Tips for Living(81)

I opened my glove compartment, dug out a recycled, brown-paper napkin and gave it to Abbas. His feelings for Hugh touched me. But I was also a little envious that Abbas could mourn Hugh without ambivalence. Hugh hadn’t betrayed him.

Abbas blew his nose. “Now he is gone. And why? Who does this terrible thing?”

“I wish I knew.”

I’d had the urge to tell him that the man he was helping today was likely Hugh’s killer. But I checked it. I needed to get to those car rental calls and find some real evidence to present to the police. Wait . . . maybe Tobias had said something incriminating to Abbas?

“So, you’re going to evaluate Hugh’s paintings today? At the studio?”

He tilted his head. “Who told you this?”

“I heard you on the phone just now. Why the rush, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Abbas looked defensive. “Tobias asked for my help. He has financial decisions to make for the child. He is flying home this afternoon, right after burial, with his wife and the little one. He asked me to stay and take an estimate on the paintings in Hugh’s studio before I leave for London. I’ll be gone for almost a month.”

His phone buzzed and he checked the caller.

“I need to be answering this. You are coming to the cemetery now?”

“No.”

“Then you must come to memorial tomorrow, dear girl. We must talk more.” He reached in, grabbed my hand and kissed it, then put the phone to his ear. “Anina? Anina? You can hear me now?” he shouted, turning away.

He crossed the lot doing battle with his phone and finally gave up in frustration, climbing into his dark green BMW. As he backed out of his parking space, my passenger door opened. Grace slipped in beside me. I held up my hand before she could speak.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Tobias. It looks like he’s already counting the money.”



Big, shaggy flakes began falling as soon as we left the chapel. So much for the “coastal effect”; global warming messed with cold-weather patterns, too. A thick dusting already covered the lawn by the time we pulled our cars up to Grace and Mac’s house, a mid-nineteenth-century Cape on one of Pequod’s prettiest streets. Mac, Otis and Leon were out front wearing dark wool caps and toggle coats, lobbing the season’s first snowballs. The scene looked like a Currier & Ives litho—if you cropped out the Pequod Volunteer Ambulance parked by the curb for Mac to jump into at a moment’s notice.

We greeted Mac and the boys and went into the house. Behind the traditional exterior, the home’s inside was unconventional. Walls lined with dozens of flea-market paintings of flowers—roses, zinnias, sunflowers—all sorts of blooms. Colorful pillows and throws on creamy couches. Eclectic, ethnic furniture set on an assortment of vibrant Turkish rugs.

Grace went into the kitchen to whip up a snack, insisting I rest.

“You look like you need to lie down,” she said.

I sprawled on the chaise by the window and stared across at shelves full of books and family photos, lingering on the picture of Grace and Mac at their wedding. I’d glanced at it so many times in passing. But I studied it now. Gallant, snowy-haired Mac stood behind his bride with his strong arms wrapped around her waist. She leaned back into him, her hands covering his, secure at her center. Both of them were beaming and genuinely thrilled.

Snapshots of my own wedding arose in my mind unbidden. Grace’s oldest, Leon, toddling down the aisle and flinging rose petals up in the air at whim. Dappled sunlight shining through the windows of our loft onto fluted champagne glasses. The smiling, expectant faces of guests watching the civil-court judge conduct the ceremony.

But had those faces really been smiling? Or was that how I’d chosen to remember them? Because worried expressions began to appear in my mind, on Grace’s face, on Mac’s and Aunt Lada’s. Did they know marrying Hugh would bring me so much unhappiness? Had they suspected his infidelities? Even the groom seemed subdued, in retrospect. Was Hugh in turmoil at the altar? Had he just lacked the nerve to call off the wedding? The trouble with having a partner who lies and cheats is that it can make you question everything.

The snow was still drifting down twenty minutes later. Leon and Otis played outside, winging snow angels. Grace was speaking with her sister on the phone in the kitchen. Mac, in his typical ADD style, had grown bored with the snowball fight. He’d come inside to watch Deadliest Catch on TiVo in the den while he worked on his fishing lures and monitored the stock market’s afternoon moves all at the same time.

I’d filled Grace in on Lada’s ministroke, Stokes’s desperate visit and, reluctantly, Detective Roche’s “drop-in” about the stolen gun. “Another summer house burglary? Right down the road from you? And they stole a fucking gun. Jesus, why can’t you catch a break here?” She never doubted my innocence for a second.

When I told her Gubbins thought I should prepare for arrest in the next few days, she was adamant that I come stay with her and Mac. I argued that I should see Lada again right away, but Grace disagreed. “She’s in good hands. You need a little loving care, too.”

I lay on the chaise making calls to car rental companies and keeping an eye on the boys through the window. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the mouthwatering scent of baking brownies. It would have been a typical fall afternoon at Grace and Mac’s, except for the snow drifting down outside. And the cop car parked across the street. And the fact that I was tracking down evidence in a double homicide investigation.