DeMarco did not attend Bonnie’s funeral, which had been organized, he assumed, either by her brother or some of the dancers. But two days later, just after seven in the morning, he stopped by the cemetery. The grave was marked only by a small bronze plaque on a metal stake and a small pile of frost-withered flowers atop the low mound of dirt, yellow and white calla lilies with their fluted petals shriveled and brown, wrinkled like old skin. He didn’t know what he wanted to say to Bonnie, couldn’t think of anything that, uttered aloud on such a gray still morning, would not sound foolish. He stood there for several minutes with his ungloved hands tucked into his armpits, stood there looking out across the leaf-strewn grounds, and thought to himself, So many dead. The air on his freshly shaved cheeks felt sharp against his skin, and the cold made even his good eye tear up. The sky was a muddy watercolor, a child’s smear. A quarter mile away, an eighteen-wheeler Jake-braked as it approached the first traffic light in town, and the sudden roar of released air set DeMarco’s teeth on edge. He waited until the truck had rumbled through town and could no longer be heard. Then he looked at the grave a final time.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll see you later maybe.”
A half hour later, DeMarco’s car rolled to a stop beside Moby’s little trailer. There were no lights on inside, no signs of habitation. He shut off the engine, then peered through his windshield at the layer of frost atop the trailer’s tarred roof. He popped open his door and lifted the two paper cups of convenience store coffee out of the cup holders.
There was no response when he knocked on Moby’s front door. He set one cup down on the concrete step and turned the knob. The door opened easily and released a chilled, sour scent into DeMarco’s face. He picked up the second cup of coffee, stepped inside, and closed the door with his hip.
Moby lay on the short vinyl sofa, knees drawn against his chest, hands shoved between his legs. He was wearing a too-large black suit, probably a recent purchase from the Goodwill store, and a pair of scuffed brown loafers with white wool socks. Close to the sofa, a gallon bottle of Rhine wine sat on the floor beside a plastic coffee mug. The mug was empty; the bottle held only a puddle of wine.
DeMarco stood over him for a moment, motionless and listening. The coffee was hot against his hands, but the room was so cold that he could see his own exhalations in evanescing puffs of ghostly white. He leaned closer to Moby, watched the man’s chest for a rise and fall. Satisfied then but beginning to shiver, DeMarco looked around for the thermostat, found it in the corner of the room, leaned close, and squinted. Fifty-four degrees. He slid the plastic lever to seventy-two and heard the pop of the oil burner’s flame kicking on.
With the back of his hand, he nudged Moby’s shoulder. Two more nudges, each more forceful than the last. Finally a low grunt and a slit-eyed squint. DeMarco said, “How about you sit up for a minute and have some coffee.”
Another ten seconds passed before Moby responded. Instead of sitting up, he squeezed himself together even more tightly. “It’s fucking cold in here,” he said.
DeMarco took a seat at the little dinette table across from him. He set both cups of coffee atop the table. “You had your heater turned off,” he said. “You should feel things warming up in a minute or two.”
Moby lay there and blinked at him.
DeMarco said, “I brought one coffee black, one with cream and sugar. Take your pick.”
Moby gave a little nod at the bottle on the floor. “There anything left in there?”
DeMarco emptied the dregs from the bottle into the plastic mug, but instead of handing it to Moby, he set the mug on the table. He said, “I need you to sit up for me.”
Moby brought a hand to his cheek, rubbed his face for a while, then scratched his forehead. His movements fell into a slow repetition, fingernails tracing a slow loop from the top of his forehead to his eyebrows and back around again, over and over. Finally DeMarco leaned forward and pushed the hand away. “You’re scratching the hell out of yourself, Moby. Sit up and talk to me.”
By slow degrees, Moby dragged himself into a lopsided sitting position. DeMarco handed him the mug of wine. Moby took a long swallow, then shivered. DeMarco told him, “You’d be better off with the coffee.”
Moby said, “I disagree.”
DeMarco peeled the lid off the cup of black coffee, took a sip, held the paper cup between his knees. “I need you to help me figure something out,” he said. “Why would Inman kill your sister?”
With both hands, Moby clutched the mug of wine against his chest, just below his chin. Every now and then, he raised the mug to his lips. His gaze never left the floor.
“Why, Moby? You’re the only one who might know.”