How Do I Love Thee? (5 page)

Doggy style, sixty-nine, on my old chaise …

I giggled. I couldn’t help myself. ‘That doesn’t sound like him.’

‘Dead drunk, maybe,’ Death said. ‘But that doesn’t sound like Martin Cage to me either.’

‘We found this among his other notes-in-progress, along with …’ Slimy Symes paused for emphasis again and I could almost hear the drum roll … ‘Sleeping tablets and a broken bottle of whisky.’

‘That means nothing,’ Death argued. ‘You’d need those too, if you knew even
one
of his ex-wives!’

‘Are you defending the situation as her physician, Doc, or him as his best friend?’

‘As his boss actually. He didn’t show for work today, and now I’ve learned that he’s in custody? I’m telling you, he works too many hours here between the wards and the morgue to have any time left for such nonsense!’

‘The morgue?’ I wondered aloud.
Maybe that explained my weird dream?

‘Is that significant?’ Moser asked.

I shrugged. ‘We all die eventually.’

‘Think, please,’ Symes persisted. ‘Any little detail can be important, even something that might have been filed away as unimportant by your subconscious.’

‘Well, the poem is familiar,’ I confessed. Marty would have recognised it too. He was only reading my original and much classier version last night while I made him coffee—after finally convincing me to go to an extended-hours X-ray clinic for my ankle, and of course the Monaro refused to start after so long stuck in the garage, so he’d driven me himself, hence the coffee afterwards, and I suppose it must have been sometime then that he slipped the fateful muffins into my toaster. But if he’d written his own crass version of that poem later that night—or felt the need for alcohol or sleepers—then he left my apartment feeling more miserable than he’d looked. Even so, I could think of at least two ways it would have been my fault. Worse still, if Symes considered this evidence to be the ‘clincher’ then he was revealing only a fraction of what he knew.

‘Since you were poking around my apartment,’ I said just a little too sharply, ‘you might remember it too. You can’t miss it. It’s framed near my TV with two other favourites and
Roger’s photo. It goes: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height and …” there’s more, obviously, but you get the picture.’

‘Poems are often defined by their punchlines,’ Moser said with an unexpected spark of intelligence. ‘Can you remember what that is?’

I could, but I didn’t want to say it now. Unfortunately, I suspected they already knew, or else they’d find out soon enough. I’d downloaded the poem for free off the internet.

‘It says: “I shall but love thee better after death,”’ Moser said.

Symes glanced knowingly to Moser, then winked at me. ‘Spank me if that’s not creepy.’

‘She’s safe!’ Death insisted. ‘Marty’s harmless. His first wife took his spine, the second broke his heart and the third still returns regularly to plunder his wallet—even last week! Listen, I’d wait for one, or all three, of those witches to disappear before I’d suspect
him
of dark deeds!’

‘I didn’t know any of that,’ I said with a deepening respect for both Marty and Death. ‘But I do know the last three words
before
the last line, Mr Symes: “if God choose”.
If God choose
,’ I repeated with emphasis. ‘Surely a killer wouldn’t leave his killing to God, or else he’d take lifetimes to get the job done?’

‘Very witty,’ Symes replied. ‘I can see that cropping up in a future episode of the
Daily Grimes.
But did you know that a coffin was delivered recently to his apartment?’

‘Oh, come
on
!’ I complained. ‘If you’re going to keep punching me with bombshells, come on,
here
!’ I thrust off the bedcovers and thumped my chest with my fist. ‘Go straight for my heart, will you, and be done with it properly!’

Symes eyed me intently. ‘Very well, Mrs Hossted. If you think you’re up to it? I want to see how clever he is at keeping up appearances. An honest man would have nothing to fear, so one slip and I’ll have him.’

‘Fair enough,’ I replied. ‘How do I fit in?’

‘As bait, I’m hoping. I want you two in the same room together.’

I had no idea he meant that night in my living room.

Being discharged was a bonus for me at first, but Marty looked so dejected when Symes and Moser led him in handcuffed with his suit so dishevelled. No doubt every gossip in the building had seen them, and their car was still in the driveway with its lights flashing.

I wanted to run to Marty and hug him, but he glanced at me with such a hurt look on his face, I shrank smaller than a flea on my cat. It was all my fault—again.

‘Before we begin,’ Symes declared, leaving Marty to stand alone and shackled on my plush white rug. ‘Is there anything that either of you have to say to each other?’

‘Sorry!’ I practically shouted, and I took one step but Moser grabbed my arm and sank me onto the sofa, which was conveniently out of Marty’s reach.

Marty levelled a frown at me. Outwardly, he still held his temper, but I glimpsed pure rage in his eyes for the first time. After everything we’d been through, he was finally shoved against his limits, and now I really feared for him.

‘What did you tell them, Emily?’

‘Nothing, I swear! How could I?’

‘Then
who
accused me of being your stalker?’

‘You can answer that yourself,’ Symes interrupted. ‘You were caught in the act by the ambos.’

‘Doing what? Leaving a note to let her know that I’d fed her cat?’

‘Indeed. On the surface, such an innocent and kind-natured act. Unfortunately for you, a keen-eyed paramedic also noticed the charred remains of the same calling card on the toaster that you’d obviously used to try to kill her.’

‘My fault!’ I insisted. ‘That was totally and utterly my fault. I thought I’d turned it off at the wall before poking around in it!’

‘Mrs Hossted,’ Symes pleaded. ‘Calm down, please. I told you we had more evidence and we do. This note …’ He clicked his fingers and Moser pulled out his briefcase from behind his back.

How the hell does he hide that?

In no time, Moser was waving Exhibit B: a clear plastic bag with a post-it-note inside, and on it, the same sweet, silly smile sketched shakily by Marty’s black pen, except the lip and one eye had blurred in two patches as if by tear drops.

‘We found this in your bathroom, and spank me if that’s not creepy, too.’

‘I turned off her shower!’ Marty insisted. ‘Nothing more! Look, I’ve already told you what happened. I heard her smoke alarm go off, and when I knocked to see if she was okay, she didn’t answer. I knew she should have been home, so I used my universal key to the building and found her in the kitchen. I gave her CPR until she started breathing again, then called the ambulance. After they took over, I went about securing her apartment because I knew, as standard procedure, they’d have to take her to hospital.’

‘Yes, so you say,’ Symes replied. ‘But who in the world is stupid or careless enough to leave a shower running when they’re just starting to cook breakfast?’

I raised my hand sheepishly.

Symes and Moser both shifted their feet uncomfortably.

‘What about your shelf company?’ Moser demanded. ‘You stand to make a wild profit from her dead or alive!’

‘Actually, I’ll be lucky to break even. It’s like this,’ he sighed as if defeated. ‘The top four apartments were all owned by octogenarians who were needing to move into either nursing homes or more convenient, smaller units on the ground floor, while the ground floor units were owned by investors who didn’t mind making a quick buck by selling to me. And since everybody hates tax, and since tax is mainly payable on the property itself, not usually any inclusions, I simply arranged to buy the apartments for the same price the owners bought them themselves, plus a little extra for inflation. Then the rest will be paid in cash after settlement for any curtains, furniture or whatever else that stays in the unit—just as if I’d bought them at a subsequent garage sale. And provided the tax office doesn’t realise I paid more for the rugs than the rooms they were in, everybody’s happy. Most of all, Emily, who’s just been through the worst possible time you could imagine. The last thing she needed was to be forced out of her own home.’

I leapt to my feet, shoved Moser aside and lunged my arms around Marty, nearly bowling him over.

‘Get these cuffs off him!’ I demanded. ‘Right now!’

Symes gaped like a fish for a long moment, but then gave the nod to Moser, who had the key in his Tardis briefcase.
‘Sincerely sorry, Dr Cage. Ten years and two hundred cases I spent in Homicide, and my instinct has never been wrong before this.’

‘Everyone’s entitled to at least one bad day,’ Marty replied. He hugged me a little tighter and I hugged him back with everything I had.

‘I think you can both leave now,’ I suggested in the same tone as Marty’s. ‘You can send a formal apology to him through the building management committee tomorrow so everyone in the building knows he’s completely innocent.’

Symes nodded and Moser packed up his briefcase.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Marty whispered. ‘I’ll never have anything to fear from you, will I?’

I didn’t know how to answer that. Disaster seemed to follow us everywhere. ‘I’d expect you to be terrified!’

He grinned and I wasn’t exactly sure why. ‘You saved my life?’ I asked, nuzzling into his warm, five-o’clock-shadowed neck. ‘Marty, you’re so polite, but I thought you hated me, that you’d be glad to be rid of me first chance you got.’

‘Hate
you
?’ he whispered into my hair. ‘It’s a wonder you’re not psychologically scarred
for life
after what I did to you!’

I pushed away from him enough so he could see me wink. ‘Oh, and how was that, sir? You’ve never been anything but a perfect gentleman since we met in the stairwell.’

He laughed and I barely registered that Symes and Moser were on their way out.

‘There you go again, Emily. Your smile kills me, and me without my notepad or pen. There is one other way I can repay you now though—provided you don’t mind if I engage another popular purpose for lips?’

‘Oh, thanks, but I’m sure I’ve had my fill of muffins for a
long
time.’

His grin widened, making his eyes sparkle, and I was lost in them.

‘No, no, it’s like this: love is a slow kiss, Emily. So—may I love you?’

His face drew closer to mine and my skin prickled with expectation.

Symes coughed from the doorway, interrupting us. ‘There was just one more thing I meant to ask, Dr Cage, about that delivery last week to your apartment? Who’s the coffin for?’

A
NN
C
HARLTON

‘Let me count the ways …’

‘A
VPR1A
. It’s the male monogamy gene,’ I said. Julia snorted.

‘I told you about it ages ago. Men with one or two copies of variant 334 on AVPR1A are less likely to commit to a relationship, and if they do, they’re more likely to cheat. But
he
has no copies of variant 334, which means he’s predisposed to monogamy.’ I skimmed some froth from the top of my cappuccino and sampled it. Warm, generous, delectable froth with caffeine lurking beneath.

‘
Who
has no copies of the cheating variant?’

‘Keith Fa—’ I just managed to bite down on the surname. ‘Forget I said that. I’m not supposed to have his name in the front office, only the code number. Email screw-up from the laboratory. Not that it matters much. The sample came from a collection lab and the order could have come from anywhere in the country. Or from any other country for that matter.’

Julia raised her eyebrows and waited, a sign that further explanation was required.

‘It’s a perfect genetic profile,’ I said, recalling the moment of discovery. ‘A perfectly normal day in the lab office and suddenly there was his file. An actual man with no variant 334.’

‘Not
actual
,’ she pointed out. ‘Cass, this monogamy gene can’t be proven. I would have read about it in
Cosmopolitan
.’

‘It’s still controversial,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s the best rational predictor of male fidelity we’ve got so far.’ I licked some powdered chocolate from my lips. ‘He’s got a profile to die for, genetically speaking.’ I looked for no good reason at the coffee shop’s plaster reproduction of Eros.
Caffe l’amour
, the shop was called in false promise. ‘I never thought I’d see an AVPR1A with no 334.’ I took my first sip of the life-affirming espresso. Hot and strong. ‘But, of course, I’ll never meet him.’

Julia, wryly. ‘This is a bittersweet moment.’

That was exactly the right word. Bittersweet. To know one such man existed and no more than that.

‘How do you know,’ she said, after some thought, ‘that the police didn’t order this test to match him up to the DNA in an axe murder?’

‘Our lab doesn’t do police work,’ I said, offended that she could think Keith might be a crim. ‘And anyway, he’s low on indicators for violence and criminality.’ And thinking of Simon’s lack of appreciation for my oil paintings, I added, ‘And high for creativity.’

‘Aha,’ said Julia, pointing her Lifestyle Shortbread cookie at me. ‘Gay.’

I was disappointed that she couldn’t see Keith’s full potential. So it was with a hint of triumph that I told her his chromosomes indicated hetero. ‘And,’ I said protectively, before she could accuse him of being seventy-five and past it, ‘he’s thirty-four.’

Julia looked hard at me. ‘Cass. It’s a lab report. It isn’t real.’

‘Simon was real,’ I said, with the familiar sensation of something shrivelling inside. ‘Told me I was His Destiny, and for the last four months we were together he was having it off with a fellow jogger.’ I’d actually admired Simon’s discipline and applauded his healthy nightly runs, in training for a marathon. Nothing makes you feel more stupid than admiring a fraud.