Authors: S.W. Hubbard
A cool breeze dissipates some of the kitchen’s heat as Spencer and Cal come through the back door.
“If the polls in South Jersey can be trusted—.” Cal, his face etched with urgency, is fully focused on Spencer. But Spencer has shrugged off his overcoat and Cal with the same gesture, and he’s heading across the kitchen with his arms outstretched.
“Hello, darling! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”
Anne drops her risotto-stirring spoon and offers herself up to her husband’s embrace. For a moment, they stand entwined, swaying, oblivious to their surroundings. Then the oven timer beeps and Anne breaks away, but not before brushing Spencer’s cheek with her fingertips. The gesture is so intimate I look away, flustered.
Cal has slipped up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Hey beautiful—how are you?”
I smile up at him, wondering if he can feel my accelerated heartbeat. As always, when I haven’t seen him for a few days, I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl. I should tell him about the break-in, but I don’t want to do it here and draw unwanted attention to myself. Finally, I get my brain and mouth working in synch. “Fine. I’m sitting here watching Anne cook, being no help whatsoever.”
“Ah, that’s the story of all of our lives, Audrey,” Spencer says from across the room. “Anne has never needed any help with anything.”
Anne snorts, but the little smile on her face shows that Spencer’s remark is quite true. In a few easy moves she’s placed cocktails and a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of her husband and Cal. “There you go, boys. I suppose you haven’t eaten a thing all day?”
“Not so,” Cal says. “I distinctly remember some sort of chicken and pasta product at a rally in Edison this afternoon.”
“And half a knish at a retirement community in Fort Lee,” Spencer adds.
“And a bag of Doritos in the car,” Cal confesses.
Anne shudders. “Cal, can’t you plan a campaign event for organic farmers, or nouvelle cuisine restaurateurs?”
“He’s already sewn up the liberal vote, Anne. Unfortunately, swing voters eat foot-long hot dogs and calzones.”
“Once I’m governor, I promise I’ll eat nothing but yogurt and salad,” Spencer says, winking at me over Anne’s head.
I must say, for two people surviving on rubber chicken and junk food, both Cal and Spencer are in great shape. Spencer is lean and paunch-free, still a very attractive man. I wonder how Anne feels about that. Is she intimidated by her husband’s good looks? Concerned by her own dowdiness? Does she ever wonder, as I wonder about Cal, what her man sees in her? But I detect no lack of confidence in Anne. She’s the queen of all she surveys, and the connection between her and Spencer is visceral, vital.
I think about Dylan’s accusation.
Does
Spencer fool around with other women? Is Anne another in a long line of clueless, used and abused politician’s wives? No, surely Anne is too sharp for that. Still, you don’t have to be dumb to be a dupe, as so many smart, cheated upon women have proved.
While I’ve been daydreaming, the conversation has moved on. I tune back in to find both Cal and Spencer listening raptly to Anne.
“…and Jerry Berlinski knows that,” she’s saying, as she ladles risotto into a serving bowl. “He’s got his own agenda, which is why I think you’ll regret striking a deal with him.” She raps the spoon sharply on the edge of the pot, dislodging the last grains of rice.
There’s a moment of silence.
Cal breaks it. “Anne’s right. Too risky.”
Spencer looks back and forth between his wife and his aide. Then he throws his hands up in defeat. “Okay, wiser heads prevail. I’m just the front man of this operation.” Spencer picks up a platter of grilled salmon and moves toward the dining room. “Come on, Audrey. Let Cal and Anne talk politics. You and I will talk collectibles. Did you know I have a 1963 Yogi Berra rookie card?”
In the soft glow of candlelight and Anne’s twinkling crystal chandelier, the dinner unwinds. True to his word, Spencer has declined to talk shop. He quizzes me on my work, and proves to be surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of American antiques, 20
th
century art, and sports memorabilia. Most of all, he listens. Spencer has the knack of making the person he’s talking to feel like she’s the only one in the room. Handy trait for a politician. On some level, I know I’m not really as special as he makes me feel. Still, the experience is very pleasant. As I talk, my wine glass refills magically.
The conversation ranges from antique furniture to baseball memorabilia to contemporary painting. For once, it’s Cal who’s a bit out of his depth. From the corner of my eye I see him sprawled back in his chair with a pleased half-smile on his face as he watches me banter with his mentor. Once, I catch him exchanging a glance with Anne, and she nods approvingly.
“David Salle has gotten hot in the past few years,” I tell Spencer while we’re on the topic of underappreciated contemporary artists. “I used to find paintings of his that people were ready to toss out on the curb. Not anymore. In fact, you know who has one hanging on his wall? Reid Van Houten.”
Anne pushes away from the table. “Let me bring in the dessert. Spencer, can you help me?”
“I’ll help,” Cal says.
My mind, dulled from too much rich food and too many glasses of wine, lurches clumsily from our original topic to a new one that blossoms before me like an insanely prolific jungle plant.
“Did you know my mother?” I ask Spencer. “Charlotte Perry. She worked for Reid Van Houten.”
I’m drunk, but not too drunk to notice Spencer looking as if he’s opened the shower curtain to a big, hairy thousand-legger.
Startled, I twist in my chair. My leg pulls on the tablecloth, which in turn knocks over my nearly empty wine glass. A deep red stain spreads across the pristine linen tablecloth.
“Oh, God! I’m sorry!” I reach for my napkin to try to blot up the mess.
Anne appears at my side and slides the napkin smoothly from my hand before I compound the problem. “I think Audrey’s tired, Cal. Perhaps it’s time for us all to call it a night.”
“That’s not the first wine spilled on this tablecloth and it won’t be the last,” Spencer says. “I thought there was dessert? Bring it on, Anne.”
The awkward moment dissolves. Did it even happen? Did I imagine Spencer’s reaction at the mention of my mother?
“Now let’s see….Charlotte Perry,” Spencer says. “I think I do remember a young woman named Charlotte who worked for Reid. Very pretty, as I recall.” He grins at Cal. “But it’s so long ago. The late seventies are a blur to me now. Making partner…running for office…becoming a father. I think there were entire years that got lost. Right Anne?”
Anne has reappeared bearing a magnificent chocolate cake. “You were lost,” she says wryly. “I was right here.”
Spencer pulls her into a hug. “She’s a trouper. Always was, always will be.”
Anne’s lips assume the smile position, but her eyes don’t look amused. In fact, I think she seems downright pained.
Spencer represents a link to my mother that I’m not ready to let go. I keep talking, even though it no longer seems he’s hanging on my every word, as he was earlier. “I asked whether you knew my mom because, well, I’ve been trying lately to figure her out.” Without waiting for encouragement, I plow on. “You see, my father was never willing to tell me much about her, and to my grandparents she was this saint, completely perfect. I wish I knew what she was
really
like, you know?”
Spencer leans across the table and pats my hand. “Perfectly understandable, Audrey. Maybe I saw her in the halls at Reid’s office, but—” he shrugs. “I wish I’d known her well enough to share a memory with you.”
Spencer pops a bite of cake in his mouth, chews, and turns to Anne. “This cake is fabulous, honey.”
The cake is delicious, but too rich to finish. I leave half of it on my plate. Soon, Cal is helping Anne clear the dishes and we all head for the foyer.
Spencer helps me on with my coat, then caresses my shoulder. “So glad you could make it tonight, Audrey. It’s a rare treat for me to talk about something other than politics. You bring out the best in us.”
Cal takes me by the hand. “Indeed she does.”
“You know,” Spencer says, putting his arm around Anne, “As I was leaving a meeting the other day I noticed a poster one of the secretaries had hung in her cubicle. It said, ‘Marry well. Your spouse accounts for 75% of your happiness.’” His arm tightens around Anne’s waist. “So true. Marry well.”
Because I drove to the Finnerans’ and Cal came with Spencer, I’ve got to drive Cal home. He lives in a fancy new condo in downtown Palmyrton that I’m dying to see, but when we pull into the drive, Cal is full of apologies about a 5AM wake-up for a 6AM breakfast meeting. His goodbye kiss leaves me molten as a puddle of candle wax. Drunk and horny, I wend my way home, slither into my living room and collapse on the sofa. Did Cal really have an early morning meeting, or was he repulsed by my behavior at Spencer’s dinner table? Did I make a fool of myself, asking Spencer so many questions about my mother? Or maybe Cal was turned off by Anne’s heavy-handed matchmaking. God, I hate this!
A firm knock at my door is as effective as AED paddles at jump-starting my heart. Maybe Cal changed his mind and came back. Ridiculously hopeful, I follow a barking Ethel to the door and press my eye against the peephole. The man on my porch is so big and so close to the door that I can’t see his face.
“Who is it?”
“Sean Coughlin.”
Sean, not detective? Is he my new best friend? I take a deep breath to settle my heart and open the door. We stare at each other for a moment.
“Kind of late for a social call,” I say.
“I need to talk to you.” He strides right into the foyer, not waiting for an invitation and I melt back out of his way. The unstoppable force meets a very movable object.
“I want to talk to you about your man, Griggs.”
Annoyance fights a losing battle with anxiety, as I trail Coughlin into my living room. “What about him?”
“He was spotted at two this afternoon getting out of a car on Ditmars Avenue.”
I keep my face impassive. That was the time Ty was missing in action from the Siverson job. Ditmars Avenue is about as far away from the Siversons’ neighborhood as you can get and still be in Palmyrton. “And is that a crime?”
“It is when you’re on probation and the car belongs to Mondel Johnson.”
It’s a safe bet Mondel Johnson is not the pastor of the Baptist church or the coach of the Rec Department basketball league, but I won’t give Coughlin the satisfaction of asking, ‘who’s that?’ I sit quietly staring at him. Two can play at this game.
“Street name: Trigger,” Coughlin finally continues. “He’s an enforcer for a guy named Nichols, who runs a major drug operation out of Newark.”
I feel a bead of sweat break out along my hairline. This can’t be. Not Ty. Not now. Then I get suspicious. Why is Coughlin telling me this? If it truly is a crime for Ty to be associating with this Mondel character, why didn’t the cops arrest him?
Coughlin’s tough guy pose makes me feel equally belligerent. I start talking as if the creators of
Women Behind Bars
are writing my lines. “So you barge into my house at ten at night to tell me about it? What’s up with that?”
Coughlin leans forward, resting his hamhock arms on his tree trunk thighs. The easy chair he’s chosen to sit in sags under his weight. His pale blue eyes drill right into me. “I’m worried about you, Audrey. You’re protecting a guy who’s a known associate of some very dangerous people. Your kindness could get you killed.”
I feel the defiance draining out of me. Coughlin is serious. He thinks I’m in danger. The anxiety I’ve been feeling lately, the sensation that someone’s watching me, looking for something they think I have—maybe it’s not all in my head. I haven’t said a word yet, but Coughlin, with his eerie sixth sense, picks up on my uneasiness.
“You lied to me when you told me the man who beat you was white, didn’t you?” he asks. Those pale blue eyes seem to rake through my brain, separating truth from falsehood. I’m powerless.
“I did lie. I didn’t see who attacked me. I don’t know what race he was, what he looked like. But I’m sure—I’m positive—that it wasn’t Ty.”
A muscle begins to twitch in Coughlin’s jaw. “Maybe it wasn’t Griggs himself who attacked you, but he was behind it. He set you up.”
“I don’t believe that!” Ethel’s ears perk up at the high-pitched anxiety in my voice. “Ty has worked hard to turn his life around. I gave him a break when he needed one—he likes me. He would never hurt me. Or let someone else hurt me.”
“Let me tell you something about criminals, Audrey. The most successful ones are friendly, charming, likeable. They’re able to separate their criminal behavior from their day-to-day life. I knew a hit man for the mob who was a freakin’ Little League coach. They lie. They lie so well, they believe their own lies. They’re sociopaths.”
A sociopath? Charles Manson was a sociopath; Ty is just a recovering juvenile delinquent. This is my problem with Coughlin—he starts out reasonable, but he always ends up going too far, saying something outrageous that makes me doubt everything that comes out of his mouth.
“Look, all Ty did was drive the getaway car when his friends broke into a house. He served his time. He’s been working hard since he got out of jail. Just because he’s from a troubled family, does that mean he’s condemned forever? That he never gets a second chance?”
Coughlin pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. “You people make me nuts!”
“You people? Exactly what kind of ‘you people’ am I?”
“Freakin’ bleeding heart liberal Pollyana!”
I jump up. “Yeah, that’s me. Maybe the world needs a few more Pollyanas to stand up against racist police brutality.” Ethel echoes my sentiments with a few high, sharp, don’t-mess-with-me barks.
Coughlin springs to his feet and wags a massive index finger at me. “Don’t play the race card with me. I go after crooks—white, black, Spanish, Chinese, Indian—they’re all the same to me.”
“Oh, big-time crooks, like the kid who stole a cup of change from the 7-11?”
“Don’t throw that up to me! I was cleared!”
“Covered up is more like it. Your partner took the rap, then agreed to retire early. Problem solved.”
“That’s not what happened.” Coughlin thrusts his index finger at me, his voice loud and harsh.
Ethel growls low in her throat.
Immediately Coughlin drops the aggressive pose and extends an open hand for Ethel to sniff. She approaches warily, no longer growling but not wagging her tail either.
“My partner was the one who beat Jason Powell. But I did nothing to stop him. I was young, didn’t think it was my place to challenge an older cop.” Coughlin looks up and holds my gaze. “I learned that day to be my own man. You have such a great belief that people can change—why doesn’t that apply to me?”
His jab makes me flinch and I lash out. “So I’m supposed to feel sorry for the poor, misunderstood six-foot-five bully who thinks he’s always right?”
“You’re a hypocrite, Audrey.” He says it without the slightest heat, very matter-of-fact. “Once you make up your mind about someone, that’s it; that person’s cast in stone for you. But let me tell you—people are unpredictable. They’re pushed against a wall, they’ll do whatever it takes to survive. Fifteen years on the job, I’ve lost my ability to be surprised.”
“Or to trust.”
He touches the top of my head: “Pot.” Then he touches his: “Kettle.”
Touché.
I take what Jill’s yoga teacher calls a cleansing breath and try to ratchet down the anger in the room. “If you saw Ty with this Mondel Johnson character, and that’s a violation of his parole, then why didn’t you arrest him?”
“We’re watching him. You’re right about one thing. He’s just a low-level punk. We’re after bigger fish.”
“Why are you telling me about it? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell Ty?”
“It’s no secret we’re watching him. I want you to tell him I’ve been here. Tell him if he doesn’t want to join his old man down in Trenton, he better tell us what he knows. About what happened to you. About Nichols’s operation.”
I look at Coughlin’s stony face. What does he know about the Ecstasy in Mrs. Szabo’s kitchen? He’s as good at hiding what he knows as he is at ferreting out what others know. But if Coughlin is investigating this big drug gang, wouldn’t Farrand have told him about the pills? How they were there and then disappeared? Of course, Farrand thinks Cal found them. If Coughlin knows about that, he may think Ty hid the drugs in Mrs. Szabo’s house, then took them away again. But if I tell Coughlin it was Ty who found them and willingly told me about them, wouldn’t that dispel Coughlin’s suspicions? Should I tell Coughlin this? But what if he doesn’t know anything about the pills… Shit, I’m so confused!
To buy time, I ask a question. “When you say Mondel Johnson is an enforcer for Nichols, what does that mean?”
“He collects the money. Makes sure no one’s ripping off the boss.”
“So you think Ty owes the big guy money for drugs that he’s sold, and now he can’t pay?”
“Probably. That would explain why he had Mondel and his crew rob you.”
“But you don’t know for sure? You’ve never seen Ty make a sale?”
“No.” Coughlin admits.
“Even though you’ve been watching him?” Coughlin’s answers are giving me hope. There’s got to be some simple explanation for Ty’s behavior. Some reason for my attack that doesn’t involve Ty setting me up.
“All that means is he’s not selling on the street corner. He’s selling to people he knows.”
“Then why did—” the information about the pills in the kitchen starts bubbling up.
“Why what?” Coughlin asks.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Too late. Three little words, and Coughlin knows I’m withholding something. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms across his massive chest, and stares at me.
This is ridiculous. I’m not in some windowless interrogation room on Riker’s Island. This is my home. I can kick Coughlin out any time.
“It’s way past my bedtime. I think you’d better leave.”
Coughlin crosses his legs without ever breaking eye contact.
I stare back.
My bravado lasts for about thirty seconds. I’m not quite sure how Coughlin manages to project such relentlessness, but whatever it is, it works. I feel my resolve weakening. Maybe Ty’s problems and my own fear will be resolved if I tell Coughlin the truth about the pills in the kitchen drawer. Maybe I should trust him. But how do I explain why we lied in the first place without opening up the Pandora’s box of the trunkful of jewelry? The election is less than a week away. I can’t ruin all that Cal and Spencer have worked for, especially when I’m not even positive that the information will help Ty. I can’t confess now. I have to talk to Ty, talk to Cal, then decide.
I take a deep breath and stand up. Ethel trots to my side, imparting courage. Since lying to Coughlin is pointless, I settle on offering him a limited truth. “Look, detective, I appreciate your concern; I really do. And you’re right, there is some information I haven’t told you. But that information affects people other than just me. I need to discuss it with them first. After I do, I’ll give you a call.”
Before he can utter a word, I pivot and walk to the front door. A moment or two later, I hear Coughlin’s footsteps behind me. I open the door and Ethel races out to pee on the little patch of grass in front of the condo. The commotion provides me with some cover so I don’t have to look at my uninvited guest.
As I keep an eye on Ethel, Coughlin follows me onto the front porch and places his hand, large as a dinner plate, on my shoulder. It feels oddly light. The domineering, I-call-the-shots-here expression that I’ve grown used to from him has been replaced by something softer, almost quizzical. Like he’s a scientist and I’m an experiment that’s produced totally unexpected results.
Finished with her business, Ethel charges onto the porch and shoots into the house. As I turn to follow, Coughlin speaks. “Do what you have to do, Audrey. Just remember this: I’m not the enemy.” His hand tightens ever so slightly on my shoulder. “Call me anytime.”
A wave of heat passes through me as Coughlin’s hand lifts from my shoulder and I watch him disappear down the front walk.
Now what the hell is that about?