Marine Corpse Read online

  “My guy’s suing your guy, and my guy’s gonna win. Hoo hee haw!”

  “You’ve talked to Heather, huh?”

  “Sure have, old bossman. And I got the facts.” Zerk liked to annoy me by mimicking what he thought I would recognize as black dialect. He pronounced the word “facts” as if it were “facks.”

  “But you’re calling me to see if maybe we can’t negotiate a settlement out of court.”

  “Only interested in saving you-all some aggravation, tha’s all, massa. Nothing to negotiate.”

  “The Woodhouses do not intend to cave in on this, Zerk.”

  “Well, goodie! I get to drag them into court. Get to square off against my old mentor. Gonna beat the shit out of you, my man. Ms. Kriegel’s got all the right papers. Plus lots of interesting things to say, if necessary.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tut-tut. You wanna negotiate, give me something, maybe I’ll give you something. But I got a secret word for the day. Wanna hear it?”

  “Sure, Zerk. Whisper it into my ear.”

  His whisper nearly ruptured my eardrum. “Palimony!” was the word he screamed into it.

  “I already thought of that,” I said primly.

  “You thought of it, maybe. What you gonna do about it?”

  “I think you and I ought to meet for lunch,” I said.

  “I was waiting for that. Locke Ober’s.”

  “Jake Wirth’s,” I countered.

  “Parker House.”

  “Durgin Park.”

  “Uh-uh. Parker House is as far as I’m going. You want me to whisper that word again?”

  “Okay. The Parker House it is. You got it.”

  “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, Counselor, it’s on you.”

  “It’s on me,” I said. “Friday okay?”

  “I’ll clear off my very busy calendar. One o’clock.”

  “See you there,” I said, looking forward to it already.

  Heather Kriegel’s condominium was snugged back into the woods off a side road just beyond the Common in Sudbury. It was one of a series of townhouses set close. together but angled strategically to provide maximum privacy. Four condos made up one building, so that each occupied a corner. Curving walkways connected them all. Scattered here and there were the gaunt winter skeletons of apple trees.

  Heather’s was the one with the pine cone wreath on the door and the brown Volkswagen Rabbit tucked under the carport. I parked my BMW behind the Rabbit, took the bulky package containing Stu’s notebooks from the seat beside me, and went up to ring her bell. Earlier in the day I had been willingly seduced by the false promise that comes with a touch of January thaw, but now that the sun was sinking in the pale cloudless sky, the air carried a new bite, and I shivered in my fleece-lined parka. I waited several moments, then rang the bell again. I could hear music coming from inside.

  The door opened abruptly and Heather Kriegel stood there on the other side of the storm door grinning at me. She had a towel draped around her neck. She wore a pink leotard and black tights with gray and blue striped legwarmers bunched down around her ankles. Her forehead was damp, and wisps of her shaggy black hair stuck to it.

  She pushed open the door. “Oh, God, come on in. It’s bitchily cold out there. I’m sorry. I had the music on loud—I always put on the music when I’m exercising, because it helps me forget the pain—and I guess I didn’t hear the bell. Have you been standing there long?”

  I smiled at her as I entered into the little flagstone foyer. “Just got here.” I handed the package to her. “These are Stu’s notebooks.”

  She took them from me. “It was really nice of you to bring them out here,” she said. “You sure you didn’t make a special trip?”

  “It was no problem,” I said evasively.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, come on in. Give me your coat.”

  I shrugged off my coat and followed her into what corresponded more or less to a big livingroom. The furniture had been arranged to section it off into several different parts: a sofa and soft chairs around a circular coffee table in front of the fireplace, a dining table centered on an oval braided rug, a desk in a corner by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and, for lack of a more precise term, a gymnasium, with a rowing machine, a stationary bicycle, and a weight machine. The whole room was filled with the extravagant orchestral strains of Wagner.

  “That’s Die Walküre, isn’t it?” I asked loudly.

  She nodded. “Kinda loud, huh?” She went over to the stereo in the corner near the fireplace and turned down the volume a couple of notches. It was still loud. “Don’t you like Wagner?”

  “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes I prefer a little Bach counterpoint on a harpsichord, though. Usually, actually.”

  “Wagner is more inspiring, exercise-wise. You know about the Valkyries, don’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “The handmaidens of the Norse god Odin. They hovered over the battlefield, picking out which of the young warriors would be killed. Then they conducted their souls to Valhalla. Real ballbusters, the Valkyries, flying around up there deciding the fate of the young men. Don’t you love that image? The ancients knew all about how women could get pissed off at men. Great women’s liberation themes in classical mythology, you know. Scylla and Charybdis, the harpies, the sirens. All of them real nut-knockers.”

  I smiled. “Nut-knockers.”

  “God,” she said. “This place is a mess.” She moved around the room, making little piles of the books, magazines, and newspapers that lay scattered around, and punching up the pillows. I stood there watching her uncertainly.

  When she was finished, she picked up the towel and rubbed her hair and face briskly as she came toward me. She seemed completely unaware that, aside from the skin-tight outfit she wore, she was quite naked. I was not unaware of it.

  “Stu and I used to work out together,” she said. “He used to kid me about being chubby.”

  “You don’t look chubby to me.”

  She flexed her arm. “Feel that,” she said. I did. “Hard as a rock, huh? Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m too chubby?”

  “You are definitely not chubby.”

  She cocked her head at me and nodded solemnly. “Do I embarrass you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She struck a body-builder’s pose for me. “My body is a temple,” she said.

  I tapped a Winston ostentatiously from my pack and lit it. “My body,” I said, “is a hazardous waste dump.”

  “I do embarrass you.” She grinned. “Listen. I need a drink. And you undoubtedly would like something toxic.”

  “Something that will erode my stomach, yes.”

  “Bourbon? Scotch? Let me guess.” She squinted at me. “You’re a Scotch man,” she said. “All Republicans drink Scotch.”

  “Wrong on both counts. I’m a Jeffersonian Democrat, and I drink bourbon. Plenty of ice. No water.”

  “A Democrat?”

  “Well, I hardly ever vote for Democrats in Massachusetts, but that’s an altogether different story. Bourbon I drink everywhere.”

  “I hear you,” she grinned.

  She disappeared around the corner toward what I assumed was the kitchen. I went to the stereo and studied it for a while before I identified the knob that controlled the volume. I turned it down some more. Then I went back and sat on the sofa by the fire.

  She returned in a minute. She had pulled on a big baggy gray sweatshirt with a maroon seal on it that said “Veritas.” Truth. Harvard, naturally. I assumed the sweatshirt had belonged to Stu. She handed me a square glass half-filled with bourbon. She had a glass of pale amber liquid, which she placed on the coffee table.

  “Apple juice,” she said. “Gotta wait at least thirty minutes after my workout before I get my beer.”

  She retrieved the big shopping bag I had brought that contained Stu’s notebooks, flopped down on the sofa beside me, took a long swig of apple juice, and pulled a notebook from the bag. “I
can’t wait to read these,” she said. “I’m really excited about this project.”

  “I assume you’re aware that there might be a problem if you choose to publish something with Stu’s name on it.”

  She arched her eyebrows at me. “Oh, yes. I mustn’t forget. You are the family attorney as well as Stu’s agent.”

  “Up until now that has not presented me with any conflicts.”

  “Well, I have a lawyer now, so I imagine we won’t do anything improper. Will we? Won’t you and Mr. Garrett talk about it, work it out? Isn’t that how it’s done?”

  I smiled. “That pretty well describes it.”

  She touched my arm. “Tell me, seriously. Is there a problem here?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what you have in mind. I don’t even know if there’s anything useful in these notes. I can’t decipher them. I had them photocopied, by the way.”

  “Why?”

  “Habit, I suppose. I have everything photocopied.”

  Heather drummed her fingernails on her glass. I noticed that she cut them short and square and did not paint them. “If I really wanted to, I think I could persuade dear Meriam to let me do exactly what I wanted with Stu’s notes. It is Meriam that I have to contend with, isn’t it?”

  “You know better than to ask me a question like that, Heather. I brought you the notebooks as Stu’s agent. But there are some things you and I can’t discuss. Do you understand?”

  “The condo, right?”

  I nodded.

  “You won’t get it from me, you know.”

  I shrugged.

  She touched my leg and put her face close to mine. “I have a secret,” she whispered, grinning.

  I felt my body involuntarily stiffen against her invasion of my personal space, and as I did she squeezed the top of my thigh. “You have lovely quadriceps,” she said, her black eyes crinkling mischievously. “You don’t run, do you?”

  I inched away from her, and she let her hand fall away from my leg. “I don’t run, I don’t lift, I don’t do aerobics or isometrics or macrobiotics or anything else that might prove to be painful or unpleasant or wholesome. If I have attractive quadriceps, it’s probably from the stress of hitching myself up to the dinner table. What do you mean, you’ve got a secret?”

  She hugged herself into her big sweatshirt and looked sideways at me. “You’re the enemy, remember? Mr. Garrett and I shall keep it to ourselves until we need it. Isn’t that the best thing to do?”

  “Oh,” I said. “That kind of secret.” I cleared my throat. “Of course you should keep it to yourself. Consult your attorney. That’s always the best thing.”

  “Aw, I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  “That’s silly,” I said.

  “Poor man. Here you are, fixing me up with a lawyer, driving all the way out here with these notebooks, and being so nice, and I’m teasing you.” She jumped up and stood in front of me. She reached down with both hands. “Come on. Let’s go take a walk in the snow.”

  “In the snow? Are you kidding? It’s cold out there.”

  She grinned. “Come on. Don’t be a baby.” She tugged at me. I allowed her to help me to my feet. “Let me just run upstairs and throw on some clothes. Think about chestnuts and open fires. Jack Frost nipping at your private parts. It’s nice out there in the snow. It’ll help me cool down from my workout. What do you say?”

  “Sure. Fine,” I grumbled.

  “Great. I like a man who’s enthusiastic. Go get your coat on. I’ll be right there.”

  She was back in a minute wearing jeans and a heavy cableknit sweater. She went to the closet by the front door and took out a ski parka and fur-lined boots, which she pulled on quickly.

  “Let’s go.”

  I followed her outside. It was dark, except for the pools of light cast by the lamps on poles, that lit the walkways. Powdery snow sifted through the orange funnels of light. Heather hugged my arm as we walked. “There’s something you really should know, if you don’t already,” she said after we had walked for perhaps five minutes.

  I stopped and looked down at her. “What is it?”

  She frowned. “It’s awkward to tell you. You might think I shouldn’t, since it sort of bears on the condominium.”

  I shook my head. “Please don’t say anything about that.”

  She squinted her eyes against the soft snow that fell against her face when she tilted her head to peer up at me.

  “I’m going to tell you this thing, and then I think you’ll understand why you should know it.”

  I shrugged. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Mr. Garrett said he thought it would be all right.”

  “You should have said that first,” I said. “What is it?”

  She took my arm and we resumed walking. “Stu was gay,” she said.

  I stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I said that Stu was gay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughed. “I lived with him for nearly six years. I guess I ought to know.”

  “And that’s your secret.”

  “That’s it. His family didn’t know, of course. That’s what makes it so delicious when Meriam wants to be a bitch and take my condo away from me—hey, don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything.” She squeezed my arm to reassure me. “Mr. Garrett would tell you this anyway, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably,” I said stiffly.

  “See, I was Stu’s cover, you might say. His camouflage. His guarantee against a scandal that would devastate his family. Actually, I think he was overreacting. I mean, nowadays who cares if somebody’s gay.”

  “The Woodhouses would,” I said.

  “Well, right. So Stu thought, anyway. Tricky, though, huh? I mean, the scandal of his living with this Jewish woman was a neat diversion, don’t you think? Can’t you just hear Meriam? ‘Poor Stuart. Hormones running amok. Under the evil spell of the Jewish witch, with her Semitic sexual wiles and unspeakable tricks. Obviously looking to grab a piece of the Woodhouse fortune. Well, thank goodness Stuart has the good sense not to marry the tramp.’”

  I had to laugh. Heather had the querulous nasality of Meriam’s voice down pat.

  She smiled. I read a touch of sadness in it. “The condo was the deal. Stu bought it for me. The condition was that I’d live with him, in apparent sin.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

  “And I’d just as soon not have to make this public,” she said.

  “Um,” I said.

  “The thing was, of course, that Stu didn’t have to buy me anything. He was a wonderful guy. I liked living with him. But he had plenty of money, and I didn’t have much, so…”

  “You and he weren’t lovers, then,” I observed.

  “God, you lawyers are sharp!”

  “What I meant was…” I frowned in confusion.

  She patted my arm. “It’s okay. Never mind. Look. Stu wasn’t what you’d call a closet homosexual. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. It wasn’t particularly a hangup with him or anything.”

  “He certainly knew how to keep a secret.”

  “Well, like I said, that was just for the benefit of the family. At least, that’s how Stu felt about it. It was his courtesy to them. Especially the Senator, his Uncle Ben. Stu just felt that there would be a scandal if the word should get out.”

  “Hell, this is the twentieth century,” I said.

  “The Woodhouses aren’t exactly the Kennedys, if you know what I mean. Stu always said that. ‘We’re not the Kennedys. We are the Woodhouses. We are staid, we are conservative, we are predictable, we are conventional. We are old Yankees. We behave as we are expected to behave.’ That was Stu’s little speech.”

  I thought about the fact that Stu had ended up getting murdered. While that, of itself, wasn’t scandalous, neither was it the “predictable, conventional” sort of thing expected of a Woodhouse—especially given the circumstances of Stu’s death. “Something occurs
to me,” I said.

  Heather glanced up at me and frowned.

  “I mean that by keeping his—preferences—such a deep, dark secret, Stu was leaving himself wide open for problems. Someone with an axe to grind could make some mileage out of it, since he wanted it to be kept secret.”

  Heather sniffed. “Well, he was very discreet, believe me.”

  “You weren’t the only one who knew about it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He had lovers.”

  “By definition, more or less, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “He wasn’t promiscuous.”

  “That’s not what I was getting at.”

  “Well…?”

  “Look,” I said. “It’s really pretty obvious. Scandalous secrets—especially about public figures like the Woodhouses—are awfully hard to keep. Even you couldn’t keep it.”

  Heather abruptly stopped walking, turned, and hit me hard on the chest with the heel of her fist. “That,” she said angrily, “was not fair.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. But do you see my point?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Stu was murdered.”

  “Oh, shit…”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “You mean blackmail or something?”

  I shrugged. “Do you know if he spent large sums of money for mysterious things? Did he ever borrow money? Any strange visitors or phone calls?”

  “I knew nothing of his finances. We kept that separate. As for the rest of it, no, I can’t remember anything.”

  “Well, there’s probably nothing to it anyway,” I said. “The police are probably right. He wasn’t murdered because he was Stuart Carver or because he was gay. I imagine he was murdered because someone thought he was what he was pretending to be. A homeless bum, drunk and out on the streets at night.”

  Heather sighed deeply. “This is very depressing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Would you do me a favor?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Sure.”

  “Hug me?”

  “No problem,” I said. I folded her into my arms. She pressed herself against me hard. Her arms snaked around my chest and squeezed strongly. After a moment she tilted her face to look up at me. Little droplets of melted snow glittered on her cheeks. Or maybe they were tears. I kissed them away softly. She smiled up at me and then ducked down to rub her face against the front of my coat. After a moment we headed back to her condo, I with one arm across her shoulders, she with an arm around my waist.