The Dog Who Knew Too Much (25 page)

I took out the rest of the tacks, exposing the prints underneath. There was Lisa dressed in black, doing Cloud Hands, wearing the same black shoes that I now practiced in, her hands moving like nimbi across the afternoon sky.

Under each picture of me, there was one of Lisa, sometimes two or three—Lisa walking in the Village, talking on the phone, walking her Akita, at her window late at night. Lisa, that little braid in her long curly hair, a smile on her pretty face, walking arm in arm with Paul. And in the pile of prints near the enlarger, me with Paul and Dashiell, and Paul leaving the Printing House alone.

The last two photos in the pile were pictures of me. In one I was leaving Lisa's building, Dash at my side, carrying a bunch of roses, twelve of them to be exact. And in the last, I was tossing those same roses into the trash basket on the corner. He must have used high-speed, professional film; every petal was in focus.

T'ai chi had certainly taught Stewie Fleck patience. No hunter had more successfully captured his prey.

I listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, opened the door and looked out into the dimly lit hallway. I shut the light, locked the door, and dropped the key in front of it, pushing it as close to the sill as possible with my foot. Then Dashiell and I moved quickly and quietly out of the basement and out of Stewie Fleck's building, blinking when we emerged into the comparatively fresh, clean, bright air of Bedford Street.

Unused to the light, I didn't see him leaning against the building, just to the side of the door, until he'd actually grabbed my arm.

32

“Rachel,” He Said

“Rachel,” he said, surprised, but not half as surprised as I was, “what are
you
doing here?”

He looked pleased, the fool.

“I came to see you,” I said, “to see if you were here, you know, if you felt like a beer or something.” God bless adrenaline. “I didn't even see you standing here. I must have passed right by you,” I said, thinking no one, not even a vegetarian, could be stupid enough to believe
that
lie.

“I didn't see you either,” he said, frowning. “I must have been looking the other way.”

“So, how about it?”

Stewie looked lost in thought.

“A beer? My treat.”

“A beer? Oh, no, I can't. I'm waiting for the locksmith. I lost my keys somewhere. I'm locked out.”

“Bummer,” I said, his keys as heavy as an anvil in my jacket pocket. Dashiell was sitting now, and I reached down to touch his head, for my own comfort as much as his.

“You're wearing it,” Stewie said suddenly.

I looked at him and followed his eyes down to my wrist. Then I lifted my arm, as if I were about to do Push Hands, or defend myself from a blow, and Stewie's hand closed around the silver heart.

“It was Lisa's,” I said.

“But I never saw her wear it,” Stewie said.

“No,” I told him, “I don't think she ever did. It was still in the little bag from Tiffany's, brand-new, not a scratch on it. It's so beautiful,” I said, “such an extravagant gift. I thought someone should wear it.”

Stewie beamed at me. “Yes,” he said.

And that's when I thought of a Chinese proverb I'd found in one of Lisa's books. He who asks a question is a fool for five minutes; he who doesn't ask a question remains a fool forever.

So I asked.

“Did she write that note to you, Stewie?”

He dropped the heart and I dropped my arm, putting my hand back on Dashiell's head. Stewie took a step to the side, away from me. “What do you mean?”

“What happened, Stew? Did you tell her you loved her, that it was you sending the flowers, not Paul, that you'd sent the bracelet, hoping that since Paul was no longer in the picture—”

“No!”

“What did she say, Stewie? Did she laugh at you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do, Stewie. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“I don't. I don't know.”

“There's something you want to tell me now, isn't there?”

“You're out of your mind,” he said, a little on the loud side.

I felt Dashiell's head move. He was looking at Stew now, too.

“You don't know what you're saying. I never—”

But he didn't get the chance to finish, because that's when the locksmith arrived, and I wasn't sure if I should be annoyed or grateful, because it was pretty quiet on Bedford Street and Stewie Fleck was looking more than a little bit crazy.

“Mr. Fleck?” He was carrying a metal toolbox, and the patch on his navy blue work shirt said “Hudson Hardware.”

“That's me,” Stewie told him.

“Too bad we couldn't have that beer,” I said. “I think we need to continue this.”

But Stewie just turned, and he and the locksmith headed inside.

“Catch you later,” I said. But the door had already closed, and at that point, I didn't know if Stewie Fleck would have heard me if it hadn't.

33

Better Safe Than Sorry

Back at my cottage, sitting on the steps that led upstairs, just staring at the front door, I decided to add another lock or two. Better safe than sorry, as the condom ads say.

Not wanting to move, or unable to, I took the names and numbers I needed from my pocket and sent Dashiell for the cordless phone.

“Barb? Hi. This is Michelle, from the gym? Fine. Just great. Okay, I'm wondering if you can help me out here,” I said, lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper. “Yeah. I spilled my Coke.… Right. She told me exactly the same thing. And I'm trying like hell to get off it, drink Water Joe instead, yeah, springwater with caffeine in it. Right. She told me that very same thing. Carrot juice. And make sure the carrots were grown without pesticides. So, Barb, here's the thing, I spilled my Coke on the appointment book, and we can't do Janet's check, so I'm calling to verify, it looks like your name here in the book, but I can't see if it's checked off or what, so did you make that training session with Janet last Friday? Four? Great. Thanks a bunch.”

I dialed the next number.

“Sandy? Hi. This is Michelle from the gym. How are you? Yeah, me, too. Listen, Sandy, I wonder if you could help me out here. There's been a little mix-up at the gym. Well, the truth is, I spilled my coffee on the appointment book. Yeah. That's what
my
mother used to say, too. Anyway, we're doing payroll, you know, and I need to verify if you were in for your five o'clock with Janet on Friday, because the place where she'd check it off is like rotted out from the coffee. You were? Great. Oh? Oh? No, of course she'll still get paid. Twenty minutes late? Because she had to what? Oh, right. Take her puppy out. Tell me about it. Half the time she sends me. So was she like all sweaty when she came back? She likes to run with Pola, get her tired fast so she can get back to work. Yeah, right,” I said. “No, no problem. We don't dock the trainers for lateness. Yeah, she is the best, isn't she?”

But, of course, she
could
have run home to walk the dog. Just because she had the opportunity to do the killing didn't mean she did it.

Did it?

And just because Howie had tickets to
Cats
, that did't mean he bought them on Friday afternoon.

And just because Stewie Fleck was stalking Lisa—Jesus, and now me—that didn't mean
he
had killed Lisa and Paul.

Did it?

After all, hadn't O. J. Simpson stalked his wife? Yet at his first trial, he got off. Apparently those jurors didn't think there was much of a connection between stalking and murder. Even though lots of other people did.

And when push came to shove—and I had every intention of pushing and shoving Stewie Fleck again—wouldn't he vehemently claim that what he'd done had been perfectly harmless? Whom, after all, had he hurt, taking pictures and sending presents?

But just the thought of that revolting little creep watching me, photographing me, following me, made me feel sick.

When I checked my watch, I saw it was almost time to go. Sword class was at seven, and I had to get there before any of the others arrived.

Climbing the stairs, I couldn't see light coming out into the hall from an open door, nor could I hear anyone talking. There were no jackets hanging on the hooks in the hall, no street shoes in the little cubbies that, except during class, held people's t'ai chi shoes.

The door was locked. So far, so good. I opened it, turned on the lights, and, out of habit by now, changed to Lisa's black shoes. I went to see if Avi was in the office, because sometimes he'd be holed up in there with the door locked and the rest of the lights off. But not this evening.

I dropped Stewie's keys next to the couch where he had tossed his jacket before the lunchtime class and pushed them with my foot so that they were half under the couch and half sticking out. Then I sat on the floor against the wall with Dashiell at my side, wondering how a nice girl like Lisa got herself mixed up with so many people who had the motive, means, and opportunity to do her in, wondering which one had, wondering whether—no, not wondering, fairly sure that—whoever the killer was, was already looking hard in my direction. It was only a matter of time now until the cousin shtick was going to wear thin, thin enough to see through, if it hadn't already. At least one of them already knew where I lived.

Janet came first. I could hear her on the stairs. I could smell the organic chamomile and aloe shampoo I'd seen in her bathroom, and anyway, by now I knew her footfall. I heard her plunk down a heavy backpack and put one shoe up on the top of the shelves where the shoes were to unlace it, then the other, and then she walked into the studio and called Dashiell for a head scratch.

“Sorry you couldn't wait,” she said. “I was going to treat you at Charlie Mom's again.”

“Did you go already?” I asked.

“Uh-uh. Truth is, it would have been a bust anyway. People show up,” she drawled, “they don't even call, and the policy is”—Janet sighed—“the policy is never to let a dime walk out the door. I might look elsewhere soon, you know.”

“Where else have you worked?” I asked, pulling my socks up tight and smoothing my leggings over them.

“Oh, I was at the World Gym two years ago, and last year I worked on Christopher Street, where I am now, but I also taught classes at the Club, on Varick.”

“Where Lisa's boyfriend worked?”

“I heard about that,” she whispered. “It was on the news. Jesus,” she said, shaking her head. “You know, when I moved here from Texas, everyone I met said the Village was the safest neighborhood in New York City. I don't know. What is this world coming to, you can't walk around the neighborhood anymore without getting killed? Is that hers, too?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“That silver bracelet you're wearing. Was that Lisa's, too?”

I picked up the heart and let it drop.

“Yeah. I found it with her stuff. But I don't think she ever wore it. It looks brand-new.”

Janet held the heart and read it.

“I don't know why not. I sure would have. It's nice. Don't you think so?”

I nodded.

“I guess Paul got it for her,” she said.

“I guess.”

I watched the muscles in her cheeks jump.

“Are you staying for class?” she asked.

“I think I'll just watch. I don't think I'm ready for this.”

“Sure you are. You can do it. You can do anything you set your mind to, don't you know that, woman?”

“I'm going to pass,” I said.

Janet shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we can still have dinner if you want. Charlie Mom's, after class?”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

Then she turned, because we heard someone on the stairs, someone walking slowly. “Howie,” she called out.

“It's m-m-me,” he answered.

A moment later Howie and Avi walked into the studio. Avi had a bag from Staples with him. Howie looked at me and smiled, then sat across from me. Avi put his package down on the couch and joined us all on the floor, sitting in a circle around Dashiell. Then three other advanced students arrived and greeted us, a really skinny guy with a ponytail like Avi's, a short, muscular black man whose biceps rivaled Janet's, and a woman of seventy or seventy-five, thin and lithe, there perhaps to prove the point that t'ai chi helps you to live longer.

Avi stood, and everyone went to the supply closet and got swords. I sat with Dashiell watching the ritualized movements, the sword as an extension of the hand, an extension of one's
chi
. And while I was watching, I heard Stewie Fleck on the stairs, heard the squeak of his sneakers, heard him changing his shoes, and then he was there, a few feet away, looking around the couch. I turned to watch the class, hearing the jingle of Stewie's keys being scooped up from the floor and dropped into his pants pocket, waited while he got his sword from the closet, then turned to look at him as he passed where I was sitting to join the class, making a point, it seemed to me, not to look at me.

But then he didn't join the class. He came back to where I was sitting and squatted, sitting on his haunches the way Avi always tells us to.

“I know what you did,” he said, his eyes hard.

“And I know what
you
did,” I said back to him.

He glared at me. “I don't have time for this now,” he whispered, standing up quickly and going to join the class.

The moment class ended, Janet pulled on my sleeve and nodded toward the door. I changed my shoes, grabbed my jacket, and picked up Dashiell's leash. Out in the hall, I noticed a baseball cap hanging on one of the hooks, but Janet didn't take it, and now I wouldn't be there to see who would.

Good thinking, I told myself. Like it would be terrifically significant to see who took the cap, like it was even legal to live downtown and not have at least a few of them. Besides, no matter who owned this one, I already knew who stood across from Lisa's in the weeks before she died.