The Superintendent’s House

            “Picturing yourself in her place, Mary?”
            Caught, Mary turned her back on the portrait. From her spot halfway up the stairs in the Donahue family’s dimly-lit front foyer, she faced the detective, wiping her cheek on her sleeve. “John, where’s Agnes? You didn’t leave her alone?”
            Detective Hernandez adjusted his leather bomber-jacket. “She’s in the kitchen with the other detectives,” he said. “Don’t worry.” He gave her that vibrant smile, then, the one he owned so well, both wide and full—and more than a little rakish. “You’re looking better,” he added.
            Mary tucked a rogue curl behind her ear. Grinding her hair’s long, brown fibers together, feeling their familiar texture, grounded her somehow. She said, “I needed a moment after Agnes calmed down. We both needed—well, it’s been a mess.”
            She stretched her long, aching back. The knots there now were new, earned crying with Agnes on the sitting room’s pink, high-backed Victorian couch, which was both the pride of the older woman’s home and its most rigid feature. The house itself personified what one would expect a well-to-do Irish family’s home would have been more than a hundred years ago: rooms cluttered with etched mirrors, wrought iron fixtures, smooth brass, and silent family photos. The other large, Colonial dwellings on Beverly’s premier housing block stood in similar stature, well off the bright, solemn street, where two black police sedans now guarded the curb, vigilant beneath the porch-lights.
            “It’s been awhile since you were here, right?” John asked. “Not since the fight.”
            Smoothing down her skirt, Mary descended the stairs. Her heels clacked on the polished wood with every step, each footfall emphasizing her prodigious height. John waited for her in the foyer, and when she finally met him there—on even ground—his head barely reached her shoulder. “Have you heard from Joe?” she asked.
            John shrugged. “Not since I gave you two the news,” he said.
            Her gaze softened. “Thank you, by the way, for following me over. I was so shaken, I…”
            “De nada, María,” he said.
            Mary placed her pale hand on the banister. “So,” she said. “When do the children arrive?”
            “Agnes expects Victor later today. He just has to drive back from school. The older brother’s out, though. She says he’s stationed overseas—incomunicado.”
            “What about Jessie? She’s still in town.”
            John scratched the fine black hairs on his scalp and stared up at the large Donahue family portrait hung above the vestibule—the same one Mary had been studying, before his arrival. He licked his lower lip. “She should be here soon.”
            Mary followed his gaze. Done years ago, judging by the children’s ages, the portrait was fascinating, even in the half-light. Its paint was layered on in earnest, lending the entire frame both breadth and depth. Agnes, her eyes like hot coca, was seated center, while Arthur stood behind her, looking dashing in his fitted suit, his hands on her shoulders. The children clustered around them—Allen, the eldest, with his long black hair, then Jessie, the only daughter, and finally Victor, an exact miniature of his father.
            “It’s a good picture,” John said. “Don’t you think?”
            “Yes,” she agreed. “I think it is.”
             “How old is the daughter there?” John asked. “Nine? Ten?”
            “Eight,” Mary said. She slowly inhaled the peppermint-scented air pervading the house, drinking deep. At last, she exhaled, letting it go. “The same as Rachel would be, now.”
            John made a noise with his tongue and circled behind her, lightly squeezing her forearm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m playing the fool again.”
            Mary tightened her own grip on the railing, but her voice remained soft. “I was putting myself in her place,” she admitted, “when you asked before. And Joe in Arthur’s.” Her face appraised the painted woman in her sable dress and pearls. “Agnes and I,” she said, “we have those same eyes, but…I imagine mine being much, I don’t know, harder than hers.” She squeezed her toes, drawing on their painful pressure, trapped, as they were, in her heels. “I mean, I’m sure she heard the same cop stories from Arthur I’ve heard form Joe, but, being a nurse,” she sighed, “I’ve had to explain so many coroner’s reports to Joe.”
            John thought a moment. Then he said, “Agnes, she taught high school, right?”
            “Yes,” Mary answered. “For twenty years.”
            “Well, teaching kids their Shakespeare isn’t easy, either,” he said.
            Her mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t know.”
            The detective couldn’t seem to fathom a reply. Instead, silence enveloped them in its cheap cloth, a wholly uncomfortable and transparent wrap of rags. Then John squeezed her arm again. “Querida,” he whispered. “How long have we been friends?”
            She shut her eyes. “Too long, I think.”
            “María…”
            Mary released her grip on the banister. Gradually, she turned and let those fingers fall upon his shoulder, before, at last, re-opening her eyes. “Okay. Long enough,” she murmured.
            “And you know I’m always here for you?” he asked, gazing up at her.
            She offered him a fleeting smile. “That’s the problem, dear.”
           He coughed, lightly, and she felt his breath between her fingers. His head bobbed toward her hand, and he took his time to speak. “I noticed you don’t wear your ring,” he said at length.
           Mary’s tender smile vanished. The wind outside seemed to clap in tempo at the trees, prompting all the foyer’s idle shadows from the intermittent porch-lights into dance. Dropping her hand, she stepped away. “It’s been hard,” she said, drifting across the room. Carefully, her fingers clasped the familiar charm on her necklace—the one hidden beneath her blouse. “With Rachel gone almost a year…and with mother’s passing, not too long before…”
            “This won’t be like your mother,” John asserted. “You won’t have to take care of Agnes all the time. She isn’t sick, and this will pass. You can keep your life this time.”
           Mary ambled toward the hall. Two police officers sat in the dim living room at its other end, sipping coffee, awaiting instructions, their presence now perfunctory at best. Someone, probably Agnes, had lit the candles in the den, and their liquid flames glittered down the muted hall like starlight. Rootless, and suddenly wistful, Mary began to hum to herself. It was a sad tune she picked, and an old one, more blues than jazz. “Mother was a bit tyrannical,” she said, finally, glancing back at John. “But she was still my mother.”
            He shook his head. “People without any music in themselves aren’t fit to complain about it in others. You don’t have to feel guilty for wanting more.”
            Mary stopped at the room’s edge, near an end-table, falling silent. She let her fingers play among the lilies collected there in a tall, glazed vase. Cupping one of the blooms gently in her hand, she said, “Even when all I really want—is to be alone?”
            She heard John shift his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy,” he said.
            Releasing the flower, she turned, half-facing him. “You didn’t,” she said. “It was just the song. It’s been in my head all night, and I’m never cheery when I hear sweet music.” Her eyes played about the room, the distant candlelight sheening across the polished floor as if it were water. “Have you seen my purse?” she asked, changing the subject.
            John toyed with the zipper on his jacket. “Do you really need a cigarette?”
            “It has my phone,” she answered. “Joe might have called.”
            Ambling toward her, John said, “Does he know you started smoking again?”
            Mary turned her head, hearing Agnes and the other two detectives in the kitchen. The older woman was gamely offering to pour the men some bourbon. “The detectives sound ready to ask Agnes their questions,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “We should join them.”
            John followed her down the narrow hall, silent.
            The connecting corridor’s pink and green wallpaper was nearly hidden by framed photographs. Each covered a milestone in the Donahue family’s growth, as the children became older. Mary scanned them: the whole clan out camping, off vacationing, or at home, entertaining guests at Arthur’s annual summer barbeque.
            John saw them, too. He said, “Agnes sure runs a tight ship. It really is a lovely home.”
            Mary shuddered, looking away from the pictures. “Not anymore.”
            The kitchen’s bright, fluorescent lights made her flinch upon entering. Due to her stature, Mary had to duck a fraction to avoid the doorframe, and in doing so nearly bumped into the large bookcase filled with Agnes’ recipes. Then her eyes adjusted. Potted plants hung over the sink, echoing the flowery wallpaper. Mary’s heels clicked, loud on the tile, while a coffee pot gurgled in the corner. The room radiated hazelnut.
            Seated at the kitchen table, Agnes drew herself up when she saw Mary, her warm brown eyes aglow. Older and heaver, now, than in her portrait, the widow’s silver nightgown discreetly masked her rounder frame. She held a whiskey on the rocks, an open Jameson bottle nearby. “Mary, come sit next to me,” she said. “I’ve only had a sip or two, and I already feel like jelly. Detective Parker was about to ask me some questions.”
            The detective seated opposite Agnes winced, his chubby eyebrows nettling. “That’s Porter, ma’am,” he said, tugging at his fluffy beard.
            “Oh, how silly I am,” Agnes apologized, slouching back into her chair. She unwrapped a cough drop from her pocket and plopped it in her mouth. “I’m just all out of sorts tonight.”
            Mary took the chair next to Agnes, while John leaned against the bookcase a few steps away. She noted the fixedness on his face, and the way he crossed his arms, and sighed inwardly, attributing his new demeanor to one thing or another. Detective Porter’s swarthy partner also lurked against the far wall, sipping coffee. She and John were offered drinks as well, but passed.
            “To catch you up, Mrs. Kincaid,” Porter began, “Mrs. Donahue has—”
            “Agnes and Mary, Detective.”
            “Very well, Mrs. Kincaid. Agnes, as I was saying, has agreed to come downtown later today and officially identify the superintendent’s body. Isn’t that right, Agnes?”
            The older woman took a generous sip of whiskey. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
            Porter nodded. “Then let’s continue. You were recounting last night’s activities?”
            Agnes swallowed carefully. “Yes,” she said, her eyes squinting. “I went to the grocery store around five and ate dinner with Arthur around eight. Then I cleaned for half an hour. Dried spaghetti sauce takes that extra scrubbing time, you know.” 
            Mary let the refrigerator’s steady hum fill her ears. She crossed her legs and folded her hands to keep herself alert and erect. She would need that coffee soon. The hours, and their strain, were wearing her down, and the little details, like the spaghetti, were a heavy cross to bear. The older woman’s wedding ring glinted at her in the light.
            “Arthur left around eleven, and I went to bed shortly after,” Agnes finished, sliding her cough-drop under her tongue.
            Porter made a few notes on his legal pad. “Did you know your husband’s exact plans?”
            “He said he was meeting someone for drinks.”
            “Can you remember who or where?”
            Agnes paused. “He didn’t say. But Arthur often complained his work wasn’t letting him keep in touch with friends. He’d been going out a lot recently, to try and fix that.”
            Porter flipped to a new page. “Did you expect him back later?”
            “Arthur had a two-beer rule. But I never stayed up for him.”
            “What mood was he in?”
            “He seemed fine. Not edgy or nervous or anything like that.”
            “Did Arthur show any changes in behavior over the last month or so?”
            “Well, not really. But he’s had some gas.”
            Porter’s shaggy eyebrow twitched. “Was it in any way debilitating, ma’am?”
            Agnes raised her glass. “Only for me,” she said.
            Mary, unable to stop herself, reached out and squeezed her old friend’s veined, leathery hand, bringing it back down to the table. Agnes never lost her pluck for long, despite the gray hairs slowly appearing among the black ones at her temples. Mary’s fingers accustomed themselves to the familiar grooves in the older woman’s palm again, and she felt Agnes’ digits doing the same to hers, enclosing them in the little woman’s sure-fire grip.
            Porter did his best to smile. “We, ah, won’t consider that a motive at present, Mrs. Donahue,” he said, “and we’ll just move on for now.”
            Agnes sighed. “Thank you, Detective Pecker.”
            John and the other detective traded smirks.
            But Porter continued, unperturbed. “Did your husband keep any weapons in the house?”
            “One in the hall closet. That’s the shotgun. And he had another, smaller gun in his office. Oh, and a pistol in his nightstand next to the bed. He would shoot the squirrels from our bedroom window with that, before they could get to my bird-feeders.”
            “Was he wearing a weapon when he left the house last night?”
            “I don’t think so.”
            “Was that typical of him?”
            “I don’t really know.”
            Porter paused. “Department regulations state police officers should always wear their side-arms, even off duty. For safety. Is there any reason why he wouldn’t?”
            Agnes faltered. “Not that I…I don’t know…”
            “I see,” he said, before pressing on. “The superintendent’s job naturally entails some animosity from different groups, but had he gained many personal enemies over the years?”
            “I couldn’t say. He kept his work from the house as much as possible, and our friends and neighbors are so kind. Everyone loved Arthur. He was a good man,” she finished, sipping some more of her drink.
            “In that case, are there any particularly special friends he might have been meeting?”
            Agnes wrinkled her brows, exposing her crow’s feet. “What do you mean?”
            The man coughed. “Do you know anyone your husband might want to meet, so late at night, for something, perhaps, other than drinks?”
            Mary’s ears perked up at that. She clenched her toes and held her breath.
            In a lower tone, Agnes repeated, “What do you mean?”
            Porter measured his words. “I’m authorized to provide you with any information from the case, ma’am, so long as it doesn’t jeopardize our investigation,” he said, “and I assure you—”
            “Detective,” Agnes said with vigor, “let me assure myself. And that I may be assured, please, tell me what you mean.”
            “It’s delicate, ma’am.”
            She pursed her lips. “Just tell me.”
            He sighed. “A condom was found on Arthur’s person.”
            Mary heard a car drive by in the following silence. Coffee continued to gurgle in the pot on the counter, and the ice machine in the refrigerator turned over. Then the soggy cubes inside the older woman’s whiskey glass began to tremor. Agnes swallowed her cough-drop, and Mary felt the older woman’s grip tighten on her hand. “Detective, that’s ridiculous,” she said.
            “Ma’am…”
            “No, I really do think you’re mistaken,” Agnes insisted. She lifted a finger from her shaky glass and pointed it at the bearded cop. “It was an alley, Porker. Who knows how long that thing has been there? Even one of your men might’ve dropped it.”
            “Other evidence supports its presence,” Porter said, taking another route. “For one, your husband’s wallet was found intact, which makes a crime of opportunity unlikely. And second, well, we also have a suspect.”
            The widow’s mouth fell open. “What?”
            “That isn’t to say this person is actually guilty,” Porter warned. “But I think the deposition, when it comes, will be damning.”
            “You mean your suspect is linked to the condom, for certain?” Mary asked.
            The detective made a gesture in the affirmative, but said nothing. Mary regarded his partner for further comment, finding, instead, a face that was completely unreadable. Her eyes drifted between the two men for a time, demanding answer, but without success. She exchanged a glance with John. He seemed just as baffled.
            Agnes, her lips pale, cleared her throat. “Please,” she said. “What aren’t you telling us?”
            After another moment, Porter said, “This suspect, Mrs. Donahue…is a man.”
            Initially, it didn’t register. Then Mary felt her back grow stiff.
            She also felt the other woman’s hand slide away from her. Agnes stood, all eyes turning in her direction. Her feet unsteady, the widow regarded each of them in turn. “No,” she said, quietly, but firmly. “No, no, no.”
            Mary, unable to speak, reached out to her. Agnes jerked her arm away.
            “No!” she repeated, backpedaling, her feet unsteady. “That is not…”
            Teetering, the woman’s legs finally buckled. The whiskey glass fell from her hand, shattering against the tile. And Agnes, an instant later, collapsed.
            Mary reacted first. She flew upon Agnes, checking for cuts, and, mercifully, there were none. When she beckoned for a towel, John put one in her hand an instant later. The other two detectives, at her direction, cleared out the glass as best they could. On her third try, and with a little more help from John, Mary got Agnes back into her chair. She draped her arm around her friend’s shoulders, wrapping her in the towel, and prompted her to breathe deeply, and slowly, to the cadence she provided. “Find the beat, Agnes,” she said. “Find the rhythm.” In a moment, the widow was calm.
            Then, she seized Mary’s arm. “Dear, God!” she said. “The children!”
            Porter stepped forward, glass fragments carefully balanced in his hand. “We’ll be discreet with the press,” he assured her. “It’s, ah, embarrassing for us, too.”
            Agnes’ eyes filled with tears. “But it’s not true,” she said. “It’s not.”
            Mary held her tighter, clutching at the towel’s coarse fibers, but said nothing.
            The two cops from the den had entered to help, and John was sorting them out.
            Agnes shook her head. “No, he couldn’t have hidden that from me,” she said. Then her eyes clouded over in thought. “Would I have known?” she asked herself, frankly. “I don’t know. Love is blind, after all. And lovers—lovers simply cannot see the pretty follies they commit.”

SPECIAL NOTE: The above selection is an original work by the author, Jason Loeffler, and he retains all rights to its content. Publication requests can be made on Jason's contact page.