Dance Away with Me(51)

Slut . . . The dusty inscription on her car . . . She was a slut only in her thoughts, which wouldn’t be so intrusive if she didn’t keep bumping into Ian at night when she went downstairs to heat up a bottle, or if she didn’t have to listen to the sound of his footsteps in the studio as he did god-only-knew what, since he apparently wasn’t working.

“My shift’s over at noon.” Wren had kept her up again last night, and she suppressed a yawn.

“Mind stopping by the police station?”

He had his official face on, so this wasn’t a social invitation, and she was suddenly wide-awake. “Uh . . . sure.”

“I’ll see you then.” He left with no caramel macchiato and no explanation.

The Tempest police station took up a couple of rooms in the town’s small city hall. An American flag hung on one wall, a whiteboard on the other, along with framed certificates and a photo of the groundbreaking ceremony for the Winchester Recreation Center. She fidgeted with the strap on her purse as she took a seat in an orange molded-plastic chair.

Freddy picked up a blue dry-erase marker and tapped the top of an empty snack bag. “I have a couple of questions about that artist’s wife. The one who died.”

Her fingers constricted around her purse strap. “Bianca and Ian North weren’t married.”

“Unusual these days for a woman to die having a baby.”

She tried to project a calmness she didn’t feel. “Bianca had an amniotic fluid embolism. It’s rare and nearly always fatal. The hospital has my full report.”

“I’d like to hear about it in your own words.”

She straightened in the wobbly plastic chair, reminding herself she had nothing to hide. She described what had happened, keeping everything factual.

He listened, not taking notes, slung back in his chair and twisting the dry-erase marker between his fingers. “Ian North,” he said, when she finished. “The artist. You’re living with him now?”

“I’m his employee.” She sounded defensive, and she made herself speak more calmly. “I’m temporarily taking care of the baby until he can make other arrangements.”

“A lot of people are talking about that. The two of you.”

She couldn’t ignore the implication, and she felt herself flush. “I wasn’t aware malicious gossip was a police matter.”

“Hard to tell the difference sometimes between gossip and the truth.”

She’d had enough, and she got up from the chair. “I don’t have anything more to say.”

He dropped the marker into an empty coffee mug. “The thing is, we only have your word for it. The autopsy seems to be inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive? What do you mean?”

“I heard from the coroner’s office.” He rose from behind the desk, dismissing her. “Appreciate you coming in. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more.”

She’d known this could happen—an amniotic fluid embolism was difficult to confirm, even with an autopsy—but she still felt like throwing up. With a hand pressed to her stomach, she hurried back to her car.

There it was again. Another message. This time written on the dusty hood. Whore.

*

Tess knew she’d eventually tell Ian about the writing on her car, the autopsy report, and her visit to the police station, but right now, her emotions were too raw. Wren’s fussiness didn’t help. The baby didn’t seem to be in pain, and she wasn’t running a fever. She was just generally foul-tempered in the way of infants.

At work the next day, Tess nearly nodded off while she went over some receipts Phish wanted her to check. If only she could have four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

But it wasn’t to be. That night, not long after Tess had settled Wren for the second time in the sleeping nest by her bed, the baby once again began to whimper. Tess didn’t move. Maybe if Tess stayed completely quiet, Wren would go back to sleep.

Wren was way too smart for that con and began crying for real.

“Wren, please. Shut the hell up.” Tess buried her face in the pillow.

Wren took offense and wailed louder.

With a groan, Tess reached over to take the baby from her nest. Maybe she could calm her without getting up.

Wren wasn’t having it. She wanted the full-on walking-the-floor routine.

Tess got up, tucked the baby under her chin, and sniffed Wren’s head. As she took in the warm baby smell, she contemplated what a powerful survival mechanism that scent was in protecting this ill-tempered, self-centered, pooping, vomiting species known as the human newborn from extinction. Would Jeff and Diane walk the floor with her like this when she got cranky?

Tess paced from one corner of the bedroom to the next. Her eyes itched with exhaustion.

The door opened and a shaft of light from the hallway silhouetted a tall, familiar figure wearing only a T-shirt and boxers. He looked as cranky as Wren.

“Don’t yell at her,” Tess said. “She can’t help it.”

“I’m not in the habit of yelling at infants. No matter how much I want to.”

She was enveloped in the intoxicating scent of warm male as he came closer. First Wren’s, and now Ian’s smell. She needed nose plugs.

“Give her to me,” he said. “You need to get some sleep.”