As I drove, I reviewed what Grace and I had discussed. There were two prime suspects now. Stokes had a strong motive, but so did Tobias. He was Cain to Hugh’s Abel. He had to be envious of his little brother. Hugh’s talent had brought millions, public adulation and a hot blonde. Tobias earned a modest teacher’s salary and lived with a frump. If Hugh had donated even one painting to his brother’s foundation, it would probably fetch more money than Tobias could hope to raise in his entire lifetime. Behind all the godliness and concern, Tobias must’ve harbored massive resentment. If Nathan Glasser were alive, he’d lay odds that Tobias had devised a way to kill the Walkers, blame me and enrich himself and his cause.
Grace and I hatched a plan. I’d already e-mailed Tobias from her computer accepting his invitation and requesting that he let Grace pay her respects. Bless Grace, she’d taken it on herself to make it less awkward for everyone at my wedding by giving Tobias and his wife some quality attention, so I doubted he’d refuse her. She’d approach him at the funeral as the caring mother she was and try to suss out his intentions regarding Callie. Grace had also suggested one more possibility.
“We can’t dismiss the idea that Hugh had a jealous lover. Along with pedophiles, cheaters have a high level of recidivism. There’s a chance that lover could show up at the funeral.”
“As a stranger, she’d draw too much attention,” I objected. “She would be foolish to risk gloating over her victims in person. And how would she find out about the service, anyway? Tobias isn’t advertising it.”
“What if she’s not a stranger? What if she’s one of the people Tobias invited? A friend.”
I contemplated this for a moment and someone came to mind.
“Sue Mickelson, the neighbor. She was the first at the scene after the housekeeper. She’s very attractive. I wonder . . .”
“I’m just saying we shouldn’t rule out that possibility.”
We agreed that if we uncovered any useful information, we’d tell Gubbins immediately.
By the time I paid for the phone and computer at Reynolds Electronics and returned to my car, Talk of the Townies was almost over. I’d missed the entire Abbas interview. Grace was finishing up with Davis Kimmerle of the New York Journal.
“And then there’s Walker’s brilliant self-portrait with his ex-wife as a distorted, half-bestial figure hovering over him as he sleeps. The portrait evokes both the raw and the sophisticated. It’s contemporary yet grounded in classical traditions across many cultures. This is why Hugh Walker will remain profoundly influential. In fact, he has single-handedly paved the way for a revisioning of neo-primitivism.”
“That’s fascinating, Davis. Your understanding of Walker’s vision is very impressive,” Grace said. “You really have to write a book.”
“Thank you. I admit, I’ve been thinking about doing just that.”
“Oh, you must. Fantastic. Promise me you’ll come on the show to talk about it when the book comes out.”
“I’m there.”
“Again, thank you for speaking with us today and explaining the significance of Walker’s paintings so eloquently. Now that he’s gone, it’s so sad we won’t be able to see more of his work and hear your take on it.”
“A shame, I know. But you will be able to see a number of his previously unexhibited paintings soon. I’d be happy to come back on the show and talk about them.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The Abbas Masout Gallery had already planned a comprehensive retrospective for this spring before any of this . . . Oh God, I’m sorry, Grace. I just betrayed a confidence. It’s not public knowledge yet. Can you edit that out?”
“I’m afraid this is a live show, Davis.”
That’s exactly what I meant about Grace eliciting information. It seemed to work with everyone.
It wasn’t even noon, but I caught myself drifting over the yellow line more than once on the way home. The car rental calls would have to wait. All I could think about was resting my head on a pillow and closing my eyes. I arrived at the Coop, too tired to address the last remnants of disorder the police had left: a kilim to roll out, books to return to the shelves and a desk to reorganize. With my remaining speck of energy, I gathered materials from the kitchen instead: three frying pans, two large soup pots and two smaller saucepans.
Now that I knew for certain that I was sleepwalking again, I also knew it was a possibility anytime I slept, even in the middle of the afternoon. I wanted reassurance that my wandering was taking place indoors exclusively, the way it always had in the past. The pots and pans would function as a simple alarm system. A noisy barrier that would wake me if I tried to leave. I placed them just inside the front door, and then I hesitated. Did I really want to test myself? If this alarm went off, it would mean I could have gone to Pequod Point the night of the murders.
The answer was yes. I had to know.
I retreated to the bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then I crawled into bed, left Grace a message with my new number and phoned Aunt Lada. She wasn’t in her room. The call rolled over to Yvonne at the front desk.
“Hi, Yvonne. Do you happen to know where my aunt is?”
“Hiding out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trash-talking magazine people found her. So, you used to be married to dat man got killed with his wife? He sneak out on you and give her a baby?”
“Oh God.”
“They been bugging your auntie. Calling her day and night since yesterday. She tell me she turning her phone off.”
I sat up. “I’m coming over.”
“No need. She okay. Just layin’ low. Say she needs a rest.”
“I still think I should come.”
“I think you just make her feel bad for making you feel bad.”
“Okay . . . but listen, I have a new phone number. Can you please make sure she gets it? And ask her to call me?”
“No worries. I’ll stop up there before I leave tonight.”
I gave Yvonne the number and thanked her.
“Nora?”
“Yes?”
“You take care of yourself.”
I hung up, feeling protective of my aunt and angry with the press for invading her privacy. I contemplated driving to The Cedars despite Yvonne’s advice, but I was dying to sleep. I must’ve dropped off right away because when the doorbell rang, I woke with the phone on my chest.
Apparently, I hadn’t slept very long—light still streamed in at the corners of the bedroom curtains. My phone said 2:06 p.m. I rolled out of bed, went over to the window and gasped as I spied Ben’s car in the driveway. There was no pretending I wasn’t home; my car sat right next to his. Besides, my heart wouldn’t let me shut him out. Two tiny hands had just grown from the center of it, and they were reaching for him. Ambivalence quickly snatched them back. The problems I’d recognized last night had not gone away. I was still a sleepwalker. The police still suspected me of murder. On some level, I still suspected me of murder. I couldn’t see how Ben wouldn’t.
The doorbell rang again.
“Just a sec!” I shouted, scrambling for the bathroom.
I checked the mirror. Major bed head, but still kind of sexy. Take a moment, Nora. Breathe. I managed to compose myself before strolling into the living room as casually as possible. I pushed a couple of pots away with my foot. How to explain them? Opening the door sent the rest clattering across the floor. I winced. Ben registered the noise and pulled back slightly.
He held a bouquet of red roses. Totally old school. Sincere. Adorable. Ben wasn’t ambivalent.
“You in the middle of something? Is this a bad time?”