Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

ads, which words appealed to them, which would make them trust the product.”
    “And they needed a doctor, a specialist, to do this because
    “Oh, it gave people the sense the drug company was really concerned about the needs and preferences of the patients.”
    I nodded.
    “But I did worry about it. About the fact that it was...“
    “Illegal?”
    She made one of those little gasps again. “Oh, no, not illegal.”
    “Off the books isn’t illegal now?”
    “Well, yes, but...”
    “He had no choice.”
    She nodded.
    I watched her for a moment, neither of us talking, Celia not wanting to say where the money came from, not wanting to talk about the fact that her lover had not only cheated on his wife, he cheated on his taxes as well, me wondering if this was the whole truth and nothing but the truth, wondering, too, if the stories of extra work were an excuse not to be with her, with Celia. Perhaps the money he gave her wasn’t that big a deal to him. Perhaps five or six thousand a month was chump change to the good doctor. Perhaps he took care of the family finances and his wife had no real idea what he earned and where the money went. That wouldn’t be uncommon. Perhaps there was some way he was able to fiddle around with the books at work, have the business pay Celia’s rent, claim it as something else. Who knew what was possible when there was powerful motivation matched with the need for secrecy? Who knew what people could and would do when they felt entitled to everything their beady little hearts desired?
    Perhaps Bechman was cheating on Celia, too? Perhaps there was another girlfriend, another child stashed in yet another apartment? Did Celia ever wonder about that, all those nights she waited for him and he never came?
    My mother always said I had an active imagination. But, still, it was possible, wasn’t it? It was as possible that Bechman was killed for philandering as he was for screwing up a shot of Botox. At least that’s what I was hoping at the moment.
    I turned around and went back to the living room to pick up my jacket. I’d come to ask about Madison and I had. As for the rest, perhaps my mother was right. Perhaps I was just wishing that what I’d heard today might help with what I was hired for. But how? So what if Bechman wasn’t as lily white as Ms. Peach would like everyone to think. Big deal. Who was? How would the fact that he had hidden income from his wife and his government get Madison off the hook? Because that was the point, wasn’t it?
    Celia was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
    “What now?” I asked her.
    “I’m looking for a job. Charles said he could pick up JoAnn from school and take care of her until I got home.”
    “Every day?”
    She nodded.
    “You’re a very lucky woman.”
    “I guess so. I just don’t feel so lucky right now. It’s going to be hard,” she said. She looked small and vulnerable standing against the doorway, her arms folded across her chest as if she was trying her best to hold herself together. “I knew it would be hard when I decided to keep her.” She shook her head. “No, that wasn’t a decision. That was a given.” Tears in her eyes now.
    “Was there talk of not keeping her?”
    She shook her head, shook my question away. What difference could it make at this late date?
    “It’s a mess, I know. It’s been a mess from the beginning. We tried to do this without hurting anyone.” She bit her lip, cocked her head. “But you can’t. We couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. I know that now.”
    I turned to go and then turned back to her.
    “Do you remember the song?” I asked.
    “Gilbert’s song?” She smiled, a weary smile. “I do.”
    “I’d like to hear it sometime.”
    She nodded.
    “What will happen to Madison?” she asked as I reached for the doorknob.
    I shook my head without turning around. When all was said and done, that was the real question, and I was nowhere near a real answer.

CHAPTER 15

    Ms. Peach, I thought when I left Celia’s apartment. And then again walking down all those stairs. Exactly what did Ms. Peach know?
    I checked my watch. It was only ten-thirty. I could be at the office before she got there, or even better, after she got there but before office hours. We headed for Washington Square Park, the smells of ethnic cooking wafting out from the open doors of restaurants getting ready for lunch, pan-Asian on one comer, Indian in the middle of another street. An