Death in a Funhouse Mirror (3 page)

"Yes, here in Anson. Thank you, Thea. I'll be looking for you." Eve hung the phone up quickly, as though she was afraid I'd change my mind.

I went back out to the deck to tell Andre. He was sitting sideways on the chaise, looking at the water, a pleasant, relaxed look on his face. When he saw me, his expression changed. I sat down beside him and put a hand on his thigh. "Something's wrong."

He shook his head. "It's nothing," and went back to looking at the sea.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me."

He turned around so that he was straddling the chair, facing me. "Okay, you asked," he said. His face was set and he wouldn't meet my eyes. A hard little knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. "I know what we've said about commitment. About not rushing things," he said. "And I understand your reasons. I know all about your defenses." He drew imaginary circles in the air. "The barbed wire here. The stone wall here. The moatful of crocodiles." He drew a fourth ring. "And other intangibles here. I know you're afraid to make another commitment after losing David. I respect that." There was a husky, intimate quality to his voice. He wasn't just talking, he was telling me something. "But three weeks is too long to be without you." He hesitated. "There were nights when I came back to my apartment and sat there alone in the dark and ached for you. For your hand on my shoulder. For you to ask how my day was. Just to look at you." He stopped talking and sat staring at my face. He was wearing his impassive policeman's face now, but his dark eyes were troubled. He didn't seem to know what to say next. He brushed a wayward strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering, caressing my cheek. "You are so lovely. Sometimes when I look at you, it takes my breath away."

That did it, of course. I forgot what I'd been about to tell him, forgot about Eve, forgot to be nervous about what he was going to say, and leaned forward into his arms. Having someone talk to me like that takes
my
breath away. I'm constantly being surprised by Andre, by how good he is, and how good he makes me feel. How open and real he can be, despite his infuriating cop's ability to be completely opaque. It's something I never expected to have again.

I'd gone home with my husband, David, the first night we met, and never left again. We'd settled into a blissful happily-ever-after that suited us perfectly, but it only lasted two years, until the night David let an inebriated friend talk him into taking a joy ride in the friend's new car. The friend had wrapped David and the car around a tree, killed David and walked away with a few scratches and a broken arm. When he came to apologize after the funeral, I broke his nose and gave him two black eyes. It made me feel a little better, but for a long time I tried not to feel anything at all, to avoid being hurt again.

I was still prickly as a porcupine when I met Andre, unwilling to risk another relationship. From the start he had challenged my defenses, forcing me to be more honest with myself and more open with him. We had a good thing going—weekends and vacations together while retaining the freedom we both wanted for ourselves and our work. Now it sounded like he was looking for something more and I wasn't sure I was ready.

We ended up back in bed again. Afterwards, in the shower, I told him I had to leave. "I called Eve. She was very upset and Eve's pretty unflappable. She begged me to come and be with her. I told her I'd come this afternoon."

He made a face. "And since I insisted you call, I can't complain, can I? Can I at least come with you? I could answer the door, or help with the dishes. Or make coffee. I make great coffee."

"You'd be bored to death."

"I'd be with you. Besides, in my business, I'm used to being bored. At waiting patiently and watching. It's one of the things I'm good at." It was true, too.

"I didn't want to leave you anyway," I said. "Sure it isn't the lure of a crime scene, and not me, that's drawing you?" I was teasing, but a part of me was curious to see how he'd react to a crime that wasn't on his own patch. He gets as wrapped up in his work as I do.

He splashed water in my face. "Don't be silly," he said, "I'd follow you even if there was no crime."

We dressed quickly and without discussion, Andre in khaki slacks and a blue and white shirt, me in a dark flowered skirt and a white shirt. I pulled my hair back and fastened it with a barrette. We took my car. Andre drives the regulation unmarked Chevy washtub all the state police detectives drive. The State of Maine may think they're okay, but I think they have all the style of a marshmallow squashed by an elephant. I like something a bit more luxurious. I'm a confirmed Saab owner—the last one saved my life—especially since I got my new bright red one with all the fixings. I even have a car phone, which the salesman threw in for free, probably so he could keep me in the showroom and stare at my cleavage longer.

We stopped at a grocery store on the way, both knowing how it can be after a family death, and picked up the supplies Eve and her father might need. Coffee and cream. Coffee cake and doughnuts. Bread and stuff to make sandwiches. Fresh fruit. And a chicken, for soup. After David died, I was so numb I couldn't even fix myself a meal. My partner, Suzanne, ignoring my protests, bullied her way in with a big pot of chicken soup and fed me like a toddler. Before that, I was skeptical about the therapeutic powers of chicken soup. After that, I was a true believer. In Suzanne and the soup.

Eve's parents' house was an imposing brick structure with mock gothic windows, a slate roof, and a round white-pillared portico over the door. It looked like it ought to be set among several acres of landscaped grounds, but in fact, while it was nicely landscaped, it was sandwiched on a small lot between two other equally imposing piles in radically different styles. One step more elegant than the current trend toward tract mansions, but still too crowded for me. Today the usually quiet, empty street was dotted with cars, and a uniformed officer was stationed by the front door.

I think cops have an instinctive recognition of one another, because he passed Andre with a nod and challenged me. I have a little trouble with authority figures. My back stiffened and my head went up but before I could respond Andre murmured, "Easy, Thea, he's just doing his job."

I substituted a smile for the snarl that was forming. "I'm Thea Kozak. Eve asked me to come." Before he could decide whether or not I was a suitable applicant, the door flew open and Eve hurled herself into my arms. I hugged her, and, keeping one arm tightly around her shoulders, led her back into the house. Andre came behind us with the groceries. I led her straight to the back of the house and into the kitchen. Andre put the bags down and shook her hand, and I put on the kettle for tea.

Eve climbed up on a stool, perching cross-legged on the top like a little imp. Her shiny black cap of hair was tousled, and she was wearing a black and white polka dot sleeveless minidress with a big collar over black bicycle shorts. Her eyes and nose were red, and she'd bitten her lips until they were raw. I took a Chapstick out of my bag and handed it to her. She took it with a smile. "You've been doing this as long as I can remember, Thea. Giving me Chapstick and making me tea. Sometimes I forget how nice it is to have a friend." She cast a quick glance at the door to the dining room. "I think this is the first normal moment I've had all day. The place is crawling with cops."

She looked at Andre, who was putting things in the refrigerator. "No offense, Detective. I'm just not used to it." She shook her head. "I can't believe it. Helene dead. God! I got there, to the hospital last night, just in time to see her die. I'm sorry. I guess I should ask, before I just blurt all this stuff out. It's pretty unpleasant. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, Eve. You can say whatever you want."

She tipped her head sideways, like a bright-eyed bird. "In front of him?"

"He's a homicide detective, Eve. He's spent a lot of time in situations like this. It won't make him uncomfortable. It depends on how you feel."

She shook her head, flipped her hair back away from her face, nibbled on a nail, a mass of nervous mannerisms. "Sorry. That wasn't a fair question. I guess I wanted you to read my mind, figure out what it is that I want. Don't mind me, I'm so muddled I couldn't think my way out of a paper bag today. Of course he can stay."

She stared past me toward the bright day outside with unfocused eyes. "I just can't stop thinking about it. She was butchered, Thea. I've never seen so much blood. It was like someone hated her. Wanted to destroy her. He must have stood there and slashed at her, again and again. She had those cuts... what do they call them? Defensive cuts... all over her hands and arms. Two of her fingers were nearly cut off. But the Coffeys were home, and the Desjardins, and no one heard anything. No one helped her."

Her voice rose, shrill and strained, on the verge of losing control. "She was only a minute from home. Crawling along the sidewalk leaving a trail of her own blood. It's still out there, all over the sidewalk. Why wasn't Cliff out there with her? Maybe if there had been two of them, it wouldn't have happened." Behind me, the kettle added its own shrill cry to hers. She swayed on her perch and would have fallen if Andre hadn't braced her with his arm. She leaned against him wearily and closed her eyes.

"Do you want to go upstairs, Eve?" I asked. "To your old room?" She nodded. "You might lie down for a while. Andre could take you and I'll be up in a minute with the tea."

"Don't treat me like a child, Thea," she said.

I'd forgotten how touchy she could be. "I never suggested you were," I said. "Sometimes we
all
need taking care of." I gave Andre directions, still not sure whether she was going to cooperate, but she didn't object when he put an arm around her and steered her toward the door, her head resting against his shoulder.

I felt a momentary twinge, seeing him with his arm around another woman, then I stepped on it, hard, and squelched the thought. He probably did it all the time, comforting victims and their relatives.

I put some bread in the toaster, made a pot of tea, and fixed a tray with toast and jam, some fruit, and a sandwich for Andre. A small white dog crept out from under the table and stood by my feet, looking up at me sadly. I patted his head and scratched his ears. "Poor fellow," I said. "No one's paying any attention to you, are they?" I picked up the tray, but he whined and scratched at my foot. I gave him a piece of toast and headed for the stairs.

Ahead of me, I could see a group of men standing in the living room. Cliff Paris was with them. He broke away and met me at the foot of the stairs, resting a warm hand briefly on my shoulder. "Thea, I'm so grateful. It was good of you to come," he said, smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth. "Eve really needs you. She's taking this very hard." Just ordinary words, but it was part of Cliff Paris's magic that he could make a simple thank you seem like a heartfelt compliment. He had a magnetic sort of charm. A way of paying attention that made you feel what you said, the person you were, was the most interesting thing he'd ever experienced. His private patients were devoted to him. I'd found his style unsettling when I was younger, distrustful because it seemed like a highly perfected form of shrinkly caring yet mesmerized because everyone wants to feel as special as Cliff made me feel.

It didn't hurt that he looked like the shrink from central casting. Handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way. Wavy, graying blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Sparkling, shrewd blue eyes surrounded by deeply etched lines that proclaimed him seasoned and experienced. His voice was melodic, caressing, a well-honed tool. Slim, athletic body. Elegant hands with long, tapered fingers. Today he wore carefully pressed designer jeans, a faded indigo cotton sweater, and boat shoes without socks. His skin was drawn tight over his cheekbones and had a pale, dry cast that made him look years older.

"She was upset and I sent her up to rest. I'm just taking her some tea."

"Great," he said. "Good idea. She hasn't eaten anything all day. Said she couldn't. Who was that who went up with her?"

"My friend Andre Lemieux. He is down from Maine visiting me this weekend, so I brought him along."

He frowned. "You brought a house guest with you?"

I resented what that implied about my judgment. "It's not as incongruous as it sounds, Cliff. He's a homicide detective. He's used to this. He'll probably be better for her than I will."

"I see," was all he said. I had the impression that he didn't like my answer, but he turned away so quickly I couldn't tell and went back to the men in the living room. I couldn't tell whether he looked sad, either. The beard hid his face too well. Maybe that was why he had it—to protect his privacy. I went on upstairs with the tray.

Eve was in bed, under the covers, propped up with pillows. Her skin was almost as pale as the pillowcase, and with the big polka-dotted collar and her red nose, she looked like an unhappy clown. Andre was sitting beside her, holding her hand, talking softly. They both smiled when I came in. Eve pulled up her feet and I put the tray at the foot of the bed. I handed her some tea, set her toast on the bedside stand, and curled up at the foot of the bed beside the tray. "I made you a sandwich," I said, handing it to Andre. I took an apple from the tray and bit into it.

The room had the cold, static look that rarely used rooms acquire. Everything was too spare and neat, and the memorabilia saved from Eve's childhood—her horses and the elaborately dressed dolls—was dated and cloying.

Eve stared at her toast like it was something she didn't recognize. "Come on, Eve, you need to eat," I said. She picked it up obediently and started eating. "Cliff says you haven't eaten at all today."

"Cliff," she said bitterly, "has eaten like a horse today. It's obscene. You'd think nothing had happened. He stands down there, greeting everyone in his charming way, smiling that wan, subdued smile, showing only so many millimeters of teeth, the model of genteel bereavement. He's acting like it's an open house, and not the day after his wife's murder. Like her death doesn't matter. You should have seen him last night at the hospital. She'd just died. Not even cold. I was sitting there, still holding her hand..." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, striving for control, but it didn't work. Her next words were half strangled by sobs. "... feeling eviscerated, with all this rage and sadness twirling around inside me, when he announced he st... st... stood up and announced he was going out walking with Rowan." Overwrought as she was, she spat out the word Rowan like it had an especially vile taste.