Keep Them Close(7)
“Stab wound to the heart,” says Louise. “That’s the cause of death?”
“Stab injury to the left ventricle prompted hemorrhagic shock and cardiac tamponade.”
“You took the words right outta my mouth, Bobbi.”
Bobbi smiles. “The blade pierced the heart. The heart bled into the sac that holds the heart. Sac fills with blood, heart has no room to pump. Circulatory functions collapse.”
“Homicide, no question?”
“No question. No chance of self-infliction. No chance of accident.”
“Okay, so what about time of death?” If you can believe Allison’s missing-persons report, Finley Brice was alive at three in the afternoon on April 1.
Bobbi sighs. “Based on decomp, progression of rigor, livor mortis fixation—I’d say forty-eight to seventy-two hours, but closer to seventy-two.”
“So that would be last Wednesday.”
“My best guess,” says Bobbi. “Your victim died on April Fools’ Day.”
Book I
Eleven Weeks Before April Fools’ Day
5
Allison
I finish a meeting at the Prudential Building early and take a detour down Michigan Avenue, the Mag Mile, not far from the investment property we own on Erie. I turn into the lingerie store, parting the glass doors into a rush of warm, perfumed air, music humming through speakers, sultry and upbeat. Looking for something new to wear for Finley tonight.
Inside the store, lit soft and pink, I trail my fingers along a rack of silk slips. The tags sway gently as I brush past.
A saleswoman glides over. “Happy New Year,” she sings, though it’s the second week of January. “Can I show you anything?”
I follow her to a table stacked with satin sets, all jewel tones and fragile straps. I weigh the fabrics between my fingers, trying to picture Finley’s face when he sees me in them.
My mother’s voice drifts in, uninvited—sharp, disapproving: Ally, you’re too focused on your books. Men don’t want a brain. They want someone who looks good on their arm. You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t take care of your figure.
I push it aside. I allowed her to seep back into my brain when things were rocky with Fin, but that’s changed. Yes, Fin and I found each other again. I never thought it possible. There I was, seven months ago, last summer, standing outside Anna Cortese’s house, plotting all manner of murder and mayhem, telling myself it was just a matter of time, that I just needed to hold out a few months until Gray left for college, then I would file for divorce.
But then the injury a month later. Finley stepped into a sand trap at the Grace Country Club and tore every imaginable tendon in his knee. Two surgeries, the latter a knee replacement. Indescribable pain, though Fin refused the prescription painkillers for fear of addiction. Gut-wrenching physical therapy. He was off his feet, prone on a couch, for a good five months.
Sure, from a practical standpoint, it ended his affair. No more “Wednesday night poker.” Pretty hard to sneak around with Anna Cortese when you’re laid up like that. But Fin being stuck in the house, relying on me to care for him, brought us back together. We started talking again. We started sharing again. We laughed again. Our sex life, which had been declared officially dead, roared back to life, however carefully we had to manage his knee.
We turned a corner. The insecurity that plagued him after losing his job, leaving me as the sole breadwinner, seemed to evaporate. He finally realized that I never cared about that, I never measured him by the money he made, all I ever wanted was him, his commitment to us.
I never told him I knew about the affair. I decided to give us a chance, to focus not on the worst thing he’d done but on the parts that were real, that had been good. I wasn’t sure we could heal, but I was willing to find out. And every day that passes, I’m happier I did.
In the store, I try a deep wine-red slip, holding it against myself in the mirror. Under the bright lights my face looks pale, older than I’d wish, but the silk softens the edges. I imagine stepping out of our bedroom doorway wearing it, Finley looking up from whatever he’s reading.
At the register, I keep my smile small, private, as if the whole transaction is a secret between me and the cashier. With the bag in my hand, glossy and discreet, I step back out onto Michigan Avenue. The wind is sharp, biting, but I feel a flicker of heat beneath my coat.
* * *
At home, the fragrant smell of the chicken and pepperoncinis in the crock pot, which I prepared this morning, reaches me as I hang my coat in the mudroom. I find Finley unshowered, unshaven, his expression sullen, staring lifelessly at a news program from the couch.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with a sinking feeling.
He flips a hand. “Baldwin wants to pull the plug.”
“Pull the plug…on the whole project? He’s out?”
“He’s out.” He glances in my direction, chewing his lip. “Can’t get funding.”
“What about the Corbin Brothers—”
“Corbin pulled out. Several weeks ago. I didn’t wanna wreck the holidays with the shit news.” He leans forward, pinches the bridge of his nose. “We need over a million more, and we can’t scare it up. He wants us to come up with it.”