I pull up in front of Fred’s house and sit in the car while I finish my cigarette. A couple of young kids run from a school bus into the house next door. Even though the sun is out, the temperature has dropped again and frozen everything that melted, leaving no snow and no place to play.
I approach Fred’s steps carefully, because the pavement is still covered with ice. I’m surprised nobody has jumped at the chance to throw down salt for Deb.
I knock on the door and hope she isn’t home. At least then I can tell myself I tried, and go back to my place and come up with a plan that doesn’t involve sympathizing with a woman I can’t stand who might just be after my boyfriend. No matter how I try to convince myself that talking to her about Fred will make me feel better, I think I’m only here to fuel my suspicion that she’s not so upset he’s gone.
I’m about to head back to my car when she answers the door. As usual, she looks like she walked off the cover of a magazine. Today she’s wearing too much makeup. I wonder what she’s covering up. She stands there and waits for me to say something.
“Looks like you’re holding it together better than I am,” I say.
“I’m just better at faking it,” she says, and turns back inside. She leaves the door open, so I assume it’s okay to follow her.
We go into the front room and she sits on the couch by the bay window. I sit on a dining room chair that hasn’t been moved since Fred’s reception.
“You look good,” I say, even though this is the first time I’ve noticed her age.
She doesn’t say anything. She looks out the window like she’s sitting in a convalescent home.
“I, uh, I wanted to apologize . . .” I start, but I don’t know how to finish.
“What?” she asks, bringing her attention into the room. “I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted.”
“I can understand,” I say, though I don’t know if she’ll take comfort hearing that from me.
“There were footprints in the snow,” she says, “all the way around the house. Now that the snow’s melting . . .”
I cross my legs and tuck my feet under the chair and I wonder if it incriminates me.
“It was probably just some kids,” I suggest.
“I guess I’m not used to being here alone,” she says. “This is the first time the house has been empty since they notified me.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I don’t hate you,” she says, looking out the window again. “I have to believe God has a plan.”
“Some plan,” I say. “I wasn’t in on it.” I’m trying to be polite, but I’d almost rather she blame me than Him. I don’t buy it.
A phone rings somewhere in the house, saving me from a sermon. The corners of her mouth curl up just enough to clue me in: Either she wants me to know she’s happy to get a break from me, or she doesn’t want me to know she’s happy about whoever’s calling.
“Excuse me,” she says, and I do. Gladly.
As I’m sitting there, I notice a policeman’s coat lying on the piano bench. I shouldn’t snoop, but it’s not like I’m going through her drawers. I figure it’s Fred’s, and I’m hesitant to pick it up, but when I walk over and get a better look I see IMES stitched into the breast pocket.
Next to the piano is a cardboard box full of what must have been in Fred’s locker. I’m just about to look through it when I hear her coming back, so I tink a few keys on the piano and act like I was just waiting patiently.
“Some investment company,” she says about the call. “They’ve been calling at all hours, wanting to know where I’m going to put the benefit money, the pension. They didn’t waste a second.” I, too, wonder what Deb’s going to do with her new income.
She sits down again and adjusts an uncooperative bra strap. It’s then that I notice she’s not wearing her wedding ring. She didn’t waste a second, either.
“When the money comes through I’m going to get out of this place,” she says. “There are too many memories.”
“I guess you’ll want to start over,” I say. With at least a quarter of a million bucks, I estimate. “Where will you go?”
“My brother lives in Florida. Maybe there.”
I don’t have anything nice to say about Florida. I’m sure she and Mason had plenty of things to share about it when he was here. I decide to cut to the chase.
“About the accident . . .” I start, though I’m still not sure where I’m going with it.
“Mason told me it was quick and painless,” she says. “He said Fred never knew what hit him, and that he didn’t suffer,” which is not true. I saw him suffer. The way she assumes Mason knows what happened creates some allegiance between them that I don’t like at all.
“Mason make you feel better?” I ask.
“I beg your pardon?” She can tell from my tone that I’m talking about more than consolation. “Mason was one of the officers who stayed with me,” she says. “I didn’t see you breaking any records to come here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You killed my husband. You should be.”
It takes every ounce of love I had for Fred to keep from getting up and punching her in the nose job.
“I can see through a lot of things, Deborah, including your little sympathy ploy to get Mason.”
“And my windows? You see through them?” She gets up. “I didn’t expect you’d come back here, let alone apologize for what happened to my husband. I see now that you’re looking for some kind of pardon. You will not get it from me. You will not get anything else from me.” She motions me to the door. “Get out. I don’t expect to see you again. Ever.”
“Fine with me,” I say, standing my ground near the piano, “but stay away from Mason.”
“Isn’t that what you always wanted to say to me about Fred?” she says, and under all that makeup I’ll bet there’s a smile. “My relationship with Mason is no more your business than my marriage was. I know you don’t like me, but Fred is gone and I no longer have to put up with his opinions, or yours. Now just go.”
She puts on a wool coat and begins buttoning it up from the bottom.
“You late for a hot date?” I ask.
“I am going to the crematorium,” she informs me.
“Out with the old . . .”
“Starting with you.” She opens the front door and invites me to leave.
On my way out I notice a wall in the hallway full of nails. A box of photos sits at my feet, and on top is an official police picture of Fred.
“You can get rid of everything but your conscience,” I say. “If you have one.”
I’m barely out the door when she slams it. So much for making peace.
I shouldn’t have tried to play nice. We were never friends and I didn’t exactly see it happening in this lifetime. I should have gone in strong and asked Deb if she had any knowledge about Fred’s dealings with Trovic or Birdie. Asked if she’d noticed Fred acting differently in the weeks leading up to his death. I should have interrogated her like a detective instead of a suspicious girlfriend.
I don’t need another clue to figure out she’s a conniving bitch. What I need are clues to figure out what happened to her husband.
I get in my car, drive around the block, and wait for her to leave.