Have You Seen Me?(33)
“That wasn’t the main reason,” he admits. “I was trying to concentrate, and the smell was driving me crazy. It never occurred to me you would wonder.”
“No problem,” I say after a moment. I allow a sense of relief to take hold, embracing the realization that another sliver of my life hasn’t been snatched away. “And it’s good to hear, of course.”
“Again, sorry.”
“Do you want more pasta?”
“I do, but I better not. I’ve still got a few hours of work ahead of me.”
“Why don’t you let me handle the dishes, then.”
“That would be great. Chip and I agreed to go over a bunch of notes on the phone, so I’ll work in the den tonight.”
As Hugh heads down the hall, I clear the table, noticing that he hasn’t actually finished the pasta in his bowl. Does the dish not hold the same allure for him as it does for me? Or is the stress from the Brewster case playing havoc with his appetite? Or maybe the real stress is about me. About us. About the topic Hugh doesn’t dare circle back to because of the impact it might have on me.
I scrape the bowls, place them and the glasses in the dishwasher, and wipe the table off with a thick yellow sponge. My brain feels as if it’s foraging, rooting beneath brambles for something, but I’m not sure what. Almost instinctively, I don a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves and open the trash bin again. After hoisting out a few handfuls of congealed pasta and dropping them in the sink, I reach the roses. Sasha would be thrilled to know that even submerged in garbage, their color pops brilliantly.
I don’t have to raise them to my nose to confirm in my mind that there’s very little aroma. I unwrapped them after all. And besides, I know from a “Best (and Worst) Valentine Splurges for Your Money” blog post I wrote last year that as the flower industry tinkered with the genetics of roses to make them last longer, they bred out the fragrance along the way.
Gingerly, I remove a few stems and examine the blossoms. They’re a little droopy from lack of water but they’re hardly past their prime.
Then why did my husband stuff them in the trash bin?
My stomach twists. So much for getting back into a groove with Hugh. He’s a puzzle to me at the moment. But I can’t freak myself out now thinking about it. I toss the garbage back into the bin and head down the hall toward the bedroom. Though the door to the den is closed, I can hear the drone of Hugh’s voice, clearly reading material into the phone.
For the next hour I sit at the desk in the alcove, reviewing notes for the podcast tomorrow, including the research Sasha prepared. Finished, I email some final thoughts to my producer, Casey. After stealing a few minutes to make a cup of chamomile tea, I catch up on financial news—the Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Yahoo Finance, Fortune’s Broadsheet for women—so I don’t come across tomorrow like someone who’s been in a coma for the past week.
I’m just about to shut my laptop when I see an email alert pop up onto the screen. It’s a response from the private detective agency I contacted.
Yes, Kurt Mulroney, one of the two partners, has written, this is absolutely the type of case we handle. We’ve done more of these than you would expect. If you’d like to discuss further, you can call me at the number below tomorrow or even tonight. I know you’re eager to have this situation resolved.
More of these than you would expect. Perhaps I should take comfort in the fact that there’s apparently a subset of people roaming the metropolitan area in fugue states. Hey, there might even be a support group with meetings I could attend. Blank Slates Anonymous. Obviously, it couldn’t work exactly like other support groups, where you talk about the wicked bender or food binge you’ve recently engaged in. Because you don’t remember anything.
I’ll call him in the morning, I decide. Even though Hugh was dismissive of the idea, I see no harm in learning more about the process and finding out what this guy would charge. I jot down the number on a purple Post-it and stick it to the base of my desk lamp.
But then without even thinking, I grab my phone and tap in the number. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.
“Mulroney,” he answers. He has a deep voice, tinged with what sounds like a Bronx accent.
“It’s Ally Linden calling. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
“My pleasure. We’d love to be able to assist you.”
“Is this really something you specialize in?”
“I wouldn’t call it a specialty—we do a wide variety of work—but we’ve handled similar cases.”
“How have you managed them?”
“What I generally like to do first with a prospective client is meet for a free consultation and discuss our procedure in person. I’ll take you through everything—and there’s no obligation whatsoever on your part.”
I hesitate. He sounds professional enough, though he’s surely practiced at the kind of patter that encourages people to bite.
“You were a detective with the NYPD?”
“That’s right. Seventeen years. Gold shield.”
“I suppose that kind of training helps in your current line of work.”
“Yes and no,” he says with a chuckle. “It trained me to be a great detective, that’s for sure. But on the other hand, cops get in the habit of rolling in loud and visible, and this line of work generally calls for a low profile.”