Tips for Living(34)

My voice rose. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Heads turned at other tables.

“For jaysus sake,” Sinead whispered as she picked up her tray and skulked away to the bar.

“Nora, if I were you, I’d keep my cool right now,” Ben said.

“But I specifically asked you and Lizzie not to talk about that to anyone.”

Ben watched me quietly while I steamed.

“I’m sorry she broke your confidence,” he finally said. “You should know that from now on, there’s going to be a lot of talk. People felt free to poke around my world when my wife died, but it was nothing like what’s about to happen to you. I wish it weren’t the case, but there’ll be press.”

“I’ve been a public spectacle before. I hate it.”

“Fame and murder take it to a whole other level. You’re going to have to toughen up. They’re going to be prying, coming at you with questions like crowbars.”

Ben was right. I knew the public’s appetite was insatiable when it came to what veteran journalist Pete Hamill called “murders at good addresses.” They couldn’t get enough of Claus von Bulow and O. J. Simpson. That investment banker, Ted Ammon, who was found naked and beaten to death in bed at his East Hampton mansion? People fed off that story for months. I felt betrayed by Lizzie, but I needed to settle down and stop taking things personally.

“Point taken,” I said. “Now I’ve got a question for you, Ben.”

Ben took a sip of his drink. “Shoot.”

“What were you and Douglas Gubbins talking about at the police station? I have a feeling it was about me.”

He nodded solemnly and pushed my vodka closer. “Don’t you want your drink?”

“You’re saying I need one to hear this?”

“Recommended.”

I took a long, slow pull on the vodka tonic while Ben checked around us for eavesdroppers. When he was satisfied we had privacy, he leaned in.

“Remember my Deep Throat in the DA’s office?”

“The one who tipped you off to the embezzlement charges against the county highway superintendent?”

“Same guy. He told me what they have on the Point murders.”

“The Point murders? That’s what they’re calling them?”

“He spoke off the record. Nothing they’re releasing to the press.” He tapped my glass. “Have some more vodka. I’m driving.”

I gulped more of the drink, but too fast. The bubbles backed up into my nose. I picked up my paper cocktail napkin with the teacup emblem and sneezed into it.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.”

Ben took a deep breath before speaking.

“There was no forced entry. Hugh or Helene, or both, likely knew their killer. The police haven’t found the murder weapon yet, but they were each shot at point-blank range with a .22,” he hesitated, “in bed.” He paused again. “And they were shot in the face.”

I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut. I felt both relieved for myself and nauseated. This confirmed the shooting. A gun was involved, and I didn’t have one. But I couldn’t lose the image of Hugh’s head resting on a fluffy white pillow, dark red syrup oozing out of the charred, fleshy crater where his nose used to be.

“Don’t look at it, Nora.”

How was he so tuned in to what I was thinking?

“Draw a curtain in your mind,” he instructed.

I tried to do what Ben said. A plush, blue velvet curtain like the one they have on the stage at Pequod High School appeared and blocked the horrific image. The sick feeling passed. I opened my eyes and they met Ben’s. I could feel how present he was. So with me. So there. More than a boss, a friend.

“That’s not all.”

I shifted in my seat, bracing myself.

“Finish your vodka first,” he said.

I drained the rest of my drink.

“There was a painting on the wall in their bedroom. Of Helene Walker with Hugh wrapped around her when she was pregnant. You know it?”

I nodded, cringing internally as I pictured the mutilated painting. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“The canvas had been slashed up with one of their kitchen knives.”

I feigned surprise. “Oh my God.”

“As if killing them once wasn’t enough.” He hesitated. “And the bodies were posed.”

I gulped. “Posed?”

“Posed naked. In the bed. To mimic the painting.”

I could feel the skin on my forearms prickle and the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. I closed my eyes again and saw the scene as if I were the killer: my gloved hands pushing and pulling Hugh’s limp torso and limbs into a fetal position; adjusting his faceless head; arranging Helene’s hair on a snowy-white sheet like a stylist composing a macabre magazine spread. Pollock-like blood spatters on the wall behind her. How could I see it so clearly if I hadn’t been there? I let out a whimper.

“Use the curtain, Nora. Don’t dwell.”

I drew the curtain quickly and masked the bodies. When my lids fluttered open, I saw how worried Ben looked.

He gave me a strained smile. “You all here?”

“Uh-huh. How did you know about the curtain thing?”

“I used to keep seeing Judy in my mind. In that hospital bed. Skinny, bald and full of tubes. I had to figure out something to keep from torturing myself.”