Sacred Trust Read online

  There is a small silence, during which I wait for the other shoe to drop. Still, I’m no dummy. I already know what the shoe is. “So Marti wrote my name…Abby. Right?”

  “Better get dressed,” my lover says. The one who would not betray me. Ever.

  He doesn’t take me to the station on Junipero in handcuffs, but he does take me there. He has to, he explains as I dress. Somebody there wants to talk to me, he explains further in the car.

  He won’t tell me who that somebody is. But Ben, in the blink of an eye, has changed. I feel somehow I’ve lost two people this day.

  Which is ridiculous, I tell myself. Ben is still with me. He helps me out of the car, as my knees are weak. He sits me in a quiet back office of the small station and asks me if I’d like coffee. I nod, and he goes to get it for me, setting the cup before me with one sugar and plenty of cream, the way he knows I like it.

  If a man cares enough to remember the way you take your coffee, it’s not all bad, I think.

  Meanwhile, my mind races. Why would Marti have written my name in the dirt? Who wants to question me about it? The sheriff? I know the Carmel P.D. facilities are often used by the sheriff’s department, as well as other investigative agencies. And, though Ben will be part of the task force that investigates Marti’s death, the sheriff’s department has jurisdiction over the area where she was found.

  Ben has placed me on one side of a long table, halfway down it in the middle. He takes a seat at a far end, along with Arnie Lehman. Both men sit silently, their arms folded, faces wooden masks. This frightens me more than if they’d put me under a bright light and tortured me with thumbscrews.

  I wonder aloud if I should call a lawyer. Ben gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say a word. Arnie assures me quietly that I haven’t been charged with anything. He looks at the closed door, then raises a skinny arm to check his watch. He sighs, stretches. Ben rubs his face with his palms.

  Just when I think I can’t stand another moment of this, two men in dark business suits walk in. One is taller than the other, with sandy hair. The second man is older, his face lined, hair gray. Rimless glasses hide his eyes, and both men’s expressions are bland, giving up nothing.

  “Ms. Northrup?” the taller man asks as my eyes turn his way. I nod.

  “Special Agent Mauro,” he says quietly, extending a hand that holds a thin leather wallet with a badge affixed to it. As he flips it open I see the words Secret Service on a card, with Special Agent Stephen Mauro’s name and likeness beneath them, along with a seal.

  “This is Special Agent Hillars,” he says.

  The older man nods. They take seats directly across from me, and I’m almost relieved. Thank God it’s only the Secret Service, I think, for surely this has nothing to do with me, after all. So far as I know, I haven’t been passing counterfeit money, nor have I plotted against the president of the United States.

  At the same time, part of me is certain I’m about to be arrested for some horrible crime I cannot remember committing. It is a schizophrenic moment: What did the other Abby do that this one has blocked?

  “First, we would like to thank you for coming here today to talk with us,” Agent Mauro says politely. “We understand this is a difficult time for you.”

  I’m tempted to point out that I didn’t have a choice, but a warning glance from Ben makes me opt for keeping my mouth shut.

  “I…your welcome,” is about all I can manage.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Marti Bright,” Agent Mauro continues, taking a small pad and black pen from an inner pocket. “Ms. Northrup, I understand you and Ms. Bright were close friends?”

  The agent seems to choose his words carefully, and beneath his steady gaze I feel like a deer pinned down by a gunsight.

  “Yes, we were friends.”

  He nods. “We need you to tell us everything you know about Marti Bright. How you came to know her and for how long you knew her, how often she came to the Monterey Peninsula, the last time you saw her, who her other friends were, who she might have been involved with over the years—intimately, that is—and—”

  “Wait a minute.” I can’t help interrupting, as my mind is reeling. I wet my lips. “Some of your questions I can answer. Others, I don’t know.”

  “I’m certain you’ll do your best,” Agent Mauro says blandly. Agent Hillars leans forward slightly. His voice surprises me. He is thin, ascetic-looking, and I’d expected the tone to be clipped. Instead, it is soft and full, a Southern marshmallow.

  “We are very sorry to trouble you at this time, Ms. Northrup. We understand you have suffered a loss. We felt, therefore, that the kindest way to do this would be to question you here. If you would prefer, however, we can talk in a more official setting.”

  The subtle threat in his words shakes me a bit. “I…no, it’s not that I don’t want to cooperate, it’s just…”

  I’m beginning to feel again that I need a lawyer. Not only that, but my gut says I need to protect Marti. I decide to tell them only the things they probably already know, or can find out through public records.

  “Let’s see…” I say thoughtfully. “Where did I meet Marti?”

  I tell them how we met in high school at Mary Star of the Sea in Santa Rosa, and how we then entered the convent together at Joseph and Mary Motherhouse. Basically the same things I told Ben earlier, though leaving out the kind of relationship Marti and I had all those years ago. This I keep to myself, glossing over it under Ben’s watchful, knowing eye. He doesn’t contradict me, and that, at least, is a relief.

  Agent Hillars moves restlessly, and Agent Mauro frowns as I’m telling them how Marti and I left the convent together and then went our separate ways to college. “She was always the more earnest student,” I babble, “winning the best scholarships, getting the better grades, while I just sort of muddled through—”

  “Might we move ahead, please?” Agent Mauro interrupts. “Ms. Northrup, I would like you to tell us about the time when Ms. Bright first began to come to the Monterey Peninsula.” Beginning to write on his notepad, he adds, “That would be fifteen years ago, correct?”

  “More like fourteen,” I lie.

  He stops writing and looks at me.

  “Up till then,” I add quickly, “we had only telephone contact and an occasional meeting in New York City, when she would fly in for a few days on business. If I could take the time, I would meet her in New York for a day or so of shopping and shows.”

  “And you never saw her here until fourteen years ago?”

  “Never,” I say firmly.

  Agent Mauro studies me a long moment. I stare back, unflinching. He looks down at his notes, and when he lifts his eyes I get that deer-in-a-gunsight feeling again.

  “Ms. Northrup, you and Ms. Bright had a relationship at one time that was closer than simple friendship, I understand.”

  My face turns hot, and my glance flicks to Ben. “Where—”

  “Did I learn that? Let me put my cards on the table, Ms. Northrup. We know quite a lot about you. Where you went to school, what your grades were from kindergarten on, and the fact that you have a genius IQ you’ve seldom bothered to use.”

  “I—” Stunned, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide their slight shaking as Mauro continues. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ben watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “We have names of your friends through high school,” Mauro continues, “the fact that you were class president not once but three times despite being somewhat of a rebel, the unfortunate state of your marriage at the current time…” He pauses. “And, of course, your relationship with Marti Bright.”

  I am speechless. Appalled. I have heard about the long arm of the law, of course, and how thorough it can be. But that they have this kind of information on me is unthinkable. Who have they talked to?

  My anger grows, and I no longer think to be careful. “If you know all this, why the hell are you here asking me questions?
Why don’t you go back to your informants and ask them?”

  “Ms. Northrup,” Agent Mauro says calmly. “There are certain…shall we say, ‘holes’ in the information we have been given.”

  “Imagine that.” My voice is icy. “Something the Secret Service can’t find out about someone.”

  “For instance,” the unflappable Mauro continues, “who did Ms. Bright see when she was here on the Monterey Peninsula?”

  “See?”

  “Friends, associates. She must have had a reason for coming here.”

  The older man, Hillars, leans forward slightly again. I am alerted to the fact that my answer to this is important. They are setting a trap. But for who?

  “Mr. Mauro, pardon me, but you’ve obviously done your homework. You must know Marti wrote and photographed several stories here and in Santa Cruz about the homeless. She won awards for those stories—they weren’t exactly hidden in a drawer somewhere. Again, why are you asking me things you already know?”

  He smiles, though there is no warmth in those gray eyes. In fact, they are so flat and cold they remind me of a pit bull sizing up its next meal. “I suppose you might say I’m more interested in why Ms. Bright came here so often over the years, not that she did. Why here, when there are so many other cities with these problems? In fact, bigger cities with bigger problems?”

  “Maybe she liked the weather,” I snap.

  “Or maybe she was having an ongoing liaison here with someone,” Mauro says smoothly, not skipping a beat.

  “A what?” I am momentarily startled. Then I can’t help laughing. “A liaison? You mean an affair? Good God. You don’t know as much about Marti as I thought.”

  Mauro narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that, Ms. Northrup?”

  “Because Marti was all-business. She didn’t have time for liaisons, she didn’t care about anything but her work.”

  “Are you speaking of just lately, Ms. Northrup?

  Or was she that way when she was here fifteen years ago, as well?”

  I have purposely told him Marti did not come here until fourteen years ago. Did he forget—or is this part of the trap?

  The only thing I’m sure of now is that it’s time I took a stand. Rising, I say firmly, “Agent Mauro, I need to go home and feed my dog. If you don’t have some sort of subpoena in your back pocket, I’m not answering any more questions—until, that is, you tell me what this is about.”

  Mauro looks at Hillars, and a question seems to pass between the two men. Hillars gives a microscopic shrug. Mauro closes his notebook and slips it back into his inside coat pocket. Both men stand, and Hillars gives me a look that seems to border on either anger or contempt. I can’t be sure, as it’s quickly gone.

  Mauro, courteous as ever—on the surface, at least—extends a hand. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Northrup. We may need to talk with you further. If so, we’ll be in touch.”

  I accept the hand and am rewarded when he drops mine after a brief clasp. He is clearly irritated with me.

  Good. Whatever he brought me here for, he didn’t get.

  A heavy silence fills the room after they leave. I turn to Ben, my voice as cold as my hands. “I’d like to go now.”

  Ben looks at Arnie, who shrugs. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  Ben nods. Standing, he walks around the table to my chair. The tie comes off. So does the jacket. The shirt sleeves are rolled up, and he smiles.

  The wall comes down. Or so he thinks.

  He is, after all, a man.

  Ben pulls his black Explorer to a stop in front of my house.

  “Just let me come in with you,” he says for the second time. “I just want to be with you, Abby. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  I jump out and speak through the open passenger-side door as my hand prepares to slam it. “No thanks. I prefer to be alone.”

  “Goddammit, Abby, I had to cooperate with them! I would think you’d be grateful, for that matter.”

  “Grateful?” The amazed tone in my voice says it all: what I am feeling, thinking, remembering about that cold office, that cold chair and the cool, un-emotional presence of a man I had only hours before made love to, allowing questions that were slanted to make me give the Secret Service of the United States some piece of information that might, for all he knew, incriminate me.

  “Yes, dammit, grateful!” he says. “If you’d been Jane Doe off the streets, you think it would’ve been that easy? Maybe you should spend some time finding out what usually goes on when a suspect is being questioned.”

  He clamps his jaw shut. Too late.

  “Suspect. You’re calling me a suspect now. Damn you, Ben. It’s my name, right? My name in the dirt where Marti died. Is that what this is all about? Did the sheriff call in the Secret Service? Or did you? How else would they even know about me? And what the hell does the Secret Service have to do with any of this, anyway?”

  “You know damned well I didn’t call them,” he says. “You should also know that if Arnie hadn’t called me—if he hadn’t told them you and I were friends—it could have gone a whole other way.”

  “And you should know that you are one son of a bitch, Ben Schaeffer.”

  I slam the door. Ben grinds the gears of his Explorer, pulling away from the curb. As I turn to my house, my heart, which is heavy, lifts momentarily at the thought of walking through the door and having a big ball of canine fluff jump into my arms.

  Woman’s best friend—her dog.

  3

  Murphy isn’t at the door waiting for me, the way he usually is. While that worries me a bit, there have been times when he’s sneaked out with Frannie, my part-time housekeeper, and she hasn’t taken the time to find him and bring him back. Frannie has a family at home to feed at night, and she’s often in a hurry. Murphy doesn’t stay gone for long, at any rate. He likes keeping an eye on me, like a mom who thinks her toddler, once out of sight, must be up to no good. I figure he’ll show pretty soon.

  Dropping my purse on a table in the hallway, I head for the kitchen, seeking a glass of wine. The kitchen sparkles in the late-afternoon sun, not only from Frannie’s cleaning but from sunlight on the sea. Tall windows look out on the Pacific Ocean from every room. A million-dollar view, people have called it. Six million would be more like it, in today’s market. For this—a house that cost less than a hundred thousand to build twenty years ago.

  I have been envied for my house. Most of the homes in Carmel have names rather than addresses. Mine is called Windhaven. A major movie was filmed here in the fifties, and you can see Windhaven on the movie channel at regular intervals.

  There is less beach now, of course, as the shoreline’s been eroded by recent storms. But the house and its view have been photographed by Better Homes and Gardens, Sunset and Architectural Digest. When Jeffrey and I were first married we moved here and opened Windhaven for tours during the Christmas season. That was before Clint Eastwood won his run for mayor of Carmel. Jeffrey, who dabbles in real estate, but whose obsession is politics, was working with Eastwood’s advisors pre-campaign, and we had tons of friends then—artists, writers, actors, politicians. We decorated with holly garlands and strung lights on everything, including the stately pines along the drive. A wild patch of lawn stretches out from the terrace of Windhaven to the cliff, and along the edge of the cliff are Monterey pines that Jeffrey and I planted as windbreaks. In terms of trees they are still infants, yet already they lean to the south from the north winds that buffet them all winter long. If one were to look carefully, one might detect how Jeffrey and I lean, as well, from the buffeting our marriage has taken over the years.

  At what point, I wonder, taking a wineglass from the rack beneath the top cupboard, does a marriage begin the downward slide? At what point does it go from holding hands while walking, eyes meeting across the room in a secret, knowing smile, and an occasional embarrassing gush, “Jeffrey is everything to me”? When does the steady feel of aloneness set in for g
ood, not just now and then? And when the distaste for flesh once loved and sought after?

  It is, I think, a question—or whole slew of them—that only a decent glass of Seven Peaks can answer. I reach into the double-door refrigerator and pull out a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay. Opening it, I fill my glass and decide to take the whole bottle to the living room with me. What the hell, it’s been a rotten day.

  And there is still the coroner’s office to come. I glance at my watch and note that it’s not even five o’clock, and I can’t see Marti till ten. What am I going to do with the next five hours?

  In the living room I sit in an overstuffed chair, staring out the window. Not at the sea, which only makes me feel more alone, but in the opposite direction, at the street. People walk by on Scenic, many of them with their dogs. I am irritated that Murphy isn’t here. Why did he have to run off today of all days?

  No. The real question is, Why did Marti have to die today? That’s the source of my anger, not Murphy. Not Ben.

  Why is my friend dead?

  And who would have had reason to do it in just that way? The hideous makeshift cross was crafted, Ben said, of four-by-fours from a house under construction at the bottom of the hill. Who had the strength to drag those four-by-fours to that spot far up the hill, nail them into a cross and then plant them in the ground—much less with Marti’s weight added to them?

  Who would have been evil enough to paint those awful letters on her chest? And the final, inevitable question—why is the Secret Service involved?

  The more questions I come up with, the less answers there seem to be. Nothing works today. Not sex, not wine. Chilled, I set my glass down and cross to the fireplace, laying paper and kindling, then logs. I strike a long match and watch the fire catch then build, warming my face. Sinking to the floor, I sit beside the only heat I’ve found this day. Outside, the rain begins again. I hear it strike the copper chimney flashing, the pitter-patter growing to a pounding, like nails, like nails in a cross, like nails…