I was apparently tamping down any incipient discomfort by adopting the absurd pretense that I was a Christian soldier.
14
T he hallway was short. I held back. “Just a sec,” I said. “I want to see that deep bathtub you were talking about.”
She had a puzzled look. “Men don’t usually care much about the bathroom.”
• • •
Sam had told me that the tub was full during his visit to the cottage.
He had also described a fresh razor blade resting on the edge of the bathroom sink. Lauren had said that it was a single-edged blade. I imagined one like the ones painters use to scrape stray streaks or splatters from glass. Sam, I was sure, had added the blade to the tableau. One of the options for Currie was to make a precise vertical cut, or two, into a visible vein in her wrist.
I didn’t know the progression of events. Had Sam started running the bath after he arrived? Or had Currie been drawing her own bath at the moment he surprised her? The plan for the evening, either way, would have required that Currie accomplish the tough cut and bleed out into the tub.
Did Sam consider making that cut for her? It would have made for a most intimate murder. His ex-lover would have been naked in the bath. Sam would have been kneeling beside the tub holding her forearm rigid. The hand in which he gripped the blade would have needed to be steady.
If Currie struggled, she would have ended up with bruises from his grip or random slashes from the blade. Sam would have been concerned about premorbid bruising or awkward cuts showing up during a post.
No, the razor option would have had to be Currie’s wish. Her show. Sam would have had to wait while that played out. I wondered how long it had taken for her to decide she couldn’t do it. Had she undressed? Or entered the tub? I didn’t know. Sam would not show patience with her indefinitely. He would have been concerned about how long it would take for Currie to bleed out. The variables, of course, were the chosen vessel and the quality of the cut. Artery? Should be quick. The pump that was the beating heart would do all the heavy lifting. A dripping vein, though? That would mean a slow death. Sam would not have wanted to watch.
And he, literally, didn’t have all night.
• • •
The edge of the sink was adjacent to the bathtub. Grandma’s soaking tub was narrow but deep. Well-scrubbed stains around the drain were evidence of decades of struggle against the high mineral content of the local water.
“Nice tub,” I said.
“Told you,” Izza replied.
I gestured toward the stains. I said, “Well water?”
She nodded. “Couple of big cisterns, too. Plenty of pressure. We get the stains everywhere. If I still lived here I would use one of those water filter things. The pitchers? For drinking? All the fracking I hear about has me worried, too. That big Wattenberg Field? It starts right near here.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I can get one of those filters.”
All the damn fracking had me worried, as well. But I didn’t say that.
I didn’t recall Sam mentioning the bedroom of Currie’s house. It hadn’t been on the itinerary of the tour he’d described on the night of her death. I didn’t step into the bedroom because I didn’t see a need. From the doorway, the room appeared small and barren. As promised, it lacked a bed. A too-small for modern needs closet was on the far wall, door open. A solitary nightstand appeared to have been built from a kit. The dresser was beat-up honey oak—a Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog model from early in the last century, long before this house was built.
“I’d recommend an area rug over there,” Izza said. She pointed across the bedroom. Her breathing changed. “But maybe that’s just me. I hate getting out of bed in the morning and putting my feet on the cold floor.” I didn’t reply right away. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
I felt the awkwardness between us again. I stepped back
14
T he hallway was short. I held back. “Just a sec,” I said. “I want to see that deep bathtub you were talking about.”
She had a puzzled look. “Men don’t usually care much about the bathroom.”
• • •
Sam had told me that the tub was full during his visit to the cottage.
He had also described a fresh razor blade resting on the edge of the bathroom sink. Lauren had said that it was a single-edged blade. I imagined one like the ones painters use to scrape stray streaks or splatters from glass. Sam, I was sure, had added the blade to the tableau. One of the options for Currie was to make a precise vertical cut, or two, into a visible vein in her wrist.
I didn’t know the progression of events. Had Sam started running the bath after he arrived? Or had Currie been drawing her own bath at the moment he surprised her? The plan for the evening, either way, would have required that Currie accomplish the tough cut and bleed out into the tub.
Did Sam consider making that cut for her? It would have made for a most intimate murder. His ex-lover would have been naked in the bath. Sam would have been kneeling beside the tub holding her forearm rigid. The hand in which he gripped the blade would have needed to be steady.
If Currie struggled, she would have ended up with bruises from his grip or random slashes from the blade. Sam would have been concerned about premorbid bruising or awkward cuts showing up during a post.
No, the razor option would have had to be Currie’s wish. Her show. Sam would have had to wait while that played out. I wondered how long it had taken for her to decide she couldn’t do it. Had she undressed? Or entered the tub? I didn’t know. Sam would not show patience with her indefinitely. He would have been concerned about how long it would take for Currie to bleed out. The variables, of course, were the chosen vessel and the quality of the cut. Artery? Should be quick. The pump that was the beating heart would do all the heavy lifting. A dripping vein, though? That would mean a slow death. Sam would not have wanted to watch.
And he, literally, didn’t have all night.
• • •
The edge of the sink was adjacent to the bathtub. Grandma’s soaking tub was narrow but deep. Well-scrubbed stains around the drain were evidence of decades of struggle against the high mineral content of the local water.
“Nice tub,” I said.
“Told you,” Izza replied.
I gestured toward the stains. I said, “Well water?”
She nodded. “Couple of big cisterns, too. Plenty of pressure. We get the stains everywhere. If I still lived here I would use one of those water filter things. The pitchers? For drinking? All the fracking I hear about has me worried, too. That big Wattenberg Field? It starts right near here.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I can get one of those filters.”
All the damn fracking had me worried, as well. But I didn’t say that.
I didn’t recall Sam mentioning the bedroom of Currie’s house. It hadn’t been on the itinerary of the tour he’d described on the night of her death. I didn’t step into the bedroom because I didn’t see a need. From the doorway, the room appeared small and barren. As promised, it lacked a bed. A too-small for modern needs closet was on the far wall, door open. A solitary nightstand appeared to have been built from a kit. The dresser was beat-up honey oak—a Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog model from early in the last century, long before this house was built.
“I’d recommend an area rug over there,” Izza said. She pointed across the bedroom. Her breathing changed. “But maybe that’s just me. I hate getting out of bed in the morning and putting my feet on the cold floor.” I didn’t reply right away. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
I felt the awkwardness between us again. I stepped back
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