To the Death

Fausi was staying in a small hotel twelve miles away. His own anonymity was as important as hers. Nothing should connect them. Nothing should suggest that he was some kind of a boyfriend, or even a colleague. Nothing that would ever give any law enforcement officials the slightest clue as to the identity, or whereabouts, of either of them. Even the license plate on Fausi’s car was false.

In the ensuing weeks, he planned never to come to the main entrance of the apartment block, never even speak to the doorman, never enter the Estuary Hotel, or even park within its precincts. Fausi was a ghost, just as much as Carla Martin was.

Shakira utilized the first three days of her trial run behind the bar to familiarize herself with the locals. She quickly located the home of Mrs. Emily Gallagher, and once, parked along the street in Fausi’s car, she caught a good look at the lady as she tended her roses along the post-and-rail fence of her front yard.

She also watched when Mrs. Gallagher took her dog for a walk. He was a big, rather fluffy golden retriever and usually looked as if he were taking her for a walk, rather than the other way around.

On her fourth night in the bar, a fairly quiet Monday, the regular barman took off early, and Shakira, wearing her name tag with CARLA inscribed on it, had her first real break: Mrs. Gallagher came into the hotel with a friend and entered the dining room. At 10 P.M., she and the friend walked across the hall to the bar, where Mrs. Gallagher ordered two Irish coffees, which Shakira made.

At 10:20, the friend left, and Mrs. Gallagher stayed to order one more regular coffee. There were only two other people still in the bar, and Shakira ventured to ask the elderly lady whether she had enjoyed her dinner.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I always have a grilled piece of sea bass here on Mondays. They get a fish delivery here, my dear, at noon, straight from the wharf down at Gloucester Point. It’s always delicious.”

“They didn’t offer me any,” said Shakira, laughing.

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Gallagher. “Between you and me, that Caborn character is frightfully mean-spirited. He probably said you could have a cheeseburger.”

“Meatloaf,” said Shakira. And they both laughed.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Gallagher.

“Yes. I just started on Friday.”

“Well, I hope you stay for a while. Most of them don’t, you know. That’s the trouble with the young. Very restless, don’t you think? No time to enjoy anything.”

Shakira moved to her right at this point, to serve a final drink to the remaining two customers, residents of the hotel, and then returned to Mrs. Gallagher, who was preparing to leave.

Before she went, she said to Shakira, “My name, by the way, is Emily Gallagher. I usually come in on Thursdays as well, so I expect I’ll see you again. Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Mrs. Gallagher.”

“Oh please, Carla, call me Emily. Otherwise you’ll make me feel ancient.”

There seemed to be no question of anyone paying a bill, so Shakira just ignored it, and assumed, correctly, the check would be added to some kind of monthly account.

And with a friendly little wave, Emily Gallagher left her longtime local hostelry for the short 200-yard walk, straight up the well-lit main street, to her home.

Shakira smiled a smile of pure contentment.

The following morning, Fausi dropped her off in the main part of the town. She shopped in the supermarket, placed her packages in the car, and asked Fausi to meet her at one o’clock. She walked toward Mrs. Gallagher’s house, and at 11 A.M., right on time, she watched the old lady come out of the house with her dog on his leash.

Timing her walk perfectly, she arrived at the front gate twenty yards behind, and noticed how difficult it was for Emily to control the bounding big retriever. Catching up quickly, she said, “Good morning, Emily. Would you like me to help you with this ridiculous person? What’s his name?”

Emily Gallagher turned around, and laughed when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you, Carla. You’re right. He is ridiculous, and his name’s Charlie.”

“He’s very good-looking,” said Shakira, “and handsome people get away with a lot.”

Charlie, sensing, as dogs do, that he was in the presence of another friend, turned to Shakira and planted his front paws on her belt, his tongue lolling out, his tail wagging fiercely.

She reached for the leash and said, “Let me take him. I’ll walk with you for a while.”

Emily looked relieved. “He is a terrible handful,” she said. “But I’ve had him for seven years now, and I would miss him terribly. He is a good companion for me, now that I’m alone. I usually take him about a mile down here, to the bend in the river.

“Last week, he got loose and jumped into the river. I thought he’d end up in Chesapeake Bay. But he just swam back to the shore and soaked me, shaking water everywhere.”

Shakira shook her head. “He’s almost too big for you,” she said, firmly pulling Charlie into line.