Caught Dead in Philadelphia (14 page)

“Such as?”

“You want dessert?”

I sighed and shook my head.

“Good.” He surprised me by helping me with my chair.

It was drizzling in a pleasant, soft way. A fine, almost invisible spray coated my skin by the time we got home.

My house looked warm and inviting, a stage for fantasies we could wrap around us. I still had firewood left from the winter, and a bottle of brandy somewhere, and…

“Winston was right about one thing,” Mackenzie said. “You can't keep on being seen with me. Some nut's going to think you know what's going on. Not that you do, of course.”

“Not if you keep being evasive and cryptic and asking me about dessert when you could give me hard facts. But that's okay with me. Let's stay invisible. We'll hide in here.”

“That wasn't what I—”

I kissed him lightly. “Excuse me for a minute?” Upstairs, I readied my bed and bod for the great Pepper-Mackenzie reunion I had penciled in for the remainder of the night.

“Good idea,” Mackenzie said when I was back downstairs.

“You read minds, too?”

“I'll be a minute,” he said, heading for the staircase himself. “Wait here.”

He didn't read minds. What he did was take the stairs two at a time.

“Hey there,” he shouted down after a few minutes.

I knew he'd catch on eventually. I walked to the stairs and was on the first tread before he called out again.

“Mind if I use this phone? I have to make a call. Business.”

I sat down on the staircase, refusing to be discouraged. I didn't like his working hours, his compartmentalized mind, or the fact that I was so obviously shut out of this particular compartment that he was hiding in the bedroom to make a call. I moved up two steps and listened.

He sounded tired. “I was tied up around seven, Ray. Couldn't call.”

I remembered the tie-up fondly. And remembering, I moved up two more treads.

“Tense as hell. He overexplained how he heard about it. Check whether Catherine Bayer really called him.”

I could picture him standing by my bed, foolishly ignoring it.

“I think I've got someone up there who'll loosen up about the records. Tomorrow, I expect.”

That made no sense. I moved up another step.

“Everybody. All of them. Between nine and twelve this morning. We'll go over it later.”

He sounded finished. I crept down the stairs, afraid to be caught eavesdropping. I realized that the little pile of mail I'd picked up this afternoon was still on the coffee table. It looked like an uninspired collection of bills and sale announcements. Mackenzie's voice became loud and annoyed. I could hear him clearly from where I sat in the living room. “Yeah, well I'm workin' the same hours, Raymond, so we're both doin' slave labor.”

More silence. I arranged myself seductively on the sofa, checked out my phone bill, and then realized that the last envelope had nothing on it. No address, no return address, no stamp. It had been shoved through the mail slot.

“Amnesty International would not be interested!” Mackenzie boomed into the phone upstairs.

I could not have explained the ominous sense that white envelope produced except that it was not the way an envelope should look. It had not arrived the way mail is supposed to. Obviously, my tolerance for the unexpected had dropped to zero. I cautiously ripped it open.

Mackenzie loped down the stairs. “That Raymond never quits,” he said. “As if I weren't workin', too. As if—”

His voice seemed very distant. I was completely engrossed in unfolding my mail in slow motion. Mackenzie came over and sat next to me just in time to see the most primitive, least-welcome message I'd ever received.

It wasn't verbose. There were only three words, all cut from what appeared newspaper headlines and ads, then taped onto the page. Even so, it made its point. Eloquently. All it said was:

“HER” and “HIM” were crossed out, items taken care of on a list of things to do today. I looked at the “YOU” until the letters seemed to levitate and come closer to meet me. Until Mackenzie gently removed the paper from my shaking hand.

Thirteen

I felt like a kid being shuttled off to camp, only I didn't have name tags in my neckband.

We progressed in silence until Mackenzie again insisted that much as he would have liked to, he couldn't stay with me, that he had to work.

I suggested that he would show adequate interest in me only when I, too, became a corpse.

He suggested that I had a tendency toward the irrational, that I'd be safe in the suburbs, that the murderer was a childish coward.

I said something unprintable.

He said an English teacher should use the language more creatively.

I didn't say anything. The reference to my profession shocked me. It doesn't take much to distract me: a couple of murders, a new lover, a direct threat to my life, and zap—pedagogical duties slip my mind. I slumped down as much as the seat belt would allow. “Damn. I'm giving a test Monday, and I didn't bring my notes.”

“Good. Your mind will be creatively occupied, then.”

We drove slowly enough. Mackenzie didn't seem in any fierce rush to get on with his policing. He avoided the Expressway, even though there was a chance of its moving smoothly at this hour. We made our way toward Beth's safe harbor, passing T.G.I.F. celebrants on both Penn's and Drexel's campuses, past unreclaimed turf with hopeless, abandoned houses, past the zoo. A camel, peering over the fence at us, chewed sideways, looking as bored as I expected to be.

This was not my idea of how to spend a weekend. I'm not ever fond of deferring gratification, and with a death-threat, it seems an even sillier way to spend the remaining time.

We finally reached Beth's share of prime Main Line real estate. “Nice house,” Mackenzie said. “Nice goin'.” He turned off the motor. “Okay, do you have it straight?”

I nodded. It wasn't hard to learn. “I shalt not leave the bosom of my family.”

“I believe it's ‘shall' in the first person. But the most important commandment is: Thou shalt not indulge in the urge to sleuth.”

“My, but those words trip right off your tongue. You have a pathological delusion about your godlike self, don't you? Now I know what that
C
stands for. No wonder you didn't want to reveal your true identity. But even He had a first name.”

“Listen, Mandy, I've grown fond of your body. I'd like it to stay intact. So relax and enjoy spring in the country.”

I lapsed into sulking. From necessity, not chivalry, he opened my car door and took me gently by the arm. “You know,” I said, “you could assign somebody to watch my house instead. Isn't that what manpower is for?”

“You'd be just as hemmed in as you'll be here, only much less pleasantly. An' why make yourself an easy target? Our friend the note sender knows that address. At least give 'im a workout.”

He rang the doorbell. Beth was all burbling surprise and smiles. It was obvious she hadn't seen the six o'clock news. Mackenzie introduced himself and improvised a weak story about the breakdown of both my car and my bathroom plumbing. He was heavy on the “Ma'ams” and the drawl, and another Yankee woman was suckered in.

Beth nodded, clucked, and tsked every time he said something unintelligible about my pistons or my S-curve leak. Her otherwise critical eyes went blind at the sight of anything ambulatory and male that might get me to do simultaneous carpooling with her.

Mackenzie leaned close to Beth and whispered,
sotto voce
. I heard his voice, heavy with concern, say words like “depressed,” “shock of Liza,” and “not to be left alone.” Beth, who adored sick strays, went on red alert. The prospect of keeping her kid sister from ending it all was visibly thrilling.

“We'll stay with her constantly,” Beth said in a stage whisper. I again had the feeling I had evaporated, or left the premises without knowing it. “She won't be alone for a minute.”

I'd be cushioned by my lovely relatives, and I'd die of suffocation and boredom, instead.

“Take care,” Mackenzie said. “I'll try to stop by.”

“Listen here, Chipper—”

“Wrong.” He closed the door behind him.

“What a
nice
man,” Beth said. “Nice” isn't a word I relish, not for days, not for weather, and not for what's-his-name.

“And so attractive,” she added, my subtle sister. She liked that theme so much she played it over and over as she guarded me. Even Horse, the resident beast, was solicitous. He sat on my feet the entire night.

But I was too tired to react. Three cups of strong coffee with Beth couldn't stop my yawns or bring the circulation back into my limbs. I excused myself and went to the guest room, weighing the consequences of sleeping in my clothing. I couldn't remember if my mother had warned against it—what if Prince Charming finally found you and you were fully dressed like Sleeping Slob? I wondered if Mackenzie's given name was “Charming.” Charming Knight? I wondered if I was indeed having a breakdown.

* * *

I've never understood why they call this the temperate zone. It is anything but. With weather ranging from below zero to one hundred degrees, it should be called the schizoid belt.

But every so often, with totally intemperate zest, a day blooms with a nearly painful beauty. It's a day for believing your lover's promises, for rediscovering humanity and feeling kinship with it, for deciding not to join the Sun Belt defectors just yet.

Saturday was one of those. I looked out the guest room window at a sincerely blue sky dotted with cartoon fluffs of clouds. Such a spring day promises a mind-boggling, glorious summer. I'd lived long enough to know that this promise is a bald-faced lie. Still, days like this are so sweet, prior knowledge becomes questionable. This is a brand-new beginning, and anything's possible.

The delicious pale-green-and-growing air was even in the shower and on my toothbrush, and I floated down to the kitchen in a euphoric haze.

Beth was all smiles. Then she looked worried. “Karen and I have to run an errand. Sam will be with you, okay?”

I was tempted to stop this nonsense about my mental health, to tell her the real reason I was here. But that would probably impair
her
mental health, so I drank my coffee with only a nod for comment. I was happy to be unmonitored. Sam was not the most loquacious of men, and I would be left on my own to communicate with nature and myself. It would also be a reprieve from sisterly talk about Mackenzie's beauty and eligibility. From all talk, for that matter.

And I needed to stay undistracted. The breeze outside had cleared my mind, and I was positive that today I'd figure out what had been going on in my life and in Liza's and Eddie's. Maybe all those people were right and I did know something. Maybe I could even find out what it was. I happily waved good-bye to Beth and Karen before putting on a sweater and taking my coffee out to the flagstone patio behind the house.

I was, however, definitely being tailed. Sam silently joined me, settling on the wrought-iron chair next to mine. A robin hopped very close to our feet before fluttering to a more prudent vantage point.

Sam cleared his throat. “Mandy, can we talk?”

The day was filled with surprises. “Sure, Sam, what about?”

He cleared his throat again. Even in a worn-out sweater, Sam looks like a man in a vest and starched shirt. “I know about it,” he said.

At least seven recent and embarrassing possible “its” flashed across my mind, none of which I'd be eager to have my brother-in-law “know.”

“You'll have to be more specific,” I said in my most ladylike tones.

“I know why you're really here. I didn't want to worry Beth with it, but while you two were having coffee last night, I watched the late news. I saw you. Another murder, Mandy?”

“Oh, God, Sam, I can't control these impulses! What am I to do?”

The robin returned, staring quizzically. Maybe we were the first sign of spring for him, too.

Sam was also staring. “I didn't mean to imply that you were in any way involved in the commission of the crimes!”

I wondered if Sam ever cursed, muffed a sentence, or loused up his grammar.

“It was a joke,” I said quietly. “I know you didn't mean it that way, and I don't know why I keep finding corpses. It's been horrible, and I'm terrified. But I hate to ruin this glorious day by dwelling on it.”

“So, instead, you're dwelling in it. My dwelling, that is.” Sam allowed a cautious chuckle at his own brand of witticism. For Beth's sake, I would like to think there's a secret, volcanic center to Sam. He's the kind of man who could probably commit endless crimes with impunity, because nobody'd be able to describe him. He's a lot of “sort ofs”—sort of tall, sort of sandy hair—and, now that I think of it, lots of “nices,” too—nice features, nice build, nice guy. Run that one through an Identikit, I dare you.

The door slammed, and Horse galumphed over to sit on my feet. “Mackenzie thinks I'll be safe in the bosom of my family. He doesn't think I should be seen with him, because then the murderer will think I know something.”

“Wouldn't the, uh, culprit, think it anyway?”

“We prefer not thinking about that possibility.”

“But still…”

HER. HIM. YOU. A sterling example of clear communication. I pulled my sweater more closely around me, then I looked up. I could blame my sudden shivers on the moody sky, which had clouded over. “The uncertain glories of an April day,” I said, noting how the colors of every new blade of grass and bud had gone dark. “Which reminds me, I have a test to write.”

Our coffee and conversation were both finished, and without a word, we went back inside.

“I won't, of course, say anything about this matter to Beth.” Sam went into his study. I walked into the library and found a soft leather-bound edition of
The Collected Works of Wm. Shakespeare.
Wm.'s words were barely legible on see-through paper. I thumbed through
Macbeth,
trying to remember the substance of our class discussions. But all I remembered was murder and guilt and bloody hands.

I decided that perhaps more caffeine would activate my professional brain cells. I went back to the kitchen. The coffee maker was empty, and ignoring the fact that this was a four-star kitchen, I opted for instant. I turned on the burner under the copper teakettle and stared at it as if it were an oracle.

Sam walked in with his empty cup. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making refills. Thinking.”

“It's dangerous to think hunched over a teakettle. You could get burned.”

“Ah, lately I've learned that you can get burned a lot of ways. But you're right. I'm keeping it from boiling, anyway.”

We settled down to wait for the kettle to whistle. I made table talk. “Sam, judging from your experience, why do people commit murder?”

Sam looked startled and nervous. “That's hardly my area of the law, Amanda. Contracts are quite different.” Always cautious, he reconsidered what he'd said. “Well, perhaps not. I'd assume that people do everything, including murder, because they want something that somebody else has or controls.”

“Liza's most valuable possession,” I said, “was Hayden Cole, if I may characterize their relationship with such unflattering terms.” I was beginning to sound like my brother-in-law. “And now, considering who else would want that possession, and want it a great deal—”

Sam shook his head disapprovingly. “Let the police handle this, Amanda. It's fruitless for us to speculate without having all the information, isn't it? Don't upset yourself with—”

“I'm not upset. I'm puzzled.” Well, so it wasn't exactly honest, but it was kind. Sam didn't want to baby-sit for a deranged sister-in-law. And for Sam, behavior a level above comatose is dangerously out of line. “Do you like Hayden Cole?” I asked.

“I've told you I know the man only casually. Why?”

“Frankly, I don't like him. He's plastic, artificial. A good copy of something. You know how Gertrude Stein said, ‘There's no “there” there'? That's how he is.”

“I know what you're suggesting, but I think you're wrong. He's reserved and undemonstrative, but he's human, Amanda.”

I felt properly chastised. I know that Hayden has feelings. It's just frustrating not to be able to fathom what they are.

I busied myself with turning powder into coffee. Sam accepted his refilled cup and smiled. “I'll get back to work now,” he said.

“Contracts are so clean, aren't they? People spell out what they want in black and white. Nothing's hidden, secret, explosive.”

Sam sighed and paused at the kitchen doorway. I wasn't sufficiently merry for him to leave me in good conscience. So I smiled and winked. “Enough of this gloom, right, Sam? You're inspiring me. I'll get work done, too. I'm giving a test on
Macbeth
Monday, and I haven't written it yet. Now that would have been a great court case, wouldn't it? Who, ultimately, was the guilty party? If you think Fate is directing you, are you guilty? Is anyone ever
the
guilty party? I think I'll use that for my first question.”

“You're all right, aren't you?” Sam said, so I readjusted my manic level.

“Sure. It's hard not thinking about what's happened, though. Before Monday, the only murders I knew about were in between book covers.”

“Of course,” Sam said. “Try not to let it get you, though.”

“That's precisely what I'm trying,” I muttered as he left.

Horse lumbered in. “Does anything make sense to you, dog? What's your theory?” He tried to sit on my feet, but I walked out to the garden and he shambled alongside. “Horse, what is your considered opinion?”

He looked up and lifted his ears in a splendid dumb-dog imitation of great concentration. He pondered the question, remained stymied, and opted for ankle-licking when I settled down in the rejuvenated sunshine. Then he gave up the pretense of thought. His weight blanketed my feet, and after a moment, I heard his light snores.