It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (6 page)

She had to call Dean. He and Gerald were
best friends since junior high school, research partners, golf buddies. He’d
know if Gerald had a will. She should have called him the day she found out,
not chickened out and waited two weeks. He’ll be devastated. This was going to
be the hardest call to make.

She dialed Finn’s private cell number. In
typical cop-on-the-ball fashion, he picked up on the first ring.

“Jem? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine. Althea’s hot to trot to bury
her son and I think I hung up on her. If I text you her number, will you deal
with her about transporting the body?” She should feel terrible about fobbing
her future mother-in-law off on this kind man, but she didn’t. Then again,
Althea was no longer her future anything-in-law.

“Sure, I can do that. I’ll see you
tomorrow?”

Her chest was heavy, her heart pressed on
her stomach. “Is there anything big? Can we skip a week?”

Silence. Had his phone dropped the call?
She shifted her feet. “Finn?”

“Sorry. Of course. Overwhelmed?”

“For years and years.”

“I’ll see you next week. Call if you need
anything.”

“Thanks. I will.”

No she wouldn’t. She’d been dealing with
everything alone for so long, she didn’t need anything from anyone.

she
can’t have the house

“No will? Dean, are you sure?” Jem held the
phone in a vice grip.

“He never told me about one. Do you know if
he has a lawyer?”

She should know this stuff. Why didn’t she
know this stuff? “No, I don’t know. He doesn’t have a safe deposit box. Didn’t
leave any notes.” She glanced around the kitchen, paused her gaze at the
credenza that doubled for a filing cabinet. “I’ll have to go through the papers
I have here. Is there anything in his office?”

“I’ll look. But it shouldn’t matter. You
lived together for six years, you’re common-law, right?”

“Technically we lived together for two
years. In law, we’ve been separated for four. He did leave, after all.” Althea may
be deemed the sole living heir.

“What about the house, Dean? She can’t have
the house.”

“No, she can’t have the house, Jem. You’re
on the title, joint ownership. At most she might ask to be paid for his half. But
you know more about this stuff than me. Can you look into it? Call a colleague?”

She clutched the phone and took a deep
breath. “Yes, I can do that. Don’t know what the fucking old bat would want any
of it for anyway, she’s on her bloody deathbed.”

“Jeez, Jem, I doubt she wants to take your
home away.” There was a long pause. “Are you all right?”

She sighed. “No, but yeah. Sorry. But she’s
been such a bitch. Worse since he went missing. Hell on wheels since he died.”
Was that why the all the insurance? It would be the one thing his mother couldn’t
touch. “Dean, are you all right? I’m so sorry to mix the bad news with such
morbid talk about wills and stuff. And really sorry I didn’t step up on the day
I found out. I should have called you.”

“I understand. What’s another two weeks
when it’s been almost four years?” The sounds of his breath and of him
scratching his chin, his giveaway nervous tick, filled the receiver. “I always
figured he’d walk through the lab door one day like nothing ever happened. Like
nothing had changed.”

Jem stared at the leaded glass of the front
door. “I know. That’s what I hoped for too.”

drown in
cheesecake

Bacon sizzled in the cast iron skillet and flooded
Jem’s head with memories of home. Her senior year of high school. Those lazy
Saturday mornings when her father would be up before dawn to read the paper and
finish off an entire pot of coffee to himself. He would make a big family
breakfast. She would wake to the sizzle of bacon, its aroma mixed with the wonderful
smell of frying onions. Cheese and onion omelets with crispy, just-this-side-of-burned,
bacon and thick, white toast drenched in butter and honey.

No wonder he died so young.

She used a fork to scoop the crispy strips
from the pan, like her father had done. They rested on paper towels while she
cut two dozen tomatoes into thick slices.

The bacon beckoned, called her by name,
broke her will power. Saliva pooled in her mouth. She swallowed it, sneaked a
piece from the pile and snapped the end off with her teeth.

She let the warm meat sit on her tongue.
The salt brought more saliva. She crunched into the crisp wonder of it, crushed
the bacon between her teeth and tilted her head back.

“Oh my God.”

She stuffed the whole piece in her mouth and
chased it with three more. When she picked up a fifth, Gerald’s face appeared
in front of her. His lecture on nitrates and salt and fat played in her head.
She closed her eyes against the phantom of her dead fiancé only to be bombarded
with images he’d been kind enough to share with her. Pigs hanging from their hind
feet, their necks slit at the carotid while still alive and squealing. Was that
really how it was done?

The bacon turned on her and rose up in her
throat. She spun around and vomited every glorious bite into the sink.

When would she give up this guilt? Why
couldn’t she bring herself to do anything he didn’t approve of? He was dead for
crying out loud. She could make her own choices now. Eat as much meat as she
wanted. Drown herself in cheesecake and white bread if she felt like it. Have nothing
but ice cream and potato chips for dinner. Not alphabetize the CDs. Leave water
rings all over the wood.

“You happy, Gerald?” she yelled into the
empty kitchen. “You’re going to haunt me for life.” She leaned one hand on the
cupboard, the other on her hip and scowled at the room. Then she burst out
laughing. “Oh shit. Jemima Gertrude Stone, it’s your turn to lose your freaking
mind.”

BLTs and PTSD

One thing Jem had learned about homeless
folk, they have no pretention about food. They’d eat whatever you gave them as
long as they weren’t allergic. And they all loved bacon.

Frank and Angus scarfed down those
sandwiches so fast she thought they’d both choke. Jeremy was a bit more civilized
except for when he chatted with her between bites without swallowing. But like
hell was she going to lecture anyone in the park on proper table manners. There
were no tables.

“I think the guy’s schizo.” Jeremy wiped
his mouth on his sleeve and gestured to Chief with one thumb.

Angus elbowed him in the ribs. “Shush now
about that stuff.” He flashed a weak smile. “Sorry, Ruby.”

“It’s okay.” She knew from schizo. And the
only sign Chief showed was being mute. “Why do you think so Jeremy?”

“Because he’s nuts!”

“Well, there are lots of forms of nuts.
Some people think I’m nuts for coming out here and feeding you all every
morning.”

“Do you think you’re nuts?”

“Hell no. I think it’s the sanest thing
I’ve ever done.”

Jeremy nodded and snickered through his BLT-filled
mouth.

She watched Chief take tentative bites from
the sandwich. He pulled the bacon out and ate it first. Then the tomato. Then
he ate each triangular piece of bread. Methodical. Curious. Purposeful. No, he didn’t
appear schizophrenic. “I think he may have suffered PTSD.”

“STD? You think he’s got herpes or
something?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Oh hell,
Jeremy, you crack me up. PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s like shock,
only a million times worse.”

“You mean maybe he’s an army guy? Fucked up
by the war or something?

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

But not knowing was eating at her. She knew
the stories of every other park resident. But Chief remained an enigma.

nirvana

Jem sipped at a cup of chai tea sweetened
with fireweed honey while Finn settled in for their overdue weekly chat. He
looked right at home at her kitchen table. That shouldn’t be surprising, he’d
been there often enough. It was possible he’d spent more time in the house than
Gerald. Was it weird that Finn’s presence made her so happy?

He pulled one folder from the accordion
file and set it in front of him. She wasn’t sure she could handle more murder
talk at that moment.

Jem tapped the side of her cup with one
fingernail. “Why’d she leave you?”

Finn hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your wife. What happened?”

“Does that matter?”

“No. I’m just curious.” She ran her index
finger around the rim of her cup, then met his eyes. “You know more about me
than most of my friends. Maybe more than I even know you do. But all I know about
you is that you’re very sweet, a damn good cop, divorced.” She grinned and
raised one eyebrow. “And tall, dark and handsome.”

His cheeks pinked.

“Fair enough.” He stood, removed his suit
jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Two long strides and he was
across the room. He put the kettle on the burner and lit the gas.

Right at home.

He pulled a mug from the cupboard and a
teabag from the canister next to the fridge, tossed the bag into the mug and leaned
against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, his palms on the countertop.
Whenever she did that, the edge of the faux-granite was icy on the small of her
back. It intersected him mid-butt. And he wasn’t even standing up straight.

“It’s a common problem on the job.”

“That’s it? Just the job?”

“There were a couple of cases that got the
better of me. I put in a lot of extra hours on one in particular. It robbed her
of my attention.” He crossed his arms and shook his head. “She was jealous. Of
a case. Ridiculous.”

“What’s she like?”

“Bitch on wheels.”

“Ouch. You had to love her once, right?”
She smirked and cocked her head. “You didn’t marry for money did you,
Detective?”

He snickered and shook his head. The kettle
whistled. He pushed himself to his feet and filled the cup with steaming water.
He bobbed the teabag up and down in the mug and sat at the table.

“No. I did love her. Years ago. But she
changed. I guess we all change.” He bounced the teabag up and down in the mug
then took a tentative sip. “We met in high school.”

“Don’t tell me. You were the star
quarterback, she was the head cheerleader.”

He flinched.

“I’m sorry, Finn. I didn’t mean that.”

“Amy was on the debate team. They won regionals
every year she lead them, but her bitter disappointment was never placing
better than fifth at nationals. She was valedictorian. Studied humanities in
university. She was vibrant and alive. I don’t know what happened after we
married, but it all ended. She never did anything. No career, no job. Hell she
didn’t even volunteer or join a book club. She waited for me to get home. Was
pissed when I was late, pissed when I got called out on my off hours. It’s my
job, you know? My life. She never understood it.”

“Kids?”

“No. She also waited around hoping to get
pregnant. It never happened. We were going to see a fertility specialist but
she left first. Probably for the best.” He blew on his tea, took another sip and
stared into the mug, his eyes glistening. “I couldn’t give a child enough
attention.”

So much for cold fish. Were there more
layers under that muscular, business-like exterior?

“So.” He picked up the file and tapped the
edge against the table. “Let’s talk about the case.”

“Can we call it something else?”

“What do you mean?”

“‘The Case.’ Sounds so clinical. So cold.
We need a code word.”

His eyes softened. “All right. Like what?”

“Nirvana.”

His brow furrowed but he smiled. “Okay.
Why?”

“Because that’s where I imagine Gerald is.
We aren’t religious people, don’t believe in heaven. But I want to think he’s
somewhere perfect. Where there is no pain, no hunger, no murder. No crazy.” She
wiped the back of her hand across her cheek. “And he loved Kurt Cobain.”

 Finn reached across the table and squeezed
her hand. “Let’s talk about nirvana.”

Her fingers tingled under his hand. She
looked into his eyes and a pang sliced through her chest. She glanced at her
teacup. “If we must,” she whispered.

Finn slid a plastic bag across the table. Bright
red evidence tape sealed it shut. Her grandmother’s clunky platinum ring with
the black pearl mounted in the centre rested inside.

Her throat closed. She reached for the bag
but he pulled it away.

“Sorry, Jem. It’s still evidence.”

the ring

Jem spent a sleepless night playing,
rewinding, and replaying what Finn had told her that evening.

Gerald had lied to the treatment facility.
Lied to the doctor. About everything. Where he lived, what his real name was,
what prior treatment he’d had. Even about his first psychotic break. But could
he lie? Was it lying when he had such a tenuous grasp on reality?