“Wait! What made this Jeannette think that Mrs. Lavoie had thrown a couple of husbands down the stairs?”
“We don’t know anything. And we certainly don’t know if tipster Jeannette is nursing-home visitor Jeannette, do we?”
I said, “You’re the one whose pupils dilated when I said her name. And you must know what’s under my floor, and where this is going—”
“Okay. Calm down—”
“Because I could forever be associated with murders, like that Atlanta guy, who had nothing to do with the Olympic bombing, but for the rest of his life until he died before his time . . . and don’t forget Lizzie Borden!”
Was Brian Dolan smiling? Had I jumped off the deep end? “Don’t you have a job to go to?” he asked.
I asked if they were finished and—please—what was the harm in telling me, off the record, what the hell they’d found?
One looked at the other. Hennessy gave the nod to Oskowski. She said, “It is human blood.”
“Whose?”
“Not Mrs. Lavoie’s.”
“So you got a DNA sample from her?”
No answer.
“Another search warrant?” I asked.
Hennessy said, “Maybe we asked ManorCare. Maybe they’re not sticklers for protocol. Everyone likes to play detective.”
“Their beautician . . . ,” said Oskowski. “I happen to know her.”
“Snip, snip,” said Hennessy.
“Does this mean you won’t be coming back?”
“We’re done here,” Hennessy said.
“What about fixing the floor?”
“Up to the district attorney. He’ll probably compensate you.”
Another turn in the continuing downward spiral of my unlucky domicile. I must’ve been wearing an expression that conveyed never-ending unwelcome complications because Officer Oskowski said, “I know this seems like a big job, part of your floor torn up, but it could’ve been much worse. We once found a body under the underfloor.” She gestured around the cellar. “It’s nice and clean down here. And dry, too. And otherwise? That nice man you live with? That looks like a good thing.”
Hennessy groaned, but it was the indulgent kind that meant See what happens when dames join the force?
Nick wasn’t at his desk—not unusual for someone who schooled himself on admission statistics, varsity scores, and the kind of campus news that played well while fund-raising. I texted that I’d come in to work after all and had a ton to tell him. He texted back: meeting in Dickenson’s office.I still had regurgitant worries about any conference taking place behind my back. Everything okay? I wrote, then very maturely didn’t send.
I waited, made some overdue phone calls to stay-at-home alums I could reach during the day. Checked my supply of notecards and reordered. Wrote enthusiastically and sincerely to the scholarship funder whose recipient had been accepted early decision to Mount Holyoke. Nick returned looking . . . not unhappy, but without the spontaneous smile he tended to flash upon entering our office. “How’d it go?” I asked.
He closed the door then leaned against it.
“What? Tell me!”
Still in his overcoat and scarf, he dragged our visitor chair to my desk and sat down.
“How would you feel . . .”
“What? How would I feel about what?”
“It seems . . . I may become head of Development.”
That was the raincloud overhead—this benign and marvelous thing, that nonchange of heart? “How would I feel? I’d be thrilled.”
“It would mean, technically, that I’d be your boss.”
There was a delay before my relieved brain grasped the likelihood of outer-office collateral damage. “And Reggie?”
“Out.”
“Out altogether or demoted?” I whispered.
“Out on his ass.”
“Yikes. Does he know?”
“Not yet. If I say yes, they’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“Why now? He’s been an idiot from day one.”
“He raises hardly anything. Apparently, they add up the numbers. And apparently, I do . . . very well.”
I said, “I’m thinking you should sound a little happier.”
His face, his shoulders, his slump—why so apologetic? Finally, he said, “Except you’re the alum. You’re the one who just scored the biggest get of the last year—”
“Wait a minute . . . you’re not thinking that I’m thinking I deserve the promotion, are you? You’re Major Gifts. I’m Stewardship. You have seniority. You came from Exeter. You’re damn well saying yes and we’re going to celebrate.”
“I haven’t made my mind up.”
“You’re accepting this! Who do you have to call? Dickenson? Can you e-mail him?”
“I told him I wanted to talk with you first—”
“Fine! You just did!”
“I had to tell them about us. So now they have to think it over—the propriety of it.”
“No, they don’t,” I said. “You want propriety? Here it is. If we were boss and underling and we were doing what we’re doing? Okay, that’s against the rules. But coworkers, equals? Fine. Eventually, one of us gets promoted. That’s life. Do I need to do HR’s work for them?”
“Why didn’t I say that to Dickenson?” he asked.
“Because you were blindsided. And Reggie out on his ass? That probably shook you a little, too, loyal team member that you are.”
Well, almost. We both smiled guilty smiles because we never tired of ridiculing Reggie. “I know they want me to take it,” he conceded. “The idea came from the board—”
“Which saw Reggie in action at the retreat, right? And they probably had an emergency meeting by Skype or whatever, and said, ‘Why do we have a clown heading up Development when that intelligent Nicholas Franconi is his underling? What are we? The Topsy-Turvy Emperor of China?”
When that didn’t seem to register, I said, “Isaac Bashevis Singer? His book about the emperor who forces his subjects to do the opposite of what is true and good? It was our rabbi’s favorite launching point for his sermons.”
“Hmmm. Can’t say the same . . .”
“One more thing. If they withdraw the offer due to romantic complications, we’ll lie. Or I’ll do something else.”
“No way.”