Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

“That doesn’t say much for you. Peter, you’re not going anywhere until you’ve had coffee and a sandwich. When did you last eat?”

“I don’t know. When I woke up in the office Wednesday I went home and went to bed. I stayed home all day yesterday until I met you. Then after you blew me off, I got drunk again.”

“Peter, on Tuesday evening, you had already told Renée Carter you couldn’t give her any more money. Why did you try to borrow from me Wednesday night?”

“Because I knew she wasn’t finished with me, and that if she set the cops on Greg he’d be in big trouble.”

“Peter, you said the police were getting a search warrant. Are they going to find anything at all in your office or apartment that might incriminate you?”

“Susan, absolutely not.”

“Do you remember if you struggled with her? Did you hit her back when she slapped you?”

“I swear, I never would have hurt her. I just wanted to get away from her.”

“Peter, you’ve already told the police that Renée Carter was trying to extort more money from you. Listen to me. You’re going to need an attorney. I’m in corporate law, not criminal defense, but a first-year law student could shoot holes in your convenient blackout. Fortunately, they can’t subpoena me as a witness because I’m an attorney, and I will tell them you spoke to me only to seek legal advice. But don’t say a single word about this to anyone else or answer any more questions from the police. The police should be finished with searching the apartment by now so after I fix you something to eat, I want you to go home and get some rest. You’re going to need it. Stay there until you hear from me. I’m going to make some calls and hire the best criminal defense attorney I can find.”

An hour later when he left Susan’s apartment, Peter Gannon took a backward glance at the exquisitely furnished living room with its deep, comfortable matching sofas, antique carpet, and the grand piano he had bought Sue for one of their anniversaries. He thought of lying on the couch and listening to her play. She was a fine pianist, far more than “a pretty good amateur,” as she labeled herself.

And I gave all this up for Renée Carter! he thought. And now Renée may cost me the rest of my life. Even that wouldn’t be enough for her, he thought bitterly.

When he got back to his apartment, he found it in total disarray. Every drawer had been pulled out and the contents dumped on the carpet. The contents of the refrigerator were on the countertops. Cushions from the chairs and couch had been tossed on the floor. Furniture was pushed to the center of the living room. Paintings had been removed from the walls and stacked on top of each other. A copy of the search warrant had been left on the dining room table.

Like an automaton, Peter began to clean up. The physical effort helped to limber his back, cramped from inactivity. Susan thinks I might be arrested, he thought. The prospect seemed impossible to him. I feel as if I’m in a bad movie. I’ve never lifted a finger to hurt anyone. I never even had a fight with another kid when I was growing up. Even after I knew Renée wasn’t going to settle for one hundred thousand dollars, I still was trying to borrow money from Susan to pay her off.

I wouldn’t have done that if I had already killed her. I wouldn’t have killed her. Why can’t I remember what I did after I left Renée on York Avenue?

As he put back the contents of the drawers, straightened the furniture, and rehung the pictures, his mind kept swirling with unanswered questions. Where did I go after I left Renée? Did I talk to anyone or am I imagining it? Did I see someone who looked familiar across the street? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

It was shortly after midnight when the concierge phoned him. “Mr. Gannon, Detectives Tucker and Flynn are here to see you.”

“Send them up.” Virtually paralyzed with fear, Peter waited by the door until the bell rang. He opened it and the two detectives, unsmiling and businesslike, entered the apartment.

“Mr. Gannon,” Barry Tucker said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Renée Carter. Turn around, Mr. Gannon.” As he handcuffed him behind his back, Tucker began the Miranda ritual. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

Every word was a physical blow.

“You have the right to an attorney…”

Trying to blink back tears, Peter’s mind flashed back to the moment when, at that party after the opening of his play, Renée Carter had linked her arm in his and asked him if he was lonely.

On Saturday morning, Ryan put his plan into motion. He got up at seven and showered and shaved, grateful that somewhere along the way the large apartment had been renovated so that a bathroom was directly off the master bedroom and he did not have to risk bumping into Alice in the hall before he was fully dressed. Maybe she’s still asleep, he hoped.

But when he went out to the kitchen, she was already there, wrapped in a satin robe, wearing light makeup, every hair in place. A very pretty woman, he thought, as he forced a smile, but she’s just not for me.

“You don’t give yourself a break on Saturdays and stay in bed for an extra hour or so?” she asked, her tone teasing, as she poured coffee for him. He saw that fresh orange juice and a bowl of cut-up fruit were already on the breakfast table.

“No. I have a lot of errands, so I want to get an early start, Alice.”

“Well, surely as a doctor you know that a good breakfast is the best way to start the day? I’ve seen the way you rush out during the week. How about poached eggs on toast?”

Ryan had intended to decline, but the offer sounded good to him and he knew he could not refuse to have something to eat without being rude. “Sounds great,” he said, uncomfortably. He sat at the table, sipped the orange juice, and thought, I just want out of here. If Monica walked in right now, or if I saw her in the same situation, I know what I’d think.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up when I came home last night,” Alice said, as she broke eggs into a pan of boiling water.

“I didn’t hear you come in. I went to bed around eleven,” Ryan answered, as he thought about how he had spent the previous evening. I went to a lousy movie because I didn’t want to be here with you. Turns out I could have come straight home the way I wanted to, since you weren’t here anyway. Home , he thought. We both used the word “home” just now. Isn’t that cute?

“You haven’t asked, but I’m going to tell you anyhow what I was doing and why it’s so important,” Alice said, as she put bread in the toaster.

“I’m asking now.” Ryan tried to sound interested.

“Well, I was at a dinner given by the publisher of Everyone magazine. It was for the retiring editor of the celebrity-beauty section. He offered me her job. That means I get to pick the celebrities I want to feature and analyze what they’re wearing, their hairstyles, and makeup. It’s the kind of job I’ve been hoping for ever since I got into the beauty and fashion business.”

“I’m really delighted for you, Alice,” Ryan said sincerely. “I have friends in the publishing world and it’s a tough field to crack. Little as I know about Everyone magazine, I do know it’s one of the most successful ones. I see it everywhere.”

“As you know, I’m going back to Atlanta today,” Alice continued. “I’m going to have to scramble to get an agent to rent my apartment there, and put my furniture into storage, and get my clothes packed, and all the rest that goes with moving. They want me to start in two weeks. Would you mind very much if your stepsister comes back here until I can find my own place? It’s a big apartment and I promise I won’t be in your way.”