door.
McKee pulled up in front. “Stay here.”
“In the car?”
“Yes. And don’t take any notes.”
“I won’t. I told you, I’m not working. I can’t even walk.”
Craning this way and that, I spotted no life whatsoever—nothing left out that needed to be put back, like lawn furniture or bicycles or a stranded mower. No cars were parked in the driveway or near the garage. This was obviously a false alarm.
After ringing the doorbell repeatedly, McKee began peeking in windows, then disappeared around the porch to the back. I occupied myself by inspecting his vehicle.
Was it a department violation to leave me alone inside? That would make two department violations, doing private work on police time and leaving an unguarded citizen in his cop car. His walkie-talkie hung off the dash; I could transmit false messages. I could completely screw up his life. Why this notion crossed my mind, I have no idea. I consider myself a moral person, the sort who accepts the first invitation and never cancels if a better offer comes along. When a waitress miscalculates a bill in my favor, I point it out. What was in McKee’s briefcase? To take my mind off subjects that were none of my affair, I examined my ankle.
Baby had left little doggie teeth marks. The skin around them was rosy pink and puffy. I tapped the wound lightly. This produced a drumbeat of pain, not terrible, even by my standards. There was no serious blood loss. If I washed the cuts, I probably wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. All I needed was water. And Bactine. I should definitely apply some antiseptic, and soon.
I opened the car door. The Nicholases must have some form of germ killer. I didn’t want to get a massive infection from a dog bite and lose a leg. I could imagine my city friends discussing how ironic it was. Lily moved there to protect her son, and look what happened to her. People in the city loved irony, while it didn’t seem to be valued at all in Sakonnet Bay. I suspected this was something Sakonnet citizens were right about. I’d find McKee and ask him to let me borrow some Bactine from the medicine cabinet.
I stood outside the car. The quiet was daunting. “Sergeant McKee?” I called softly.
The air was cool, a damp cool, and the breeze chilly. I zipped my jacket and tried to walk. If I pressed only the ball of my right foot on the ground, I could move along briskly. Holding the railing for support, I hopped up the front steps, and then, following McKee’s trail, jerked my way across the front porch and around to the back, where I stopped. Everyone knew this was beachfront property, but the contrast between the manicured, civilized front and this wildness behind was startling. Had a kind of truth-telling to it. This is what’s really here. This is what’s hidden. I half expected to hear Twilight Zone music, but the moment passed quickly and then it was only beach. Beach on a gray day. Waves choppy, sand strewn with detritus left by low tide and angry water. Beyond the porch and a tangle of beach plums, I could see tire marks in the wet sand.
A French door in the back stood partly open. “Sergeant McKee? Tom?” I wasn’t sure how I was expected to address him, but made my voice sound both inquiring and cheerful. No answer. I stepped in.
The restrained exterior turned out to be a cover for extravagance: overstuffed couches upholstered in richly textured damask, gilt coffee tables and end tables, gold-painted porcelain lamps with silk shades. The living room was large enough for two formal geometric seating areas, one in front of a pink marble fireplace that must have replaced a carved oak original, the other by a picture window offering a splendid ocean view.
I wandered into the foyer, where a chandelier of glass teardrops descended from the double-height ceiling, and then located the powder room off it. Shiny red walls, brass sconces, and a bowl of scented soaps next to a sink shaped like a scallop shell. No medicine cabinet.
I didn’t see McKee anywhere, not in the dining room on the other side of the foyer or on the second-floor landing. The Bactine must be in an upstairs bathroom.
I was beginning to enjoy myself. I loved traipsing along with Jane to Open Houses. I had occupied a few Saturdays that way, fantasizing about owning places I couldn’t afford. This house was clearly unoccupied. There was no personal scent, no cooking or cleaning smells, no natural or artificial perfumes. I moved up the stairs slowly, using the waxed walnut banister as a crutch, and then opened the first door that presented itself.
The master bedroom. It stretched out to my left in a long rectangle. Directly ahead, across from the door, my eye was drawn to a beautiful twelve-paned window behind a satin-covered settee. The glass was old or slightly tinted, and the ocean beyond changed color as though I were looking through a prism. The window was slightly open, and white lace curtains billowed inward, caressing the burnt orange of the satin couch. I heard footsteps behind me, and as I turned to confront McKee, to explain my presence, I noticed the canopied bed at the far end of the room. There was a naked woman on it, asleep. I halted mid-turn and began to retreat, when I sensed McKee’s body behind mine. I stepped on his foot and stifled a whoop of surprise. He caught me by the shoulders as he saw the young woman, too. She lay faceup on top of the covers, one arm flung out dramatically. My eyes landed on her breasts, got stuck there, then jumped the rest of her body to her toes. Each nail was painted a different color. I was about ten feet away, and as McKee pulled me backward, her body became topographic—valleys, mountains, undergrowth. I smelled something heady … realized it was McKee’s aftershave, felt his warm breath on my neck. I was almost faint while he steered me out and, with one hand gripping my arm, closed the bedroom door behind us. He had a silken touch, turning the knob quickly, silently.
I twisted away and took the stairs at a clip, but the pain in my ankle erupted with ferocity. So I grabbed the banister and hopped. The plush carpet muffled my thumps like a silencer.
We left by the back, the way we had come in. I limped after McKee, around the porch, down the front steps, and to the car. Following his example, I closed my door gently. He gave the car the barest hit of gas, and we rolled out of the driveway.
I kept my eyes on the road ahead, and assumed he did, too. I had the feeling that I should start laughing, turn the encounter into one big joke, but I kept envisioning that naked body, displayed like some sort of feast. The downy, smooth, coppery skin. The ample breasts sinking comfortably sideways, legs provocatively apart, an arm unfurled. Her waist was tiny, accentuating her curves. My waist was tiny, too, and I always imagined that one day I would meet a man whose hands could circle it. Not a man with big hands, that wasn’t part of the fantasy—it was the idea of a lover finding my waist as delicate as the stems of a small bouquet.
McKee suddenly pulled the car over and parked. He plucked a Mynten from his shirt pocket and licked it off the paper.
“Could I have one?”
“You’re crazy.”
“But my mouth is dry.”
“What?”
“I’m asking for one of your Myntens.”
He punched open the glove compartment and removed an entire bag. “Take them. What were you doing in that house?”
“I don’t need all these.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was looking for some Bactine.”
“Bactine.” He repeated the brand name as though he had never heard of it.
“I
