Always Kiss the Corpse (14 page)

Diana had offered Andrei coffee. Too late at night. A drink? He took a Scotch. She was very attractive, barely thirty, black hair cut short, her eyeglasses ever low on her nose, dark eyes accentuated above the upper rim. At Sandro and Diana's wedding he'd suggested to her that she take off the glasses—she would be an even more splendid bride. She refused. Andrei came to believe that without the glasses as highlight, her face would have been plainer. “I must tell you this,” he began. “It's about Sandro.”

“Yes?” She studied his face.

He knew they'd parted bitterly. He knew that after the divorce Sandro had Carla with him every second weekend, from when she was four. “Diana, I'm sorry. Sandro died a few days ago.”

For a few seconds she said nothing, then sighed sharply. “Maria phoned me. But she didn't give me any details. What happened?”

“He overdosed.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Drugs?”

“Heroin.”

A tight head-shake. “Sandro? No.”

He explained: undoubtedly an accident.

“He had no reason to take drugs. He was happy with himself.”

Andrei regarded her carefully. “When were you last in touch?”

“Couple of weeks ago.” She smiled. “On the phone.”

“What did you talk about?”

“His life. His work.”

“Diana—” What was she avoiding? “It doesn't matter. I'm sorry.”

“We'd begun to talk again. In the last year or so.”

“Why?”

She laughed lightly. “Whatever else, he was Carla's father.”

“Did he still have her every other weekend?”

“Till last October. Then it stopped.”

“Oh?” Andrei, not sure why, felt a shiver. Leave this conversation? Except it was his responsibility to go on. “Why?”

Diana linked her hands, leaned forward and supported her chin on her knuckles. “When did you last see Sandro?”

Oh dear god. “Before he died? Possibly, two years—”

“Did you see him in his coffin?”

Andrei nodded.

“Did he die as a man or as a woman?”

Andrei rubbed his brow with his palms. “You knew this.” He dropped his hands and stared at her.

“I am the mother of his child.” She looked straight at him, hazel eyes through her glasses, and her tone announced: of course he would tell me anything important.

“It's why he couldn't be with Carla, not for the time being. She believes he went away. To Greece, we say. They e-mailed each other. And Sandro and I talked, every week when Carla was at school. He wanted to know about her, how she felt, did she miss him. She didn't write about personal stuff in her e-mail.”

“And did she miss him?”

“At first. But she's nearly eleven. She has her friends. And even a father, at home every day. Well, most days.” Diana smiled. “Sandro explained how he'd always felt like the wrong person in the wrong body. That it wasn't my fault our marriage ended. He liked me well enough, he said, even loved me. But—it became more and more difficult for him to touch me. And he hated it when I became tender with him. It became impossible.”

Andrei thought he understood. He could sympathize with Diana. Sandro, however, he found increasingly disgusting. “Does your new husband know about Sandro?”

“His transformation? No. Sandro asked for my secrecy.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Of course not. I promised.”

Andrei held her gaze. “May I ask for your continuing secrecy? For the sake of Maria and the community?”

“For the community? I don't care. But for Sandro's sake, yes, and for Carla's sake, of course!”

“Will you tell Carla? One day?”

“Tell her what? Her father changed his sex?” Diana's gaze fixed on the far corner or the room, but her hands were working independently. “That didn't happen. Tell her he was happy as a man?” Diana shrugged and looked down at her fingers intertwined, white-knuckled. “I don't know.”

Andrei saw Sandro's chalky face in the coffin, no beard, the breasts Philip had mentioned.

Now in the morning Andrei found himself in front of Maria's house. He pulled into the curb, sat, and reflected. The open wounds were being cauterized. Diana's silence. Now Maria's ignorance. It'd be okay. Maria's door opened. A man and a woman came out. The woman followed the man down the sidewalk. Who were they? What did they want? Maria knew he, Andrei, was coming and had to talk to her. The man and woman got into a small white box-like car, the woman behind the wheel. She drove speedily down the street. Andrei pulled the key from the ignition and got out.

Inside the house he followed Maria to the living room. They sat on the sofa. “There's no easy way to say this,” Andrei said. “I'm afraid it was Sandro there, on Whidbey Island.” He took her hands.

“Yes, I know.”

Andrei had feared she would again break down. Instead she had accepted Sandro's death, had in fact done Andrei's work for him. “Good.”

“It's awful.”

“Yes.”

“I'd been thinking I didn't understand why. But perhaps I do understand.”

“Some things are beyond understanding.”

“Some things just are.” She gazed at him.

“Yes.”

“That's how the detectives saw it, too.”

Andrei jerked away. “What detectives?”

“The detectives. They just left.”

He grabbed her forearms. “The police?”

“No, of course not. The ones we hired.”

“The ones we hired!?”

“Of course. The police never worried about Sandro. I was so sure it wasn't Sandro.”

“But I told you I'd take care of that.”

She sighed. “Yes, and I said you'd pay them.”

Andrei sighed too, wearily. Detectives to deal with, on top of everything else. “Of course I'll pay them. Who are they?” And what had they told Maria?

She gave Andrei their names and address. “They were very kind. They'd found a lot of information, about how it had to be Sandro.”

“Good. Good. What did they tell you?”

“They told me—” She thought about this. “They didn't tell me how he died.”

“But I told you that. Remember? The day before we went to that place on Whidbey Island. An accident.”

“Yes. But afterwards I was sure it wasn't Sandro so I had to find out where he was.”

Oh dear, poor Maria. “But it was Sandro, as we now know. And he died of poisoning, with the drugs he took.”

“An overdose,” she said. “Heroin.”

Andrei nodded. “Heroin.”

“My son. Who was becoming my daughter.”

Oh shit, thought Andrei, oh shit shit. “Dear Maria—” He gripped her hands tighter.

Her lips tried to smile but her jaw wouldn't let them. “They said this was happening to Sandro. I believe them.”

“But—why?”

“They told me what I knew. But I didn't know I knew.”

“But—what?”

“They said, Sandro was always divided. I knew that.”

“How?”

She pulled back. “You know, at times I think Kostas knew as well.”

“Did you ever talk about this?”

“No. We didn't have anything to talk about.”

“Then you didn't talk to anyone else, either?”

Maria shook her head.

“Now, you won't say anything to anyone?”

“Probably not.”

“Thank you.” He squeezed her hands and released them. “It's much better that we say nothing.”

“Is it maybe better, too, that Sandro is dead?”

“A terrible thing to say!” But Andrei knew damn well Sandro dead was better.

“Would he have been happier as Sandra?”

“My dear, you mustn't talk like that.”

“I think I will one day accept that Sandro is dead. I've accepted that Kostas is dead. We learn ways to deal with death. But how would I deal with my son who is suddenly my daughter? Would I rather have Sandro as Sandra than not at all?” She closed her eyes. “I don't know.”

He patted her shoulder. She would probably remain silent. But a new leak had opened, and it must be plugged. Vasily couldn't handle this. Andrei would deal with the detectives himself.

PART II

NINE

Kyra unlocked the Tracker doors. “Two and a half days. Prepare a bill and we're done.”

“A fast and simple case.” Unfortunately over.

“Yep. That poor woman.”

They sat in silence till Noel said, “Nothing we can do.”

“You're right.” She started the engine. “Time to shift gears. Get in the mood for our carefree party tonight. Go shopping so I can figure out what to cook.” She pulled away from the curb. “Isn't Crab Cardinale done in individual shells? Jerome's bringing it.”

“Hell of a lot of work. What are the others bringing?”

“Haven't a clue.” Kyra turned onto Alabama, leaving the lake behind. Minutes later she took the ramp onto the I-5 and they bumped along the freeway's concrete. “You know, I think I'll do aroundments for tonight.”

“You'll do what?”

“Aroundments. Whatever goes around the main dishes.”

“I've never heard the word.”

“Just made it up.”

Noel laughed. “Okay, I'll see what inspires me.” He was now looking forward to the potluck. Well, preparing for it with Kyra. “Maybe some beforements.”

“They're hors d'oeuvres,” Kyra retorted without humor.
Beforements
made her
aroundments
sound pretentious.

The tires click-clicked to the Fairhaven exit and into Albertsons half-empty parking lot. She turned off the engine, got out and locked. Noel followed her.

Not as windy as yesterday. Tattered clouds filtered the sunshine. Puddles on the cement. Must have rained last night. Good detecting, guy, Noel thought.

Kyra collected a cart and started down an aisle, a model of domestic efficiency.

Noel looked around for inspiration. Pasta? Meat? Fish? A large selection of Mexican foods. Maybe he'd make something more substantial than beforements.

He found a basket. When Brendan was still eating normally, he and Noel had experimented with recipes. Once they'd made a great Turkish thing, primarily lamb and apricots; could he remember the seasonings? Served with couscous. If Kyra had told him before he left Nanaimo about her housewarming he'd have brought recipes. Housewarming— Better get her a gift. In the meat section he noticed a special on lamb chops; that decided it.

Kyra cruised by at top speed, baguettes in the child carrier. “You decide yet?”

“No, but—”

“Good, 'cause I'd rather get the hors d'oeuvres, okay?”

He grinned. “Very okay.” He mentioned Turkish lamb but didn't think she heard him. Kyra would have herbs, right? He located couscous in the bulk food section. Wine? He didn't know American wines and tracked Kyra down in canned goods debating artichokes. Two bottles of red and two of white in her cart. He read the labels, retraced his route and collected one of each.

A housewarming plant? He wasn't pleased with the balcony of plants he'd inherited. Brendan had become obsessed with container plants shortly before his diagnosis. Noel had hoped the plants would die over the winter; he couldn't just kill them. They lived on.

Candles? He picked out a box of six, metallic blue. He noticed a corkscrew. It looked like a moon rocket. He loved corkscrews and he'd never seen this design before. If she didn't like it she could give it to him for his birthday.

He spotted her at the checkout, waiting. “You have herbs? Thyme, oregano, marjoram?”

“Uh, no.”

He couldn't believe it. Well, she'd just moved in. He found the herb section. After paying he put his bag in the cart with Kyra's three and wheeled it out to the car. “Should hold the hordes for a bit,” he said. The puddles reflected bright light. He squinted until a cloud-tatter found the sun. Kyra opened the back. “Did you notice that store's open twenty-four hours a day? Who shops at 3:00
AM
?”

“Shift workers. Snoops.” She smiled. “I did once when I was on surveillance and hoped my guy was deep asleep. It feels safe and there're no children running around.”

“What's wrong with children?” Noel fastened his seat belt.

“Oh, I didn't congratulate you,” Kyra started the engine, backed out and shifted into Drive, “on getting the Schultz kid out of our hair. Brilliant ploy, asking her for a picture.”

“Thanks. But children aren't difficult. No more than most people.” He wondered if he should ask, then just said, “You never wanted kids?”

She paused for a moment. “Sam and I talked about it. Good thing we never decided.”

They would've been attractive kids too, Noel thought, wild curls unavoidable with parents like that, and solidly built like Sam. If Brendan had lived . . . About ten years ago they'd investigated adoption, an extremely difficult option for gays back then. But the times they were a-changing and now or soon it might be possible. Noel felt a bite of wistfulness for his Brendan-less life, for never the chance of being a parent.

Kyra turned off the Old Fairhaven Parkway onto Fourteenth Street. “Did you say your brother was coming?”

“Next month. With Jan. And Alana.”

“Alana must be, what, twelve by now?”

“Turning seventeen.”

“God. That must make Keith— You mean he's in college?”

“Stanford. Second year. He's got scholarships.” Watch the uncle-pride. “Alana's in the silent stage. I thought only boys did that.”

Kyra smiled. Fifteen had been her worst summer on Bowen Island. Noel had brought William to his parents' cottage. They'd started living together. They sat on the verandah, their arms around each other. They included Kyra in walks and a couple of trips to Horseshoe Bay for fish and chips, but it was a crushing realization to learn Noel wasn't waiting for her to grow up so they could marry. That summer she'd had huge reasons to be silent.