Death in a Funhouse Mirror (33 page)

"I thought I did," he said. "But I called you ten times last night. All night. And you weren't home." His voice was harsh, flat, devoid of emotion, but I knew him well enough to know that he could be mad as hell and still act cool as a cucumber.

Now we were both mad. "That's not fair. I wasn't here because I got hit over the head by someone who broke in and set the place on fire. I was at the hospital, and then I spent the night at a motel. If you don't believe me, call Dom Florio. He was there."

"You spent the night at a motel with Florio?" His tone was disbelieving. He peered past me at the living room. "And you expect me to believe there was a fire in here last night? What burned up, the hors d'oeuvres? The drapes? Don't bullshit me, Theadora. I wasn't born yesterday. There's no soot, no smell, no mess...."

"There's a smell. And no drapes, you idiot. It's not bullshit. I wouldn't lie to you. I got it cleaned up! Stop standing there and staring at me with those cold cop's eyes. Come in and let me explain. Ask Harris. He was here last night. You just don't understand...." I felt, rather than saw, Harris retreat, trying to leave me alone with Andre.

"You're right," he said, "I don't understand. What I see with these cop's eyes is the woman I love with another man. I thought you understood that I loved you, I just needed a little time. You could at least have given me that." He opened his arms and let the flowers drop, then turned on his heel and strode away.

"Andre, wait," I said, running after him, "things aren't what they seem." I grabbed at his arm, trying to turn him around, trying to show him my bandaged hand, my stitches, anything that might get his attention and stop him long enough to listen.

"They rarely are," he said, shaking me off. He got in his car, slammed the door, and drove away.

Harris, looking miserable, was waiting to leave. "I take it that was your boyfriend?"

I nodded. "Was."

"Don't worry, he'll get over it. He was just surprised."

"I wish I could believe that, but I know him. He can be a real stubborn, righteous SOB."

He patted me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really messed things up for you, and I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I asked you to stay."

He bent down and picked up the lilacs, lying abandoned and forlorn on the ground. "You want these?"

"Sort of like locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen, isn't it? But I do want them." I took the lilacs, closed the door behind him, and locked it. Clutching the flowers, I stood in the kitchen, rocking from foot to foot, tears running unchecked down my face, dripping off my chin and onto my wretched "touch me" shirt.

After a while, the shower passed. I put the flowers in water and set them on the coffee table. Then I checked all the windows and doors one more time to be sure that they were still locked, feeling vulnerable and exposed without curtains. I fixed myself another drink, turned out the lights, and played Marcus Roberts again, sitting in the lilac-scented darkness, wallowing in self-pity and wishing I'd never let myself get involved. If you don't let them get close, they can't hurt you.

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

Rosie Florio wasn't at all like I'd expected. Despite Dom's descriptions of her courage and his obvious pride in her, I'd imagined a female Dom, someone plain and physically unimpressive, whose spark and impact came from personality. Not that Rosie didn't have personality; she had that in spades, but she also had a fierce, exotic face that was hard to stop looking at. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes, a strong nose, jutting cheekbones and a full-lipped mouth. I'd also assumed—which just goes to show, as I learn and forget repeatedly, one should not prejudge—that she'd have short, graying practical hair, easy for a handicapped person to care for, but instead she had a mane of thick, straight hair, dark with wide, sexy gray streaks. A striking, haunting, unusual woman who belonged in movies, to be glimpsed briefly and left to linger in your memory forever. Looking at her made me, in my tired, shopworn state, feel dull and unattractive.

I'd come prepared to be on my best behavior, get through a polite breakfast, and leave. I didn't feel like I could sustain more than minimal social interaction. Without a schedule to meet, my body was taking the opportunity to experience all the aches and pains that had been inflicted on it and my spirit was in even worse shape. I still couldn't believe what had happened with Andre. Like a wounded animal, I wanted to crawl into my cave, away from the demands of the world, and lick my wounds. Instead I was sitting behind the luxuriant foliage of the fringed bleeding heart I'd brought, trying to smile and make small talk while Rosie and I waited for Dom to join us.

Rosie had seated me in the living room, next to a tray with a carafe of coffee, wheeled her chair up beside me, and poured us each a cup. "You're exactly as I expected," she said. "Dom has a real talent for describing people."

I wondered how he'd described me. Stubborn? Difficult? An attractive witch? Maybe she'd tell me. I wasn't going to ask. "You're not," I said.

"Really?" The skin around her eyes crinkled with amusement. "What were you expecting?"

"Someone much more ordinary."

She smiled. "Should I be flattered or wonder what my husband says about me?"

"Your husband adores you. I'm sure you know that."

She tilted her head slightly sideways with a mischievous smile. "I hear you've been giving him advice."

Suddenly, my bantering advice seemed extremely presumptuous. "I hope you weren't offended."

She put a hand over mine. Hers was cool and strong. "On the contrary. It was good advice. That's why I was anxious to meet you. Dom can be so damned protective sometimes he forgets I'm still a woman."

"I don't see how he could forget that, looking at you."

"Look at me," she said, "not just my face... the whole picture. Remember, he's been looking at the same landscape for a quarter of a century, and now what he sees is this damned chair. Sometimes it blocks his view." She shook her head as though shaking off the whole conversation. "Let's not talk about me. I'm so bored with talking about myself."

There was something there for a minute, in her voice, that gave me a window into her pain, into her struggle to get back to what she'd been, before she moved on to more mundane things. "I hope you're hungry. Dom loves a big Sunday breakfast. He promised me he was inviting someone with an appetite. I can't stand people who just push food around on their plates."

I didn't have a scrap of appetite, even though whatever she was making smelled wonderful. "I'm afraid I'm not myself today, Mrs. Florio...."

"Rosie," she said, interrupting. "Mrs. Florio sounds like the old Italian widow down the block. Rosie. Well, from what Dom has told me, I'm not surprised. Strangers trying to break in. Someone attacking you and setting your place on fire. I asked him why he didn't just bring you here. You know what he said?"

"No, but I'd like to."

"He said you were just like me, stubborn as a mule, and the only way he could have gotten you here was to convince you that under no circumstances were you welcome in this house."

"Is that why he came and slept in my motel room? It was the only way he could keep an eye on me?"

"Short of hog-tying you and dragging you here, that's right," Dom growled from the doorway. "The other reason I stayed was to keep Harris from forgetting that you were the victim and trying to force you into cooperating. You gave that boy a pretty hard time." He was lounging against the wall, looking completely at home in gray sweats, his Clark Kent glasses gone and his hair awry, looking like an entirely different guy. Very appealing in his new avatar as the aging jock. His shirt was soaked with sweat. "If you ladies don't mind, I'll grab a quick shower?"

"We'd mind if you didn't," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose. "Go right ahead. We're doing fine."

"I did not give Harris a hard time, Florio," I said, unwilling to let him get away with that remark, "he showed all the humanity of a rotten log."

"He has equally complimentary things to say about you," he retorted, and went to shower.

"That guy wouldn't know a victim if it bit him," I told his departing back.

He stopped and turned around. "That's where you get it wrong, Kozak. The victim is supposed to be the one who's bitten, not the one who bites."

"Stuff it, Florio," I said sweetly.

Rosie laughed out loud. "Now I see what he meant," she said.

"Meant about what?"

"About you. Said you reminded him of me, as he put it, you were a deliciously spicy package."

I made a face. "Sounds like something you'd use to jazz up couscous."

She laughed again. "You're not really mad at him, are you? There's nothing smooth or flashy about Dom, but he's very good at what he does. I hear the two of you were holding hands at the pancake house."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't anything. He was just trying to comfort me."

"Don't apologize, Thea. I know that. A lot of people don't understand about Dom and me, especially since the accident. They assume since the poor guy's married to a cripple he's got to have a woman on the side. They think I need to know what's going on. I guess they don't have husbands who tell them things. The thing is that I know Dom would never be unfaithful to me, so I don't worry."

"I wish Andre had had the same faith in me." I said it without thinking and then it was too late to take it back.

Her eyes widened with curiosity. "Andre is the state trooper, right? Dom said you guys were having troubles. Would you like to talk about it?"

My throat tightened as I tried to hold back the flood of feelings. It was so easy to talk to Rosie. "No. I don't think so. I don't think I can."

"I think you should," she said, and I felt the dam I'd built to keep my feelings back slowly crumble, like a slow-motion film of an explosion, pieces of my resolve flying everywhere and misery pouring out through every crack. When Dom came back I was crouched on the floor next to the chair, my head in Rosie's lap while she stroked my hair with gentle fingers.

"If you're still hearing confession, I could come back later, but I want you to know that I'm starving out here."

"Don't be a jerk, Dom," she said. "If you're so hungry, maybe you could put the food on the table. We'll be right along."

I was in no hurry to leave my comforting spot, but the food he was putting out smelled wonderful. Somehow, in the course of confession, my appetite had returned. I picked up my head and stood up. "Suddenly, Rosie, I feel like I could eat a horse."

"I hope you'll like it," she said. "Sorry about Mr. Impatient out there, but after he plays basketball he has an amazing appetite. You won't believe it."

"You should see Andre eat. Might be fun to watch the two of them together sometime. If there are anymore sometimes." Confiding in Rosie had made me feel better, but I hadn't completely shed my self-pitying mood.

"There will be," she said. "Give him some time to cool off, then call him, tell him you love him and that he's being a damned fool."

Dom was sitting at the head of the table with the plates stacked in front of him, surrounded by steaming containers of food. He put enough food on my plate to feed my whole family, then did the same for Rosie, and finally served himself so much food I half expected his plate to groan. He took a forkful, held it up, and said, "Cheers."

"Cheers," I returned, and attacked mine.

"So," he began, when he'd shoveled about half of it down, "did you listen to Uncle Dom and back off or are you still hot on the trial of Helene Streeter's killer?"

"I thought you weren't going to involve her in this anymore." Rosie said. "Didn't you tell her to stay out of it?"

"I can't help myself, Rosie."

"Yes you can."

I appreciated her protection, but I was torn. Part of me wanted to follow his advice and stay out of it while another part of me wanted to get the damn thing solved so we all could move on and forget about it. For the last day, I'd been too busy to think about Helene and Eve and Cliff, and that had been just fine with me. When I started to think about it, it all came rushing back. An incredible jumble, all the inconsistent things I'd been told, all the conflicting pictures of Helene. "Dom," I said, "have you ever gone into the funhouse at a fair or a carnival and looked in the mirrors?" He nodded. "People's images of Helene are like the reflections in those mirrors. Everyone has a different view of her, all very different and all distorted."

"That's perfect. You've captured it perfectly," he said. He rubbed his forehead wearily. "But who did it?"

"I don't want you two talking about this over my nice breakfast," Rosie said. "I mean it, Dominic Florio. You aren't going to drag the poor girl back into the middle of this mess."

But we were off and running, and not even Rosie could stop us. "I told you once before that if this were an Agatha Christie, they all would have done it. If I were writing the script—if it weren't so absurd—I'd say that she killed herself because she was as troubled by the unreconcilable pieces of herself as we are. But no one commits suicide that way."