“Uh-huh. How did you know about the curtain thing?”
“I used to keep seeing Judy in my mind. In that hospital bed. Skinny, bald and full of tubes. I had to figure out something to keep from torturing myself.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Only in happier places.” He checked the room again to make sure no one had started paying attention to us. “Someone is trying to set you up, Nora.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, it does. You’re perfect.”
“How could the police believe I’d commit a double murder, leave all those clues to incriminate myself and stick around? They’d have to think I was an idiot.”
“Or very smart. Trying to make yourself the obvious suspect so they’d view you as too obvious. The person trying to frame you is hoping the police will think you’re attempting to con them. The killer would have to be someone familiar with your history.” He glanced at Sinead. “We don’t know who else Lizzie and Sinead shared your story with in the past few months. Not to mention the ones who read the press on you in the past. By now there’s a long list, I would guess.”
Maybe Ben was onto something.
“You really believe that I’m being framed?”
“I’m sorry, but it looks that way.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“If the DA does bring charges, I know an excellent criminal attorney in New York. For now, you’re better off sticking with Gubbins. He’s got connections. The DA knows him. Hiring a city lawyer will only make you seem guilty.”
“Excuse me for a second.”
“Sure.”
I slid out of the booth and made a beeline to the ladies’ room, lurching through the door and rushing into a stall. I locked the door, sat on the toilet and inhaled deep breaths with my head between my knees. When I finally settled down, I reviewed Ben’s information: the victims had been brutally murdered and then posed to mirror the painting, which had been savagely slashed. Both acts reinforced the idea of revenge. Add the fact that Hugh and Helene knew their killer and it would all seem to lead to me, the “hell hath no fury” suspect. Maybe someone was setting me up.
Better than having killed them yourself. But which was it?
I frantically ran through more possibilities. If Hugh was up to his old tricks despite those happy-couple pictures with Helene in the press, the murderer could well be another woman he’d slept with—some insanely jealous “psycho fuck.” She could’ve slashed the painting and posed their bodies. And what about the idea of their drug dealer having gone all Scarface on them? That was still a reasonable guess. I wasn’t necessarily the only person with a motive to whom they might have opened the door.
I looked down and noticed something had fallen out of my pocket onto the floor. Hugh’s letter again. I’d instinctively understood Roche would view it as incriminating.
As I picked the letter up, the restroom door squeaked open. I shoved the paper deeper into my pocket. Heels clicked across the tile floor into another stall. I stood and walked out to the sink to splash water on my face. What I saw in the mirror made me even more distraught. No wonder Ben asked about the scratch. It had become elevated and angry. There was a small dot of pus in the center—a sign of infection. It looked like a tiny erupting volcano. I winced as I dabbed it with a wet paper towel and cursed my uneven fingernail.
And what if your fingernail wasn’t the culprit? That scratch, the twigs and the leaves could have come from thrashing through the woods at night. Fleeing Pequod Point in your sleep the night of the murders. You can’t dismiss the idea completely.
I threw the towel into the trash and silently lectured myself in the mirror.
Nora. Just cut those damn nails before you scratch your face again.
Still feeling fragile, I left the ladies’ room and made my way back to the booth just as Hugh’s neighbor, Sue Mickelson, appeared on the TV screen over the bar. She wasn’t in her sweats anymore. She sat, dressed alluringly in black riding pants and a red silk shirt, on a massive white couch in what I guessed was her living room. I heard her say, “They were such an attractive couple, and they seemed so in love,” as I slipped into the booth across from Ben. He was staring at his BlackBerry, looking grim.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I just checked the Courier’s e-mail.”
He passed me his phone, and I read:
Dear Tips for Living,
Why didn’t you print my letter? Are you afraid your readers would agree your column is garbage? Where do you get off making fun of our problems? You act like you’re better than the rest of us. I’m warning you again. You need to stop. You’re going to be sorry if you keep this up.
Mad as Hell
“Two letters in one week. A real fan,” I said evenly, though I was dismayed that Mad as Hell was continuing the campaign.
“That’s three letters total from this ‘fan.’ It’s an obsession now. I don’t like the tone. The column is off.”
“But that means the intimidation worked,” I countered.
“It’s off.”
“Permanently off?”
“We’ll see.”
I was upset. “You’re really going to kill the column because of one disgruntled reader.”
“Like I said, the town is tense. We’re not going to add an edgy column to the mix. Especially when it inspires hostility toward you during an investigation of your ex’s murder. Do a follow-up on the ‘Canines for Heroes’ story. It’s been almost six months,” he said, standing up. “I’m taking you home. You look exhausted. No arguments.”
Funny, Ben seemed very much like a boss again.
I hunkered down on the motorcycle, held on tight to Ben, and felt the wind’s bite through my trench coat as we rode into the dark evening. Not even six o’clock and the sun long gone. The trip home from the Tea Cozy took only minutes, but if we’d driven any longer, my legs would’ve frozen in straddle position. We turned down Crooked Beach Lane. The bike bounced and rattled on the unpaved road. The moon hadn’t risen above the trees yet, and the Triumph’s single headlamp cast the only light as we pulled up in front of the Coop. I climbed off stiffly, handing the helmet back to Ben. He dropped it into the saddlebag.
“Listen, about Tips,” I said. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best. For me, for the town. All I ask is you keep an open mind.”
He nodded. I sensed something else weighed heavily on Ben’s mind, but he was quiet. I couldn’t see his expression through the shadowed visor on his helmet.
“Well, thanks for everything,” I said. “I mean thanks for calling Gubbins, for the ride, the drink. The intel.”
No “you’re welcome” was forthcoming. There was only the sound of the idling bike engine while Ben sat there looking like Darth Vader. What was going on with him?