Foursome Read online

  Foursome

  Jeremiah Healy

  For Everyone Who’s Shown Us Maine

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Preview: Act of God

  Prologue

  VIVIAN VANDEMEER STOOD WITH her palms flat on the railing of the cedar deck and let the late May breeze from the lake riffle the hairs on her arms. Buying a new wardrobe for a cruise or the Caribbean, she’d often wished that she had fewer of those hairs. However, Vivian had to admit that the touch of the wind on them was one of the most sensual experiences she’d ever had alone, and she’d worn only a short-sleeved safari shirt over her slacks and low heels tonight just to feel it. The breeze also had to be thanked for keeping the mosquitoes away. Vivian was always amazed that there were fewer mosquitoes at Steve and Sandy’s summer place in the wilds of Maine than on their patios ten miles outside Boston.

  As the wind chimes tinkled over an Aerosmith song behind her, Vivian looked up the lake toward the lights of the village. Steve had cut down all the trees in front of his property—which caused a stink with some people, she’d heard. But the lawn and the brook that ran down the slope—especially with those darling little footbridges—made a perfect foreground for one of the most striking views she’d ever seen. The lights winked out as the locals went to bed early, except for the night fishermen, whose small boats moved slowly across the moonlit water, their little green and red bulbs on chrome stalks—her husband, Hale, called them “running lights”—the only indication they were moving at all.

  A sound by Steve’s boathouse caught her attention. A scratchy, swishing sound, like some creature moving through the underbrush near the side of the property. Using one hand, Vivian shaded her eyes against the floodlights on the deck. She couldn’t see anything except the outline of the boathouse itself, holding the Jet Skis, the kayak, the canoe, the aircraft-engine runabout—that wasn’t Steve’s word for it, but you couldn’t keep track of the technical names for his toys. Tomorrow they’d put on those half-wetsuits for water-skiing that Hale had bought for all of them, then climb into the runabout with the word “FOURSOME” stenciled across its back.

  Foursome. That really did capture them. Steven and Sandra, Hale and Vivian. Only Steven Shea was “Steve” and Sandra Newberg “Sandy,” while Hale Vandemeer would always be just “Hale,” and nobody had ever called her “Viv” except her son, Nicky, to be disrespectful.

  Vivian shook her head. One of the problems with hitting your late thirties was dwelling on the mistakes you’d made as a parent. Better to dwell on a great weekend at the lake, starting, as always, with Steve having to hop into his new four-wheel-drive toy to bounce over the rutted camp road—why couldn’t they just call it a “cottage” road?—to the country store—which should have been the “general” store—for more wine and other things. When he got back, they’d enjoy a late dinner, with more seventies’ rock from the CD player and a few—no, more than a few—laughs. Vivian smiled. Not a bad way to spend a couple of days at this stage of life, girl.

  Then, thanks to a gap in the music, Vivian heard a noise from inside the house, and the smile turned wistful. The noise was the throaty chuckle Hale used to make when they were first dating. A noise he’d make before—she always thought of it as “copping a cheap feel” but of course never referred to it that way. Now she didn’t hear that noise very often, except by overhearing it. When Hale was around Sandy.

  Funny. Through the years, Vivian would have bet the mortgage—and a whale of a mortgage it was, too—that, if anything, she herself would someday have an affair with Steve. He had a good body and a great smile and a—hard to abstract it, really, but it was like he was always leaning forward rather than leaning back. Instead, Vivian came to realize that good doctor Hale was now making some unscheduled house calls on Sandy, probably using the guest room queen-sized so Steve wouldn’t tumble to it. But Vivian had, and she marveled that her knowledge of the affair hadn’t destroyed either marriage or even wrecked the friendship. It … amused her, really. Like a soap opera was being filmed, and she was getting to watch it from the wings, objectively removed from what was supposedly being portrayed.

  Another sound from the underbrush, closer this time to the steps that led down from the deck to the lawn. Vivian went up on tiptoes, again shading her eyes with one hand. Like an Indian scouting the desert, she thought. Only in the desert you could see for miles, while here the brush covered everything. Steve said he couldn’t take that out, or the state environmental people would scream bloody murder at him.

  A third sound, and Vivian felt sure a bush trembled in her peripheral vision. She moved toward the corner of the deck, toward the sound. No need to be afraid; what wildlife she’d seen up here—chipmunks, raccoons, even a porcupine—had been more cute than scary, and anything really frightening—like a moose or, God forbid, a bear—couldn’t hide very well in three feet of ground cover. Vivian thought it might be that mink they’d seen one afternoon, just scavenging along the lakefront, although what in the world it’d be doing a hundred feet from where the dead fish would be she couldn’t—

  The impact rocked Vivian onto her heels and over onto her back. For the second or two before her eyes focused, she was back in grade school, the day that Hale’s brother had accidentally-on-purpose swung a baseball bat and caught her square in the chest.

  Then Vivian lifted her head from the cedar decking and looked down. She saw the gunmetal gray shaft sticking out six inches between her breasts, the black plastic feathers on its end slanting toward her body. She couldn’t place where she’d seen it before, then remembered. Hale’s surprise toy last year for Steve. Then she felt a terrible sloughing inside her, and Vivian Vandemeer died without saying a word.

  In the kitchen, a large wooden fork in his hand, Hale Vandemeer said, “What was that?”

  Sandra Newberg said, “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Hale came up behind her and whispered, “Didn’t you feel it?,” pressing himself against her.

  Sandra stopped chopping the lettuce long enough to say, “Hale, this isn’t the time or the place.”

  He nuzzled her ear. “It was, three weeks ago.”

  She brushed him away, getting a shred of lettuce in her ear and causing her to shake him off to shake it out. “That was when Steve was in L.A. and Vivian took Nicky to New York. This is a weekend.”

  Hale took a breath. As a doctor, you get used to being right, but he had to concede on this point. Vivian was on the deck, only a couple of walls from the kitchen, and Steve would be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but it has been a while.”

  Sandy sighed as Hale put down the wooden fork and reached for the tomatoes they’d bought at the Shop ’n Save in Augusta on the way up. She had kind of hoped that the rendezvous at the lake might end it gracefully for both of them, before Vivian or Steve found out how stupid she’d been ever to encourage Hale, much less go past that. Instead, it seemed to spur Hale onward and … upward.

  Sandy made sure Hale had his back toward her, then risked a smile. No problems with the good doctor in that department. But her dissatisfaction with not having a job, and with the way Steve’s job had been driving
him, was no reason—well, no excuse—for what she’d jeopardized among the four of them. Of course, that was nothing compared to what Steve had told her just after her midweek episode with Hale. His little “secret.” On the drive up today, Steve had discussed it with her, and they’d decided that they had to tell Vivian and Hale now, before things went any further. “Change for the sake of change,” Steve had said. “Great,” she’d said, thinking, he’s quoting Chairman Mao, like dead commies held all the answers to life. Sandy sighed again. It was just as well to tell the Vandemeers now, so she could break it off with Hale before—

  Sandy felt it rather than heard it. Someone on the deck or the steps, but moving heavily.

  “Hale?”

  He turned to her, the serrated blade of the paring knife dripping seeds from the tomatoes. “Do you think Vivian’s doing aerobics out there?”

  “Maybe you should check on her.”

  Hale put the knife down on the counter and moved out through the swinging door of the kitchen. Sandy finished with the lettuce and switched over to the tomatoes.

  Hale Vandemeer couldn’t see anything from the living room of the big contemporary, even though there were three sliding-glass doors leading onto the deck and the floods were throwing light in wide cones. What surprised him most was that he couldn’t see his wife.

  There was no music coming from the CD player. In a conversational tone, Hale said, “Vivian?”

  The center set of glass doors was open, just the screened panel across the opening. Hale went up to it and used his left hand to slide the screen to the left. He stepped out onto the deck, looking first to his right as he closed the panel with his right hand.

  Another song started inside the living room, so Hale spoke a little louder. “Vivian?”

  Turning to his left, he didn’t quite understand what he was seeing, his eyes needing to adjust to the difference in lighting. In shadow at the corner of the deck, a body lay flat on its back, the arms out, the legs together, as though crucified horizontally onto the decking. Only the hair was brightly illuminated by the flood, the color unmistakably the one Vivian had chosen at her beauty parlor.

  Hale took a step forward before he realized the shadow over his wife’s body was moving, ever so slightly. He stopped as the bolt from the crossbow whooshed up and at him, punching him just below the sternum and taking him back through the screen door, tearing it from the frame as he crashed to the floor of the living room. As the last few seconds of consciousness washed over his brain, Hale Vandemeer thought, “Just two inches lower and I’d have a chance to …”

  The sound of the crash made Sandra Newberg cut her left thumb with the paring knife. She was too startled even to curse at it, just grabbing a paper towel for the blood as she burst through the kitchen door and down the little hall into the dining area and living room.

  Hale was splayed on the floor, the mesh that had been the screened panel rolled over his right leg and hip like a partially closed shroud. But the thing that angled into his chest and his open eyes told Sandy that something she didn’t understand had happened and was very, very wrong.

  Then the figure filled the doorway where the screening had been, and the bow raised up.

  Ten feet away Sandra Newberg hoarsely cried “No!” and brought her hands up to protect herself. The bolt pierced the back of her left hand and the paper towel wrapped around the thumb, pinning them to her chest as the arrowhead bit deeply into her heart, rupturing it and dropping her limply onto the polished hardwood floor.

  1

  THE GUY ON THE racing bike missed clocking me by about the width of the dentist’s tool he had mounted on his helmet as a rearview mirror. He used fingerless leather gloves to shift through a couple of his eighteen gears, swerving around the abutment holding up its share of an on-ramp to Storrow Drive. Then he turned in his saddle enough to yell, “Fuck you, you fucking joggers.”

  Gritting my teeth, I mopped the sweat over my eyes with a forearm but didn’t break stride. I’d learned that from the first two bicyclists, who pretty clearly thought that 4:00 P.M. on a hot Monday in June was wheel-time-only along the Charles River. Usually I run in the mornings, but I’d just spent two weeks undercover, playing employee for a high-tech company on the Route 128 beltway. The company thought it had a payrolled worm working his or her way through its trade secrets and siphoning them off to a competitor.

  I generally don’t like going undercover. For one thing, it cuts you off from most everything else a private investigator is supposed to do, like return phone calls and meet with people. For another, your basic mission is to get relatively nice people to like and trust you so that you can bag them or one of their friends. The company did cover my daily rate for seven days, even though they knew I’d be putting in only five, and the worm turned (sorry) out to be a snobby engineer, late of MIT, who decided industrial espionage would be a quicker route to her first Porsche. For me, though, the reverse commute from Boston thirteen miles west every morning didn’t leave much time for running, so I’d been missing that endorphin high. And the schmoozing that goes with being undercover didn’t leave me with much time for anything else. Including Nancy Meagher.

  I’d finished with the high-tech assignment that morning, then spent most of the afternoon in my office opposite the Park Street subway station, catching up on the crapola paperwork that seems to breed in place when you aren’t pushing it every day. Nancy was about to start a long conspiracy trial for the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office, but she promised me a home-cooked meal at her place in South Boston that night. I figured four miles along the river would vent some of the tension and pressure that had accumulated over the last few weeks. So, I laced up the shoes, pulled on the shorts, and tugged over my head the T-shirt Nancy had given me last Christmas and I’d worn running the Boston marathon two months before. Unfortunately, the bikes turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg.

  A Metropolitan District Commission crew was trying to clear a sewer line. They wore surgical masks, like earthquake relief workers excavating collapsed buildings. With both temperature and humidity well past eighty, the cloying stink stayed strong for another hundred yards.

  Half a mile after the sewer line, a cluster of Boston University students sat near the river’s edge, smashing wine bottles against the rocks. It looked like the collected empties of a four-year career, the kids drinking and cursing and laughing at their cleverness. You think about stopping the party, but there were enough of them that you’d have to hurt a few, and at least one would dimly recall a television bar scene where somebody came after somebody else with the neck of a broken bottle.

  A mile farther on, another crew, this time road workers, had traffic backed up on Storrow while they jackhammered about an acre of macadam into rubble. The car horns nearly drowned out the jackhammers. Nearly.

  But the worst, that was saved for the last quarter mile. A sour old man in a Kangol cap and hiking staff and cigar broader than the staff let his Doberman off the leash just as I was passing them by a respectful lateral margin. The Doberman’s head flashed up, I tried to dodge him, and his jaws snapped shut on the tail of my T-shirt, wrenching it away from me.

  I stopped and looked down at what was left of the shirt. The rending went diagonally through the BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL legend on it.

  Then I looked over as his dog dropped the rest of the thing at his owner’s feet.

  The man snugged down the Kangol cap and brandished the hiking staff like a lance. Around the cigar, he said, “There’s worse where that came from, too.”

  I shook my head and decided to walk the rest of the way home. Slowly.

  I parked my old silver Prelude on the nonstreet that backs toward the Massachusetts Turnpike. The Winecellar of Silene is a terrific store next to the University Club on Stuart Street. They cater mainly to an upscale yuppie crowd, but they know a lot about the grapes and enough about me to recommend something for ten bucks that tastes twice as good as something costing thr
ee times as much in most restaurants.

  Ruben the manager caught my eye as I came through the door. The features around his brown eyes tightened.

  “John, you okay?”

  I checked my clothes. I’d showered and put on a polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants over old running shoes. The humidity made the shirt cling a little, but on the whole I thought I looked pretty presentable.

  Ruben said, “You look kind of … keyed up.”

  “It’s been a tough day.”

  “We can deal with that. Red or white?”

  “Both.”

  Ruben nodded. “Just be sure to drink them on different nights, huh?”

  I smiled and nodded back.

  When I got out to the car, the orange cardboard under my windshield wiper reminded me that I’d forgotten to feed the meter.

  I inched through bumper-to-bumper traffic toward Nancy’s neighborhood. Just before the Central Artery, a derelict black man with a paper bag crimped around a bottle of something sat spraddle-legged against the wall of a warehouse. He glanced up as a statuesque black in a bright red dress, high heels, and a shoulder bag strutted past him. The derelict said, “Norman, boy. Is that you?,” and cackled as the tall person picked up his or her pace and never looked back.

  On the South Boston side of the Artery, Broadway was choked with people double-parked and just leaning into driver’s sides, talking, while cars tried to slalom around them. I’d grown up in Southie and understood the community exchange function of basically blue-collar folks who’d been at work when most white-collars are just getting out of bed, but it was the perfect close to a frustrating day.

  I finally got to Nancy’s block off L Street and left the Prelude four doors down from her building. It’s a three-decker owned by a Boston Police family, Nancy renting the top floor. They’re pleased to see a neighborhood girl doing well as an assistant DA, and she’s pleased to have the incremental security the Lynches represent.

  The humidity was making me sweat from just carrying the bag Ruben had filled with a Rafanelli zinfandel and a chilled Waterbrook chardonnay. A drop fell off my chin and into the bag as I pressed Nancy’s bell. A minute later the door opened, and my thoughts caught for just a beat, the way they always do when I first see her.