When Nicole opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. She threw the covers back and grabbed her robe from the chair, pulling it on while her bare feet searched the carpet for slippers.
From the silence, she could tell Brad had already left for the office. No matter how many time zones they crossed, Brad was always up and out early the next morning. Today he’d be especially anxious to get in and begin repairing the relationship between SoftPac and its new British subsidiary. This would require, as Brad put it, “a major effort in massaging bruised egos.” Then Nicole remembered that Brenda would be there, too, no doubt eager to do a little massaging of her own.
On the kitchen counter, an envelope was waiting, covered with Brad’s unruly scrawl. “Hope you had a good rest and feel more like yourself,” it said. “Have fun shopping. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Just us two. Love, Brad.” Inside the envelope was a stack of £20 notes.
She fanned out the bills to count them. At the current exchange rate, they added up to about $800. Stuffing the money back in the envelope, she let out a long, exasperated breath. He was treating her like a child. The money was especially galling after the flak he’d given her for taking the summer off.
And now, here he was, throwing money at her. He’d never been big on spontaneous gifts. And this, like his solicitousness of the night before, struck her as a sign of a guilty conscience.
She thought about this while she struggled with the coffee maker. It was a coffee press, which she’d seen in kitchen supply shops but had never actually used. She thought she grasped the basic principle: put in the coffee and boiling water, then work a plunger to pull the water through the coffee, or vice versa. But she didn’t have a clue as to where to put the coffee, or whether to add the water first or last. She tried three different strategies, each producing the same muddy brew. Finally, she gave up and poured herself a cup.
She was still in her robe, sipping coffee and brooding about Brad and Brenda, when the detective arrived. She hadn’t expected Detective Constable Keaton, as she introduced herself, to be a woman, but there she was, a slender brunette in her early forties wearing a fashionably cut dark-blue suit. She had an angular face, and her dark red lipstick and carefully penciled-in eyebrows made her look a bit hard. But she was polite, soft-spoken, and professional, a pleasant contrast to the rude young constable. Until this moment, Nicole hadn’t realized how much she’d been dreading this interview. Keaton was a pleasant surprise.
Keaton murmured a polite, “None for me, thanks,” to the offered coffee. “Tell me everything you can remember about this break-in, Mrs. Graves,” she said.
Nicole started with her encounter with Reinhardt in the front yard. By now the detective had pulled a notebook from her tailored leather bag and began writing. “Please do go on,” she prompted.
When Nicole was done with her story, Keaton brought up the possibility that Reinhardt wasn’t the burglar at all. “You know, this man might really be your landlord’s business associate. It wouldn’t make good sense for him to put in an appearance and introduce himself if he was planning to break into the house.” The detective smiled while she was talking. She smiled a lot, although as far as Nicole could tell, she didn’t seem to have much sense of humor.
She pointed out that the intruder hadn’t hurt Nicole—had, in fact, taken some care to wait until she’d gone in to bathe (the detective pronounced it bath) before he locked the door. “In his way, he spared you the trauma of a direct encounter.”
“A real gentleman,” Nicole said.
“Be grateful,” Keaton said, with yet another smile. “Los Angeles doesn’t have a corner on heinous crimes, you know. We see some terrible things.
“As for those two men you mentioned seeing in front of the house,” she continued, “it’s unlikely that they had anything to do with your break-in either. We find that most perpetrators stay away from the scene of a burglary for a while. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to look around.”
Methodically, she began examining the locks on the doors and windows. She had bright red nails and a dainty way of touching things that called attention to them. When she found the cellar door unlocked, she gave Nicole a smile. “You really should keep this secured,” she said gently.
As she made her way down the stairs, Nicole was a step or two behind. In the cellar, the detective discovered yet another entrance to the house. It was a small trap door designed for delivering coal directly into the big bin next to the furnace. The padlock was missing. Keaton produced a handkerchief from her purse and, using it to protect her manicure, pushed against the trap door. It lifted easily and turned out to be not only unlocked but unlatched.
Nicole must have paled, for the detective reached out and gently gripped her shoulder. “Never mind about that,” Keaton said kindly. “We’ll lock it up now.” She looked around until she found a cobwebby padlock lying on a window sill. The key was still in the lock. Still using the handkerchief, by now covered with cobwebs and soot, she carefully removed the key and handed it to Nicole. She dusted off the lock, slipped it into place, and clicked it shut.
“Don’t worry,” she told Nicole. “This wasn’t the entry point for your intruder.” She pointed to the coal bin, right under the trap door. “He would have landed there first. You don’t see any coal tracks on the cellar floor, now do you?”
On the way back up the steps, Nicole remembered the Lowrys’ tenant. When she mentioned Alice to Keaton, the detective immediately smiled. “I’d like a word with her,” she said.
Nicole led the detective up to the second floor, then down the hall past the Lowrys’ bedroom to Alice’s room at the back of the house. She knocked on the door, but there was no response. “I guess she’s out,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard her this morning. Maybe she already has another nursing assignment.” Remembering Alice’s offer to show her around London, she felt a pang of disappointment.
“I’ll give you my number,” Keaton said. “Ask her to give me a ring. I have a few questions for her.”
She didn’t ask if the detective was going to dust for fingerprints. The moment had passed. Aside from the unlocked cellar, Keaton was impressed with the amount of security in the house and admonished Nicole to take full advantage of it. “Even if it’s broad daylight, and you’re planning to go no further than the back garden,” she said, turning on the full wattage of her smile, “for heaven’s sake, lock the door and take the key with you.”
As they were saying goodbye, Keaton produced her card and, still smiling, pressed it into Nicole’s hand. “Now, I’d like you to keep your eyes open,” she said. “Be aware of what’s going on. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, please give me a ring. Even if it doesn’t seem terribly important.”
Despite Keaton’s kindness, Nicole didn’t think the detective bought her theory about Reinhardt being the culprit, nor was she much interested in hearing about the two men who’d been sneaking around in the middle of the night. On the other hand, Keaton did seem to accept Nicole’s word that there had been an intruder who’d locked her in the bathroom. Keaton also seemed to respect her observations, listening to what she had to say and taking careful notes.
She still hadn’t heard from the Lowrys but she’d remembered something that might explain this. In her last message, Mrs. L. had mentioned the possibility of doing some sightseeing while they were in Texas. She said they might go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico and maybe drive to New Orleans or even Disney World in Florida.
On Nicole’s last call, there was a beep and the phone cut off before she could leave a message. She took this to mean their voicemail was full. At that moment, the idea that the Lowrys might not be trustworthy was not as worrisome as the possibility they might not show up at all. What would happen to the condo? Her dog? The plants? Her sister could look after things for a few weeks, but it wasn’t fair to expect her to spend the summer driving back and forth between Hollywood and West L.A, maintaining two households.
Nicole shook her head, trying to untangle her thoughts. Maybe Brad was right about her jet lag; it was making her crazy. After all the work the Lowrys had put into this house swap, why wouldn’t they stay in the condo? Where else would they go?
While the phone was still in her hand, it struck her that she hadn’t heard from the airline about her missing bag. She located the number and placed the call, asking for lost luggage.
“Ah, yes,” the man said, after putting her on hold for several minutes while he located her in the database. “We have your claim form on file, but I’m afraid there’s no sign of your suitcase yet. Don’t be too concerned. Ninety-five percent of all lost luggage turns up in the first twenty-four hours.”
“It’s already been longer than that,” she pointed out.
“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “As soon as it turns up, we’ll give you a call.”
After she hung up, she took another look at the envelope Brad had left on the counter. Despite the airline clerk’s confidence, she doubted she’d ever see her suitcase again. Why not use the money Brad had left to buy a few things to replace what she’d lost? It would be better than languishing around the house, obsessing about Brenda. Even if her suitcase eventually turned up, she could use another all-purpose outfit—something wrinkle resistant for sightseeing as well as for dinner and the theater.
She located her guidebook to London and flipped through the pages. “A good bet for the traveler on a budget,” the book said, “Selfridges of Oxford Street carries quality merchandise that isn’t as pricey as Harrods.” This settled, she called a cab and spent several hours scouring Selfridges and the shops packed into the narrow streets behind the huge store.
She tried on dozens of combinations but couldn’t seem to make a decision. It was hard to concentrate when her thoughts were constantly interrupted by flashbacks of yesterday’s events—the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the realization that someone was in the house, her feelings of terror when she smelled smoke. And, even worse, this business about Brad and Brenda.
She tried telling herself that she had no evidence, no real reason to think anything had happened between them. Yet she knew something had, and this knowledge was eating at her
She took the tube to Harrods. By the time she got there it was almost 3:30 p.m., and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She sought out the escalator and headed up to the enormous dining room. The sign read “Afternoon Tea: £29.” Why not?
She was presented with a multi-tiered tray of cream-filled pastries, scones, and petit fours. She heaped her plate, then sat and stared at the food, unable to bring herself to take a single bite.
She got up, tossed her napkin on the plate and hurried out of the dining room, determined to finish shopping before the store closed. She settled on a slightly-flared skirt in a lovely shade of dark magenta, a white blouse, boots, patterned leggings, and a black linen jacket. She did allow herself a single extravagance: a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with roses in a lovely, delicate pink. In the mirror, she decided that the outfit (except for the short skirt, which ended well above her knees) made her look as if she’d stepped out of a painting by Renoir.
Later, getting dressed to go out with Brad, she did her best to put aside her bad feelings. Without proof, she knew, it would be a mistake to confront him. He’d repeat his mantra that she was being irrational. They’d have a fight, and her accusations would only strengthen his determination to send her home.
An intimate dinner offered the perfect opportunity to patch things up. She’d fought so hard to come to London for this very purpose. Now, she had to be strong and exert some self-control.
But when he came in bearing a corsage of white violets—a gesture quite unlike him—her suspicions came flooding back. Then, as he was pinning the flowers to her lapel, she noticed the way he kept glancing at her hat.
“What?” she said.
“Nice hat,” he said, with a sardonic glance that communicated anything but approval.
“Great, isn’t it?” she said with a tight-lipped smile. Well, she thought, she’d wanted him to notice her, and he’d noticed all right. She turned toward the mirror, flipping the hat brim into a straight line over her eyes. Until that moment, she hadn’t been sure if she’d have much use for the hat. But now, in a wave of fresh indignation, she decided it would be the mainstay of her summer wardrobe.
The Indian restaurant that had come so highly recommended was more like the Taj Majal than the intimate bistro Nicole had pictured. It was housed in an enormous glass conservatory where the tables and chairs were overshadowed by gigantic ferns. All around them, green fronds seemed to slowly unfurl as dish after dish arrived at the table. The chairs were high-backed cane thrones, and a waiter stood on either side of the table, anticipating every need.
Conversation lagged between exclamations over the mulligatawny soup and chapattis, chicken tikka and puris, lamb vindaloo and saffron rice, the bowls of condiments, both cool and spicy. It had been so long since they’d shared an evening—just the two of them—that they no longer seemed to know what to say to each other.
Brad popped a bite of lamb into his mouth. Nicole watched the muscles in his cheek swell and bob as he chewed and felt a stirring of dislike. It occurred to her that this was merely a reflection of her own hurt and anger. She had an almost irresistible urge to blurt it all out—her suspicion, her feelings about the way he’d been acting toward her, and all the hostility she was feeling. But she managed to hold it in. Perhaps it was the rapt attention of the waiter hovering by the ice bucket that held their bottle of wine.
Brad was equally subdued. As the minutes ticked by, she began to resent the way his eyes kept wandering to her hat and then darting away, or maybe it was the fact that, all evening, he’d never once looked her in the eye.
The meal seemed to drag on forever. Yet even after dessert and coffee, Brad made no move to get the check. Instead, he ordered brandy. Then he pulled some folded sheets out of his jacket pocket and set them down in front of her.
She scanned the first page. It was a computer printout of an old news article, datelined Israel. She’d read it before, a story of international tourists who imagined encounters with Biblical heroes. Occasionally a case involved someone who thought he himself was Moses or Jesus, depending on religious orientation. According to the article, these were often people with no history of mental illness.
When she finished reading, she looked up at him. “What are you telling me, Brad—that I’m crazy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I thought it would reassure you to know how common this sort of thing is. Travel is incredibly tough on the body. Jet lag can bring on all kinds of—um—reactions.”
Nicole rattled the papers at him. “It’s clear you haven’t read this stupid article yourself. It’s about tourists in Israel. And they didn’t have jet lag; they were crazy. We’re talking major breaks with reality. I’ll bet Brenda searched the web to dig this up. Then she printed it out for you to bring home.”
“For God’s sake,” he said. “That is a total crock of shit. Nick—what’s gotten into you? I wonder if you should see a doctor or something.”
“You mean a shrink.”
“I mean, like, a psychologist. What’s wrong with that? In fact, a guy I know is seeing a great therapist in Santa Monica. I’ll get you his name.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You think you can use this as an excuse to send me home so you can do what you want.”
“What I want? All I want to do is concentrate on…”
“You’re having an affair with Brenda, aren’t you?” The words were out before she could stop them. “That’s why you’re so bent on sending me home. But your little plan isn’t going to work…”
“Are you completely out of your mind?” Brad said. Looking around, he went on in an angry whisper. “People are staring. Can we talk about this later?”
Nicole glanced around. Conversation at the tables nearby had ceased, and people did seem to be looking at them. She didn’t care.
“I don’t need a shrink.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “And I’m not going back to L.A.” Instead of answering, Brad caught the waiter’s eye and snapped his fingers for the check.
On the silent cab ride back to the house, Nicole wondered if their marriage was even worth saving.