Nineteen

I sat up in bed, adjusted my twisted nightshirt, and hit Mike with the physical evidence—

“What about all the blood that Madame saw in the alley on the night of the writers’ fight? How exactly could she be ‘misinterpreting’ that?”

Mike shrugged. “A smashed nose bleeds a lot. As a patrol officer, I was in brawls that looked like Iwo Jima when they were over.”

“And what about the body that was found in a vacant lot? And the follow-up by the police who came to the coffeehouse to question Madame?”

“I have no doubt that she was questioned by detectives,” he conceded. “It’s standard procedure. The dead man was a member of a writers’ group that met regularly in her café. Detectives would have pursued any leads they could, including gathering background on the man’s routines. And since weeks went by before the body was found, well…”

“Well, what?”

Mike rubbed his square chin, now darkened with stubble. “Madame’s memory about the victim’s estimated time of death—or what she was told about it—could have been off. I mean, her own barista claimed that what took place in the alley that night was just a scuffle.”

“Unless he was lying,” I said.

“Why would he do that?”

“To protect her.”

“Is that likely?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I admit there was some conjecture on her part—”

“Exactly,” Mike cut in, “and don’t forget where the victim was found. She recalled that newspaper headline word for word.”

“Curtain Call on Columbia Street,” I recited.

Before Madame had gone home, I was able to use that headline to locate that story in the digital news archives. But it was basically just a police blotter report with no more information than Madame had given us. The name of the actor was withheld, pending notification of his next of kin. I found no other stories, and Madame said the murder remained unsolved.

Given the headline, Mike now told me that he wasn’t surprised by this—

“Curtain call,” he said, “was a reference to the fact that the young male victim was a working actor. Irrelevant. Columbia Street, on the other hand. Now that is highly relevant.”

“Why?”

“Because Columbia Street is in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and back then the area was a mob dumping ground.”

“Oh, come on.” I waved my good arm. “You’re telling me the murder victim—a Greenwich Village actor and aspiring writer—was involved with the Brooklyn mob? Does that even make sense?”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “You see? You’re making my argument for me. It’s highly possible, maybe even probable, that the blood in the alley and the murder aren’t connected at all. It’s more likely that all Madame saw on the night of this writers’ group kerfuffle was the result of two bloody noses.”

I released an uneasy breath. “You really think there’s nothing worth pursuing?”

“I think your Mr. Scrib’s connection to the past brought that ugliness up for her again, and her feelings of misplaced guilt overwhelmed her. Madame might feel differently after a good night’s sleep…Now, do me a favor and move closer…” He waved me to the edge of the bed. “That’s good. Turn a little…”

After adjusting my position, he began to rub my shoulders. I didn’t realize how much tension was still in my body. I closed my eyes and moaned. Mike’s warm hands and gentle massage felt heaven-sent.

“You could be right,” I murmured. “When she called to tell us that she got home safely, she did sound better. She even apologized for snapping at me, which wasn’t necessary, though her shortness did surprise me. She’s rarely like that.”

“Bad memories can torture a person. So can feelings of guilt about the past.”

“Oh, Mike, I know that. And I wish I could help put her mind at ease. She’s done so much for me over the years…”

“Believe me, I understand what she means to you.”

“Then you should know how I feel. I can never repay her for all she’s done, but I can at least try to find some answers for her. These questions about what happened in that writers’ group have gnawed at her for years. She prided herself on protecting her Village community, giving her vulnerable customers a place where they could feel safe. If only I could help her understand what really happened that night in her back alley…and maybe relieve those awful, nagging feelings that she could have done something to prevent a murder—or, if not prevent it, at least bring the killer to justice…”

“But you can’t,” Mike said.

Those two words straightened my spine.

YOU CAN’T.

I loved Mike, and I knew he meant well, but all my life, I’d resisted those words. I’d taught my daughter to resist them, too, which is why my response was physically automatic. I tensed under my fiancé’s massaging hands. I knew he felt it because I hadn’t said a thing, yet he reacted as if I had.

“Look, Clare,” he tried again, “I’m just being a realist. The best thing you can do in this situation is focus on what happened tonight, not something that may or may not have happened decades ago. The here and now is what matters.”

“Okay, then. Now I’d like you to tell me more about Mr. Scrib’s injuries. You talked to that paramedic. I know you wanted to spare Madame the gruesome details, but you can tell me.”

“The old guy got knocked around a bit, which is serious for a man of his age. He had a bloodied nose and a laceration on his scalp. That’s where most of the blood came from—”

“Was he slammed against the dumpster? I think I heard that.”

“You probably heard right. Your friend then either fell or was pushed to the ground. Somewhere in there, he hit his head.”

“No wonder Madame was shaken up.”

“You got shaken up as well.” Mike gently touched my bandaged arm and pressed his lips to my neck.

“I was so angry at what happened. And then felt so frustrated. If I’d only gone outside a few moments earlier, maybe I could have stopped the assault or—”

“You did all you could and more. One of my instructors back at the academy would have awarded you the Diogenes the Cynic Honest Citizen Award, if there was such a thing.”

“I doubt Diogenes would have been impressed. In fact, I probably would have reinforced his cynicism. All I did was get run over.”

“You provided the uniforms with a statement, a description, and a path to track the perp by camera, if it comes to that. And it may not. The paramedic said the victim’s vitals were still strong. Your Mr. Scrib could regain consciousness as soon as tomorrow morning. Then his testimony should fill in all the blanks on his attacker. He may even give us a name and address.”

“I hope so.”

“We’ll check on him in the A.M., okay? Try to stay positive…” Mike glanced at his watch. “Okay. Time’s up. You’re clear for bed.”

A microsecond later, my head hit the pillow.

“Finally,” I muttered, “rest for the weary.”

“You earned it,” he said as he unbuttoned his dress shirt. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

As my eyelids drifted closed, a smile of affection crossed his tired face. Before drifting off, I returned it—and that’s what the sweetest dreams were made of.