Goodnight Beautiful(27)
I took good care of her husband since he moved in downstairs, three months ago. I gave him everything he asked for, in fact—nontoxic paint, heated floors—you’d think he would have appreciated me more.
Who knows, maybe Annie and I will still meet. Maybe she’ll stop by tomorrow to commiserate about Sam’s disappearance, and I’ll tell her how sorry I am to hear that she lost both her parents when she was eighteen.
Their names were Archie and Abigail Potter, and their double obituary appeared in the York County Coast Star out of Kennebunkport, Maine, June 12, 1997. Devoted husband Archie and loving wife and mother Abigail were killed in a helicopter crash over the Hudson River on the afternoon of their twentieth wedding anniversary, survived by an eighteen-year-old daughter.
What a story. Archie had a lifelong fear of flying, which Abigail was determined to help him confront. She booked a surprise thirty-minute private helicopter ride from a launch in New York City, only for the engine to fail, killing both in a fiery crash into the river.
The clock on the desk chimes—one p.m. already. Where has the day gone? I remove my glasses and rub my eyes, my hangover easing into a dull headache. I turn off the computer monitor and leave the library, sliding the pocket doors closed behind me. Upstairs in my bedroom, I pause at the window and take the binoculars from their hook to check in on the Pigeon. Her car’s in the driveway, and I picture her inside, drinking coffee from an oversize mug emblazoned with the phrase THIS IS REALLY WINE. I replace the binoculars and turn away as a car appears on the hill. It passes her house, crosses the bridge, and turns into my driveway. I close the curtains and go to the closet to change out of my robe.
The police are here.
*
I open the front door as a man steps from the driver’s seat of the police cruiser.
“Good afternoon,” he calls as he approaches the porch. “Hoping to speak to the owner of the Lawrence House.”
“That’s me,” I say.
“Franklin Sheehy.” He flashes his badge. “Chief of police.”
“I know,” I say. “I saw you on television, warning everyone about the storm.”
“Would have been nice if more of them had listened,” he says as a young man approaches from behind. He’s tall and baby-faced, no older than twenty-five. “This is officer John Gently. We’re sorry to disturb you, but—”
“Is this about Dr. Statler?” I say.
“You’ve heard?”
“Yes, his wife called earlier today. She sounded worried.”
A cold wind lifts the collar of Sheehy’s nylon police jacket. “Mind if we come inside?”
“Not if you don’t mind removing your shoes,” I say. “I just mopped the floors.”
“Sure thing.” Sheehy steps into the foyer and pauses to remove a pair of black boots, exactly the sensible footwear you’d expect a police chief to wear. “Just you here?”
“Just me,” I say.
He walks into the living room and looks around. “Big place for one person.”
“Seven years in the city,” I say. “I was craving some space.”
“New York?”
“No, Albany. I think New York is vile.”
“Got a nephew at SUNY Albany. Nice place.”
“So, about Dr. Statler,” I nudge, reminding him we’re here to talk about Sam, not trade TripAdvisor reviews on major US cities. “Is there reason to worry?”
“His wife thinks so,” Sheehy says, bringing his focus to me. “She was expecting him home last night, and he never appeared. Understandably upset.” He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a notebook and a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, not the style I would have chosen for him. “I’ve been told he’s been renting an office from you, downstairs.”
“Yes,” I say.
“For how long?”
“Three months,” I say. “Moved in July first, to be exact.”
Three thirty in the afternoon, to be even more exact. I remember it perfectly, watching from an upstairs window as he pulled in to the driveway, parking that nice new Lexus behind my car. He hustled six boxes from the trunk to his office and knocked on my door before he left. “That’s a nice touch,” he said, gesturing to the sign I had installed at the end of the driveway. Dr. Sam Statler, Psychologist. “I appreciate it.”
“Welcome to the Lawrence House,” I said. “I hope you’ll like it here.” He then told me he had arranged to have an extra lock installed on his office door, but had to catch a train to New York; would I mind letting in the locksmith? His name was Gary Unger from Gary Unger Locksmiths, Sam said, adding how he wished he’d been part of the focus group Gary Unger must have hired to come up with the perfect name for his business. I laughed and told Sam I’d be happy to let him in. In fact, I was always happy to help.
“And how well do you know him?” Sheehy asks, jarring me back to the room.
“As well as any landlord knows a tenant,” I say. “We say hi when we cross paths.”
“Was he a good tenant?”
“Very good.”
“Pay the rent on time?”
“He didn’t pay rent.”
He and the boy cop snap their heads at me. “Nothing?” Sheehy asks. “That’s awfully generous of you.”