The Weekend Visitor Read online

  The truth has remained unproved. As we discussed it after the movie, Cassie and Sonny opted for the ran-out-of-gas version. Wolf and I went for the Saipan caper. Everyone else appeared somehow to have drifted into the kitchen, where they seemed to be having great fun helping Cindy clear up and put the food away.

  The four of us left in the living room were discussing the movie with growing determination that our individual opinions were correct. Our conversation was declarative and perhaps, suitable for the hard of hearing. I wouldn't really have called it an argument. Not actually. Suddenly Cindy appeared in the doorway wearing the sweetest smile I have ever seen. "Alex, darling, could I borrow you for just one tiny second?"

  "Sure." I walked into the kitchen and she yanked my arm, pulling me into the pantry and closing the door. For one delirious instant, I thought she simply could not bear to be without my body for another moment. I soon learned that any designs upon my person were not friendly. She poked a schoolteacher finger hard into my chest. "We will not have any more disagreements in this house this night! I don't care if they marched that airplane woman naked through the streets and the emperor cut off her head with an antique letter opener! Let. .. it... go! Now get back in there and be charming. Oh, don't let Wolf drink any more, he's not making sense. Now, go."

  I went. I was charming. Peter got Wolf onto his feet, explaining, "It's getting late and much as I hate to leave you lovely people, we have to get up and make brekkers for a bunch of silly queens in the morning. Cindy, Alex, I can't tell you what an unforgettable time we've had!"

  I just bet he couldn't, although I was sure he'd manage to tell everybody else in town. But I smiled and murmured little nothings as I escorted them to the front door, with Wolf swaying and muttering about that brave young woman dying for her country, that we should all go and throw flowers in the ocean for her.

  That started the exodus. Sonny and Trish went out the back door, with Sonny insisting he could drive perfectly well, broken toe or not. Trish said it wasn't his toe she was afraid of. I have no idea how that played out. I closed the door and returned to the living room, where Cindy, Lainey and Cassie were in a three-way embrace. Cassie was apologizing for her outburst and obviously not meaning a word of it, and throwing in little snipes like, "If only I had known I was just supposed to be a leper I would never have said a word."

  I broke up the hugfest and sort of danced Cassie to the door, assuring her it was nothing at all, which earned me a sour grin and a rather snappy pat on the cheek from Lainey, and they were gone.

  I leaned against the door. Cindy stood in the middle of the room looking dazed. "Is everybody gone?"

  "Yes."

  "Lock the damn door."

  "I already did."

  "Then come and make me a drink. And tell me none of this happened." She tottered into the kitchen.

  I made the drinks and we sat at the table staring at each other. Then we both burst into laughter. "My God, what a disaster," I managed to say.

  "I'll never forget that lobster claw making a true three-pointer into my butter cup, and then your pouring wine all over Sonny's sleeve." Cindy giggled.

  "Yeah, well, you did a fine job on the centerpiece, my dear!"

  "I know. And I don't even know why." She giggled again and then sobered. "Alex, was it a bad thing that you told me about Maureen being raped? Should you have kept it secret?"

  "No, I don't think so. I thought about it before I told you, but I decided it was okay. I think, actually, Cassie stated it pretty well...you are my lover, my best friend and my mate. If I can't trust you, we've got bigger troubles than some unfortunate gossip getting spread."

  I lit cigarette number something, and decided not to even wonder. "You see, things like Maureen's attack are part of my job. Sometimes my job gets me down, or confused or excited or whatever, and I need someone to talk to. You are that person. I trust you."

  She reached for my hand and squeezed it. "I'm glad. I wonder why Lainey didn't tell Cassie."

  "Knee-jerk reaction. Medical people hate to share information with any layperson. I think it's one way they preserve that holy mystique. Sometimes I wonder that they even share anything with the patient."

  "You're bad. But you don't share everything about your cases with me, do you?" She looked at me coquettishly over her drink.

  I shrugged. "Mostly. Maybe I skip a detail here and there."

  "Aha! Like you might just have skipped the unnamed person who had coffee with you this morning?"

  I frowned for a minute, trying to think what she meant. It had been a long day. At last I got it. "Oh, you mean Maureen? She was sitting on the back steps when I got here this morning. How did ... ?" Then the penny dropped. "Ah, the cup in the sink, her lipstick on it probably."

  "As long as it wasn't on you." Cindy smiled, and I had an insane, momentary feeling she looked just like Wells. "What did she want? Why come all the way over here and hang around? She could have just phoned."

  "She had thought of a couple more things." I filled her in on my general conversation with Maureen, and then addressed the specifics.

  "Added to Nacho IDing the car and what Pete Santos told me, it really pretty well narrows it down to Jack Sanhope, I think."

  "What did she come up with?" Cindy did not sound particularly friendly.

  "Nothing big, for example, she remembered the stairs she went up were narrow, dim and green-carpeted. She recalls seeing some athletic trophies on a shelf while she was . . . er, in bed. And for some reason, she spotted a telescope out in the yard. I'm almost sure she'd been there before, even though she may now have blocked it." I sipped my drink.

  "She really led you right to the Sanhope kid, didn't she? Everything she remembered had his name all over it. You just followed the breadcrumbs. Have you ever considered, Alex, that most people in stressful situations remember trivia? They don't remember the hold-up guy had on a red jacket, they remember he had garlic on his breath. They don't remember his accomplice was tall and skinny, they remember she was wearing blue eye shadow. And I don't think Maureen blocked a damn thing," Cindy went on acerbically. "I think she remembered them all along. I think for some reason she's leading everybody on at her own pace. She wants something from you, Alex, though I'm not sure what. It may simply be your sweet bod ... if 'she's gay."

  "You don't think she is?" She was confusing me now.

  "Well, think back. According to what you told me she said this morning, she never really admitted to sleeping with Mary. I think she is whatever is handiest, richest or most likely to advance her cause . . . whatever that may be at the moment. Never mind the grammar, you know what I mean."

  I sat back in my chair, surprised at the dislike in her voice. "Wow, ma'am! You don't care for our little Irish colleen?"

  "I think she is a conniving opportunist. And if she ever really comes on to you, I'll bop her one in the head with a baseball bat!"

  I laughed very heartily, and then said with just the right amount of casualness, "Oh, I don't think we have to worry."

  Cindy smiled. "That would be about ten seconds after I bopped you in the head." She stood and headed for the bedroom.

  "I'll be right there," I called after her. "I'm just going out with Fargo for a sec." And, please, God, don't let Maureen be walking up the driveway.

  While Fargo went on patrol around the yard, looking for just the right spot on just the right bush, I thought of Cindy's intensity about Maureen. It made sense when you factored in a tiring work week, a long day, a catastrophic evening, a late hour and more to drink than usual for my beloved. She'd probably either be embarrassed or forget all about it by morning. On the other hand, Maureen had kind of dodged the Mary issue.

  By the time Fargo had peed and declared the yard free of intruders, we had been outside for several minutes. Inside, I closed up the house and turned off lights and went into the bedroom. Cindy was already asleep.

  At least, I guessed she was.

  Chapter 11

  When a do
g decides it is time to begin his day, he does not factor in what he had to drink the night before, at what hour the lights were turned off, what day of the week it is or what plans may be had for that day. He simply knows that he is awake and ready to embark on whatever today's journey may be . . . and so, consequently, are you. You can either get up or you can shoot the dog.

  I knew of one small restaurant that opened at the crack of dawn, and stopped there on the way to Race Point to pick up a container of coffee and a slab of hot Portuguese fried bread, liberally smeared with butter and beach plum jelly. I consumed it in about four bites plus one for Fargo as we drove. I got down a shudderingly hot belt of coffee, and felt much better about the world in general.

  I parked the car and Fargo took off down the hill to the water's edge where he ran all-out, zigzagging for no apparent reason except the pure joy of feeling the sand skid beneath him. The air was cool, but the still-red rising sun held out the carrot of warmer rays to come, and the ocean lapped ashore with feisty little wavelets not quite daring to reach my shoes. But I had the feeling it was all a big bluff. The sun had just a touch of haze, barely enough to put it half a degree out of focus. Away from the shore, the swells were bulky, with an oily look, and breaking sullenly out where the beach began to shelve. What wind there was came from the east. My bet was rain before nightfall.

  So Fargo and I enjoyed our solitude. One of us running, trotting, prancing saucily up to the waves, snapping at the foam, dashing ashore, exploring every smell of possible interest. The other, walking slowly, camera in hand, waiting for the photo op. It came, with two seagulls screaming and fighting over a small, very dead fish head. It went, as Fargo broke up the fight and peed on the fish, just to prove he'd won.

  I turned back toward the car, sipping the cooling coffee, lighting the first cigarette. Fargo dashed by, chasing a flock of sandpipers that whirled and dipped enticingly, perhaps just to keep him interested. And we went home.

  I stopped for pastry and papers. I could never figure out why we had to have two Sunday New York Times. Nor could I figure out how we could get along with just one. We needed two puzzles. And two TV schedules. We each liked to read various sections, like the Book Review, during the week. Whatever. I lugged two of them into the house.

  Cindy was up and dressed, looking alert and cheerful, her difficult mood of the night before apparently evaporated. I plopped a paper in front of her, put the other one across the table for me and turned to feed the dog. "How was the beach?" Cindy asked. "I was half awake. I should have gone with you."

  "We would love to have had you. It was splendid, but ..." I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead as if receiving a vision. "I foresee rain in the near future. We should breakfast alfresco."

  "Invite him if you wish," she sighed. "Personally, I can go a long time without guests for a meal."

  "Okay, scratch Al." I grabbed the bag of pastries and two mugs of coffee. "First one out gets first choice of the goodies." I ran for the back door.

  She followed slowly, finally placing napkins, the two puzzles and pencils on the outdoor table. I reached for the goodies bag and she moved it away. "No game. You already had breakfast."

  "Now why would you say a thing like that?" I asked indignantly.

  "The jelly on your shirt."

  "Oh." I handed her the paper bag. "Help yourself."

  We ate and fiddled with the puzzle. I looked at the high-end real estate ads with photos, to see what I might "buy" this week. There was a rather nice estate in Greenwich, CT, but at 3.7 mil, it seemed a bit pricey, so I moved on to the food section. It featured three soups I'd never heard of, which might be at home in Greenwich, but would be foreign indeed on my table. It was just as well I'd saved my millions.

  Cindy gathered up the debris and headed inside, murmuring something about the dishwasher. I strolled around the plantation, pulling a weed here and there. Then I put the circular metal cages around the tomato plants, though somehow the cages made them look even smaller and more vulnerable. I wished they would grow faster. I hoed my hydrangea plant and sprinkled some used tea leaves around the roots. A suggestion from Aunt Mae. From the garage I took a jar of flat beer, also an Aunt Mae idea, poured some into a shallow bowl and placed it near the baby peppers in case the slugs came a-wandering. And then I felt a large splat on the back of my hand and looked down, relieved to see it was a giant raindrop. Then I felt another on my back, on my head, my back again.

  My prophecy was coming true a little early. So much for the beer. I poured it back in the jar, grabbed the hoe and trotted for the garage. By the time I got in the house, it was coming down hard.

  Cindy had done the only sensible thing for a rainy Sunday afternoon, and gone back to bed. She was curled up under a light throw reading The Week in Review while Gershwin's Concerto in F played in the background. I took a fast shower and stretched out beside her. The CD had switched to my favorite of the selections, Cuban Rhapsody, and I kept the tricky rhythms softly with my fingertips on the bed.

  I pulled the throw to cover us both and felt her welcome body warmth. I moved my head down to her stomach and massaged her legs lightly. While she read she tried desultorily and unsuccessfully to subdue the shower-damp cowlick left in the crown of my hair. The rain against the windows beat a counter tempo to the music. It was a friendly timeless time.

  There was no passion. Passion would come later. Then mouths would kiss and tongues would explore and insist. Hands would stroke and grasp and give and demand. Bodies would quiver and move unbidden, as if controlled by a master puppeteer. One of us would give a small, sharp cry. The other would take a deep, almost sobbing breath. But it was not that time .. . not yet.

  It was an early, cloud-induced dusk and still raining when I awoke and heard Cindy doing something in the kitchen. I pulled on jeans and sweatshirt and went to investigate. As I walked into the room, she turned and smiled and raised her arms. "Caught me. I surrender."

  I pulled her toward me and whispered into her hair. "Stealing lobsters is a dangerous pastime in this area." I gave her a kiss and she turned back to the counter.

  "I wanted to do something with the food from last night while it's still good to eat. There's rice in the blue bowl and some salad greens in the yellow bowl. I left you and Fargo a lobster plus a steak. And there are muffins in the plastic bag. Just nuke everything but the salad."

  Yawning, I asked. "Could it be you are leaving me?"

  "Yep. I want to check on Wells. Aunt Mae may have had enough of her by now. And I need to get some clothes together for tomorrow."

  "You didn't leave me all the food, did you?"

  "Certainly not. Wells and I will also enjoy surf and turf together." She kissed me again. "Talk to you tomorrow?"

  "Yes. And miss you tonight."

  "That's good. A little, not too much, but a little." She stroked Fargo for a moment, picked up a plastic bag and went out, calling over her shoulder, "My God, there's a big boat out here with animals marching into it."

  I popped a beer and nuked the rice and meat and muffins as ordered, and put some dressing on the salad. It was almost as good as it was last night, and I realized I was starved. Somewhere along the way, lunch had been misplaced. I turned on the TV and watched the news while we ate.

  The food was so good and my mood so mellow, not even world and national events could get me down. I did miss Cindy ... a little. And I was pretty sure she was missing me ... a little.

  Chapter 12

  By Monday morning at 10:30 the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and Fargo and I had long-finished our early beach run, where, lying flat on my stomach and shooting directly into the sun, I had gotten a fabulous shot of driftwood, a small tree limb, half-buried in sand, arms reaching skyward in a plea for freedom. Afterward, I tried to yank it loose and take it to Aunt Mae to be made into a planter for herbs, but it was too big to handle. So we headed for the car.

  And now, I was ready to visit Dr. Gloetzner and collect the information I was pret
ty sure would finish off one Jack Sanhope. Rapists were rarely so thoughtful as to use condoms, so Jack's DNA should be easily provided by semen samples, recovered from Maureen's visit to the emergency room early Monday morning.

  Fargo begged to go along, and who was I to be disagreeable on such a promising day? En route we stopped at Evans' Grocery, mainly because they delivered. There I purchased three large bags of potato chips, tortilla chips and pretzels, plus three tins each of mixed nuts and bridge mix. That should hold Nacho for an afternoon! And, I thought happily, tucking the receipt into my wallet, they were a legitimate expense item.

  I parked in the shade, lowered all the windows and presented myself at Dr. Gloetzner's door promptly at 11:00. He was a slight, balding man with a bit of a ski-slope nose and a rather prim mouth, and the first words out of his mouth were to ask for my credentials and Maureen's letter permitting release of medical records to me. He called through the open door to his secretary and asked her to make copies of both documents, and then seemed to relax.

  "You want to know about Maureen's experience of June fourth," he reminded us both, as he opened the folder in front of him. "Well, there were some abrasions in and outside the vagina, as well as some mild interior bruising." He stopped.

  "Indicative of rape," I concluded for him.

  "Good word, indicative." He looked up at me with a surprising grin that made him almost handsome. "Could be indicative of rape. Could be indicative of a good old-fashioned enthusiastic romp in the hay."

  To say I was shocked was an understatement. "Ah . . . well. . . ah, what about other signs of rape? An attack?"

  "Sorry, Ms. Peres, there were none I could find. No bruises on her neck, arms, back or breasts. None on her knuckles or feet to indicate she tried to hit him. No torn fingernails saying she might have left some scratches on the brute. There were a couple of very mild bruises on the inner thighs."