Tips for Living(27)

An interview was an interview to Grace. Unlike me, she was not a TV crime-drama buff. No binge-watching Helen Mirren play Detective Chief Inspector Tennison in Prime Suspect. No indulging in cheesy Law and Order marathons. Those shows help me believe there’s order and justice in the world, if only for an hour or so. If Grace had watched as many crime shows as I had, she would know the police liked to conduct interviews on their own turf in order to intimidate and confuse suspects. They’re hoping their guests will incriminate themselves or confess before they “lawyer up.” Roche’s request could mean I was under suspicion. My insides were quaking while I tried to look calm.

“A formal environment usually helps jog people’s memories,” Roche said reassuringly. “There might be a seemingly innocuous event in Ms. Glasser’s relationship with Mr. Walker that could help point us in the right direction.”

“But there was no relationship anymore,” Grace argued.

“It’s all right, Grace,” I said. “I want to help.”

Maybe I was misreading this and the police really wanted my assistance. It was entirely possible I did have a piece of information that would lead them to another suspect. Besides, what was the alternative? Calling a lawyer or refusing to cooperate would make it seem like I had something to hide. Except for visiting the murder scene this morning, I didn’t. Or did I?

“Thank you,” Roche said, making prayer hands in my direction.

He was so dapper and polite, he might have been a date picking me up for a Sunday brunch.

Grace turned to me, worried. “Nora, I don’t know about this.”

“It’s all right,” I repeated. “Just let me put on some clothes.”

Grace—trying to promote goodwill, I guess, or deal with the awkwardness—offered Roche one of her excellent lattes while he waited. He declined.

Nervous, I retreated to my bedroom and began to dress, pulling my sweater on backward at first. As I grabbed my watch on the night table, I glimpsed The Role of the Muse in Contemporary Art by April Krim sitting at the top of my reading pile. The morning I received Hugh’s letter, I’d ordered it on Amazon. I’d remembered reading a review of the book, and I intended to learn how other muses dealt with betrayal by the men who immortalized them. I had devoured it as soon as it arrived.

I didn’t want to end up like Dora Maar. Known as Picasso’s “weeping woman,” the sad, French-Croatian beauty with pencil-thin eyebrows and sensual lips was Picasso’s lover and inspiration for many years until he replaced her. She never had an intimate relationship with a man again. She gave herself to Catholicism. “After Picasso, God,” she said.

They found Picasso’s artwork in her apartment after her death—gifts he had given her that she could have sold for a fortune but kept for sentiment. His portraits of her fetched “ooh la la” prices: Sotheby’s auctioned off Dora Maar au Chat for more than $95 million a decade ago. Proving, to me at least, that musing was a woefully undervalued profession.

The bedroom door opened a crack and Grace poked her head in.

“Nora?”

“Coming.”

I returned to the living room. Roche was checking out the titles on my bookshelf. He stopped and faced me.

“Are you ready?”

I walked to my desk. “I just have to find my keys.”

“You left them by the sink, honey,” Grace said, disappearing into the kitchen.

As I lifted my trench coat off the back of my desk chair, Roche strolled over. He insisted on playing the gentleman and helping me on with it. “We really appreciate your agreeing to take a trip downtown with us, Ms. Glasser.”

I hoped he didn’t notice my trembling hands. I had nothing to fear, I told myself. Unlike my father, who dodged the police half his life. My father, who avoided jail but wound up living in someone’s basement after the divorce—he’d given what money was left to my mother and me. “I know people say lousy things about me, Nora. But remember, all I wanted was for you and your mother to have the best. Everything I did, I did for love.”

My father, who bent down and held my face in his hands the day he moved out and said, “Here’s a tip, kiddo. A tip for living. This world is rough, and it’s going to keep throwing things at you. Don’t let them break your heart.”

I tried to steady my fingers enough to button my coat.

“I want you to find whoever did this, Detective.”

I meant it.

Grace handed me the keys as Roche opened the front door, gesturing for me to walk through ahead of him. But I lifted my father’s photo first. With the sleeve of my trench coat, I cleaned Nathan Glasser’s sad eyes of the specks of mud that hit them when I hurled my boot before. Then I set him down and went outside.

“Don’t worry, Nor. I’ll be right behind you,” Grace called out. “You don’t have to say anything to anyone, you hear?”



As I walked toward my Toyota, Detective Roche called my name and pointed to the waiting squad car with a county police officer behind the wheel.

“Can’t I take my own car?” I croaked.

“It would be more convenient if you came with us. We’ll arrange to get you home later; don’t worry.” He strode over and opened the rear door to the spot usually reserved for suspects.

“Careful of your head,” he said, patting my scalp with his hairy hand as I ducked in.