9

The blossoms of Molly’s pear tree tapped at the window. That side of the house got the sun early, so you woke to the sound of bees.

Molly was shaking Fred, alarmed.

“That man’s dead,” she said.

“What man?”

“The one you told me about, where the nude came from—the one who still owes Clayton Reed a letter—Smykal. Henry Smykal.”

Fred woke up.

“It sounds awful,” Molly said. “God, Fred. We saw it. That was the fuss on Turbridge Street.”

Her yellow robe flapped. She was holding the front page of the newspaper. Fred smelled bacon.

He smelled Smykal’s apartment, the old bacon-fat smell, the dust and cigar smoke; saw the hot lights behind Smykal’s head; felt the pressure of Smykal’s door against his toes. Saw the caked blood around Smykal and the depressed slack in the side of his head.

“I know,” Fred said. “Sorry about this, Molly.”

“You know?” Molly stared at him, stunned, going white, trembling.

“Let me get Clay on the phone,” Fred said, reaching across Molly’s bed toward the table on her side where the phone was. He looked up into her staring face.

“What do you mean, ‘I know’?” Molly yelled, flushing and then going gray. Fred could see some of the awful thoughts that were pressing against her.

“When I went back to get that letter,” Fred said, “he was dead. It’s more complex than that, though, since I went twice, talked to him the first time and found him dead the second. I elected to leave the body, saying nothing. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you either to take my part or not to. Still, I’m sorry to bring this with me to your bed.”

Molly dropped the newspaper and left the room.

Fred rushed through the article. One of the tenants in the building had Smykal’s key, had been asked to come in sometimes and feed the cat (what cat?), had entered Saturday night and seen the body lying in its large, pooled scabs, and had called 911. The police weren’t giving out information, but the reporter had found a willing bystander who’d seen the bloody mess. Smykal would have been happy about one thing: he was described as a “Cambridge artist.”

Fred smelled the bacon cooking downstairs. With great reluctance, he dialed Clay and got no answer.

“My God,” Molly said when Fred came into the kitchen. “What did you think I was going to do, tattle-tale on you?”

She was angry, and crying, as well as burning the bacon, standing in the middle of her kitchen and wringing her hands. “What am I, Fred? Someone to play with, for God’s sake? The bacon’s burning.” She went to tend to it.

“Molly, I’m not going to invite you to join me in a crime.”

“All the time, over coffee at Pamplona, talking about Heade and Vermeer—and after—the whole time, you were hiding what you knew. That filthy thing. Horrible thing.”

“That’s true,” Fred said. Molly had coffee on the stove. He put some in a mug.

“Again the bold hunter stands between his little woman and the world,” Molly said. “It’s why so many little women think the world looks like a man’s back.”

Fred said, “You tell me I have a nice back.”

Molly turned on him furiously. “Yes. And I can read the scars on it as well, which we seem to agree never to speak about. Another of your secrets. For God’s sake, whatever your wonderful mysterious past is, I know you, Fred. You’ll do the decent thing. You used the word elected? Listen, Fred. I ‘elected’ to accept you as a companion. That’s a risk I freely take. It’s faith. It’s risk.

“So have some faith in me. Take a risk yourself.”

*   *   *

Molly opened the kitchen door to the backyard. The air was refreshed by last night’s rain, which the bees disturbed among the pear blossoms. It was eight-thirty. The backyard glowed with spring promise. There was still ivy under Molly’s maple tree; Fred hadn’t used it all making his wreath. You could feel Spy Pond not far away, though you couldn’t see it. Sea gulls wheeled overhead, and crows. It was cold, with bright sun twisting fronds of vapor through the damp yard. Fred followed Molly out, and they stood drinking coffee while Fred recounted what had happened Friday night.

“You’ll have to tell them,” Molly said. “You were there. Someone saw you. You did nothing wrong, but they’ll think you did if you don’t report it, if you don’t talk to them.”

“Clayton was there, too, earlier,” Fred said. “That makes the situation more complex.”

Molly said, “People will see—people who knew him—that the picture’s missing. They’ll assume you killed him and stole the painting.”

Fred said, “Maybe. But the killing wasn’t about the painting. That’s coincidence.”

“I didn’t see how he died,” Molly said. “The paper said ‘by violence.’”

“They don’t tell you,” Fred said. “Until they can get the official word. He was pounded to death. With a hammer.”

“How horrible,” Molly said.

Fred nodded. The man had been horrible also, but maybe not as horrible as his death. “He was pathetic,” Fred said. “His place smelled bad. He looked like one of those losers who can’t keep a friend, can’t finish anything, be anybody. He was doing pornography. As well as cocaine. I hate bringing you this, Molly, but there you are. Probably it’s a simple thing; maybe someone discovered that he had Clay’s money. Then it wouldn’t matter who he was or what he was doing.”

Molly said, “You didn’t tell me about the pornography.”

“Sorry,” Fred said. “I’m taking first things first.”

Molly said, “If he was involved in pornography, it’s another story. Pornography can mean organized crime. The people involved in that stuff could have any number of reasons to kill someone.”

“I don’t know,” Fred said. “When we were little boys and girls, maybe, but now? It’s common as popcorn.”

“I hate your being seen there, Fred,” Molly said. “You’re no picnic to look at. People remember you.” She began tidying the place under the maple tree where Fred had gathered ivy the night before.

“He had other people in there when I first tried to get in,” Fred said. “At least one voice, a woman’s. Smykal was ‘filming.’ But there was no sign of that activity when I found him. That’s nagging me.”

“So,” Molly said, straightening up and brushing crumbs of dirt off her hands. “What do you plan to do with the situation?”

“Nothing until I talk to Clay, who doesn’t answer his phone.”

*   *   *

Clayton appeared at the side gate. He was wearing a blue suit for this Sunday morning, with a white shirt and a sedate necktie. An orange blossom flourished in his buttonhole. He was ready for a wedding. Fred opened the gate for him.

“Yes,” said Clay, looking at both of them. “I have seen the newspaper. The matter of Henry Smykal has lost its simplicity. You did not kill him, Fred?”

Clayton was just asking.

This was only the second time Clay had come to Molly’s house. The first was when Molly had made Fred invite him to a Christmas party a year back. It had not been a success. Ophelia had been there—part of Molly’s plan. She and Clayton had not got along, but only Clay had realized it, Ophelia being more of an optimist.

“No coffee,” Clay said, spurning the cup Molly offered automatically. “I do not require stimulants. The garden’s beautiful.”

Clayton was a gentleman. He apologized for coming around back. He hadn’t wanted to wake anyone by knocking. He thanked Molly for her efforts the previous night and asked after the children.

“They’ll sleep till noon if we let ’em,” Molly said. “Today we’ll let ’em.”