Tips for Living(40)

The apparatus on his shoulder seemed more and more like a gun.





Chapter Ten

I must’ve dozed off. The sleep had helped. I woke just past noon with a clearer head, feeling stronger and resolving not to be a prisoner in my own house any longer. Let the paparazzo have his shot. We both needed to get on with our lives. I counted to three, strode to the front door, took a deep breath and opened it. But the only things in the driveway were my Toyota and the trash can. The cameraman had left.

Relieved, I closed the door and checked my cell phone. A concerned voice mail from Grace asked how I was doing. There was bawling in the background. She reported that Otis had recovered, and she was at the dentist with both the kids. Grace had her hands full, but like the true friend she was, she urged me to call or come over if I needed her.

Lizzie had also phoned. She probably wanted to try selling her interview idea again. She’d obviously taken my advice on persistence; I’d give her that. Before figuring out what to do next, I turned on the TV news for an update.

FOX had already begun airing the segment. I should have known they’d start with the sordid bits. Our wedding photographer was making money off us again. There I was, leaning on Hugh, wearing a happy bride smile and a white satin wedding gown, clutching a bouquet of daisies. The voice-over began:

“Nora Glasser and Hugh Walker were practically newlyweds when the artist’s affair with Helene Westing resulted in pregnancy . . .”

Offended, I pressed “Mute” on the remote. More pictures of our wedding intercut with Hugh and Helene’s “budding” romance, before they finally showed me stepping out of the Coop. I clicked on the sound. The last reporter’s inquiry was the only one they’d included: “Why did the police bring you down to the Massamat precinct?”

“Please, no, no, no,” I pleaded with the screen as I watched the caption crawl by underneath: “Walker’s former wife taken in for police questioning.” I switched to CNN. “Police question Walker’s ex-wife” rolled by under my close-up. Even more condemning, I was smiling and wearing way too much makeup—the slash of beige below one eye resembled war paint. Ditto for the bright red blotches of lipstick smeared on my cheeks. There was even lipstick on my teeth. I didn’t appear sad at all. I came across as fairly insane. The final image was the cameraman’s shot of me peeking out the window like a fugitive surrounded and weighing surrender. It all added up to one guilty-looking woman. My knees almost went out from under me. This had totally backfired.

First thought: call Aunt Lada immediately. She might be watching this and panicking. The stress would aggravate her dementia. She picked up almost instantly, as if she’d been holding the phone, waiting.

“Hello?”

“Aunt La—”

“Nora! Are you all right? Did the police take you in? Are you a suspect?”

“I’m fine. The press got it wrong. I went in voluntarily—to help them.”

“Beshot lapshe na ooshe,” she said. Don’t hang noodles on my ears. “Don’t deceive me,” to a Russian.

“I’m not hanging any noodles, Aunt Lada. Did you get my message yesterday? I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Yes, yes. But I just saw you on TV. The headlines they put! And you don’t look so good. Are you sick? There’s a stomach thing going around.”

“I’m just tired. Really. It’s okay.”

“I’ve been watching the reports, Nora. It’s terrible. So terrible. I keep thinking about it. Hugh and that woman were miserable people, but they deserved each other—not this. And that poor little girl is scarred for life.”

She was right, I thought sadly.

“Don’t watch any more coverage, Aunt Lada. Please. It will just make your blood pressure go up. I’ll visit you tomorrow. I promise.” I was reluctant to drive to The Cedars before then. Lada could read my moods even with her compromised brain. She’d realize how freaked out I was. Best to wait until I calmed down. She sensed my reluctance to talk and chose not to press.

“Okay. But make sure you sleep, you hear me? Take good care of yourself,” she said.

The instant I hung up, the doorbell rang. I stole a look out the window and caught a glimpse of a camouflage jacket and Lizzie’s ginger curls. She rang again. I opened the door, exasperated. Lizzie stood there, her freckled nose scrunched up in a scowl.

“Why don’t you answer your phone?” she pouted.

“I meant what I said, Lizzie. Please. Give it a rest.”

“I’m trying to make amends here. You’re worried about being labeled as an O. J. if they don’t figure out who the killer is, right? Well, I might have an idea who did it.”

“What? Who?”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

I motioned her inside and shut the door.

“At least the press took off,” she said.

“For now.”

Lizzie sat down on the couch, clasped her hands in her lap and looked up at me, excited.

“What’s your idea?” I asked.

“You agree it’s my story if what I tell you checks out?”

“For God’s sake, Lizzie, yes.”

“Well, I remembered something Sinead told me driving home from the Tea Cozy that night. She said she’d heard of the Walkers before but didn’t realize you had a connection to them. She heard about them from the guy who built Pequod Point.”