The Shape of Night(50)

“You know that body they found floating in the water?” I say. “It was a woman’s. And she still hasn’t been identified.”

    “Do you think…”

“I think we need to call the police.”



* * *



—

Once again, the police are in my house, but this time they’re not here about a minor break-in by a burglar who’s tracked dirt across my kitchen floor. This time, they are Maine State Police detectives conducting a death investigation. Dental records have confirmed that the body found floating in the bay is indeed Charlotte Nielson, who has not collected the mail from her PO box in over a month. Whose last known communication was the typewritten letter sent to Donna Branca.

Who two months ago was living in Brodie’s Watch and sleeping in my bed.

I sit in the kitchen as the police tramp through the bedrooms upstairs. I don’t know what they think they’ll find. I’ve long since finished the last bottle of her whiskey. The only traces of Charlotte left in the house are her Hermès scarf, her copy of Joy of Cooking, and the spare flip-flop that I found under the bed. There is also her handwritten list of local phone numbers, which is still tacked to the kitchen corkboard. Numbers for the plumber, the electrician, the doctor She had the precise penmanship you’d expect of an elementary school teacher, and if it’s true you can judge a person by their handwriting, then Charlotte was a neat and careful woman who would not normally leave behind an expensive scarf or a well-thumbed cookbook. The fact she did makes me think she packed quickly, so anxious to flee this house that she didn’t bother to look under the bed or reach into the deepest corner of the closet. I think of my first night here, when I’d found that bottle and poured myself a glass. A dead woman’s whiskey.

I’ve already thrown away that empty bottle, but I should tell the police about it.

Outside, the weather’s taken a turn for the worst. The storm that lashed the Carolinas a few days ago has now rolled up the coast and raindrops splatter the kitchen window. I suddenly remember that I’ve left the east-facing windows open, so I leave the kitchen and go into the sea room to close them. Through the rain-streaked glass I see waves rolling in, gray and turbulent, and I hear the wind-whipped branches of the lilac bush clawing the house.

    “Ma’am?”

I turn to see the two detectives, Vaughan and Perry, which sounds like a law firm. Unlike the local cops who came to investigate the break-in, these buttoned-down and humorless men deal with serious crimes, and their demeanor reflects it. I have already walked them through the upstairs rooms and pointed out where I’d found Charlotte’s scarf and flip-flop, yet they insisted on inspecting the house on their own—looking for what, I wonder. Since Charlotte’s departure, the floors have been vacuumed, and any traces she left of herself are now contaminated by my own.

“Have you finished upstairs?” I ask them.

“Yes. But we have a few more questions,” says Detective Vaughn. He has the air of command that makes me think he’s seen military service, and when he gestures to the sofa, I obediently sit down. He settles into the brocade wing chair, which looks ridiculously feminine for a man with his broad shoulders and Marine flattop. His partner Detective Perry stands off to the side, arms crossed as though trying to look casual, but not quite pulling it off. They are both big men, imposing men, and I would not like to be in the crosshairs of any investigation conducted by them.

“I knew something was wrong,” I murmur. “But she thought I was just being a busybody.”

“Ms. Branca, you mean?”

“Yes. Charlotte wasn’t answering her phone or emails, and Donna wasn’t the least bit curious. It’s almost as if she refused to believe anything was wrong.”

“But you felt something was?”

“It bothered me that Charlotte never answered my emails.”

“Why were you trying to reach her?”

    “I had a few questions.”

“About?” His eyes are too direct, too piercing.

I look away. “About this house. A few minor, um, issues.”

“Couldn’t Ms. Branca answer those questions?”

“You’d have to actually live here to understand.” He remains silent and I feel compelled to keep talking. “There’ve been some odd noises at night. Things I can’t explain. I wondered if Charlotte had heard them, too.”

“You said you had a break-in here a few weeks ago. Do you think there’s a connection to those noises you heard?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Because Ms. Nielson also reported an incident.”

“Yes, I heard that from the local police. They thought it was probably some teenager who didn’t realize the house was occupied. They said the same thing about my break-in.”

He leans closer, his eyes laser-sharp. “Can you think of anyone who might have done this? Aside from some nameless teenager?”

“No. But if it also happened to Charlotte, could it be the same person?”

“We have to consider all the possibilities.”

All the possibilities. I look back and forth at the two men, whose silence only makes me more agitated. “What did happen to Charlotte?” I ask. “I know she was found floating in the bay, but how did she die?”