Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

pointer, picking up the phone and dialing. But then he slid out from under Dash’s head, got up and walked out of the room before she answered, choosing to explain things in private.
    Men killed over smaller issues than this, I thought. He seemed to be a very gentle man, a loving man, a forgiving man. He seemed to be a hopeful man, too, perhaps ridiculously so. Had he been thinking that if he were the perfect ex, the loving uncle, the man Celia could always count on, still, that one day her relationship with Bechman would fall apart, that one day he’d have not only the woman he loved, but the child as well?
    Of course, appearances could be deceiving and what things looked like might not be the way things were. Hadn’t my client said that the first time we’d met?
    There was a wall of books, a desk nearby, a stack of papers on the desk, a laptop, a printer, a mug with pens and pencils, probably a pile of unpaid bills somewhere, too. Along the widest of the bookshelves, there were framed pictures of JoAnn as an infant, JoAnn sitting up, standing, walking, on a swing, JoAnn as a toddler, JoAnn at four and JoAnn with her mother, a pretty woman with straight blonde hair, like Madison’s, and serious blue eyes. Forthcoming, he’d said. God save us all.
    Charles Abele came back into the room, put the phone in the cradle and handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. “She said you could call her,” he told me.
    “She won’t see me?” I asked.
    “She will. But she wanted you to call first. She’s...“ He was still standing, his arms at his side, looking off to the side, toward the pictures of JoAnn, who, unlike Madison, smiled for the camera. “She’s having a bad day. A bad . . .“ His voice trailed off.
    “That’s understandable,” I said. “I’ll call her tomorrow.” I got up. “You’ve been so gracious, so helpful. I can’t thank you enough.” I put out my hand to shake his, but instead he took it and tucked it against his side, walking me to the door as if we were old friends.
    He let go of my hand and opened the door. “Do you think Madison did it?” he whispered.
    “I couldn’t say. I suppose it’s possible.”
    He shook his head.
    “Not possible?” I asked.
    “I don’t know. It’s just that...” He’d been looking down. He met my eyes now. “Having a kid, it’s not like buying a pair of shoes, they pinch, you return them or you throw them away. I don’t understand bringing a child into the world and then abandoning her.”
    He might have meant Sally, but I had the strong feeling it was Bechman he was talking about, Bechman who’d stolen Charles’s wife and the child that should have been his. And then what, visited once or twice a week? How much more time could he have spent with them when he had another family to care for in Larchmont, his real family?
    I began to wonder if beneath the sadness there was a fulminating rage, and if so, if that rage was on behalf of his “niece,” or perhaps for himself, for the damage Bechman had done to him.
    And what of Celia, living on her own with JoAnn, waiting for those crumbs of time Eric Bechman could spare for them? How angry had she been? And was the “bad day” she was having today nothing, perhaps, compared to the bad days she had when Bechman was still alive?

CHAPTER 13

    We took the long way home, weaving in and out of my favorite Village blocks, then discovering one of the last street fairs of the season, mostly people selling things they no longer wanted, an old manual typewriter, used books, stuffed animals, some with a missing ear or tail, that had once belonged to kids who were now in college, a bicycle that looked as if it might be okay after a few days in the repair shop, shoes with run-down heels, vintage clothes and just plain used clothes, some embarrassingly worn. One person’s junk, another person’s treasure. That wasn’t only true for porcelain statues, lamps without shades, the shawl your grandmother crocheted that was filled with terrible memories rather than warmth. It was true for dogs, an abandoned mutt at the shelter, at least one of the lucky few, becoming someone else’s beloved companion, and for people, a lover one woman dumps becoming the perfect man for someone else.
    I thought of the way some people would sit outside selling their chipped knickknacks for a buck or two apiece, or hoping to, and other people held on to everything, mismatched china, a nasty dog, a distracted mate. I