The Edge (6 page)

“What was she singing?” I asked.

“Songs from the musical
Oklahoma.
And laughing. Yes, I remember she was laughing. She shouted at everyone, told them she was going to go serenade all the dead folk in the cemetery. Then she did a U-turn and headed back east on Fifth Avenue.”

“That’s what everyone else said, more or less.” Maggie added, “The cemetery is just south of the main part of town, really close to the ocean, so it’s possible that’s what she did. But then, much later, she was driving north up the coast road.”

I remembered that Rob Morrison lived south of town. No, I thought, Jilly wouldn’t break her marriage vows, not Jilly. She wanted to have a kid. She wouldn’t screw
around with anyone else. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. I’d have to ask Maggie.

“Maybe she went to the cemetery and something happened to her,” Cal said.

“Like what?” Maggie said, her words bitten out.

“I don’t know,” Cal said slowly, ducking eye contact with every one of us. “But sometimes you can see odd shadows there, hear things, soft-sounding things. The trees whisper to each other, I’ve always thought. The hemlocks always seem to be crowding in toward the graves. You can imagine that their roots are twisted around a lot of the older caskets, maybe cracking them open, maybe releasing—” Cal shrugged. Then she tried to smile. “No, that’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Very silly. Dead people don’t hold any interest, and that’s all there is at the cemetery. Just moldy old bones. Now, Cal, Mac here doesn’t know you’re an artist and you have flights of fancy. Stop acting weird. You know you’re not, really.”

“I still wouldn’t want to go there at night,” Cal said. “Even if I was drunk. It’s a creepy place.”

“Are you saying that Jilly seemed drunk when you saw her at nine-thirty?” I asked.

Cal was silent. Maggie said, “Nobody else said anything about her being drunk. Just high spirits, Mr. Pete said, and that was just Jilly. I asked the doctors at the hospital after they’d done tests on Jilly. Her blood alcohol level was consistent with a couple of glasses of wine. And the toxicology screen was negative. So forget the drunk thing. Now, Cal, you didn’t see her after that?”

Cal shook her head. She took a step toward the door. I stepped forward. “Maggie, why don’t you and Paul continue your chat. I’ll walk Miss Tarcher to her car.”

I thought she was going to make a mad dash for the
front door to escape me. What was wrong with the woman?

“Wait, Cal,” I said, and pitched my voice low, filled with cool authority, the perfect FBI voice. She reacted instantly to that voice and came to a dead halt. I cupped her elbow in my right hand and went outside with her.

It was a cool, very clear morning, just a light breeze to ruffle the hair on your head. I breathed in the ocean smell, still new in my lungs.

I didn’t say anything until we reached her car, a light blue BMW Roadster, its top down. She was looking at her feet again, walking quickly, eager to get away from me. I lightly touched her shoulder when she opened the car door and said, “Hold on a minute, Miss Tarcher. What’s wrong? Who are you so afraid of?”

For the first time, she looked up at me with a straightforward look, no eye-shifting. I saw that her eyes were a pale blue behind the glasses, with shades of gray. Cool eyes, intelligent. And something else I couldn’t pinpoint. She straightened, her shoulders going back. She wasn’t as short as I’d thought. In fact she suddenly looked tall, standing there with a very conscious arrogance. Her voice was as cool and intelligent as her eyes. “That, Mr. MacDougal, is none of your business. Good day to you. I will see you tomorrow night, unless you decide to leave town before then.” She looked back toward the house for a moment, and added, “Who cares?”

“I do,” I said.

She gave me an indifferent nod, climbed into her Beemer and was around the curve in Liverpool Street in just under ten seconds. She didn’t look back.

Cal Tarcher seemed to be two distinct, two very different people. It drove me nuts not to know anything or anyone, not to be able to root about to put things together.

I stood staring out over the ocean. The water was calm, placid, reaching into an endless horizon. There was one lone fishing boat out some two hundred yards from land. I could make out two people from this distance, sitting motionless in the boat. I sighed and turned slowly to walk back to the house.

Maggie was putting her cell phone back in her jacket pocket as she came running down the stairs. “See you later, Mac,” she said. “Doc Lambert just called to tell me someone struck Charlie Duck on the head. Thank God Charlie lives right next door to Doc Lambert. Charlie managed to crawl over just before he fell unconscious. Doc said it didn’t look good. I’m heading over there now.”

“He’s the old guy I met at The Edwardian yesterday at lunch. I remember he wanted to talk to me. Who would hit him? Jesus, Maggie, that doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree. I’m out of here. See you later.”

I hoped the old guy would be all right, but serious head wounds seldom turned out well. I wondered what he’d wanted to talk to me about. I wondered why anyone would hit him on the head.

I
picked up two sandwiches from Grace’s Deli on Fifth Avenue and brought them back to Liverpool Street. I rousted Paul out of his lab and we sat down at the dining room table at twelve-thirty.

Paul set a cold can of Coors in front of each of us. “I accomplished next to nothing,” he said as he sat down. “I can’t seem to think, to solve the easiest problems.” He peeled back the foil on his sandwich. “Ah, rare roast beef, my favorite. How’d you know that, Mac?”

“I remembered Jilly telling me some time ago. She said you would only eat it half-cooked and slathered with mayonnaise. The woman at the deli knew exactly how you liked it.”

Paul’s face became still. “I can’t believe Jilly’s not here, telling me I’m a jerk because I forgot to do something she’d asked me to do, telling me to leave her alone because she’s working and who says my work’s more important than hers? She could be yelling at me one minute, then she’d just start laughing, lean over, and bite my ear. Jesus, Mac, it’s hard.”

“Paul, who’s Laura?”

I thought Paul was going to have a heart attack. He jerked and spilled his beer onto the back of his hand and wrist. He didn’t curse, didn’t say anything at all, just looked down at the beer dripping off his hand onto the shining mahogany tabletop.

I handed Paul his paper napkin. When he’d finished mopping up, I said again, “Paul, tell me about Laura. Who is she?”

Paul took a bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly, not looking at me, just chewed. He swallowed, took a long pull of beer, then said finally, “Laura? There isn’t any Laura.”

Paul Bartlett was thirty-six, skinny as a post, at home in preppy clothes—this morning a dark green Ralph Lauren T-shirt and khaki slacks, light tan Italian loafers with tassels.

He was a genius, Jilly had always said, simply a genius. Well, that could be, I thought, but he was a lousy liar. I wasn’t about to let this slide. “Laura, Paul. Tell me about her. It’s important.”

“Why would Laura be important to this? How the hell do you even know her name?”

“I heard it from Jilly,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d come suddenly awake at the hospital, my face on Jilly’s hand, saying Laura’s name aloud. It sounded too off the wall. I leaned back in my chair and added easily, “She mentioned Laura’s name. Didn’t say anything else about her—just said her name.”

Did Paul look relieved? I realized I’d blown it. I never should have told him that the woman’s name was all I knew. I was an idiot. I was supposed to be trained to lie and bluff well. I was losing it. But why did Paul feel he had to lie? And then of course I realized what Jilly had meant. Laura had betrayed her with her husband, Paul.

Paul took another bite of his sandwich. Some of the mayonnaise oozed out the sides and fell to the napkin. He chewed slowly, buying time, I knew, an old ploy to gain time to think, to make the other person begin to question himself. He said finally, after a long stretch of silence, “She’s not important, just a woman who lives in Salem. I don’t even know if that’s the Laura Jilly mentioned. As far as I ever knew, Jilly never even met Laura, never even heard of her. I don’t understand why she’d say her name.” He sipped his beer, his hand steady as a rock now.

“How did you meet her? What’s her last name?”

“More questions, Mac, about a person Jilly only mentioned in passing? What’s this all about?”

“Jilly said to me, ‘Laura betrayed me.’ What did she mean, Paul?”

Paul looked like I’d socked him in the jaw. He shook his head as if to clear it and said, “All right, dammit. There was a Laura, but I haven’t seen her in several months. I broke it off. I just lost my head for a while there, but then I realized that I loved Jilly, that I didn’t want to lose her. I haven’t seen Laura since March.”

“Laura was your lover then?”

“You find that hard to believe, Mac? You look at me and you see a nerd who’s a decade older than you are, and not a thing like you? No bulging muscles? No big macho cop with broad shoulders and a full head of hair who goes chasing after terrorists, for God’s sake? The only thing good you can say about me is that I’m at least an evolved nerd since I attracted your sister.”

I forced myself to take another bite of my tuna salad sandwich. So both this Laura and Paul had betrayed Jilly. I wanted to jump over the table and tear Paul Bartlett’s head off. I made myself chew slowly, just as Paul had
done. It gave me time to cool down. What I needed most of all was control. I said after just a moment, no anger at all in my voice, “Let’s get something perfectly straight here, Paul. I find it hard to believe you’d sleep with another woman because you’re a married man, supposedly a happily married man. A married man isn’t supposed to screw around on his wife.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Paul rubbed his fingers through his light brown hair. “I didn’t mean all that, Mac. I’m upset, you can see that.”

“What’s Laura’s last name?”

“Scott. Laura Scott. She’s a reference librarian at the public library in Salem. I met her there.”

“Why were you at the Salem Public Library?”

Paul just shrugged. “They’ve got great science reference materials. I do some research there once in a while.”

“How did Jilly find out about you sleeping with Laura?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell her. Of course Laura knows Jilly. They’re friends.”

“So Jilly went to the Salem Public Library too?”

“Yes, she liked to go there. Don’t ask me why, but she did. Look, Mac, Laura is shy, withdrawn. She wouldn’t have told Jilly. I just can’t imagine how she found out. The two of them, they’re opposites. Jilly is beautiful, talented, outgoing, like all of you—you, Gwen, and Kevin. She never just plain walks, she struts. She oozes confidence, is immensely sure of herself. She believes she’s the best. Laura isn’t any of those things. She’s so self-effacing she could be a shadow.”

“Why did you sleep with her, Paul, if she’s so damned self-effacing?”

Paul looked down at the remains of his roast beef
sandwich. “What is that old saw about having steak all the time? Maybe I just needed a change from Jilly for a while.”

“Is Laura Scott still in Salem?”

“I don’t know. She was upset when I told her it was over. I don’t know if she stayed or not. Why does it matter? I tell you, Jilly should never have found out about her. Maybe I dreamed about her and happened to say her name, with Jilly overhearing. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not important, Mac. It wasn’t important as of over a month ago.”

I didn’t let on to Paul that it was more than important to me. Jilly had known that Laura had betrayed her. Laura was so much in Jilly’s mind that I’d somehow picked it up from Jilly when I’d been with her in the hospital. Was Laura the reason Jilly had driven her Porsche over the cliff?

An hour later, I was on the highway heading to Salem.

Salem, the capital of Oregon, sits in the heart of the Willamette Valley, on the banks of the Willamette River. It’s only forty-three miles southwest of Portland, just a short hop as the natives say. I remembered Jilly telling me once, on her third glass of white wine, that its Indian name,
Chemeketa,
meant “place of rest” and had been translated into the biblical name of Salem, from the Hebrew
shalom,
meaning “peace.”

When I reached Salem, I pulled off the road into a small park and dialed 411. There was no Laura Scott listed in the Salem phone directory. There was one unlisted number for an L. P. Scott. I asked for the main number of the Salem Public Library. Ten minutes later I found the big concrete building between Liberty Street and Commercial. It was only a short drive from
Willamette University, just south of downtown. On the north side there was a big open courtyard that connected the library to City Hall. Too close to the bureaucrats for my taste. Once inside, you forgot how ugly the outside was. It was airy, lots of lights, the floor covered with a turquoise carpeting. The shelves were orange. Not what I would have picked, but it would keep students awake. I walked to the circulation desk and asked if a Ms. Scott worked there.

“Ms. Scott is our senior reference librarian,” a man of Middle Eastern extraction told me in a thick accent, pointing to the right corner of the main floor. I thanked him and headed in the direction of his finger.

I paused a moment beside the Renaissance art section and looked at the woman who was speaking quietly to a high school student with bad skin. He looked ridiculous to a man of my advanced years with his pants pulled down to nearly the bottom of his butt, bagging to his knees and beyond.

The student moved away, ambling toward the magazine section. I got my first good look at Laura Scott. Paul had said she was painfully shy and withdrawn, that she disappeared, like a shadow. My first thought was:
Is the idiot blind?
Truth was, I took one look at her and felt a bolt of lust so strong I had to lean against the nineteenth-century English history section. How could he say that she was nondescript? She was slender, tall, and even though her suit was too long and a dull shade of olive green, it simply didn’t matter. She’d look great in a potato sack. Her hair was made up of many shades of brown, from dark brown to a lighter brown to an ash blond. It was all coiled up and smashed close to her head with lots of clips, but I could tell that it was long and thick. Lovely hair. I wanted to throw all those clips in the wastebasket
under her desk. I understood how Paul had taken one look at her and lost his head. But why had he said she was plain? Had he said it so she’d hold no interest for me? So I’d dismiss her?

Actually, Laura Scott looked restrained, very professional, particularly with her hair scraped back like that, and she shimmered. I leaned against the English history section again. Shimmered? Jesus, I was losing it. Was her unremarkable presentation to the world calculated? To keep men in line around her? Well, it evidently hadn’t worked with Paul.

It wasn’t working with me. I said to myself three times:
She and Paul betrayed Jilly.
I said it a fourth time to make sure it got through.

I waited until the high school student in his low-slung jeans disappeared behind an orange shelf, a magazine in his hand.

I approached her slowly and said, “High school students today—sometimes I just want to grab their jeans and give them a good yank. It wouldn’t take much. That boy you were speaking to, I think if he coughed his jeans would be around his knees.”

Her face was smooth and young and she didn’t change expression for about three seconds. She just stared at me blankly, bland as rice pudding, as if she hadn’t heard me. Then she looked to where the boy was leaning down to pick another magazine off the shelf, the crotch of his pants literally between his knees. She looked back up at me and after another three seconds, to my surprise, she threw back her head and laughed, a big full laugh. That laugh broke through the silence like a drum roll.

The Middle Eastern guy at the circulation desk looked over, his mouth opening, his surprise evident even from across the room.

What was coming out of her mouth wasn’t at all a nondescript laugh. It was full and deep and delightful. I smiled at her and stuck out my hand. “Hello, my name’s Ford MacDougal. I’m new in town, just started teaching at Willamette University. Political science, primarily Europe, nineteenth century. I just wanted to see what sorts of public resources the students had off-campus. I like the orange shelves and the turquoise carpeting.”

“Hello. Is it Mr. or Dr.?”

“Oh, it’s Dr. MacDougal, but I’ve always thought that sounded phony, at least off campus. To me, a doctor means doing proctology exams. I can’t handle that thought. I’d much rather talk about the Latvian drug wars.”

Again, she didn’t move, didn’t change expression for a good three seconds. Then she opened her mouth and a short ribald laugh came out. This time, she clapped her hands over her mouth and just stared up at me. She got herself together. “I’m sorry,” she said, nearly gasping with the effort not to laugh. “I’m not like this, normally. I’m really very serious. I never laugh.” She cleared her throat, straightened her suit lapels, and said, “Very well, I’ll just call you Mr. MacDougal. My name’s Laura Scott. I’m the head reference librarian here.”

“You’ve got a great laugh,” I said as we shook hands. She was strong, her hands narrow, her fingers long, nails well manicured.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Nearly six months. I’m originally from New York, came out here to go to Willamette. I graduated with a degree in library science. This is my first job here on the West Coast. The only bad thing about working here is the less-than-princely salary they pay me. It barely keeps me in cat food for Grubster—he’s my sweetheart alley cat.
There’s Nolan too. He’s got quite an appetite. Oh, he’s my bird.”

I’d heard every word she’d said. Grubster and Nolan. I liked pets. It was just that I couldn’t keep from looking at her mouth. She had a full mouth, a bit of red lipstick left, beautiful. I cleared my throat. I was acting like a teenager. “You’re right,” I said, “money’s always a bitch. Lucky for me, since I eat a lot, I don’t have to share my Cheerios with a Grubster or Nolan. I just have to worry about feeding myself. The university is hard up too. My office has a view since I came in as a full professor, but the heating system is so antiquated you can hear the steam whistle when it comes out of those ancient pipes.”

She blinked this time, rapidly, at least half a dozen times. She didn’t burst into laughter, but she did giggle. I’d made her laugh. It felt good. Evidently, she found me amusing.