A Drunkard's Path (27 page)

Jesse looked up at me blankly.

I walked over to his desk and touched his shoulder. He moved away.

“Am I interrupting something?” I asked. “If I am . . .”

“No.”

“Oh good.” I smiled but I felt a little unsure. Still, I decided to press on. Jesse, I knew, was tired and overworked. He needed the break I could bring him. “I was hoping you were having a dull evening and we could hang out.”

“I’ve got work,” he said.

“Well take a break,” I teased. I leaned down and kissed him, but he didn’t kiss back.

I straightened up. “If you’d rather I leave . . .”

I waited, but Jesse didn’t answer. I took a step toward the door. Jesse put his glasses back on and looked at me as if we had never met.

“Sit down.”

His voice was flat, unemotional, all business. And it made me angry. Whatever was going on with him, he didn’t have to take it out on me. I was about to tell him that, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t in the mood to listen.

“What is it?” I said as I sat in the chair across from him.

He leaned back and looked at me. “The results on the fingerprints came back this afternoon.”

“What fingerprints?”

“The fingerprints from Sandra’s apartment.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face. Jesse was watching me closely, and I was trying hard to seem interested but detached, as if the results had nothing to do with me. But I was actually searching my brain, replaying my little foray into Sandra’s apartment. I didn’t wear gloves; that much I remembered. But what had I touched? What was there to touch?

Then it hit me. The wallet. I had held it, opened it, searched through it. Of course he’d checked it for fingerprints. But I could say that Sandra had dropped it during class and I picked it up, looked through it for identification, and handed it back to her. Easy. He couldn’t prove otherwise.

I tried to breathe again.

“So what did you find?” I asked as casually as my rapidly beating heart would allow.

“You.” Jesse leaned back in his chair. It seemed as if he were trying to get as far from me as possible. “I found your prints on the windowsill and on several kitchen cabinets.”

“How can you know that?” I stammered.

“I have them on file from the last time you interfered in a police investigation, remember?”

I remembered. “I knew Sandra,” I said weakly.

“Not that well. Not well enough to be in her apartment, unless you would like to change your story.”

“My story?”

“What you told me the night she was murdered.”

“Yes, that’s what I told my boyfriend. I wasn’t aware that you were questioning me as the chief of police.”

Jesse frowned. “Why were you in her apartment?”

“I’m not a suspect.”

He sat up again and looked straight at me. “Yes, you are.”

“You think I killed Sandra?”

“No.” It was clear that he was getting angry but he was trying his best to keep it under control. “You are a suspect in a breaking and entering at the apartment of a murder victim.”

His eyes never moved from mine but finally I couldn’t stand his distance. My voice turned flat and I stared him down.

“Are you going to charge me?” I asked.

He slammed his fist on his desk and I jumped in my seat. “How could you do this? Are you an idiot?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I raised my voice, the best defense being a desperate offense.

“I assume you were playing detective even though I’d asked you not to.”

I lowered my eyes. What was there to say? He had me and he knew it.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

Jesse’s face went red and he seemed ready to kill me. “Let’s get back to my question. What were you doing in Sandra’s apartment?”

I looked at him, hoping for some understanding. “I wanted to see if there was anything that tied her to Lily.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” I took a deep breath. There was no point in lying any more. “I did find one thing. I found a photograph that was similar to the one that Susanne’s nephew described.”

“You found?” he asked. “Is it the photo that Greg said he found in the wallet after it was in evidence?”

I nodded. Jesse tapped his fingers on the desk and said nothing, though it looked as if he might explode at any moment. I waited for him to calm down. Actually, I hoped he would calm down, but it didn’t seem likely anytime soon.

“I know you’re mad,” I finally said.

He clenched his jaw.

“And I was wrong,” I said. “I knew that even at the time.”

“Good for you.”

“But she was found dead a few feet from my house. The main suspect is my grandmother’s boyfriend. I needed to know.”

“And I told you I would find out.”

“Of course you will, but—”

“You don’t belong in this investigation,” he said.

“Neither does Powell, but for some reason you’re letting him help.” Jesse’s face went white. I’d gone too far.

He waved his hand as if to dismiss me. “I’m not going to charge you,” he finally said. “You should go home.”

I would have been relieved but there was a coldness in his voice that frightened me more than facing arrest.

“Let’s not let this ruin things between us,” I said quickly, softening my voice to that of a girlfriend trying to end a lovers’ quarrel.

“Go home, Nell.”

“I was wrong. I know I was wrong. But this is ridiculous. What we have—”

“We don’t have anything. Not anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we talk about this,” I said. Knowing that we were past the criminal activity and on to the relationship, I felt on more solid ground.

But Jesse didn’t see it my way. He stood up and took my arm, pulling me from the chair.

“Go home,” he said in a voice full of contempt.

He walked me over to his office door and led me out. Then he closed the door behind me.

I stood there, trying to think of the words that would change his mind. I could hear him walk back to his desk and get on the phone. I couldn’t hear who he was talking to or what it was about. As I pushed my ear against the door, I realized that I was doing exactly what had angered him in the first place—sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.

I walked past Greg, still writing on his legal pad, and out of the police station. The wind had picked up and it slapped me across the face. I thought about going back to the quilt shop and working on my Irish chain in the hopes of recapturing some of the peace I’d felt just an hour before, but I didn’t have the focus for it.

Instead I walked in circles around town, looking at the closed shops and into the window of Moran’s Bar. There were plenty of people inside enjoying the evening, but that just depressed me.

Instead I found myself heading toward the river, toward the very spot where Jesse had dragged Lily’s body out of the water. Dead leaves and wet snow had reclaimed the area and there was no sign left of the tragedy that had happened there. But for me there was a new tragedy. I sat down on the cold, wet ground and let go of the emotion I’d been holding inside.

I cried for so long that I thought I would never stop, but eventually I didn’t have any tears left inside me—just a hollow pain and the realization that I had betrayed Jesse’s trust. I knew he felt that if I’d respected him I would have left the investigation to him. Somehow I had belittled his abilities when that was the last thing I’d ever intended.

But slowly the thought crept in my head—if he respected me, he would know that I couldn’t just step over a dead body and leave it for others to fix. I didn’t need or want to stand behind some man who would protect me from danger. I wanted to protect myself. If Jesse was looking for some damsel-in-distress type then he didn’t really want me.

I stood up, suddenly aware of how cold it was. I wiped the tears from my face and started back toward the road.

I had made a mistake when I broke into Sandra’s apartment. Jesse was right about that. But the mistake was not wearing gloves.

Next time I wouldn’t be that stupid.

 

 

 

 

I
walked into class on Thursday determined to walk out with answers. I’d lain low for the last few days, still stung by my fight with Jesse. But now, with Kennette and Oliver about to be in the same room, I was back on the investigation.

“There’s no still life,” Kennette whispered to me as she got out her charcoal.

I looked down at the empty table where usually there was a display of fruit, pastries, bottles, or something that we could draw.

“Maybe he’s bringing it with him,” I whispered back. But just what “it” was, I didn’t know.

“Good morning, class.” Oliver walked in smiling. “I have a bit of a surprise for you today. You’ve all been doing such terrific work that I thought we would forgo doing a still life today and try something different. It’s a bit more complex, but all I ask is that you take your time, focus your attention, and let yourselves find the emotion in the object.”

The entire class stood at attention, confused and excited. Oliver was good at creating drama even when he wasn’t painting. He pointed to the door and all eyes turned. In walked a young woman wearing a bathrobe. He directed her to the table and helped her as she climbed onto it.

It was clear that the “object” he wanted us to paint was a nude model. As we stood at our easels, the woman took off her robe and posed, one foot slightly turned and in front of the other, her hands laced behind her back. I stood with my charcoal in my hand, unable to decide where to start.

“Just draw boxes.” Oliver was behind me and I found myself suddenly embarrassed that we were both looking at a nude woman.

“Boxes?” I asked.

Oliver lifted a ruler from my easel and held it in front of him. He squinted and seemed to be studying the woman.

“Look at the proportions and draw the figure as a group of boxes that correspond to the pose. Once you have the proportions correct, it will be easier to draw the lines and shapes.” He handed me the ruler.

I nodded and held the ruler up as he had. But instead of figuring out the proportions of the model, I was trying to watch Oliver as he spoke with Kennette. Though it was difficult to see without being obvious, I could hear what they were saying just behind my easel.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” Kennette said to Oliver.

“You are one of my most talented students. Just take it one step at a time.”

“But she’s naked,” Kennette said. “I know it’s stupid . . .”

“You have seen a naked woman before.” His voice seemed tired. “And in this case she is merely a model. Nothing more. She is not a nude woman. She is not even a person. She is a series of curves and shadows; a way for you to express your emotions. I have every confidence that you will be able to do that.”

Oliver moved on and I turned and smiled at Kennette, who smiled shyly back. It was despicable of me, but I realized that Kennette’s nervousness about the model was the perfect opening to ask her about the painting in Oliver’s house.

That would have to wait, though. I needed to focus on drawing the model and at least have something to show at the end of the class. I held up my ruler and squinted as Oliver had instructed. I determined the proportions of the head, the torso, the arms, and the legs. I lightly drew my boxes and then reshaped them to form the curves of the female form. I found myself staring at her and seeing only shadows and lines.

Halfway through the class, I realized that I was seeing the model exactly as Oliver described. To an artist, she wasn’t a woman: She was an object.

But I guess a killer would feel the same way.

As soon as class ended, Oliver disappeared. I hadn’t yet decided who I would speak to first, or what I might say, but since I was left with only Kennette, I turned to her drawing. As always, it was an amazing work—simple yet emotional.