Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

there quietly, we heard a lone bird begin to sing. While we waited for Tina to come downstairs, I told him what I planned to do, and asked if he would help.
    I fed the dogs while Chip showered and dressed. Then he took them out for a walk while Tina and I got ready. Afterward, he made breakfast, while I made some urgent phone calls.
    We took separate cabs. Chip and Betty took Tina with them. Dashiell and I rode with each other, he watching the city slip by on one side of the backseat, me leaning against the window on the other side, thinking about how sometimes even the best of intentions go hideously awry and wondering what would become of Tina when all this was over.



ONE DOOR CLOSES

    W hen we got out of the cab, Dashiell looked at me and then over toward the park, sending a message without saying a word. But I headed for the hotel instead. It was six-forty-five, time for us to get to work.
    Sometimes killers play games with the cops, I thought, using the service entrance around the corner. They write notes, or leave maddening, conflicting clues on purpose.
    Some killers want to show how smart they are, and so they brag.
    Some are dumb as pigeon shit. No matter what they do, even tying their shoelaces, they fuck it up royally.
    But this killer was one smart cookie. She’d done everything she could not to get caught, staging the crime scenes so that they appeared to be other than they were, accidents or suicide instead of calculated murders.
    Had she killed the other two to muddy the waters, so that the death she needed wouldn’t stand out and eventually point to her?
    Or worse, her daughter?
    One door closes, I’d told Chip, talking about the inability I’d felt to go back to the profession I so loved after my divorce. Had I felt I didn’t deserve even that?
    Another door opens. I’d become a detective.
    A door also closed the night I’d gone for ice. Cathy’s door.
    She’d opened it, hoping to see Martyn. Was she thinking she could rewrite history? Whatever she’d been thinking, she’d come to her senses and closed it without peering out to see who was there, to see that it wasn’t Martyn. It was only me.
    But then another door opened.
    Martyn was tired. He unlocked his door and opened it. He wanted to go to bed. Why didn’t he?
    Was it because Beryl’s door had opened?
    But how the hell did she get him up to the roof?
    I handed the package I’d brought from home to one of the waiters. When everything was ready, I headed for the elevator. Getting out on four, I told Dashiell to drop and wait. Then I knocked softly on her door.
    “Have you had your breakfast yet?” I asked, holding the tray in front of me.
    “Oh, brilliant,” she said. “You’ve brought tea and scones. Come in, Rachel. Come right in.”
    She’d already been out for a walk. I could see where the dew had taken the shine off her sturdy nun’s shoes.
    “Here, let me put that on die dresser,” she said. Then she pulled her chair close to the window seat. “Which would you prefer?”
    “Either is fine.”
    “Save the chair for me,” she said. “It’ll remind me to keep my back straight. Shall I serve, dear?”
    Without waiting for an answer, she walked back to the tray and lifted the lid off the teapot. “How did you get them to use loose tea?” she asked. “I’ve been trying unsuccessfully all week.“
    „I brought my own from home,” I whispered to her back. “Clever thing,” she said.
    Cecilia was scratching at the doorjamb, then turning around to try to catch Beryl’s eye. But Beryl didn’t notice. She was pouring tea.
    I walked into the bathroom.
    “My mother always told me,” she said, loud enough for me to hear her over the sound of the running water, “keep your back straight, Beryl. Head high. The rest will take care of itself. Now, isn’t that the silliest thing you ever heard?”
    I came out and took my seat. Beryl was smiling when she turned around, my cup in one hand, a plate with a raspberry scone in the other. I took them and placed them carefully next to me on the window seat. Beryl went back for the napkins, cream, and sugar. And again for her own cup and scone.
    “Isn’t this cozy?” She poured some of the heavy cream into her thick, dark tea, stirred, and took a sip. “Just like home.“
    „Sam was so thrilled when you decided at last to come and speak here, to be part of her symposium.”
    “Yes, she was. She seemed delighted to hear from me.“
    “What made you change your