"No, I couldn't stand it." Her voice was getting heavier and heavier with unshed tears. "I'll check into a motel. If you have motels in Shakespeare."
"We have one. It's a Best Western. Do you want me to make a reservation for you?"
"That would be great." She sounded surprised, and I didn't blame her. "I'm going to rent a car at the airport. I should get there about three thirty."
"I'll tell them."
"You know," she said suddenly, "I don't believe any of this." And she thunked the receiver down.
She would believe it by tomorrow. I called the motel, and went over to the police department yet again. Claude had left the key with the dispatcher, along with a verbal message that the police department would finish its search of the house by eleven. I could have the house to myself once they were out.
I felt energized at the idea of money coming in, and I had time to kill, so I drove to the Winthrops' house. Bobo's car was there, but no one else's. I let myself in, calling for him, but got no answer. The pool was empty. Maybe he'd gone somewhere with a friend.
After glancing around at the mess in sheer disbelief, I got to work. There was so much to do I hardly knew where to start. Just in case Bobo was asleep upstairs, I decided to concentrate on the ground level.
Living room, kitchen, game room, wash room, pantry. Master bedroom and master closets, master bath, smaller hall bath. In due time, they were gleaming and dustless. A couple of times, I thought I heard a voice; maybe Beanie had left the radio on? But I checked, and found nothing.
As I closed Beanie's walk-in closet door (with its newly polished mirror) I was beginning to feel a little tired. Well, pretty tired. But it went against my grain to stop without finishing. I wondered if I could just do a little straightening upstairs? Just as I started up, I heard a sound above me, and I looked up to see a very startled Janet, followed by an equally surprised Bobo, coming down the carpeted steps.
Since Janet was buttoning her blouse, it was impossible for her to pretend they'd been up there planning their sporting goods store. They had certainly been engaged in another joint venture.
I raised my eyebrows.
"Hey, Lily," Janet said, squeezing the words out as though they were toothpaste. She looked anywhere but my face, which I was struggling to keep neutral.
"Lily," Bobo said. "Ah, we didn't hear you come in." His face was scarlet from the awkwardness of it; if he'd been observed by anyone in the world but me, this would be easier for him. Janet, not knowing that Bobo had harbored feelings for me once, was free of worry. She was suppressing laughter; her eyes swung over to mine and she made a little face.
"No, I guess you didn't." I was really glad I hadn't decided to do the upstairs first. I nodded gently, trying very hard not to smile, and began to make my way up the stairs. Bobo seemed to wake up from his shock, then followed Janet across the living room. They made it to the kitchen in silence, then I heard Janet begin to giggle, and Bobo join in.
I laughed myself, once I was safely up the stairs. It would be tacky of me, I decided, to go in Bobo's room and make the bed or change the sheets. So I cleaned the upstairs bathroom, leaving all three bedrooms as they were. Beanie would be glad I'd come at all. I didn't think she'd be overly upset about the kids' bedrooms. A little order is better than none at all.
A little later, after lunch and some rest, I let myself into Gerry McClanahan's house on Mimosa. It is never a pleasure to deal with the belongings of the dead. But the dealing would be nominal in this case: as I'd noticed on my previous visit, the furniture was very sparse. I wondered if it was rented like the house. The dispatcher at the police department had told me the dachshunds had gone home with Officer Stuckey, who had two small boys, so I knew they were okay; but somehow their abandoned toys seemed more desolate than Gerry McClanahan's abandoned computer.
I walked through the quiet house. All the rooms were empty except for the front room, with its big desk and couch and television, and the larger bedroom, which had the usual furnishings. In a kitchen drawer was the rental agreement for the furniture, so I left that out for Dani Weingarten to see. A quick examination told me there'd be precious little to pack. I called the older couple who'd rented the house to Gerry McClanahan. They hadn't turned on their radio that morning, so they hadn't heard the news. I had to hear lots of exclamations and lamentations before I was able to ask the pertinent questions about to whom the linens and pots and pans belonged. Those items, I found, were Gerry's. I wondered a little about the cage I found just inside the back door; it didn't seem large enough for one of the dogs, though it had definitely been used. I might ask Dani Weingarten if she recognized it. Now that I had an idea about the scope of the job, I went to the garage that was the local outlet for a big moving company and bought some boxes, keeping the receipt so Ms. Weingarten could reimburse me.
I turned on a radio at the rental house, just so I could have some company while I packed up the dead man's clothes. Normally, I don't like distractions. But this house was sad. Though it had been years since I had a pet, I almost wished the little dogs were there.
Folding McClanahan's clothes didn't take long. I packed his uniform carefully, wondering if he'd be buried in it. What had this man been, in his core: a policeman or a writer? He had certainly been a researcher. There were at least three shelves of non-fiction books, like Gavin de Becker's Gift of Fear, and David Simon's Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets. I looked at de Becker's book, repressing a snort. McClanahan hadn't read that carefully enough: he hadn't known to be scared, when he should've been. The only thing I was sure of about his death was that he had seen it coming and not recognized it.
A trio of books actually piled on the desk were more disquieting. They were thinner and had a scholarly look, like books you wouldn't get in a regular store unless you ordered them. The one on top was titled, The Psychology of Two; the Selection of a Mate by Lauren Munger, and the thinner black and blue one underneath it was by Steve Coben and called Pathological Pairs: Duos with Bad History.
I felt a flash of rage so intense I had to sit down. Despite everything he'd said, it was evident that Gerry McClanahan had planned to write about Jack and me. He had been studying us. Maybe his interest had begun as a sidelight to the stalking drama of Tamsin Lynd, but that interest had evolved. I took some deep breaths, told myself over and over that nothing could be done about it now, and packed those books along with the rest.
I found a biography sheet, I guess one that his publicist was preparing; Gerry had made little corrections here and there. He'd won prizes and awards, and his books had been translated into twenty different languages. I'd had other things on my mind when I'd scanned the People story. Reading the biography sheet, I understood for the first time what a furor there would be when it was discovered that Patrolman Gerry McClanahan was also Gibson Banks. I wondered how much time we had before that connection was made; not much, I was sure. There was an accordion file, full of notes for other projects. Gerry was tentatively planning a book on a serial killer in Minnesota. That would have been a change of climate, for sure.
The house had been gone over by the police, and I knew I wouldn't find anything remarkable they hadn't already seen. Plus, they would've taken anything interesting with them. But as I picked up a pen that had rolled onto the floor, I saw the edge of a sheet of yellow paper torn from a legal pad, protruding very slightly from under the desk. I remembered that Gerry had had a legal pad in front of him while we talked. A legal pad and a computer; that had seemed like overkill to me at the time. Why both?
Now, I pinned the paper to the floor with the point of the pen, and raked it out. It was a sheet covered with tiny black handwriting.
I peered at it and switched on the desk lamp to see it better. It was a log of the comings and goings at Tamsin's house. Nothing much, it seemed, had happened at Tamsin's that particular day. The Lynd-Egger couple had gone to work, come back home. Various lights had gone off and on. Tamsin had swept the back porch, and Cliff had spent five minutes in the little tool closet by the back porch some time after that. The date was the night before Jack and I had heard Tamsin yell on her front porch.
I was sure the rest of this log, which was a terrible document in and of itself, had been taken by the police. Perhaps Gerry had ripped this day's observations out to discard because nothing much had happened, and I hoped that the other notes he'd made proved of more value. The person stalking the counselor - it was hard not to think of this person as some kind of evil entity, since he was so invisible - hadn't liked anyone else stalking them, I was willing to bet. Gerry's obsession with the stalker's obsession had led to his own death.
As I locked the door behind me, my job completed, I suddenly realized that Gerry must have found out, there at the end, who the stalker was. I hoped, after all he'd sacrificed for the knowledge, he'd had a moment's satisfaction. Had he been dreadfully surprised ... or had the killer's face been well known to him?
I was glad to lie down when I got home, but it was a good, tired feeling; not exhaustion. I watched a few shows on television: a biography of an actor I'd only heard of in passing, a documentary on the CIA. It was embarrassing to realize that the phone ringing actually woke me up.
"Yes?"
"Lily." Jack.
"Hi."
"I won't be home tonight. I'm going to start this job right away. If the CEO likes the job I do, there'll be more business from this firm."
"What does he want you to do?"
"She." I felt embarrassed. "She wants me to do very thorough background checks on the applicants for this very sensitive job." He was telling me the essence without the particulars, but that was all right with me. "Have you been taking it easy?" Jack asked, suspicion evident in his voice.
"Well, I did do a little work today."
"You know what Carrie said, Lily!"
"I just couldn't stand it any more. I had to do something or die of boredom."
"Lily, you have to mind the doctor."
"Yes," I said, keeping my voice gentle.
"I love you."
"I know. I love you, too. I got to go, Jack. Someone's at the door."
"Answer it while I'm on the phone."
I went to the door and looked through the peephole Jack had installed for me. "It's Bobo, looks like."
"Oh, okay," Jack said, relieved. I cocked my head as I opened the door. Jack, who was sometimes jealous, had never gotten the fact that there was actually something to be jealous of with Bobo. I was grateful for his lack of acuity where this particular Winthrop was concerned. I sometimes felt very guilty when I caught an unexpected glimpse of Bobo and experienced a definite physical reaction to the sight of him.
"Bye, Jack," I said, and he told me he would see me the next day.
I waved Bobo inside, feeling unusually curious about what he would have to say. This time, sure I was safe from - well, safe - I let him in and shut the door behind him.
"Are you okay with... ?" he tried just waving his hands a little, not wanting to come right out and say it.
"With you having sex with a friend of mine?"
"Yeah, that."
"Of course, Bobo. You're over eighteen and so is Janet." Not for anything in the world would I have explained my more complicated feelings. I would hardly admit them to myself.
But, as he often did, Bobo surprised me. And this was why I never quite lost a link to this unusual golden boy, this was why despite the difference in our ages and our lives there was a relationship between us. "It's not just that, and you know it," he said, his anger evident in the way he was standing, the tension in his arms.
I held up my hands in front of me, palms outward. I meant him to stop; we were not going to get serious, here. I'd had enough of that the night before. My long talk with Tamsin Lynd still griped me.
"You have to tell me if it's true."
Suddenly, everything grew clear. "You heard I was married."
"Yes. Is it true?"
"Tell me you didn't take Janet to bed out of spite."
"Is it true?"
"Yes, it's true."
"How long?"
"A month."
"Why were you keeping it a secret?"
"It isn't anyone's business," I said, not caring if I sounded harsh.
"But it is," he said. "It is. You should have told me."
I lost my temper. "Why? Were you going to marry me?"
"No! But a married woman, you shouldn't even think about her!"
"So, if I'm married, I'm sacred to you, you can't lust after me."
"That's right! That's exactly right!"
"Then end this, right here and now. I am married."
"Can you give up thinking of me? Has being married made any difference to you? Because I know you. I know you think of me."
"Bobo, this is too weird. Neither of us has any business thinking of the other. This is all wrong."
"And now you're married."
"Yes."
"You love him?"
"Of course. More than anything."
"But - "
"But nothing. This - we have to seal this off. This is over."
"We've said this before. Or you have."
"Are you saying I'm encouraging you in this idea you have, that we should go to bed together?"
"No, I'm not saying that. What I'm saying is, I can tell in your eyes that you know that if we did it would be great, that you want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you."