She’d hit a nerve. I straightened up and glared at Grace. “I do not feel guilty,” I said defensively.
“Okay. Sorry. Simmer down. I just said that because . . . I don’t know why I said it.”
She knew me so well. Was she picking up on the fear I was trying to squelch?
Grace got to her feet, dried her hands on a towel and studied me closely.
“I’m worried about you, Nor. Even before all this. You’ve been looking exhausted.” She took a step back, hesitating before asking. “You’re not having any more of those sleepwalking episodes, are you?”
I stiffened. “Why would you think that? You know I grew out of those, like, forever ago.” I was trying to reassure myself as much as convince her.
Grace sat on the rim of the tub now, a vexed look on her face. “But you’re so tired. You haven’t been yourself. I guess it’s because you’re depressed. You’ve been depressed ever since Helene and Hugh moved to Pequod.”
She was right about the timing. The doorbell buzzed.
“You expecting someone?” she asked.
“No.”
“It could be a reporter.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll get rid of whoever it is. And then we’ll pick the rest of that crud out of your hair. You must’ve fallen into a very dirty puddle.”
The buzzer rang again. Grace left the bathroom, and I ran my hands through my filthy locks. Bits of dead leaves and another tiny twig, similar to the debris I pulled out earlier, fell into the water. I sank down and watched the flotsam and jetsam float on the surface, feeling an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. I splashed water on my face.
A male voice began murmuring outside along with Grace’s. And then it struck me: reporters generally don’t ring doorbells. They call for a comment. Or lie in wait at the property line until their target comes out. Maybe it was Mac? Could he have returned from the morgue already?
While I was contemplating this, my eyes caught a movement out the window at the edge of the forest. A form lurking among the tree trunks and ferns. I wasn’t tired anymore. I was on alert, my muscles tense. I sank deeper into the tub to hide my nakedness and tracked the dark shape outside, fixing on it for a second and then losing it again. Someone was definitely out there. I started to reach for a towel to cover myself but stopped when I saw a fluffy bit of white flitting between the cedars. I let out my breath and relaxed into the tub. That would be a doe—a worn-out doe running from another horny stag, her white tail lifting in alarm. We were at the end of rutting season.
She came forward to the edge of the woods, stepping slowly on her slim legs. Tall and elegant with a thick, grayish-brown fall coat, she held her head high. Her black nostrils twitched. Her brown eyes were wide and watchful.
She knew how vulnerable she was. Had her trust meter hit the red zone? She seemed to be trying to decide if it was safe to go for that patch of green still growing out there in the sun. Or that group of acorns under the oak. Could she nibble the last bit of sweetness before winter kicked in and the bitter, hungry days began? Perhaps she was pregnant already. Did she need extra food for the babies she carried?
I thought of Helene’s pregnant belly in the painting.
Ripped open.
Hugh’s heart.
Cut out.
That didn’t read like a home invasion or robbery gone bad. That felt personal. The vengeful act of someone with a grudge. Like me?
“Nora.”
Something outside startled the doe. She turned tail and ran back into the forest as Grace slipped inside the bathroom and shut the door, looking uneasy.
“The police are here,” she said.
Chapter Seven
“You’re creating another Richard Jewell situation,” I heard Grace complain as I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in my robe. She was referring to the security guard wrongfully accused of planting a bomb in a trash can at Atlanta’s ’96 Olympics.
“You’re going to start a witch hunt,” she said as I tentatively entered the living room. “You’ll set off a media frenzy.”
The bald cop in the tweed sports jacket who had been running the crime scene was facing her. He had his hands folded across his corduroy-covered privates. Through the window behind him, I saw a county police officer sitting in a squad car in my driveway. Grace had been expressing worry that the press would discover them here and assume that I was a suspect.
“Ah, hello, Ms. Glasser,” the cop said over her shoulder.
“Hello.”
Grace turned around and mouthed, “Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“Detective Larry Roche. County Homicide.” He flashed his badge. “I was just about to tell your friend Grace here that none of the reporters saw me leave. I instructed our media liaison at the scene to issue an official statement just before I took off. They were too focused on getting their quotes to track me. I promise you, the press did not follow me here.”
Just then his cell phone began to play the theme from The Godfather.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He answered the phone with a brusque “Roche” and ran his free hand across his smooth, shiny head. “Tell him I’m authorizing overtime. I want the blood work. Stat.” He frowned at whomever was on the other end. “Well, get the dive unit on it. And while you’re at it, find out who’s leaking information out there.” He hung up and addressed me again.
“Sorry, Ms. Glasser. I wondered if we could ask you a few questions. On a totally volunteer basis, of course. Any leads you give us will be a big help. We’re groping in the dark here.”
So they didn’t have a suspect. They wanted my assistance, my knowledge of Hugh’s friends and associates.
“Sure.”
“Would you mind coming down to the county precinct in Massamat for the interview?”
I blanched. Grace launched into full-on protective mode, hands on her hips.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why do you need to take her to Massamat? Why can’t you ask your questions here?”
An interview was an interview to Grace. Unlike me, she was not a TV crime-drama buff. No binge-watching Helen Mirren play Detective Chief Inspector Tennison in Prime Suspect. No indulging in cheesy Law and Order marathons. Those shows help me believe there’s order and justice in the world, if only for an hour or so. If Grace had watched as many crime shows as I had, she would know the police liked to conduct interviews on their own turf in order to intimidate and confuse suspects. They’re hoping their guests will incriminate themselves or confess before they “lawyer up.” Roche’s request could mean I was under suspicion. My insides were quaking while I tried to look calm.
“A formal environment usually helps jog people’s memories,” Roche said reassuringly. “There might be a seemingly innocuous event in Ms. Glasser’s relationship with Mr. Walker that could help point us in the right direction.”
“But there was no relationship anymore,” Grace argued.