Chapter Six

Martha read a handful of chapters of her novel. One of the men who had abducted the snorkeling heroine fell in Love with her large, captivating cornflower blue eyes and supple skin. “Come on,” the man said, untying her. He took the gag out of her mouth. “Why are you helping me?” the heroine asked breathlessly. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he said, knowing he was throwing everything away.

They had almost escaped unnoticed when a tower guardsman spotted them, and a terrifying volley of gunfire ensued. When they had successfully evaded the henchmen, they took refuge within the inner recesses of the unforgiving jungle. They built a camp for the night, and leaned thick, healthy, adult-sized palm fronds against each other like a primitive house of cards. The man used loose threads from his jacket to tie around the tops. They then made a fire. Martha wondered if the fire or the smoke could give away their whereabouts, but she was quickly rushed into the imagery of the warm, golden look on their cheeks, the loving looks in their eyes.

The man told the heroine about his past, and how he came to work for the big boss. He expressed worries over his best friend who stood behind the big boss, and knew he would never forsake the big boss, for he was indebted to him for picking him up off the streets. “I may have to kill my best friend one day,” the man said with a dark sadness in his eyes. In the back of her mind, the heroine wondered what had become of the expert boatman and scuba diver who had helped her and let her stay in his home.

Martha turned the book face down and looked out the windows. It was even hotter now than it had been in the morning. She realized it was raining. She opened the windows and let the rain smell in. The swaying trees sounded like fairy sparkles. Light danced all over the hardwood floors. It was now nearly six, and Corbett hadn’t come down yet. Martha was hungry. She made herself a light sandwich and ate it, and debated for the minutes that she ate it if she should watch television or not.

She ended up walking all over the house, surveying all the mounted photos as if she were in a museum comprised entirely of portraits of her. She hadn’t noticed when she arrived last night how many pictures of her there actually were. Only one picture of the both of them was mounted, and it was small in comparison to others of her surrounding it. Martha then sat in the computer room and stared at all the book titles on the wall, antiquated and stately-looking, organized in alphabetical order by title rather than by author, and then by height and thickness. She wiggled the mouse, and her files popped up. She stared at them. She looked up at the tall bookshelf, then at the pile of books by the computer. She lifted the top one and opened it.

It still had its receipt in it from years ago. Notes were scribbled all throughout the margins. Accounting was easy enough. Add or subtract this, multiply or divide that. Balance sheets were a little more challenging, but mostly tedious. She felt herself learning quickly, and she wondered if she was a fast learner or if she happened to be refreshing herself.

The house phone rang. She stopped reading. It rang until it went to the answering machine, where it then hung up. She began reading again. Near the back of the book were cases of fraud. Maria had written her most profuse notes by these cases, so profuse that they were crammed and nearly illegible. “CHECK:” was underlined three times, and “F,” “P,” and “S” were written beneath it. Where had she recognized that? She looked at her calendar again, flipping through all the notes. In late November, the letters “F,” “P,” and “S” were scrawled underneath “Jennifer: Lita’s Birthday.” Martha felt something surfacing. Her first instinct was to search through Lebaron’s files. She tried to search the letter “F” in the Lebaron account, and hundreds of entries popped up.

“Of course all this would show up,” she said to herself in admonishment. “F” for “firecracker” and other such entries were bound to surface. She started to pick through nouns that started with the letter “F” in the Lebaron account when the phone rang again. This time, it didn’t go until it reached the answering machine. Martha realized she was sweating. She wiped her nose. She abandoned the “f’s” for the time being and decided to learn what she could from the accounting book, and so she started from the very first page, the introduction. She managed to get through the introduction and chapter one. It bored her, but she forced herself to read. It made her dizzy.

She got up, and walked around the house sweating, wondering where the air conditioning was. She saw the panel, but it was locked. She mounted the stairs, and knocked on the door of the master bedroom. No answer.

“Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he drawled.

“May I come in?”

“Do whatever you want.”

What he said struck Martha as odd, but she opened the door, and a sweltering heat flew out. There was a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, nearly all gone. Who knew how much of it he had today? Above the bed was a painting of a garden, overflowing with flora. Warm, darkwood-colored French doors opened to a sunrise over the water, done in delicate strokes of blue, purple, red, and pink that delighted her senses. Corbett was propped up, staring off.

“Lieutenant, are you all right?”

He looked up at her, his chest rising and falling.

She went over to him, and her first instinct was to place the back of her hand against his forehead. He was burning up. “What happened?” she asked.

He shrugged, and the smell of alcohol wafted off his pores.

“This is no way for you to spend an afternoon,” she said sternly, getting him to lie down. “What’s wrong with you?”

He almost smiled.

She went and threw the curtains and the windows open, and the sound of rain filled the room. The dancing light made everything in the room come alive. She almost forgot to breathe. She stood over him.

“I feel sick,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said with a quivering frown.

How would you know how I felt? he thought, looking up at her. It was hard for him to see past the bleached hair or the stern look. He couldn’t ever recall her giving him that look before, but for some reason, he felt drawn to it. He reached up, and slid his hand over her arm, not knowing that he was raising goose bumps on her skin as his fingers passed. She instinctively leaned in.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“What’s what,” he said.

Martha found that her eyes poured into his, as if her gaze had nowhere else to go. Though his eyes were red, she still found something soulful in them, something sad, something that was constantly appraising her, dwelling on her. That feeling returned again, the feeling she had felt when he had first laid eyes upon her. She felt like a work of art. She then recalled the pretty pictures of her all over the house, close-ups and faraway shots, all varying expressive smiles: coy smiles, large and goofy smiles, Mona Lisa smiles, warm smiles.

“Don’t look at me that way,” she said.

Corbett didn’t say anything for a while. The neighbor’s chimes rang out. “I don’t know how else to look at you,” he finally said.

Martha wondered if he understood what she meant—or if she really understood what he meant. “What do you want to eat?” she asked with soft defeat.

“I don’t want to eat,” he said.

Martha wondered if she even knew how to cook. Whenever she tried to cook for Tina and Paquita, they always ended up getting takeout. “You’re going to eat,” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

She left the room.

Corbett sighed, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she had come back with a bowl of eggs, some lemonade, and an accounting text book. She left the eggs on the dresser by his empty bottle of whiskey, and pulled up a chair by his bedside. After dabbling away the sweat on his forehead with a paper towel, she popped open the textbook, and started reading. She looked at him again, realizing he wasn’t going to eat.

“I’m not the best cook, but you have to eat something, Lieutenant,” she said.

He turned his head away, but his eyes remained on her, incredulous.

Martha didn’t know why she found that particular expression of his attractive. “Are you going to make me spoon feed you, or are you going to feed yourself, Lieutenant?”

Corbett sat up and ate begrudgingly. She went back to reading.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked.

“A few things. I won’t know until I finish a few more chapters. Application of these examples seems fairly easy.

He nodded. The eggs were over-salted. He shoveled them down.

“Did I actually like accounting?” she asked.

He swallowed. “You liked doing a lot of things,” he said.

She went back to reading. She stopped again. “How do I turn on the air conditioner?”

He polished off his food, placed the empty plate on the nightstand, and leaned his head back. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The phone rang again. He watched it, and finally decided to pick it up. This was Mark Gray’s third time to call. “Hi, Corbett residence.—yes, hello,” he said. He paused and listened. “If you need legal advice, you should really call—okay,” he said, watching Martha who was reading. “I don’t think that’s something you should be worrying about. I don’t even think that’s worth putting through small claims. If your wife drafted a written contract with this person, friend or not, they are expected to pay. Okay. Yes. Maybe. I’ll think about it. How am I? I’m fine. Thank you. No problem. Bye—tomorrow? Maybe Wednesday. Maybe then. Bye, Mark,” Corbett said, and hung up the phone.

Martha looked up with an inquisitive face.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Did a lot of reading. How about yours?” she asked.

“Did a lot of drinking,” he said, searching her eyes.

She would have asked him again not to look at her that way, but deep down, she somewhat enjoyed it. It was the only reason why she read by his bedside.

Lauren arrived that evening with many bags of groceries, and had to make another trip to get all of them. She told the Corbetts that she had made a couple more appointments. One was with Lebaron’s wife who she had tried to call over and over again for the past few months. It seemed that Mrs. Lebaron was ready to respond, and eager to dispel rumors that her husband had been a criminal, a schemer, a carouser. The second appointment was another meeting with Mr. Avery, to review some of Mr. Beck’s files; she had once again turned down his offer for her to come alone. She seemed much happier now that she was finally able to make some progress. Corbett was put to bed early; he couldn’t even keep up with anything Lauren was saying.

“I also have to work on another case, but I feel like this one will actually go somewhere. Thanks to some of your husband’s brilliant ideas, I think I’ll be able to move forward.—what is it that you’re working on right now?” she asked.

“I’m trying to get all the nouns that start with ‘s’ out of the Lebaron file. It isn’t yielding any useful results,” Martha said.

“Why are you trying to do that?”

Martha showed her the calendar.

“Hm. I guess I’ll help you. If you can print out all three copies of the same files and have all the respective words highlighted, I’ll circle the nouns. And don’t forget, you have all of Drummond to look through, too.”

Martha nodded. The Drummond account was bigger, uglier. “Have you ever tried to schedule an appointment with Mr. Drummond?” she asked.

“You know, I tried a couple of times, but his secretary kept forwarding me to his voice mail,” Lauren said. “I think I’ll try again, though. Thank you for reminding me.” Lauren took down some small notes, and went back to word circling. “It was really hot today,” she said. “Last night, the sky had been a pretty pink. I knew a storm was coming, but I didn’t think it would be this hot, too.”

Martha nodded.

“I met an old classmate at the grocery store. He just moved into the neighborhood two weeks ago,” Lauren gushed.

Martha perked a brow. “Oh?” she asked.

“Yeah. We have a date on Saturday—well, it’s not exactly a date, we’re just going to get lunch and catch up, but… He’ll be my second guy to date since I transferred. Anyway, Saturday’s my only free day. There’s a lot of work to be done,” Lauren said.

Martha stared for a little bit. She expected Tina or Paquita to tell her this kind of stuff, but not Detective Kat. But why shouldn’t she? She was a woman before she was a detective. “Do you read romance novels?” Martha suddenly asked.

Lauren smiled. “To tell you the truth, not a single one. I think it’s because I haven’t been recommended any.”

“I’m almost finished with the one I’m reading,” Martha offered.

“I might borrow it from you. It’ll probably help me wind down. I’ve learned that you have to have a good balance of work and play,” Lauren said. She scanned the files, and realized she had circled a lot of verbs. She had used a pen, so her embarrassing mistakes would be all over the document. She went and scribbled all the circles out. Grammar had always been her weakest subject.

Corbett realized that his mind was going nuts. Maybe being reunited with his wife was more traumatic than coping with her death. He paced about without his shirt on. It was three in the morning and he had gotten only a couple fitful hours of rest. Once he awoke, he couldn’t put his mind to rest. He looked at his empty bottle of whiskey as he placed a hand against his stomach. He felt hungry, but he didn’t feel hungry. He paced around some more. He decided he was going to go back to the office tomorrow—but what about leaving Martha here all by herself? Was it fine with her? He almost didn’t care.

He just couldn’t stand being in the house anymore with her around, a living mirror of Maria.

He couldn’t stand to be with his thoughts. He even turned on some music, and eventually found a station that played Coltrane and other Jazz. Corbett stared at the dresser. He opened up one of Maria’s and decided to look through it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just underwear. He opened the next one. Shirts she rarely or never wore. Pants she rarely or never wore. Underneath the last pair of pants, he found a small journal. He turned on the light to the dimmest setting, and opened it up. A photo fell out. He picked up the picture, and it was a dog-eared, nearly discolored photo of a man with a nice smile he recognized to be his best friend.

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he asked, staring at the photo in sheer disbelief.

“Lieutenant. It’s Martha.”

“Coming,” he said, and placed the journal back in the dresser and closed it. He opened the door, but then slammed his foot there. “Hold on. I forgot. I’m not wearing a shirt.”

“Oh,” she said.

He shrugged one on, and opened the door again. “Hi. Why are you still up?” he asked.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, but he obviously sounded flustered.

“Lieutenant,” she started.

“What is it,” he said.

“I want you to stop drinking,” she said. “It isn’t good for you.”

He stared.

“I know you’re probably thinking, ‘Who are you, my mother?’ I’m not your mother. I’m your wife—or was. Whatever will get you to stop drinking should be what you use to stop doing it. I don’t like it. Paquita’s boyfriend does too much of it, and frankly, that’s the only thing wrong with him.”

“Okay. I will,” he said.

“I’m serious,” she said.

“I know you’re serious,” he said. “So am I.”

“Just like that?” she said. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Were you the type of husband to say something and not follow through with it?”

A ghost of a smile flirted with the corner of his lips. “Why are you asking me this, Martha?”

“Because,” she said. “I want to know.”

“I always say what I mean,” he said solemnly.

Rain slapped against the concrete outside, and against the leaves.

Martha suddenly wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

He fell against her and pinned her to the door.

She immediately pulled away and slapped him in the face.

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t believe you’re cheating on me with me!”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m not Maria. I don’t remember anything about what it’s like to be your wife. What’s wrong with you?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, and he fought the smile on his mouth so hard he looked ready to laugh.

“Pig,” Martha spat contemptuously, and rolled around the door and closed it behind her. She leaned against it when she was out in the hall. Her heart couldn’t stop beating. It was as if his mouth fit perfectly on hers, sending a charged current like hurried Morse through a line. She left for her room completely perplexed by her own actions, and spent the better part of the evening tossing and turning. Maybe those crazy stories she read made her compulsive and hungry for affection. Maybe she was ready to menstruate. She hid her mouth in her blanket. The weather was just terrible. It was raining steadily outside, but it was so hot that it was unbearable.