around, and assumes an expression of obvious distaste.
“You’re a bit of a clutterbug, aren’t you?” he says.
“Sorry.” I take the envelope Hurley gave me out of my purse and toss it onto a nearby chair. “Neatness is not one of my strong suits.”
William looks like he is about to say something else but sneezes instead. Then he does it again. Three more follow in succession, like rapid-fire gunshots. “Do you have a cat?” he sniffles, taking out his hankie and dabbing at his nose. “I’m allergic to cats.”
Suddenly I see light at the end of the tunnel . . . a way out of all this without rejecting William outright. “I do. He’s a kitten, actually, about four months old, and his name is Rubbish because I found him in a garbage Dumpster.”
William glances around the room with an utterly horrified expression and I half expect him to bolt for the door.
“Don’t worry. He’s probably in hiding somewhere. He does that when I come home, like a game of hide-and- seek.” I gesture toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get us some wine.”
He walks over to the couch and bends down to examine it carefully. When he starts brushing at the cushion, I head into the kitchen with my purse and grab the closest thing I have to wine-glasses: a couple of juice tumblers. As I hear William sneeze several more times, I dig in my purse, find a tube of lipstick, and put some on. Then I take both of the glasses and wrap my lips around their rims, one at a time. When I’m done, I examine the glasses carefully in the light and deem the lip prints satisfactory. Then I open a bottle of Chardonnay and fill both glasses.
I return to the living room to find William sitting on the couch, red-eyed, sniffling, and tearing. He sneezes twice more as I approach and they are violent enough that his comb-over springs loose, standing up on one side of his head like a lopsided rooster comb.
“You poor thing,” I tell him, handing him a glass of wine.
He takes the glass and true to form, holds it up for inspection. Despite the fact that his eyes are swollen halfway shut, he manages to widen them to startling proportions when he spies the lipstick mark. “Did you wash this glass?” he asks nasally.
I shrug. “I gave it a good rinse. Why? Is there a problem?”
He sets the glass down, blows his nose, and then sneezes again. I notice movement behind him and realize Rubbish has finally appeared, climbing up the back of the couch to perch just behind William’s head.
William leans back into the couch and dabs at his eyes and nose. He looks truly miserable and I feel a pang of pity for him. Then I notice that Rubbish has hunkered down, his furry little ass wiggling in the air, his pupils dilated like a meth addict’s. His eyes are focused on the flopping strands of William’s comb-over, and I realize with horror that he is about to make a kill.
William retrieves his glass as I start forward in hopes of grabbing Rubbish before he can attack but I’m a step too late. The kitten launches himself forward, all claws out, and lands on top of William’s head. William shrieks and pushes himself off the couch, managing to spill wine all over his shirt and knock over the coffee table in the process. Rubbish loses his grip, slides down the side of William’s head, and then scampers into my bedroom.
At least now I don’t have to worry about William trying to take me to bed.
“Jesus Christ!” William yells, holding a protective hand over his scratched face. He sets his now-empty wineglass down and takes out a second folded, cloth hankie from his pants pocket, which he uses to dab at the blood.
“I’m so sorry, William. Let me get something to clean up those scratches for you.” I grab a towel from the linen closet, and fetch some gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet. As I return to the living room, I half expect to find William gone but to his credit he is still here, though he is standing much closer to the door. His eyes dart back and forth crazily and I’m not sure if he’s looking for Rubbish or planning a hasty escape.
His shirt front is soaked with wine so he unbuttons it and uses the towel to dry off his chest. In the meantime I dab at his wounds, clean them the best I can, and apply some ointment to each of the scratches. His comb-over is still standing at attention but there is something oddly endearing about it so I leave it alone. When I’m done, I stand back and tell him, “There you go. Good as new.”
“What if I get an infection?” he asks. “Cats are notoriously dirty animals, aren’t they?”
His questions remind me of someone else’s recent comments and an idea begins to bloom in my brain. “Their
He gives me a look that says he’s doubtful. Then his head rears back and shoots forward as he lets loose a rapid triple sneeze. Between the movement and the comb-over, he looks like one of those bobbing glass bird toys with the colored liquid inside.
“It doesn’t look like things are going to work out with us, William,” I say, trying to sound disappointed.
“Clearly not.” He blows his nose again.
“Would you be open to dating an older woman?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Who did you have in mind?”
“My mother.”
He looks offended.
“She’s only a few years older than you and a very attractive woman,” I add quickly. “Plus she’s very, very clean.” It’s true. My mother is more of a neat freak and germophobe than William ever dreamed of being. She’s also single, several years out from her fourth divorce, lonely, and a cat hater.
He considers my offer a moment and then shrugs. “I’m game for anything at this point, I guess.”
“Great! I think you two will be perfect for one another. I’ll give her a call and see if I can set something up, okay?”
He dabs at a trickle of blood on his ear and sneezes again. I take it as a yes.
“I think it would be best if I left,” he says.
“I understand. And again, I’m sorry.” I lean over and give him a quick buss on the cheek which, thanks to my freshly applied lipstick, leaves a perfect kiss imprint behind. I consider wiping it off but then decide to let it stay.
The kiss brightens his countenance considerably, and when he turns to leave he is wearing a silly-assed grin. I walk him to the door, flip on the outside spotlight, and watch as he gets into his car and drives away.
Only after he’s gone do I realize I’m not alone. Standing at the back door to Izzy’s house are Izzy and Hurley, both of them staring slack-jawed at me. Izzy looks amused and surprised, Hurley looks like a thundercloud. I give them both a little finger wave before going back inside.
Spying the envelope Hurley gave me earlier still sitting where I tossed it, I pick it up and settle in to read. It proves to be a depressing endeavor. Clearly Erik was both surprised and devastated by Shannon’s desire to split, and their differing views about having children was at the heart of a good part of it. Erik wanted them and Shannon didn’t, but in later letters Erik made it clear he was willing to forgo the children if it would help save the marriage.
Erik’s love for Shannon is evident in every letter. I can find no hints of craziness or angry desperation in his words, only heartache. He mentions Luke Nelson in a letter dated nearly a month ago, so he apparently knew about him for a while. But he also wrote that he was willing to move past this bump in their marital road if Shannon would give him a second chance.
Basically, the letters support what my instincts are already telling me: that Erik loved his wife very much and was incapable of killing her. Granted, the separation paperwork Shannon hit him with might have been a finality he wasn’t willing to accept. But I still can’t make myself believe he would kill her over it.
Somehow I have to prove it.
Chapter 10
The next morning I drop my costume gown off at the dry cleaner. The lady behind the
