Nervous Water (9 page)

“Joint custody,” said Ed. He looked at Elizabeth, and she nodded.

“Okay, good,” I said. “We'll have to decide precisely how that's going to work for you and your children. But it's great to have that settled in principle. Number five involves how you pay your kids' school tuitions. College and private school, if you go in that direction. That's about all there is to it. Those five issues. Now all we've got to do is work out the details.” I paused, then said, “How does this sound to you?” I looked at each of them. “Ed?”

“Fine.” He nodded quickly. “Good.”

I arched my eyebrows at Elizabeth.

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“And you're both committed to getting divorced, right?”

They nodded and shrugged some more.

“Because if you're not committed,” I continued, “if one or the other of you has doubts or reservations, you should consider seeing a marriage counselor and trying to work it out. Or if doubts or reservations should arise during this process, if either of you starts to have second thoughts, it's important that you say so. We can suspend this process any time right up to the day you're scheduled to go to court. Understand?”

They exchanged glances, and I thought I detected the brief flicker of silent communication that married couples almost always develop regardless of the issues that divide them, the quick look that at a social gathering means, “Let's make an excuse so we can get the hell out of here,” or, “I see the way you're ogling that slut. We'll deal with it later.”

Elizabeth looked at me and gave a tiny nod.

Ed said, “We understand.”

“Okay then,” I said. “Your first homework assignment will be to list all your assets. Real estate. Personal property like furniture, appliances, cars, boats, jewelry. Investments, credit-card accounts, bank accounts, insurance policies. Write down everything. Every chair, every towel, every coffee mug and power tool, along with its value. Include your incomes and your debts. I'll give each of you some worksheets. I want you to fill them out separately. Omit nothing, even if there's something you think you don't own jointly. We'll use these lists to decide who ends up with what, how we divide the pie in half.” I paused until they were both looking at me. “Full disclosure is important,” I said. “It's also a legal requirement. If one of you owns something, has a secret bank account or some source of income, anything that the other one doesn't know about, and you leave it off your list, it not only violates each other's trust in this process—and mine, as well—but also you'll be breaking the law. Understand?”

More shrugs and nods.

“Okay then,” I said. “The way it usually goes is, we meet once or twice a week for two or three hours. You pay Julie at the end of each session. No down payment or retainer or anything like that. For every session, each of you will have some homework to do. If all goes well, we'll finish up in four or five sessions. Do each of you have your own lawyer?”

“I thought you were our lawyer,” said Ed.

“Part of my job is to explain the law to you,” I said, “but I'm not your lawyer. I won't represent you in court. What I am is, I'm your mediator. I require that each of you arrange to have a lawyer look over your agreement when we're done. I can give you some names if you want.” I leaned forward. “Any questions at this point?”

Ed and Elizabeth Sanborn looked at each other. Then Elizabeth shook her head and pushed herself away from the table. “I can't do this,” she said softly. She stood up, picked up her purse, and hugged it against her chest. Tears had welled up in her eyes.

Ed stood up and reached his hand across the table. “Honey, come on. We talked about this.”

“Don't call me honey.”

“But we agreed,” he said.

She blew out a breath. “It's so…so cold. Our marriage comes down to who gets what?”

He put his hands flat on the table and leaned toward her. “So whose fault is that?”

“Hang on,” I said. “Hold it right there.”

They both looked at me.

“Sit down, Ed,” I said.

He blinked at me, then sat.

“Elizabeth?”

She sat down, too.

“You two want to argue,” I said, “okay by me. You want to do it in my office, that's fine, too. You're paying me by the hour. But I'm not interested, and I'm not going to listen to it. When you guys figure out what you want to do, let me know. I'll be in the other room.”

I snapped my fingers at Henry, and he got to his feet and followed me out of the office. I closed the door behind us.

I poured myself a mug of coffee and sat on the sofa across from Julie's desk. Henry curled up on the rug beside her.

“They having second thoughts?” She jerked her head in the direction of the conference room.

I nodded.

“She cheated on him, you know,” Julie said.

“Oh?”

“He's been cheating on her, too,” she said, “except she doesn't know it.”

“You overheard them talking?”

“Of course not. I'd never eavesdrop. They got here ten minutes before you. Their body language was unmistakable. She's racked with guilt. Thinks she still loves him. Hates the idea of divorce, what it would do to the kids, but believes she's unworthy. He's a hypocrite, playing the martyr, but feeling guilty, too.”

I shook my head. “How do you know these things?”

“I'm a woman.”

“You certainly are,” I said. “So you give them better than even odds even with all that shit bubbling under the surface?”

“All that shit,” she said, “her guilt, his secrets, it makes both of them highly motivated.”

“Boy,” I said, “I'm glad I'm not a marriage counselor.” I looked at my watch. “What do you think? Five more minutes?”

“Not even,” she said.

About two minutes later, the door to the reception room opened and Elizabeth poked her head out. “We're all set now,” she said.

I stood up. “What about some coffee?”

“Sure,” she said. “We both take milk, no sugar.”

 

We finished up a little after four. I told Ed and Elizabeth Sanborn to take care of things with Julie on their way out. I made a few notes and slipped them into their folder, and a few minutes later Julie knocked on my open door.

“Come on in,” I said.

She came in, put a fresh mug of coffee in front of me, and sat down. “How'd it go?”

“They were all business,” I said. “We'll see.”

“They made an appointment,” she said. “Friday morning, ten o'clock. I think they're over the hump.”

“There'll be more humps.”

She put Cassie's cell phone on the table and pushed it to me. “I got it sort of working.”

“Dead battery?”

Julie nodded. “It's the same make as mine. My jack fit it. When I plugged it in, it worked.”

“Well, good. Thanks. So now what can I do with it?”

“Nothing. It won't work unless it's plugged in. The battery doesn't seem to take a charge. You'd have to get a new battery for it if you wanted to use it.”

“I don't want to use it,” I said. “I thought it would have some information.”

Julie nodded and handed me a piece of paper. “I copied out all the numbers she had stored in her phone book.”

I looked at the paper. There were two columns of codes and numbers, single-spaced. “A lot of numbers,” I said.

“Fifty-eight,” said Julie.

“When I tried to call this phone,” I said, “I got a message that her voice-mail box was full. Did they automatically give that message because the battery was dead, or is it really full?”

“It's really full. I already tried calling it.”

“You think of everything.”

“Pretty much,” she said.

“Is there any way we can get into her voice mail, listen to her messages?”

“Not without her password,” she said. “Any idea what she might use for a password?”

I shook my head. “Wouldn't know where to begin.” I skimmed down through the list of numbers Julie had written down, along with the names beside them. Many different area codes were represented. Most of the names were just first names or initials or what appeared to be nicknames.

One of them was “M. C.” That was Moses Crandall. I recognized his number in Maine.

It occurred to me that most women would list their father's number under “Dad” or “Daddy” in their cell phone.

I noticed “James” and “Becca.” I assumed they were Hurley's children. There was also a “Faith” with a 401 area code, which I knew was Rhode Island. Faith Thurlow, I assumed. Cassie's aunt. Mine, too.

I folded the piece of paper, stuck it in my shirt pocket, and said, “Thank you,” to Julie.

“You planning to call all those numbers?” she said.

“Hell no. I was planning on having you call them.”

“Now just a minute,” she said. “I don't—”

I held up my hand. “That was a joke.”

“Yeah. Funny.” Julie rolled her eyes.

“I'm not sure what I'm going to do,” I said.

“You pick out a couple numbers you want me to try for you, okay,” she said. “You know I'm always happy to help. But fifty-eight…”

“I know,” I said. “We'll see. Roger Horowitz didn't call, did he?”

Julie frowned. “Lieutenant Horowitz? Why would he call?”

“I asked him to check something for me.”

She tapped Cassie's cell phone with her forefinger. “About this?”

I nodded.

“What's going on, Brady?”

“It's about my cousin. Uncle Moze's daughter. She's sort of missing.” I told Julie about how Uncle Moze wanted me to help reconcile him with Cassie, and about my two trips to Madison, about meeting Hurley and his two grown kids, and about my conversations with Howard Litchfield.

When I was done, she said, “Wait a minute. You stole this phone?”

“I liberated it.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what are you thinking?”

I spread out my hands. “Either Cassie took off or…or something's happened to her.”

“You think the dentist…?”

“I'm trying not to leap to conclusions,” I said. “But Hurley was singularly unforthcoming, and his son was downright hostile, and the neighbor observed suspicious activity next door late at night.” I shrugged. “I just want to catch up with Cassie and see if I can talk her into putting things right with Uncle Moze before it's too late.”

“Well,” said Julie, “those phone numbers should give you a start.” She started to stand up, then snapped her fingers and sat down again. “Evie's secretary called. She's going to be late tonight. Said she'd take care of dinner.”

“How late?”

Julie shook her head. “She didn't say. Can't be too late if she's bringing dinner.”

“Did Gina happen to say why Evie was going to be late?”

“She said something about a meeting. I didn't ask.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

Julie narrowed her eyes at me. “Is she all right?”

“Who, Evie?”

She nodded.

“What makes you say that?” I said.

“I don't know.” She waved her hand in the air. “Nothing. I know how stressful her work is.”

“Yes,” I said, “she's been working too hard. Hospitals are going under left and right. She's pretty much responsible for keeping the place afloat.”

“I'm sure that's it,” said Julie.

 

Henry and I got home a little after six. I gave him a Milk-Bone, changed my clothes, mixed myself a gin and tonic, and took the house phone and the glass out to the back garden.

I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, sipped my drink, and checked the phone's voice mail. I was hoping that Evie had left an I-love-you message for me.

She hadn't.

 

She got home a little after eight. I was on my second gin and tonic. I asked her if she wanted one, but she declined. “I'm starved,” she said. “Let's eat.”

She'd brought home a sausage-and-pepper sub for me and an Italian for herself. We ate off waxed paper at the picnic table in the garden, with bottles of Sam Adams to wash it down and Henry under the table to collect errant crumbs.

I asked about her day. It had been busy, boring, and stressful. Didn't want to talk about it.

She asked about mine. I told her I had started mediation with a new couple. She nodded and didn't ask any questions about them, which wasn't like her.

We finished our subs, watched darkness seep into our little backyard, sipped our beers.

After a while, Evie said she wanted to take a bath. We brought the trash into the house. She went upstairs. I turned on the TV in the living room and found a Red Sox game.

A little while later Evie came downstairs. She was wearing a pair of my boxer shorts and one of my old extra large T-shirts. The neck was torn so that it hung over one bare shoulder. Her long auburn hair was damp. It flowed down her back like a waterfall. She was barefoot and bare-legged, and somewhere along the way she'd picked up a coppery all-over tan.

Wow.

I crooked my finger at her, and she came over, sat on my lap, and kissed my ear. “What's the score?”

“Six to four, good guys. It's the bottom of the ninth. Up to the bullpen.”

“Our bullpen sucks,” she said. She wiggled her butt in my lap. “I completely forgot to ask about your uncle. How's he doing? Any news?”

“Not that good,” I said. I slid my hand under her T-shirt. Her skin felt soft and smooth and electric. When I slipped my fingers under the waistband of her boxer shorts, she shivered, and her breath caught in her throat. Then she sighed, touched my hand, and guided it safely up onto her hip. She patted it and held it there.

“Uncle Moze is stable,” I said. “Resting comfortably, to be precise.” I experimentally tried to slide my hand up to her breast.

She gripped it and put it back onto her hip. “Don't,” she said. “Okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

“Tell me what you've been up to,” she said.

I told her about going to Madison, walking around the Hurley house with the full intention of entering if I'd found an unlocked door, finding Cassie's cell phone in her car, talking with Howard Litchfield.

“You stole her phone?”

“Why does everybody say that?” I said. “You, Julie, Horowitz. I took it, that's all. I didn't steal it. When I catch up with her, I'll give it back to her.”

“Wait a minute,” said Evie. “Did you say Horowitz?”

“It's not what you think,” I said.

“Roger's a homicide detecive.”

“Yes,” I said. “This isn't about any homicide. I just asked him to talk with the Madison police for me, see what they knew about the dentist. Which reminds me. He didn't get back to me yet.”

“He will,” said Evie. “Roger always does what he says he'll do.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I told him I'd buy lunch for him. He loves Marie's lobster ravioli. He'll call.”

About then the Oriole pinch hitter whacked a long fly ball that Trot Nixon caught at the edge of the warning track in front of the bullpen, and then all the Sox players swarmed out to the mound to shake the pitcher's hand and pat his ass.

Evie slid off my lap, kissed the top of my head, gave me a quick hug, and went back upstairs.

I let Henry out back to do his chores. Then I put together the next morning's coffee, let Henry back in, gave him his bedtime Milk-Bone, and turned off the kitchen lights.

By the time I slipped into bed, Evie was asleep.