refreshing his memory.
35
Francie walked all the way home, the wind at her back most of the time, arriving just after four under a rapidly darkening sky. She was no longer burning up, was probably cold, although she didn’t feel it, numb inside and out. She’d been through everything, now knew Ned’s alibi and why he was reluctant to use it, knew all but the where of it; knew, too, something of how it felt to be in Anne’s position, with another woman, unseen, exerting force on her life like some orbiting body composed of dark matter. A powerful force that shook, unsettled, reduced: could reduce her to the state of Anne sobbing on her stool in the locker room, fallen completely apart. But Francie hadn’t earned the right to be in that state, was the other woman, not the wife-in this case not even that, but the other other woman-and so any falling apart would be ridiculous, absurd, pretentious. And shameful: a feeling with which she was filled to the brim already. So although her mind was ready to start writhing with the kinds of questions that must have tormented Anne-had he really been working on such-and-such a night? how had they met, how had it begun? what did he tell her in bed? what did they do? the same things? different things? the same things better? — she couldn’t allow it. Among other reasons, she owed Anne some dignity.
Francie went in the front door, stood in the hall. The house was dark, as always at this time of day in winter. She heard the refrigerator door close, heard the beep of the answering machine, crossed the shadowy living room to the flashing red light, pressed the button.
“Francie? Nora. I was going to swing by and ride out with you. Guess you’ve already left. See you there. God, I hate funerals, this one especially.”
Francie reset the machine, stopped the beeping. She didn’t call Nora, wasn’t ready for that. What should she tell her? Everything? Why not? Was there any reason to go on keeping Ned’s secrets? No. She thought of Savard-he had heard Ned’s alibi, knew that secret, but hadn’t told her. Ned’s second secret: did its burden, too, sometimes grow intolerable, demand to be flaunted? Francie’s memory readied the image seen through a keyhole. She closed her inner eye to it, or tried to, and returned to Savard. There was no reason he should have told her-he probably operated on a need-to-know basis, and in this case had decided she didn’t fit the category. But then she remembered the little nod he’d given her, twice.
Francie went upstairs, through her bedroom, into the bathroom, drew a deep bath, stripped off her funeral clothes, lay in the tub. If there was no reason to keep Ned’s secrets, there was no reason not to tell Nora. Oh, she didn’t want to do that. How could she and Nora ever be the same? But were they the same now? Not really. It was a sham. So Nora had to be told. Tomorrow, not today: she needed breathing room.
There was a knock at the door.
“Francie? Is that you in there?”
“Who else would it be, Roger?”
“Of course, of course. Just being pleasant. There’s dinner, whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“One must eat, Francie dear.”
Francie went downstairs in her robe.
“In here,” Roger called from the dining room.
She entered the dining room. He’d set two places at one end of the table. Candles, the good silver, his grandmother’s Sevres.“Champagne, Roger?”
“Why not? Life does go on. Here we are, the proof.” He filled two glasses, clinked them together in a toast, handed one to her. He drank, peered at her over his glass.“You look despondent, Francie.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’ll feel much better after a little something.” She sat down. “Isn’t that what Winnie-the-Pooh used to say? A little something. Remember when the Latin translation came out? Winnie-Ille-Pu. Cute idea, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t remember, actually.” But how she would have loved reading Winnie-the-Pooh to some child of her own. She took her first sip of the champagne, tasted nothing but the alcohol, downed half the glass in one swallow.
Roger raised the lid of a serving dish, revealing two plump and perfect omelettes. “An omelette sort of evening, don’t you think?” he said, serving her.
Francie emptied her glass, refilled it. She began to feel, not better, simply less.
“Bon appetit,” said Roger, cutting a good-sized bite from his omelette. He looked up. “How do they say it in Italian?”
“The same. Buon appetito.”
“That’s what I like about you, Francie. That flair.” He chewed his omelette, patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin.“How do you like it?”
Francie tried some. “I can’t believe how good you are at this.”
“Pshaw,” he said, waving off the compliment, an awkward gesture that overturned his glass, which knocked down hers as well. “Shit,” he said, rising abruptly, sopping up champagne with his napkin. He took the glasses, both broken, to the kitchen, returned with sponges, new glasses, another bottle. “Oh, well,” he said, filling the glasses from the first bottle, uncorking the second, “accidents happen, do they not?”
Francie drank, refilled her glass from what was left in the first bottle.
Roger returned to his omelette, wielding knife and fork, silver clinking on china. “How went the tree- trimming?”
“What you’d expect.”
“And Ned? It is Ned, isn’t it-name never anchored itself in my mind, for some reason. How is he taking it?”
Francie rose, too abruptly, and something silver clanged to the floor.“I’m sorry, Roger, I’m very tired. The dinner’s very good, and it was… kind of you to prepare it, but I’m going to bed.”
“I understand completely. Why don’t you take the bottle with you?”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
“Good night, then. Sleep well.”
Francie went upstairs, taking the bottle and her glass, closed her door, got into bed, drank a glassful and then another. She put the glass on the bedside table and turned off the light.
Francie closed her eyes. No tears, just sleep, go numb. But first her mind tormented her with a parade of images: Ned in his kayak, Em on a skateboard, Anne at the net; Kira Chang. They faded when they’d had enough, and her last thoughts were of Roger: how nice he’d been, even considerate. She thought of going downstairs, inviting him up to lie with her. Would there be comfort in that, an omelette sort of thing? But no. And apartment hunting still began tomorrow.
“Mr. Savard? Nora Levin, returning your call.”
“Thank you. I’ve got a few questions about the murder of Anne Franklin.”
“I thought you had a suspect.”
“We do. But I’m still puzzled about what she was doing at that cottage, and wondered if you had any ideas.”
Pause. “No.”
“Were you aware that she made an attempt to leave some clue about the murderer?”
“No.”
“She wrote the word painting on the floor of the cottage. Does that mean anything to you?”
“I know she painted.”
“I’ve checked all her paintings. I don’t think that’s what she meant. Is there some other painting she may have been referring to, a valuable one, perhaps?”
Silence.
“She wrote the word in her own blood, by the way,” Savard added. “Painting.”
He heard the woman inhale.“I have one thought,” she said. “But I’m not even sure what I saw, let alone whether it’s relevant.”
