The afternoon broke beautiful for the few minutes it took Cherie Connelly to walk up the path to Bernadette’s place. Golden sunlight pierced the grey clouds and filtered through the trees. It swept over the newly fallen snow making it sparkle like silver. The air was crisp and clear. There was smoke coming from the chimney so Cherie knew Bernadette had been well enough to get up and add some wood to the fire. Perhaps she had even eaten something.
Cherie moved the ceramic frog that sat beside the porch and took the key from under his green butt. The lock clicked just as the hole in the heavens closed up. By the time Cherie unlocked the door to Bernadette’s house, the outside was as gloomy as the inside.
“Bernadette?” Cherie called softly. The baby on her back gurgled. Bernadette didn’t hear either of them because she wasn’t in the living room.
The quilt was rumpled on the couch, the pillow was cold. The fire was burning but it was mostly embers. The hospital bed hadn’t been slept in. The I.V. was still full and the bedroom door was closed. This was Bernadette’s sign that she needed her privacy.
“Well, we’ll put a few more things in order then, shall we?”
Cherie took her daughter out of the carrier and set her on the floor near the dining room table. With a coo and a tickle, she gave the baby the stress ball Bernadette used to exercise her fingers. Sure that she would be entertained for a bit, Cherie went to the mail drop.
There were notes of condolence neighbors had pushed through the slot, a few pieces of junk mail and two bills. Cherie put the notes on the mantle and added wood to the fire while she was there. She puttered about, folding the quilt and plumping the pillows all the while wondering how they were going to manage Fritz’s funeral. She would ask the mortician in Corallis if he could see his way to donating the casket. Marlene White did beautiful stonework. Perhaps she could build something to mark Fritz’s place. Cherie would make the food for the reception after the church service. In fact, she would suggest that the church host a fundraiser. Bernadette was going to need more than just to settle Fritz’s funeral. There would be food and heat and house repairs. There would be gas for the car and, soon, Cherie imagined Bernadette would need a nurse.
The baby squealed. She had lost the ball and was too little to understand where it had gone so Cherie chased after it. She took a minute to admire the gorgeous creature she had born then settled herself at the table Bernadette used as a desk. It was to be expected that she hadn’t look at the mail from yesterday, but Cherie was surprised to see that mail from a week – or weeks – before had not been touched.
Cherie ripped open the ends of the envelopes and blew inside each one. She threw away the junk mail and stacked the bills neatly after casually perusing them. There was a second notice on the electrical bill. The gas bill was past due also. She would talk to Dove about paying them for Bernadette until they figured out how their friend was going to manage. They would probably have to close the store. It would be a drain if Bernadette had to hire someone to keep it open and Cherie couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be in the place where Fritz had died.
Cherie blew into the next envelope and put the contents aside. She did the same with the next before realizing three were from Bernadette’s insurance company. Curious, she picked them up and read them over twice to make sure she understood what was written. She flipped through the stack of mail on the table one more time. There was a fourth letter and all of them gave Cherie Connelly a shock.
“We’ve got to go. Gotta go.”
She whispered to herself as she scooped up her daughter. Knowing she shouldn’t, Cherie pocketed the letters with her other: one premium notice, two warnings and a final notice of cancellation.
Oh, God.
Cherie buried her nose in the warm crook of her baby’s shoulder as she tried to get control of her emotions. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. Quickly, Cherie slipped the baby into the carrier pouch wanting nothing more than to . . .
“What are you doing?”
Cherie twirled. She hadn’t even heard the bedroom door open and now here was Bernadette standing behind her, angry, glaring. Bernadette was definitely unhappy to see Cherie Connelly in her house.
Sheriff’s Office, Corallis
9:40 a.m.
The door of the Corallis Sheriff’s station blew open like it had been bombed then slammed shut behind Dove Connelly. Ginger shot out of her chair. Mike hollered but neither had time to try to keep Dove from Savick’s office. When Dove flung open the door, the man cursed and reached for his weapon. Dove was faster than his counterpart. He was at Savick’s desk, pushing up against it and throwing a duffle bag on top of it.
“You damn bastard. What in the hell were you thinking? What in the hell were you thinking?” Dove picked up the edge of the desk and brought it down hard. The duffle bag flew toward Savick who put out his hands to catch it even though he still had hold of his gun.
“What the fu. . .” Savick hollered. “Just hold on. Hold on.”
“Put it away before I use it on you.” Dove reached over the desk and grabbed Savick’s wrist. The man’s hand tightened on his weapon like he couldn’t wait to use it. Dove Connelly stared him down before throwing that arm aside. Savick held tight to the weapon.
“Mike!” Savick called out. He wanted back up but Dove had other ideas. He was at the door in two strides.
“Stay put, Mike. This isn’t for you.” Dove swung his arm, slammed the door then turned back to Savick.
“You best settle down, Connelly.”
The gun was leveled at Dove. Savick’s lip was pushed out where his plug of tobacco had been stashed at the gum. Tobacco juice ran from the side of his mouth and he wiped it away. There was no doubt that Dove and his outrage made Savick nervous but Dove didn’t care. He was sure the man didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger.
“Hart is dead. I found the body and I found the syringe. He’s an O.D.”
“Then he’s dead,” Savick drawled, unimpressed. “Nothing I can do about it.”
“Put it away or I swear I’ll take it away,” Dove ordered, indicating Savick’s weapon.
Savick hesitated then tossed it in the desk drawer. His rage used up, Dove lay back against the door for a second then made his way to the chair. Savick gave the cuffs of his shirt another turn.
“He was a coward, Connelly. He was scared shitless even though you had us holding him on nothing. Say good riddance. Go tell the widow you got your man.”
“And what do I tell Tessa Bradley’s family?” Dove asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. What did you want me to do when Hart started making noises about a lawyer? You had nothing.”
“I had a scarf with blood all over it,” Dove said. “He admitted it belonged to Tessa Bradley.”
“And he said it was his blood on it,” Savick snapped back. “Test it. Check it out. Then come back to me.”
“I have a shotgun,” Dove insisted. “I found it in his closet.”
“And no ballistics. Hell, we just got a warrant for Hart’s place. That was an illegal search if it wasn’t sitting on the kitchen counter,” Savick drawled. “That will be thrown out before you see the inside of a courtroom.”
“You have the connection to a missing woman and the receipt from the Mountain Store. You had enough to hold him.”
“That woman is probably waiting on him somewhere.”
Savick pushed his hair back even though it was slicked into place good. His eyes met Dove’s and there was hatred in them and Dove couldn’t understand why. A woman was missing, a man dead. They should be working together but Savick was still throwing up roadblocks, relishing his role as Devil’s advocate.
“And Hart could have stopped in that store any time during that day. Besides, he wasn’t going anywhere. We impounded his car for God’s sake. Do you think he was going to walk out of here?”
Savick chewed. He spat. He stared Dove Connelly down with those flat, dark eyes of his. This was his office. He would call the shots no matter what. He was feeling better now, more comfortable with Dove’s silence. He smiled a little and stored that plug of tobacco while he spoke.
“I was covering my butt, Connelly, because I didn’t think I had anything to speak of to hold him. I watch out for my town and my deputy. Corallis doesn’t need to get sued for false arrest or something worse.”
“Assaulting an officer. You could have held him on that,” Dove said, knowing there was nothing he could say that would convince Savick he should have acted differently.
“And I didn’t,” came the answer. That didn’t satisfy Dove.
“Why? What was so important that you couldn’t hold him long enough for us to do a good search?” He heard the plea in his voice but he didn’t care. The man couldn’t be this heartless. Then Dove found out he was wrong.
“Not a damn thing.” Savick answered with a sick pleasure. “I just don’t like anyone coming into my place of business ordering my deputy around, telling me what to do, using my resources. I looked at what you had, I talked to Hart and I made the decision. Next time bring something with legs or take him with you. That’s all you had to do, sheriff. Take the man with you.”
Dove pushed up off the chair and grabbed the duffle that had been shoved to the edge of the desk. The anger was back. There was no reasoning with Savick. He was despicable. Dove put the bag in front of the man, slid back the zipper, pulled out a pair of shoes. He slammed them on the desk. Peas of dried mud scattered over Savick’s paperwork. Dove pulled the photographs Nathan had taken out of his jacket pocket. He snapped those down next to the shoes.
“These are pictures of print molds taken at the crime scene. These are shoes taken from the duffle bag found on the bed in Simon Hart’s apartment. If you weren’t so worried about your ego, we would have been able to find out who Hart’s accomplice was. Now we don’t have anything.”
“Lordy, lordy. Aren’t you just going to make the front page of the New York Times, Connelly? You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.” Savick chuckled and laced his hands behind his head. He looked ugly when he smiled. “If you ask me this is as simple as Hart not wanting to go back to prison. He’s already been behind bars half his life. He was a three-striker then some. He offed himself. Coward’s way out.”
Dove listened but he didn’t really need to hear what Savick had to say to know he was a small man who created big problems. While Savick talked, Dove walked to the door, opened it and called to Ginger.
“Do you have an evidence release form, please?”
“Yes, sir,” Ginger called back.
“Bring it here.”
Ginger scurried in, paperwork in hand. She stood in the doorway looking at Savick for direction. Mike joined her, hovering behind, watching what was going down. Dove took the release and put it down in front of Savick.
“Sign it. I’m taking this duffle with me. I want the shotgun. I’ve got the scarf. I want you to write it all down. Put the time there and the date.” Dove pointed to the paper.
“Why should I?”
“Because, if you don’t, I’m going to see that the feds look at you for obstruction of justice. I’ll tell them I have proof Tessa Bradley has been taken over state lines and that means it’s a federal case. Do you want them looking at you that close or do you want to last long enough to get to that next election?”
A cloud passed over Savick’s brow. His eyes flicked toward his secretary and deputy. He colored, embarrassed to be put in this position in front of the people who worked for him. He reached for his pen and scribbled on the paper but Dove wasn’t done. “And you better damn well go over that apartment with a magnifying glass because I’m going to subpoena your book, you got that?”
“You’re pushing it, Connelly.” Savick slid the release toward Dove. “And we’re professional here. We don’t get emotionally involved and we don’t go off half cocked.”
Dove picked up the duffle and hefted it to his side. There was a lot he wanted to talk about but nothing he could say to Savick with civility. He spoke to Mike on the way out.
“You got a body to take care of, Mike. K.C.’s waiting downstairs from Hart’s place. She’s in apartment 1A. She was with me and identified Hart and she said she’d answer any questions she can. Send me the report tomorrow.”
Dove walked out the front door. Everyone looked after him: Ginger with awe, Mike with admiration and Savick with something past loathing.
Marta tears the paper, crinkles the pages and stuffs them into the hole in the wall with a rhythm that is somehow comforting. I go more slowly, looking at every single page before I wad it up. In these magazines are pictures of me and friends I have almost forgotten. There is Amy who was only fifteen when she hit the runway. Gordana who came from Russia I think. She was a hard woman. Never spoke to anyone. I wonder what happened to them. I know they all went on with their lives but what did those lives come to? I doubt any of them came to this. That makes me smile. Wouldn’t they be surprised to see me like this? I am surprised to see them here with me. It is like a homecoming.
Mostly, though, I look at me. I am there, too, the way I used to be. It is like looking at a year book.
1979. Harper’s Bazaar. A full face spread about beautiful skin. My eyes are closed. The photographer lit my face so that my skin looks as pure as fresh cream. I look so content, so otherworldly. The photographer told me to think about a lover. I thought about Simon.
I don’t anymore.
1982. Vogue. The cover. My lips are drawn back, my teeth are bared and my eyes half-mast. The clothes I wear are no-nonsense. I am supposed to be a woman completely in charge of my life and my work. I look directly into the camera. Don’t touch. Don’t come near me. I am angry. I am poison. Peter took that picture.
Peter brought out the worst in me.
1980.People Magazine. Paparazzi catch me at Michael’s in Los Angeles. The food was delicious and always served in portions that models appreciated – an expensive bite and no more. Charlotte is with me. A rare visit on my turf. We are smiling at each other. We are happy. She didn’t know about Italy or anything. She is looking at me the way a daughter who loves her mama does. That window was only open a short time. I flew through it and some photographer was there to take a picture before I had my wings clipped.
It wasn’t all bad, this life of mine but that part is over. I crumple the Vogue picture and the Bazaar picture and put myself away where I will do some good. I keep the picture of me and Charlotte. I’m sure Marta won’t mind.
The trailer gets warm. I cut my eyes to my ancient hostess. We are done stuffing all the holes in her trailer. Rain falls. The wind whips. The cat hasn’t stirred and the little dogs have curled up again. They look like a furry little donut, a circle of fluff and black noses. I stand up, put my hands at the small of my back and stretch. I am pleased with the work in a way I never was in New York. My life has been a carnival ride. I think I had been a little sick with the thrill of it even before Jake brought me west. I just didn’t want to admit it because I was afraid. What else did I know? What good was I? Was there a ‘me’ inside the body and behind the face? I have answers now.
I have learned from the first go ’round; I will make the second better.
“I’m done, Marta.”
I whisper because it is night and the dogs sleep. Marta nods but she doesn’t seem tired the way I would think an old person would be. I see that there is one more picture of me. I bend down, crumple it up and push it tight into the wall without looking at it. I go back to the couch, close my eyes and sleep without dreaming.