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“I was thinking that possibly I could come over tonight to discuss a few details regarding the case,” he says.
I can’t think of a thing to say. For some inexplicable reason I’m seeing David Caruso’s naked butt.
“I’d hate to drag you down to the precinct to—”
“Am I a suspect?” I stop fussing with my hair, trying to fix the unfixable in the damn bathroom at Precious Things, where no one, least of all Drew Scoones, can see me.
“Nothing like that,” he says. Is that the same as no? “I’m just curious about Mr. Meyers and I thought that you, working with the two of them, and knowing Mrs. Meyers pretty well…”
I ask about Jack’s alibi and Detective Scoones says they are checking into it. Helene knocks on the bathroom door and asks if I am all right.
“So about seven, Ms. Bayer?” he says. It seems that only the time is in question. “I’ll come by your place.”
And then he clicks off and I hear my mother’s voice.
“I said, ‘Does Jesse like chocolate or regular rugelach?’”
“Oh, he likes them both,” I lie, planning to eat the ones with the raisins while Jesse, ten, and Alyssa, six, gobble the chocolate ones. (Dana, the stick, will no doubt makes noises about how she’ll be fat for her bat mitzvah while scarfing down the rainbow cookies my father always brings for her. At twelve, she is old enough to watch the other two, and I could tell my mother not to come, not to bother. But rugelach sounds like exactly what I need at the moment. And I do, after all, have a date with the police. So in the end, as always with my parents, I fold and tell her that sure, they can come over to look after the kids. And yes, I add, they can pick up some pastrami and knishes as long as they are stopping at Ben’s Deli.
I exit the bathroom to find Gina staring at me like I’m an ax murderer, clearly on the road to the electric chair.
She hands me my BlackBerry. “Your reminder went off,” she says apologetically.
Today is a day I’m not likely to forget.
As if none of this has happened, Helene returns to the subject of her brother, Howard, and reminds me that he is a food critic for Newsday. “You’d never starve,” she says with a wink as I gather up my belongings. I smile and wave, opening the door without comment. “The divorce was his wife’s fault,” she shouts after me. “His ex-wife!”
Yeah, yeah, my wave says. I bet that’s what Rio tells every woman he meets.
My phone rings again as I am getting into the car, and of course, it’s Bobbie. The neighborhood grapevine has already begun to produce fruit. Or is it whine? She apologizes to me fifty times for refusing to come to Elise’s with me this morning. When her sister, Diane called Bobbie from the precinct to tell her what happened, she couldn’t believe it. And then, after we dispense with all the oh my Gods! that we both need to get our of our system, we start hypothesizing about who could have killed Elise Meyers.
I didn’t mention it to the police, but between you and me Elise Meyers was a little off her rocker—not that I’m one to talk, which is probably why I didn’t say anything to them. Still, she was. Here’s an example: once when Rio called me on my cell at her house to yell at me for refusing to sign our joint tax return before my lawyer looked at it, she told me I should keep a list of every obnoxious thing he ever did. She said it could be very therapeutic. Then she told me that she kept lists, tons of them. She had brightly colored, leather-bound Kate Spade journals of every injustice ever done to her, every slight, every nasty glance thrown her way. She said she had a whole book of every bad thing Jack had ever done and why he deserved to die. At the end of it, she even had a list of what she’d do with his money after he was gone.
She had a separate list that Bobbie knows about and that creeps us both out, and another one in a slim, lime-green book that Bobbie doesn’t know about, at all. In that one Elise claimed she had cataloged the indiscretions of virtually everyone she knew, and she made a point of saying that I was probably the only woman she knew who wasn’t in it. The way she said it made it sound like just maybe Bobbie was, like she knew about Bobbie’s one mistake.
“What do you suppose the police would make of the How I’ll Spend His Money After He’s Gone list?” Bobbie asks me. I’ve never told her about the lime-green volume because she would totally freak, and it could be that Elise was just bragging. Maybe she told every woman she knew that she was the only one not in it.
“If Jack was the one who was dead, it wouldn’t look too good,” I say. “But I don’t suppose it will matter now. One of the other lists could be important, though. I mean, someone on one of those lists could have been the murderer.”
“My money’s on the husband,” Bobbie says.
I tell her about his “alibi.” And then I mention that there was something weird about Elise’s house, something out of place or something that should have been there and wasn’t, or shouldn’t have been there and was.
“Uh…” Bobbie says “…I guess that would be Elise’s body?”
CHAPTER 3
Design Tip of the Day
The windows in your house are your eyes on the world. They frame the view of your house from both inside and outside and demand treatment. They should reflect your house’s style, be it formal, casual or eclectic. Would you let the world see you without mascara? Don’t let it see your windows without prettying them up, as well.
—From TipsfromTeddi.com
Okay, before you meet my family, there’s something you need to know. I was switched at birth. My parents insist this is not the case, but there is no question in my mind that I am an alien child. Now, by alien I mean either that my real parents were here illegally from some foreign country and there is no Long Island blood in me or that I was switched by body snatchers from another planet.
Either way, I don’t belong here. Never have. This fact has escaped my mother (who, at sixty-eight, is still sure that with enough pressure she can convert me into a real Long Islander) and is irrelevant to my father (who is three years her senior and who I am convinced will love me even after my third eye makes its appearance).
My parents clearly intend to take up residence in my house, judging from the number of suitcases and amount of food my father has schlepped in. I will argue them out of this later. I hope.
At the moment, I am watching out the front window of my front-to-back split level home, the one I shared with Rio, while my father paces behind me repeating that he’ll call Mel Rottman—the best lawyer on the South Shore—to talk to the police with me. Each time he says it, I assure him it isn’t necessary.
My mother, however, isn’t so sure that the innocent always go free. This is why she is telling me about a friend of hers who tried to get through customs by sewing undeclared jewelry into her brassiere and claiming it was her underwire bra setting off the metal detectors. It doesn’t matter to June that the woman wasn’t actually innocent. The point is that if a friend of hers could get frisked at JFK, I could wind up on death row.
Even when her stories are tedious, it’s still amusing to watch my mother tell them because of all the cosmetic surgery she’s had since my father’s long-term affair with our housekeeper put her in the sanitarium and him in the dog house. He’s footed the bill for more Botox, collagen and Gore-Tex than Joan Rivers has tried to deduct from her taxes. What’s really amazing is that even though the woman can’t actually frown, grimace or pout, she can still give me “the look”—the one that says “you’re a disappointment, Teddi. You’re such a disappointment.”
At the moment, I’m ignoring the look and wishing that one of my lovely children would entertain their grandmother long enough for me to finish filling out all the forms I need to send in for the decorator showcase at Bailey Manor before Detective Scoones shows up. Bailey Manor, for those who don’t know, is a decorator showcase. Every year there’s a benefit showcase and each lucky decorator or decorating firm that gets chosen gets assigned a room at a fabulous old mansion on Long Island that—provided they don’t destroy any of the existing architecture—they can decorate however they think will best show off their talents. Bobbie knows someone who knows someone who is sleeping with the brother of the guy who is married to the woman who doles out the spaces, so I am doing the breakfast nook. I can’t tell you how excited I would be if I had a stick of furniture that I thought was good enough to go in there or a way of getting some before Halloween, when it opens.
Oh, the irony of the timing of my father’s retirement from the furniture business—just months before I opened my decorating business. And months after Rio’s patience for being second in command there was exhausted and he began his scheme to drive me crazy so that he could put up our house as collateral for a loan to open an outlet center right next to my father’s store.
“Maybe you should do the dining room,” my mother says as she watches me fill in the forms. This despite having told her several times that I am lucky to have a room at all and that peons don’t get to pick. She plucks a piece of lint off my sage-green silk sweater and adjusts the chunky necklace I made myself, telling me I look very nice, considering. I am going to assume that she means considering my day and not pursue it.
She and I both keep looking out the tall bay window of my living room, watching to see if it’s a squad car that pulls up. A family of bikers rides by, all in helmets, the smallest on a pink bike with streamers and training wheels. I think they are the new people who bought the Kroll’s house.
I remember riding around with our kids and, unlike Plastic Woman, it must show on my face since she says, “It’s not too late for you to find someone decent this time and have another…”
“Way too late,” I say, and then yell upstairs for Dana. “Come down and recite your portion of the haf tarah for Grandma and Grandpa.” I realize that bringing up Dana’s bat mitzvah is dangerous territory, where my mother has set minefields regarding the flowers, the food, the dresses, and hurry on. “Jesse, show Grandpa…” Nothing comes to mind, but I see that my father is fishing around in his pocket, which no doubt means he has some new techno-gadget he wants to show me.
“Wait until you see this, Jesse,” he says as my ten-year-old bounds down the stairs. “I got a new phone for your mother to try.” From his pocket he pulls out a PalmPilot, a key chain that beeps when you clap your hands and a spanking new phone.
“Dad, you have to stop doing this.” I try to look annoyed with him, but it’s hard. I mean, is it so awful for a man to spend his days in Best Buy, Circuit City or on the Internet buying the latest whatever? When you think about what else he could be doing? And he can afford it, so really is it so terrible that he shows up at my house a few days later with whatever he’s bought, saying it a) doesn’t work, b) isn’t user friendly, c) doesn’t do what the guy in the store—or the pop-up ad on the Internet—promised it would or d) isn’t worth what he paid for it?
My it’s-too-small-for-anyone’s-fingers-to-use BlackBerry is Bluetooth. (He didn’t even know what that meant, but before the salesman was through with him, he was convinced he needed it. I tried to make him understand it was a way computers and handhelds and phones could all communicate with one another and it worked like infrared, but when it didn’t work for him on the first try, he lost interest.) My you-take-it laptop is Wi-Fi. (No, he doesn’t know what that means, either.) My absolute-piece-of-crap phone sends photos across the country or across town so that my clients can see potential pieces of furniture or room settings as soon as I do.
“Video,” he says, showing the new phone to Jesse. “That’s what they told me, but I got home and thought, who the hell am I gonna send video to? It’s not like I have the store anymore to watch how they waste my money.”
“The store” is Bayer’s Fine Furniture (The Home Of Headache-Free Financing And Hassle-Free Furniture Buying), which my father opened in the late 1950s after he married my mother. I think he’d have actually kept it if only I’d agreed to come work for him. But there comes a time in everyone’s life when they need to grow up and stand on their own two feet. At least that’s what Ronnie Benjamin, the psychiatrist who helped me prove I wasn’t crazy last year, says. She’s helped me a few times since then, and it seems to me she’s always right.
“Oh,” Dana coos, her purple-polished nails reaching out for the phone while she confirms that someone at school has one that does indeed send streaming video, and her brother Jesse adds that the kid got it confiscated for broadcasting from the locker room before gym class.
“You can give the other one to Danala…” my father suggests “…if you can get this one to work.”
“Mom can do it,” Jesse, ever my champion, says. “And then I get Dana’s phone, right, Grandpa?”
“And then there’ll be one more person who won’t take my calls,” my mother accuses.
“I’ll take your calls,” little Alyssa says, smiling coyly at my mother. “If I get the phone I promise to never say, ‘Oh shit, it’s Grandma June.’ I’ll say ‘Oh good!’ I promise.”
I’m supposed to yell at Alyssa for using the S word, but pointing that out will only lead to who she may have heard saying it, and I don’t want to go there.
There is silence and then Dana starts to giggle. Jesse swats at her and then we all give up and laugh, except, of course, Grandma June, who huffs a bit before saying how we’ll all miss her after she’s gone.
If that sounds like a threat, don’t be alarmed. I’m ashamed to admit that not only don’t we take my mother’s suicide comments to heart anymore, we don’t even hear them. The days of her feeble attempts are, thankfully, behind us, or so we try to believe. My father gently gives her hand a pat, and I shoot her a not-in-front-of-the-children look. And just as I am about to try to video the kids with the phone, a car pulls into our driveway and my three children rush to the window like it’s Trading Families and their new mother is going to get out of the car and come strolling up the walk.
The car is low and sleek and if I knew sports cars the way I know SUVs and minivans, I’m sure I’d recognize what it is. Detective Scoones, Drew, gets out of the car and adjusts his sunglasses. He has on pressed jeans and a casual sports jacket over an Izod sort of shirt in deep green, a favorite color of mine. I know it’s not just me who can’t breathe at the sight of him because my mother gasps and my daughter’s jaw drops.
June beats me to the door, proving that when she wants to she can move like lightning, and introduces herself, establishing immediately that 1) she knows all about everything that happens in my life and 2) that she is staying over to protect her grandchildren from whatever he might have in mind. Marty, his protective instincts in full gear, manages to mention the best lawyer on the South Shore twice before the man has both feet in the foyer. The good detective makes a point of taking note, nodding his head and muttering something about the lawyer’s reputation.
He bothers to murmur compliments as he looks around at my house, noting that the dark green walls make the place look cozy and the salmon color of the bedroom, which he can glimpse from the hall, looks inviting. Yes, that is the word he uses. He says I look nice, too. A lot better might be what he actually says.
Dana and Jesse bound down the stairs, Alyssa lagging slightly behind, and he introduces himself to them, assuring them this is just routine and that their mother is in no way a suspect (as in: your mom’s just helping the police out) and this is not any sort of date.
There are now seven of us occupying approximately four square feet of floor space in my foyer. I invite him into the living room and the group moves like we are bound by bungee cords. I motion for him to sit but after the kids jump onto the sofa and my parents take the club chairs, he remembers that he actually hasn’t had a chance to stop for dinner and wonders if I would mind if he held the “interview” in a restaurant.
“Isn’t that a bit irregular?” my elder daughter asks. Her tone hints that she thinks the handsome detective is up to no good.
“A bit,” he admits with a smile that appears to win her over. “But pretty soon my stomach will be talking louder than my voice can cover.”
When Alyssa starts to list all the Yu-Gi-Oh cards she has, I acquiesce because going to dinner with Drew Scoones is not exactly abhorrent. And because the alternative—spending an evening with my mother—has the potential of landing both of us back at South Winds Psychiatric Center. And then, too, there are a few things I’d like to tell the good detective that I don’t want my kids to overhear.
Somehow we extricate ourselves, my father yelling down the walk after us to have a nice time and my mother fussing at him that we should do no such thing. Drew opens the car door for me, waits while I pull in my flowery skirt and wrestle with the seat belt. Then he closes me in.
As he slides into the driver’s seat, he says, “I just wanted to check up on you and see if anything else might have occurred to you now that you’ve had some time to come to yourself.”
“And you can’t get in trouble for this?” I ask.
“For what? Eating?” he says, trying to push me into defining it as something more than that.
I fumble with a few words and then, more forcefully, say that I don’t think there’s anything else, though I have thought about what might be important. I don’t tell him that I’ve also thought a lot about what might not be, like the rants in Elise’s journals.
“Well, let’s just grab a little something to eat, have a couple of beers, talk it out a bit,” he says. “Sometimes a little memory jog can produce the smallest thing. It’s always the smallest things that solve the biggest cases, you know.
“And you’re sharp,” he says. “Like about the dog knocking over the pills, and the alarm.”
“You knew all that,” I say, not about to be swayed by flattery. “Why pretend otherwise?”
He smiles shyly. “You never know. Sometimes it pays to be dumb.”
“Play dumb,” I correct. “Like on Columbo, when he asks all the murderers ‘Why’ and they come up with explanations that innocent people wouldn’t bother with?”
“I’ve got a wrinkled raincoat in the trunk,” he says with a shrug.
He pulls out of the driveway, his hand on the seat behind me as he backs up. If I sit any more erect, I’ll be kissing the windshield. He drives up to Christiano’s, a little Italian place in town that is supposedly the little Italian restaurant that Billy Joel made famous. Actually, I heard that after they’d put it on their menu and everything, one night Billy did a concert at Nassau Coliseum and refuted the whole rumor, just like that.
Everyone still believes it though. Sometimes people have a hard time letting go of mythology.
Anyway, they are nice to the regulars there, and I’ve been going there for years. The hostess’s eyebrows rise when she sees me without the kids or Bobbie. I suppose it’s Drew that’s raising her eyebrows. She says something like, “Don’t you look nice?” and gives me a covert thumbs-up behind Drew’s back as she takes us to a secluded table in the corner.
On the way, we pass half a dozen families I know, and they all notice Drew, and frankly I enjoy every minute of it. They don’t know that Drew isn’t interested in me, but only in what I might know.
For that matter, I don’t know that, either. I don’t stop at any of their tables and I know that at least three of the women will call Bobbie before I get home and just casually mention that they saw me. Is that Teddi’s cousin from L.A. I saw her with? So what are you having for dinner? I was just at Christiano’s. Yeah, I saw Teddi there…
He asks if I have any more pictures of the Meyers’s place, and I tell him that they are in my computer and that I can forward them to him at the precinct. He tells me his e-mail is on the card he gave me yesterday. I offer to give him my e-mail address, but he says he’s already got it.
Once we’ve ordered (linguini with clam sauce for him, a salad, which I won’t touch, for me), I ask if he ever thought I really was the murderer. He says they aren’t sure yet that there’s even been a murder. That’s the second time he’s evaded answering me about whether I’m a suspect.
“Do they know anything?” I ask.
“Well, they do know that she took a blow to the side of the head, just above the ear, and that the blow is what caused her death.”
“So then they do know she was murdered.” A waiter fills our water glasses and deposits a basket of warm garlic bread that smells divine and that I won’t touch because who wants bad breath? We are silent until he leaves, and then Drew says that she could have hit her head on the edge of the counter.
When I look at him skeptically he adds, “Okay. The M.E. says it’s consistent with being struck by a blunt object, like a metal pipe, or—”
“—a faucet.” So then, it’s true. I’m the one who bought the murder weapon. I paid for it. Well, technically, I suppose Jack Meyers has the bill, but I carried it in, I left it just where someone could pick it up and whack it into a living, breathing person’s skull. Elise’s skull.
“You okay?” Drew is half out of his seat, a hand on my arm. One of us is listing badly to one side. Apparently, it’s me.
I put my hand on my chest. “My faucet killed her.” I don’t want to think it’s amusement I see in Drew’s eyes, that cops really are as hardened to matters of life and death as Jerry Orbach always made them seem. I think it is.
“I don’t suppose you were wearing gloves when you brought it in?” he asks.
“Oh my God,” I say, as I realize that my fingerprints are on the murder weapon.
He tells me to relax—as if that’s possible—and explains that my prints will serve to show whether or not anyone touched it after me, and whether they then wiped my prints off along with theirs.
“Not that we’ve found it,” he says. “Yet. But we will.”
I ask if he’s going to fingerprint me, hiding my hands because of those two missing nail tips.
“Got ’em, sweetheart,” he says. I’ve never been fingerprinted, not even after the whole Rio fiasco, and it must show on my face. “The bottle of Scotch,” he says. “Can you believe the maid must have dusted the bottle? Yours were the only ones on it. They matched the ones on the glass you gave Jack Meyers. Of course, now we’ve got his, too.”
I decide that they did that to isolate Jack’s prints, and not because they suspect me. To be sure that this is the case, and because this is a murder investigation and there are things I know that the police should know, I decide I need to fill him in on a few things.
I take a deep breath. I do not like to carry tales, but… Our dinner comes and again we are silent until we are alone.
“You should understand…” I tell him off the bat “…that I am not a fan of cheating husbands. And that I might be overly suspicious and prejudiced, because of…well, my experience.”
“I know,” he says, and I get the feeling that this murder wasn’t the only investigating he did this afternoon. He nods, like yeah, I saw your file. I nod, too. Fine. I have nothing to be ashamed of, except my naiveté.
“Okay, so you know that I think Jack probably did it, alibi or not. I mean, even if it checks out, which I doubt it will, he could have hired someone, right?”
Drew’s elbow knocks his knife off the table and he bends down to pick it up. He makes a fairly big deal of getting the waiter’s attention to replace it, and it seems to me that it’s all some sort of diversionary tactic. I think about how you’re always hearing about hit men.
Only if Jack had hired a hit man to kill Elise, wouldn’t he have put himself center court at a Knicks game where a gazillion witnesses would have seen him? And wouldn’t the hit man have taken Elise’s ring and some other stuff to make it look like a robbery? When I ask him this, Drew appears noncommittal.