“Bob is dead!”
Liza hit Blanche with this awful news when she walked in the door of Sunny Sands Realty—the morning after the town hall meeting. She’d come to talk with them about Langstrom. They needed to form a plan, settle some loose ends.
Blanche stood in the doorway and stared at Liza. Her mouth open, but nothing came out.
What is she talking about?
Liza was hiccupping and choking through the tears. She lifted her arms and dropped forward on the desk.
Blanche had never seen her so….wild! She had the urge to turn around and run out of there and come back in again. She covered her ears.
“You called me, Liza.” She whispered, and her feet began to move.
Blanche managed to lower Liza into the desk chair though it was difficult to contain her, all silk and tears, shaking and crying up a storm. Her hands flew to her inflamed cheeks. Blanche held on. “Tell me. What are you saying?” Maybe she would take it back. Maybe she’d said Bob was late…not “daid.” Dead?
The look on her face said it all.
They huddled together, their fingers locked in a desperate tangle. Bob’s enormous grey metal desk loomed in the corner of the office. She pictured his wide grin. A lion in a brown suit. She longed for him to walk in and sit down next to them. Tell them it was all a hoax, a prank. A mistake.
Blanche dashed to the cooler for a paper cone of water. She held it under Liza’s chin until she took a gulp.
“Oh, my God, I can’t believe this is happening,” Liza wailed. Her mascara ran, streaking her make-up, and her hair stuck out in every direction. She swiveled from the phone to a pile of notes on a spike, back to a sheaf of manila folders, and then buried her face in the crook of her arm.
“What happened?” Blanche nudged her gently. “Tell me. Who told you this, Liza?”
She picked up the phone and stared at it. “I just talked to him, not an hour ago. He was at Peaches getting coffee. And now he’s gone?” She held the receiver to her cheek as if the last of Bob would spirit himself out of the tiny holes.
Blanche patted Liza’s face with a tissue. She couldn’t pat this back together. Bob and Liza had been a team. Now it was cut in half? He wasn’t coming back?
“No one really knows what happened! It’s just impossible. But they found him like that. They couldn’t do a thing.”
“Who is they? They couldn’t do what? Where?”
“He was in his car. At the marina. In the middle of the parking lot. Didn’t anyone see him there? Was he having trouble breathing? He must have…” She put one hand on her chest. “I can’t imagine the distress. Alone. Dying.”
Blanche jumped up and filled another paper cone. She stood there, hanging on every word, trying to make sense of it, the water running down her arm. It was an odd moment, like being suspended in a balloon or floating in the Gulf miles from shore, with no boat.
“They think he might have had a heart attack, but that can’t be. He’d just had a complete check-up, stress test, all of it, last month. He was perfectly healthy, Blanche. I’m telling you, there’s no reason for this! He’d even given up hamburgers at Stinky’s.”
Blanche knew otherwise, but she kept it to herself. He was addicted to Stinky’s and the blueberry-nut muffins at Peaches.
“Who found him?”
“Bill Gallit, you know, the new guy who manages the marina. He saw Bob’s car, and Bob was just sitting there. Bill walked over to say hello and knew something was wrong. At first, he thought he was sleeping. It must have been right after I talked to him. The coffee was still in the cup holder, untouched. Warm.”
Ever the one for details. Each word she said struck a blow. Blanche held on to Liza’s fingers.
“Bill tried to get out of there and come tell me himself, but the police were there in two seconds, swarming the place. Shouting. Sirens screeching. I could hardly hear him. He didn’t exactly have time to chat.”
Blanche’s stomach lurched.
“I have to keep the office open.” Liza stammered between sobs. She slumped down behind the desk. Her chair spun away and hit the wall. She adjusted her red silk blouse, twisted and tear-stained. At the moment, she didn’t look like a real-estate whiz, but she was that rare person who was capable of doing it all. She could crunch interest rates and sales figures better than a Dell.
Now she held back a fresh storm of tears. “I have to watch the phones, but I just don’t want to think at all.” She stood up. “I have to go over there.” She sat down again. “Oh, Blanche, please, will you go?”
“You know I will. Do anything…”
Blanche didn’t know what to do, but she had to do something. Liza was her friend, and she had been right there with her after Gran died. Making funeral arrangements. Liza and Blanche—the two of them settled into wicker armchairs on the porch at the cabin, nothing but the geckos running up and down the screens and a bottle of tequila evaporating on the pine table between them. Now here they were again. About to make funeral arrangements?
She hated to leave Liza alone. The office, somewhat brightened with wicker and orange floral cushions and a thriving schefflera, was not exactly a comforting place. Overall, it was pretty lonely and grey. Official, like death.
Blanche paced. “Let me make some coffee first.” The moment seemed to call for liquids. She checked Bob’s desk drawers. He was known to celebrate a closing or two with a toast of fine Irish whiskey. She poked around, and there it was, sloshing around with the pens and paperclips.
Liza was moaning again. Her head on the desk. Blanche busied herself with the booze and the coffee pot.
Then the phone rang. Liza dove for it.
She didn’t move. Her face drained of color like someone had let the stopper out.
Oh, this can’t be good.
“What’re you saying?” Liza’s voice cracked, rose an octave. “No, that’s not right.” Her fingers opened and the receiver clattered to the desk.
Blanche stopped fussing, the bottle of whiskey suspended. She reached for the phone but whoever had called was gone.
“What is it, Liza? Who was that?”
“Bill again. It’s Bob. His neck, broken. Or strangled! They think he died. On purpose.” Dying “on purpose” seemed to avoid the fact altogether, a denial that Bob had passed away in an untimely, and unthinkable, manner.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He was there when they lifted him out of the car. It looked really bad.…” It was all she could manage before she dissolved again.
Blanche blurted out: “What does that mean? Murder?” It was too late to take it back. The word shot from her like an arrow and hit the mark. But surely cause of death could not be determined until the medical examiner had a look.
Liza crumpled into the chair.
“Oh, Liza.
Murder is something that is definitely done on purpose. He was sitting in his car…
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
Why? Who?”
And why, of all people, Bob?