Книга - Sacred Trust

Sacred Trust
Meg O'Brien


Abby Northrope has everything a woman could want. A wonderful home in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a wealthy lawyer husband, a wide circle of friends and a secure place in the community. She has everything…until Marti Bright, Abby's best friend from school days, is brutally murdered–crucified on a hill overlooking Carmel. But Abby lives with a secret of her own: her ailing marriage, so fairy-tale-like to outsiders, is crumbling. As Abby turns all her energies into a quest to avenge Marti's death, she is led down a labyrinth of lies, half-truths, jealousies and revenge. Terrible secrets come to light: about herself, her husband and Marti. But how are the three tied together? With a killer still on the loose, time is running out.









There was time for only one thing in those final moments.


Marti, still bound, was able to roll herself onto her side. From that position she used the fingers of one hand to write in the dirt. She prayed the darkness would cover the word, that it wouldn’t be seen until the police arrived.

She prayed for other things, too. For the souls of her dead mother and father, for her own soul, for that of her friends. She prayed for the child she had given up so many years before. And when her killer dragged her to the makeshift cross and lashed her to it with rags so tight they cut into her skin, when it dawned on her what he planned to do, she even found it in the long-lost depths of her soul to pray for the person who was doing this hideous deed.

But even as Marti prayed, she knew it was far too late for that. The mother of God didn’t come around much anymore.

“O’Brien realistically captures the devastating psychological aftermath of childhood trauma. She illustrates its far-reaching effects by giving voice, through intelligent dialogue…”

—Publishers Weekly on Crashing Down




Also available from MIRA Books and MEG O’BRIEN


CRASHING DOWN




Sacred Trust

Meg O’Brien





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


This one’s for Emily Hope




ACKNOWLEDGMENT


No book is written in a vacuum, and I would like to thank some of the people who helped me throughout the writing of Sacred Trust, either in technical areas or in providing support in a variety of ways.

Many, many thanks to:

The Carmel Police Department, and especially Officer Joe Avila, who generously took me on a ride-along and provided me with invaluable insight into the workings of the Carmel PD. If there’s anything in this book that’s incorrect about local law enforcement, it’s not his fault, but mine.

Al & Pat Tracy, of Tracy’s Kenpo Karate Studios, for advice and technical support in writing the Kenpo scenes. Your generosity in reading those excerpts and assuring me of their authenticity is most appreciated. Special thanks to Pat, good friend, for her ongoing online support.

Cathy Landrum, invaluable friend and research assistant. As always, Cathy, a fabulous job—especially regarding crucifixion and the inner workings of the Catholic Church after Vatican II. I couldn’t have made it through without you.

Merrill Leslie, for being a sensitive Carmel landperson who left me to my endeavors and only showed up when I needed her—a writer’s dream.

The Carmel Il Fornaio coffee group, especially Nancy Baker Jacobs, who offered friendship, advice and support in the darkest of times. One must not, of course, forget “The Master of the Game,” Robert Campbell; “The Curmudgeon,” Bob Irvine; and “The Young Turk,” Bob Norris. Thanks for the great talks, the advice and for being there every day. Oh, and Jeannie?—keep up the excellent artwork. Sol? Not to worry—the Sol in this book bears no resemblance to you, other than his name. I’d never accuse you of being a lawyer.

My editor at MIRA, Amy Moore-Benson, whose excellent direction and editorial skills are beyond compare. Thanks for your faith in me and in this book.

Last but not least, special thanks to my son, Greg, whose wise advice as a reader and writer in his own right, helped me to iron out the plot for Sacred Trust. I must also acknowledge that the ideas for the trepan scenes sprang from his dark, twisted, writer’s mind. Guess the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.




CONTENTS


PART 1 (#u3c8c2167-5309-5a9e-a4ca-9a2f54cb4b9d)

CHAPTER 1 (#u0086611c-8e20-546a-9515-309fc8591998)

CHAPTER 2 (#u4e4de0f7-44ab-5124-b695-c5afa99b3b51)

CHAPTER 3 (#uf13ec6ff-e359-537e-b5cc-939173e53d0f)

CHAPTER 4 (#ud90810c5-bdbf-576d-8478-4a55965d6347)

CHAPTER 5 (#uc3bdc7bf-953a-5fd1-906f-fa9b51366e81)

CHAPTER 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 9 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

PART 2 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




Part 1

Land of Milk and Honey


Mishne 13: “Indeed, the blessing of an abundant and profuse nature will cause them harm, by allowing them to slumber in the bosom of idleness…or to fall into evil ways.”




1

MARTI


He grabbed her in the lot of the supermarket in Seaside, grabbed her from behind as she was stepping into her car. He shoved her face forward into the back seat, then blindfolded, bound and gagged her before she ever had a chance to see him.

She thought it must be a him because of the strength it had taken, trying to fight him off. Not once did he let her raise her face off the vinyl seat, his hand and knee pressing her down so hard she thought she would smother.

He took her keys, and she heard him lock the back door then slide into the driver’s seat. He drove forever, it seemed, and she wondered if they were on Highway 1. Along the way she tried desperately to remember every detail, counting three stoplights, three red then greenish hues making their way through the blindfold. If I can remember light and sounds, she thought, I might be able to tell the police where he took me.

At that point she still believed she might live to tell the police. He might rape her, then let her go. Rape would be terrible, but it was something she could find a way to live with, just as the women she’d been interviewing tonight had found a way.

It wouldn’t be easy, she knew. But if God were with her, if all her old saints were with her, she could do it.

Silently, she began to pray the words of the Memorare, words from the early days that took no effort but tumbled over and over from her mind like a mantra: Remember, oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Remember, oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled…

When the car came to a stop, the prayer did as well. And when he dragged her from the car and shoved her to the ground, tearing her clothes off piece by piece till she was naked, she tried to scream and plead through the gag, “Please don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.” But then he began to beat her, and she knew the flogging for what it was—an old familiar ritual when gently done, but now powered by the seeming hatred of a demented soul. The leather thongs had small metal balls attached to their ends, and he brought the flagrum down full force, first on her breasts, then, as she tried to squirm away, on her back. She felt the blows cut into the outer tissues, felt the capillaries break, then the veins. She knew when the blows reached into the muscles, when arterial blood began to spurt and her skin to hang in strips.

Smothering would have been a blessing, was her only coherent thought. If only she had smothered and had it done with.

Marti Bright never got to tell the police the many details she stored away that night. Not the way his hands felt on her mouth, the musty paper smell, nor the scuffling sounds he made after the flogging as he dragged her to the place on the hill.

She didn’t get to tell the police the way he wheezed and coughed with the effort it took to kill her, high, piercing sounds that were almost like that of a woman. Or the way she knew, finally, why this was being done to her. The why, if not the who.

There was time for only one thing in those final moments. Marti, still bound, was able to roll herself onto her side. From that position she used the fingers of one hand to write in the dirt. She prayed the darkness would cover the word, that it wouldn’t be seen until the police arrived.

She prayed for other things, too. For the souls of her dead mother and father, for her own soul, for those of her friends. She prayed for the child she had given up so many years before. And when her killer dragged her to the makeshift cross and lashed her to it with rags so tight they cut into her skin, when it dawned on her what he planned to do, she even found it in the long-lost depths of her soul to pray for the person who was doing this hideous deed.

Finally, as the nails punctured her palms, the prayer she screamed silently into the gag became, Mary, mother of God, save me. Please, oh, please, Mary, save me.

But even as Marti prayed, she knew it was far too late for that. The mother of God didn’t come around much anymore.




2

ABBY


Nobody believes me now when I tell them that I, Abby Northrup, of all people, used to be a nun. They look at my Better Homes and Gardens house, the “perfect” marriage I had before Jeffrey screwed me over—or, more precisely, screwed that bimbo over—and they laugh.

But it’s true. I used to be a nun. Oh, I was only seventeen when I entered, and I never took vows. When I left the order at eighteen, people asked me why. Trying to be funny, I said, “I decided I liked boys more than girls.” That was true, too. But only half the truth. Because at Joseph and Mary Mother-house, at eighteen, I loved Marti Bright more than anything in life.

Marti was one of those eighteen-year-old women who seemed ageless. She might have lived a lifetime before she was five. She was kind and funny, generous and giving. She spent hours in the motherhouse chapel, praying till her knees were scarred. Her face was peachy, like the cliché, and her eyes huge and dark. She had a musky scent that I loved and later identified as Pacquin’s hand lotion, and there was such an aura about Marti Bright, we gave her the nickname “Shining Bright.” In later years, after we both left the convent— “leapt over the wall,” as they said in those days—Marti became a photojournalist, and the nickname stuck: Shining Bright.

They called her that on the news this morning, when the best friend I ever had was found crucified on a hill in Carmel. The newsperson droned unthinkable words over the car radio as I drove recklessly to get to Marti, shock and horror vying for room in my heart. “A world-renowned photojournalist, Marti Bright would forget, in third-world countries, that she was there on assignment. Several times her cameras disappeared while she fed rice and water to starving children. Dave Arnott, you knew her. Tell us something about this woman they called Shining Bright.”

A male voice had taken over, heavy with sadness. “Marti was more than beautiful. She had a beautiful soul. More than once she was found crouching in the dirt, her khakis covered with mud. ‘Cameras can be replaced,’ she once told this reporter, ‘but not the grasp of a child’s fingers on yours as you siphon the tiniest drops of water or food into a starving mouth. Not that particular moment, or that particular child…’” Arnott’s voice had trailed off, and the first newsperson had finished simply, “Marti Bright will be sorely missed.”

I stand looking at my old friend now, her naked torso swinging slightly in a brisk wind, exposed for half the town to see. Her wrists have been bound to the makeshift cross with some kind of cloth, and there are large, thick nails through her palms. Her beautiful dark hair has been cut as if with a blunt knife; its ragged edges are plastered to her skull by the rain. Blood is pouring down. There are bruises everywhere, and odd, peppery cuts all over her abdomen and breasts. From this angle I cannot see how her back has been stripped of flesh, though I’ve been told this is the case.

The worst of it, however—the absolute worst—are the words “I LIED” painted garishly in red across her chest.

Soon the national media will be here, but for now the stringers push forward for close-ups—not for the local television stations or papers, which might have the taste not to show them, but for Hard Copy, the Inquirer, and that ilk. Even an old Cesarean scar is hot news, the faint, smooth line from belly to pubic hair glistening beneath pelting rain and the storm-darkened sky. Till now, no one in the press has known that Marti had a child, nor has her family, or most of her friends. She never married, never seemed interested in a family, only her work.

I knew, however. I was there by Marti’s side fifteen years ago, I saw the child lifted from her womb. I stood holding her hand, tears streaming down my cheeks along with hers. There was a time when Marti kept no secrets from me.

That has changed of late. It must have, I think, staring numbly at my friend before the sheriff’s investigators cut her down. With the incessant click click click of cameras all about me, I think that something major must have changed. Because of all the secrets Marti told me over the years, she never once told me who in the name of God might have hated her so much, they could have done such a God-less thing.

The cross upon which Marti’s thin, battered body was nailed and strung is planted deep into rain-softened ground above the Carmelite monastery, not five minutes from my house. This side of the hill is bare of trees, and on a good day I might have been ambling along Highway 1, on my way to breakfast at Rocky Point, and seen her here. Until the rain began, however, the fog was heavy in Carmel, visibility less than a block or so either way.

I struggle to keep my composure as they lay my best friend on a sheet of black plastic in the cold rain, the medical examiner poking and prodding into places she never would have allowed him to touch if alive. As if to escape the ugly scene, my mind swoops back, way back, and I wonder how it is that such things come to be. There we were twenty years ago, Marti and me, two women with high hopes, thinking we could do anything, go anywhere, and that even if one day we became old women pushing walkers around in a nursing home, we would at least have bright, golden memories to warm us till the day we died.

I don’t know what happened to Marti’s dream. But was it my fault, I wonder, the death of my dreams? Did I cling too much to the past? Was there something in me that wished to be back in that time when love seemed so pure, so good, rather than the way it was with Jeffrey?

Even now, months later, it sickens me to remember the way I found my husband with that bimbo on the sheets I had only that morning laundered, her breasts dangling over his chest, him gobbling them up like a starving orphan while that poor pitiful part of him that, to my knowledge, hadn’t functioned for weeks, stood ramrod straight, poking into every opening in a way I’d long since tired of it poking into me.

By then my marriage had come down to doing other things that pleased Jeffrey, like adding Bounce to the dry cycle so the sheets wouldn’t scratch his sensitive skin. If I’d known what he was doing with her while I was at the office struggling to come up with a witty new column, I’d have dumped a bottle of Drano into the wash.

Damn Viagra, anyway. That’s what started the whole thing.

Not that I really cared. I’d given up loving Jeffrey long before, and who can blame him for seeking solace in the hills, even if those hills were made of boundless pasty-white flesh?

So, yes, I caught the dream, then threw it away. But wouldn’t you know, there are still the damned penances to pay. Not Hail Marys nor Our Fathers, as in the past. That would be too easy an out. For my penance I have the fact that, even though Jeffrey is still around, still sleeps on a couch in the house to keep the rumormongers at bay, there is another memory now, one less warming to take into that time when I’m shuffling along a cold corridor with people who wear bibs and shout for help, though they know not where they are.

And, oh, Marti. You who were so shining bright. Where have you been, and who have you been with, that you should end up this terrible way? You can’t be dead, Marti. Can you? Surely you will rise up and laugh any moment now, teasing, “The joke’s on you this time, Abby! I finally got you!”

I would give anything if the joke were on me. Anything at all.

“Abby.” Ben Schaeffer, detective on the Carmel P.D., stands beside me. His brow is furrowed, his hazel eyes dark with sympathy. “Sorry. I know you were good friends.”

I nod, though my neck seems as stiff and unbending as my mind, which will not wrap itself around this terrible thing. “Thanks for talking the sheriff into letting me through the lines. How much longer do you think it’ll be?” I clear my throat and try to steady my voice. “Can’t they cover her up or something? It’s not right, her lying there on the ground like that. And the damned rain won’t stop, it just keeps coming down and down and down—”

Ben puts a hand on my arm. “Steady, Ab. It shouldn’t be too much longer. I’ll see if I can do something to speed things up.”

I watch his tall frame move with authority toward the coroner and the two sheriff’s deputies hovering over Marti. Several yards behind me, pushing against the yellow crime line, are the eager photographers and reporters, some of whom are co-workers. One, Billy Drubin, stands with his hands stuck in the pockets of a drab raincoat, his shoulders hunched.

“Hey, Abby, what’d you find out?”

When I don’t answer, he says, “You’re not covering this for your column, are you? How come they let you inside the line?”

I walk over to him, knowing he won’t leave me alone unless I do. The others are watching us, picking up every word we say. If I talk to Billy, I tell myself like someone in a dream, the rest will go away.

“Marti’s a good friend,” I say. “I’ve known her for years.”

“Geez, that’s rough, Abby. Sorry. What happened? They got a clue?”

“No. It’s too soon.”

“Are you on it?”

“For Round the Town? Hardly.”

“Even so, if you knew her…” He takes a crumpled pack of Marlboros out of a pocket, taps one out and lights it. His match sputters, and within moments the cigarette is soggy from the rain. He leaves it dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” he says, “why don’t you talk to me? Tell me all about her. The inside story, things we don’t already know, I mean.”

I look at him, wary suddenly. “What inside story, Billy?”

His pale blue eyes are bright, avid. “Well, you know, there’ve been rumors. She was pretty famous for a while, the top of the heap as far as photojournalists go. So what happened? Why did she disappear all of a sudden? Hell, Abby, no one’s seen her around for months. And what’s that ‘I LIED’ all about? And the scar on her belly?”

I stare at him, wondering how I ever got to be part of this ravenous mass of vultures called “the press.”

“I have to go, Billy.”

“I mean, if you were that close,” he insists, tossing the cigarette to the ground, “you must have some idea where she’s been. And what she’s been up to.”

Anger seeps into my zombie-like state. It is, perhaps, the first glimmer of reality setting in.

“Dammit, Billy, drop it! I don’t know!”

Turning back, I see that the small group of men surrounding Marti has begun to disperse. Ben is still there, talking to the sheriff and Ted Wright, the coroner, and a body bag is being zipped over the bruised and battered torso of my friend. A sharp pain hits me in the gut as her once-beautiful face disappears inside the black plastic. Tears flood my eyes.

Ben looks at me and strides through the mud in my direction, his jeans and running shoes becoming splattered with thick brown goo. He puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, and I lean on him only slightly, more aware now of the media and what might show up in the evening news.

“Will Jeffrey be home tonight?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head. “He’s in Washington.”

“My place?” Ben asks even more quietly. “In an hour?”

I hesitate, nodding toward the coroner’s van, into which Marti is being loaded now. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“The sheriff’s in charge out here. And there’ll be a countywide task force.” He looks at his watch. “I have a couple of hours.”

Once, I would have gone with Ben out of reckless abandon, even revenge. What’s sauce for the goose. I was still angry with Jeffrey then. Now my husband and I barely talk. We live under the same roof out of expediency, pretending at marriage while leading vastly separate lives.

My only thought at the moment, therefore, is to feel Ben’s arms around me. To slip between his cool, familiar sheets and forget.

Thank God for Ben, the safe one, I think. In all the madness of Jeffrey’s unfaithfulness, Ben has been here, a good friend, steadfast as the day is long. He’s the one I can trust not to betray me. Ever.

“I want to see her again,” I say, my voice thick with sorrow. “I never really said goodbye.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Ben stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, the two of us staring out his living-room window at the leaden sea.

“Where is she now?”

“She’ll be at the coroner’s office for a while,” he says. “An autopsy, you know.”

I shiver. The coroner will take his bloody knives and saws and cut into my friend. He will break her breastbone to get at her heart and carve out her stomach to get—

“Can I see her before they do all that?”

“I’ll check, okay?”

He lifts my hair, planting a light kiss on the back of my neck before going to the telephone in the kitchen. Across the breakfast bar I see him pace as he talks, the long cord wrapping around his slightly thickening waist. Though Ben is tall, and was gangly as a teenager, his fortieth year has found him with what most charitably might be called love handles. I’ve always liked them; they give me a secure feeling, something to hold on to when the world goes topsy-turvy all around.

I can hear the kinds of grunts he usually makes when talking with others in law enforcement. Right, yeah, sure, fine. They seem to have their own language, an abbreviated one for talking on police radios that carries over into everyday life.

Coming back, he says, “Tonight, around ten. They should have her…she should be all right for you to see her by then.”

He is trying to be careful, but I know what he means: my friend won’t be in pieces. At least, she won’t look that way.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, pulling me into his arms. “It’ll be all right. I’ll go with you.”

Gratefully, I put my arms around his neck and stand on tiptoe to kiss him. One hand pulls me toward him while another pushes my blouse aside and covers my breast, squeezing it so hard I can almost feel pain. I am instantly aroused, everything in me screaming to know that I, at least, still live and breathe.

After that, he needn’t do a thing. I am all over him, my passion swinging from tender to nearly vicious, and he allows me that, knowing the anger and hopelessness that sit in my heart, the utter futility and rage.

Spent, we lie naked side by side in Ben’s king-size bed. A tall, wide window frames a Carmel Highlands scene that has been painted by ninety percent of the artists in town: charcoal cliffs, emerald pines and hillsides dotted with seven-figure homes. Beyond them lies a cerulean sea with wild waves crashing.

Ben’s home is simple, a bachelor’s hideaway. The view, however, can take one’s breath away.

Ben sighs and stretches. “That was quite a work-out, lady.”

“You know it.”

“Feeling better?” He pulls me to him.

“Well, I haven’t got much energy left for anger.” A cloud crosses my mind. “Not right now, anyway.”

He turns on his side to face me. “You’re thinking of tonight. You don’t have to do it, you know.”

“See her? Yes, I do.”

“What can it accomplish?”

“I can say goodbye.”

“I thought you did that out on the hill.”

“It’s not the same.”

He takes my hand, which lies on the pillow between us. “You want to talk about it?”

I start to shake my head, then pause. If there were ever anyone I could tell about Marti, it would be Ben. And I need to get it out, all those old memories, the pictures of those days that have been surging through my mind since I saw her hanging there.

“It started out as one of those silly schoolgirl crushes,” I say, licking my bone-dry lips. “Marti and I went to the same high school, Mary Star of the Sea in Santa Rosa. It was an all-girl school, and neither one of us was self-confident enough to flirt with boys. So when they came over from St. John’s, say, for sports events or dances, we both sort of stayed in the background while the other girls fell all over them.

“Marti was into journalism, and so was I. We worked on the school newspaper together and became friends. Marti was the brighter star, however. She was the one who championed all the causes, from ending global war to preserving the planet. She wrote articles for the paper, gave speeches and marched for peace. I pretty much tagged along behind.”

I pause. How to tell the rest of it? Even to me it isn’t clear how everything happened, right to this day. “In our senior year,” I continue, “we talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. The nuns were pushing us to become nuns, of course—they always did in the Catholic schools. But it wasn’t till our senior year that either of us considered it seriously. We knew we wanted to give our lives to a larger cause, so to speak. We just didn’t know what.”

Licking my lips again, I swallow against the bile rising in my throat, the morning’s breakfast of scrambled eggs tasting like copper now. “The thing is, neither of us felt inspired by what was going on in the world. The eighties were almost upon us, and we could see the writing on the wall. The self-indulgence, the materialism. And there was…oh, I don’t know, a coldness about the world. It was getting too big, and it seemed that people had stopped caring about people. We felt—foolishly, of course—that everything that was ever going to happen had already come and gone. The two big wars, Vietnam, the hippie era. More than anything, we figured the world was going to pot, no pun intended, and we didn’t want to be part of it.”

I brush my hair back from my forehead, which is still damp from the exertion of making love. “So we were running away, I guess, more than anything else. And there was one nun—Sister Helen—who kept urging us to enter the order she was in. She had us cleaning out votive candles in the school chapel and pressing altar cloths. You name it, we got caught up in it. ‘Serving the Lord’ came to look so much better than making our way in a world we didn’t feel much a part of, anyway.”

“In other words, you found an acceptable way to drop out?” Ben says gently. With one big, rough finger, he strokes my arm.

“Something like that. Marti, of course, was always more outgoing than I. But she was also idealistic. Giving her life to God was the ultimate sacrifice, the noblest of all goals. She felt she could make more of a difference from within the walls of a convent than from without. Through prayer, and so on.”

I look at Ben, wondering if he thinks the two of us ridiculous. But he isn’t smiling that odd little smile, the way he will sometimes when he’s thinking something critical and doesn’t want to say it.

“Go on,” he urges.

“Well, come September, we both entered the novitiate at Joseph and Mary Motherhouse, up in Santa Rosa. It was great fun at first, an adventure like none we’d ever had—wearing the black postulant’s uniform and veil, getting up at dawn and praying in the chapel, even scrubbing floors. We loved every minute of it. But then one of the nuns caught us alone together, just talking, you know, and she reported us to the novice mistress. Joseph and Mary was behind the times, and the rules hadn’t been loosened up after ’62 and Vatican II, the way they were in some motherhouses. Special friendships, the novice mistress informed us, led to trouble—in other words, lesbian relationships. They were therefore verboten. We were ordered not to see each other anymore, and in fact were allowed only to spend time with other postulants in groups of three or more. There was never a moment when we could simply be alone and talk.”

“That must have been tough,” Ben says, “after being so close through high school.”

“It was awful. Maybe it was the forbidden aspect of it. Or just plain loneliness, like being away at camp for the first time. All I know is, the more they told us we couldn’t see each other, the more we suddenly had to. We even broke one of the strictest rules, that of all-night silence, to meet in the choir loft when everyone else was asleep. Then one night, our friendship, just as the novice mistress had warned, became something else. We didn’t do much, just held each other’s hands and kissed now and then. Neither one of us had sex in high school, we were both virgins, but the more time we spent alone together, the more this…this feeling grew between us. The funny thing was, it all seemed so perfectly natural. And it didn’t take much more than a kiss to make us happy. I remember Marti’s lips…”

I pause, blushing.

“What?” Ben urges me, smiling. “What about Marti’s lips?”

My blush deepens. “Oh…they were harder than I thought they’d be. More like a man’s lips, you know?”

He takes my chin in his hands and kisses me, long and hard. “More like this, you mean?”

When he doesn’t stop, and in fact lays his body completely over mine, I pull back for a breath, laughing. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

He raises his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression. “Jealous? Me?”

“You.” I poke him lightly on the nose with my finger. “You’re the one who wanted me to tell you.”

He sobers and falls back, lying on his side again. “I meant that. Tell all.”

I sit and reach for the glass of ice water I brought earlier to the bedside table. The ice is melted, and the water tastes like chlorine. But it wets my lips, which helps. Seeing Marti drained of blood, my own seemed to drain away as well. That was hours ago, but inside I still feel like old parchment that has begun to crumble. Even making love with Ben has not changed that, only added a touch of moisture, a small ray of hope that one day I might be myself again.

“Marti,” I remember with a small smile, “was usually the instigator when it came to breaking the rules. She was the brave one. When some of the other girls wanted to sneak out during recreation at night and go to the woods to smoke, Marti was right there with them. In the lead, in fact. Sometimes I tailed along just so I wouldn’t seem too square. Not that I smoked, never liked it even then. The thrill of breaking the rules was enough for me.”

I reach up, adjusting the pillows behind me so I can sit. “Finally, when we’d been caught far too often, and the usual penance of prostrating ourselves on the chapel floor for twenty minutes while reciting umpteen Hail Mary’s didn’t work, they got Sister Helen to come from the high school to talk to us. Besides being our teacher in high school, she was our sponsor into the convent, and she was livid when she found out what we’d been doing. Sister Helen was a nun from the old school, and she still wore her long black habit in 1980, even though most nuns in active orders were in civilian dress by then. She said she had worked too long and hard to receive her habit and wasn’t about to give it up.”

“And did she give you a whuppin’?” Ben asks, stretching out on his back with his hands laced behind his head. “Or a whack on the knuckles with a ruler? That’s what my teachers at St. Thomas’s used to do.”

“Neither,” I say, turning to rest my head on his shoulder, my fingers by habit stroking the wiry brown hairs on his chest. His arm comes around my shoulders and pulls me close. “She just told us in no uncertain terms how disappointed she was in us. She said if we’d had any respect for our vocations, we never would have behaved so abominably, and in fact she was convinced now that we didn’t even have vocations and shouldn’t become nuns at all.”

“Ouch. What did you and Marti say?”

“Not much. But Sister Helen was right, and we knew it. We didn’t even have to talk about it. The next day we met in the hallway outside the novice mistress’s office and went in there together to tell her we were leaving.”

“How did the good Sister Helen take that?”

“I don’t know. I never saw her again. I went home for a few weeks, then moved down to Berkeley, to college. Marti went East to school. We kept in touch, but I think both of us felt bad, like we’d wrecked our one chance to do anything really great, or at least selfless, in the world.”

I pause, thinking. “On hindsight, we may not have wanted to see each other for a while for fear we’d be reminded of our failure. I know that personally it took me a long time after that to get back into the world, so to speak.”

“But you and Marti have been in touch over the years.”

“Yes. That year in the convent faded, and we got back together.”

I see his look. “As friends,” I emphasize. “In fact…”

“What?”

I shake my head. “Just an old memory, that’s all.” Maybe when Marti has been gone longer, I can tell him about her baby.

Sighing again, I reach for the glass of water and drink deeply.

“So, are you shocked?” I ask Ben.

“That you had a schoolgirl crush on Marti Bright? No, those things happen. It’s more like I’m intrigued.”

I throw my pillow at him. “You men! You love the idea of women being together, don’t you?”

I have meant only to tease him. But a shadow falls over his face, and I remember too late that I’ve hit a sore spot.

Darcy, Ben’s ex, had a wild affair with the owner of the Seahurst Art Gallery in Carmel, Daisy Trent. When Daisy ran off with several artists’ money and Darcy ran after her, all the way to Paris, Ben was left to pick up the pieces. The scandal was in the papers for months, and Ben—for some reason he’s never felt it necessary to explain—made reparation to the artists for the money Daisy, his ex-wife’s lover, stole. This all occurred before I met him, and he doesn’t like talking about it.

“Sorry,” I say.

“That’s okay.” But the playful mood is gone.

After a moment I wonder aloud where Marti’s funeral will be and who will arrange it.

“She didn’t have family?” Ben asks.

“A brother, as I remember. They weren’t close.”

The phone rings next to the bed. Ben lets it ring, but then the machine comes on and a male voice says tersely, “Ben, it’s Arnie. It’s important. Pick up.”

Ben groans and reaches for the receiver. Grunting a hello, he listens. At one point he frowns and looks over at me.

“What is it?” I ask when he hangs up. Arnie, I know, is a fellow cop on the Carmel P.D., and a friend.

He hesitates.

“Ben?”

“Uh, Arnie talked to Sheriff MacElroy. He says it looks like Marti was dragged from a car to that place where they found her. There are signs of a struggle in the brush off to the side. Marti—or someone—scrawled a name in the dirt there.”

I sit up, and for some reason I can’t explain except that I feel suddenly exposed, I hold the sheet against me, covering my nakedness. “Really? What name?”

Instead of answering, he gives me a funny look. “Abby, when was the last time you saw Marti?”

“I don’t know, months ago.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sure. Around three months ago. August, I think.”

“She lived in New York City, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why she was here?”

I shake my head, perplexed. “She was doing a magazine piece about the homeless, and I think she was talking to people at the rape crisis center in Seaside. Why?”

“You saw her frequently when she was here?”

“A few times.”

“Did you and she have an argument?”

I stare at him, turning cold. “Ben, what the hell is going on?”

He slides out of bed and begins to dress. A wall seems to build itself between us. “I tried to reach you several times early this morning before I finally got hold of you, Abby. Where were you?”

“Out walking Murphy along Scenic,” I say, becoming angry now at his tone. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Ben, why are you suddenly sounding like a cop?”

Dragging a dark green blazer out of the closet, he puts it on over khaki pants, then a tie. When he stands before me again he is all-business. The wall is complete. “Abby, I’ve been working Homicide fifteen years. There are certain patterns you come to look for. And when someone who’s being murdered scrawls a name in the dirt…Look, I’m not saying it’s always the case. But one thing we’re taught as cops is that it’s most likely to be the name of her killer.”

There is a small silence, during which I wait for the other shoe to drop. Still, I’m no dummy. I already know what the shoe is. “So Marti wrote my name…Abby. Right?”

“Better get dressed,” my lover says. The one who would not betray me. Ever.

He doesn’t take me to the station on Junipero in handcuffs, but he does take me there. He has to, he explains as I dress. Somebody there wants to talk to me, he explains further in the car.

He won’t tell me who that somebody is. But Ben, in the blink of an eye, has changed. I feel somehow I’ve lost two people this day.

Which is ridiculous, I tell myself. Ben is still with me. He helps me out of the car, as my knees are weak. He sits me in a quiet back office of the small station and asks me if I’d like coffee. I nod, and he goes to get it for me, setting the cup before me with one sugar and plenty of cream, the way he knows I like it.

If a man cares enough to remember the way you take your coffee, it’s not all bad, I think.

Meanwhile, my mind races. Why would Marti have written my name in the dirt? Who wants to question me about it? The sheriff? I know the Carmel P.D. facilities are often used by the sheriff’s department, as well as other investigative agencies. And, though Ben will be part of the task force that investigates Marti’s death, the sheriff’s department has jurisdiction over the area where she was found.

Ben has placed me on one side of a long table, halfway down it in the middle. He takes a seat at a far end, along with Arnie Lehman. Both men sit silently, their arms folded, faces wooden masks. This frightens me more than if they’d put me under a bright light and tortured me with thumbscrews.

I wonder aloud if I should call a lawyer. Ben gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say a word. Arnie assures me quietly that I haven’t been charged with anything. He looks at the closed door, then raises a skinny arm to check his watch. He sighs, stretches. Ben rubs his face with his palms.

Just when I think I can’t stand another moment of this, two men in dark business suits walk in. One is taller than the other, with sandy hair. The second man is older, his face lined, hair gray. Rimless glasses hide his eyes, and both men’s expressions are bland, giving up nothing.

“Ms. Northrup?” the taller man asks as my eyes turn his way. I nod.

“Special Agent Mauro,” he says quietly, extending a hand that holds a thin leather wallet with a badge affixed to it. As he flips it open I see the words Secret Service on a card, with Special Agent Stephen Mauro’s name and likeness beneath them, along with a seal.

“This is Special Agent Hillars,” he says.

The older man nods. They take seats directly across from me, and I’m almost relieved. Thank God it’s only the Secret Service, I think, for surely this has nothing to do with me, after all. So far as I know, I haven’t been passing counterfeit money, nor have I plotted against the president of the United States.

At the same time, part of me is certain I’m about to be arrested for some horrible crime I cannot remember committing. It is a schizophrenic moment: What did the other Abby do that this one has blocked?

“First, we would like to thank you for coming here today to talk with us,” Agent Mauro says politely. “We understand this is a difficult time for you.”

I’m tempted to point out that I didn’t have a choice, but a warning glance from Ben makes me opt for keeping my mouth shut.

“I…your welcome,” is about all I can manage.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Marti Bright,” Agent Mauro continues, taking a small pad and black pen from an inner pocket. “Ms. Northrup, I understand you and Ms. Bright were close friends?”

The agent seems to choose his words carefully, and beneath his steady gaze I feel like a deer pinned down by a gunsight.

“Yes, we were friends.”

He nods. “We need you to tell us everything you know about Marti Bright. How you came to know her and for how long you knew her, how often she came to the Monterey Peninsula, the last time you saw her, who her other friends were, who she might have been involved with over the years—intimately, that is—and—”

“Wait a minute.” I can’t help interrupting, as my mind is reeling. I wet my lips. “Some of your questions I can answer. Others, I don’t know.”

“I’m certain you’ll do your best,” Agent Mauro says blandly. Agent Hillars leans forward slightly. His voice surprises me. He is thin, ascetic-looking, and I’d expected the tone to be clipped. Instead, it is soft and full, a Southern marshmallow.

“We are very sorry to trouble you at this time, Ms. Northrup. We understand you have suffered a loss. We felt, therefore, that the kindest way to do this would be to question you here. If you would prefer, however, we can talk in a more official setting.”

The subtle threat in his words shakes me a bit. “I…no, it’s not that I don’t want to cooperate, it’s just…”

I’m beginning to feel again that I need a lawyer. Not only that, but my gut says I need to protect Marti. I decide to tell them only the things they probably already know, or can find out through public records.

“Let’s see…” I say thoughtfully. “Where did I meet Marti?”

I tell them how we met in high school at Mary Star of the Sea in Santa Rosa, and how we then entered the convent together at Joseph and Mary Motherhouse. Basically the same things I told Ben earlier, though leaving out the kind of relationship Marti and I had all those years ago. This I keep to myself, glossing over it under Ben’s watchful, knowing eye. He doesn’t contradict me, and that, at least, is a relief.

Agent Hillars moves restlessly, and Agent Mauro frowns as I’m telling them how Marti and I left the convent together and then went our separate ways to college. “She was always the more earnest student,” I babble, “winning the best scholarships, getting the better grades, while I just sort of muddled through—”

“Might we move ahead, please?” Agent Mauro interrupts. “Ms. Northrup, I would like you to tell us about the time when Ms. Bright first began to come to the Monterey Peninsula.” Beginning to write on his notepad, he adds, “That would be fifteen years ago, correct?”

“More like fourteen,” I lie.

He stops writing and looks at me.

“Up till then,” I add quickly, “we had only telephone contact and an occasional meeting in New York City, when she would fly in for a few days on business. If I could take the time, I would meet her in New York for a day or so of shopping and shows.”

“And you never saw her here until fourteen years ago?”

“Never,” I say firmly.

Agent Mauro studies me a long moment. I stare back, unflinching. He looks down at his notes, and when he lifts his eyes I get that deer-in-a-gunsight feeling again.

“Ms. Northrup, you and Ms. Bright had a relationship at one time that was closer than simple friendship, I understand.”

My face turns hot, and my glance flicks to Ben. “Where—”

“Did I learn that? Let me put my cards on the table, Ms. Northrup. We know quite a lot about you. Where you went to school, what your grades were from kindergarten on, and the fact that you have a genius IQ you’ve seldom bothered to use.”

“I—” Stunned, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide their slight shaking as Mauro continues. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ben watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“We have names of your friends through high school,” Mauro continues, “the fact that you were class president not once but three times despite being somewhat of a rebel, the unfortunate state of your marriage at the current time…” He pauses. “And, of course, your relationship with Marti Bright.”

I am speechless. Appalled. I have heard about the long arm of the law, of course, and how thorough it can be. But that they have this kind of information on me is unthinkable. Who have they talked to?

My anger grows, and I no longer think to be careful. “If you know all this, why the hell are you here asking me questions? Why don’t you go back to your informants and ask them?”

“Ms. Northrup,” Agent Mauro says calmly. “There are certain…shall we say, ‘holes’ in the information we have been given.”

“Imagine that.” My voice is icy. “Something the Secret Service can’t find out about someone.”

“For instance,” the unflappable Mauro continues, “who did Ms. Bright see when she was here on the Monterey Peninsula?”

“See?”

“Friends, associates. She must have had a reason for coming here.”

The older man, Hillars, leans forward slightly again. I am alerted to the fact that my answer to this is important. They are setting a trap. But for who?

“Mr. Mauro, pardon me, but you’ve obviously done your homework. You must know Marti wrote and photographed several stories here and in Santa Cruz about the homeless. She won awards for those stories—they weren’t exactly hidden in a drawer somewhere. Again, why are you asking me things you already know?”

He smiles, though there is no warmth in those gray eyes. In fact, they are so flat and cold they remind me of a pit bull sizing up its next meal. “I suppose you might say I’m more interested in why Ms. Bright came here so often over the years, not that she did. Why here, when there are so many other cities with these problems? In fact, bigger cities with bigger problems?”

“Maybe she liked the weather,” I snap.

“Or maybe she was having an ongoing liaison here with someone,” Mauro says smoothly, not skipping a beat.

“A what?” I am momentarily startled. Then I can’t help laughing. “A liaison? You mean an affair? Good God. You don’t know as much about Marti as I thought.”

Mauro narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that, Ms. Northrup?”

“Because Marti was all-business. She didn’t have time for liaisons, she didn’t care about anything but her work.”

“Are you speaking of just lately, Ms. Northrup?

Or was she that way when she was here fifteen years ago, as well?”

I have purposely told him Marti did not come here until fourteen years ago. Did he forget—or is this part of the trap?

The only thing I’m sure of now is that it’s time I took a stand. Rising, I say firmly, “Agent Mauro, I need to go home and feed my dog. If you don’t have some sort of subpoena in your back pocket, I’m not answering any more questions—until, that is, you tell me what this is about.”

Mauro looks at Hillars, and a question seems to pass between the two men. Hillars gives a microscopic shrug. Mauro closes his notebook and slips it back into his inside coat pocket. Both men stand, and Hillars gives me a look that seems to border on either anger or contempt. I can’t be sure, as it’s quickly gone.

Mauro, courteous as ever—on the surface, at least—extends a hand. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Northrup. We may need to talk with you further. If so, we’ll be in touch.”

I accept the hand and am rewarded when he drops mine after a brief clasp. He is clearly irritated with me.

Good. Whatever he brought me here for, he didn’t get.

A heavy silence fills the room after they leave. I turn to Ben, my voice as cold as my hands. “I’d like to go now.”

Ben looks at Arnie, who shrugs. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Ben nods. Standing, he walks around the table to my chair. The tie comes off. So does the jacket. The shirt sleeves are rolled up, and he smiles.

The wall comes down. Or so he thinks.

He is, after all, a man.

Ben pulls his black Explorer to a stop in front of my house.

“Just let me come in with you,” he says for the second time. “I just want to be with you, Abby. You shouldn’t be alone.”

I jump out and speak through the open passenger-side door as my hand prepares to slam it. “No thanks. I prefer to be alone.”

“Goddammit, Abby, I had to cooperate with them! I would think you’d be grateful, for that matter.”

“Grateful?” The amazed tone in my voice says it all: what I am feeling, thinking, remembering about that cold office, that cold chair and the cool, un-emotional presence of a man I had only hours before made love to, allowing questions that were slanted to make me give the Secret Service of the United States some piece of information that might, for all he knew, incriminate me.

“Yes, dammit, grateful!” he says. “If you’d been Jane Doe off the streets, you think it would’ve been that easy? Maybe you should spend some time finding out what usually goes on when a suspect is being questioned.”

He clamps his jaw shut. Too late.

“Suspect. You’re calling me a suspect now. Damn you, Ben. It’s my name, right? My name in the dirt where Marti died. Is that what this is all about? Did the sheriff call in the Secret Service? Or did you? How else would they even know about me? And what the hell does the Secret Service have to do with any of this, anyway?”

“You know damned well I didn’t call them,” he says. “You should also know that if Arnie hadn’t called me—if he hadn’t told them you and I were friends—it could have gone a whole other way.”

“And you should know that you are one son of a bitch, Ben Schaeffer.”

I slam the door. Ben grinds the gears of his Explorer, pulling away from the curb. As I turn to my house, my heart, which is heavy, lifts momentarily at the thought of walking through the door and having a big ball of canine fluff jump into my arms.

Woman’s best friend—her dog.




3


Murphy isn’t at the door waiting for me, the way he usually is. While that worries me a bit, there have been times when he’s sneaked out with Frannie, my part-time housekeeper, and she hasn’t taken the time to find him and bring him back. Frannie has a family at home to feed at night, and she’s often in a hurry. Murphy doesn’t stay gone for long, at any rate. He likes keeping an eye on me, like a mom who thinks her toddler, once out of sight, must be up to no good. I figure he’ll show pretty soon.

Dropping my purse on a table in the hallway, I head for the kitchen, seeking a glass of wine. The kitchen sparkles in the late-afternoon sun, not only from Frannie’s cleaning but from sunlight on the sea. Tall windows look out on the Pacific Ocean from every room. A million-dollar view, people have called it. Six million would be more like it, in today’s market. For this—a house that cost less than a hundred thousand to build twenty years ago.

I have been envied for my house. Most of the homes in Carmel have names rather than addresses. Mine is called Windhaven. A major movie was filmed here in the fifties, and you can see Windhaven on the movie channel at regular intervals.

There is less beach now, of course, as the shoreline’s been eroded by recent storms. But the house and its view have been photographed by Better Homes and Gardens, Sunset and Architectural Digest. When Jeffrey and I were first married we moved here and opened Windhaven for tours during the Christmas season. That was before Clint Eastwood won his run for mayor of Carmel. Jeffrey, who dabbles in real estate, but whose obsession is politics, was working with Eastwood’s advisors pre-campaign, and we had tons of friends then—artists, writers, actors, politicians. We decorated with holly garlands and strung lights on everything, including the stately pines along the drive. A wild patch of lawn stretches out from the terrace of Windhaven to the cliff, and along the edge of the cliff are Monterey pines that Jeffrey and I planted as windbreaks. In terms of trees they are still infants, yet already they lean to the south from the north winds that buffet them all winter long. If one were to look carefully, one might detect how Jeffrey and I lean, as well, from the buffeting our marriage has taken over the years.

At what point, I wonder, taking a wineglass from the rack beneath the top cupboard, does a marriage begin the downward slide? At what point does it go from holding hands while walking, eyes meeting across the room in a secret, knowing smile, and an occasional embarrassing gush, “Jeffrey is everything to me”? When does the steady feel of aloneness set in for good, not just now and then? And when the distaste for flesh once loved and sought after?

It is, I think, a question—or whole slew of them—that only a decent glass of Seven Peaks can answer. I reach into the double-door refrigerator and pull out a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay. Opening it, I fill my glass and decide to take the whole bottle to the living room with me. What the hell, it’s been a rotten day.

And there is still the coroner’s office to come. I glance at my watch and note that it’s not even five o’clock, and I can’t see Marti till ten. What am I going to do with the next five hours?

In the living room I sit in an overstuffed chair, staring out the window. Not at the sea, which only makes me feel more alone, but in the opposite direction, at the street. People walk by on Scenic, many of them with their dogs. I am irritated that Murphy isn’t here. Why did he have to run off today of all days?

No. The real question is, Why did Marti have to die today? That’s the source of my anger, not Murphy. Not Ben.

Why is my friend dead?

And who would have had reason to do it in just that way? The hideous makeshift cross was crafted, Ben said, of four-by-fours from a house under construction at the bottom of the hill. Who had the strength to drag those four-by-fours to that spot far up the hill, nail them into a cross and then plant them in the ground—much less with Marti’s weight added to them?

Who would have been evil enough to paint those awful letters on her chest? And the final, inevitable question—why is the Secret Service involved?

The more questions I come up with, the less answers there seem to be. Nothing works today. Not sex, not wine. Chilled, I set my glass down and cross to the fireplace, laying paper and kindling, then logs. I strike a long match and watch the fire catch then build, warming my face. Sinking to the floor, I sit beside the only heat I’ve found this day. Outside, the rain begins again. I hear it strike the copper chimney flashing, the pitter-patter growing to a pounding, like nails, like nails in a cross, like nails…

It is only now that I am able to think about the rest of it, the thick, blunt construction nails tearing through her palms, the blood from them draining through the strips of cloth that held her wrists and ankles in place. But the alcohol has loosened everything I stuck way back there and had hoped to forget.

Huddling on the rug before the fire, I allow my body the fetal position it’s been wanting all day, and at last the tears come. There’s no one to hold them back for, now. There are perks when one lives virtually alone. One can cry anytime, and there’s no one around to hear.

Sometime after six I awaken from the stupor I’d cried myself into and make my way around the house, closing blinds and turning on lights. I wonder again where Murphy is and am more worried now than irritated. This isn’t like him. A blend of German shepherd and chow, he has a huge appetite, and by five-thirty he will usually come loping along the street and up the path, looking for food.

I miss his being here. Murphy is the one thing that got me through the worst of the bad times with Jeffrey. He has the pointed face of a shepherd, but around the neck he looks like a lion, especially when he sits in a lion-like pose at the top of the stairs, which he does every night, outside my bedroom door. A born protector, he won’t leave that spot till I head downstairs in the morning.

Going to the phone, I call Frannie, my housekeeper, at home. When she picks up, I hear children in the background, a big, noisy house full of laughter and good times. As often happens, I feel a pang of jealousy. I think Frannie knows this; she looks at me sadly sometimes, aware that, though I have more money, she has more love. This should create some sort of balance between us, but it doesn’t. “Money,” I heard Frannie tell a friend on the phone one day, “might make a nice down payment. But it sure can’t beat a good man.”

“Frannie, did Murphy get out when you were here today?”

“No,” she answers between calls of, “Get off that, right now, young man! Didn’t I tell you not to walk on the tables?” Her youngest, Billy, has Attention Deficit Disorder. His favorite pastime is performing circus-like stunts on the furniture, when he isn’t jumping from the loft in the living room.

“What’s wrong? Isn’t Murphy home?” she asks. “He was there when I left.”

“Are you sure? I don’t see how he could have gotten out. Did you close the door tight?”

“Of course,” she says, then, “No! I said absolutely no cookies. Dinner’s just about ready.”

I hear the exasperation in her voice, as it is building in mine. If Frannie is half this distracted when she’s here, I am thinking, it’s no wonder Murphy got out.

“Abby,” she says, “maybe he’s up in the attic, sleeping. I did go up there just before I left, with some things I wanted to store away. Maybe he was up there and I didn’t realize it and locked him in.”

“That’s probably it,” I agree, relieved. “I don’t know why I’ve been so worried about him. Just a feeling, but you know how it is.”

“Sure. I do that with Billy. He drives me to distraction, but just let something the least bit odd happen, and I’m a crazy lady.”

We both laugh. “Well, thanks. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“That’s okay. Let me know, though, will you? I’ll sleep better when I know you’ve found the Murph. Oh, and Abby.” She lowers her voice. “I heard about that awful thing on the hill today. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I will be. I guess it takes time.”

“That’s for sure. When I lost Will…well, you know.”

“Yes.”

Frannie has a boyfriend now, but I remember how long it took her to get over the loss of her husband, and how much his traffic accident haunted her, making her unable to drive for weeks. She needed the money she made cleaning, though, and I arranged my schedule on cleaning days to pick her up and take her home at night. The time we spent in the car together helped us to bond. We became friends.

“So, anyway, let me know.”

“I will, Frannie. Thanks.”

Hanging up, I head immediately for the attic. Something about this still doesn’t feel right, however. If Murphy were in the attic, he’d have barked when he heard me come in, or at least be whining by now for dinner. There is something wrong, something terribly wrong.

My worries prove to be founded when no Murphy comes barreling from the attic as I open the door on the second-floor landing. Still, I go up there, remembering that once he fell asleep for hours on a pile of old winter blankets.

Flicking the light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs, I stand in a narrow pool of light. One of the bulbs on the two-bulb fixture has burned out, and only a small area is illuminated, a circle of perhaps five feet around. It has the effect of spotlighting me, while the rest of the attic remains in the dark.

I fold my arms tightly around myself as wind creaks the eaves. Old movies fill my head, and I imagine that someone watches from a dark corner, waiting to do those same things to me that have been done to Marti. I tell myself I am being silly, that my fear is only a hangover from seeing Marti that terrible way, an image that will probably forever be imprinted on my brain. Forcing myself to speak, I call out for Murphy. “Here, boy. Where are you? Murph? Are you up here?”

No answer.

Another creak of wood, this time from the far end of the attic, where I can’t see a thing. “Murph? Is that you? Murphy, come here!”

My voice is shaking now, and I can’t decide whether to go to the end of the attic and look, or run. Damn! Why didn’t I bring a flashlight?

Because there was no reason to think I’d need one. That other bulb wasn’t burned out the last time I came up here, I’m certain it wasn’t. I look at the light again, squinting, and for the first time I see that the bulb has not simply burned out, it has been removed.

The old celluloid scenes roll on: a heroine tiptoes down the stairs into a dark, dank cellar with a candle, electricity out because of a storm, thunder crashing, the killer waiting for her at the bottom, knife up-raised. I hear myself yelling silently, “No, don’t! Don’t go down there, dummy! How stupid can you be?”

God, I hate those movies.

There is no alternative, however. If Murphy is here he may have been hurt. Or he could be sick.

Too sick to whimper?

Could be.

Trembling with every step, I move toward the dark end of the attic, waiting for a blow to fall at any moment, for someone to jump out and strike me dead. My hands reach out to feel in front of me, like a person blindfolded in a child’s game. There should be nothing in the way. I remember clearing an aisle through the assorted suitcases, electric fans, hanging garments and boxes of old books.

My hand touches a form before me in the aisle. I feel the shape of shoulders, neck. I scream.

My other hand swings out wildly to strike whoever it is, while the first hand is still warding him off. Then I’m swinging with both hands, punching, kicking, going for the eyes with my thumbs.

There are no eyes. No eyes, no head.

I am seeing Marti on that cross, swinging, and here in my attic someone has hung a body with no head. I begin to scream, over and over, the sound low in my throat, like a growl, and then I am on my knees. In a tiny, still-sane corner of 49>my mind I remember an earthquake-disaster kit I put together and left on top of a trunk. Scrambling on my hands and knees I go for it, reaching the trunk and fumbling. The kit is right where I left it, and next to it is the backpack with pepper spray and a heavy-duty flashlight. I whip out the pepper spray, then the flashlight. Pressing the rubber button on the light, I pivot around. The headless body in the aisle is illuminated. A dress form. A sewing mannequin from my downstairs sewing room. It has indeed been hung from the rafters.

It feels as if all the bones desert my body at once, and I’m left with nothing but weak, jellied flesh, not enough to stand on. Part of me wants to laugh.

The other part wants to kill Frannie. She must have brought this up here, knowing I never use it anymore. But she knows better than to put things in the aisle. I’ve told her to leave a path free so I can get around more easily. Why the hell didn’t she remember this, for God’s sake?

I hear myself, inner voice rising to a crescendo, and finally I do laugh, though the timber’s a bit feeble. I’m beginning to sound like Frannie when she rants on about Billy leaving his toys all over the place. And, of course, she hung the dress form from the rafters to keep a path clear, just as I asked her to. I realize now that the form is not directly in the aisle, but off to one side.

Rising unsteadily to my feet, I put the pepper spray down and point the flashlight toward the dark end of the attic, where the noise had come from. There is nothing there. Only the pile of blankets I thought Murphy might have fallen asleep on. The bright beam slides across their white dust-proof cover. No Murph. No murdering intruder. Nothing but cobwebs and old memories.

Hanging alongside the aisle is my wedding gown in its protective cover. On the floor next to it are two cartons of photograph albums from the early days with Jeffrey. Next to them are two Seagram’s cartons full of spiral-bound notebooks I used for my journals till a few years ago.

I turn away, truly worried now about Murph. If Frannie didn’t accidentally lock him up here, where in the world is he? This has never happened before.

Downstairs again, I stand in the big center hallway and think. Maybe the cellar door got left open and he sneaked in there. It’s a small cellar, holding only the hot-water heater and furnace, so it doesn’t take too long to check out. The light is bright at the foot of the stairs, and one glance though the open door at the top tells me Murph isn’t there. While I’m wondering what to do next, my doorbell rings.

Puzzled, I go into the foyer and turn on the porchlight, looking through the narrow window next to the door. It’s nearly seven now, dark, and my neighbors and I have an unwritten rule between us not to visit without calling first.

Through the window I see someone I have never seen before, a young man with a shock of blond hair, in his early twenties, perhaps. He is dressed in jeans and a green windbreaker, and holds a leash. Murphy is at the end of it, head bowed, tail between his legs.

I am so glad to see him, I yank open the door and don’t immediately answer the young man, who is asking, “Is this your dog? Somebody at the house next door said he was.”

That Murph is my dog becomes immediately obvious when I reach down and throw my arms around him, and he—relieved, I imagine, not to be yelled at for escaping—laps my face, neck, hands and then my face again.

“Where did you find him?” I ask finally.

“Down on the beach near Eighth Street. He seemed lost, but I thought maybe he belonged to somebody along Scenic, or at least close by. I’ve been checking at every house along the way that had somebody at home.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, still stroking Murphy’s head and holding him close.

Up till now, the young man has not been smiling. At this point, his expression hardens. “Well, I’ve got two dogs myself, and I know I wouldn’t want either of them wandering around. Look, there is one thing…”

I stop petting Murph and stand, thinking the kid probably wants a reward. “Of course. Let me give you something for your trouble.”

He shakes his head. “No, not that. I need to ask you about this.”

Reaching down, he pulls the light brown fur apart on Murphy’s back so that the skin is clearly visible in the illumination of the porchlight. There, scratched into the skin as if by a needle or pin, the edges still bloody, is the letter A.

Murphy whimpers, and for a moment, my vision goes dark. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” My stomach, still half-queasy from this morning with Marti, lurches, and my legs go weak. The kid holds a hand out, and I grab it to keep myself from falling.

“Sorry,” he says. “That’s why I took so much trouble to find the owner. I thought maybe he or she had done this, and if so, I didn’t want the dog going home to more of the same.”

Squatting back down, I take Murphy’s face between my hands and talk to him as if he could answer. “My poor baby. Murphy, who did this to you? Who did this?”

“His head and tail were down like that when I found him, like he’d been beaten or something, and then when I was petting him I saw this…” His voice trails off again. “I can see it’s a surprise to you.”

My sorrow is replaced with anger. “Of course it is! I can’t even think who in the world could have done such an awful thing.”

They are almost the exact words I said to Ben earlier, about Marti. In the next moment I’m filled with fear. There’s got to be some kind of madman on the loose. Two such terrible acts in one day? That’s one too many for coincidence.

And the A. What can it mean? First my name on the hill where Marti died, and now this, here, on Murphy?

It has to be someone who knows me, who knows Murph is my dog.

That thought is the most chilling of all.

The kid stands watching me with my arms around Murph and seems satisfied that he’s okay. I ask him if he’d like to come in for coffee. He shakes his head.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to be somewhere. I’m just glad I found you. It took a while, you know? You might get some ID for his collar.”

“But I—” Reaching down, I check Murphy’s collar. “His tag was on here this morning.”

The kid shrugs. “Maybe it fell off.”

“Are you sure I can’t give you something for your trouble?” I ask. “You really went out of your way.”

Shaking his head again, he gives Murphy a pat on the head. “Bye, Murph. Take care.”

Halfway down the path he looks back. “You take care, too, okay? This is a pretty weird thing. There’s no telling what somebody would do. Somebody who’d do this kind of thing, I mean.”

My hand tightens on the door. “I know. Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

I watch him walk through the arbor gate, with its many twinkling white lights. A fairy-tale scene, I once thought. It now occurs to me to add, “By the Brothers Grimm.”

I take Murphy to the kitchen, where he gulps down food as if he hasn’t eaten in a year. That, I think, is a good sign. While he eats I try the vet, though I know from experience they’re closed at night. I get the machine that tells me they’ll be open at eight in the morning, and a night number to call if it’s an emergency.

When Murph is finished eating, I cleanse the letter “A” on his back carefully with water and a clean paper towel, to get a better look at it. The wound is more superficial than I first thought, and his spirits seem to be returning. I decide not to drag the vet back to his office this late; the morning will do. After spreading antiseptic lotion on the wound, I take Murphy into the living room. There I hold him on the couch, his head on my lap, till he falls asleep.

Briefly, I consider calling the police. But everyone at the station knows me, and they would tell Ben. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to him yet.

I sip my wine, now warm, and try to sort out the multiple shocks of the day. Only now do I become cognizant that Murphy still wears the leash the young man was holding him with at my door. I wonder where it came from. He did say he had dogs of his own. They weren’t with him, however. Does he make a habit of taking walks on the beach with a leash in his pocket?

Whatever, I should return it, I think, as upon closer inspection I see that it’s real leather and probably expensive.

There is only one problem. I never did learn where he lives, or even his name.

At nine-thirty that night I dress in jeans and a warm sweater and boots for my trip to Salinas and the coroner’s office. Murphy sleeps soundly in the living room by the hearth.

When I leave, I close and lock all doors carefully, to prevent any further mishaps. In the morning I will talk to Frannie again. Clearly, Murph got out somehow when she was there. Did she simply not notice? Or was she afraid to tell me? I can’t imagine that, though I have to examine the possibility.

At ten-ten I stand alone, looking down at Marti. Her body, on a cold steel autopsy table, has been covered with a sheet to the chin. Even her head, from the hairline back, has been covered, leaving me to wonder what horrors lie beneath the rough white draping. The smell sickens me. A combination of chemicals and death, I imagine, though I’ve never actually been this close to anyone dead before. Thank God, I think, it isn’t what I’ve read about, or seen in the movies, when a body has been left undiscovered for days.

Just seeing my friend like this is bad enough. In death, her skin is smooth and pale; she doesn’t look a day over eighteen. That, and the sterile white sheet, bring to mind our “cells” at the motherhouse, twenty to a dorm room. White sheets hung from a foot or so below the ceiling, separating each cell, or cubicle, giving the appearance of a hospital emergency room. Inside each cell was a bed and a small wooden stand of drawers for our clothes.

“Remember, Marti?” I say softly, my lips curving into a slight smile. “Remember the time you stuck hundreds of veil pins all over my bed?” The pins with their round black heads studded the white bedspread, and I had to remove each and every one before I could lie down and go to sleep that night. It was Marti’s revenge for my having short-sheeted her the night before.

Silly practical jokes, and even sillier because we were eighteen, supposedly grown. At twelve, they might have made sense, but…

“We were still so young at that age,” I whisper. “So naive. When did we stop having fun, Marti? And why?”

Children, some say, are pure spirits when they come in, full of joy. Emotions like fear, sadness and guilt are built into them as they grow. By the age of seven, children are determined, at least by the Catholic Church, to have reached the age of “reason.” That’s when, in effect, they take on the guilt and sins of the world. Each year from then on finds the child growing more serious, taking on more “burdens.”

Marti and I must have been late bloomers. We still had some fun left in us when we went off to Joseph and Mary. Both of us came from families that had loved and supported us, given us every chance to explore our lives and what we thought we wanted to give, as well as get. My mother was, and still is, a seemingly happy-go-lucky Irish woman, a bit plump and not more than five feet tall. My dad, a retired salesman, loves her to distraction. He calls her his little “butterball,” and he takes care of her and protects her as if she were made of glass. That’s because, he says, she’s really “laughing on the outside, crying on the inside,” like the old song. She carries old sorrows, he tells me, that she never shows anyone and won’t talk about, not even to him. My mother’s favorite expression is a cliché, but still true: “Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.”

Marti’s parents, both of them gone nearly twenty years now, were different from mine; a bit distant, though just as supportive. Her mother was a literary genius, hailed in the forties for her innovative style of writing and showered with awards. Her father was an artist, also said to be a genius. They died together, recently, in a plane crash in Central America, on their way to help children who had been orphaned there during a catastrophic storm. The entire world grieved when they died.

I can’t help thinking, now, that at least they weren’t here to see their daughter murdered. Life does have its small blessings.

Behind me, a door opens and closes. I feel a draft on the back of my neck. Big, familiar hands cover my shoulders, and I lean back to rest my head on Ben’s chest.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I say.

“I thought you would call me.”

When you had time to cool down, he means.

“I might have,” I say, “but something happened.”

He turns me around, and I see that he’s worried. Deep lines run from cheek to mouth, and his forehead is creased. Poor Ben. From photos I’ve seen he was handsome and carefree at eighteen. He’s still handsome now, at least to me, but it’s as if that snapshot of the eighteen-year-old has been sharpened by a unique new photo process called Life. His forehead is so creased from worry, it will be permanently so by the time he’s fifty, and his eyes have taken on an intense, cautious look.

“What happened?” he asks me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s Murphy.”

His eyes narrow. “What about Murphy?”

“He got out today. Somebody did something to him.”

“What?”

“They, uh…carved the letter A into his back.” My voice catches. “Into his skin.”

He puts his arms around me, holding me against his chest. “Holy shit. Abby, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know.” I push him away, afraid that if I start to lose control, I’ll never get it back. Turning to the autopsy table, I say, “I don’t want to talk about it now, okay? What have they found out about Marti?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, as if not knowing, now, what to do with his arms.

“It’ll take a while to run certain lab tests,” he says. “But Ted says she didn’t die from the nails in her palms. Death by crucifixion can take days, and whoever killed her apparently didn’t want—”

He breaks off abruptly. “You sure you want to hear this? It can keep for now.”

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

“The ultimate cause of death, at least from what Ted can tell without toxicology results, was blood loss from an injury to the brain.”

“What kind of injury?”

He looks uneasy. “I think I should let Ted tell you about that. Okay?”

“I…okay.”

Again he hesitates. “Abby…those odd tiny wounds on her body. You saw them?”

“Yes, they were all over her front.”

“They’re on her back, too. I guess I told you. Anyway, the coroner says it looks like she was beaten with a whip of some kind. Something with small metal balls on it.”

“Dear God.” I look at Marti and my eyes tear, thinking how much she must have suffered. “Ben, what if she was alive, even with the nails in her palms? She must have been alive while she was being beaten. What if she saw and felt everything?”

I reach out to touch Marti’s cheek. It is cold as an ice floe, and I remind myself that this is only her shell. Marti isn’t here. She won’t be, not anymore.

The absolute finality of her death hits me then. Before this, I have been cushioned to some extent by shock. Now the fact that I will never talk to my friend again, never laugh with her again, that she won’t be at the other end of the phone when I call, or leaving messages on my machine, smacks me in the face like a rock.

Ben puts his hands on my shoulders once more and steadies me while I cry. My tears fall onto the white sheet like so many tiny veil pins, though there is no joke now, no responding laughter, no love.

Ted Wright, the coroner, enters the room. A pale, slight man with intelligent blue eyes, he gives me a careful look.

“I asked Ted to talk to you,” Ben says, “but only if you want him to.”

I dry my face with the back of my hand. “I want him to.”

Ted clears his throat, obviously uneasy. Though he deals with death and mangled bodies on a regular basis, he is a kind man, I know.

“Don’t worry, Ted. I won’t fall apart on you.”

His eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses are filled with sympathy. “I’ll try to keep it simple,” he says, standing beside me to look down at Marti.

“The first thing, and one that struck me as odd right off, is that certain rituals seem to have been observed. Not only the crucifixion, but the scourging—”

He looks at Ben, who nods and says, “I told her.”

Ted begins again. “I’ve done some reading about this, and the killer seems to have deliberately mimicked the kinds of crucifixion deaths that existed in ancient times, including a scourging with a whip. A flagrum, if you will. Such flagrums were constructed of leather thongs with small lead balls at the end of each thong. It is said Jesus of Nazareth and others condemned to crucifixion were scourged in this manner until they were nearly dead. Only after this were they nailed to a cross.”

He sighs and removes his glasses, wiping them on his sleeve.

“Ted, what is it?” I say.

Putting the glasses back on, he shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m sorry, Abby. My guess would be that this is some sort of execution-style killing. Possibly to silence your friend, or to send a message to someone else. Perhaps even revenge for something she did. The words that were painted on her chest, in fact, would seem to confirm this.”

Ben tightens his arm around my shoulders, and Ted says, “Are you sure you want me to go on?”

“Yes,” I respond in what sounds amazingly like my ordinary, day-to-day voice. “Go on.”

I want to know everything, suddenly. I want every word burned into my brain so that when and if I ever meet up with the monster who did this to Marti, I will feel perfectly justified in killing him.

“Her back…the skin on her back,” Ted says, “is in strips. And the fact that her feet were nailed to the cross, that she wasn’t simply hung on the cross with strips of cloth, is significant. In reported cases of crucifixion, the very act of hanging—without the feet being affixed to the cross, that is—would cause death to occur rather quickly from suffocation. That is, provided the victim didn’t die first of cardiac failure, blood loss or dehydration. The weight of the body on the cross pulled the arms upward, causing the pectoral and intercostal muscles to be stretched. This led to hyperexpansion of the lungs and an inability to breathe. The victim would attempt to raise himself with his arms to relieve the pressure, which caused muscle spasms. Unable to hold himself in that lifted position, he would die very quickly.”

I close my eyes briefly, but to steady myself, not to ward off the picture. Ted’s recital is working. My anger is growing.

He shakes his head sadly, looking at me, then down at Marti. “In your friend’s case, as I’ve said, her feet were nailed to the cross. I find this significant. In ancient times, when the feet were nailed, it was done primarily to lengthen the victim’s suffering. It gave the victim something to press against—to raise himself against, rather than using his arm muscles. In that way, he was able to breathe momentarily. He would alternate between slumping to relieve pain on the feet and then pressing against his feet, in order to breathe again. The pain caused by pressure on the nailed feet, of course, would have been terrible. Eventually the victim, who in many cases began this terrible ordeal with loss of blood, became too exhausted to lift himself any longer. The respiratory muscles became, you might say, paralyzed. Which led to suffocation and death.”

He sighs. “This is a simplification, of course. There are other medical details…fluid buildup in the lungs and perhaps the pericardium, hypovolemic shock…I could go over these with you, but—”

Ben shakes his head, and this time I agree. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forget this, even if Marti’s killer is one day caught and put to death. “Thank you, Ted. This is enough.”

Then I remember something Ben said earlier. “Just one thing, Ted. Ben told me you thought Marti had actually died from a brain injury. Not suffocation?”

He takes several long moments to answer. “Without having seen the results of her toxicology tests,” he says with obvious reluctance, “which will take a bit of time, that is my best guess.”

“Are you saying she died from a blow to the head?”

Ted looks at Ben, obviously miserable about having to do this with me. I would take pity on him, but I need to know everything.

“Please, tell me,” I say.

One of Ted’s hands goes to Marti’s forehead. He brushes it gently, as if brushing back her hair, though it’s hidden under the white sheeting. “As I said, I’ve done some reading about ritual murders, in particular religious ritual murders. What I found on your friend…Abby, have you ever heard of trepanning, or trephination?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Well, a trephine is a surgical instrument with sawlike edges. It’s used to cut disks of bone from the skull, in medical practice. The cult of trepanning, or trephination, however, is something else. It’s been around, off and on, for thousands of years, and seems to be making a comeback now, if you will. Followers of this cult believe that drilling a hole into the top of one’s head where the soft spot, or fontanel, was at birth brings a person a feeling of bliss—the greatest high one can experience.”

“Drilling a hole? You can’t mean they do this to themselves?”

“That’s precisely what they do, I’m afraid.”

“Ted, that’s…it’s sick.”

“I agree. However, there does seem to be historical evidence that this has been practiced by thousands of people over the centuries. Some believed it would help mental illness, headaches, epilepsy. Others claimed it gave them special mental powers. In your friend’s case…” He pauses.

“You don’t mean somebody did this to Marti,” I say, shocked.

“I’m afraid it looks that way, Abby. I found a hole the size of a quarter had been drilled into her skull, probably by a corkscrew-like object, such as a trephine.”

Seeing my expression of horror, he stops, waits a moment, then continues. “Unfortunately, the instrument used went too far—into her brain. There was massive bleeding, and I suspect this is what ultimately caused her death. As I’ve said, I can’t be sure, of course, without further tests and examination. But I suspect that whoever did this did it after nailing her to the cross.”

I look down at Marti again, imagining the scalp, then the skull, being drilled through, the horrible pain she must have experienced.

I try to swallow, but there is no saliva, only bile in my throat, and I am shaking. “God, Ted. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“My best guess,” he says, “is that it fit with the religious aspect of this murder. According to reports I’ve read, priests once performed this act to release evil spirits from people who were thought to be possessed.”

I lean back against Ben, my legs too weak to support me much longer. The bile is in my mouth now, and I fear I’ll vomit. Reaching for a Kleenex in my bag, I hold it to my mouth.

Ted’s glance slides from me to Ben. “You should take her home, now,” he says. “Abby, again, I am very, very sorry. Try to get some rest. Put this out of your mind for a while.”

“Put it out of my mind? Ted, how can I? Who would have done this to Marti?”

“I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. Your friend was a well-known personality in her field. People like that sometimes make strange enemies.”

I can’t imagine Marti ever having made an enemy.

I turn to Ben, anger taking over. “How long, do you think, before you get this monster?”

“I don’t know, Ab. Carmel—the council, city administrator, angry residents—everyone wants this solved, and quickly. The task force is working on it already, including the sheriff’s department, the police departments of every city on the Peninsula, and of course—”

He breaks off. The Secret Service, he was going to say. But he didn’t, and I’m guessing that’s because Ted is here. Ben is supposed to keep the Secret Service’s involvement quiet, apparently.

“I can promise you one thing,” he says, his expression grim as he looks down at my friend. “I’ll do everything I can to find out who did this, Abby.”

I let him lead me to the door, but midway there I turn back.

“Ted, you didn’t say. Was Marti…was she raped?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve found no evidence of sexual attack, Abby. No, everything about this points, as I said, to an execution-style killing. It was the style that counted, I’d guess—perhaps the shock value of the terribleness of it, not the actual cause of death.”




4


I leave Ben outside in the parking lot, climbing into the Explorer and again promising to find Marti’s killer. It is a comforting promise, though I fear that’s all it is. I wonder how long it will be before they start questioning me again.

We haven’t talked further about the name “Abby” at the crime scene, or the letter A carved into Murphy’s back. If that seems odd, I attribute it to Ben’s haste to get back to the station and the case.

At home, I tend to Murphy first, cutting open a capsule of vitamin E and rubbing it gently into the wound on his back to hasten the healing. Still feeling numb, I double-check doors and windows, making sure they’re all locked. Taking a cup of hot chocolate upstairs, I undress for bed, putting on a pair of warm pajamas. Murphy plants himself outside my door, as usual, at the top of the steps. After a few minutes I call him in with me, patting the bed and urging him to lie beside me. Careful not to touch the sore spot beneath his fur, I position my arm around him, seeking to comfort us both while we fall asleep. He licks my hand and looks at me with eyes that seem full of questions for which I have no answers. Sighing, he lies back down.

First thing in the morning I call the vet and he tells me to bring Murphy in at one. I settle him down on a blanket by the fire, fix myself some breakfast, do the dishes, throw some clothes in the wash and sweep the side patio. Then I call Frannie to let her know Murphy’s been found, and tell her what was done to him. She is horrified, and we commiserate about that a few minutes. Finally I call Ben to find out if they’ve made any progress on the case and if there’s any word about Marti’s funeral. The one thing I forgot to ask Ted was how soon he’d be releasing her body. Ben isn’t in, and the woman at the desk assures me she’ll have him call me as soon as she hears from him.

After that I don’t know what to do with myself. All this activity has had only one purpose—to keep me from brooding about Marti. It can’t help things to sit and mourn. Yet, what’s the alternative? To head out on a white charger? I would give anything to be able to avenge my friend’s death. If I knew who killed her, I would probably, at this moment, do him in with my own bare hands. I just don’t know where to begin.

If only she had talked to me about her life more recently, if only I had made more of an effort to be with her, to find out what was going on with her. If only, if only, if only. Could I have done more?

I turn to writing to get my mind off things. It doesn’t seem to help. At the computer in my study, I try to come up with next week’s column, but my mind won’t work. I feel as if I’m sleepwalking, and finally give up struggling for the witticisms my readers have begun to expect, all the funny and sometimes caustic observations about life in Carmel that residents and tourists alike seem to enjoy. Instead, I toy with the keyboard, typing out Marti’s name and then the letter A, over and over, like some kid scrawling her boyfriend’s last name after hers in a geography workbook: Annie Smith. Annie Smith Jones. Mrs. David Jones. Everywoman’s dream…to get that ring, marry that man.

In this case, the occasion is not a wedding but a funeral. Though what the difference is, I swear I don’t know. For me, they both seem related to death or dying.

Well, then, write a piece about weddings.

I write that down and follow it by wondering if old memories still cling to the fabric of our wedding gowns. If I were to go up in the attic and put mine on, would I feel the happiness I felt on my wedding day?

I remember an old movie with someone who donned an antique wedding gown, which took her back to another time when she was someone young and in love.

I stare at the screen and wonder why Marti never married. Was it because of the baby? Did she feel it wouldn’t be fair to have a happy married life, having given up the child that could (or should) have been a part of it? The “should” would be Marti’s; she would think that way, not I.

And so I’m back to “Shining Bright” again. Finally I close this exercise in futility and open my journal file, which I keep under the word Dervish in a hidden document that only someone wise in the ways of computers could find. The path is so obscure as to be Chinese in nature, the point being to keep it from Jeffrey’s prying eyes.

Which can’t be as hard as I make it out to be. Jeffrey doesn’t understand much about computers; he has secretaries for that. Assistants, really, but he won’t call them assistants or even allow them to classify themselves as such on a résumé. To do so would dilute, he has said quite openly, his own position of power.

When the file comes up I see that my last journal entry was six months ago, just after I caught Jeffrey with the bimbo. Since then, I haven’t had the heart to put my life down in black and white. My feelings have been too embarrassing, even humiliating.

When I was a child, I used to pray, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Later on, in my twenties, I fell hopelessly in love with someone for three years, and took to this writing of journals. Absolutely everything went into them, every foolish, futile longing. When it was over I had a corrugated Seagram’s carton three feet by three, bulging with spiral-bound notebooks from the drugstore that were filled with largely unreadable ramblings, scrawled in blue ink from a ballpoint pen. For years, I toted this damn box with me every time I moved, like a turtle unwilling to shed its shell. I’d go zooming down a freeway with this stupid thing in my trunk, scared to death I’d be killed by some idiot suffering road rage and my survivors would end up reading all that dross. I couldn’t let go of the dross, however, neither the journals nor the man. Thus my nightly prayer became, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my journals to take.”

Now I know that there are more ways of dying than one can conceive. Further, there are days when there is no Lord, or at least he’s checked out for the day.

Jeffrey came along after that three-year journal-writing madness, on one of those Lordless days. My heart still had a hole in it, and my car still had that box in its trunk. I just didn’t think about it so much anymore, thoughtlessly shoving it aside to make room for groceries every Friday night. Then I met Jeffrey. And a whole new literary era began.

Because heaven was closed that day, I fell head over asinine heels in love with Jeffrey Northrup, right off the bat. And because I still believed in journals, I spread the craziness of our lives across the clean pages of a bright new book, as if making up the bed of my heart with fresh new sheets. In the beginning, I wrote down all the “I know he really loves me” stuff and the “I’ll die if he doesn’t remember my birthday” madness.

The irony is, Jeffrey is dead now, not I. Oh, he walks and talks. But for me the funeral took place six months ago.

I met my husband sixteen years ago at the Pebble Beach Golf Club. I was down from San Francisco having lunch with a couple of other women, all three of us in our early twenties. They were friends of mine and secretaries, as Jeffrey would say, though they did all but run Monterey for their employers. I was working as a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle, and had a pretty good career going. I’d come down for lunch on a day off and to soak up some sun.

Jeffrey was at the club that day playing golf. At two hundred dollars a game, that set him far above us. But he came in all sweaty and smiling, especially when he saw us. Not that he knew us. Jeffery, I later learned, always smiled at good-looking women.

I counted myself among them, at that time, the good-looking women. I had dark hair that fell to my shoulders in shiny waves, and huge brown eyes. There was something exotic about me, I’d been told by some. Not that you could prove it by me. I still had those mental tapes from childhood, the ones that said I couldn’t do anything right, my hair looked like a rat’s nest, and I’d never amount to much.

How I got those tapes, where they came from, is a mystery to me still. Certainly not from my parents, who supported me in every way. Sometimes I think those beliefs, running over and over in my head, came with me from another life, that I carried them in when I was born.

Which presumes a belief in reincarnation—something I’d rather not think about. The very idea of having to do all this over again and again and again makes me cry, at least on those days when it doesn’t make me laugh.

Jeffrey made me laugh. At first, he said truly funny things, a born comic who never made it onstage but went, instead, into politics and business. Then, later, he made me laugh in another way. Oh, I know I shouldn’t have. But he’d come into the bedroom stark naked with that—that appendage sticking out ten inches if it was one, like some old-time romance writer’s “flaming sword,” and he’d look at me with those sultry eyes and rasp, “You really want it, don’t you?”

And I couldn’t help it. His hair would be wet from the shower, black curls clinging to his forehead, and my eyes would travel from that to the green eyes I had once loved, the aristocratic nose, the chest a thicket of graying black hair, and I’d laugh.

Largely, I’d laugh because by then I knew I wasn’t the only woman Jeffrey used that line on. We’d been married ten years, and good old Jeffrey had cut a swath a mile wide through the women of Carmel with that flaming sword. The very idea that I’d still want either him or his impressive appendage was ludicrous. So I’d try to muffle the chuckles, but, well…

Several times I thought Jeffrey might hit me when I laughed. He never did. Instead, he got his revenge by taking away my child.

The vet gives Murphy a couple of shots and, after voicing innumerable questions about the letter A, declares him on the mend—physically, at least. Murphy still has a sad, hound-dog-look about him. I take him home and find Frannie waiting for us, though it isn’t her usual day to work.

“I couldn’t believe it when you told me what happened,” she says, her hazel eyes worried under the mop of red hair. She gives Murphy a hug. “Are you okay, fella?”

He doesn’t seem ready to be touched, backing off from her and giving a slight growl, which stuns me. Never have I seen Murphy behave this way.

“The doctor said he might be touchy for a while,” I offer by way of apology.

Frannie nods and follows me into the kitchen. “I swear to you, Abby, I don’t know how he got out. I was sure he was inside when I left.”

“Well, he’s a sneaky little guy. When he gets it into his head to bust loose, he does have his ways.”

“That’s true,” she says thoughtfully. “Remember the day he ran out while I was bringing in groceries? I thought he was up in your room all the while. And one day he scooted right past you when you came in, and you had to run halfway down Scenic to catch him, him with his tail wagging all the way.”

We both laugh at the ordinariness of Murphy’s escapes, carefully skirting the truth—that this is not one of those ordinary times, and the letter carved into my dog’s back only proves it.

“It’s hard to keep track of him lately,” I say, waving a hand around the kitchen. “There are too many places in this house for him to disappear to, especially now that Jeffrey’s not here half the time.”

Frannie shakes her head. “You should sell this place. Cliff said he could get at least three times what you bought it for sixteen years ago.”

Cliff, her new boyfriend, is a local Realtor.

“And go where?” I say. “Out to the valley? Into a condo? I’d miss the ocean too much. Besides, I’ve always liked this place.”

Frannie casts a look around. “You’ve got a great view, I’ll say that. But if I were you, I’d be nervous alone here at night.”

“Nervous? Why?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t heard it?” She clamps her lips down as if wishing she hadn’t said anything.

“Heard what, Frannie?” I am only half smiling. “For heaven’s sake, you’re not buying into that old ghost story, are you?”

“Hell, no. I’m talking about something much more earthly than that. Last week, when I was up in the attic—”

She breaks off, turning away.

“What about the attic? Did you hear something?”

Her green eyes flick my way. “Why? Did you?”

“Frannie, stop it! Just tell me. What did you hear?”

“A noise,” she says. “Just a noise, that’s all. It took me a while to get up the courage to go up there. And when I did, there wasn’t anyone there.”

“That’s odd,” I say. “I heard a noise, too. It scared me half to death.”

Her eyes meet mine, widening. “What do you think it was?”

“Now that it’s daytime and the sun’s out? I’m inclined to believe it was a squirrel.”

“And last night?”

“Last night, I was certain it was that guy in the movies with the hockey mask, lurking in the shadows to grab me.”

She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “I kind of thought that, too. Abby, you should get out of here. Cliff says—”

Cliff, I think, is angling real hard for a sale and a commission.

I change the subject. “Frannie, did you take the second bulb out of the light fixture? There’s only one in there.”

“No. I thought you did that. I could hardly see my way around, and I meant to go back up with another bulb, then I forgot. Sorry.”

“Never mind, I can do it. But if you didn’t take it out, who did?”

“Jeffrey?” Frannie asks, shrugging.

“He hates going up in the attic. Says it’s—”

“Stuffed with a lot of worthless junk that makes him sneeze,” she finishes for me, grinning. “That’s why I put some of his favorite things up there every time I clean.”

“You don’t!”

“I do,” she says complacently. “It wasn’t very nice, what he did to you with that floozy.”

Ben calls around six. “I need to see you. Can you meet me in town?”

“I could, but why don’t you come out here?”

“Town,” otherwise known as “the Village,” is only a few blocks away, but I’m already in my comfortable sweats and don’t feel like dressing again.

“You know I don’t like coming there,” he says.

“Jeffrey’s hobnobbing with the president. He won’t be home till the weekend.”

“Even so.”

Ben is hoping for a promotion to chief of police when the current chief retires. But for all its artists and writers, Carmel is basically a conservative town, and Ben worries about gossip. An adulterous affair in his personnel folder wouldn’t impress the town council or those on the board who might appoint him.

“I don’t know why you don’t divorce him and get it over with,” he says, not for the first time. “Throw the prick out.”

“I already did throw the prick out. It’s the rest of him I can’t get rid of.”

He laughs. “No, seriously—just do it.”

“You know I promised I’d stay till after the election in November. My freedom will be my Christmas present.”

“I still don’t get it. My gut feeling tells me Jeffrey is up to something, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his position as primary mover and shaker in the reigning party. Any idea what it might be?”

“In politics? Who knows? He says he’s worried that any scandal in his life could rub off on the president, and he doesn’t want to take any chances, given the moral climate of the country these days—the backlash that’s carried over from previous presidential capers.”

“Abby, just how close is he to President Chase?”

“They’re thick as thieves from what I can see. Jeffrey’s one of the few men in the country who’s on the phone with him several times a week. And he’s virtually running his campaign for reelection. From behind the scenes, of course.”

“What about Jeffrey himself? Does he have aspirations to run for office?”

“Not at all. He looks upon politicians as drones, or rather chess pieces he can move from here to there at his whim.”

“Abby, divorce isn’t all that scandalous these days. And he only works for the president. What makes you think Jeffrey isn’t making you stay with him till after the election just so he can live in the house?”

“Yeah, like he has such a good time here now.”

“Then it’s something else. Maybe he wants you back.”

“People in hell—”

“Want ice water,” he finishes for me. “I know. So meet me for dinner, okay? At the Red Lion?”

“You mean the Britannia, or whatever they’re calling it now?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to have dinner with me in public? Good Lord, man, are you on drugs?”

“Nobody there will care. It’s not like the Mission Ranch, for God’s sake.”

I sigh. “Okay, but—”

“But you’re already in your sweats and you don’t feel like dressing. One more reason for the Red Lion—the Britannia, whatever. I’ll meet you in the pub.”

“Why not the Bully III?”

“I’m already at the Red Lion.”

“But the Bully III has the best French dip in town.”

“You won’t eat much, anyway.”

I sigh. “You know me too damned well.”

“How’s the Murph?” Ben says once we’re settled at a table in the Red Lion, now the Britannia, by the fireplace and have ordered drinks. The Britannia pub is a place where locals hang out, sort of a Cheers bar, and just about everyone in here knows us. It amazes me that Ben’s willing to be seen with me here.

“Murphy?” I say, answering his question. “He’s not too bad. Snappy, though.”

He frowns. “Have you heard anything more about how that might have happened?”

“No. The kid who brought him home said there wasn’t anyone else around, so I haven’t gone out asking.”

“Still, I think I should talk to him. Maybe there’s something he saw, but didn’t realize its importance. Did you get a phone number?”

“No. I wish I had. He put his own leash on Murphy to bring him home and forgot to take it back. It looks expensive. Possibly even custom-made.”

“Why don’t I take a look at it? If it was made by a local artisan, I might be able to track the guy down.”

“Okay. I’ll get it to you.”

“We’ve found Marti’s brother, Ned, by the way.” Ben smiles a thank-you at the waitress, who sets down our drinks. “He’s coming out here to arrange the funeral.”

“That’s what I called you about earlier. You got my message?”

He nods, taking a deep draft of his Sierra Nevada pale ale. “I thought we could talk here instead of on the phone.”

I toy with my Chardonnay. “When is Marti…how soon can it be?”

“At the end of the week, Ted says. He thinks the toxicology reports will be pretty much routine, and he’s put a rush on them to get them out of the way as soon as possible. He’s doing it for you, he says. He likes you.”

“Ted’s a sweetheart. So’s his wife, so don’t get any ideas. But back to Marti’s brother. He wants the funeral here? I’m surprised.”

“I take it he feels that’s the most expedient way to do it. Financially, that is. I also got the impression he and Marti didn’t get along.”

“That’s true. She didn’t talk about him much, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I saw them together.”

“You don’t know why they might have been estranged? If they were?”

“No. But he’s a lot older. Ten years, I think. Maybe he resented having a new baby around when he was the only child for so long.”

I sip my wine, and Ben looks at me with a teasing light in his eyes.

“Great hairdo,” he comments, remarking on my quickly pulled-back ponytail. “And I love the beaten-up running shoes. Pure Carmel.”

“Well, I need to be fleet-of-foot when I’m around you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps because you asked me here to interrogate me,” I say.

“I could have done that at the station.”

“Oh, so you brought me here to woo me? Gee, I thought we did that at your house, not in public.”

When he hasn’t an answer to that, I sigh. “Okay, so just get on with it. What do you want to know?”

He sets the heavy glass of ale down on the table. The fire crackles beside us, and I’m starting to get too warm, which is what I get for not layering. At the bar the patrons, mostly locals, carry on easy conversations with one eye on the television on the back wall.

“I want to know about Marti’s baby,” Ben says. “That’s one thing you forgot to mention, Ab—the reason for that Cesareian scar.”

“I didn’t forget,” I say, shrugging. “I just promised her I’d never tell anyone.”

“But she’s—”

“Dead now. Yeah, gee, you know what? I know that.” I frown. “It’s just hard. Anyway, why do you need to know about that?”

“I’m not sure yet. I just have a feeling it’s got something to do with the reason she died.”

“You do, huh?”

Ben’s “feelings” are something I’ve learned not to ignore. He’s known for his intuitive skills, not that he’s like one of those fancy profilers on television. He just thinks things through better than most, while seeming not to move ahead much at all.

Besides, wine has always loosened my tongue. It doesn’t take much on an empty stomach.

“It was a long time ago,” I say after we’ve ordered food. “Back in the eighties. Marti had been working in Central America a lot, so I didn’t see her much. One day she showed up at my door, already in labor. It was shortly after I’d married Jeffrey.”

“She came here? To Carmel?”

“Right. I tried to get her to tell the father about the baby so he could help her, but she was adamant. Said it would be better for everyone concerned if he never knew. She wouldn’t even tell me who the father was.”

“Maybe he was married,” Ben says.

“Maybe.”

“What did she want from you?” he asks.

“Only to stand by her, I think. Her parents had been killed a few years before in a plane crash in Honduras, and except for Ned, that left her pretty much alone in the world. She never had much time for making close friends, with all the traveling and the kind of work she did.”

“So you were with her throughout her labor?”

“Yes.”

Ben is silent a moment. “What did Jeffrey think of all that?” he asks finally.

“He never knew. He was away when it happened, and Marti swore me to secrecy afterward.”

“Still…wives usually tell their husbands things they keep secret from others, don’t they?”

“Not in this case.”

He doesn’t push, and I don’t have to tell him how little I trusted my husband, even that early in our marriage.

“One thing I don’t get,” he says, shaking his head. “How could she have covered up her pregnancy? Wasn’t she well known by then?”

“Yes, but Marti was always very thin. She was able to hide the fact that she was pregnant, she told me, for the first six months. After that, she took a sabbatical from work and went off to some cabin in the woods.”

“A cabin in the woods? Sounds kind of rough.”

“Marti was used to difficult conditions. She was also very strong.”

“Where was this cabin?”

“I think she said in Maine. A friend loaned it to her.”

“Where was the baby born?”

“Right here in Monterey.”

“At Community Hospital?”

“Yes.”

The waitress sets our plates before us, and Ben toys with the hot turkey sandwich, mushing it around on his plate. “Another thing I don’t get, then, is how she managed to keep the birth of this child a secret for so many years. Especially if she had it in as public a place as CHOMP.”

CHOMP, the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula, is high-profile because it’s the initial hospital visiting celebrities go to for care.

“First of all,” I say, “she never went anywhere for prenatal care. Marti was into alternative methods of healing, and she knew her body really well. Also, when she went in to deliver the baby, she went through emergency. And paid cash.”

“Cash? That must have set her back a lot.”

“I helped her,” I say, shrugging.

“Ah. That explains it.”

He tastes the sandwich and makes a face. I knew he wouldn’t like it; Ben loves turkey like a Pilgrim, but hates gravy with too much pepper in it. Besides, they’d made it with toast. He prefers mushy white bread.

“Still,” he says, “with computers being what they are, or were even in the eighties, you’d think there would have been a record of the birth.”

“There was a record. For a Maria Gonzalez, from Salinas. You know how many Gonzalezes there are in Salinas? Marti told them she was here in Carmel working as my maid when she went into labor.”

“And she passed? As Hispanic?”

“She had brown hair, brown eyes, and she was dark from all the years of working as a photojournalist below the equator. Plus, she spoke the language. She passed.”

The truth is, most busy doctors and hospitals don’t really look at people as people, anyway. Especially when they’re named Gonzalez and have no insurance.

“I confirmed that she was my housekeeper,” I say, “and the closest thing she had to family.”

“And, of course, since she—or you—paid cash, no one asked too many questions.”

“Right. We figured this would be better than if she went to the county hospital. She’d have had a harder time disappearing into the system there, given the way the government keeps an eye on things. And she might not have had as good care.”

“Your wiles continually astound me.” Ben shakes his head, turning his attention to a hot, chunky slice of garlic bread.

“Send it back,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Send the turkey san back. Tell them the gravy’s too heavy on the pepper and you don’t like it on toast. They’ll give you something else.”

“Nah, I don’t want to bother them.”

“They’re good about those things here, they’ll fix you whatever you want.”

He pushes the plate away. “I’m not really hungry, anyway.”

“We should have gone to the Bully III.”

He gives me a look. But truth be told, I’m not hungry, either. When the waitress comes by again and asks how things are, we tell her they’re pretty good. She takes our plates away and brings us another round of drinks, which suits me just fine.

After dinner we walk south along Sixth Street till we come to the park with the sculpture of an elderly man and woman sitting on a bench side by side, like an old married couple. He wears wingtips, she an old-style hat. The sculpture was donated to the city by an art gallery, after much dissension as to whether or not it was good enough to be put there. Which goes under the heading Only in Carmel.

“You know what pisses me off about them?” I say.

Ben looks at me with obvious surprise. “These old people? What?”

“They look perpetually happy. Nobody’s perpetually happy.”

“Well, maybe they give us something to aim for,” he says, defending the bronze duo.

“Hmmph.”

“You know what you are?” he says. “A curmudgeon. A thirty-eight-year-old curmudgeon.”

“Gee, thanks. I love being compared to William F. Buckley and Andy Rooney.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me down to a bench across from the old couple. There he nuzzles my neck.

“Careful now,” I say. “What will people think?”

“It’s dark here. Besides, nobody’s looking. They’re all satiated from their own dinner and wine, and they’re heading back to their inns to make love by a nice cozy fire.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Are you finished interrogating me yet?”

His lips slide up to mine. “I guess I could think of a few more fine points to explore.”

“Well, get on with it, then, young fella. I’m aging pretty fast.”

“Feeling better?” Ben asks as we begin walking again, along Ocean Avenue. Most of the shops are closed, but brightly lit restaurants line the block. At one count, probably not the latest, there were eighty-seven restaurants in the square mile of Carmel Village, and more than a hundred art galleries.

“Better?” I ask. “Could you clarify?”

“Than you were when you were sitting at home alone, thinking.”

“Oh, that. Sure. You’ve wined and dined me like all get out. Why wouldn’t I feel better? Like a fattened calf, in fact.”

“Funny, you don’t look like a fattened calf.”

“Yeah? Then why do I feel like some ax is about to fall?”

“I never can fool you, can I?” my lover says.

“Just remember that. So, what is it?”

“I didn’t quite tell you everything.”

“I never for a moment thought you did. Okay…so what is it?”

“Mauro and Hillars. They want to talk to you again.”

“Oh, God.” I groan, holding out my wrists as if for handcuffs. “What a way to end a day.”

He contains a smile, but I see it toying with his lips. “Not now. I just wanted you to know that they mentioned it. Said they’d be in touch with you.”

“Ben, what the hell is going on? Why the Secret Service?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“Abby, I swear, they won’t tell any of us what they’re doing here. Between you and me, it’s driving me nuts. I thought maybe when they talked to you again, you might get some clue.”

“Ah, I see. And share it with you?”

We resume walking, and he takes my hand and tucks it into his pocket. “I thought you might. We do share a few good things, don’t we?”

“A few.” Halfway down the block I pause, adding, “We’re gonna share a whole lot more if you don’t stop doing what you’re doing to my fingers.”

“It’s my new interviewing technique,” Ben says.

“Well, guess what? It’s working.”

For the first time in the five months we’ve been together, Ben comes home with me. And, of course, it’s the one time Jeffrey decides to return early from a trip.

We are under a nice warm comforter in my bedroom—the one only I sleep in now, though Jeffrey still shares the closets. A fire is crackling, and the French doors to the bedroom deck are open a few inches so we can hear the waves beating on the shore. There is soft music playing.

Even so, I hear my husband’s footsteps on the stairs. No way to miss them, after all these years.

Ben and I are both naked, and our clothes are strewn all over the floor, so there’s no time to grab something, throw it on and pretend we’re having a council meeting. Though I hear there are Carmel council members who have done just that, over the years.

As Jeffrey walks in, I sit up, pulling the sheets to my neck and playing for time. “You’re home early,” I complain loudly, hoping to put the blame on him for catching us.

He takes in the scene with one glance.

“Well, if I’d known you were entertaining, I’d have called ahead,” he says mildly. Despite his attempt at indifference, I could swear his graying George Clooney hair is bristling—like a lion’s when he finds a strange male in his lair.

Ben, for his part, struggles to maintain his dignity—a losing battle, given that he’s lying naked next to another man’s wife. I can hear the wheels rolling: Do I get out of bed and run into the bathroom while they duke it out, or do I grab my clothes and make a fast departure out the door?

Ben hates confrontation of the personal kind. Give him a gun and a perp, and he’s a whole other guy.

“Stay where you are, Ben,” I say firmly. “It’s not as if this is something new for Jeffrey, after all.”

I feel him sliding down under the sheets inch by inch.

“Hello, Ben,” Jeffrey says. “How’s the bid for promotion going? I hear you’re up for chief.”

The threat to expose us is obvious. Whether Jeffrey will carry it out while I’ve got him and the bimbo as collateral is doubtful. Still, he must swagger a bit.

“It’s going fine,” Ben says in a conversational voice that makes me proud. He has apparently decided to pretend he’s standing in our living room, dressed in a tux. “How are things with you, Jeffrey?”

“Fine, fine.” Jeffrey heads for his walk-in closet. “Well, you two go on with what you were doing. I just came back for clean shirts.”

Ben and I look at each other. Jeffrey gets his shirts. He stops at the bureau for cuff links and takes his time finding them. Ben and I are motionless in the bed, sheets to our necks, barely breathing.

“I’ll be off now,” Jeffrey says a hundred years later, making his way to the door. He stops only momentarily on the landing as Murphy growls again. We hear his footsteps going down the stairs, then his car leaving.

Ben groans and throws the comforter over his face. His voice comes muffled from under the pillowy down. “If he tells anyone, I’m a goner.”

I crawl under the covers and reach for him. “Well, then, young fella, I say we make hay while the sun shines. Let’s see, what have we here…”




5


Marti is buried in a small Catholic cemetery south of Carmel, along the road to Big Sur. The burial site is on an old Spanish estate, and I have learned through Ben that the owner, Lydia Greyson, came forward to offer it. She would be honored, she said, to have Marti laid to rest along with her own ancestors. In addition, she pledged that Marti’s grave would be well protected from curiosity seekers, behind the high adobe walls of the estate.

Who this woman is, or why she has offered a family burial plot to Marti, I don’t know. I can only suppose she must know Marti’s brother, Ned, or at least have talked to him, as he would have had to agree to the arrangements.

A long line of black cars and limos winds southward along the twisting road. There are places where one can drive only fifteen miles per hour in the best of weather, and the best of weather has not graced us today. Fog creeps in on great big elephant feet, clomping up from the sea and over the road, where it smothers the hills.

Jeffrey drives our black Mercedes, and we sit quietly beside each other, steeped in our individual thoughts. Ahead of us, in a limo, is Ned, whom I’ve never really met, despite the few times I saw him years ago with Marti. When we were in high school, Ned was away in college, and when we went to Joseph and Mary, the most he ever did was show up on visiting Sunday once or twice.

With Ned are two women veiled in black. One seemed slightly familiar at the church, in the way she carried herself, but there was no way of knowing who she might be. Family, surely, to be veiled that way. This surprises me, as I had thought all of Marti’s other relatives had passed away.

Behind us are limos filled with local residents, some of whom want only to be part of history. A great many, however, genuinely came to offer their respects to Marti. This show of affection stuns me. Even though I have always known how much my friend was loved, she has reached many more people with her photographs and stories than I’d realized. In the church, the words Shining Bright were whispered often among the pews.

Bringing up the rear of the cortege are local and international reporters. Everyone who could possibly commandeer a limo or car has become part of this today, including famous anchors like Jane Pauley, Tom Brokaw, Katie Couric. Our local congressman was at the church, as well as more than one senator, and I wonder briefly what Marti would say about this fuss. Would she be gratified? Or embarrassed? My guess is a little of both.

“Hmm? What?” Jeffrey says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a noise.”

“I was smiling.”

“No, you made a noise.” His voice is cool, though his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “A snort, unless I miss my guess.”

“Well, if anyone knows my snort, it would be you, Jeffrey.”

“Not only am I far too familiar with it, but I’m rather certain I know what you’re snorting at now, as well.”

“No doubt you are.”

“You think this is all too much, all this attention paid to Marti.”

I look at him. “And you? What do you think, Jeffrey?”

“That you are far too cynical. It’s your worst failing.”

After a moment of silence I can’t help it. I snort. “Well, at least we know it’s not your worst failing, Jeffrey.”

My husband stands beside me, his arm linked through mine supportively as photographers snap more photos of us than of Marti’s grave. “I told you they didn’t split,” I hear one of them say, not bothering to keep her voice down, while another murmurs, “She looks like she’s holding up better than him.”

It’s true that Jeffrey doesn’t look well. His eyes are strained, his face gaunt. I would feel sorry for him, but I’m guessing that exercise, not illness, is at fault for this. Most of Jeffrey’s life energy is sucked dry these days by his frenetic attempts to stay young and firm for the bimbo. The old platitude does hold true: After a certain age one must choose between the face or the ass. The fact that I’ve added a few pounds as ballast helps to plump out any wrinkles that might threaten to emerge as I move closer to forty, while Jeffrey lifts the weights, runs the miles and hurtles recklessly toward the sea of romance and early cardiac arrest.

On the other side of the coffin from us are the two women in black with veils over their faces, and Marti’s brother, Ned. His face is somber, though his mouth twists in what might be rancor at the priest’s words: “To you, oh Lord, we commend the spirit of this woman of utmost virtue and unfailing faith. We ask your angels to carry her swiftly to that High Place where you reside, to guide and keep her throughout her journey home…”

My eyes meet Ned’s, and I am shocked by the look of hatred he sends me. Within moments I shiver and am forced to look away. I can still feel those cold dark eyes on me, however, and the emotion behind them. Searching my mind, I can think of no reason for it, and after another moment I give a mental shrug and go back to listening to the priest. He is saying the prayers of the dead, and the two women next to Ned are making the sign of the cross. As the service ends, one steps forward to toss a handful of dirt onto the lowered coffin. She draws the black veil from her face and looks directly at me. I am shocked to see the now-aged but unmistakable face of Sister Helen.

It has been twenty years, but not a day has gone by in the look that passes between us. I am still the novice, she the angry and disappointed sponsor of my and Marti’s ill-fated gift of our lives to God.

The other woman draws her veil back, as well—a stranger with short, steel-gray hair. No one I have ever met before. Sister Helen turns her gaze from me and speaks softly to her companion, who nods and walks slowly back toward the line of waiting black cars. Sister Helen moves toward me.

“Good morning, Abby,” she says, the gravelly voice still strong and just as intimidating. She is in civilian dress, a black suit, stockings and shoes, which further surprises me. Years ago she swore never to stop wearing her habit.

The look she gives me is one I remember, though—stern and unyielding. I feel I’ve done something wrong and, as if in a time warp, I look down quickly to see if I’ve got my white postulant’s collar on backward, or if my black oxfords have come untied from too much racing along the halls.

Is there a run in my black hose? Did I spill gravy down my front?

The glint in Sister Helen’s eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking and is enjoying every moment of my discomfort.

“A sad day,” she says.

“Yes,” I agree. “A very sad day. I’m surprised to see you here, Sister. How are you? How have you been?”

She doesn’t answer but continues to appraise me. An awkward silence ensues.

“Did you, uh…did you and Marti keep in touch all these years?” I try.

“We spoke now and then,” she says noncommittally.

I wonder why Marti never mentioned being in contact with Sister Helen.

“Are you still in Santa Rosa?” I ask. “At Mary Star of the Sea?”

“Hardly.”

Her tone is bitter, and I don’t know what to make of that.

“You’ve retired?”

“I suppose one might say that.”

I’m at a loss.

“And you, Abigail?” she asks.

It has been years since anyone called me that, which oddly adds to my discomfort.

“I live here now. In Carmel.”

“Of course you do. And why not?”

This time her tone annoys me. “What do you mean, Sister?”

“I mean, Abigail, that you always land on your feet. Despite the cost to others.”

Her hostility astounds me. It is as if, in her mind, my breach of promise to become the Bride of Christ occurred yesterday.

We face each other, two women with far too much to say, and too many years behind us to say it.

At this moment Marti’s brother comes to stand behind Sister Helen, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Helen?” he says. “We’re ready to leave.”

She gives him a brief look and turns back to me. “You know Marti’s brother, Ned?” she asks with what seems to be studied courtesy.

“No, we’ve never met.”

Up close I can see that Ned Bright is handsome, in a rather old-fashioned, Jane Austen–novel way. His face is thin, like Marti’s, composed of elegant angles and lines. The brown eyes, enhanced by long lashes, can only be described as lovely.

I extend my hand to shake his, but he doesn’t take it.

“It’s you who killed her,” he says. “When all’s said and done, it’s you.”

I am stunned. “That…that isn’t true!” I can only manage, as a third-grader might. “Marti was my best friend!”

“You were never a friend to my sister.”

I look at Sister Helen for help, for support and confirmation that none of this is happening, but she turns away.

“I’m ready to leave,” she says crisply.

Ned takes her arm and they walk together, joining the other woman at one of the few remaining cars. I stare after them in bewilderment and shock.

Feeling newly bereft, I ache to be at home with my dog, my books, my bed. It has been only four days since Marti died, and every moment has been packed with grief woven tortuously with brooding attempts to figure out what happened.

I wonder when the Secret Service will be on me again. I’ve done my best to throw them off the track, Marti. Ben’s the only one I’ve told about your son. With any luck…

Suddenly, to stand on yet another foggy, rain-soaked hill when my friend is no longer here, and then to be told she was not my friend, is more than I can stand without breaking down.

Looking around for Jeffrey I find him schmoozing with a group of people we know, as well as several strangers. I watch my husband shake hands, nod, smile, laugh and generally act as if he’s at a political clambake. Sighing, I turn away, thinking to walk back to our car and wait for him.





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