I remembered it well. Twenty-three inches of snow fell within twelve hours, and my snow blower wouldn’t start.
“Her husband comes home, and she’s not there. But here’s the thing: Her car was in the garage, her coat and purse were on the chair where she usually left them, and the front door was open. I don’t mean unlocked, I mean open.”
“Maybe she went out for a pack of cigarettes and kept on going. It’s been done before,” I volunteered.
“In a snowstorm? Without her coat or boots? Without her fucking purse, her credit cards, her checkbook, her cash? Listen to what the fuck I’m saying! The cops thought she might have left, too, but changed their minds because nothing was missing from the house. No clothes, no jewelry, no nothing.”
“Did the police sweep the house?”
“Shit, yeah. They didn’t turn up jack. No sign of forced entry, no physical evidence, no witnesses. Christ, if they knew what the fuck was going on, you’d think I’d be standing here?”
I reached across the desk, grabbed a fistful of silk tie, and jerked it toward me. “You utter one more obscenity in my presence, I’ll wash out your mouth with soap,” I snarled. It was a good snarl, too—I practice it in front of a mirror.
He started to utter one of the seven words banned from network television, gulped when I yanked his tie, then nodded.
I released his tie. It’s not that I’m particularly offended by obscene language. I’ve been known to mutter a few four- and seven-letter words myself. But Truman was beginning to annoy me, and since I didn’t like him in the first place, I saw no reason to put up with his vulgarity.
“You’re a straight shooter; I respect that,” he told me. “A conscientious guy.”
“Sure,” I replied sarcastically to the hollow compliment.
“That’s why I’m here,” he continued. “I know you didn’t like it when I dragged you in front of the board, but I was protecting the interests of my client; that’s what lawyers do. If other people get hurt along the way … Hey, don’t blame me, blame the system.”
“Get out of my office,” I told him.
“No, listen, this is important.”
“Hit the bricks, pal.”
“Taylor, Christ, listen.…”
“Truman, you’re a jerk. A gold-plated, one-hundred-percent jerk, and I do not want to work for you. You haven’t got enough money to hire me. You could be Bill Gates or Warren Buffett and still not have enough money to hire me. Go away.”
“All I want is a minute—”
“You’ve had a minute.”
“Taylor, c’mon, just listen to this,” he said, producing a cassette recorder from the briefcase. He pressed the play button as I rounded my desk, reaching for him.
If you are listening to this now, it is because I am dead.
The voice stopped me. It was a woman’s voice, and there was something about it, a characteristic I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t an accent, although it had an almost exotic resonance. And it wasn’t the way the pitch of her voice rose and fell pleasantly like it was singing a ballad, something by the Gershwins. But there was something, a quality that I can hear even now.…
If you are listening to this now, it is because I am dead.
I returned to my side of the desk. Truman took a chance and sat in the chair that I reserve for guests. He sighed with the effort, like he’d remembered too many things at once. I swiveled away in my chair, looked out my window at downtown Minneapolis, and listened.…
“If you are listening to this now, it is because I am dead. (Long pause.) I realize that everything I’m about to tell you seems.… unlikely. But I am frightened, and I believe I have good cause. I am taking steps to protect myself. Unfortunately, there is only so much one can do and still maintain a life worth living. I am making this tape in case things do not go my way. (Long pause. Low barking of several dogs in the distance.) I am sitting beneath an oak tree on a knoll overlooking the pond as I record this. There’s a mist rising off the pond.… Oh, sure, Larry, ruin the whole scene. (Loudly.) Larry just ran into the pond for a drink. You can’t bring these guys anywhere near water.… I have three black Labradors. I call them Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe, although I couldn’t tell you why—I’ve never been a fan of the Stooges. I usually take my babies for a run in the morning in the wooden area behind my house. What’s the appropriate word for a small forest? Glade? Grove?”
“Grove,” Truman answered.
“Stephen hates it here. But I love it. I told him if he wants to move he’ll have to do it without me.
“(Deep sigh.) I suppose if I’m going to do this thing, I’d best get to it. To be official, Hunter … my name is Alison Donnerbauer Emerton. I am twenty-seven years old. I am married to Stephen Emerton, and we live at 3747 Pioneer Trail in Hastings, Minnesota. I am making this tape for my attorney, Hunter Truman of Minneapolis, with the explicit instructions that he deliver it forthwith to the appropriate authorities in the event of my death.…”
“Stop the tape,” I said.
“Don’t you—?”
“Stop it.”
Truman hit the pause button.
“Why did she come to you with this?”
Truman shrugged. “I was her attorney.”
“Did she pick you out of the phone book? What?”
Truman hesitated; he studied the palm of his hand as if the answer was written there. “I was her husband’s attorney before they were married. That’s probably why she called me.”
“Probably?”
Truman shrugged like he didn’t want to commit himself.
“Go ’head,” I instructed.
Truman pressed the play button.
“If I am dead, it is because Raymond Fleck killed me.… (Long pause.) Fleck is a convicted rapist who has been stalking me for the past six weeks.
“To begin at the beginning, I am a public-relations practitioner and marketing manager for Kennel-Up, Incorporated, a company based in Hastings that manufactures and sells conventional as well as electronic dog kennels. Raymond was one of the company’s site managers. I was responsible for his dismissal from the firm for sexual harassment. I met him when I took the position with Kennel-Up last March. Prior to that I worked for a health-care company. I took the Kennel-Up job partly because I love dogs more than doctors and partly because it pays better. I now make more than Stephen, which doesn’t sit too well with him. But, let that go for now.
“(Deep sigh.) From the first, Raymond was too … familiar. He held my hand too long after he shook it; he made periodic references to my appearance, telling me how attractive I was, how pretty my hair, how flattering my dress; he would linger at the coffee machine when I ventured for a cup. I am not an unattractive woman—”
“You’re beautiful,” Truman told the machine.
“—and over the years I’ve grown accustomed to this kind of treatment, so I let Raymond’s behavior slide. That might have been a mistake. Perhaps he interpreted my silence as approval, even encouragement. (Brief pause.) I discussed the matter with Stephen. He wondered if my behavior and style of dress were leading Raymond on. He also suggested that I would be branded as a whiner or a troublemaker if I took the matter to my employers. Typical Stephen. However, when Raymond’s behavior became even more objectionable, when he began to massage my shoulders or rub my back when our jobs put us in close proximity, when he began making pornographic references, I told Mr. Selmi about my concerns.
“Mr. Selmi is a great old teddy bear of a man. Everybody loves him. He started Kennel-Up in his garage when he was thirty-five. Now he’s seventy-something and rich. Only I get the impression he wishes he was still working out of the garage.