Authors: Pamela Grandstaff
“I like him, too,” Claire said.
“How’s your dad?” Skip asked.
“About the same.”
“The chief was always good to me; he paid the tuition my
last semester at community college after my old man stole my student loan money.”
While they waited, they talked about her dad and other
people they knew. Skip still seemed like the same shy, gawky grade-schooler he
had been when Claire was a teenager, just much taller. After Claire moved back,
Skip’s mother had taken a liking to her Boston terrier, Mackie Pea, and had
knitted her a little coat, which the little dog had almost immediately drug
through the mud.
By the time Sarah came back outside, Claire and Skip were in
the front yard, passing a football he had found in the bushes. Sarah took one
look at them and threw her hands up in the air. Claire had thrown a pass right as
she came out; the football hit Skip in the chest and bounced off. He looked
petrified; Claire wished Laurie was there to protect him.
“You,” Sarah said as she pointed to Skip. “Get that car out
of the driveway and wait for the morgue van.”
Skip ran to the car like his shirttail was on fire.
“You,” she pointed at Claire. “Come with me.”
“Pip didn’t do it,” Claire said. “He found Knox. The front
door was open when I got here. His truck was parked in the driveway; he wasn’t
trying to hide that he was here.”
Sarah waved that away.
“I was with the State Police when they questioned your
ex-husband after his girlfriend was murdered. He’s a beautiful specimen of
manhood, but he’s got the brains of a golden retriever.”
“Are you going to question me soon?” Claire asked. “I need
to pick up my dad.”
“Your father was a gentleman and a damn good policeman,”
Sarah said. “It’s a shame what’s happened to him.”
Claire was not used to Sarah being this personable and it
made her suspicious.
“Let’s go sit in my car,” Sarah said. “We’ll record your
interview, and then later one of these yahoos will type it out for you to sign.
Off the record, why were you up here?”
Claire knew nothing she said was off the record; what was
Sarah up to?
“I called Pip’s mother and she said he had come up here to
ask Knox for money. I knew it wouldn’t go well, and I wanted to …”
What had she wanted to do?
“Rescue him,” Sarah filled in.
It almost seemed as if Sarah understood and empathized.
That couldn’t be true.
“I guess,” Claire said. “After you have a relationship with
somebody … even when it ends badly …”
“I get it,” Sarah said, and Claire could swear she looked as
if she empathized. “You never quit wanting to look out for them.”
Claire nodded, while thinking, ‘I cannot trust her. It’s got
to be a trap, but it doesn’t feel fake. Is Sarah that good of an actress?’
The questioning was straightforward and Sarah didn’t throw
any curve balls. Claire told her about Knox’s altercation with the dark sedan,
and regretted she hadn’t thought to record the plate number. She told Sarah
about Knox pushing her in front of the car, and named Sister M-Squared as a
witness.
Claire studied the woman as they talked. Claire could see
how tired she was; there were dark circles underneath her eyes and she looked a
little haggard.
Claire guessed even bitches could have sorrows.
Afterward, Sarah gave her a ride down the hill, but detoured
to Sunflower Street. She parked in front of Scott’s house, where Laurie was
staying. His truck was parked out front.
“Huh,” Claire said. “He must be home.”
“He is,” Sarah said, and to Claire’s surprise, Sarah’s eyes
filled with tears. “If you would check on him, I’d appreciate it.”
Claire’s mouth fell open and she stared at Sarah.
“Just make sure he’s okay,” Sarah said. “And if he’s not,
take care of it as discreetly as possible. I can’t help you, but text me and
let me know if he’s okay.”
Claire took Sarah’s number and watched from the curb as she
drove away. She knew Sarah and Laurie had a fling after his wife died, but it
now seemed like it had meant much more to Sarah.
What the hell?
Claire pounded on the front door, but no one answered. It was
locked with a deadbolt. She went around to the back and pounded on that door,
but there was no answer. The door knob was locked but when she rattled the
door, it felt like the deadbolt was not engaged. Claire took out a credit card
and slid it between the door jam and door, where it caught the slanted edge of
the flimsy doorknob bolt; she wriggled it back and forth until she disengaged
it, and then pushed the door open.
‘Only a cop in Rose Hill would have such a piss-poor
security system,’ she thought.
“Laurie,” she called out, but he didn’t answer.
She smelled him before she found him. He was passed out on
the bed, snoring like a sleep apnea patient, with a large empty vodka bottle
next to him. He had spilled the vodka and pissed the bed. He was lucky he
hadn’t vomited and asphyxiated.
Claire regarded him. What she felt, other than
disappointment, sadness, and pity, was disgust. Okay, he wasn’t on duty, and he
wasn’t driving; he was in the privacy of his temporary home, and the only thing
he had hurt belonging to anyone else was the urine-soaked bed. Well, that and
Sarah’s heart, now that Claire knew she had one. And her own heart? Claire
didn’t want to think about that.
Did this happen because of the whiskey she’d given him the
night before? Claire felt a deep sense of shame. Whatever would or would not
eventually happen between them, she felt she owed him the effort of making sure
he was okay.
Claire called Patrick, the only person she knew who could
advise her and be trusted. He said he would come up as soon as he got someone
to watch the bar. She offered. Her dad was there, and it wouldn’t hurt to feed
him pizza and let him watch a game on the big screen while she tended bar. She
left the back door unlocked and ran down to the Rose and Thorn, gladly handing
off the responsibility for Laurie to her cousin.
“It’s a shame,” is all Patrick said.
Claire put an apron on and the locals at the bar immediately
started razzing her.
“Shut up or you’re cut off,” she said.
They grumbled but returned to watching the baseball game on
the huge, flat-screen television.
She texted Sarah: “alive and asleep.”
Sarah did not text back.
Claire gave the locals each a free shot and a beer. It
wasn’t their fault she was in such a bad mood; bitches have sorrows, too.
While she was working at the Thorn, Professor Richmond
called and asked if she was still planning to join them that evening for the Scrabble
game. Claire didn’t feel like it, but she thought she better play nice with her
prospective boss.
After Claire delivered her father home, it was past seven
and he was sleepy. She knew he would immediately fall asleep in the recliner,
but she waited for Melissa to show up before she left.
“Thank you for giving me all these evenings off while my mom
is out of town,” Claire said.
“You deserve the break,” Melissa said. “I don’t mind it; I
brought Patrick’s laptop so I could do my lessons.”
“That’s great,” Claire said.
“What did they say when you called?” Melissa asked.
“Who?”
“The po po,” Melissa said. “What did they say about the
you-know-what at the you-know-where?”
“Oh crap, I completely forgot,” Claire said. “Walk me
outside.”
Out front, where her father could not hear, Claire filled
her in on what had happened at Knox’s house.
“That man was lower than a worm’s willy,” Melissa said. “He
never done nothin’ to me, personal-like, but he done pissed off a lot of other
people in this town.”
Claire hoped Melissa’s grammar lessons would help, but she
could see it would be a tough row to hoe.
Claire walked up the steps to Professor Richmond’s
apartment, which was over the garage behind the Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast.
She could hear them before the door opened; it sounded like they were arguing.
When Professor Richmond opened the door, he had a glass of what smelled like gin
in one hand, and was wearing his half-moon reading glasses.
“Claire’s here!” he told the people inside, and Claire heard
the other two men cheer.
“My good gentlewoman,” he said, as he stood aside to let her
in. “The pretty cousin of Mary Margaret; how fares your good cousin on her trip
to the seaside?”
“I think she regrets inviting so many family members to join
them,” Claire said.
Both men, who were seated, jumped up as she entered. The
Scandinavian giant she remembered as “Torby” enveloped her slender hand between
his two giant paws and gently pressed it.
“Nice to see you again,” Claire said.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said.
The short, round, bald one with the glasses, “Ned,” bowed at
the waist.
“Welcome,” he said.
“We’re just about to finish a game,” Professor Richmond
said. “Afterward, we’ll take a break so Ned can smoke one of his loathsome
cigarettes, and then we’ll begin again with you.”
“Claire can be the judge,” Torby said.
“Yes, Claire, you decide for us,” Ned said.
“The bone of contention, as it were,” Professor Richmond said,
“is the word ‘weltschmerz.’ ”
“I thought Scrabble was played with only seven letter
tiles,” Claire said.
“We play our own version, with three sets of tiles, and
everyone gets twenty letters,” Ned said.
“The rule is we only choose words from everyday modern American
English usage,” Professor Richmond said.
“Such as it is,” Ned said, and chuckled.
“No one I have met in this country would use that word but
you,” Torby said to Ned.
“What does it mean?” Claire asked.
“It means to be disappointed because the world is not what
you wish it to be,” Ned explained to Claire. “I have many American friends who
use this word. They all know what it means.”
“Ned wishes the world used more German words,” Torby told
Claire. “He is presently experiencing weltschmerz.”
Ned didn’t seem insulted by that; he merely nodded and
smiled as he shrugged, as if to say he couldn’t disagree.
“I’ve never heard that word used before,” Claire said. “But
I know exactly what that feels like.”
“Denied,” Professor Richmond said. “Pick it up, Ned; try
again. Claire, make yourself at home, do. There are nibbly things in the
kitchen if you’re hungry. Help yourself to a drink.”
The small studio apartment was made up of a galley kitchen,
living room, bathroom, and bedroom, all tucked into 600 square feet. He had
furnished the living room for comfort, with four club chairs surrounding a low
round table, on which was placed the Scrabble board. There was a dart board on one
wall, with multiple darts stuck in it.
On another wall was a framed poster promoting the Royal
Shakespeare Theater’s
The Merry Wives of Windsor
from 2007. Judi Dench
played Mistress Quickly and Simon Callow played Falstaff; theirs were the only
names she recognized. The requisite bust of the bard was on top of the fridge,
where it wore novelty glasses sporting a mustache and big nose as well as a
bright red fez with a gold tassel.
The small cart serving as his bar was well-stocked with good
liquor, but, thinking that staying sober was the prudent choice, Claire poured
a club soda for herself and dropped in a wedge of lime.
She looked at the photos on the refrigerator, thinking it
must be a universal habit to use that surface as a gallery. There were faculty
group photos and one of a young group of actors dressed in Elizabethan garb,
lined up on a stage. There was one of a handsome young man holding up a skull;
she didn’t have to guess what role he was playing. He had signed it, ‘with love
and thanks, Rafe.’
Rafe. So refined. So not a Rose Hill name. Here it would be
Ralphie, and if he hated that he would use his middle name instead, unless that
was worse, in which case he could go by any number of nicknames, including
Buddy, Bubba, Bubby, or some horrible name assigned to him by vicious
schoolmates, like Fatty, Farty, Beanpole, or Stretch.
Claire wandered over to a nearby bookshelf, filled with the
expected Shakespeare collections and other classics she recognized from having
been made to read them in high school.
“All done,” Professor Richmond said. “I am victorious, for
once.”
“I am out for a smoke,” Ned said, and went outside.
“I am out for a piss,” Torby said, and went down the short
hallway to the bathroom.
“Professor Richmond,” Claire said.
“Please, Claire, I’ve told you, call me Alan.”
“Alan,” she said. “Have you heard anything about the
position?”
“No, love,” he said, and Claire was surprised to hear him
use such a common endearment, but he quickly reverted to his upper class
British speaking voice. “Not to worry, my dear. There is nothing either good or
bad but thinking makes it so.”
“Do you think Gwyneth Eldridge could blackball me with the
committee?”
“I suppose so, as she is on the board, but why would she?”
“I turned down a job working for her. She doesn’t like to be
told no.”
“Arch-villain, she,” he said. “Despised, distressed, hated,
martyr’d, kill’d!”
“Not quite that bad,” Claire said. “Unless she screws up
this job for me. Then all bets are off.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” he said.
“I told the committee you could get Sloan Merryweather for the film festival,
and they’re all panting to meet her. More of a scenery chewer than an actress,
to my mind, but to each his own.”
“I couldn’t, though,” Claire said. “Even if I asked her she
wouldn’t do it. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“Is that so?”
“I would be great at this job,” Claire protested. “I
graduated from a prestigious film and theater arts hair and makeup school in
Los Angeles. There’s a copy of my diploma in my application packet.”