Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie Page 8

  A key was rattling in the front lock, and the knob began to turn.

  For a few rapid heartbeats, I considered greeting the person openly. I had every right to be there and to question theirs. Besides, it might not be his killer. It might be the police. Or Derek. Or his cleaning service. Or a girlfriend. But before I finished the list of possibilities, I was back in Charlie’s closet, the door shut behind me, huddling among his few remaining hand-tailored suits.

  I don’t know how long I crouched there, not moving, barely breathing, listening. But it was long enough that my muscles began to burn and cramp. Charlie’s thick carpets muffled footsteps. And with the closet door closed, I’d have no way of knowing where the visitor was. Or who. Or what he wanted. Unless he was a she. It might, of course, be a she. I remembered the king-size bed. Did Charlie have a girlfriend? How long had he been seeing her? I tried to picture what she’d look like. Tall, like me? How old?

  “You’re still jealous, Elf?”

  No. Of course not. Wait—was Charlie reading my thoughts?

  “Well, you don’t need to be. You never needed to be. You were the only one who mattered. The love of my life.”

  Shh. I put my pointer over my lips, the symbol for quiet.

  “Why? No one can hear me—”

  “Somebody’s here,” I whispered. “It could be your killer—”

  “My killer is here, Elle.” I could smell him, felt his breath on my neck like a shiver.

  What? Where?

  “We both know who killed me.”

  “Wait—you think it was me?” My whisper was too loud. “How can you think that?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “It wasn’t. Charlie, I didn’t kill you.” Still too loud.

  Still no answer. But, since we were talking, maybe I could learn something.

  “Charlie, who has keys to your apartment?”

  Charlie remained silent. He offered nothing. Not a peep. Great. I was crouched in a closet behind hanging fabric, talking to air. My legs were numb. My lower back burned. I had to move. And it occurred to me that, if I couldn’t hear the visitor, the visitor probably couldn’t hear me. So, slowly, I set down the hanging bag and emerged from the blockade of suits. Straightening my back, I stood, limped on feet I couldn’t feel to the door, and put my ear against it. Listening.

  Hearing nothing.

  More minutes passed. At some point, I realized that, if the intruder left, I wouldn’t know. In fact, he or she might already be gone. Sooner or later, I’d have to check. Which would mean opening the closet door.

  I didn’t right away. As blood flowed back into my legs, I prepared, rehearsing various encounters. If the intruder were a policeman, I’d explain why I was there. No need to say more. If Derek, I’d find out what he wanted. I didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, didn’t want him sneaking around Charlie’s apartment. I’d tell him to leave. But what if it were the killer? Oh God. I looked back to the suits. Maybe I shouldn’t risk it. No. I had to, couldn’t stay in Charlie’s closet forever. But, just in case, I’d need a weapon. Maybe there was a shoebox? A small case that held a gun? Nothing. But wait—I was in a closet. Could make my own weapon. I grabbed an empty wire hanger and, despite the raw wound on my hand, untwisted it.

  I bent the wire, winding it, doubling it, reshaping it, forming a dangerous tip. Imagined myself bursting out of the closet, charging. And finding neither a killer nor a cop, but a woman. Crying, sobbing about her dead lover. She’d found out from the news, from TV. I tried, but couldn’t see her clearly. I pictured red hair—or, no. Brown. Olive skin? A tan? I kept shifting features, but none of the faces or bodies seemed right. Of course they didn’t; none of them were my own. Damn. Would I ever let go of him? Of being his wife?

  The hanger had become a shiv. Maybe not sharp enough for a surgical incision, but good enough to do damage. One more time, I put my ear against the door. Heard nothing. Reached for the knob and, carefully, soundlessly, turned it. Cracked the door just an inch. Peeked out. Saw no sobbing woman. No masked murderer. No one at all.

  Good. Another inch. And another.

  Soon, the door was open wide enough for me to leave. I poked a tentative foot out the door. Another. Tiptoed into the bedroom, looking left and right, in front and behind. Listening, clutching my hanger weapon, ready to strike. Looking around, seeing nothing amiss. No rifled drawers. No tossed mattress or upturned furniture.

  I moved into the hall, more confident. Almost convinced that the intruder was gone. That maybe there had been no intruder, that I’d imagined it, just as I’d been imagining Charlie’s voice. That the sound of a key, the sight of a turning knob had been nothing, just emotions, nerves. The effects of trauma and loss.

  At the front door, I exhaled, realized I’d been holding my breath. I relaxed my shoulders and opened the door. Feeling foolish but relieved, I stepped into the hall. Where I stopped. Pivoted, catching the door just before it closed. Cursing.

  The funeral clothes. I’d left them in the closet. I’d almost left without the stuff I’d come for.

  This time, I didn’t stop to look around, just hurried back to the bedroom. Which is probably why I didn’t see the figure lurking in the office doorway.

  I hit the floor hard. Felt the jolt of impact. Heard a scream. Mine? Pain bolted through me as someone grabbed me from behind, tugging, and I rolled, resisting, seeing, in my bandaged hand, a wire shiv.

  I blinked, squinted, tilted my head. But still, I didn’t recognize the man. Well, even his mother wouldn’t, not with a mangled wire hanger buried in his eye. Not with thick blood clotting all over his face. But, lying on the floor, half under, half beside him, I kept staring, wondering who he was. Whether I’d seen him before.

  I wasn’t sure what time it was. How long we’d been lying there. What exactly had happened. I knew he’d attacked me, knocked me on the floor. But then? Obviously, we’d struggled. The cut on my hand had reopened, seeping and stinging. And when I touched my head, I felt a sticky bump. So, we’d fought. I’d hit my head. And I’d stabbed him.

  Oh God. I’d killed a man. Self-defense or not, I’d killed him.

  Okay. I had to get up. Had to call 911. The police. Oh—and Susan. Susan would know what to do. She lived just a block away. Could be at Charlie’s apartment in a minute. The guy’s one good eye was open, staring. Watching me. Who the hell was he? It hurt to sit up, to move. But I did, slowly, grunting. Pulling my legs out from under his. Aching, I edged over to my purse, to get my cell phone. Didn’t take my eyes off the guy, just in case he wasn’t really dead. Just in case he’d spring up and come after me again.

  But he didn’t. He lay there, one eye wide, the other a mess of jellied gore. Exploded under a clump of twisted wire.

  My hand hurt as I reached into my bag, feeling for my phone. But I found it, grabbed it, made the calls. Susan then 911. Or the other way. Don’t know. Don’t remember. Either way, I didn’t get up. My head hurt. And the walls swayed when I moved. So I just sat, waiting for help to arrive. Seeing myself from far away, watching the dead guy as his one good eye was watching me.

  Susan got there first, spouting Oh my Gods. She helped me to my feet, sat down beside me on the new living room sofa. Handed me a water bottle. A water bottle?

  “Quick,” she touched my arm. Comforting. “Before the cops get here. Tell me how you know this guy. What happened. And what the hell you’re doing here.”

  I listened for sirens. Watched for police to storm in. This time, for sure, they’d arrest me. Oh God. I’d killed a man. I could see him in the hall. Lying on the floor. Arms splayed. But Susan was scowling, demanding answers. I needed to focus, to tell her the basics. About getting Charlie’s funeral clothes. About hiding in the closet because someone had come in. About shaping a weapon out of a hanger.

  “So the guy jumped you?”

  “He tackled me. Pounced on top. Slammed my head against the floor.” He must have. I had a lemon-size lump on my temple as evidence.

&nbs
p; “And you don’t know who he is? Really?” She frowned, doubting me.

  “No. Why? Do you?”

  “Well, yes. He’s pretty well known around here. And throughout the entire Northeast U.S.” She looked at him. “That’s Somerset Bradley.”

  Somerset Bradley? I remembered, knew the name. Had pictured him older, bulkier. Not nearly as limber.

  “He was a client. Charlie mentioned him, said Derek brought him in.” I saw Charlie sitting beside the bathtub, keeping me company. The lights low. The water warm, bubbly and scented. My head woozy from drink. And Charlie’s eyes glowing. About Somerset Bradley.

  “The guy was a big developer,” Susan spoke quickly, glanced at the front door. “He owned everything. Malls. Hotels. Skyrises. Commercial real estate everywhere.”

  “So what was he doing here?”

  Susan shrugged. Got up. Looked at the body. “Somebody gave him a key. Did Charlie often give his clients keys to his apartment?”

  Why would he? “I don’t have a clue.”

  She eyed the body. “He looks like a cat burglar, those black running clothes. But why is he dressed like that? Somerset Bradley sure didn’t need to rob anyone. So what was he up to?” She twisted her neck to look at his face. Grimaced. “Man. You sure did a number on him.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Made kind of a moan.

  “Okay.” She stood straight, all business. “Here’s the deal, Elle. The press is going to be all over this, especially after Charlie. Ignore them. Do not speak to them under any circumstances. More importantly, when the police ask questions, I’ll advise you about whether or not to answer. We want to cooperate, but not self-incriminate, understand?”

  I did. Sort of.

  “We’ll explain that you were attacked in your husband’s apartment. No matter who this guy is, you were the victim here. You acted in self-defense. Although—”

  Although?

  Susan pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. Folded her arms. Stood up straight. “They may argue that you had time to think. You know, to plan to stab him. I mean, you had the time to make this hanger thingie—”

  “Susan. I wasn’t planning to kill him. I was hiding. I thought Charlie’s killer was here. I made that to protect myself. I was scared.”

  “I know, Elle.” Susan sat again. Touched my arm again. Tilted her head. “Of course that’s what happened. And that’s exactly what we’ll tell the police.”

  For the briefest moment, I wondered if she believed me. And I probably would have asked her, but just then Charlie’s front door swung open, and police swarmed in.

  An EMT looked me over. Checked the swelling on my head. Recommended a trip to the hospital. Susan agreed. In fact, even though I didn’t see the need, she insisted.

  Detectives Stiles and Swenson had arrived. Looked at the body. Looked at me. My insides flipped and blood drained from my head, but met their eyes. Susan stood with them, spoke in a low voice, her head bent toward Stiles. His eyes warmed, listening to her. Friends.

  I waited on the sofa. Watching the commotion. Wondering if they would take me in. If I’d sleep that night in jail. If I’d be able to shower, wash off all the blood. An officer stood beside me, watching the EMT take my blood pressure.

  Swenson, not Stiles, finally came to talk to me, Susan at his side like an extra sleeve.

  “You want to tell me what happened, Ms. Harrison?”

  I looked at Susan. Did I?

  She nodded. “Just briefly, Elle. I’ve already explained the basics to the detectives, and they can see you’re in no condition for a lengthy conversation.”

  Detective Stiles stood within hearing range. Listening. Swenson took notes. I was shivering, teeth chattering. The EMT wrapped me in a blanket, mentioned the word, “shock.” Susan scolded Stiles, said I needed immediate medical attention. Swenson argued that if I would just answer his questions, we could all move on. Susan looked at me, her face a question. I nodded, yes; I could do it. Told them what happened. How I’d gone there to get funeral clothes, and seen the doorknob turn, heard a key in the lock. How I’d run back, hid in the closet. And made myself a weapon, just in case it was the killer. And finally had left, but forgotten Charlie’s clothes. Gone back for them. And boom. I’d hit the ground.

  I stopped, not sure what else to say.

  Swenson leaned close, breathing on my eyes. Frowning. “You didn’t mention stabbing Mr. Bradley in the eye.”

  “Hold on, Detective. Why should she? Clearly, it was self-defense.” Susan stepped in, stood in his face.

  “We’d like to hear her account, nonetheless. That is, if you don’t mind.” Swenson stood nose to nose with Susan, sarcastic, facing her off.

  Stiles watched, silent.

  “Elle?” Susan didn’t take her gaze off Swenson’s eyes. “Are you up to this?”

  My thoughts were jumbled. Even so, I knew I shouldn’t say I didn’t remember what else happened. That would sound like I was lying. Maybe about everything. No. I had to tell them something that would satisfy them. Had to improvise.

  “He knocked me down. We fought,” I touched the lump on my head. Winced. Looked at my hands. The EMT had rewrapped the cut on my palm, but there were still stains of dried blood. “He bashed my head against the floor. I don’t remember how many times. But somehow, I rolled over and pushed to get him off me. I couldn’t. And he put his hands on my neck, like he was going to strangle me, so as hard as I could, I jabbed him in the face with the hanger.” Six eyes focused on me. Waiting. Not blinking. Ten eyes, if you counted the EMT and the uniformed officer standing beside the sofa. “I honestly wasn’t aiming for his eye. But there was kind of a slip and a pop. A spurt. And he let go of my throat and slumped down.”

  There. Finished. Was that good enough? I looked from face to face, measuring the reactions. Did they believe me? Was it too much detail? Not enough? Would they check my neck for strangle marks?

  Swenson moved closer. Too close. So close I could see into his pores. “Ms. Harrison,” he growled softly into my ear, “Detective Stiles here says I should take it easy on you. So I am. For now. But just so you know? Something about you isn’t right. I know it—”

  “Detective,” Susan actually shoved him, “if you want to speak to my client, do it within my hearing.”

  Swenson backed away but kept his eyes on me. I sat straight, didn’t look away. I knew about eye contact, that if you looked away first, you were admitting weakness. So I didn’t. I stared back until, finally, he turned away. And then, I let myself drift.

  Susan was talking again, her voice still stern. Stiles had an arm across her shoulders as if to calm her. The three of them—Stiles, Susan, and Swenson stood in a huddle, buzzing. And then, I saw myself flat on a stretcher, being rolled down the hall to the elevator. I watched the fancy light fixtures of Charlie’s building until they became the lights of the elevator, or the sun in the open sky, or the sterile white roof inside the ambulance, and I could see the ambulance racing through the city, passing cars, going through red lights, siren blaring. Then strong arms helped me onto a bed, from which I watched the drop ceiling in the emergency room. And dozed. Until a voice—Susan’s?—asked what my room number would be. Repeated it, telling someone on her phone that I had a mild concussion, would be fine, had to stay overnight for observation.

  A while later, I sat up in bed. Saw the room spin. Had a headache. In front of me was a tray of roast chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes, a slice of apple pie, a pot of brewing tea. Jeopardy!—Jeopardy! Teen Tournament played on a television near the ceiling. And, seated in a row, facing me, looking somber, frightened, and frantic, were the three most beautiful women on earth. Susan, Becky, and Jen.

  They watched me eat. They brushed my hair. Becky rubbed skin cream onto my feet. I thanked them over and over. Told them they were the best friends ever. That I didn’t deserve them.

  “You’re right,” Becky agreed. “You don’t.”

  “We’re just here so when we want something you’
ll owe us.” Jen grinned. I could see her aura: golden pink.

  Alex Trebek read categories for Double Jeopardy!

  I tried to get up to go to the bathroom.

  “Don’t move.” Becky put a hand on my shoulder. “You have a concussion.”

  “Just a mild one.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “But I have to pee.”

  “Let me call the nurse.”

  “No, let me get up.”

  Jen reached for the call button, Becky pressed on my shoulders, to push me back onto the bed. Susan grabbed the tray so the food wouldn’t spill.

  “I’m fine. I don’t need a nurse.” I lifted my head off the pillows. The walls shimmied.

  “You’re not supposed to jostle yourself.”

  “NFW, Elle.” No Frickin’ Way. “You’re not getting up. Pee in a pan.”

  I was surrounded. And they weren’t giving in.

  “Guys. I’m not going to do cartwheels. I’m just going three steps to the john.”

  They considered it. Silent groupthink.

  “Fine. If you’re careful. But you have to lean on me.” Becky offered her arms to pull me up.

  “And go slowly,” Susan added. “Very slowly.”

  “Glide smoothly, Elle. So you don’t rattle your brain.” Jen stepped along with us for the distance, maybe two yards from the bed to the bathroom door.

  The walk, though short, was unsteady. Wobbly. Nauseating. My body ached all over, probably from fighting. But Becky was solid, and we made it. The walk back was less urgent, still a little dizzying.

  “Does your head ache?”

  “Jen, don’t make her talk,” Susan scolded. “We agreed not to ask her questions.”

  “Back off, Susan. I just asked if her head hurt.”

  They squabbled, like normal. Made comforting background noise. Alex Trebek’s answer was the university whose students were called, “Elis.”