Short Squeeze (12 page)

“Did Tony ever come in here? Or any of his other family?”

He thought some more, then shook his head.

“I’d know it if he was here. Not sure about the family. I could check the archives, but knowing Edna, they’ll be a mess.”

I described Sergey Pontecello, but that also drew a blank. It didn’t surprise me. Sergey would have been a serious fish out of water in there, if you can use that analogy in the most watery place in town.

“What do these people have to do with Edna’s death?” he asked.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

He studied me in a way he hadn’t before.

“You know the best part about getting off the junk?” he asked.

“The money savings?”

“The clarity. You realize your brain still functions almost as good as it used to, despite all the abuse. It’s an amazing instrument.”

“And yours is working pretty well right now. I can see that.”

“It is. You know what’s even more amazing? The way the junk can teach you to see things a brain that was always clean and sober would never notice.”

“Like a defense attorney who’s pretending to be doing a study when, in fact, she’s running a murder investigation?” I said lightly.

He grinned at me.

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Running an investigation is too grand a thing to say. I’m nosing
into the murder of Sergey Pontecello to the annoyance of the real investigators, the police, because he was a client of mine, and I feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility for the guy even though I had absolutely nothing to do with his death. As far as I can tell. Though I’m not entirely sure.”

“I sort of feel that way about Edna.”

“There’s a connection between her and Sergey Pontecello that’s already been established, but I can’t tell you what it is without compromising the official investigation and permanently alienating the cops, which would end my criminal practice, which I don’t need but gives me a way to repay all the favors I owe to people like Burton Lewis and Sam Acquillo, and assuage at least some of this vague, societal guilt I inherited from my bleeding-heart mother despite all the counterefforts of my sanctimonious, self-entitled old man.”

The part of my brain responsible for putting the brakes on that other part of my brain finally woke up and pulled the lever. My mouth clamped shut, but the momentum of the unspoken thoughts caused me to lurch forward and almost lose my balance. Brandon waited for things to stabilize.

“Golly,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, opening my pocketbook and rummaging around as if I were actually looking for something and not covering up my embarrassment. When I came across a stack of business cards held by a rubber band it felt like divine intervention.

“Here,” I said, holding out a card. “If you come across any of the names I mentioned in connection to Edna”—I put the card down on the counter and wrote the names on the back—“please call me. That’s my cell number. You should also call the police”—I wrote down Joe Sullivan’s name and number—“this guy specifically. Just do me a huge favor and don’t tell him I was here. Unless he asks specifically, then tell him. Better I take the hit than you get charged with hindering an investigation.”

Brandon took the card and looked at the names, then slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Okay, Ms. Swaitkowski, whatever,” he said. Though I had a feeling he’d call me if anything came up. It was that lingering sense of guilt. I could smell it on him.

I stuck out my hand and gave him the assertive, masculine shake I usually reserved for assistant district attorneys and single men I wanted to discourage. He returned the favor by nearly crushing my knuckles. Former Navy SEAL, I reminded myself.

“You never asked me about Slim,” he said, still holding my hand in the vise.

I used my other hand to extract it before responding.

“Who’s Slim?”

“Slim Jackery. The husband.”

“Why did I think she was a single mom?” I asked.

“That’s what it said in the paper. She was divorced but still lived with Slim. Edna once said something about going through with it all, then changing their minds but not wanting to confuse things even more by getting married again. Standard-issue Edna.”

This was a gigantic relief for me. There’s nothing you can say that’s okay to a kid who’s lost a mother. Not that the husband would be a walk in the park, but at least he wouldn’t be wearing fresh, new skin and the unsettling ignorance of adolescence.

Brandon told me Slim had an automatic sprinkler business, but he couldn’t remember the name. He’d met him only once, when Slim came in to buy foul-weather gear for his crew, hoping to exploit Edna’s employee discount.

“There isn’t any such thing, but I gave it to him anyway,” said Brandon. “Thirty percent, so Edna’d have something to brag about around the house.”

“Did she?” I asked.

“Never heard a word. That’s how I normally think of my good deeds: doing the unnecessary for the ungrateful.”

I took his hand back in both of mine and squeezed as hard as I could.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.

He used his free hand to rub the naked crown of his head and smooth back the long, thin remains of hair at the back.

“I told her she had to come in that night to close out the month because I only had a few hours the next day to get to the bank before taking off for the Keys. What’s your excuse?”

“I thought Sergey was a silly little man. Before I had a chance to take his predicament seriously, he was dead,” I said.

“So at least we understand each other,” said Brandon Wayne, who should have been Sydney, but nothing’s ever what it was supposed to be once you get a close-enough look.

I made arrangements to pick up Harry at seven. I liked the old-fashioned gender protocols about who picks up whom and who picks up the check. But not all the time. This was never a problem for Harry, another big point in his favor. And I wanted to show off my new car, which was just like his car.

The directions he gave me to his place ended with “When you see what looks like an old gas station, you’re there.”

“You’re living in a gas station?”

“Former. More recently a vegetable stand and most recently, before me, an artist’s studio. Sculptor. Liked the big doors for hauling in and out big hunks of steel.”

“Big hunks in, fine art out,” I said.

“We’ll let history be the judge of that.”

I found the place easily enough, even in the dark, which it wouldn’t have been at seven, but I was running a little late. I’d made the mistake of peeking at the computer before getting into the shower. I’d typed “lawn irrigators, Southampton” in the search box.

Slim Jackery was there on the first page, three-quarters of the way down, so he wasn’t the area’s premier irrigator, though you wouldn’t know it from the name. His phone number was there, so I called.

“Rainmakers International,” said the guy who answered.

“It’s good to know you can water my lawn anywhere in the world.”

“Strictly Southampton at this time, ma’am, but we’re always looking to expand. Where’s your property?”

“Bridgehampton. Might be a good stop on the way to Marrakech.”

He pressed me on the type of lawn I’d be asking him to water, but I was evasive. The type of lawn I had was a narrow strip of weeds and moss that made a border between the driveway and the woods. Pete didn’t believe in lawns, and I was indifferent. Only later did I truly appreciate his vision. Not just the grounds, but the whole place was designed for low to no maintenance. It didn’t look like much, but it saved a lot of time and energy I could spend on messing up the inside.

“I’d rather discuss this in person,” I said. “Can we meet somewhere tomorrow?”

He gave me an address in the estate section of Southampton. He said the owners were in Europe, but he preferred I use the service entrance. On the way to Harry’s I drove by, just to get my bearings. The service entrance was about a quarter mile east of the main drive. Place probably needed a lot of watering.

All this distraction meant I didn’t knock on what I thought was Harry’s front door until almost nine. He answered the door wearing a terry-cloth towel around his waist and another on his head, turban-style.

“Oh, is it seven already?” he asked, hand to cheek.

At moments like this, the complete character of a relationship tends to emerge, its subtleties, hazards, and enchantments exposed for all to see.

So where do I start?

My brain and Harry’s are made of different component parts. Or maybe they’re just assembled differently. All my life I’ve heard about how opposites attract—you’re this, and I’m that, so here we are great together!

Not true. Opposites irritate and confuse, disorient and breed
unrelenting conflict. There are times when these friction points are suppressed, which is nature’s way of getting us to reproduce with people who under normal circumstances we’d rather shove in front of a subway. I read once there were mathematical formulas that have tiny inconsistencies, called statistical noise, that grow every time you run the formula, until eventually they take over and blow the whole thing to smithereens. This is what happened to Harry and me. The noise of our small but essential incompatibilities grew over time until it was all I could hear.

I thought about this as I stood there on his doorstep, but not so much about what caused me to drive him away. More about what got us started in the first place. Two things, actually. His deep humanity and that gigantic slab of masculine glory now on vivid display above the towel. So while my thoughts ran amok, my breath was snatched.

“My,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“Okay. Amusing. And understood. I apologize. Nice towels.”

“You want ’em?” he took off the turban and started to unhook the other towel from the side. I put my forearm over my eyes.

“I want you to get dressed and come out with me. Please. I’ll make it up to you. As agreed, I’ll drive and provide.”

I felt him drape the towels over my shoulder and heard him walk away. I peeked just in time to catch the back half of the presentation, and it was worth the peek.

“Oh, crap,” I told myself, to all of myself, top to bottom.

At Harry’s request, we tossed his portable table and umbrella in the back of my Volvo, along with two folding chairs and the provisions I’d picked up along the way at the wine store and deli. I knew a spot on the beach where a tall dune had been scooped out by a storm, leaving an area protected on three sides from the prevailing breeze. It was a warm night for that time of year. The moon was out and the sky was clear, and there was no one else around.

I left my heels and reservations in the car and followed him across the sand with an armful of food and Australian shiraz. He carried everything else as easily as a normal person would carry a rolled-up newspaper.

I set the table while Harry rigged cute little battery-powered lanterns to the underside of the umbrella. Harry was completely fluent in the black arts of modern technology, without all the self-congratulation and “I can do this and you can’t” attitude that guys like him usually have. Gadgets were just a natural extension of his personhood. They were always around. And always worked, for which I was very grateful.

We spent at least a half hour exchanging ever more inflated pronouncements on how great it was to eat tasty food and drink wine at night on the beach, with the surf sounds and seagulls and fresh autumn air. And it was. So great I became almost stupefied by the sensations. That’s why I nearly forgot my obsession with Sergey Pontecello and his charming family. Nearly.

“Harry,” I finally said, with a change of tone signaling the shift in conversation. “You’re smart. How did Sergey Pontecello get Edna Jackery’s nipple in his back pocket?”

I took him through what I’d learned over the last few days, focusing on my conversation with Brandon Wayne and what he had told me about Edna’s general disposition and behavior.

“I normally only know how something gets from one place to another if I move it there myself.”

“This isn’t normal. Think abnormal.”

His face twisted a little with the effort. Then it straightened out again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t think so much about the how, and think more about the why,” he said.

He had a right to be proud of himself. It was a brilliant, albeit obvious, thought. Though it didn’t bring me any closer to either one.

“Excellent, Harry,” I said. “So, why do you think?”

“Why indeed?” he said philosophically.

I reached across the little table and plucked a pen out of his shirt pocket. I dumped the cookies out of a small white bag that I flattened so I could write on it.

“He found it,” I said as I wrote. “If so, where? It was night. He was home. I assume this because I talked to him on the phone earlier on, and that’s where he said he was. Phone records will confirm. Though they can’t prove he was home after that.”

“So he could have left the house later on and found the nipple, like, on the side of the road.”

“That’s where most people pick ’em up.”

“In other words, highly unlikely.”

I wrote down “Found it at home.”

“If so, where?” asked Harry, reading the napkin upside down. “On the floor? In a punch bowl? In his sock drawer?”

“He said he was just starting to go through his wife’s things. I assume that means the bedroom.”

“Also the kitchen. And the living room. Anywhere in the house. It could have been in the coffeepot, under the bed, in the medicine cabinet.”

“Not likely,” I said. “Eunice had locked him out of the bathroom.” I told him more about Sergey’s late-night call. “It was in an envelope, let’s not forget.”

“Then he found it in the mailbox,” said Harry.

“If it was in the mailbox, it wasn’t just found. It was delivered.”

We left that on the table while we each took a sip of our wine. The concept took root.

“Makes a lot more sense,” said Harry. “Somebody gave it to him. It was FedExed, hand delivered, tossed over the hedge, dropped off by carrier pigeon. Having the nipple in his possession can only be caused by willful action, not an accident.”