Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

had offered her a clean break, and she’d chosen to take it. There had been no witnesses, and even if Norman’s body did wash ashore, an autopsy would reveal the huge amounts of alcohol in his blood, and the police would assume (correctly, of course) that a drunk had fallen off a cliff. So she’d taken a bus back to Barbary Lane and gone to Mrs. Madrigal’s Christmas party. She’d never told anyone about it except Michael.
    In the intervening years (including the dozen or so more years she’d remained in San Francisco) Mary Ann had never spoken of Norman again, and—even more damning to the memory of a dead man—not a single living soul had ever asked about him. Norman’s ugly little life had left him seemingly devoid of all human connection.
    Until Fogbound One.
    Now Mary Ann was wondering if Norman had had a friend she’d never known about, someone who’d grown curious about his old buddy once her name had shown up on Facebook. What if he (or she) was trying to torment her about Norman’s disappearance?
    Or what if the police had simply found new evidence?
    What if a human jawbone with an easily identifiable filling had turned up in the rocks below those cliffs?
    Stop it, you ridiculous woman. Just stop it.
    “S EE IF THIS FITS .”
    Mary Ann looked up with a start from her Facebook page. Ben was holding out a puffy powder-blue ski jacket. “For Pinyon City,” he explained.
    “You sure I’ll need that?”
    “Oh, yeah. It gets into the twenties at night.” He smiled, revealing that delectable gap. “Didn’t you ever go to the Sierra when you lived here?”
    “Not really. Well … once or twice, but usually in the summer. I’ve never been a skier.”
    Ben guided her arms into the cushiony sleeves. “It’s a little roomy, but the color’s really good on you.”
    He was right about both things. She admired herself in the mirror next to the bed, mostly to show him her appreciation. “You sure you can spare this?”
    “We’ve got tons of ’em.” Ben gestured toward her laptop. “You won’t be needing that, by the way. There’s no Wi-Fi in Pinyon City.”
    Her face must have betrayed her chagrin.
    “Are you addicted already?”
    She knew he was talking about Facebook. “Not really,” she said, lying just a little bit. “But I do wanna stay in touch with my doctor.”
    Six days to go, she thought. Is this really a wise idea? Will a radical change of scenery in the middle of nowhere make the time pass slower or faster?
    “No worries,” said Ben. “We usually have breakfast over in the next valley. They’ve got Wi-Fi in the café there. And we’re only gone for two nights.”
    “Right … okay.” She folded her laptop and swaddled it in a pair of slacks before tucking it into her suitcase.
    “I’ll see you in a bit,” said Ben, backing out the door. “I’ve gotta get Roman’s stuff together.”
    Oh, shit. The dog.
    “You knew we were bringing him, right?”
    “Oh, well … yeah … I figured.”
    “He lives for these trips,” said Ben. “He’s so much fun in the snow.”
    “And he’s good in the car?”
    “Oh yeah. He’s great.”
    •••
    H E WAS NOT GREAT . H E whimpered, for one thing—not loudly but steadily—for the first two hours of the trip, supposedly in anticipation of the natural wonders awaiting him. When he finally settled down, he sprawled on the seat with all the entitlement of a temple lion, his wet, black nose planted squarely on Mary Ann’s lap. She wondered if he could actually sense something, smell something— feel her disease , as that cryptic old Beatles song went. How did that go? He got … something, something. He got feet down below his knees, hold you in his arms so you can feel his disease, come together right now …
    “You okay?” Michael was peering at her from the front seat.
    “We’re fine.” She had answered for the dog as well, since they were a couple for the purposes of this trip, whether she liked it or not.
    “I can switch with you when we stop for lunch.”
    “No. I’m good.” She might have agreed had she not noticed how often Michael and Ben had reached across the coffee holders to touch each other. It was part of their road ritual. Her first husband, Brian, had been like that. Bob, of course, not so much.
    Feeling a shiver of isolation, she found herself stroking the wooly head in her lap. The dog was a pretty mottled color, like an Irish cable-knit sweater, a flurry of grays and browns. She spotted a