On Turpentine Lane(41)

Upstairs, I knocked—three quick raps on Nick’s door. “Can I come in? You decent?”

When I heard a groggy yes, I slipped into his room and closed the door behind me. “A cop is here. He’s in the cellar, but just in case . . . you know . . . your refreshments?”

“Why is a cop in the cellar?”

“An anonymous tip—something criminal that might’ve happened here.”

“When?”

“Nick! If he finds your pot and arrests you, you’ll lose your job! And maybe I would, too, as an accessory.”

“Relax,” he said. “It’s in my sock drawer. You need a warrant to look in someone’s sock drawer. Does he even have one?”

“No. Okay. Never mind. I’m getting dressed.”

He sat up finally. No garment was in evidence. Had I ever seen Nick’s chest unclothed? Of course, passing each other in the hallway. But in this particular setting, it seemed especially naked.

“What’s with the parka?” he asked.

I flashed it open and closed quickly for a second’s glimpse of the nightgown that needed concealing.

“Is the cop asking for all hands on deck?”

“No! He doesn’t even know you live here. I was just being your lookout.”

“Thanks. Stop worrying. Get dressed, go back down, find out what’s what. And Faith? Be cool.”



Water for my mother’s tea hadn’t even reached a boil when I heard Detective Dolan ascending the cellar stairs. “All set . . . thank you,” he said, closing the door behind him with what looked like gumshoe meticulousness.

“Any luck?” my mother asked.

“She means did you see anything suspicious?” I asked.

“Clean as a whistle,” said Detective Dolan.

Only weeks later would I realize that he wasn’t answering my question as it related to the anonymous tip. He was cleverly complimenting and distracting me about the admirably neat state of my basement.





27





Too Much? Too Close?


BACK IN MY MOTHER’S DRIVEWAY I found a note under my wiper. Could only plow ptway. Where are you & where’s Ma? J.

“Obviously he was worried about you,” I told my mother, who was energetically scraping ice off my back windshield despite my protests.

“Not that worried,” she said.

“It was a big night for him,” I said. “Land-office business, I bet.”

“Wouldn’t you think he’d have come straight here after getting the news that his father had taken up with a teenager?”

“Ma, we covered that. He’s a guy. They’re not good at that stuff. Then it snowed—all night, all for the good.”

“Call him,” she said. “Tell him I’m back at home, having spent the night with you due to inclement weather.”

I said, “You call. I’ve already left too many messages.”

Scraping and sighing, she said, “In the old days, everybody picked up. Your phone rang and you answered it, period.”

I slipped her big purse off her arm, fished inside, and came up with her cell. “Except in the good old days you didn’t get to make phone calls from your driveway. Here, call him. I’m going home.” I opened the car door, and just before climbing in, I pointed toward the house. “Notice that your terrible son shoveled your walks, front and back.”

“What if I do reach him?”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“What if he says something like ‘Dad wasn’t living at home anyway. It’s not that big a deal.’?”

“He won’t say that. I told you how upset he was, which is probably why he’s not picking up. Now go inside. Take a nice soak in the tub, read the Sunday paper. I’m around if you need me.” With my phone turned off, I thought.

“I might call him,” she said. “So just warning you.”

“Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“I meant your father. I’d enjoy giving him a piece of my mind. Do you know the saying ‘You can’t dance at two weddings with one tuchus’?”

“Now I do.” I turned the key in the ignition and was relieved to hear the engine turn over. I waved good-bye and tried not to think about the forlorn return wave in my rearview mirror. Five minutes later, as soon as I’d pulled into my driveway, my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Strenger, was hurrying down her back porch steps in a puffy down coat and unbuckled overshoes, calling, “Is everything all right?”

I said, “Yes—at least since I left twenty minutes ago.”

“I saw the cruiser in your driveway . . .”

“Oh, that—it was just Brian Dolan, a friend of my brother’s.”

“Off duty?”

“Well, no . . . on. But it was nothing. Well, nothing about me . . . some ancient history he was looking into.” Then, casually, as if an unrelated topic, I asked, “How long have you lived here?”

“Fifty-three years this month.”

“Wow. Very precise.”

“I know exactly because we moved in the week of the president’s assassination. Not a good way to start a new life together.” She must have sensed I was about to express my sorrow for such unfortunate timing because she said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. It’s been a lucky house for us: a marriage that lasted through thick and thin. Two handsome sons, five grandsons—would you believe that? All boys!—and if we were to sell it tomorrow, it would bring many times what we paid for it.”