Chapter 13 #2
It’s the bio in the very first collection that makes me bite my lip in surprise. These poems were published twenty-five years ago when Handler was an associate professor at Oberlin College. That must be where he eventually met Alison.
I’m about to close the link but catch myself and instead scroll back to the dedication page.
It reads: To my wife, Dalia.
So, he was married to someone else while at Oberlin—at least initially. Until, perhaps, he met and fell for Alison. Whoa . . . was she a student in one of his classes, and he began seeing her clandestinely?
I’m whisked back to the awkward moment I witnessed this morning in Handler’s office, the female student standing too deep into his personal space.
Does Jeffrey Handler have a taste for younger women, particularly college girls? What . . . what if Mel wrote about returning to birch not because the backyard classes were inspirational for her but because Handler was the new man she was smitten with?
The thought chills me, and yet right now, at least, I don’t have a shred of proof that I’m right.
I strip off my clothes and open the taps on the tub, but as the hot water begins to steam the room, I realize I’m now too wired to soak in a bath. I throw on my jeans, along with a sweater and loafers, and take the elevator to the first floor. Currently, there’s no one manning the front desk.
I cross the hall to the parlor. At first glance it appears empty again, but as I approach the bar, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and jerk in surprise. Turning, I see that it’s Logan, reclining in one of the wingback chairs and holding a snifter filled with an amber-hued liquid.
“Oh,” I blurt out.
“Hello,” he says quietly, not faking any cheer. It looks like he’s practically melted into the chair, with one leg stretched out across the bloodred ottoman.
My eyes dart to the chair across from him, checking for another presence, but fortunately, he’s alone. I wonder if Lisa is sulking in the room after being told she should have kept her mouth shut.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Having a brandy, trying to drive terms like forensic odontologist out of my head . . . Shall I pour you one, too?”
“No, I just want sparkling water,” I say, continuing to the bar. “I’m not much of a brandy drinker anyway.”
I hear him chuckle behind me, and turning back around, I see him take a long swallow of his drink.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You not remembering the winter that we lived in Nolita. Our apartment was always freezing, so after dinner we sometimes used to go to that little bar on the next block and have a brandy.”
I tug a cobalt-blue bottle of sparkling water from the small fridge and allow my memory to scramble, trying to find its way back to Nolita.
I certainly remember the apartment, the first we rented together as a couple, which was hopelessly drafty from November until April.
I recall the little bistro as well, and the two of us scurrying there in our black down coats.
Then, as the water fizzes in my glass, I see myself inside the bistro, with a brandy snifter in my hand.
“I remember now,” I say. I return with my glass to the seating area and lower myself into the chair across from Logan. “There was a fireplace, wasn’t there? And then one night we went, and the bistro was closed, right? Closed for good. Without any warning.”
Logan snickers but in a conspiratorial way. “Oh, there were warnings.”
“Such as?”
“I’d been in the restaurant business long enough to know that shrinking portion sizes was a harbinger of bad things ahead.”
“I must have missed that,” I say, and a second later I feel a swell of sadness.
There’s an analogy to our marriage somewhere in this discussion, isn’t there?
Me clueless that our life together wasn’t what I thought it was—until I saw that smug, entitled young woman take a sip from his glass of wine.
“No, no, you noticed,” he says. “You complained that each time you ordered the fried calamari, there were fewer and fewer in the basket.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” I say, and the most I can manage is a wan smile.
He studies me without comment, his eyes slightly narrowed and the crease between his eyes even deeper. It’s time to extricate myself before things turn truly morose.
“I should let you get back to your brandy,” I say rising, “but since you’re here, I’ll share what I was going to put in a text first thing tomorrow.
That guy in communications, Chip? He ended up giving me a ride back tonight and mentioned there was a post this morning on the Albany paper website about Ruck’s two other murders.
And the reporter called him asking if Mel’s case might be reopened. ”
Logan nods. “Halligan was right, then. But as we agreed, it’s not necessarily a bad thing if a story comes out. It could increase the pressure on the cops to do more. I trust you didn’t offer him any info.”
“None. If we become convinced the police accused the wrong person, then yes, we need to inform the school, but right now there’s no reason to share everything that’s going on . . . Well, good night.”
“Good night. And about tomorrow—shall we meet down here?”
I pause, confused. “For what?”
“The meeting with Halligan. Didn’t you get my text?”
“What? No.” I use my free hand to extricate my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. As soon as I tap the screen, I spot it, sent just as I was rushing into the inn.
Halligan wants to see us tomorrow at one. Let’s meet downstairs at 12:15.
My heart jumps. “Is there news?”
“Sounds like it. He says there’s someone important he wants the two of us to hear from, and it’s got to happen tomorrow.”