She was beautiful, without a doubt. I didn’t want to ask questions about her husband or her former lovers. To some extent, I was jealous of her husband, even though he was dead. I told her we didn’t need to talk about case-related stuff anymore. I told her that I realized she must be exhausted. She thanked me. We decided to have one more drink, then call it a night. She must’ve dropped me off at home. I woke up, on my couch, fully clothed.
2
One thing was clear to me shortly after waking, on my couch, fully clothed: namely, I was in love with Elaine Andrews née Jefferies. I brushed my teeth and gargled mouthwash in an attempt to rid my mouth of the acrid taste of several whiskies. I think I’m in love with Elaine, I thought. And she did drive me home, I thought. For a long time, though, I wondered if I’d tried to kiss her when she’d dropped me off at my apartment; or if I’d invited her up to my place; or if I’d tried to kiss her and she’d accepted, then came up to my place, and I’d passed out on her; or if I’d tried to kiss her and she’d told me to get lost; or if I’d done more than try to kiss her, if I’d in fact told her how I now believed I felt about her — that is to say, if I’d told her that I love her! There was no point in fretting, I thought, I’d know soon enough if I’d behaved badly; after all, she was my client — she’d hired me — so things would be okay, I thought. After brushing my teeth and gargling mouthwash I drank several glasses of ice water and then looked for Elaine Andrews’s number in my wallet but found nothing save a receipt, no money and no number, and I remembered spending the last of my money at the bar, buying the last round of drinks, the last round of neat single malts. It surprised me that I didn’t take down a number, a number where I could reach her, her cellphone number, for example. Her cellphone, too, had been sitting on the table, while we drank drink after drink and talked about her now-dead husband, Gerald, their brief courting period, his shady-sounding business dealings, and about her childhood and adolescence, a childhood and adolescence I found myself fantasizing about jealously, picturing the vast open spaces she’d described, the beautiful golden fields of wheat, the sun shining down brightly in the blue sky, with large billowing sun-spiked clouds moving fast over the vast wheat fields, while she had sex with boys in pickups and in said fields, as the clouds’ shadows drifted across the golden seas of wheat. Elaine’s youth seemed distant from me — distant and exciting and irreproducible. I imagined making love to her in the hayloft of her parents’ barn. I imagined making love to her in her parents’ farmhouse. I imagined making love to her now, in the back of her BMW, as I lay back down on my couch — I couldn’t believe I hadn’t gotten a number. She was my client, after all; perhaps, I thought, it would’ve been wise to have taken down a number where she could be reached. I did remember her address, however: 19 Tower Street. It was twenty minutes by taxicab, which wasn’t bad. The cab came to $24.45, but I got a receipt, because I’m on a case. Even though I was in love with Elaine Andrews, I thought, I still had to charge for expenses, though I’d of course buy her the odd drink, and perhaps even dinner sometime. I hope she calls today, I thought, while lying on the couch, with my eyes closed, determined to sleep some more, determined to escape my hangover, and then I fell asleep for a few more hours.
When I woke up, I poured some juice, drank several glasses, and then I got into the shower. The washroom filled with steam while I washed and repeated fragments of conversation I’d had with Elaine silently in my head, though occasionally out loud. Elaine still hadn’t called. I wondered again why. I must’ve embarrassed myself, I thought. I must’ve told her that I love her, I thought, told her that I love her on the day, not the day after or the day after that day, but on the day her husband was found on the couch with a knife in his chest. I exposed my loathsomeness, after several Scotches, to Elaine Andrews, I thought, in all its grotesquerie. ‘What a stupid thing to do,’ I said. The water was hot and the washroom filled with steam while I clutched my head under the near-scalding water. She’d told me about her love for her now-dead husband and I responded by saying, ‘I love you,’ though she spoke French, so I might’ve even said something as stupid as ‘Je t’aime,’ I thought, as I stood under the hot water in the steam-filled washroom while clutching my head. ‘Je t’aime,’ I said. ‘Je t’aime, mon amour.’ Though I might not have said anything, I thought. I might’ve been on my best behaviour, and acted gentlemanly, even though I love her. Perhaps because I love her, I thought, I acted gentlemanly. I thought hard, hoping that I’d behaved gentlemanly, while I finished my shower in the near-scalding water.
‘The phonebook,’ I said. I knew her address — 19 Tower Street — so the phonebook! (If I didn’t drink, I thought, perhaps I’d be a better detective.) Under a small pile of books sat my stack of phonebooks. I searched my most up-to-date phonebook and sure enough, under her name — not Gerald’s — was their number. I wrote it down on a yellow Post-it and stuck the note beside the phone. I wondered what I would say. I wondered how to engage her. I wondered if I should begin by apologizing for drinking so much while on a case. I’ll tell her I won’t drink for the rest of the case, I thought. Until this case is finished, I will no longer drink, though that might be a difficult promise to keep, for it’s impossible to know for certain how long a case will go on for; many remain unsolved, as I’ve said already, and then there’s no end … I stared at the number and thought about dialing, and what I’d say, what I’d say to Elaine, when she answered. There’s no need to feel embarrassed, I thought. Your job’s to solve a case, not to worry about how you’re perceived.
I decided to record the conversation for my records. I set up my recording device and tested it before calling Elaine. I called a local florist and asked how much it’d cost to send a bouquet of flowers to 19 Tower Street. The florist, who was a woman, a woman of approximately fifty, I guessed, though I was probably wrong, asked me what kind of bouquet I was looking to send and I said I was looking to spend around twenty dollars. She said, ‘For delivery, you have to spend a minimum of forty dollars.’ So I said, ‘Okay, for forty, what could I get?’ She asked me what was the occasion and I said I wasn’t quite sure and then she asked me if it was for a wedding or a funeral or just because and I hesitated and then said just because. She told me that for forty dollars they’d put together a very lovely bouquet, a mélange, though mainly made up of purple lilies. I said that sounded perfect. She asked me whether I planned to pay with Visa or MasterCard. I told her that I’d call her back re the flowers later and so on and so forth. Then I listened to the playback.
The recording, the recording of the conversation between me and the florist, was crisp and clear and the device worked perfectly, as I’d expected it to, though I wanted to be thorough, so as to make sure. I looked at Elaine’s number and although I was nervous — my stomach felt weak and my heart beat quickly — I knew that I must call her and suss out the situation. I needed to know, I thought, where I stood, even if it meant discovering something unpleasant about myself. Before I called, though, I went and poured a large glass of ice water.
3
(Time: 1330h. Place: My apt. I pick the phone up off the mount, look at the number on the Post-it [i.e., Elaine Andrews’s number], and I key said number into the number pad. The phone rings approx. four times before she picks up. I’ve already started the recording device.)