Chapter 5 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 5

“Do you know who this is?” I asked him, indicating the skull and hand.

Peter looked like he was about to faint. He sat down but couldn't take his eyes off the bones. He shook his head slowly.

I didn't quite believe him. “Do you think you know who this might be?” I repeated.

He tore his gaze away from the head, glanced at me, then moved on to the hand, picking it up. Ignoring the question, he asked, “How do you think it – she – died?” His voice was very quiet.

I indicated the hole in the head. “Probably what they'd call blunt-force trauma. Hit in the head.” I couldn't believe what I was tangled up in.

“Could she have been poisoned?”

“Not likely,” I indicated the hole in the head again. I wasn't following him.

He held out the hand, pointing at the knuckles. “What about these?”

I took the hand. The knuckles looked normal. For a dead hand.

“They look fine, I mean, I've never seen a dead hand in person, Pete, I don't know what it's supposed to look like.”

He was looking down at his own hands, still gloved. He flexed his fingers, making and releasing a fist.

I hadn't anticipated he'd respond this way. He'd done a one-eighty since his excitement while pulling the skull out of the wall. I drained my tea.

Eyes still averted, “Her knuckles look swollen.”

“That's hard to determine. I mean, maybe she had weird hands.”

I put my empty mug on the coffee table and stood. He moved to my seat, taking the hand in his again, running his fingers over her knuckles.

I brought over the still-warm kettle and refilled my mug, using the same tea bag.

“I don't think she had weird hands,” he said.

I took a sip of my weak tea. “Pete, are you sure you don't know who this is?”

He looked up at me. His smile was fake. “I don't need to know who this was to be sad, Claire.” Suddenly I felt heartless.

Suspecting I was overcompensating, but not caring, “Who could have done this? Was there construction at Marlowe's? Could someone have fallen into the wall? Hit their head on the way down? We need to call the police.” I sat on the couch, reached toward my pocket for my cell phone. I remembered belatedly that it was strewn in pieces across Flatbush Avenue. I'd never hooked up the landline.

I was tired again. “Do you have your cell phone?”

“Tossed it,” he said absently.

I searched my mind; whose phone could we use? “We can go downstairs to Mo's,” I suggested. Mohammad ran the deli below my apartment. I tried to stand, but fell back to the couch.

“Maybe we need to let this go,” he said, not moving. His eyes were still glued to the hand.

“How can we do that? I mean, maybe this won't get Marlowe's landmarked, but don't you think we owe it to whoever this was to bring her peace? Find out what happened?” I sat back with a start, weakened.

I didn't want to suspect what was happening to me.

He stood and peered out through the curtains. “No, I don't think we can. I think it's best if we just forget this happened.”

“Pete.”

He continued, “I bet it was just an accident. Yeah, an accident. You're right, you know, the knuckles do look normal, I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Peter.” He turned. I felt anchored to the couch. “Did you do it again?”

I thought back to a moment before, when I'd turned my back on my empty mug, to get the kettle to refill it. The mug had been right by the hand, and Pete had moved into my seat to be closer to the hand. And my mug.

He nodded sadly. “I had to. I need to leave and I can't have you following me.” Like I wanted to follow him.

He walked over. I couldn't believe he'd drugged me again. My eyelids were heavy. He sat next to me on the couch. “I'm sorry. It's just Ambien, again. You should wake up in a few hours.”

I tried to shove him off the couch.

He didn't budge. It must have been a pathetic shove. “Thanks for coming to Marlowe's, eventually. Sorry you couldn't help me save the place.”

He leaned over. I got those same feelings. He kissed my forehead. My eyes closed.

“You're a jerk,” I whispered. Or maybe I just dreamed it.

*

I awoke to cramps in my legs. I was laying on my side on my tiny loveseat, knees at my chest. I was pretty sure I'd been sitting, slumped, when I passed out. Pete must have tried to make me more comfortable. In so doing he'd ensured I'd awaken with dull leg pain, to match my dull headache.

I sat up. I knew right away he'd left. The hand and head were gone, as was his rucksack. The gun was nowhere in sight. I could only assume he'd taken it from my waistband. The clip was gone from my pants' pocket.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face. I felt much better than I had the last two times Pete had knocked me out. My stomach had finally settled.

I was so mad I couldn't express it. I took both mugs to the sink and rinsed them out. He had left a note propped up against the dish rack. Where he'd know I'd find it right away. Because he knew the first thing I'd do would be the dishes.

I lit a cigarette and sat back at my couch with the note as I read and re-read it.

Claire –

Sorry I drugged you. Again. I can't risk putting you in danger. Life is more important than Marlowe's.

Please just pretend none of this happened.

Good luck with your new book. I wish I could read it.

- Pete

What a melodramatic jerk. How can he expect me to forget any of this happened? There is a body stashed in the basement wall! On purpose or – is it possible? – by accident, it still needs to be known and investigated!

I thought again about contacting the authorities. I could physically go to a police station. If I reported this, I'd have to go to the precinct anyway to meet with detectives and give my statement – might as well get the meeting over with.

Meeting!

I'd completely missed the meeting with Stephanie, my editor! Suddenly everything else was pushed out of my mind.

Disappointing your editor is something I can imagine. Disappointing your editor who used to be your boss was so heart-wrenching I could barely tolerate it. I've always impressed my superiors – parents, teachers, bosses. Well, almost always. It's always been my goal, at least. And now to have to face this!

Before I could second-guess myself, I checked the time. Just about noon. I couldn't believe that just twenty-four hours ago I'd woken up from my night out at Marlowe's. Technically, I was less than a day late for my meeting at Harding. I jumped in the shower.

I could always go to the cops after I made good with Stephanie.

*

An hour later I was crossing the Manhattan Bridge in a car service, nerves frayed. I had my laptop in my purse – my meager new manuscript, outlines, and notes – and a bad plan in my head. I would lie. I would pretend I thought the meeting was today. It was my only choice.

*

I stopped before the revolving doors to collect myself tossing my cigarette in the ashtray. This time I didn't fear I'd be given my old job back – I feared they'd take away my new job and leave me aimless and destitute.

My stomach was churning as the elevator climbed to the forty-third floor. I'd need to remember to eat after this, whatever the outcome – I realized I hadn't eaten since the crab rangoon I had at my local Chinese take-out place before I'd headed over to Marlowe's – about a day and a half ago.

Kelly, the new receptionist, tried to hide her contempt as she informed me that the meeting had been yesterday. I feigned shock. I did it pretty well. If only I could keep this up. After making me wait almost twenty minutes, during which time I opened up my laptop and reviewed my skimpy writing, I was led to Stephanie's office. We passed my replacement as Stephanie's assistant, Siobhan.

I hated what she'd done with my cubicle. It was all business. Gone were the pieces of flair I'd accumulated over my three years there. She had memos and a calendar up where I'd had book covers and, since my desk was in the midst of a windowless cubicle city, a calming photo of a view of the Manhattan skyline. Countless work crises had been put in perspective when, rather than let myself get frazzled, I'd taken a moment to appreciate the picture of the big city I live in, and thought about the overall big picture at the same time.

Siobhan and I had been friendly when she was the receptionist and I the top editor's assistant – as friendly as I'd been with anyone at work. Alas, jealousy had seeped through once I was on my way to becoming published. Suddenly she was nice but steely behind the eyes. I'd catch her, now Stephanie's assistant, and the new receptionist Kelly whispering when I exited Stephanie's office after a meeting.

I'd seen this before, in high school and at Hunter College. Girls who'd been happy being my friends when we were blank slates, equals, but who resented and singled me out when I got a better grade, or impressed the professor, or when a boy smiled at me and not them. Me, I'd never been the jealous type. Of course, I'd also never been friends with anyone long enough to become jealous of them.

Siobhan gave me a curt nod and a smile that she probably thought was encouraging, before averting her eyes back to the manuscript she was reviewing.

In her office, Stephanie didn't look up when I entered. She pretended to be busy writing an email until Kelly closed the door behind her.

“I didn't realize you were working on a time travel book,” she said sarcastically before the door had fully closed.

“I thought our meeting was today. I didn't even realize until Kelly told me just now. I am so sorry, Stephanie.”

She glared at me. She'd anticipated my bluff. “Today is today and the meeting was yesterday.”

“I can't believe I missed it! I have so much to go over with you, so much advice I need from you – ”

“Stop trying to flatter me, Claire.”

“I'd never.”

“You would and you've done it before but I'm not your boss anymore, I'm your fucking editor. Your writing is my responsibility and if you make me look like a fool to the powers that be – if you can't get this new book together – ” she flapped the meager printed out document I'd emailed her a few days ago, “I mean there's barely even a story here!”

She stood, pacing in front of her window, eyes shifting from her grand view to my “manuscript” and back. I recognized that she was jacked up on caffeine and noticed several large coffee cups in her wastebasket.

“And after reading this swill you emailed me, I can't believe you expect me to believe you got the date wrong. You were too ashamed of your pathetic attempt at writing that you hid like a child...” She went on a rant similar to dozens I'd heard her give before. Of course, I'd never been on the receiving end.

My mind was racing. I was exhausted, I'd been up for hours and knocked out for hours over the last day, but I needed to do something to try to save my career.

Suddenly I had a new plan. I raised a hand, like a school kid. She was so surprised at the interruption she called on me like a teacher.

“Okay, I didn't forget. But what if I told you I stayed home to fix everything? Start all over, actually. I have a new story, a coherent story, a story with promise. I have a plot that will blow your mind. A body, a mystery, a lover and a kick ass main character.” All in one breath. I got ready to wince at her response.

She sat back down behind her desk.

“Tell me.”

“It's set in modern-day Brooklyn. Not Bed-stuy but not Billyburgh either. Prospect Heights; the slightly-better-than-average Brooklynite's Brooklyn. A spunky young woman who's moved on from her last relationship is called upon by her ex to help solve a murder set at a local favorite bar – ”

“Marlowe's?” she interrupted, pulling a hardback copy of my first book from her shelf and shoving it across the desk.

Okay, so she wasn't on board quite yet. I had to go on, though – it was my only chance.

“No, but similar in ways,” I said dismissively. “A regular, familiar neighborhood bar. Threatened by a powerful real estate developer who's won eminent domain power from the state with promises to build – ”

“A convention center and condos? Yeah, I read the papers too, Claire.” She pulled today's Post from her wastebasket.

The headline read, A Bar Grows in Brooklyn? with a photoshopped picture of Marlowe's squished between two giant artist renditions of the planned development. A quick scan revealed that the only other hold-out on the block, a preschool, had accepted a settlement yesterday and the TST was ready to begin construction, pending Marlowe's negotiations.

My stomach fell. I hadn't realized how close Marlowe's was to being forced to shut down.

I pushed on. “That's just the background. The real story is a murder mystery. A body is found at the bar, a body that's been hidden there, a body – ”

Stephanie had lost her patience. “ – connected to the developer? Is this a joke, Claire, because I do not enjoy wasting my time.”

“No, it's great, see, because the body – ” I stopped myself. “What do you mean, connected to the developer?”

Stephanie looked exasperated. “Claire, how long have we known each other?”

“Six years?” I guessed.

She nodded. “And in that time, in the three years you were my assistant, and in the year before that when you were just the receptionist – what did I do every morning?”

I still remembered her routine down to a “t.” She was looking at me expectantly, reminding me again of a teacher, this time awaiting a correct answer.

“Come in at eight. Coffee, fruit salad. New York Times, the News, the Post, the Washington Post...”

“Exactly,” she interrupted. “I read the papers. So just because there hasn't been an update on it in a year, why would you assume I don't remember the Denise Cortlander case?”

“The Cortlander case?” I shook my head in confusion. The look on my face must have conveyed my confusion because she continued. “The TST employee who went missing after leaving Marlowe's one night?” Again a brief head shake. “About two years ago?”

Then I nodded. “That was right when I started writing Marlowe's Many Nights,” I explained. “Between work here and writing every night, I cut myself off from tv and papers to avoid distractions.”

“Have you done that for this?” she said disdainfully, nudging my new “manuscript” away disdainfully.

“No, but I can,” I said. “Does my new idea have any merit?” I asked hopefully.

She shrugged, standing. “It might. Give me an outline by next week. Thursday.” She stood, extending her hand. “And we'll see how that goes.” We shook. Before we broke, she added, “No vampires.”

I shook her hand, relieved she was giving me another chance. “So what happened?” I asked as I opened the door.

“With what?”

“The girl who went missing.”

She shrugged. “They thought it might be the boyfriend, but he had a good alibi. The case went cold, I think. As far as I know, they never found her.”