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It surprised me that Jack saw me as perpetually angry.
It was true, but I hadn't wanted him to know that.
So I was being a deceiver, something I despised.
"It's not you," I said.
"I know that."
"I love you."
"I know that."
"Does it really bother you?"
"It worries me, sometimes. If it keeps on eating at you, some day it might include me."
"I can't see that happening."
"I wish I couldn't."
I looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Maybe he was right. He'd taken a big chance. "Thanks for helping, Jack."
"We'll get this solved," he said.
"Do we have to do those things in the order listed?"
"Why, no, I guess not."
"Could we reverse the order?"
"I bet we could." He gri
I took a deep breath. "I'll beat you to the bed," I said, and got a head start.
It ended up being a tie.
Later that afternoon, Jack had to confess he was coming up empty. Alicia had no previous record. She had good credit and paid her taxes on time. Her income was not great, but adequate for the time and place. She had once been married, was now divorced. She had never been named as the mother of a child. She had never served in the armed forces.
I decided to mow the lawn that afternoon, while Jack was busy on the computer. It was easy to think while I was mowing, and I liked the look of the small yard when it was even and trim. I even used the weedeater and then swept away the clipped grass from my sidewalk. During all this work, I thought and thought, and I could not come up with any clearer understanding of the vicious cycle surrounding Tamsin Lynd. I must have been looking at it wrong, but I couldn't seem to find a new perspective.
Jack came outside when the sun was making deep shadows. I lay on the newly cut grass, disregarding the likelihood of fire ant bites and the certainty of grass stains, and stared up into the vast blueness. My backyard is very small and runs into the slope up to the railroad tracks, and it's overlooked by the second-floor windows of the apartment building next door and by Carlton's rear window, but it does give the illusion of privacy. Carlton was gone, anyway, because I'd seen him pull out in his car, and the apartment on the end closest to me was vacant at the moment. So maybe we really were unobserved.
Jack stretched in the grass beside me. His hair was loose, had been since our session in the bedroom, and I knew we'd have to pick the grass bits out of it before we went to bed. But there was nothing I would rather do.
It was hot, and quiet, and the smell of the grass was sharp in our noses.
"Let's review," Jack said, his voice slow and sleepy.
"Okay." I sounded just about as peppy as he did.
"Tamsin moves to Shakespeare because she's been stalked at her previous home in Cleveland."
"Right."
"A detective on that case, not the primary, but one assigned to do some of the legwork, is a young detective named Alicia Stokes."
"Check." I closed my eyes against the relentless blue.
"Alicia Stokes becomes so fascinated by the case, so obsessed, that when Tamsin Lynd and her husband, Cliff Eggers, move to Shakespeare, eventually Alicia finds herself compelled to follow."
" ‘Compelled to follow.' I like that." I turned on my side and raised myself up on my right elbow. "Also, within a matter of months, a true crime writer whose real name is Gerry McClanahan signs on with the city police in Shakespeare. He's a real policeman, so this doesn't seem fraudulent to him. His secret life as a writer isn't known to anyone... anyone we're aware of."
"Gerry, aka Gibson Banks, knows not only about Tamsin and Cliff, but also about the obsessed policewoman. He's come to watch the showdown."
I nodded.
"And, once again, things start happening to Tamsin Lynd ... and tangentially, to Cliff."
"Tangentially. I love it when you use big words." I bent over to kiss Jack's forehead. He wiggled closer to me.
"Expeditious. Arraignment. Consequence. Territorial ..." Jack smiled, his eyes closed against the glow of the sky, and I leaned over to kiss him again, this time not on the forehead.
"So, she gets phone calls," he resumed. "We happen by when they find the dead squirrel."
"Then Saraly
"Then, the writer who is pla
"That's one way to put it."
"Then Tamsin's husband, her last stronghold, falls into a boobytrap. Shortly thereafter, he's attacked in their own driveway."
"And that's where we are now." I lay down with my head on Jack's chest, my arm thrown over him. I closed my eyes, too, and felt the sun kiss my cheek. I knew in a minute I'd be uncomfortable and itchy, but this moment was idyllic.
"And though we figure the stalker also has to be someone who's new in town, the only other new person is a strange, possibly perverted, but apparently guiltless mortician."
"That's it in a nutshell."
"And we're nowhere."
"Well, it's not you and it's not me."
"Oh, good, just about ten thousand more people to go." Sure enough, I was begi
The notes. All those notes. I wished now I'd had a chance to read them before the police gathered them up. Gerry McClanahan, after all, had been a trained detective with lots of experience. What had he concluded about the stalking of Tamsin Lynd? All I could remember was that he'd called it a fascinating case. That wasn't a help.
"What are you thinking so hard about?" Jack asked. He was propped up on his elbows.
I explained my line of thought to him.
"Fascinating," he said, "he called it fascinating?"
"Yeah. And he said, ‘This is a case turned upside down. No one will forget this one.' "
"Turned upside down."
I nodded. "So let's see," I said, mostly to myself. "If a case is upside down ... the victim is the perpetrator? That would mean Tamsin has been responsible for the whole thing."
"Or it could mean that whoever is guilty looks i
"Whoever loves Tamsin actually hates her."
That gave us both a jolt. We looked at each other. "Who loves Tamsin?" Jack asked, almost in a whisper.
"Cliff loves Tamsin."
After a wide-eyed moment, we both shook our heads in disbelief.
"Nah," I said. "Did you see how he cried when he picked her up in the parking lot after Saraly
"Let's go look at their driveway," Jack said.
We walked, because it was beautiful, and because it might make the visit look less rehearsed. But we need not have been concerned about that; no one was home at the house on Compton Street.
Up the driveway we went, as though we'd been invited. We gave a perfunctory knock to the front door, and then turned away to enact the attack of the night before.
"You be Cliff," I told Jack. "Remember, your leg is still sore from going through the steps." Jack pretended to emerge from the house. He limped down the front steps, and walked slowly over to where the couple parked their cars. Jack got his keys out, as someone naturally would if they expected to drive off. Then he stopped. I came up behind him as quietly as possible, but the driveway was loose gravel. Even the grass strip ru