I returned to the front of the house and poked my head into the zm living room, lit only from the small flames in the open wood stove.
aura was asleep on the sofa, covered with a blanket. Her face looked ry serious, her eyes shut tighter than they should have been; it reinded me of a child wishing the evils of its world away.
I sat on the sofa next to her and watched her for a while, all ndled up, her cheek half-covered by her dark hair. I brushed it aside d she turned her head and looked at me. “Hi,” I said.
She reached out and laid her hand on my chest. The gesture swept e blanket back and revealed she was wearing a light blue shirt with veral of the top buttons undone. She saw me taking that fact in and iled.
“You and Buster have a nice dinner?” I was suddenly feeling ncomfortably warm, aware that I’d both dreaded and wondered about is situation possibly arising. Now that it had, I was as torn as ever er my role in it. “Yup.” She Ianguidly rubbed a warm hand against my shirt, her eyes still alf-closed in sleep. She looked very seductive, especially by the light the fire. I swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t notice. The cliche as it that at times like this, the air becomes electric. Suddenly, I didn’t d that hard to believe. “I wanted to see you. Buster said I could stay.” Her voice was as it as water held in the palm. “I fell asleep thinking of you.” She slid her hand down my arm to my hand, which was resting the cushion next to her. She lifted it and placed it on her breast, osing her own hand on top of it. Her eyes closed and she sighed ntentedly.
The heat of her under my hand was mesmerizing. I could feel her art, the slight movement of her skin under the shirt fabric, even the sh of blood through her veins. I made the most minute gesture-a rely perceptible flexing of my fingers. She took in a deep breath and %204 I felt her nipple grow against me. Her eyes were closed, her whole body as sensitive as sunburned skin.
Gently, carefully, but no longer reluctantly, I removed my hand. Her eyes opened in surprise, her mouth forming a question. She looked at me, studying my face. Her eyes moistened with tears and her mouth quivered. “Why not? What’s wrong?” “I’m a guy in a scrapbook; it’s got little to do with the real me.” Her expression darkened. “That’s right, you’ve already got a job, people who need you, even a girlfriend.” I bit off the knee-jerk objection and kept silent for a moment, struggling to put honesty over diplomacy. “I told you I was selfish.” She seemed to close in on herself for a while then, her eyes averted and half-closed. I stayed where I was, waiting to take her cue.
I hated this, for all sorts of reasons. The fact that it was the right thing to do only made it more bitter. She finally sighed and passed a hand across her face. When she looked at me again, the raw emotion was gone, if not the fragility. “If you were really selfish, you would have made love to me first.” I smiled at that. “Now you’re making me feel stupid and selfish.” She smiled back and again placed her hand on my chest. “You’re not either of those.” Her hand slid off and she pursed her lips. “What am I supposed to do?” The question was so soft, I wasn’t sure I was supposed to respond.
Not that I had the answer, in any case. I leaned over and kissed her briefly. “Thank you, Laura.” “For what?” “Thinking of me as you do.”
Her smile returned. “That’s not hard… Joe?” “What’s up?” “I’m not saying I’d ever do this, but would it be okay if maybe I called someday, maybe if things get tough? Or write a letter or something?” I squeezed her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, at least not for a while.” “I know, but I think I need a little time alone at first.” “Want me to stay out of the way?” She pursed her lips, her eyes brimming. “I do and I don’t, you know?
But it might be easier.” “I understand.” I stood up. “You going to be okay for now?” She nodded, just barely. “I’ll be fine. I just want to lie here for a bit.” I bent down and touched her cheek. “Good night, Laura.” %205 As I was getting ready for bed, I found the necklace I’d bought St.
Johnsbury a few nights ago in my jacket pocket-shiny green nes intended for her. I placed them in the dresser’s top drawer. ybe she’d find them while she was cleaning, or Buster would, and nder whose they were, or maybe they would remain there forever, e a gesture never completed.
Never before had a woman made me such a gift, or been so cious when it was turned down. I was too sentimental to think she’d I now. It half made me wish, now that I was safely too late, that I’d epted her offer.
I missed breakfast the next morning. Spinney called me as I was essing, his voice sharp with excitement, to tell me to meet him at the hite Horse Motel in St. J.-“toot sweet.” I was to stop by the barcks on the way and pick up a tape recorder and the footprint photos m the Bruce Wingate scene. He came out to my car as I pulled into the White Horse parking “Got the photos?” I handed him a large envelope and the small tape recorder. “What you have?” He flashed that huge, toothy grin and waggled his eyebrows. “Folw me and learn something about superb police procedure.” I got out and trailed after him up the exterior metal stairs to the cond-floor balcony that ran the entire length of the building.
“I already spoke to the manager,” Spinney said over his shoulder. orman checked in about five in the afternoon on Tuesday, a full irty-six hours before he claimed he did. So we got him in a bald-faced “He could say he got the days confused.” “Yeah, well, he can say what he wants. I still think we got his balls iled to the wall. What was he up to in town that he doesn’t want us know about?” He stopped at an open door, outside of which stood a roomeaning cart, filled with tiny bars of soap, sheets, towels, and cleaning pplies. I could hear a vacuum cleaner whirring inside.
%206 We entered the room and found a small, plump, middle-aged woman pushing the cleaner around in a haphazard fashion. She turned off the machine when she saw us. “Boy, that was fast.” Spinney grinned and patted her shoulder, in an overly friendly manner.
Next to her, he looked like an oversized scarecrow-all bones and straw-colored hair. He placed the tape recorder on a side table and turned it on and recited the day’s date and the time. “We are here with Joe Gunther, who works with the State’s Attorney’s office of Essex County, Vermont. I’m Detective Sergeant Lester Spinney of the Vermont State Police, and you are who, ma’am?” She gave an indulgent half smile.
“Angie Cowley.” “And you work as a cleaning lady?” “Yeah.” “Where?”
“Right where I’m standing-at the White Horse Motel.” “In St. Johnsbury, Vermont, is that correct?” “Right, in Vermont.” “Tell Lieutenant Gunther what you told me.” She looked at both of us as if we’d lost our minds.
“I found a pair of dirty shoes in Room 212, day before yesterday.” “Room 212,” Spinney informed the tape machine, “is registered to Paul Gorman.
Miss Cowley, what made you notice the shoes?” She started at him for a second, perplexed. “I clean rooms.” “So it was the dirt?” “Yeah, there was dirt all around the shoes on the carpet.” “So what did you do?”
“Like I told you. The boss doesn’t like us to touch any of the guests’
things, but this was different, I mean, I had to clean, right? So I took the shoes and turned them over, so the dirt wouldn’t fall off no more. Then I vacuumed. That’s it.” “What did the bottoms of the shoes look like?” “Bumpy. You know, with those super-deep treads.” “Lug soles?” “Yeah, I guess.” Spinney rummaged through the envelope, pulled out a series of photographs and spread them on the unmade bed beside him. “Okay. Look at these carefully. They’re all shots of footprints.