It’s Halloween. Zoe and Chad went to school in costumes, Zoe as a fairy and Chad as a debonair devil. Owen refused to dress up. It was optional.
At just past eight thirty, I’m in the studio with Daisy, who came in early to complete a late order. She obviously went out last night and looks ragged, eyes red and puffy. She’s in her late twenties, young enough to be out every other night but old enough to feel a hangover.
I’m stringing white roses onto wire when the front doorbell rings. Gloria gets it. Moments later, she taps on the studio’s door. “Dana? It’s the police.” She sounds apologetic.
I try to hide my dismay. “Thanks, Gloria. Please tell them I’ll join them in Stan’s study.”
I set down my clippers and issue Daisy instructions, then go to meet the detectives.
When I enter Stan’s study, they’re both facing away, eyeing the Van Dortmund. I doubt they realize its worth. How could they? It looks like an ugly print of three gargantuan gum balls. Ugh. I curse myself for not putting it away. Now if I sell it, they might notice its absence.
I already found the contact info of the art dealer who wanted to buy it last year. He was listed in Stan’s day planner. While Stan loved all things techy and had a slew of devices that never stopped dinging, he jotted down appointments and notes in a big black leather binder.
I’ve pored through it repeatedly, searching for clues of his affair, but the entries are cryptic and seem work related: Call R re Caruthers. Pay web guys.
This book rests on his desk, beside where his laptop would usually sit. The cops took his electronics last week and have yet to return them.
“Detectives?” I say. They both turn. “Please, sit.” I motion toward the coffee table. “Would you like a drink? Coffee? Water?”
They both decline.
The skin around Detective Bellows’s nostrils looks red and raw. He must have a cold or bad allergies. Detective Shergold has a black scarf wrapped high beneath her chin. Perhaps she’s poorly too, or trying to ward off her partner’s affliction.
I expect them to take a seat. Instead, they both stay standing. I do too. There’s an uncomfortable pause. I look at my feet. I’m wearing knee-high boots. The leather’s black and shiny. I’m glad I wore them. They’re what Jo calls kick-assy.
All things considered, I feel surprisingly decent. Last night, I took a Valium and actually slept. I don’t like to do it, especially now, when the boys need watching. Yet it was worth it. If I’d had another sleepless night, I’d be in trouble with the police here. Some beauty sleep didn’t hurt my appearance either. Detective Bellows, for one, has noticed.
He shifts from foot to foot. As usual, both detectives are dressed in dark, dull clothes. They both look somber. “Mrs. McFarlane,” says Detective Bellows, “I’m afraid we have bad news.”
I wait. Maybe they found the hitchhiker in Santa Fe and realized it wasn’t Stanley.
Detective Bellows coughs into the back of one hand. His voice is low and sad. “We found human remains.”
My head rears back. “W-what?” I stutter.
“I’m sorry,” says Detective Shergold. “We have reason to believe it’s your husband. We’d like you to ID his body.”
I raise both hands to my cheeks. My face feels hot. Or my fingers are cold. I shut my eyes, will myself to calm down. They must be wrong. It’s some other man’s body. “I . . .” It’s hard to speak. “What? No! It can’t be!”
“Just take deep breaths,” says Detective Bellows.
I nod, eyes still squeezed tight. Beneath my closed lids, I see me and Jo in the boat, feel it rocking. That blue flash when we dropped Stan—a curse upon us.
“Mrs. McFarlane? Dana?” Detective Bellows sounds concerned. “Are you alright?”
I open my eyes but keep my hands pressed to my face. Why do they think it’s my husband? Did they contact Dr. Lee, our quietly efficient family dentist?
This thought is horrific, Stan’s teeth unchanged, while the rest of him . . . It’s been thirteen days. What would be left? Must I really view this dead body?
“We’ll accompany you there and back,” says Detective Bellows. “It would be a huge help to our investigation.”
I force my hands down and rub my wool houndstooth skirt. I can’t say no, can I? Detective Shergold steps closer. She takes my elbow. I want to jerk my arm away. Am I being arrested?
“It won’t take long,” says Detective Shergold. Her voice is sympathetic but firm, as is her grip as she steers me toward the hall.
* * *
The city morgue. I’ve only seen one on TV. Driving here, in the back of the cops’ unmarked car, was a blur. Then, walking down long empty halls, riding in a large steel-clad elevator. And now, standing before a wide glazed door.
I’m between the detectives. Shergold still has hold of my arm. Bellows opens the door for us. “After you,” he says. We step inside.
The smell stops me. Chemicals and something foul that slithers down my throat. I’m scared I’ll retch.
The room’s big, but the ceiling’s too low. The fluorescent lights are too bright. I stand blinking. The walls are stark white. It’s dead quiet. As soon as this pun enters my mind, I want to cry. There’s no one in sight.
“This way,” says Detective Shergold. She steers me along.
Stainless steel sinks and cupboards line two walls. A giant walk-in freezer runs the length of another. Scales and adjustable spotlights hang from the ceiling. My eyes skate over various metal tools. Near each sink stands a shiny steel gurney. All lie empty but for one. My knees quiver. A human form lies beneath a white plastic sheet. It’s too short to be Stan.
The closer we get, the worse the smell. I press a hand to my mouth and nose. I stagger to a stop. “I . . . I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just . . . can’t.”
Detective Shergold’s grip tightens. “We know this is difficult,” she says. “We’ll only show you one small part of him. Only his arm.”
“What?” I say, bewildered. Why would they drag me here just to show me Stan’s arm? Shergold propels me closer. We’re steps from the gurney. An arm span from that covered figure.
Detective Bellows steps around us and walks to the gurney’s top end. “You ready?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I want to shut my eyes, but my lids feel pried open. Bellows reaches for the plastic sheet. I’m afraid Shergold was lying, scared Bellows will yank it off, force me to face what’s left of Stan. His ravaged face would haunt me forever.
Bellows lifts the sheet’s edge. He folds it back to reveal a bloated and wrinkled hand. The skin’s loose. It’s mottled greenish gray. Most of the fingernails are gone. The fingertips look chewed. Here and there, bone shines through.
I shake my head. “No.” Those macerated fingers can’t be Stan’s. Bellows pulls at the sheet. More forearm appears. Then, an elbow and the upper arm.
I jerk back. “Oh my God!” Although the skin’s loose and discolored, I recognize Stan’s tricep tattoo.
He got it as a college freshman: one of those awful, meaningless tribal armbands that were popular in the mid to late nineties. A ring of barbed lines meant to convey wild masculinity.
I fear I’ll vomit.
“Is it him?” asks Detective Shergold.
I shut my eyes. They could have asked if he had a tattoo. They brought me here to see my reaction. To unnerve me. Or to punish me?
“Yes.” I bow my head. “It’s Stan.”
I hear the plastic sheet rustle, and I open my eyes. That’s when I realize something is seriously wrong with Stan’s corpse. Under the sheet, I can make out the shape of his feet and legs. His torso . . . his arms . . . but . . .
I wrench my arm free from Shergold’s grasp. My voice is strangled: “Where’s his head?”
“He’s been—ahem—decapitated,” says Detective Bellows. “We haven’t located his head yet.” I’m too shocked to move. “I’m sorry,” he adds feebly.
I spin to look at Shergold. Her pale eyes take me in, her face impassive. She’s watching me carefully. She’s waiting for me to speak.
I stand, gulping. “W-what? Why?” I whimper.
“There was damage to his neck,” says Detective Bellows. “That might have occurred prior to death. But the decapitation was likely postmortem. Wear and tear.” Another throat clear, perhaps cold related, perhaps apologetic. “His body was dragged some distance. You know, ocean currents.”
I hang my head again. Damn. Where did his head go?
Dead bodies float. Everyone knows that. We gambled on the chain keeping him down. On his being deep enough and far enough out. On the currents going the right way. Jo kept nattering on about decomposition being slowed in cold water, how that helps bodies stay under. So much for that. In fact, the cold helped preserve him. Even his lame tattoo remains visible. What rotten luck. What might his corpse tell them?
I hug myself. The room’s freezing. My voice slurs, a sick child’s. “Where did you find him?”
“Garibaldi Cove,” says Detective Shergold.
I keep quiet. That’s not far from Jo’s place, not far from where we went to high school.
As kids, we used to party in that cove, sitting on driftwood logs with bottles of warm beer. If we got too noisy, the cops would show up, although they never caught us. By the time they’d parked their cars in the lot, we’d slipped away, across the rocks, giggling and staggering into the dark.
“We’ve got experts working out the currents,” adds Detective Shergold. “To pinpoint where he went into the water.”
With a shudder, I start crying. Tears stream down my cheeks and neck, into my high collar. I can’t stop them.
The last two weeks, I could pretend Stan was alive—out there, somewhere. That pretense is over. The police aren’t looking for a missing person. They’ve found his dead body. His headless dead body. This horrible rotting corpse is all that’s left of my husband.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” I gulp. “I just . . . hoped . . .” I bow my head, shoulders heaving.
How can you know something yet not know? I knew he was dead. Even so, there’s no need to act here. My shock and sadness are genuine. My one true talent is denial.
Detective Bellows hands me a tissue from a pack in his pocket.
The detectives wait as I compose myself. I mop my eyes and my nose. Despite feeling sick with dread, I have to ask, “How did he die?”
Bellows’s eyes meet his partner’s. It’s Detective Shergold who answers. Her tone is clipped, back to business: “We can’t say yet. We need to wait for the autopsy.”
I’m not sure I believe her. Are they really unsure or just not saying? I study my feet.
“Mrs. McFarlane?”
I look up to meet her eyes, cool and appraising. “Shall we?” She nods toward the door.
I’m in a daze as we retrace our steps back down the hall to the bright boxy elevator.
As its doors shut, Shergold turns my way. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what happened.” In her plain, middle-aged face, her eyes shine. Her gray hair is a steely helmet. I imagine her as a matronly knight riding into battle.
And the dragon? It’s me, crying crocodile tears.
I nod, feeling freshly sick. I see the way she’s watching me, suspicion shining off her.
She zips her plain coat. “His body will tell us a lot.” Her smile is smug.
I look away. That’s my big fear.
I jump when the elevator doors ping open.