David Levien - Where the dead lay

He almost bumped into Susan when she stopped at a refrigerated produce case and he nearly shook his head to clear out the useless chatter in it.

“How does this look?” she asked, holding up a tray of cut celery, carrots, and either cucumber or zucchini. “Some crudites?”

Behr shrugged. She put it down. “You’re right, don’t overthink it. Beer.” He followed her down an aisle and felt his feet slowing and his head turning. They were in the pharmacy area on the way to the beverage section. There was a shelf full of boxes-pastel pink with maroon script writing-that seemed familiar. He slowed to a stop. He knew why. There was a torn piece of cardboard in his bathroom trash can-a box flap, which contained a few letters but no full words-that he could swear was from the same product. Looking at it now he saw it was an at-home pregnancy test. Early Response. Doesn’t mean anything, he said to himself and glanced ahead at Susan, who was just turning the corner at the end of the aisle. He continued walking, no longer feeling his feet. Before long he was holding a twelve-pack of Heineken, then putting it down on the black rubber conveyor belt, paying for it, and they were back in the car.

Lake Monroe glittered like a handful of uncut diamonds had been thrown down on its surface. The trees were bunched thick and green along the shore. The sound of birds was ripped by the powerboats and WaveRunners that gnashed across the water. There was a small sprig of dock with a twenty-five-foot Bayliner tied to it, and not far away about a dozen people were clustered around a picnic table loaded down with cold cuts, coolers, grocery bags, and a sack of charcoal. Susan led the way in. Behr followed, carrying the beer.

“Hey, y’all,” she said, moving into the group, fake shoulder bumping a few of them. A round of “Susan!” went up. It was clear to Behr she was pretty high on the popularity depth chart. Susan turned, making room for him, and he plunked down the Heinekens on a corner of the table, and then she introduced him around. “Welcome, welcome,” said her boss, Ed Lindsey, head of circulation for the Indianapolis Star. He was an older man with curly hair and a potbelly, and Behr liked him immediately. The same didn’t go for Chad Quell, a twenty-five-year-old with a big white smile and an expensive haircut.

“So this is your better half, huh Suzy Q.?” Chad said to her as if Behr wasn’t there. “You told him lake not funeral, right?”

“Chad is in ad sales,” Susan said to fill the resulting awkward silence.

“Don’t underrate me, I am ad sales.” He smiled.

“And modest,” she said.

“It’s true, I’m not top dog. Yet. But the guy who is? He’s like forty-three, so it won’t be long before I run him down.”

“Hard to believe the newspaper business is collapsing with you in it,” Behr said, putting a pretty good pall over the proceedings. But Susan’s boss bailed him out.

“You just keep selling, Chad,” Lindsey stated, “the rest will work itself out.”

“So says the old hand,” the kid answered, before he ripped open the twelve-pack and helped himself to a beer. “It’s cocktail hour somewhere, isn’t it?” he said to the group. There were a few takers. He offered one to Susan.

“Too early for me,” she declined. Chad shrugged and started loading the rest into a cooler that already held a good supply of domestic light. Frank said hello to several other men and women from various departments on the paper, and also met the petite Mrs. Lindsey, “Call me Claire,” who appeared from somewhere holding a big bowl of German potato salad.

“Oh, come with me, Frank,” Susan said, pulling him away from the group to where a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair stood smoking.

“Frank, this is Neil Ratay.”

Ratay turned. “Hello, Susan.”

“He’s a reporter. You’ll have tons to talk about,” she said.

Ratay extended a hand and he and Behr shook.

“Frank Behr. I’ve read you,” Behr said. Ratay was a crime reporter who delivered a steady supply of terse, informative descriptions of home invasions, domestic beatings, and drug murders to the Star’s readership.

“Pleasure,” Ratay said, putting his cigarette between his lips. “Have I heard your name?” he asked, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

“Could have. Couldn’t have been recent,” Behr said. Ratay just shrugged.

Lindsey, followed by some of the others, all carrying beers, made his way down to the dock. “First flotilla’s leaving. Who’s aboard?” he shouted.

“I’m in,” Susan called. She turned to Behr. “You coming?”

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll go change and get on the next ride.” She nodded and went after the group, which included Chad.

Behr went back to the car and took his time about it. He stood behind the open trunk and changed into shorts. He strolled back down to the picnic table where the landlubbers were congregated. Across the way, Ratay was finished smoking but didn’t rejoin the group. Instead, he sat down on a stump and watched the boats zip back and forth on the lake.

“You’re a strong-looking boy, you’re drafted,” the nearly sixty-year-old Claire Lindsey said, pointing to a big bag of Kingsford briquettes. He hadn’t been called a boy in some time. Amused, Behr hefted the bag, dumped it into a nearby Weber Kettle, and made a pyramid as directed by the hostess. He doused it with lighter fluid, tossed a match, and then grabbed a beer. Ratay drifted over and offered Behr a cigarette from his pack. Behr declined. Ratay lit his own by waving the end through the orange flame that leaped out of the grill. Behr sipped his beer, Ratay smoked, and they both settled in to watch the charcoal whiten.

Before long the boat returned and Susan and Chad came up the dock together laughing over some office joke.

“Holding down the fort?” Chad asked.

“Yep. All taken care of,” Behr said. Susan gave him a “be nice” look.

“Late enough for you yet?” Chad asked Susan, opening a fresh beer. She shrugged and accepted the bottle, though she didn’t drink from it. She set it down in front of her, Behr noticed.

“You’ve gotta come out on the boat, Frank. It’s awesome,” she said.

“Okay,” he said, “in a while.”

Claire was hovering over a cooler pulling out hamburger patties. Susan saw it and went to her. “Let me help you get those going, Claire

…”

Chad leaned against the table near Behr. “So what do you do, dead eyes?” Chad asked. Behr turned and stared into Chad’s silver-framed sunglasses, the word “Armani” stenciled on the left lens.

“I’m a librarian,” he said. Behr felt Ratay smirk over his shoulder.

“Yeah? Interesting work. Dewey Decimal and all,” Chad tried to play back. Maybe he was just making conversation.

“Right.” Behr walked away. He found a spot that looked out over a glen of trees and toward a cove that held a few luxury houses that shared a common dock. He stood there for a while thinking about Aurelio, and how to get a toehold in his investigation.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Susan said, putting a soft hand on the small of his back. Behr nodded. More than that, he appreciated the gesture. “Wouldn’t be too bad having a place out here,” she said.

“Nope,” he agreed, “sure wouldn’t.” He figured he might as well keep it positive, but that was the ten years between them talking. At her age, he’d have thought, “Why not?” just like her. Now he knew why.

“Let’s go out on the boat and get a burger when we’re back,” she suggested.

“Sure thing, Suzy Q.,” he said.

“Oh, stop. He’s harmless.” She elbowed him.

Behr followed her and a few others down the dock. He felt Chad walking behind them without even looking back, and as they boarded, he saw he was right.