Read Online Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat - Free Book Online Page B

little cat purred loudly, rubbing against me, her whole tiny body reveling in being caressed.
    Dorinda was back with more hot water. She put it on the table and pushed the hand-thrown honey pot over to me. I swirled honey into my mug, also hand-made, and poured water over the herbs. Still silence. The light was soft on Dorinda’s long wheat-blonde hair. She had it out of the braid now, and it hung loose over her shoulders, making her look about twelve. A large economy-size Alice in Wonderland.
    â€œCassie,” she began. I recalled Detective Button’s pitying tone and thought I heard an echo of it in Dorinda’s. It scared me.
    â€œCassie, listen. You may be right. Maybe somebody did make it look like a gay killing. But if so, there had to be a reason. You don’t set up just anybody for a thing like that. There has to be a basis for it.”
    â€œNo, there doesn’t,” I retorted. “It’s the kind of thing people always believe about a man. Like they always believe a woman is a nympho. Once it’s said, your whole attitude changes. You can’t look at the person the same way anymore. That’s what will be so horrible, Dorinda. People who never met Nathan will read the papers and say, Oh, yes, the fag lawyer that was killed in the Heights. It’ll be believed whether it’s true or not.”
    â€œBut if the cops think—” she began.
    â€œThat’s just it! The cops will waste their time looking for some mythical Midnight Cowboy and all the time whoever did it will be walking around scot-free.”
    â€œWhat can you do?” Dorinda asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” I answered. I was unbearably tired, but it was only five o’clock. Dorinda offered dinner, but I asked her if I could lie down instead. She took me into the bedroom, turned down the quilts on her bed, and hugged me. Very motherly. A feeling of security came over me.
    The bed was warm and comforting. The quilts were homey-smelling, heavy, protective. Yet I lay awake, stiff with anxiety and pain. I remembered my last night with Nathan. How he’d spoken for the first time about his breakdown. How he’d wanted to tell me something else. How I’d run out the next morning before he’d had a chance. And now I’d never hear it.
    My thoughts grew morbid. Nathan’s last moments. Had he lain on the bed, his mind flailing in agony, in the certain knowledge that death was coming? Had he been afraid? Or was it like those stories told by people who were clinically dead but recovered—were there beautiful, white-clad illusions to help him into death? And had he thought of me?
    I was startled by a touch on my face. It was the little calico cat. She burrowed under the quilts and curled herself up against my chest, purring like a furry toy. I made myself a nest around her, enveloping her in my larger warmth, hugging her as tightly as she would let me. It was good to feel life.

N INE
    I awoke early, with a huge heavy lump in my chest. I lay in Dorinda’s bed, the little cat still on one side of me, my sleeping friend on the other. My mind a near-perfect blank. I wanted to cry, but no tears would come.
    I stayed at Dorinda’s for breakfast. My taste buds at least were back to normal; I wished to God she drank real coffee instead of some horrible herbal brew with star anise in it.
    Then I trudged up the hill toward the Promenade. The fog was so dense I could hardly see the city. The scene reminded me of a morning I’d spent on Cape Cod. The fog had been so thick I couldn’t tell where the crashing ocean waves ended and the rolling fog began. I’d tried to capture it on film, but all I’d gotten were meaningless gray photographs and a skylight filter full of salt spray.
    Lousy as the weather was, it was perfect for mourning. I sat on a bench, not caring that its wetness immediately began to seep through my lined raincoat. I wanted to cry, freely,