Читать книгу Sophie's Last Stand - Nancy Bartholomew - Страница 10

M y brother, Joey, is a poet. I don’t know if Pa will ever recover from this. If Joey didn’t look and act so normal on the outside, I think Pa might’ve disowned him. As it is, Pa, the retired ironworker, just ignores the poetry part and tries to believe that Joey’s simply an English teacher, a college professor. Each year, when Joey’s newest book comes out, Ma carefully lines it up with the others on the top row of the bookshelf, and there it stays, never read by Pa and misunderstood by Ma.

Joey, for his part, doesn’t spout off rhymes or stare into space all misty-eyed like Darlene. Joey plays rugby on Saturday afternoons. He roughhouses with his kids, is openly affectionate with his wife and can fix anything. Pa holds this out as incontrovertible evidence that Joey is somehow just passing through a phase with his writing.

“Poetry, schmoetry,” Pa says. “He don’t mean nothing by it.”

Ma’s kind of flattered. It appeals to the well-hidden, romantic side of her personality. “He’s writing about growing up,” she says, like this is a tribute.

I’ve read Joey’s stuff, the stuff he doesn’t show our parents. Believe me, it is not a tribute. He talks about all the things we good Italians don’t mention, like the brutality of growing up Catholic, or the pain of living poor when the layoffs happen and the jobs don’t come.

Joey feels everything. He cried when Angela stood holding her father’s arm in the back of the church, right before she walked down the aisle and became his wife. He sobbed when his first baby, Emily, was born and he held her in his arms. He cried when the second baby, Joseph Jr., arrived two years later and cried yet again when the third baby, Alfonse, completed the trio. He laughs hard, he plays hard and he loves his family, all of us, more than we can ever truly know. I watch Joey so I see all of this, but my parents, they miss out sometimes when they don’t allow themselves to see the real Joe.

It was Joey who saw the dream in my old house. Joey who convinced Pa that this would be okay, that we would all pitch in and it would actually be fun, a family thing. He showed up for the inspection with Pa in the car, the two of them ready to find fault with my future acquisition. Instead, Joey wound up rubbing his hand lovingly along the old banister, kneeling down to show Pa the strength in the ancient heart pine floors, and crawling up under the rafters in the attic to feel the “bones” of my new home. It was Joey who won Pa over, and Joey who cheered me on when I had doubts.

“Soph, look,” he said, his fingers tracing the pattern in an etched glass window, “you can’t find detail like this anymore. It’s art. Oh, kid, you have scored here. What a deal!”

Joey didn’t let me back down on my dream, not for one minute. “You’re a Mazaratti, Soph,” he said. “Look at you—you divorced that piece of crap husband, you took your name back, you remembered where you come from and now you’ll be where you belong—with family, starting over.”

He drove the rental truck up to Philly with me that very week, loaded my belongings and waved goodbye to the old neighborhood as we pulled up onto I-95 heading south.

“Don’t look back,” he said. “I never have. I don’t miss it and I didn’t leave half the baggage you’re dumping. I say good riddance to bad rubbish, Soph. Step out there, make yourself a life and don’t worry about Philly ’cause Philly ain’t gonna worry about you.”

It was also Joe who convinced Ma that the reason I didn’t move into the planned community with them and Darlene was because I had a mission to teach inner city kids and needed to be close to my future students. Now this was all bullshit, but Ma bought it on account of it was Joey doing the sales pitch.

So it made sense then that it was Joey I called when I got into trouble—big trouble. I called him at his community college office, before I called Pa and before I could control my emotions. I called him not because I didn’t know what to do and he did, I called him because he would know what to say. He would know how to put the picture back in focus without shattering the lens.

“Joey,” I said, when he came to the phone, “you gotta get over here, quick.”

“What’s wrong?” Joey’s voice was strong and deep and, most of all, calm.

“I was…I was working in the backyard….” I clutched the cell phone, pressing it to my ear. I kept gulping, swallowing, standing there in the weeds, staring at the ground and trying not to lose control. “You know, hacking at those vines so I could get to the trash pile and haul it out to the bin.”

“Yeah?” Joey didn’t get impatient like Pa would’ve done; he let me tell the story in my own time and manner.

“I hit something, Joe, with the machete, and when I did…” I swallowed very hard, looked at the long, thin blade stuck where it had landed, and tried to continue. “It, like, sank into something—you know, something soft?”

“Sophie,” Joe said, “tell me about it.”

“Joey, there’s someone dead in my backyard. I was just chopping weeds and I hit her. Joey, I think I might’ve killed somebody.”

I heard him exhale. “I’m coming,” he said, and hung up.

I stood there as if the gravity of the universe was pinning me to the planet, and stared at the body in front of me. If I’d really thought about it, I would’ve realized that she was probably dead before I hit her. How else could she have come to my backyard, rolled up in dark green plastic and positioned herself beneath bushes and weeds, waiting for my impending discovery? Who alive or conscious would wait for death like that?

Besides, there was no blood when I hit her. I mean, I knew, instantly, that I’d hit something that was flesh and blood. I shuddered because I could still feel the initial hit and then the sinking in of the blade. I’d knelt down, tugged at the plastic and fell backward as it gave in my hand, revealing the slim arm of a woman, the side of her body exposed to the bright morning sunlight.

That’s when I’d called Joe. Now I looked back at her and realized how I’d known she was dead. It was the paleness of her skin, an ashy-gray tone that live bodies just don’t have. The machete blade stuck upright from the middle of her chest, but there was no blood. I reached down nonetheless and touched her forearm. It was cool, even on a hot summer’s morning. She was definitely dead.

I lifted the cell phone once again and punched in 9-1-1. I drew in my breath and forced myself to say the words slowly and clearly. “My name is Sophie Mazaratti, I live at 618 West Lyndon Street and I have just found a dead woman in my backyard.”

It didn’t take much beyond that to get the ball rolling. The police station is only two blocks away. I live in the highest crime area in town. Three cruisers were in my driveway before I could hang up. The officers found me still rooted to the spot, the cell phone clutched in my hand and the body sprawled out in front of me.

“Jesus,” the first one said.

I crossed myself and turned around to face him. He looked like a kid, like he wasn’t old enough to shave. His eyes were huge when he saw the body, and he stopped just as I had, frozen, his ruddy complexion paling as the reality of what he was seeing hit him.

I could see his fingers twitch and he seemed to want to unsnap his gun even though a gun would be no protection against a dead body. He looked at me. I didn’t look like a threat—at least, I hoped not. I could see my reflection mirrored in the window of his squad car. I looked like the Blessed Virgin only with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. I can’t help that I look like a kindergarten teacher, and at this moment I was actually thankful. With a dead body in the backyard and my fingerprints on the machete, innocent and harmless were just the qualities I needed to portray to this trigger-happy first responder.

The young cop’s partner arrived, paired up with two other cops from the two other cars. Everybody was young and anxious and clearly experiencing something out of the ordinary. Hell, a machete sticking out of a body, that’s not ordinary in almost anyone’s experience. The three other cops stopped short in a clump of dark uniforms and aviator sunglasses. Two were women. One of the women was tall and big-boned, but the other one, a blonde, was about my size. I found myself ridiculously thinking, I could take her. What is it about cops that make people start feeling claustrophobic?

“Did you call us?” the blonde asked.

I looked back at the body. I sort of figured that part would be obvious. Who else was gonna call, the victim? “Yeah. I’m Sophie Mazaratti and that, there, is a dead body.”

One of the men snickered softly, then spoke into the microphone clipped to the front of his uniform. In the distance a siren wail started, then stopped. Dead. No need to rush—time was no longer a concern.

“Ma’am,” the big woman said, “why don’t you come with me and I’ll take your statement.” She looked at the first officer, the young redheaded boy. “LaSalle, secure the scene.” She looked past him, over the fence, into the neighboring backyard and on toward the projects. She was formulating an opinion.

Joey arrived right after she asked, “Was the machete already in her chest or did you do that?” I didn’t like her tone.

Joey reached my side just as I was answering her. “Yeah, well, I figured since she was already dead I might as well chop her up so’s she’d fit in the trash can better.”

“Soph,” Joe cautioned. “Let it rest.”

I turned around and went to him, right into the strong arms of my brother. “Joe, she’s a fucking idiot who’s trying to get wise,” I muttered in his ear. “I was just letting her know I don’t play.”

“Enough,” he whispered. “Let me talk to her.”

He turned away from me, loosening his grip and taking a step to offer his hand to the cop. “I’m Joe Mazaratti, Sophie’s brother. Listen, she’s a little upset. I mean, it’s a dead body. I guess I don’t have to tell you we’re not used to this sort of situation.”

The officer shook Joe’s hand. She wasn’t charmed yet, but she was on the slippery slope headed downhill to him. Women couldn’t resist Joe. I don’t know what it is. He’s good-looking enough, but he’s going bald. Personally, I think it’s his eyes. He’s got the Mazaratti eyes—intense, warm—and when he finally smiles at you, it’s like winning a prize. Of course, it could just be that Joe’s a nice guy and it’s genuine with him. If he likes you, you know it.

Joe was reading her nameplate. “Officer Melton?” He sounded the name out slowly and smiled. “How can we be of further assistance? You want Sophie here to come down to the station? You want something to drink, water? Move our cars? What?”

Melton, given too many options, hesitated briefly. “No, Mr. Mazaratti, if y’all could just wait on the front porch, or inside the house, that’s all we need right now. They’ll send out a couple of detectives and they’ll probably want to talk to Ms. Mazaratti, ask her a few questions.”

She didn’t even look at me now. It was all Joe. But that was fine by me. I was watching the cops string yellow crime scene tape across my backyard and feeling like everything was happening at the other end of a tunnel.

Joe took me by the arm and walked around the side of the house, up to the front porch steps. We climbed them and slowly sank down onto the top riser. Joey waited until Officer Melton joined the others in the backyard before he asked for the full story. He made me tell him twice, asking questions until at last I could see he was satisfied and had an accurate picture in his head of the events leading up to my finding the body.

“You don’t know who it is or anything, do you?”

I frowned at him. “Joey, I don’t know hardly anybody in this town but you guys. Besides, all I saw was an arm. It’s kind of hard to identify somebody by their arm, although she did have a kind of unusual arm.”

Joey was on it. “What do you mean unusual?”

“Well, she had this kind of tattoo on her knuckles,” I said. “Letters, you know, spelling out a word.”

“What word?”

“Hate. And then there was a, like, dragon symbol above that, on the back of her hand, but kind of small, toward her thumb.”

“You’re right,” Joe said. “That’s weird for here, but up North, you know that would be considered normal.” He laughed then and I had to laugh with him. It was eerie, laughing in the presence of a dead body, but it was like laughing in church—you know you shouldn’t, and that just makes it all the funnier.

The detectives pulling up in their unmarked, but totally obvious, sedan must’ve thought we were crazy. I saw the driver look up with a puzzled expression, check something on a piece of paper and then look back at the house. He was probably thinking he had the wrong address, what with us laughing like that, but the cop cars in the driveway confirmed it. They were on the scene with lunatics.

The crime scene van pulled right up in front of them and two technicians piled out and scurried up the driveway. If Joey’s stifled laughter and my giggles seemed odd, they weren’t stopping to mull it over. They had business in the backyard and time was wasting.

The detectives, though, were cooler. Detectives don’t rush. Rushing means you’re not in control, and I knew from Philly that detectives were always in control. The doors to the sedan slowly swung open and the two men got out of the car, the driver for a moment obscuring my view of the second detective.

The driver, a reed-thin older man, moved and started walking up the walkway. The second detective followed, head down and face partially obscured as he spoke into his cell phone. But even from a distance, even with his head down, I felt the shock of recognition. Mr. Wonderful was about to walk back into my life and this time I couldn’t run away.

He saw Joe first. I stayed on the porch, half-hidden by the overgrown magnolia tree, half hiding behind the porch pillar, watching. It had been almost six weeks since that first meeting in the tiny chapel, since the day I’d passed him on the sidewalk like there wasn’t a thing to it but two strangers smiling politely. Now here he was, poised on the edge of my life, about to change everything. But it was Joe he recognized.

I watched the detective snap the cell phone shut and follow his partner toward Joe, who stood in the driveway. Mr. Wonderful wore dark, well-tailored trousers, a white starched shirt and a subdued red tie. It picked up the intense gray color of his eyes, deepening them. His skin was darker, more tanned, as if he’d spent even more time outdoors since I’d first seen him. He moved like an athlete, graceful but with a coiled energy that seemed ready to spring forth at any opportunity.

I saw the detective’s eyes light on my brother, and the broad smile that had first drawn me to him appeared, un-checked, as if he had forgotten that this was a homicide scene and not just a chance meeting between two friends on the street.

Joe had the same sort of smile on his face, easy and warm. As I watched, he clasped Mr. Wonderful’s hand, then drew him in and hugged him, the way we do family or close friends up North.

Italians don’t love casually. We take hostages. You are either all the way in with us or a stranger. There is no phony Southern “Y’all come back now, hear?” If we don’t want to see you again, we don’t invite you back. I could tell just by watching that Joe knew this guy, knew him well and liked him. My heart flipped over and I rubbed my palms across my thighs, smoothing the fabric of my faded overalls.

“It’s a mess,” I heard Joe say. “My sister Sophie just moved down from Philly…gonna live in her dream house…now this. Marone.”

Mr. Wonderful was looking at the scene, over Joe’s shoulder, not seeing me there on the porch. He shook his head, agreeing with my brother.

“You know the district,” Mr. Wonderful said. “It’s transitional. These things happen sometimes…probably a hooker who got dumped after a bad deal.” He shook his head again, but his eyes darkened and his expression was grim. His good humor was gone and he was all business.

Mr. Wonderful looked at my brother and the smile flashed back for a second. “Joe, you got a sister? Why didn’t you tell me? She doesn’t take after you, does she?” Now he was grinning, trying to lighten up the situation for my brother.

Joe touched the top of his scalp and grinned. “No, Gray, she’s got hair.”

His name was Gray. It was perfect for him. It matched his eyes. Oh God, I was drooling like an idiot.

But Joe didn’t waste time. “Sophie,” he called, turning and revealing my hiding place on the steps. “Come here. I want to introduce you to someone.”

I stood, my hand touching the porch rail so I wouldn’t trip walking down the steps because the way I felt, I couldn’t trust my body not to betray me. I saw him do a double take, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening, either. I saw the easy smile flash, then grow tentative as I suppose he remembered me passing him on the street like a stranger.

I smiled back because I couldn’t stop myself. I was suddenly so very glad to see him. My brain wasn’t working right. My inhibitions, the stuff that would normally put on the brakes and stop me from looking foolish and desperate, were gone. Instead it was just me, smiling up like he was someone I already knew well, someone I wanted to keep close to me.

“She don’t always look this good,” Joe said, picking up on something, but uncertain of what it was. “She’s down here, what, two weeks? Already she’s with the overalls and the work boots.”

That stopped me. I suddenly saw myself as Gray must be seeing me. I was covered in dirt and yard grime, sweaty, probably smelly, too. I was wearing one of Pa’s old V-necked undershirts, worn overalls from the thrift shop and a red bandanna around my hair. I lifted my hand to touch the bandanna and the unruly curls my grandma Mazaratti once said would trap birds. This was wonderful. Dirty, no makeup and standing right in front of what Darlene called my destiny. Marone a mia.

“Like a fish needs a bicycle,” I muttered under my breath.

“What’s that, Sophie?” Joe asked.

“I said hello.” I started to extend my hand toward Gray, then realized it was probably filthy and that I had touched a dead body with it. When I moved to withdraw it, Joey’s friend was too quick. He read my hesitation, reached for my hand and took it, anyway, and then held it, like he was trying to reassure me, his grip warm and firm.

“Sophie,” Joe said, “this guy here is a friend of mine, Gray Evans. We play rugby together—only he’s good at it. Just so happens he’s a police detective and got himself assigned to this case. Our lucky day, right?”

I smiled, opened my mouth, and for the first time in my life, words failed me. “Uh.”

“She’s eloquent, my sister is,” Joe said.

Gray’s eyes held mine. “Hell of a morning, huh?” he asked softly.

I could only nod. The big cop came walking toward us and Gray dropped my hand and turned to her, then looked back at Joe.

“Excuse me a minute. I gotta go do this,” he said. Then he looked at me. “I’ll probably have a few questions I’ll need to ask you in a little while. Can you stick around?”

I think the last question was directed at both of us; at least Joe seemed to take it that way. “We’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Come inside when you’re ready.”

With that, Mr. Wonderful vanished and Detective Gray Evans went to work.

“He’s a friend of yours?” I asked Joey, trying to keep my tone casual.

Joey looked away from the crime scene, glancing sharply at my face, then back to the crowd of police officers. “Yeah, I like the guy, but we travel in different circles. He’s single, I’m married and got kids, so we mainly see each other at practice or a game. Nice guy, though. Even read my books. Go figure that, huh? A cop reading poetry?”

I shrugged, watching Gray talk to the uniformed officers. I liked the way the sunlight glinted off his hair, tinting the gray into a brilliant silvery white and somehow managing to make him look even younger.

“What? You’re saying a cop can’t be sensitive?”

Joey barely seemed to hear me and I was surprised when he answered. “You know any like that? Sensitive?”

Well, no, I didn’t. In Philadelphia the streets hardened them, and even if they had felt an emotion, I never saw it. But then, I only knew the South Philly boys, the ones from the neighborhood. I can assure you, sentimentality was not their forte.

“He works with Boy Scouts. That’s sensitive.”

This grabbed Joey’s attention. “I thought you didn’t know the guy?”

I could feel the heat rising up into my cheeks, spreading like a rosy wildfire across my face. I looked away, focusing on the activities of a slow crime scene technician who seemed to be gathering blades of grass from the ground around the victim’s body.

“Oh, I ran into him at the Tour of Homes. He was helping them sell lemonade.”

Joey’s attention sharpened. “So you run into him at the tour and still remember him?” he asked.

“Well, I guess he sort of stuck out in my mind, that’s all. You know, Joe, women are observant.”

Joey snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“So have you met his girlfriend?” I asked, fishing.

Joey had switched his attention back to the scene. “Met who?” he asked without turning.

“His girlfriend, Joey. He has one, doesn’t he?”

This earned me another sharp glance. “What? No, I haven’t met her. I don’t know who guys bring to the game with them. I’m just there to play. I didn’t notice anybody in particular. Lots of women come to the games, but so do guys.”

Men were so unobservant. “So he brought a lot of different women to the games, huh? What is he, a player?”

Joey’s attention was only marginally on my interrogation. He shrugged. “Whatever. Yeah, I’d say he’s a good player.”

I looked back at the detective. He radiated charisma; of course he was a player. Why not? He was a man, wasn’t he?

Like a homing pigeon, my sister Darlene arrived. How she knew something was going on at my house is a mystery, but then, that’s Darlene, ruled by the cosmos, victim of supernatural wavelengths. Our grandmother always said Darlene had the gift—the Eye, as the family calls it. She said Darlene “saw” things and “knew” things, things that other people don’t know…yet.

Darlene drives a beat-up Chevy Colt. It resembles an empty soda can on wheels, half crushed up and dented by what would be normal wear and tear in a regular vehicle. Of course, Darlene drives the way she thinks, in a nonlinear fashion, weaving from one location to another, which probably accounts for the car’s condition more than anything.

She parked, if you want to call it that, halfway down the block and then strolled back toward the house. She was wearing another one of her hippy outfits, a flowing chiffon dress and pink sandals. She didn’t wear a floral wreath today, probably because she’d come from work, but two slender braids pulled her straight brown hair back into a post-sixties look. She appeared to be oblivious to the police cruisers parked in the driveway. As she drew closer, I realized she was humming.

Joey rolled his eyes. He has no patience with her because he says she’s a disaster waiting to happen. I think actually she stresses him out because he feels he needs to protect her because she’s divorced two husbands and buried one. He’s worried because she doesn’t seem in a hurry to find number four.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice a singsong lilt. Then she stopped, seemed to take stock of her surroundings and said, “Oh, I guess it’s afternoon, huh?” Still no acknowledgment of the police cars.

She wandered up to where we stood before the change came over her. “Oh, man, something feels weird here. There is, like, a total disturbance in the energy level.” She actually shivered, wrapped her arms around herself and looked toward the backyard.

“Oh…it’s cold here, even colder back there.” She looked from me to Joe. “All right,” she said, “who’s dead?”

“Sweet Mother of God!” Joe gasped in mock astonishment. “What was it gave it away, the crime scene van or the three cop cars and the entire New Bern police force in the backyard?”

Darlene gave him her patronizing smile. “You should give up meat, Joe. It makes you mean.” Then she looked back at the scene and saw Mr. Wonderful.

How the woman recognized him again, after only seeing him one time in passing, is beyond me, but she did. She broke out in a triumphant grin. “Aha!” she cried. “What did I tell you? It’s your destiny! Fate cannot be denied!”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Joe cried.

“It’s the meat, isn’t it, Joe? You’re probably constipated,” she said, and dismissed him.

“He’s a detective,” I said. “Who knew?”

Darlene smiled. She knew. You could see she was thinking it. I knew.

At that moment, Gray Evans looked back at us and smiled. He knew, too, I thought. He knew all along.

“Let’s go inside,” I said. I couldn’t take it, couldn’t take everybody seeing my future, even me. I knew that it was all an unrealistic fantasy we were creating, not real life. In real life people simply do not fall in love at first sight or cement their relationship over a dead body. It just didn’t happen and the sooner we all got that, the sooner I could get on with my life.

We stood in the kitchen, or what would be the kitchen, and stared out the back window into the yard where Gray Evans and his squad of officers toiled. It was a close-up view of things we probably shouldn’t have seen.

A technician nodded to a question asked by Gray’s partner, the tall older man with a permanent look of sorrow on his well-worn face. With a quick nod to Gray, the senior detective leaned forward, pinched the edge of the plastic between two latex covered fingers and slowly tugged the wrapping away from her body.

Joe and I crossed ourselves, with him saying the Rosary softly and Darlene on my other side murmuring an incantation that sounded like “Now I lay me down to sleep.” As the police officers moved and the technicians snapped pictures, we had a pretty good view of the victim. She was young and had worked hard to disguise any natural beauty that might have been evident. Her hair was black, cut into a scalp-hugging cap of short, shaggy layers.

Joe whistled softly, cutting off his prayer at the sight of this poor dead thing. She was wearing a black leather halter top, complete with bright chrome studs, cutoff jeans and heavy black boots. Her skin, pasty in death, was covered with a number of intricate tattoos.

I watched the police officers exchange glances, a couple of them seeming to snicker. I looked back at the dead girl. She looked more like she was sleeping than dead. Her eyes were closed and her body wasn’t contorted into any of the anguished positions I’d expected of a violent death.

Darlene studied her. “Would you look at her boobs?” she said finally. “You think those are real?”

“Darlene!” Joe and I both yelled at her. “Have a little respect for the dead,” Joe added.

“I am respectful,” Darlene said. “I don’t have tits like that. I mean look at them. They have to be a triple D cup. Do you think they’re real?”

Joe was rolling his eyes, but I looked at the dead woman again. Darlene did have a point. Whatever she’d packed into that halter top, real or otherwise, was a pretty full load.

Darlene was entranced for another minute, and then she sighed and turned to look at me. “Bet she had back problems.”

“You think?”

Darlene, not sensing the sarcasm, nodded wisely. “I am a trained therapist, you know. I should be in a position here to judge.” Then, as if having another thought, she stopped, looked back at the victim and said, “You think she got shot there? I don’t see any blood, but then if the bullet hit a saline bag and it ruptured—”

“Darlene!” The image was too gruesome to imagine.

Darlene held up her hands and backed up a step. “Professional curiosity, that’s all. I mean, do they deflate if you hit one? You know, if they’re implants? It would answer a lot of questions if we knew that.”

“Darlene.” Joe’s tone was ominous. “Enough.”

I had no idea what kinds of questions would be answered for Darlene if she knew that, and I didn’t want to know, either. Somehow, though, I was sure we hadn’t heard the end of it from her. As soon as Gray Evans hit the doorstep, Darlene would be on him, relentless with her need to know. Let her tell Gray she was a professional therapist and see what that got her. I was betting he’d brush her off like a speck of dust.

Joe didn’t want to see any more. He started wandering around the kitchen, inspecting the wiring, looking at the pipes that were poking out of the subflooring, waiting for their sink.

“What’s the plan here?” he asked, indicating the entire room and all the details.

I sighed and pulled myself away from the window, turning my back on Gray Evans and the dead girl.

My dream house was a shamble of renovations and un-checked deterioration. What had been advertised as “partially renovated” was actually the equivalent of saying “We’ve stopped the bleeding, now you can try and put the pieces back together.” The major systems, the heat and air, the electrical wiring, had been replaced, but the lathe in some rooms lay naked and exposed, while a few others had new Sheetrock, unprimed and unpainted, waiting like empty canvases.

I’d moved in anyway. I’d made the offer, closed quickly and hauled my belongings from Philly to New Bern before I could have regrets, before I could change my mind. Did it matter that the kitchen was basically a gutted shell? No. That’s why God made microwaves.

Did I care that my bedroom was the intended dining room, while the master bedroom was yet to be reclaimed from years of neglect and trash? Absolutely not—it beat living with Ma and Pa and knowing that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be right by their standards. Parenting to Ma is like redoing an old house; you don’t ever declare it done because there is always room for improvement.

“The plan is to finish the walls first,” I told Joe. I was attempting to go along with his distraction, but the scene in the backyard tugged at me and I found myself looking over my shoulder. “I can’t afford plaster. Besides, the owners who started the work were using Sheetrock anyway, so that’ll come next, then the floors. I’m going to refinish what I can and try to match up the rest with new wood.”

Joe nodded. “Wood everywhere then?” he asked, but his eyes followed my gaze into the backyard.

“Yeah. I want to keep the house as close to original as possible. Maybe not the fixtures so much, maybe reproductions there, but you know, an old-timey feel.”

“Here he comes,” said Darlene, and no one had to ask who.

Joe walked to the back door and pulled it open. Darlene looked over at me and smirked, as if this was a social call and not a death scene investigation. I was once again frozen, standing rooted to the middle of my kitchen floor like a big dummy.

Gray was peeling off his gloves as he stepped onto the enclosed porch, stuffing them in his pockets and talking to Joe in a low voice. When they entered the kitchen, Joe looked at Darlene and said, “Come on.”

“But I want to—”

“Come on, Darlene.” Joe wasn’t giving her an option. As she approached the two men, he reached out, grabbed her arm and pulled her out the door. Darlene let out a high-pitched squawk and was gone without further ado. That left me alone with Detective Evans.

“Wish I had that lemonade now,” he said, his voice soft and easy.

“I’ve got bottled water,” I said, flying into a fluster of activity, opening cabinet doors, overlooking the cooler on the counter and finally realizing it was right in front of me.

Gray Evans moved across the room, took the cooler lid from my hand and set it down on the counter. Then he took the dripping water bottle that I handed him and put that down, too. He was inches away from me, so close I could feel the heat that radiated from his body, and smell the scent of musk.

“You know, it’s all right,” he said. The words brushed against me like a quiet breeze. “It’s all right to be scared and upset. Just try to relax a little bit, okay?”

I nodded and swallowed hard.

“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” I said.

That brought a smile. “Me, either.”

“You never found a dead body?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I get called in after the body’s been found. I know what to expect. It’s not a shock when I show up—not like it was for you.”

I looked away and turned my attention to fitting the lid onto the cooler.

“I…it was so…she was… When that blade hit her and I looked down and saw her arm, I thought, my God, she was sleeping here and I killed her.”

Gray was watching me, the water bottle unopened in his hand. “She was probably dead maybe six hours before you found her,” he said. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long drink.

“How did she die?”

Gray shook his head. “We won’t be certain until the medical examiner finishes, and it might take the autopsy to tell for sure. I’m pretty certain she’s got a head trauma, though.”

“Was it accidental or do you think she was murdered?”

“Almost certainly foul play,” he answered.

Right outside my window, just behind my house, a woman had been killed and then dumped. I hadn’t heard a thing. I’d slept through someone’s violent death and never even imagined it. I’d stood in my kitchen, drinking my morning coffee and looking out at the backyard, without any awareness at all.

“Do you know who she is yet?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Probably a crack whore, at least from the way she’s dressed, but with that hair, I don’t know.”

“Hey, maybe she worked a particular kind of clientele,” I said. “You know, the whips and chains, ‘I’ve been a bad, bad boy’ set.”

That made him smile. “You’re Joe’s sister, all right.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s quick, always got a comeback or the last word on a situation. And you look like him.” He hesitated, and then added, “Not the hair part. It’s your eyes. You’ve got eyes like his.”

“So, if Joe had hair, we’d be twins? Because I think what you’re really trying to say is I’ve got a mouth.”

He was looking at me, at first laughing a little, and then studying me. “Not really, not the twins part. But yeah,” he said, his voice thickening, “that’s some mouth you got there.” The way he said it, he could’ve been kissing me and I wouldn’t have felt the connection any stronger.

I backed up and changed the subject. Gray Evans scared me. He didn’t seem to know about women needing men like fish needed bicycles. I had the feeling that if I’d told him, he wouldn’t have cared, either. The guy was a player and spreading chemistry like fertilizer. Oh, this was one to stay away from, all right. But that wouldn’t be my problem for long. Right now he still didn’t know about me, about Nick. Later, his attitude would change and it would be a whole new ball game. He wasn’t going to ever be my problem.

“Okay,” he said, as if reading me. “Here’s what will happen next. The forensics people will finish processing the scene, and we’ll get the body out of here. When it’s all done, the yard will be yours again and you won’t have to worry about having any restrictions on working back there.”

“What if there’s another body?”

“We checked. There’s not. What probably happened is that she was killed nearby and your yard was convenient because of the overgrowth and the low fence. It was easy, that’s all.”

“I’ll finish clearing it out tomorrow,” I said. “I don’t like the idea of this happening again. I don’t like this at all.”

“Hey, the chances of it happening again are incredibly small. We don’t have that many homicides here, maybe four a year. This was a fluke. Relax.” He looked out the window into the backyard, inspecting it carefully. “Are you doing all that by yourself? Nobody’s helping you? What’s with that sorry brother of yours?”

I smiled despite my stomach flipping over and my heart racing, despite the warmth that seemed to be spreading throughout my body in a long-ago remembered way. Oh man, this guy was trouble.

“Joe helps when he can,” I said, “but he’s got a family and work….”

“And you don’t?” Gray asked. His eyes were fastened on my face as if everything hung on my answer.

“No. I’m a teacher,” I said, and ignored the other part of his question. “I don’t have a job yet and besides, it’s summer. Teachers have the summer off.” I looked around the kitchen, away from his face, letting him follow my gaze. “So, I’m doing what I can. I’ve got most of the major work contracted out, but I need to keep the costs down.”

I looked up and caught him watching me.

“I’m not afraid of hard work. That’s why I was out there cutting back the undergrowth….” But as I remembered how the morning ended, I felt myself slow to a stop. We all knew how the morning’s work had ended.

“So you wouldn’t mind a little free labor?” he said, slipped it right in on me without me seeing it coming.

“Free labor?”

“Yeah, I can cut down bushes with the best of them, and I have something else I bet you don’t have.”

Now he had me. “What?”

He smiled mysteriously, his eyes sparkled and one thick eyebrow arched. “A chainsaw.” He gestured toward the backyard and grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing until you see what short work a chainsaw will make of your jungle. Hide and watch.”

For the first time since we’d met, I heard the faint twang of a Southern accent. Gray Evans was a country boy at heart.

“You better with a chainsaw than you are at pouring lemonade?” I asked. “Or should I tell EMS to stand by?”

He laughed and was about to answer me, but of course, Darlene with her Extrasensory Perception picked this moment to escape Joe and reclaim the kitchen. She sailed in through the dining room, a froth of pink chiffon and ladylike smiles, and focused one hundred percent of her attention on Mr. Wonderful.

“So,” she said, apropos of nothing at all, “were they her real breasts or not?”