He tapped the book. “Interesting women. Most of them talented in their own right. Passionate. Generous. But some of these male artists . . . It’s disappointing to read how they treated the women who loved them. Let’s just say these sons of bitches are best known through their work.”
I closed my eyes and mused on Ben’s observation. Was Hugh “best known through his work?” If I could go back in time and leave that art gallery before he introduced himself, would I? Did I regret our entire relationship? No. But I let the admiration I had for his talent and success overshadow his hurtful behaviors. I got hooked on being his muse and betrayed myself. I had to forgive me before I could forgive Hugh. It was time to do both.
I opened my eyes and looked over at Ben.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“You are pretty terrific,” I said.
He smiled, kissed me, went off to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of mushroom soup from a pot that Grace delivered. I thanked him, drank the soup and dropped off to sleep again.
For the next two days, I happily heeded Dr. Patel’s advice and stayed home. I kept tabs on Aunt Lada, who was lucid and recovering well. The first time I called, she wanted to talk about Abbas.
“I remember him from your wedding. He was such a charmer, that one. But na yazeekey myed. A na seardsea lyod.”
A tongue of honey. A heart of ice.
“I don’t want to . . . I can’t talk about him, Aunt Lada. I’m just glad it’s over.”
Since I’d panicked in the hospital, I’d used Ben’s method and put up another curtain to keep that monster out of sight. I never wanted to think about Abbas or my terrifying night at Pequod Point again.
I spent much of the time reading a delicious mystery novel and watching Harry Potter movies with Grace and the boys. They’d brought DVDs from the library. I told Ben it wasn’t too rushed to invite Sam for lunch and was pleased to discover his son was a delightful kid with an interest in history and politics. We had a lively discussion about the rise of fake news. The days ended making love with Ben. And at night there was still no sign that I’d done anything but sleep peacefully.
On the morning of day three, I took a magical walk across the snowy farm field into the glittering, frosted woods. I followed a half-frozen stream, water gurgling beneath the ice floe, and circled back to the top of the road where Crawley had parked to keep tabs on me when I was a person of interest. No police car. Just a snowbank. The hunt really was over.
Only the money worries remained. I still had to pay for Gubbins’s services, my own and Lada’s rents and the clinic bills. I called Gubbins, hoping he’d be amenable to negotiating a payment plan until the police returned the Princess Leia sketchbook.
“Good news. I’ve convinced the DA to accept slides of the sketchbook to use as evidence at the trial,” Gubbins said, clearly pleased with his win. “I warned them that the book was an important source of my client’s financial stability. ‘Your withholding it directly affects the physical well-being of Ms. Glasser and her aunt, a senior citizen,’ I said. They agreed to return the original to you by next week, as long as you can prove ownership.”
“Thank you. That’s fantastic. I have a letter from Hugh saying Loving Nora was a gift. Does that help?”
Gubbins paused, and I worried that the letter wouldn’t do. Finally, he said, “I know a handwriting expert. If he verifies your letter, that should be completely acceptable.”
My brilliant lawyer.
“But they insist on holding the knife until the trial is over.”
“I’ll let Ben know. It belongs to him. Thanks again.”
“One more thing. I took the liberty of calling Sotheby’s and asking an appraiser the approximate value of a sketchbook by Hugh Walker. He wouldn’t give an estimate without seeing it first, but he was extremely eager to have a look. When I told him that the police were holding it for a few days in a criminal investigation, he indicated that would increase its value substantially.”
Just like that, “snap,” my money troubles were over. Like one of Damien Hirst’s flies, I heard Abbas hiss. I shivered and shook off the memory.
“Nora?”
“Wonderful,” I told Gubbins. “Just wonderful.”
I drove to the Courier office in the afternoon on Wednesday, unlocked the door and turned on the lights. We were basically closed through the holiday. Ben had put the Thanksgiving issue to bed the night before, except for the weekend calendar. I’d come in to finish it. Afterward, I planned on joining him and Sam at the Pequod Food Pantry, handing out fresh turkeys to some of the town’s less fortunate residents to take home and cook.
I breathed in the comforting aroma of old wood. Worn pine floors. Creaky oak doors and window frames. Scratched and coffee-stained maple desks and armchairs. This was a newsroom of a bygone era, and I loved it. My eye was drawn to the framed picture of Judy and Sam on Ben’s desk. Instead of worrying about living up to Judy, I appreciated Ben’s devotion to her. For a second, I felt a twinge of concern. What would it be like to work here with Ben now that we were involved? I hoped we’d be able to navigate without too much tension.
A stack of the Courier’s special issue, published after Abbas’s arrest, sat on my desk. The headline emblazed across the front page read:
HUNTER’S ARROW TAKES DOWN POINT KILLER
Courier Reporter Confronts Murderer
I moved the stack of papers onto the filing cabinet. “Chapter closed,” I resolved. “Forever.” I’d already called Jake, the hunter, earlier and thanked him again. “If you’d hesitated, I wouldn’t be here today,” I said. He was humble about it. “I’m just glad I turned up in the right place at the right time, ma’am.”
I sat down to work on the calendar. Glancing through the window, I noticed Lizzie on the other side of the street wearing her army jacket and a boiled wool hat from Afghanistan. She was speaking to a woman bundled up in black in front of Eden’s Coffee Shop. The two of them turned and began to cross directly toward the Courier building. I stood up when I recognized the woman with Lizzie was Helene’s sister.
They reached the building entrance on the left and I couldn’t see them from the window anymore. The outer door creaked. Then the Courier office door opened and Lizzie scurried in from the cold.
“Hey, Nora! You’re back! Great. I didn’t think anyone would be in today.”
“Wasn’t that Margaret Westing who just walked across the street with you?”
“The very one.” Lizzie set her camera bag on her desk and plunked down in her chair. “I went to Eden’s for breakfast and saw this woman I recognized from the funeral having coffee at the counter. I sat next to her and introduced myself. She was here to pick up some of her sister’s belongings. Get this: she’s applying for guardianship of Callie Walker.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
From what I’d heard at the funeral, I didn’t think Margaret wanted Callie for the money. I had the impression Margaret really cared for her niece.