Red Blooded Murder

“Have you called him since you found the flowers?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t answer. I left a message.”

I looked at the bouquet. “Maybe it was a friend, someone trying to be nice? Maybe they just forgot the card.” I looked at my watch. It was getting late. And Sam had plans with his rugby team tomorrow. If I didn’t get to spend time with him tonight, it might be a few days before I saw him again with my new work schedule.

Jane bit the inside of her mouth again. I could tell she was mulling something over. “There’s more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you come upstairs?”

I followed her from the kitchen back through the living room, where Sam and Charlie were sitting on the couch, laughing about something. They looked at us expectantly.

“Just give us a second,” I said.

Upstairs, we passed a guest room and a home office, both decorated to the hilt, and like the living room downstairs, accented colorfully with artwork, sculptures and rugs.

“This is our bedroom,” Jane said.

I walked in and looked up. The ceiling was at least thirty feet high and vaulted. French doors led to a balcony, where I could see two chaise lounges and a host of plants and trees. A stone fireplace was against one wall with a stack of birch inside. A massive bed with twirled posts stood against the far wall, so high that small steps had been installed on either side. It was made up in a sumptuous way with white linens, plump pillows and a salmon-colored, tufted duvet.

“Great bed,” I said.

“Isn’t it? This is my favorite room of the house. Or at least it was.” Jane pointed to the leather bench at the foot of the bed. On it sat a black box, about the size of a shoe box, but square-shaped. “That was here, too, when I came home.”

Even visually, the box seemed to have a weight to it, a presence. “What is it?”

She walked over and lifted the lid of the box, which opened on one side. She held out the box. There was something red inside, something shaped in a circle.

“Is that your scarf?”

Jane had a red scarf that she wore during important broadcasts.

“Yeah,” Jane said, her voice brittle. “Look closer.”

I stepped toward the box. I felt off-kilter, infused with an irrational fear that she might slam the lid closed on my hand.

I peered into the box. “Jane, is that …?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s a noose.”

13

I put my hands behind my back and looked down at the scarf. “Do you always keep it in this box?”

“No, I have it hanging inside my closet door with my other scarves. I mean, it’s become my thing, right? And I’m supposed to wear it on Monday when the station launches. But it’s not like it’s some precious fabric. I just toss it in my closet with the rest of my stuff.”

“But you came home and it was here, in this box?”

“Yeah. I was so freaked by the flowers that I came running up here, and this was sitting on the bench. And inside the scarf was tied like that.” She dropped the box back on the bench. The scarf flew out and landed softly on the wood floor. “Who would do that?” Her voice was full of pain and panic.

I stared at the scarf. “Do you tie it like that when you hang it up?”

“No! I just hang my scarves over a peg.” She was talking faster, her tone more anxious now. “And look at it. I mean, I’m not crazy, right? That’s a noose.”

There was no mistaking the hangman’s knot, tied under a seven-inch loop, just big enough for someone to put their head through. “You’re not crazy. But I’ve got to ask again, could it be Zac? You said he was angry. Maybe he’s really angry.”

With one hand, Jane nervously tugged her ponytail with her fingers. She reminded me again of a young girl, a scared girl. “I just can’t imagine Zac would do this. Why not just tell me to stop it or he’ll leave me?”

“Has he ever said that?”

“No. He’s said he could never give me up, no matter what I’ve done.”

We both stared at the noose. The scarf was made of a shiny deep red silk. I’d always thought of Jane’s scarf as competent, in-charge, bold. Now, it seemed sinister.

Her eyes cut to my own. The mauve-blue of her irises seemed to stand out against the pale of her skin. “I can’t believe this.” Her look bordered on terror. Fear emanated from her, cutting into the room, filling it, so that everything seemed to hum with intensity. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

She looked at the scarf again. She gave a little moan. “I don’t know how to say this. I mean, I don’t talk about this with my friends. And the truth is I think I need a lawyer right now as much as I need a friend. Can you be my lawyer?”

“You want me to tell you I won’t tell anyone? That whatever you tell me is private?”

She nodded.

“Jane, that’s true whether I’m your lawyer or your friend. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll put my lawyer hat on. Say anything.”

Jane breathed out hard. “I have this thing I like to do. Sexually. It’s … well … have you heard of scarfing?”

I shook my head no.

“Sometimes it’s called erotic asphyxiation.”

I remembered hearing something on the news. “It’s like self-strangulation during masturbation? Something about intensifying the experience?”

She nodded, her eyes on mine, looking for the judgment she seemed sure would come.

I kept a bland expression on my face. “So it’s something you like to do?”

“Not on my own. I do it with other people. You’re basically choking someone. Gently. It could be with a scarf or with your hands, and you don’t do it to the point of them passing out, or even close. You just do it a little, and believe me, it makes it incredibly powerful.”

“You do it to other people or you have them do it to you?” I felt like a complete sexual neophyte.

“Both.” Jane slumped farther against the bed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Usually I have them do it to me.”

I said nothing.

“You’ve never done anything like that?” she asked.