is long and narrow and small, and the living room doesn’t get much light. Even in the summer, with the drapes opened, the room is dim and gloomy. Furniture that wouldn’t fit in the house is stored in the garage, and every inch inside is crammed with my possessions. The walls seem to be pressing in on me, and sometimes I feel squeezed in; I feel that I have to hold my breath just to make everything fit, like stuffing yourself in clothes one size too small. And even though I’ve been living here for eight months now, I have trouble calling this my home. I feel like a sojourner, passing through, killing time, waiting for my real life to start up again.