The Groaning Board

rattled.
    “Silvestri.”
    “What?”
    “Here. In the kitchen.” She propped
the plastic container against her hip and pried it open.
    The object was wrapped in a napkin,
the napkin taped closed. Wetzon didn’t need to remove its protective coat to
know what it was.

Chapter Twelve

     
     
     
    "Hi,
Sheil, it’s six o’clock. Give me a call when you get home.”
    Metzger flinched. “Judy,” he said.
    Beep.
    “Ms. Gelber. This is Dr. Fochios’
office calling to remind you about your five o ’clock appointment today.”
    Beep.
    They were standing in Sheila Gelber’s
bedroom. Metzger had plugged in the answering machine and it was now
play->ng the cassette. Sheila’s pink fleece bathrobe lay across the foot of
her bed as if she would be back soon. What if she came home and found them in
her bedroom? Wetzon shiv-ered. Sheila wasn’t ever coming home.
    "Sheila?” A deep male voice. “It’s me again,
cunt. I know you're up there on the fourth floor thinking about how I’m going
to do you.” After the initial not unpleasant salutation, the voice had
become raspy, breathy, and distorted, as if the sound had been mechanically
slowed. “It’s getting closer now. Any day... any day ...”
    Beep.
    At first, no one spoke.
    “Oh, God,” Wetzon said, hugging
herself. “Oh, God.” Silvestri wrapped her in his arms.
    “Jesus.” Metzger had turned
pasty-faced. “Why didn’t she say something?” He let the tape play out. There
were no other messages. He turned the cassette over, letting it play out on the
other side. Nothing further. Removing the cassette, he dropped it into his
pocket.
    “When will the autopsy results come
in?” Wetzon asked, thinking: Can we leave now? Please, please, can we leave—
    “They’re backed up because of that
fire at that Dominican social club in the Heights. Sheila didn’t look like a homicide.
There was no urgency....” Metzger’s voice trailed off. His swallow was audible.
    “There is now,” Silvestri said. “I’ll
go over in the morning and put a little pressure on.” He stepped away from
Wetzon with a suddenness that jolted her, leaving her feeling exposed, or
worse, invisible. He looked ill.
    Wetzon reached her hand out to him,
but he ignored it. His eyes took in the room, the robe across the bed, the
fuzzy slippers peeping out from under the bed, the photos on the bureau. The
tray of makeup—Clinique—and the perfume. He opened the blinds and looked down
at the street, closed them.
    Wetzon left the room, walking into
the living room and on to the kitchen. She opened the cabinets—there weren’t
many-—and saw glassware, china. Silverware was in an under-the-counter drawer.
A tall, shallow metal cabinet, painted white like the rest, was a pantry of
sorts. Cans of tomatoes,« boxes of pasta with an unfamiliar logo. She looked
closer. Spinach stone-ground rice pasta. The shelf above the pasta held a bag
of brown rice flour, a bag of tapioca flour, corn-meal, polenta, potato starch
flour, and powdered whole milk. ;
    “What are you doing, Les?” Silvestri
stood in the doorway holding the clasp envelope from the dining table. By the
shape of it, it was no longer empty. He sounded annoyed. You know, you can tell
a lot about a person by looking in their cupboards and refrigerators.”
    “Oh, yeah? And what did you learn,
Sherlock?”
    “Let’s go,” Metzger called.
    She closed the doors of the cabinet.
“Forget it, Silvestri.”
    “Not on your life. I’m all ears. I’d
love to hear all about it.”
    She hated him when he got like this,
but she said, “All right, then. Your Sheila was a health-food freak.”
    “She was not.” He seemed to resent
her involvement, as if Sheila Gelber still belonged to him. And she wondered if
he meant she was not a health-food freak or not my Sheila.
    “Oh?” Wetzon said with an edge. “Then
you’ve seen her recently?” When he turned away and headed for the door, she
followed him. “People change, you know.”
    “Come on, children.” Metzger was
obviously distressed. “This is no time to fight. Just be happy you have each
other. Right, Leslie?” He patted her shoulder, looking over her head at
Silvestri.
    The night had a particular chill to
it, or so it seemed to Wetzon. Or maybe it was Silvestri’s icy introspection
keeping her at arm’s length. Whatever it was, she felt hurt and angry. They
rode through the Park in stony silence.
    Silvestri drove around the block
twice, then backed the Toyota into a