The Clairvoyants(93)

My heart dipped with remorse. I watched him slip out of the front door, dragging Suzie behind him.

The next morning, rubber-soled shoes bounded up the stairs. Unless Geoff had gotten a new pair of shoes, it was a stranger. Whoever it was hesitated at the top step and knocked on my door. Out the window, parked beneath the bright buds of the elm, was a police cruiser. I felt entirely alone and vulnerable. I was sure William’s body had been discovered, the film in his pocket developed. Somehow, I had been identified. I found I couldn’t summon the strength with which I’d faced Detective Thomson, but those times my mother had been with me.

I would pretend I wasn’t home. But the knocking continued, and Geoff came out into the upstairs hall and told whoever it was that I had been there earlier.

“Perhaps she’s in the shower,” Geoff added.

The knocking was louder, and there wasn’t a possibility for me to slip away—no escape route out a window, down a trellis. I opened the door, resigned, and was surprised to see Officer Paul. In the daylight, his expression was kind. Despite his large ears, he resembled the ruggedly handsome men in old cigarette ads. I understood why Del had found him attractive. He had on his uniform, the one I’d thought was a costume at Anne’s cookout.

“Are you Martha? I wonder if you have a few minutes?” he said. His voice was soft. He smelled of shaving cream. He introduced himself as Officer Donaldson, and I peered at his badge, confused.

“The little kids call me Officer Paul,” he said. “The others do it to be funny.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer the door. I was asleep. I was up late last night, packing.”

And I showed him the piles of clothing and the boxes. He stepped into the door frame, but he didn’t come inside.

“You’re probably wondering why I was walking around in the Peterson field,” I said.

“We get morbid people up there poking around,” he said. Then he waved his hands. “Not to suggest that about you, of course.”

“I’m a photographer,” I said. “Abandoned places interest me.”

Officer Paul placed his hands on his hips. His belt was thick and slung low, weighted down by his holstered gun. “I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “I’m really inquiring about William Bell.”

“What do you need to know?” I’d managed to keep a level tone, though I felt weak with fear. I sounded so much like my mother I wanted to laugh, but of course I knew not to. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

“No thank you. Is William Bell at home?”

I tried to gauge from his expression what he suspected, whether he already knew William was gone and was feigning ignorance, whether he wanted to find him at home for some other reason. “I’m sorry,” I said. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Some of the girls mentioned you two got married,” he said. I’d long since removed the ring.

“We separated,” I said. “It didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry,” Officer Paul said, and I believed he truly was.

“Can I help you with anything?” I said.

He explained that he was investigating the Swindal case, following up on a few things.

“It’s so sad,” I said. “I guess it wasn’t an accident, if you’re investigating?”

Officer Paul stepped away from the door toward the stairs. “We aren’t disclosing the cause of death yet.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re looking for clues.”

He thanked me for my time and began to descend the stairs, and then he stopped, and turned back.

“You wouldn’t know where I might find him?” he said. “I have some questions for him.”

Officer Paul’s radio issued a burst of static, and his presence transformed the familiar stairwell to reveal the worn banister, the railings’ peeling paint, the stair treads scraped of their varnish. “I haven’t spoken to him,” I said. “Not for months.”

It felt wonderful to tell the truth.

Officer Paul seemed convinced. Maybe that was all it took—a statement that wasn’t rearranged to stand in for the truth. He jogged down the stairs, and I was grateful that William’s hat was gone from the hook at the bottom.

Once Officer Paul had left, Geoff came out of his apartment. I had my door open. I sat on the floor, packing William’s things, eager to get them out of the place, but uncomfortable handling them. Geoff leaned in the doorway.

“What in God’s name was that?” he said. “Did you call him to report your theft?”

I folded a pair of corduroys, the knees worn, feeling disoriented. “He was looking for William.”

Geoff didn’t come in. From the doorway he rolled a cigarette and handed it to me, like a peace offering. I didn’t have the heart to refuse it. Then he rolled one for himself. William’s things were scattered about. We smoked quietly, tipping our ashes into a teacup.

“How did Anne ever meet the girls from town?” I said.

Geoff exhaled. “She was always looking for models for her paintings,” he said. “And I’d see a pretty girl in town, and start a conversation—get around to asking if she wanted to pose.”

“For Anne,” I said.

I hadn’t seen a lot of Anne’s work—the one nude of Mary Rae, a few studies upstairs in the guest room—but I understood that was her subject, and that William had, in a way, patterned his own work after hers.