Lie Still

12

The three of them waited for me at a white-clothed table in the corner, set with half-drunk glasses of Chablis and littered with crumbs from a basket of hard French rolls. It was a full house at Ruggieri’s. The lights were low. Votive candles flickered on tables, illuminating tiny bud vases of sturdy white carnations.

Christmas greenery pretending not to be Christmas greenery wound around a metal arbor behind the hostess stand. Nice try, with the fake orchids and daisies stuck here and there. In harsh daylight, this place probably didn’t look much better than a diner, but it supposedly dished out the best Eye-talian in town.

A man rose up out of the crowd to wave me over. I was confused for a second, but, yes, this stranger was waving at me. Harry Dunn, I presumed. The mayor’s eyes traced like a snake up and down my body, settling in the middle, surprised, as if he hadn’t known I was pregnant. But that was nothing compared to how radically off my own assumptions had been about him.

Whenever Mike mentioned his new boss, I had pictured Harry Dunn as a potbellied, balding, boisterous politician, with hopeless zeal for the Texas governorship. Instead, Harry Dunn was a stunner. An 11. Or a 12. An instant vote-getter. Dark wavy hair, an aristocratic nose, a sexy, slender frame, broad shoulders, a gorgeous black suit, a loosened tie around a stiff white collar, a very, very nice watch, and no ring on his left hand.

Leticia stood up, too, her chubby fingers curling possessively on her husband’s arm as I wove my way along narrow paths to the table. Next to Harry, even sitting down, Mike stood out like a bruiser, his rolled-up sleeves baring thick, dangerous forearms. I felt sorry for Letty. Despite her size and a bright yellow sundress, beside her husband she appeared shrunken and outclassed. Mike had mentioned that Harry had risen up from less than gracious beginnings. Maybe behind closed doors, where Letty wrote the checks, the score evened out.

Harry shook off Letty’s grip to lean over and kiss me, saying everything about their relationship I ever needed to know. The spot where his lips touched my cheek felt damp and clammy, like a tiny frog had landed there. I pushed down the urge to wipe off any residue. My heart started a steady pound.

I smiled coolly. This was the archetype of the guy I didn’t do well around. The grown-up Pierces. Harry Dunn would have sex with me, pregnant and married, tonight, in the back of a car, hell, in the one-holer bathroom in the back of this restaurant. He’d said it with his eyes and with the hand he casually drifted up and down my back while his lips brushed my cheek. I hated myself for the primal physical response he elicited. Attraction and abhorrence at the same time.

Right now, Letty’s plump face reminded me of a pot of water about to boil. I tried to picture Harry and Letty in bed. Letty on bottom. Letty on top. My mind couldn’t wrap around it.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I rambled nervously. “I decided to put on makeup. Then I couldn’t fit into those capris that I wore last week… I really need to unpack… I left my cell phone and had to go back…”

Mike didn’t know yet about the cigar box, which was sitting on our kitchen table. When I called Mike’s secretary, he’d been stuck in meetings. I’d been careful. I removed the box from the car using latex gloves Mike kept under the kitchen sink. I checked the car out thoroughly before getting back in to drive over here. Under the hood, in the trunk, beneath the seats. Nothing.

Harry, lazily stretched back in his chair, smiled as if my flustered appearance utterly charmed him. Not Letty. Not Mike. His lips were stretched tight, an angry white line around them. Because he was jealous of the visual undressing I just got from his boss? That was no doubt Letty’s grievance with me tonight. As for Mike-well, I thought we doused those jealous flames in a therapist’s office a long time ago.

I sat down in the empty place across from Letty, trying not to stare at the mountain of snowy cleavage on display that reminded me of a toddler’s bottom that had never seen the sun. I offered her the warmest smile I could summon, thinking I could use that gin and tonic at Harry’s elbow.

“It’s so great to see you again, Letty. And so nice to meet you, Harry.”

My tone gave nothing away. But while Letty and Mike buried their heads in the menu, I met Harry’s gaze directly across the table with my answer: No way.

Harry quirked an eyebrow as if he’d just engaged a worthy foe. He’d silently declared another open invitation to me, even though I was pregnant, even though Mike could take him down in five seconds. Why, why did men like him still think I was an easy target for their invitations?

“I need more lemon slices for my water,” Letty yelled out at a waitress.

“Here, take mine.” I picked the lemon wedge out of my water with a spoon and tried not to stare while she squeezed it into her glass and doused the whole thing with the pepper shaker.

“It’s a pageant-girl trick.” She said it like she was confiding state secrets. “Although it’s supposed to be red pepper. Beyoncé used it to lose all that weight for Dreamgirls. Stunts the appetite right off.”

She took a swig of her nasty concoction without any obvious ill effects, although it had an ill effect on me. I held down a gag reflex behind the menu, a tall plastic-coated affair that hadn’t been wiped off lately.

“I’m kind of in between diets. I was on the Hallelujah Diet last month, the one where you just eat foods specifically mentioned in Genesis Chapter 1, Verse 29. Mostly vegetables. Janice Marstead recommended it. She’s the second-best soprano in the First Baptist choir, after me. My stomach was like a lawn mower at work 24/7. I had to drink five Sonic milkshakes a day to calm things down. I don’t think it’s really all that God-approved anyway. In Genesis, Chapter 9, Verse 3, God lifts all those diet restrictions.”

The waitress ventured over to the table with a small bowl of lemon slices.

“It’s about time,” Letty said. “Get out your pad. I’m going to have the fettuccine alfredo with chicken and extra pancetta and a bowl of Parmesan cheese on the side because you never put enough on. Also, a Caesar salad, and don’t be chintzy with the croutons.”

Harry seemed immune, as if he pretended his wife didn’t exist most of the time, and Mike wasn’t interested in sharing any silent humor with me. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes. What the hell was up with him?

After we ordered, Mike and Harry might as well have been sitting at a separate table. They started with Caroline’s case, then lit into a semi-civilized argument about a New York Times piece on Fort Worth’s resident hanging judge and moved on to the Preston Trail Golf Club, so exclusive that members had to die before a spot opened up. Mickey Mantle had been a late and beloved member. Harry was bragging about his status as No. 548 on the waiting list.

I listened with half an ear while Letty gushed about how Suzanne Somers was the last legitimate fitness expert and that it was a shame she had to give that up to cure cancer. While Letty rattled on and Mike re-engaged with the wine list, Harry tossed me a wink.

“Well, Emily, what do you think about Caroline disappearing?” Letty demanded. “It’s been almost four days. She missed an interesting prayer breakfast this morning. The choir director took up about a third of it praying for her safe return. He’s gay as a daisy. The scrambled eggs could have used more cheese.”

It was hard enough to follow Letty’s non sequiturs when I wasn’t exhausted and worried about a stalker who left presents wrapped in pink ribbon. “I don’t know Caroline very well,” I stuttered. “Mike thinks it’s… of concern.”

“Caroline took a fancy to you right away. Just like she did with your friend Misty. Some of the girls don’t much like the idea of either one of you getting in. Me, I’ll go along with Caroline.” Leticia slathered butter on a roll. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice, a breathy advertisement for the garlicky croutons stacked so high on her salad I couldn’t see any green.

“I told that booger-nosed cop, Cody Hill, what I just told your husband. Neither appears to be taking me too seriously. It’s annoying because I’m breaking the club’s oath of secrecy here.” Leticia vigorously stirred her water with her butter knife. The pepper swirled like a polluted snow globe.

“Caroline and Misty Rich had an argument the day before she disappeared,” she continued. “I saw them in Misty’s Lexus going at it in the park off of Parr Road. Caroline-”

“A white Lexus SUV? Tinted windows?” I interrupted.

“Every car window’s tinted, honey, when you live in Texas. But her Lexus is green. A sedan. I think it’s a lease. My Lexus is white.”

I leaned back to allow the waitress to remove my salad and replace it with an enormous serving of spaghetti and clam sauce.

“That looks like somebody blew their brains out,” Letty said, wrinkling her nose. My spaghetti instantly morphed into blood and bits of gray matter. Add to that the smell of odiferous clams and Letty’s pepper and lemon pageant trick with a glass of water, and my appetite had officially shut down. I didn’t think it was possible.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” Letty persisted.

I covered my plate with two paper napkins, watching a red stain slowly spread. “I don’t know. I’ve been here three weeks. I don’t think you should openly accuse Misty of anything without more information.” I wondered if Caroline had been blackmailing Misty, too. The blurred photograph of that little girl on the bicycle crept into my brain. All that weird awkwardness.

Letty was still assaulting me with her garlic breath. My right temple pounded. “In fact,” I added, “I’m not interested in hearing your gossip about her. Ever.”

“Listen to you defend her.” Letty was in full sarcastic throttle. “I didn’t know you’d become such fast friends.”

Mike and Harry stopped their conversation to stare at us, like they had been watching a G-rated movie and suddenly somebody took off her top.

“Did you see those shoes she wore to Caroline’s the other night? Whore shoes. Misty’s a slut. Word is, so are you.” Letty’s words sliced the air at a decibel that carried to every corner of the restaurant. I tensed. Mike’s hand gripped my arm in warning. At last, some attention from my spouse.

“You think I don’t know about you?” The room was now completely still, as if a conductor had raised his baton. Waiters balanced trays, forks froze inches from open mouths. No one spoke a word, all eyes glued to the four of us. The maître d’ nervously maneuvered his way in our direction. I was sure he was dreading breaking up a brawl at the mayor’s table.

Harry scooted his chair back loudly, nearly knocking it into the horrified waitress behind him. His face was filled with the kind of disgust I reserved for… well, I didn’t reserve that kind of disgust for anything but the Texas roaches the size of silver dollars that I found clacking across the kitchen counter last night. But Harry did, and he was aiming it at his wife. Leticia withered. It was as if she’d lost weight in front of my eyes.

“My wife has been struggling with a new medication.” Harry tugged Letty roughly to her feet like she was an obnoxious child about to get a whipping in the restaurant bathroom. “My apologies.” He turned to the maître d’. “Please put this on my tab and add in a thirty percent tip. Mike, I’ll see you tomorrow. Emily, I’m sure we’ll meet again.” That thirty percent tip was Letty’s money, but Harry Dunn clearly threw it around like confetti.

Harry took my hand before I could refuse, bending to kiss it. I felt the tip of his tongue. It was a dead tie as to which of these two people was more repulsive.

“Good night,” Mike said, for both of us. I’m not sure whether he knew I was wiping the back of my hand along my pants leg.

On the way home in the car, Mike said nothing. I wanted to tell him about the boxes, both the one at Caroline’s that held secrets and the one that held the cigar. About Harry’s tongue. But now my own anger was blazing. He couldn’t blame me for the disastrous evening. He’d set up this little dinner party and informed me of the details in a text, making it very hard for me to say no. Sure, I could have been more tactful. But the woman called me a slut, and her husband licked me like a dog.

We reached the front porch, and I trailed behind him. Mike turned the key but the old, swollen door stuck like it usually did. He thrust a fierce kick in the middle of the frame and the door swung open, slamming against the wall, leaving a star-shaped hole in the living room plaster.

“You think I’m angry about tonight? About that shrew of a woman and her ambitious asshole husband? Here’s what I’m angry about, Emily.”

He spit out every syllable of my name like a bad taste in his mouth. He pulled me by the arm to our bedroom, to the pile of papers on his nightstand that I assumed were part of the Kilimanjaro of police files he reviewed as bedtime stories.

“See this?” He removed a sheaf of five or six pages from a folder, shaking them inches from my nose before letting them fall like autumn leaves. “What else is there, Emily?”

I shrugged off his hand and knelt clumsily to gather up the papers, to give myself time. My eyes blurred with tears, but I could see enough words and phrases to get the gist.

Homicide.

Gunshots.

My hands froze. On the page resting at my feet, a crime scene photo was replicated on a scratchy fax. I could make out a bloody black soup near Pierce Martin’s head.

“Why didn’t you tell me the man who raped you was shot to death three weeks later?” Mike was now on the floor with me, pulling me to him. His fury was hot and close. Too close.

I couldn’t breathe. When did Mike put these papers on the nightstand?

“Did you do it?” Four words, each one hitting my brain like an ice pick. “Why?” His voice was despairing. “Why can’t you talk to me?”

“Because I was a different person then.” My voice was cold and far away, not at all the way I wanted it to come out.

I tried again, and this time my voice broke with my pathetic confession. “Because you might not have married me.”

He dropped his hands from my shoulders.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered.

“Wait. Mike, please.” I sucked in a shaky breath. “I didn’t kill him.”

But he was already gone.

One sheet at a time, I picked up the papers scattered across our bedroom floor. My tears were falling like fat drops of rain, smudging the ugly words.

Of course Mike had checked out Pierce Martin. What cop in his right mind wouldn’t check out a vicious crime against his wife, even if it happened thirteen years ago?

No, Pierce Martin never fulfilled his imaginary destiny as a nasty husband with two children, a dangerous roving eye, and serial rapist status.

My rapist was dead. I didn’t need to see the crime photo staring up at me from the floor. I knew with the certainty of someone who has stood over his casket to be completely sure.

Pierce’s mother had caught me when I’d crumpled over her son’s coffin. It had been harder to confront a dead Pierce than I’d thought. With the kind of irony only God can dish out, his mother grabbed my elbow as I wobbled, offering support, asking how I knew him, murmuring that he was a “wonderful boy.” This was before I became a suspect. Before I knew about the other girls.

I wanted to scream at his mother so loudly that I woke that evil son of a bitch in his coffin, so that all those mourners could know: You raised a monster!

Instead, I had pretended to be too overcome to talk.

When she turned away to find better consolation, I opened my fist, which clutched a chain with a tiny gold cross, a $30 diamond chip dropped into the center.

It was the cross hanging around my neck when he raped me.

The necklace that lived under the glass in a JCPenney store before he purchased it at the last minute, all part of his plan.

The one he gave me during the chocolate mousse course at my nineteenth birthday dinner two hours before he jammed himself inside me, then rolled off nonchalantly to pee in a bathroom a few feet away. Like I was nothing.

Standing over his dead body, I had lifted his suit flap and tucked the cross inside his crisp shirt pocket so he could take it with him to hell.