“Is this all because I canceled the wedding?”
“Put it this way. Had you not called me at home yesterday and taken advantage of the fact that I was loopy on pain medication, we’d be having a nice chat about wrapping up these counseling sessions.”
I looked at Dr. Caswell, who quickly checked her desk as if she just realized that perhaps she’d gone too far. Maybe it was what Dan had said about Hopkinton. Judges and lawyers investing in real estate together can add up to some hefty jail time. Throw in a psychologist who testifies often on behalf of said lawyer and you’ve got yourself a tidy federal investigation.
Too bad Dan was the father of my child. I’d have loved nothing more than to spit and roast him on page one.
“And if I say I’ll marry you now?”
Dan clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Then there will be no need to remove Jane from your household because it will be
our
household.”
My hands were shaking. I couldn’t stop them.
It’s only for a few months, less than a year. Then Jane will be eighteen and can choose for herself. Say no!
But it was such an important year. It was the year she would graduate from high school, pick a college. I couldn’t miss that. Not after all we’d worked so hard to achieve. We were a pair, Jane and I. She was my family and I, hers.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you want to marry me, anyway? I mean, we don’t get along. We don’t even like each other.”
Dan rubbed his brows as if we’d been over this and over this. “I thought that was clear. We’re getting married for Jane’s sake.” He waved to Dr. Caswell for back up. “Right, doctor?”
This time, Dr. Caswell did not share in his conspiracy, but kept riffling through her papers in a rather annoying way. What was she getting out of this? Like Vern, the clerk in the courthouse said, people look out for themselves. Which brought me back to Dan. Why was he so determined to be legally wed to me, a woman he often publicly introduced as Queen of the Dumb?
I knew this much about my slime ball of an ex-husband. He wouldn’t be exerting all this effort—roping in Dr. Caswell and paying full boat for this wedding—if money weren’t involved. Big money, too.
“Next year,” I said, tossing the papers onto Dr. Caswell’s desk. “We’ll get married in January when I’m not so rushed by the holidays.”
Dan balked. “You can’t do that! I’ve got everything paid for. The caterer, the wedding planner, the band, the—”
“Judge.”
We faced each other for several minutes, neither of us willing to speak or give in.
I was startled when Dr. Caswell said in a quiet tone, “I’m sorry, Bubbles. I’ve searched through various remedies and there’s no easy out for you. He holds all the cards.”
She was tortured. She understood that she had made a very, very bad mistake aligning her star with Dan. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t know it would turn out like this. I’m afraid that for everyone’s sake the best choice is to marry him until Jane turns eighteen.”
She was right. I knew it. And Dan, smirking like the brute who’d sucker punched the math geek, knew I knew it, too.
“Fine,” I said, getting my purse. “We’ll be married for a year. And then Jane will turn eighteen and I’ll go to that Guam you’re so fond of and divorce you like that!”
Dan bowed, far from perturbed as I would have predicted. “As you will” was all he said. Then he picked up the papers I’d tossed and ripped them into shreds.
Whatever scheme he had going, surely it was motivated by pure evil.
I was deflated, as if I were merely going through the motions as I headed to the swanky north side to track down Mark Knoffler. Stiletto would be off to Greece, Dan had me cornered and Marguerite didn’t exist.
If only I hadn’t gotten my hopes up about Stiletto and me. I mean, what had I expected? Stiletto’s not the kind of doormat to lie around, allowing women to walk over him. I’d turned down his marriage proposal for a man I clearly despised. That’s gotta drain the testosterone out of a guy.
Unless he bounces right back and starts sleeping with the Lehigh Valley’s most beautiful celebrity, who jets off with him to Lesbos for the holidays.
Hot damn.
I took Illick’s Mill Road to the Main Street extension and followed the tree-lined street as it narrowed, dipping into the valley of the Monocacy Creek. The bare branches of the large oaks bent so low they practically touched the roof of my Camaro. This was my favorite part of town. Quiet. Stately. Private.
Mark Knoffler’s house was of the old Pennsylvania stone variety. It was up a slight driveway to the left, perched at the edge of a ravine. A Lincoln was in the driveway. I bet he was one of those architects who worked from home. Lucky stiff.
As I got out, I smelled wood smoke wafting from one of four chimneys. Four chimneys. I could see him now. He probably wore black turtlenecks and played classical music full-blast as he sat before a roaring fireplace, drawing on his draft table.
Girlfriend? Something thin and chic. An artist, perhaps. Lived in New York or Philly and joined Mark on the weekends. Name? Suzanne.
Dog? Purebred Weimaraner. Answered to Max.
Activities? Anything requiring athleticism and daring. Extreme kayaking in the Irish Sea. Mountain climbing in Colorado. It went without saying that Mark ran five miles each morning at the crack of dawn, his breath blowing white, Max the Weimaraner by his side. Suzanne at home curled on the couch sipping her hand-brewed Italian espresso coffee, glancing over the
New York Times
.
I was a moron. I’d been standing in Mark Knoffler’s driveway inventing Mark’s ultrapreppy fantasy world for him, staring at nothing but the trees. He’d probably already called the fuzz. Or maybe Suzanne had.
Max the Weimaraner did not bark when I rang the doorbell. Nor did Suzanne the artistic girlfriend answer the door. Mark did. He was wearing gray sweats and a brown-and-white Lehigh University T-shirt. He was balding.
He seemed a bit groggy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed and yanked on the sweats. The sweats were TV sweats, not tight running sweats. It was fair to say after assessing his small, middle-aged gut that Mark’s treadmill had been gathering dust in the basement for a while now. What was left of his brown hair was lopsided. He had bed head.
“I don’t do Avon,” he said, closing the door before I had a chance to put my foot in.
“I’m not an Avon lady. My name is Bubbles Yablonsky. I’m a neighbor of Phil Shatsky’s and a reporter at the
News-Times
.”
Mark arched his eyebrows as if this visit might be more interesting than a year’s supply of Skin So Soft. (Though, really, what could be more thrilling than that?)
“I’m looking for a Marguerite,” I said, taking a chance.
Mark didn’t move. He didn’t say,
I’m awfully sorry, but you have been mistaken. There is no Marguerite.
Instead he said, “I’ll go get her, though it might take some time. She likes to sleep in.”
Then he closed the door. I hadn’t been invited in, either.
I often try to put myself in the places of the subjects I’m interviewing so I can get a better sense of what they’re feeling. If some poor woman whose husband had recently blackmailed her into marriage had shown up at my doorstep asking for a Marguerite, I’d like to think I’d have invited her in.
Ten minutes later, during which I cleaned out the receipts from my purse, organized my pens, paid my phone bill and removed a suspicious candy stuck to my checkbook, the door opened and there stood Marguerite.
At least, I’d assumed it was Marguerite. She was dressed in a luxurious Japanese blue silk kimono and her rather large feet were stuffed into matching slippers. Nails were long and red, the kind you find on women who don’t do dishes. Yet her hands were rough and callused.
But there was that hair. It was the same hair I’d seen profiled in the Lincoln parked in front of Phil Shatsky’s house. It was big, big blond hair. And that’s coming from a woman who knows a thing or two about follicle volume.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she singsonged in an absurdly high falsetto. “Won’t you come in?”
I entered a foyer that opened to a step-down living room, the opposite wall of which was nothing but windows looking out to the ravine below.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
There was something off about Marguerite.
It might have been the chest hairs.
“No, thank you.” I bit my lip, thinking about how to phrase this. “You’re Mark Knoffler, aren’t you?”
He grabbed my arm. “It’s the makeup. It’s too much, isn’t it?”
My skilled eye took in the penciled brows, the blue lids and kohl-rimmed eyes framed by thick false eyelashes. “Actually, I think your makeup’s perfect. And I work as a hairdresser, so I should know.”
He brought his red-nailed hands to his lips. “That’s it. That’s how I know your name. Phil told me about you. You’re the one who found Debbie.”
“I was the one who was working on her hair when she died.” I pointed to the living room. “Do you mind if we sit down and talk? I’m beat.”
He apologized profusely for being so rude and sat me in a pink floral chair. Then he ran off to make tea and returned with a complete silver service and poured me a cup, asking me if I’d like sugar or cream. Every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of his black socks under his robe, his white calves with little black hairs.
When the elaborate tea preparations were done, he said, “You’re probably wondering about this.” He picked at the lapel of his robe.
“Not really.” I put down my cup. “To tell the truth, I was wondering how you got hold of Debbie’s clothes when I saw you in Phil Shatsky’s car giving him a Full Sweeney.”
Mark nodded. “That’s easy enough to explain. Debbie gave them to me. Actually, I’m extremely proud of how well I pull off this other persona. I’m not a transvestite by nature. It’s a stretch for me.”
“Pardon?”
“You see, every time Debbie went shopping and bought a dress on sale, she’d pick up one for me, too, provided she could get it in my size.” He held out a plate of cookies. “Cutouts? Or are you sick of them already?”
“Never.” I chose a Santa Claus and bit the head off. It was his just deserts for shooting me up all over town. “Why would Debbie buy clothes for you when you go around giving her husband Full Sweeneys?”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m about to get remarried on Saturday.”
“Then you have my sympathies.”
“Thanks.”
He dipped a candy cane cookie in his tea. “So you should understand what I mean when I say that no one can judge a marriage unless one’s in it.”
“Amen to that”—I was going to add “sister” and stopped—“brother.”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I really don’t care who knows now. I don’t think Phil does, either, after all that’s happened.” He took a deep breath. “Debbie and Phil’s marriage was arranged. Arranged by me.” He added this juicy addendum with pride.
I regarded my Santa Claus with the red sugar and picked off his foot, trying hard not to convey the shock I felt. “I see.” Though I didn’t. “How did that happen?”
“Debbie used to be my travel agent. She knew I was gay and I knew she was having problems with her ex-husband, Ernie. Do you know about him?”
“Kind of. He practically died in my car last night.”
“That’s too bad,” Mark said without emotion. “Anyway, I had just met Phil and we were hitting it off and looking forward to a long-term relationship. One problem. Ninety percent of Phil’s business is centered on housewife referrals. Women choose him above others because he turns them on. He is a stud among plumbers. He’d get three offers of marriage a week before he married Debbie. I kid you not.”
“Which is how Debbie came in.”
“Right. She needed an excuse to get away from Ernie, as well as a house and companionship and a man who could protect her if Ernie came back for revenge. While Phil, who was afraid of losing business if it got out he was gay, needed a—”
“Beard,” I said.
Mark frowned. “I really hate that term. It’s wrong on so many levels.”
“Sorry. But didn’t Debbie mind Phil going off with you, especially when you were disguised as her?”
He stirred his tea, thinking. “It was beginning to bother her, yes. Lately, she’d been making overtures to Phil. I think she was buying the right-wing who-ha that gay men can be set straight. Hello? Like, didn’t she ever hear of biology?”
I didn’t think he’d win with the biology argument, but decided to hold my tongue. Instead, I remained focused on whether this bizarre configuration might have led to Debbie’s murder.
“What do you mean by overtures?”
“Of the sexual kind.”
“She must have been lonely.” I recalled Debbie’s constant, loud boasting about how great her marriage was, how hot the sex. It was just as Mama had taught me growing up. The only reason people brag is to draw your attention away from those failings they hope you won’t see.
“If you ask me,” he continued, though I hadn’t, “Debbie got the better end of the stick. Phil kept that house in immaculate order. He did all the laundry, all the cooking and even cleaned her cat’s smelly litter box. All Debbie did was pay the bills.”
Ding!
Money. That was Debbie’s thing.
“She paid the bills?”
“Why else would Phil agree to this arrangement? He lived rent- and board-free. The only bill he ever paid was the insurance on his car.”
A kept man. And he didn’t even have to sleep with her. He was like a nongigolo gigolo.
“Still, how does a woman who works as a travel agent afford to pay for all that?” I asked.
Mark scooted to the edge of the couch. “Now, if you’ve been able to track down little old me, Bubbles Yablonsky, hairdresser and reporter, I’m sure it comes as no surprise to learn that Debbie always had a scam going.”