A Novel Death (12 page)

"That's right. You already have one"

She rolled her eyes at me. "You and Daddy, still pushing me to read! How do you think I got where I am?"

"That's not the kind of reading I was thinking of."

"I've seen her reading a book," Lance said protectively.

It was so sweet and so absurd that Jane and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then we hugged each other hard. I begged them to stay for the night.

She looked as if she wanted to, but Lance said, "We'd better get back. All our stuff is there." His tone implied that their warring housemates could not be trusted not to destroy their socks and bathing suits if left alone with them overnight.

It was the right thing to say to Jane, though she still looked torn.

"What do you think will happen now, Mom?"

"I don't know, Babe." I tweaked one of her hair spouts as if she were nine years old. An irony: I hadn't loved her this much when she was nine years old. It wasn't that I hadn't loved her, but I had been too overwhelmed by the needs of everyone to think about re lationships. I had loved each new place we ended up, but it was my responsibility to make sure everyone else was happy and had everything they needed. Another irony: Growing up I had never fantasized about being a mother or played with dolls. I was too busy exploring secret places, imagining everything I would do when I was grown.

"I mean, what will happen to you? You're here all alone. What if you're in danger? Maybe Dad can come over and stay with you."

"He's back from Peru?" I had a sudden image of Colin, arms crossed, protecting me the way he did his students from Shining Path guerillas. "Look, I'll be fine. This has nothing to do with me."

"Look, you're connected with that bookstore. Keep all the doors locked! Keep your cell phone right next to you. And charged"

"I will."

They left quickly for Sayville to catch the ferry to Fire Island, not even taking the cappuccino maker. It stood forlorn on the empty counter, all cleaned up and nowhere to go.

Lifting Raj from where he was purring against my leg, I cuddled him against my face. My stomach bumped. No. I had made it this far, past blue drinks and the smell of sizzling came. I had covered Amil's body so that I could not see it anymore. I focused on the Siamese, shifting him up to my shoulder where he liked to cling. But with a groan that startled him and made him leap gracefully to the floor, I rushed down the hall to the bathroom. I did not pause to switch on the light.

Kneeling beside the cool porcelain, I waited. Nothing else happened. But feeling nauseous was worse than getting sick. I opened memory's door just a little and forced myself to smell again the sweet aftershave odor of rancid meat. It worked very well. Afterward, I lay with my face on the cool tile for what seemed an hour. It wasn't only my stomach that needed the rest; my shoulders and ankle still ached from being attacked the night before.

But I couldn't lie on the bathroom floor all night. I pushed myself up in slow stages and was finally back in the kitchen feeding the cats. Then I walked out to the large black mailbox by the road. I pulled out appeals from charities, too many bills, a few checks in payment for books, and a Priority Mail box from Akron, Ohio. It joined the pile on the oak table from yesterday. I knew I should check my e-mail messages, but that took a level of initiative I didn't possess. Instead I pressed the button to retrieve a single phone message.

After the machine announced that the call had been received at 2:37 P.M. a woman's voice said clearly, "This is Shara Patterson. You came here about Amil? Can you please come and see me again?" Her lilting voice was agitated.

Shara! So the police had already told her the grim news. Except-at 2:37, Jane and Lance and I had still been upstairs in the shop, wondering about the strange smell. The police hadn't even been called.

Maybe she didn't even know that he was dead! He wasn't her husband or the baby's father, but she seemed to have a close relationship with him, worried when he never came home. I had told the police that his only family was in India, minimizing the idea of housemates. I had given Matt McLand Amil's home address, and they would go there in their investigations-but when?

Ignoring Raj pushing at my legs for attention, I listened to her message again. She had asked me to stop by, not to call. And did I really want to tell her what had happened to him over the phone?

Leave it to the police. Go to bed.

But death is a funny thing. Although it is news that will never change, there is a fearsome urgency to letting people know once it has happened. In an odd way it seems unfair to let them continue to live their lives without knowing. Once you know, it is a lit match you have to pass along or risk getting burned yourself.

When I arrived at the student house, cars were zigzagged along the road and against the lawn. So they did know and were already gathered in grief. I would leave quietly without even knocking. But when I walked curiously up the neat path of impatiens, just for a quick look through the picture window, I saw that this was no wake.

When I knocked, the door was pulled back by a young man in white slacks and a paisley shirt. Behind him, music I did not recognize rocked a room lit only by candles. People who weren't dancing were talking and laughing in expansive groups, and at the far end of an ell was a table of colorful food. Near my elbow several couples gyrated, the women in tight-wrapped floral saris. The spicy odor of food blended with incense and made me press my hand to my stomach.

I tried to see Shara Patterson among the dancers, but the room was too dim. All I remembered anyway was that she was beautiful and had long black hair. Would I know her in party clothes, her hair swept up? For all I knew, she was working hard in the kitchen. I shouldn't have come.

"How about some Sex on the Beach?" The young man in white was anxious to make me welcome. His smile was not unlike Amil's, but his face, dotted with several moles, was broader and less attractive. He laughed at my expression, before I remembered it was the name of a cocktail. Something lethal with vodka and two kinds of liqueur that would have me in a heap on the tile floor.

"Not tonight," I told him with a smile. "I just need to talk to Shara."

A quizzical smile. "You're friends?"

"She asked me to come." Although we were still standing in the foyer, we had to shout to hear each other.

He surprised me by spinning around agilely and catching the arm of a short, well-muscled American. A bruiser with curly red hair and a good number of freckles, holding two dark bottles of Sam Adams.

"Roosell! This lady needs your assistance."

It took me several seconds to process the name: Russell.

Russell gave me a wink. "You need a Sam?"

"No, I need to talk to Shara."

He raised light eyebrows in surprise. "Shara invited you? I didn't know she had any friends."

How insulting was that? "She called me this afternoon."

"What about?"

"Amil? Raphael Singh?"

"What the hell?" He squinted at me. "Wait-you're the one who sent the police!"

"They've been here?" And you're celebrating?

Someone had changed the music to a song I recognized, "Can't Get Enough of You, Baby," by a group called the Smashed Mouths or the Smashed Pumpkins. More people started dancing.

We moved into a sheltered pocket beside the front door.

"So Shara knows?"

"Knows?"

"About Amil. That he's dead?"

"That he's-yeah, right." He rolled his eyes. "I wish."

"He is. Didn't the police come here tonight?"

"Tonight?"

The music, the gyrations, stopped then. From the living room a circle of uneasy faces moved closer, although they could not possibly have heard what we had said.

But then Shara was coming toward us, the group parting for her. Why had I been afraid I wouldn't recognize her? She was wearing a midnight-blue and gold sheath, a red hibiscus behind one ear, and was the prettiest girl in the room. But her eyes grew wide when she saw me.

"This a friend of yours, Shara?" Russell indicated me with a Sam Adams, ignoring the foam that splashed on the tile. "She says she is. You've been holding out on me. Again."

Shara gave me a blank look, and then shook her head.

I didn't blame her. If I'd been married to this idiot I would have done the same. I moved toward the door.

"Ya know what she told me? Wait!" he cried, as the door opened onto a night of stars. "Tell her what you told me."

But I wasn't going to tell anybody anything. My foot caught on the metal door strip and I almost fell, saving myself only by grabbing for the black iron railing.

Russell gave a sharp laugh, and then I felt the vibration of the slammed door.

I didn't look back.

The phone was ringing as I turned my key in the lock. I knew who it would be. Picking up the receiver, I expected to hear music and a babble of conversation. But all was quiet.

"Hello, Shara," I said wearily.

"You came here? To tell me about Amil?"

"Russell didn't tell you?"

"No... But he said I could call you" She made it into a concession.

"Listen, something bad happened. Amil-got hurt."

"He's in the hospital?" It must have explained a lot of things to her. I wished I could say yes.

"No. I'm sorry. He died."

"No!" Her voice barricaded the truth. "You said he was hurt"

"Well, sometimes hurt means-too bad to get better. I'm really sorry"

And then she dropped the phone. I heard it bounce and listened to the background voices, some murmuring, some shrill. I was about to hang up, when a familiar male voice demanded, "You told her what you told me? He's dead? Like, he's not alive anymore?"

Which word don't you understand?

"But I thought you were-"

"That's why I asked if the police had been to tell you"

"He's dead, really? So what about his stuff?"

That pushed me over the edge. Sell it on eBay. But I hung up before I could say anything I would regret.

My body was screaming for sleep, demanding to lie down on any available surface. But fatigue is an old familiar friend who has watched me nod off on Laundromat chairs and playground benches. I've slept through poetry readings, Montessori programs, Disney cartoons, and memorial services. I can sleep anywhere. So I was tempted to stretch out on the couch in the living room. But I made myself climb the stairs and strip off my clothes before falling onto the wide brass bed.

I dropped into a black hole. But thirty minutes later I was awake again, alert and panting, drowning in air too wet to breathe. The thud of insects hitting the screen felt like I was under attack. I shifted around on the sheet, trying to find a cool patch of cotton. But when that didn't help, I pictured myself getting up, dressing, and going downstairs. I played the scene again and again in my head, as if preparing for a role. But I finally roused myself, pulling on a fresh T-shirt and wandering down into the dining room.

The bottle of cabernet sauvignon was in the sideboard. Pulling out the cork, I sniffed it; finding no unusual effects from its sitting two months in the heat, I took a juice glass from the kitchen and poured wine to the brim.

Then I went into the living room and curled up, legs crossed, in Colin's wing chair. It was tan velour, similar to the leather chair my father had had in his study. Men needed chairs like this to think important thoughts. Now I could see why. Its high back and soft body were comforting. When Raj jumped into my lap, jostling the wine, I removed him gently with my free hand. I needed to think hard thoughts.

Lily's suicide, Margaret's attack, and Amil's murder had to be connected in some way. Yet I couldn't see how. As far as I knew, Lily and Amil hadn't really known each other. Could it be connected with Margaret's mysterious find? What if it was not a book at all, but something Lily had stolen from the museum? Maybe she could not live with herself afterward. Or maybe she realized someone else knew about it, someone who would attack Margaret to get it. Maybe Amil had overheard bits and pieces in the bookshop and put it all together Friday morning! He had been going to tell me Margaret was a thief. But then he was silenced.

Except ... that Margaret had called Marty for information about a book. And if it were stolen property, she wouldn't have really talked about it.

Sipping a fruitiness just this side of spoiled, I turned the puzzle around. Perhaps Amil had been the real target and Margaret had been the one in the way. If so, knocking her out temporarily and pointing to where she was lying so she could be rescued made sense. Amil's wallet had been bulging with cash. Perhaps he had been commissioned to score a drug deal for his housemates.

To die in a drug deal gone wrong was too boring, too mundane. But I knew that it happened, even in Suffolk County.

The headlights of a passing car played out their own drama on the ceiling. Had Margaret seen Amil die? Was that part of the trauma that was keeping her unconscious?

My eyes were starting to feel grainy and I imagined myself moving over to the couch. But then other thoughts shook me awake again. Why hadn't that mystery bookseller ever called me back? Maybe after selling a book to Margaret, he had found out how truly valuable it was. He had met her at the shop Friday night to demand more money. She had refused and, as he was attacking her, Amil walked in and tried to intervene. Probably the seller hadn't meant to kill either of them; he just wanted his book back. So he had searched frantically, creating the chaos in the basement. Maybe he had found it.