A Perfect Crime

35

Francie walked all the way home, the wind at her back most of the time, arriving just after four under a rapidly darkening sky. She was no longer burning up, was probably cold, although she didn’t feel it, numb inside and out. She’d been through everything, now knew Ned’s alibi and why he was reluctant to use it, knew all but the where of it; knew, too, something of how it felt to be in Anne’s position, with another woman, unseen, exerting force on her life like some orbiting body composed of dark matter. A powerful force that shook, unsettled, reduced: could reduce her to the state of Anne sobbing on her stool in the locker room, fallen completely apart. But Francie hadn’t earned the right to be in that state, was the other woman, not the wife-in this case not even that, but the other other woman-and so any falling apart would be ridiculous, absurd, pretentious. And shameful: a feeling with which she was filled to the brim already. So although her mind was ready to start writhing with the kinds of questions that must have tormented Anne-had he really been working on such-and-such a night? how had they met, how had it begun? what did he tell her in bed? what did they do? the same things? different things? the same things better? — she couldn’t allow it. Among other reasons, she owed Anne some dignity.

Francie went in the front door, stood in the hall. The house was dark, as always at this time of day in winter. She heard the refrigerator door close, heard the beep of the answering machine, crossed the shadowy living room to the flashing red light, pressed the button.

“Francie? Nora. I was going to swing by and ride out with you. Guess you’ve already left. See you there. God, I hate funerals, this one especially.”

Francie reset the machine, stopped the beeping. She didn’t call Nora, wasn’t ready for that. What should she tell her? Everything? Why not? Was there any reason to go on keeping Ned’s secrets? No. She thought of Savard-he had heard Ned’s alibi, knew that secret, but hadn’t told her. Ned’s second secret: did its burden, too, sometimes grow intolerable, demand to be flaunted? Francie’s memory readied the image seen through a keyhole. She closed her inner eye to it, or tried to, and returned to Savard. There was no reason he should have told her-he probably operated on a need-to-know basis, and in this case had decided she didn’t fit the category. But then she remembered the little nod he’d given her, twice.

Francie went upstairs, through her bedroom, into the bathroom, drew a deep bath, stripped off her funeral clothes, lay in the tub. If there was no reason to keep Ned’s secrets, there was no reason not to tell Nora. Oh, she didn’t want to do that. How could she and Nora ever be the same? But were they the same now? Not really. It was a sham. So Nora had to be told. Tomorrow, not today: she needed breathing room.

There was a knock at the door.

“Francie? Is that you in there?”

“Who else would it be, Roger?”

“Of course, of course. Just being pleasant. There’s dinner, whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“One must eat, Francie dear.”

Francie went downstairs in her robe.

“In here,” Roger called from the dining room.

She entered the dining room. He’d set two places at one end of the table. Candles, the good silver, his grandmother’s Sevres.“Champagne, Roger?”

“Why not? Life does go on. Here we are, the proof.” He filled two glasses, clinked them together in a toast, handed one to her. He drank, peered at her over his glass.“You look despondent, Francie.”

“I’m all right.”

“You’ll feel much better after a little something.” She sat down. “Isn’t that what Winnie-the-Pooh used to say? A little something. Remember when the Latin translation came out? Winnie-Ille-Pu. Cute idea, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember, actually.” But how she would have loved reading Winnie-the-Pooh to some child of her own. She took her first sip of the champagne, tasted nothing but the alcohol, downed half the glass in one swallow.

Roger raised the lid of a serving dish, revealing two plump and perfect omelettes. “An omelette sort of evening, don’t you think?” he said, serving her.

Francie emptied her glass, refilled it. She began to feel, not better, simply less.

“Bon appetit,” said Roger, cutting a good-sized bite from his omelette. He looked up. “How do they say it in Italian?”

“The same. Buon appetito.”

“That’s what I like about you, Francie. That flair.” He chewed his omelette, patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin.“How do you like it?”

Francie tried some. “I can’t believe how good you are at this.”

“Pshaw,” he said, waving off the compliment, an awkward gesture that overturned his glass, which knocked down hers as well. “Shit,” he said, rising abruptly, sopping up champagne with his napkin. He took the glasses, both broken, to the kitchen, returned with sponges, new glasses, another bottle. “Oh, well,” he said, filling the glasses from the first bottle, uncorking the second, “accidents happen, do they not?”

Francie drank, refilled her glass from what was left in the first bottle.

Roger returned to his omelette, wielding knife and fork, silver clinking on china. “How went the tree-trimming?”

“What you’d expect.”

“And Ned? It is Ned, isn’t it-name never anchored itself in my mind, for some reason. How is he taking it?”

Francie rose, too abruptly, and something silver clanged to the floor.“I’m sorry, Roger, I’m very tired. The dinner’s very good, and it was… kind of you to prepare it, but I’m going to bed.”

“I understand completely. Why don’t you take the bottle with you?”

“Thanks. I think I will.”

“Good night, then. Sleep well.”

Francie went upstairs, taking the bottle and her glass, closed her door, got into bed, drank a glassful and then another. She put the glass on the bedside table and turned off the light.

Francie closed her eyes. No tears, just sleep, go numb. But first her mind tormented her with a parade of images: Ned in his kayak, Em on a skateboard, Anne at the net; Kira Chang. They faded when they’d had enough, and her last thoughts were of Roger: how nice he’d been, even considerate. She thought of going downstairs, inviting him up to lie with her. Would there be comfort in that, an omelette sort of thing? But no. And apartment hunting still began tomorrow.

“Mr. Savard? Nora Levin, returning your call.”

“Thank you. I’ve got a few questions about the murder of Anne Franklin.”

“I thought you had a suspect.”

“We do. But I’m still puzzled about what she was doing at that cottage, and wondered if you had any ideas.”

Pause. “No.”

“Were you aware that she made an attempt to leave some clue about the murderer?”

“No.”

“She wrote the word painting on the floor of the cottage. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I know she painted.”

“I’ve checked all her paintings. I don’t think that’s what she meant. Is there some other painting she may have been referring to, a valuable one, perhaps?”

Silence.

“She wrote the word in her own blood, by the way,” Savard added. “Painting.”

He heard the woman inhale.“I have one thought,” she said. “But I’m not even sure what I saw, let alone whether it’s relevant.”

Roger finished eating, left the rest of his champagne untouched, cleared the table. He scraped the leavings into the garbage disposal, loaded the dishwasher, except for the champagne flutes and the Sevres, which he washed by hand, turned the machine on, using the energy-saver switch. He dried the glasses and the china, put them back in their cupboards, returned to the dining room and blew out the candles. Then he sat at the kitchen table and did nothing. The house was silent.

An hour later, by the clock, he rose, removed his shoes, went upstairs. He put his ear to Francie’s door, listened, heard nothing. Francie had come through beautifully tonight, looking the part to perfection. Despondent, officer, if I had to put it in a word. I tried to cheer her up, but… Roger went into the guest bathroom at the end of the hall, returned with a towel, left it lying by the door. Then he started down to his basement HQ, where the pipeline project awaited.

First, like a surgeon, gloves. Then into the garage, the windowless garage, invisible. Roger stuck one end of the three linked garden hoses into the tailpipe of Francie’s car. He secured the connection with duct tape, triple-wrapping the tape two or three feet along the hose, making it absolutely leakproof. He paused. Would used duct tape, found in the trash, say, constitute evidence, dangerous to him in any way? Probably not, but he made a note to ball up the remains afterward and melt them away on the stove, just to be safe. The hoses he would disconnect, recoil, put back in the storage room until spring. Anything else? No. He opened the door to Francie’s car. Her key was in the ignition, where she always left it when parked in the garage, despite his every admonition. Taking hold of the key between gloved forefinger and thumb, Roger turned it, started the engine. He held the open end of the hose close to his face and felt a warm little breeze.

Then, out of the garage, up the stairs, uncoiling the hose, his mind making silent chortles as he went. First floor, through the kitchen, around into the first-floor hall, up the stairs, into the second-floor hall. He switched off the lights and walked softly to her door. About five or six feet of hose left: perfect.

Nora and Savard stood before the half-size wooden lockers in the corridor leading to the indoor courts at the tennis club.

“This one,” Nora said.

“I’d need a warrant.”

“And what if I did it?”

“That would be a crime.”

“Arrest me,” Nora said. She kicked in the locker.

Roger listened at the door again. Silence. Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Of course she was. Lethe, refuge of the guilty feminine mind. Now came the tricky part, the only tricky part, really. With the end of the hose in his left hand, he took the doorknob in his right and turned it slowly, very slowly, very silently, as far as it would go. Then, holding it there, he knelt and pushed the door open an inch, very slowly, very silently. He laid the end of the hose on the rug inside the bedroom, closed the door back over it, flattening the plastic only negligibly. Then, door closed, the turning back of the knob, very slowly, very silently. Done. Still kneeling, Roger rolled the towel he’d left there-to be laundered later in the unlikely event it retained gas residue-into a long sausage and aligned it firmly in the strip under the door. Done and done! Roger knelt in front of Francie’s door for five full minutes, by his watch, and heard not a sound, not a whisper of a sound, from the other side. He rose at the end of the fifth minute precisely. How did they say “the end” in Italy? Oh, Roger: perfect, perfect, perfect.

And then the light went on.

“I get it,” Whitey said.

Roger spun around. Whitey! There was Whitey filling the hall, crude stitches in his face, an ax in his hands. Any other relevant details? No. How did he get into the house, for instance? Roger’s brain turned on him: not relevant, not relevant, not relevant. Let me think.

“I get it now,” Whitey said.

Think.

But how, with that look in Whitey’s eyes?

Think.

“Get ready to have your dreams twisted,” Whitey said. Or some such gibberish. “You couldn’t possibly ‘get it,’ Whitey.”

“You must think I’m pretty dumb.” Whitey took a step toward him.

“Not at all, not at all,” Roger said, and what presence of mind, to keep his voice down like that. “You misunderstand me. The point, the salient point, Whitey, is that”- Yes! Brilliant! Back in control!“ we’re both victims here.”

“I’m nobody’s victim,” Whitey said, and took another step.

“Not victims in the sense you mean. I’m speaking metaphorically, if you will. The background is rather complex, but try to focus on the idea that everything can still work, surprisingly smoothly, even, if you-if we-keep our wits about us. The first step would be to switch that light back off.”

Whitey did not. Neither did the look in his eyes disappear; in fact, it grew madder. “You set me up,” he said.

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Roger. “Nothing could be further from the truth. But before I explain, I must ask you to keep your voice down.”

Whitey did not. “There was no painting in the first place,” he said.

“Certainly there was. I had it in my own hands at one stage in the proceedings.” Think. What is the goal? To get that ax, to drive it through Whitey’s skull. “What you must understand, what you’ve got to take on board, as it were, is that we’ve both been manipulated by a third party. Why don’t we put down that implement, so out of place in a domestic setting like this, and go downstairs for a quiet discussion?” Drive it through Whitey’s skull, and then through Francie’s, aborting the CO procedure. An improvisation of an improvisation that could still work-his brain was already sketching in the adjustments.

Whitey’s hands tightened on the handle; Roger saw the tendons pop out. “No one manipulates me,” he said.

“Am I not aware of that?” Adjust, adjust. “And because of that attribute, so prominent in your character, this is going to be your lucky day.”

“How’s that?”

“Because the opportunity has arisen for taking revenge on your manipulator. Putative manipulator,” Roger amended, to forestall another touchy reaction.

Whitey took another step, was now no more than six feet away. “You killed Ma,” he said.

Perhaps revenge had been too potent a word, perhaps he’d introduced it too abruptly into the mix, too unadorned. But a daring counter presented itself; no time for even his brain to think it through to the end, but the feeling surrounding it was the feeling that always accompanied his best ideas. “I did it for you, Whitey.”

Whitey, who appeared to be on the verge of taking another step, paused. “For me?”

Got him! “We’re partners, Whitey. I’m on your side.”

“What do you mean you did it for me?”

“I’m familiar with the psychiatrist’s testimony, Whitey. I know she’s responsible for the… perturbations in your past.”

“Perturbations? Are you accusing me of fucking my own mother?”

“No, no, no. Perturbations, Whitey.” How to explain it? Think, think. Whitey took another step. “Ups and downs,” Roger said, perhaps too explosively, perhaps too loud. “Ups and downs.”

Whitey halted. “You killed her because of that?”

“If I’ve gone too far, forgive me, Whitey. It was with the best intentions. And what kind of a life did she have, anyway? The crux of the matter is that we’re partners. Share and share alike. If you’ve spent any time in this house, you know a certain amount of wealth is represented. Why, the Arp alone is worth its weight in gold.”

“What’s an arp?”

“What a character you are,” Roger said. “He was a famous sculptor, and I’ve got a rare piece of his, down on the bookcase in the living room. For your next birthday, shall we say? Why don’t we go down and take a peek at it?”

“Fuck that,” Whitey said. And that look in his eye, the one Roger didn’t like, which had faded a bit, intensified. Unaccountable.

“I hope I haven’t offended you, Whitey. As your partner, the last thing I’d want to do is violate your amour propre in any way.”

Whitey made a little flicking gesture with the blade of the ax, as though warding off insects, came closer, close enough for Roger to see the tiny drops of pus seeping through his stitches. “Killed her and set me up for that, too.”

“No, no, no. Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Heard, but not understood. Yes, dumb, a dumb animal, almost preverbal. How to put it in his vernacular, to accord him the respect his like always craved? What is the right vulgarism? Something bodily, no doubt. How about: “I wouldn’t step on your toes, Whitey. Not for anything.”

The expression in Whitey’s eyes worsened dramatically, became animal, in fact, and Roger’s mind flashed a quick memory of the eyes of a wolverine he’d cornered in the boathouse at the Adirondack camp as a boy. “But you did step on my toe, you son of a bitch,” Whitey said, and raised the ax.

Not getting through, not getting through. Roger’s brain was frantically pursuing various strategies, spinning with permutations and combinations, scattering scraps and tailings of this or that scenario in the mental air- think, moron, think- when the door opened at his back.

Francie peered out, blinking in the light.“What’s all the noise, Roger?” she said. “And I smell something odd.”

“Impossible,” Roger said. “It’s completely odorless.”

Francie’s eyes adjusted to the light. She saw the second man, recognized him at once from the police photograph-Whitey something. His eyes, awful eyes, locked on hers. She looked to Roger. “What’s going on?”

“Improvise,” Roger said, more like a mumble, as if to himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“The chaos butterfly,” Roger replied.

“I don’t understand you.”

Roger snapped his fingers. “But I understand you,” he said, “only too well.” He pointed at her, his eyes every bit as awful as Whitey’s but in a different way. “There’s your manipulator, Whitey, at long last. This is your big chance. The only chance you’ll ever have. I can’t dumb it down any more than that. Don’t blow it.”

Odorless? Manipulator? Butterflies? What was he saying? Francie opened her mouth to speak, but Whitey spoke first.

“I won’t blow it,” he said. “But she’ll keep.”

“No,” Roger said, “that’s specious reasoning, if we can even dignify it with the term. You can’t possibly-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Whitey said, and swung the ax like a baseball bat-Roger’s eyes incredulous-swung it so hard Francie heard it whistle in the air, right through Roger’s neck, the blade sinking deep into the wall. Then came a horror of spouting blood and screams, hers and Whitey’s, and in that time of horror and nothing else, with the ax stuck in the wall, Francie had her chance, too, her only chance, to get away, but she froze.

The screaming stopped. Whitey jerked the ax out of the wall. He stared at her. “You’re just like her,” he said, “but way better.”

Francie closed the robe at her throat. Was he talking about Anne? Anne’s killer, talking to her like this? She shook, but felt nothing but fury. It washed away everything else-horror, fear, grief, confusion.

“Never,” she said.

“What do you mean, never? I haven’t even said anything yet.” He came toward her, still holding the ax, but in one hand now and low, the blade dripping.

“Never,” Francie said, and heard for the second time that day the sound of her inner voice, her true voice.

“You got that wrong,” Whitey said, still coming. “Like right now is when, while we got this buzz buzz happening. It’s going to be incredible. Master’s away and puppet plays. Fuckin’ poetry.”

His free hand flashed out, very quick, got hold of Francie’s robe. “Don’t you touch me,” she said, and kicked him in the groin with every bit of strength she had. He doubled up, blocking the hall. She kicked him again, not as accurately, and got both hands on the ax, yanked it, but not free. He held on. They wrestled for it. And fell, rolling down the bloody hall, coming to the top of the stairs with him on top, the ax handle caught between them. Whitey wedged his forearm into her throat.

So heavy. So strong.

“Going to be even better now,” Whitey said. “I like all the smells. ” He arched his back, pulled at the ax handle, forced it slowly up between their bodies, the blade slicing through Francie’s robe. He gazed down at her, his face a foot away. “I’m going to come in holes you don’t even have yet.”

Every hair on her body stood on end. Never. Francie got a hand free, tore at his face, tore and tore and tore, ripping out the stitches, redoing all Anne had done, and more. Whitey screamed, jerked aside. Francie scrambled out from under him, grabbed the ax, rose, and was starting to swing it when he charged up from under her, inside the arc, caught her in the stomach with his shoulder, and she went down with him on top again, and again they were rolling, but this time down the stairs, Francie, Whitey, the ax, rolling, tangling together in-what was it? A garden hose. Francie got her hand on the hose, whipped a length of it around Whitey’s neck as they fell, tried to jam it between the banisters, tried to break his neck, but he punched her, full in the face and very hard, and she let go.

Then they were on the floor in the hall, and Whitey was up first, both lips split wide, baring all his teeth. Bleeding all over, but up first, and with the ax, while she was still down-and everything had gone snowy, like bad reception.

“Nice try,” Whitey said, looming over her. He raised the ax.

The hose: wrapped around his ankles. Francie rolled aside, but so slowly, as the ax came down, and pulled, but so weakly, on the hose. Whitey lost his balance, almost fell, but didn’t. Francie heard the thunk of the blade sinking deep, felt no new pain. Whitey went still.

“You stupid bitch,” he said.

Francie, on the floor, saw his leg, inches away, and the ax, buried deep in his thigh, and high up.

“Thought you could trip me?” he said. “With my sense of balance?”

He pulled the ax out, stood over her, started his backswing-but blood came gushing from his leg. Francie could hear the flow. He gazed down at what was happening, went white. He toppled over soon after. Francie lay on the floor as the warm pool grew around her.

Splintering sounds at the front door. Francie sat up. The door cracked open. Savard burst in, and others. They said, “Oh, God,” and things like that.

He knelt beside her.

“Sorry I’m so goddamn slow,” he said. “You all right?”

“No.”

He took a long look at Whitey.

“Why are you looking like that?”

“I don’t mean to be looking like anything.” He turned to her, the savage expression still on his face. “I owe you,” he said.

Francie started crying.

“Don’t cry.”

But she couldn’t stop. She cried and cried. “Is it all right, Anne? Is it all right?”

He picked her up and carried her outside. Flashing lights everywhere. “Oh, Anne.” But she said the name softly now, and soon got hold of herself.

“I can walk.”

“You’re sure?” He watched her carefully, his face softened now, close to hers.

“Yes.”

He put her gently down. Nora ran up from a squad car, took Francie in her arms. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Whose was it?”

“Not yours, sugar, not yours.”

Would she ever be able to talk herself into that?

Someone in the house said, “Open the windows.”