“It’s all right, Grace,” I said. “I want to help.”
Maybe I was misreading this and the police really wanted my assistance. It was entirely possible I did have a piece of information that would lead them to another suspect. Besides, what was the alternative? Calling a lawyer or refusing to cooperate would make it seem like I had something to hide. Except for visiting the murder scene this morning, I didn’t. Or did I?
“Thank you,” Roche said, making prayer hands in my direction.
He was so dapper and polite, he might have been a date picking me up for a Sunday brunch.
Grace turned to me, worried. “Nora, I don’t know about this.”
“It’s all right,” I repeated. “Just let me put on some clothes.”
Grace—trying to promote goodwill, I guess, or deal with the awkwardness—offered Roche one of her excellent lattes while he waited. He declined.
Nervous, I retreated to my bedroom and began to dress, pulling my sweater on backward at first. As I grabbed my watch on the night table, I glimpsed The Role of the Muse in Contemporary Art by April Krim sitting at the top of my reading pile. The morning I received Hugh’s letter, I’d ordered it on Amazon. I’d remembered reading a review of the book, and I intended to learn how other muses dealt with betrayal by the men who immortalized them. I had devoured it as soon as it arrived.
I didn’t want to end up like Dora Maar. Known as Picasso’s “weeping woman,” the sad, French-Croatian beauty with pencil-thin eyebrows and sensual lips was Picasso’s lover and inspiration for many years until he replaced her. She never had an intimate relationship with a man again. She gave herself to Catholicism. “After Picasso, God,” she said.
They found Picasso’s artwork in her apartment after her death—gifts he had given her that she could have sold for a fortune but kept for sentiment. His portraits of her fetched “ooh la la” prices: Sotheby’s auctioned off Dora Maar au Chat for more than $95 million a decade ago. Proving, to me at least, that musing was a woefully undervalued profession.
The bedroom door opened a crack and Grace poked her head in.
“Nora?”
“Coming.”
I returned to the living room. Roche was checking out the titles on my bookshelf. He stopped and faced me.
“Are you ready?”
I walked to my desk. “I just have to find my keys.”
“You left them by the sink, honey,” Grace said, disappearing into the kitchen.
As I lifted my trench coat off the back of my desk chair, Roche strolled over. He insisted on playing the gentleman and helping me on with it. “We really appreciate your agreeing to take a trip downtown with us, Ms. Glasser.”
I hoped he didn’t notice my trembling hands. I had nothing to fear, I told myself. Unlike my father, who dodged the police half his life. My father, who avoided jail but wound up living in someone’s basement after the divorce—he’d given what money was left to my mother and me. “I know people say lousy things about me, Nora. But remember, all I wanted was for you and your mother to have the best. Everything I did, I did for love.”
My father, who bent down and held my face in his hands the day he moved out and said, “Here’s a tip, kiddo. A tip for living. This world is rough, and it’s going to keep throwing things at you. Don’t let them break your heart.”
I tried to steady my fingers enough to button my coat.
“I want you to find whoever did this, Detective.”
I meant it.
Grace handed me the keys as Roche opened the front door, gesturing for me to walk through ahead of him. But I lifted my father’s photo first. With the sleeve of my trench coat, I cleaned Nathan Glasser’s sad eyes of the specks of mud that hit them when I hurled my boot before. Then I set him down and went outside.
“Don’t worry, Nor. I’ll be right behind you,” Grace called out. “You don’t have to say anything to anyone, you hear?”
As I walked toward my Toyota, Detective Roche called my name and pointed to the waiting squad car with a county police officer behind the wheel.
“Can’t I take my own car?” I croaked.
“It would be more convenient if you came with us. We’ll arrange to get you home later; don’t worry.” He strode over and opened the rear door to the spot usually reserved for suspects.
“Careful of your head,” he said, patting my scalp with his hairy hand as I ducked in.
Whenever I saw the police make this gesture on crime shows, I imagined a warm palm placed protectively on the crown could feel soothing momentarily, especially for an innocent scared out of her wits, and maybe even for a serial killer like Ted Bundy. But in reality, it felt manipulative. Psyops for cops. “We are your friends. We want what’s best for you. We care.” A devious message from folks who hoped to lock you away for life or fry you in an electric chair. A hedge against a lawsuit if you hurt yourself.
“Fasten your seat belt. We wouldn’t want you banged up if we make a sudden stop. Or hit a pothole,” Roche cautioned. “We’ve already seen some big ones this year.”
“You might consider reporting them to the highway department,” I said.
I could hear my father’s voice whispering in my ear. Don’t get cheeky, kiddo. This is serious business here.
I buckled up, noting the car’s sickly sweet chemical smell, like the inside of a Port-O-San, and the stiff, uncomfortable back seat made of molded gray plastic. Probably easier to clean if anyone vomited, pissed, or bled, I thought, repulsed. What was that curious silver ring bolted to the middle of the floor?
“What’s this metal ring for?” I asked through the security screen as Roche climbed in the passenger seat up front. The blue-black edge of a tattoo snaking along his collar line finally exposed the ruse of his country-squire look. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Securing a prisoner’s leg irons,” he said.
The remains of whatever bravado I’d conjured disappeared as we sped out of my driveway, the police radio crackling with addresses and codes. My heart began hammering. My hands resumed their shaking. My stomach churned. The scratch on my cheek even throbbed for a second. How had it gotten there? Then . . .
Kathump!
My head hit the car roof.
“Damn pothole! You okay back there?” Roche asked.
No, I wasn’t okay. I felt scared and alone. I wanted to call Aunt Lada and be soothed by her voice. But I was afraid she would hear how frightened I was, and it would worry her sick.
“I’m good,” I said, and repeated it more for myself than for him. “I’m good.”
From the Pequod Courier
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