Extracurricular Activities (6 page)

CIA interrogators had nothing on Bea. A little pot roast, a couple of beers, an apple pie—he'd give it all up for those few comforts. But he tried to keep his mouth shut. There was nothing—and everything—to tell.

Crawford tensed. “Nothing's going on. We're trying to work things out.”

“Is she nice?”

His nerves were frayed and he was exhausted, so his overreaction was understandable, if not justified. Crawford dropped his fork onto his plate, making a racket. “Of course she's nice,” he barked. “Would I be going ahead with my divorce and that goddamned annulment unless she was nice?” It was out of his mouth before he could think and he looked at Bea. He pointed a finger in her direction. “That is between you and me.”

Bea smiled; her job here was done. “Of course it is.”

I had finally managed to get rid of Terri an hour and a box of tissues after she had arrived, hearing all of the sordid details of her five-year marriage to Jackson, recovering drug addict and alcoholic. To me, he seemed like an affable, rather innocuous, suburban guy, albeit with the pompous-jerk side. To hear Terri tell it, I was living next door to Sid Vicious.

When she finally blurted out everything, it became clear to me that she had one thing on her mind and one thing only: she thought that Jackson was responsible for Ray's death. She told me that they were in counseling and that Jackson had been diagnosed with “anger management” issues. Who doesn't have anger management issues? I certainly did, but I attributed them to my husband and his roving penis.

I wasn't sure how seriously to take her concerns—she was a bit of a drama queen—but I counseled her to go to the Dobbs Ferry police, who would know what to do with this information. She claimed that on the night Ray had been murdered, Jackson hadn't been home. And that when he came home, he was in a bad mood. Those two things together didn't a murderer make, but Terri didn't appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I went along with her line of reasoning, just for argument's sake. I often came home late and in a bad mood, and I didn't murder anyone. I didn't think her theory would hold up in a court of law if it didn't hold up in my kitchen.

Jackson didn't strike me as a murderer at all, but who knows? Maybe he had gotten sick and tired of being cheated on and wanted to do something about it. Could he have been that angry about Terri's cheating that he could murder Ray in cold blood? Why hadn't he just murdered Terri, my preferred victim? I didn't have the energy to murder Ray; I was hoping for a more supernatural solution to the problem and had hoped that he would just disappear into thin air.

I didn't know what she was going to do, but it seemed like the shit was going to hit the fan next door and I didn't want any part of it.

After Terri left, instead of crawling into bed and staying there for the remainder of the day (my first inclination), I got into the car and headed to my favorite Italian deli in town. There's nothing like a good Italian sub to take my mind off my troubles. My plan to head to Tarrytown was scrapped by the hour that Terri had eaten up with her tale of woe. I was forced to stay local if I wanted to squeeze in the much-needed nap that I had promised myself.

Tony's Delicatessen was only about a quarter mile from my house but I decided to drive anyway. I needed a lot of food and even more wine to erase this day from my mind, so I didn't want to make the trek on foot. I set out in my car, thinking about Terri and how she could possibly imagine that I would lend a sympathetic ear. I guess I come across as as much of a patsy as I thought, having lent her that sympathetic ear for far too long.

I love to eat but I hate to cook and Tony's had become my go-to place for all things deli. As luck would have it, I had married a man who lived on protein shakes and power bars, so cooking was a nonissue. Also, I'm spectacular in bed and that made up for any culinary deficiencies. At least that's what I tell myself. My ex apparently didn't share the same regard for my sexual prowess.

After stopping by the liquor store and buying several bottles of wine, I arrived at Tony's. His face lit up when I entered the deli and he looked genuinely happy to see me. Two things about Tony: (a) he seems to carry a torch for me and (b) he knows the kind of sandwich I like and calls it my “usual.” For some reason, that sends me over the edge. I don't want to be the paramour of a little, fat Italian deli owner widower and I definitely don't want to be the kind of woman for whom chicken salad on rye is the “usual.” I'd like to think of myself as more exotic—the kind of woman about whom people say “and she just loves foie gras”—as misguided a notion as that is. I had avoided going to Tony's very much and the joy on his face when I walked in reminded me why. Your deli man shouldn't be that happy to see you.

“The usual?” he asked, reaching across the counter and grabbing my hand. Tony is sixty-five if he's a day, widowed, and the father of eight children, two of whom are older than me by at least six or seven years. If I ever did decide to marry Tony, I wondered how those middle-aged children would feel about his young wife cutting in on their deli inheritance.

I took a step back, ostensibly to visit the beverage case but more to avoid the make-out session that Tony seemed to have in mind. “No, thank you, Tony. I have a list,” I said, dropping the list on the counter and backing away. I made my way to the refrigerator and picked out a couple of bottles of water and that disgusting, high-caffeine drink that Max consumed by the case. I set them down on the counter and waited while Tony assembled the sandwiches I had ordered.

“How is everything,
mi amore
?” he asked, turning slightly from the meat slicer to get a look at me. Judging from his expression, I must have looked pretty hot.

“Everything is great, Tony,” I lied, putting a plastic smile on my face. I made a great show of looking at the food in the glass-fronted case and tried to avoid making eye contact with him. “How's the family, Tony?”

He turned back and focused on the meat slicer. “They're good,” he said, pulling off some roast beef and throwing it onto a roll. “I didn't see you at all this summer. Vacationing?” he asked.

“A little vacationing, some work. I tried to get some rest before school started,” I said, plucking a couple of bags of chips from the display behind me. He kept looking back at me and I desperately hoped that he would turn his attention back to the slicer; a day at Phelps Memorial Hospital for microsurgery to attach his missing digits did not fit into my plans.

He cut to the chase. “Are you still dating the detective?” he asked, unable to meet my eye.

Damn that Magda. As cleaning ladies go, she's the best. However, her great big mouth was starting to mitigate her ability to get mold off the grout in my shower. I only laid eyes on her occasionally because she came while I was at work, but she seemed to know every intimate detail of my life, as did every Hungarian in Dobbs Ferry and, apparently, Tony.

“Not really, Tony,” I said.

He smiled. “So, I still have a chance!”

I smiled back. “I guess so!” I said, with as much enthusiasm I could muster for my new life with a widowed senior citizen. Getting into the movies with his AARP card would be a nice by-product of our relationship, but that was about it.

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, the smell of freshly sliced roast beef rising from his hands and apron. “You…I've always loved you. You're a nice girl. Those men were no good for you,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

I didn't want to get into the “Crawford isn't as bad as Ray” conversation, so I just let it go.

Tony looked at me, his expression so sad that I knew where he was going next. “And your poor husband. Ray.”

Not my husband, not poor in any way, shape, or form. But I played along. “Yes. Terrible.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you found him? No hands and feet?”

I nodded.

He whistled through his teeth. “Must have been some sight.”

Yes, indeedy. Can I have my food, please? “I don't really want to talk about it, Tony.”

He stared at me for a few more seconds before getting the rest of my food. I think he wanted the gory details but I wasn't about to provide any. He put it into a big bag and rang up its contents on the cash register. I handed him a couple of twenties and waited for my change.

“Don't be a stranger,” he said in his lilting Italian accent, using the return of my change as another opportunity to hold my hand.

“I promise, Tony.” I picked up the bag.

“One more kiss,” he said, putting his stubby fingers to my cheeks and pulling me close.

I gave him the quickest peck I could and extricated myself from his grasp. “Okay! That's it! No more kisses,” I said as pleasantly as I could, grabbing the bag and backing up toward the door.

He called out his usual parting greeting, “Anytime you're ready, I'm yours!” as the screen door slammed.

I ran down the street with the bag half obscuring my face, my pocketbook hitting the outside of my thigh with every step. I had a five-pound bag of deli food for two people and I had to make it last for a while; I was never setting foot in Tony's delicatessen again. At least not while I remained single. Part of me was starting to get the impression that Tony wasn't kidding; I was his new “amore” and nothing was going to get in the way of our love. I shuddered at the thought—although being with a man who had unlimited access to Boar's Head products was somewhat appealing—while I rooted around with my free hand for my car keys, mentally constructing a “Dear Tony” letter in my head that began with “Although we'll never be together in
that way
…”

I finally reached the car; I put the bag of food on the front hood. I heard my name, but unfortunately, the caller was too close for me to pretend to be deaf. I looked up and spied Jackson ambling up the street with Trixie, who was on a leash. I thought we had some unspoken agreement whereby we didn't speak to each other. At all. But apparently, he hadn't gotten the memo. Or decided that the statute of limitations had run out on our silence. Trixie bounded up to me and planted her nose between my butt cheeks, her usual greeting.

He gave the leash a little tug but didn't make mention of Trixie's seeming love of my ass. Trixie's ass love was the most lovin' I'd had in two years. “Hey, Alison!” he said, a big smile on his face. “Boy, I haven't seen you in a dog's age,” he said, laughing. “No pun intended.”

None taken. “Hi, Jackson.”

“Where the heck have you been?” he asked, pushing back a lock of his light brown hair. I could see that he had recently stocked up on whatever superhold hair gel he liked to use; individual strands of hair were artfully arranged atop his hair in a messy, Abercrombie & Fitch model kind of do. He realized that his question was probably self-explanatory. Where had I been? Living somewhere else while my house was being cleaned, fumigated, and repainted. He looked down at the ground.

“Oh, here and there,” I said, bending down to pet Trixie. I stole a look at him from my crouch; he didn't seem like a drug- and alcohol-addled, anger-obsessed murderer. But, hey, you never know. I wondered if I should be a little more concerned about him, but the look on his face was pure fecklessness and the vibe he gave off was not threatening in any way.

“I'm really sorry about Ray,” he said in that condescending way that made my skin crawl.

I nodded a thank-you at him.

“What a mess, huh?” He toed the ground with his fancy nonathletic sneaker. I didn't think any serious athlete would be caught dead in an orange sneaker with pink trim, but that's just one woman's opinion.

“Yes, it was a mess,” I concurred.

That out of the way, he decided to commence with the small-talk portion of our conversation. “Did you take a summer vacation?” he asked. Holy subject change, Batman.

Jesus, we're going to have a whole conversation, I thought. Did I take a summer vacation? “Yes. I went to Quebec.”

“Très bien!” he said. “Parlez-vous français?”

My last name is Bergeron and my parents were French Canadian. What do you think? I tried to be nice. I didn't want him murdering me in a drug-induced rage. “Yes, I do.”

“Moi, aussi!”

“Great!” Or more appropriately:
fantastique!
I plastered a big grin on my face. “I'm kind of in a hurry, Jackson. I've got to run,” I said, opening my car door. Trixie sat beside me, looking up at me with her sad/happy dog face.

He put his hand on my arm. “Listen, I know we had a rather unpleasant spring.”

I'll say.

“Things are better, though. Terri and I are in counseling and I think we're going to be able to work through everything.”

What planet did this guy live on? First of all, why did either of them think I gave a rat's ass about their marriage? I lived through a marriage that couldn't qualify as remotely happy and yet I only confided that in my best friend. Okay, and my priest. Secondly, his wife was painting him as a crazed substance abuser and murderer and he's living on Sunnybrook Farm. “That's great, Jackson. I wish you the best of luck,” I said. I looked at him closely; nope, not scary at all.

“You know how this is, Alison. Either you throw it away,” he said, looking at me pointedly, “or you try to work things through. We're going to make it,” he said with a confidence that really wasn't warranted, given what I knew.

I was one of the “throw it away” people he was referring to, so I didn't have a reply. When your husband's penis has as many stops as the local Metro North train line, I think you have the right to “throw it away.” I smiled again.

“Terri's been taking night classes at your school, too. She wants to finish her degree,” he said.

“Great.” My guess was that she had declared a biology major what with Ray having been head of the department.

We stood, looking at each other for a few seconds. He reached out awkwardly and gave me a hug. I let my arms hang at my sides and waited for him to release me.

“I've really got to go,” I reminded him.

He let me go. “Oh, and Terri has hired Magda to do our house cleaning!” he said. “I forgot to tell you.”

“She's a great cleaning lady,” I said. Magda could really spread her gossip wings cleaning that house. I got into the car and gunned it out of the spot, leaving the happily married Jackson and beautiful Trixie standing on the sidewalk.

There was something up with that guy, but I wasn't sure what it was. Again, he didn't strike me as a murderer. But what does a murderer look like? I decided that Max and I would have a lot to talk about on our drive to the play.