On Turpentine Lane(52)

I said, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I was taking a bubble bath . . . peach and passion fruit.”

Once he was seated, I slipped off the sweater, and asked, “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”

He was buttering a half piece of toast but also whistling in what seemed both a jaunty and suggestive manner.

I said, “I noticed you’re wearing nothing but underwear to breakfast. That’s a first.”

He looked down, then up at me. It was an expression I’d seen the night before at La Grotta—solemn, as if to ask, Would this be the kind of first you’d welcome?

The next thing I said was “I’d really like to kiss you.”

“We can do better than that,” said Nick.

I closed my eyes—not a hesitation, but a time-out, the kind you need upon grasping, My fondest wish has come true.

Then one or both of us whispered, “Upstairs?”

Eggs and cereal abandoned. “Yes,” we both said. Yes.





33





I Wasn’t Even Born Then


APPARENTLY DETECTIVE BRIAN Dolan never meant to imply at his first visit to my house that it was off the hook. His parting “clean as a whistle!” led me to believe that Mrs. Lavoie wasn’t being posthumously investigated for manslaughter in my stairwell, and thus my cellar was no longer of interest to the Town of Everton.

But in mid-January, my first day back after a long weekend, I returned home to find state and local police cars parked in front of the house, and my mother greeting me like a surrogate hostess.

Still in coat, hat, and scarf, I charged to the back of the house and yelled my displeasure downstairs to what I assumed was the occupying Detective Dolan. He trudged upstairs and rather patiently let me rant. “This is what you do?” I yelled. “You just break into someone’s home while she’s at work and—what?—start tearing her house apart like she’s a common criminal?”

Brian said, “First, no one’s tearing your house apart. And second, a search warrant does allow us to enter the premises. But when no one answered here, I thought the neighborly thing to do was call your mom or brother, figuring one of them would have a key.”

My mother was still looking hospitable and pleased to be of service while my own thoughts traveled upstairs to Nick’s stash of pot. I asked, in what I hoped was entirely innocent fashion, “Um, what are you looking for?”

“Blood,” he said. “Actually, bloodstains. I have it here,” and with that, he produced a piece of paper that was indeed a search warrant.

“Blood? Whose blood?”

“We don’t know yet.”

My mother chimed in, informing her buddy Brian that he wouldn’t find any such evidence because Faith was down there several times a week doing laundry, as was her housemate, and surely one of them would’ve noticed blood. And there had been a thorough inspection—hadn’t he gone to Everton High with Wally Roche of Tri-County Inspection? How does an inspector miss bloodstains?

“We think they were covered up,” Brian said.

I managed to ask if any other kind of human remains were also in my basement.

“We’ll see.”

It was then that a woman looking very forensic in white protective gear, helmet, and goggles came up from the cellar.

“Sir?” was all she said, but it sounded to me like Found what we came for.

“Hold on to the railing, for God’s sake,” I called after them. “I don’t want to be charged with anyone’s murder.”

“Aren’t you funny,” I heard back.

I texted Nick, now at an Everton swim meet in his school-spirited, parent-cultivating way, Not to worry, but cops here, had search warrant. In cellar (remember the husbands Mrs. L might’ve killed?) XOXO.

In the exact number of minutes it would take a person to climb down from the bleachers and drive back to 10 Turpentine Lane, Nick was bounding up the front steps. My mother, the self-appointed doorman, chirped, “Nick! How was your day?”

“Good. Thanks. Where’s Faith?” I waved from the kitchen then hurried toward him. He motioned with his chin, Do we worry about what’s upstairs? I said, “They’re not interested in anything else on the premises.”

“Anything else but what?”

“Blood. It says so on the warrant.”

My mother, now at our elbows, asked, “What are you two whispering about?”

I wouldn’t have told her the truth, but Nick said, “I have a little pot upstairs. Can we put it in your purse? I mean, just while they’re here?”

My mother looked positively delighted to be colluding with us. “Where is it now?” she whispered.

“In my room. Bureau. Top drawer.”

She winked. Then, in an unnecessarily loud voice, said, “May I use your bathroom? I’ll be back down soon. Now where did I put my purse? Have to freshen up!” Smiling proudly, she headed for the stairs.

Back in the kitchen, Nick and I heard the murmur of many voices from downstairs, but nothing discernible.

“Think it’s okay if we have a glass of wine?” I asked him.

Nick said, “Let’s wait for our mule to join us.”

We did wait, a longer time than locating pot and slipping it into one’s purse should have taken. “I’ll go up and see if she found it,” I said.