Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie Page 9

  Becky mumbled, “What is Yale?” as she helped me back into bed, replaced the food in front of me.

  I gazed at the clotting gravy on the cooled mashed potatoes. Felt woozy.

  “You going to eat that?” Jen pointed at the pie.

  Ever so gently, I shook my head, “No.” Watched her grab the plate, inhale the pie. Lay back.

  Drifted. Closed my eyes.

  And remembered. Oh, damn—

  “Charlie’s clothes!” I sat up. “The funeral parlor—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all done.” Susan nodded toward Jen.

  “Everything was in that bag, right?” Jen’s mouth was full. “I took it over before, while you were being admitted.”

  Really? “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  Alex’s answer was, “The university whose team is The Big Red.”

  “Oh, I forgot—the funeral director gave me this.”

  “What is Cornell?” Becky asked.

  “It was in Charlie’s jacket pocket.”

  “Don’t bother her with that now,” Susan frowned.

  “I’m not bothering her,” she snapped. “I’m just giving her an envelope.”

  “She needs to rest.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, but neither listened, in bickering mode again.

  I reached for the envelope that Jen had pulled from her enormous Louis Vuitton handbag. Held it as I lay my head back down. Thought about the man I’d killed. And Charlie. The gaps in my memory. And the police.

  Final Jeopardy was over. The teen on the right, Tyler, had won, had nailed the Shakespeare category with “What is King Lear?” Alex was shaking hands. Becky kissed my cheek, “You’ll be okay, Elle. See you in the morning.”

  Jen squeezed my shoulder, gave me a peck, whispered. “They say you’ll probably get out tomorrow. If not, the funeral director said he can run another obit and postpone the—”

  “Jen.” Susan actually pulled her by the arm. “Not now.”

  Jen stiffened, whirled around. “You are a real PIA, Susan.” Pain in the Ass. “Elle needs to know what he said.”

  “Fine. She can know it tomorrow.” Susan, the oldest, bossing us around. Just like when we were kids. “Elle’s in no condition to deal right now. Let her be.”

  Jen backed down, looked at me. Back at Susan. “Fine. You decide what she should know. You tell her.” And she stormed out.

  Leaving Susan and me by ourselves.

  Susan sat on the reclining chair beside the bed. Sighed. Rubbed her eyes.

  “It’s going to be okay.” She wasn’t convincing.

  “Are they going to arrest me?”

  “No—for Somerset Bradley? No. He might be a big shot, but he was trespassing. And you were defending yourself—”

  “But what about for Charlie? Detective Swenson just about threatened—”

  “I know. It’s just bullying tactics. Ignore him.” She crossed her legs, leaned an elbow on her knee. Pursed her lips.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. We should let this go until you’re—”

  “Susan. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s better to wait—”

  “Bullshit. Talk.”

  She bit her lip. Brushed hair out of her eyes. Nodded. “Okay. But just briefly. I talked to Stiles. The police do consider you a person of interest in Charlie’s murder, but for now, they aren’t arresting anyone.”

  “For now?” My mouth went dry. “What the hell is a ‘person of interest’?”

  Susan sat up straight, looked away. “It means they want to look at you more closely, but they don’t have enough evidence—”

  “Susan. They think I killed Charlie. And now I’ve killed another person. To them, I’m, like, a serial killer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. I took a man’s life today.” Saying it out loud seemed to make it more real. More definitely true. Oh God. What was happening to me? Who was I really? Until this week, I’d been a second grade teacher. Now, I was a killer?

  I looked at Susan, deciding how much to tell her. She’d always been like a big sister. A few years older, she’d always been the one I’d gone to for advice. And now, she was also my lawyer. If I was going to confide in anyone, it would be her. Still, I hesitated. She wouldn’t believe me. She’d say I was imagining things, just as she had when I’d told her about hearing Charlie’s voice.

  “What?” She had such soft brown eyes. “What’s on your mind, Elle?”

  “Susan. Can I trust you?”

  “What?” Her voice rose, insulted. “After all these years, you’re asking if you can trust me? Elle. This is me. Susan.”

  I guessed she meant yes.

  I considered how to continue. Studied her face. A vein stuck out in her forehead, a sign of stress. And her eyes strained with concern. Bloodshot. Reminded me of another eye, red with an embedded hanger.

  The fact was I had no choice. I had to trust somebody. And Susan wasn’t just my friend; she was my attorney, so, legally, she couldn’t breach a confidence. But she looked exhausted. Needed to go home to her family. I’d taken up too much time already. Should let it go.

  “Hello?” Her voice was loud. “Where are you? Are you doing an Elle?” She thought I was drifting.

  But I wasn’t. “I’m thinking how to put this.”

  “Don’t think. Just tell.”

  Okay. “I know the cops think I killed Charlie—”

  “Not necessarily—They just have to—”

  “Don’t deny it. We both know I’m the obvious suspect. So, before this thing today happened, I was thinking that the best way to get them off of me was to figure out who really killed him. And I was going to make a list. But I didn’t. Because I had to wonder: What if it really was me? What if I killed Charlie?”

  Susan’s jaw actually dropped. She pushed her hair back. Licked her lips. Uncrossed her legs. Leaned forward. Scowled. “Elle. I’m only going to ask this one time. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? I’m talking about maybe I did it and just don’t remember—”

  “That’s absurd. It’s—”

  “No. Listen. Maybe it was such a trauma that my brain blocked it out and didn’t record it.”

  “Beyond absurd. It’s ridiculous. You would never kill anyone, Elle. Let alone Charlie.”

  “I’m serious, Susan. My entire memory is full of holes. Big gaps. Blank spots like a piece of Swiss cheese. You guys tease me and call me spacey. But this isn’t just daydreaming. It’s like I’ve skipped chunks of time. Maybe I have early onset Alzheimer’s. Or a brain tumor. Or some mental disorder that takes me away. Protects me from recalling things I don’t want—”

  “That’s crap.”

  “No. Listen. The detectives asked me what I did after school on the day of Charlie’s murder, and guess what? I couldn’t remember.”

  “What do you mean, you couldn’t remember? That makes no sense.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I remembered only snapshots. The rest was blank. I filled in the rest by deduction. By best guesses.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “No way you killed him.”

  “Fine. But Susan. What if I did?”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. Blinked. Sputtered. Shook her head. “That’s simply not a possibility.”

  “Look at the cut on my hand—”

  “But you said you did that cutting fruit—” She stopped mid-sentence. Realizing that maybe I didn’t remember the cut any more than anything else.

  “There’s more. Susan. I dreamed it. I dreamed I was killing him. I felt the knife in my hand. Cutting through his jacket. His skin—”

  “So you had a nightmare. It’s understandable—Even with your separation, Charlie was your husband. His murder horrified you.”

  “But the details? How would I dream such vivid details if I hadn’t done it?”

  She shook her head.
“Sorry. I’m not listening to—”

  “No. You have to. I meant it about a mental disorder, Susan. You all tease me about ‘pulling an Elle.’ Drifting off, not paying attention. But maybe pulling an Elle isn’t just a quirk. Maybe it’s serious. And the gaps in my memory—maybe they’re part of it, and I do things and then don’t remember them. Like that rose—remember how it moved around my house? And how I thought Charlie was moving it because it kept showing up someplace else?”

  She nodded, yes, she remembered. “But that wasn’t Charlie—”

  “No. I know that, Susan. Because maybe it was me. Maybe I moved the rose myself and just don’t remember. Just like I don’t remember killing him.”

  Susan let out a breath. She sat perfectly still, watching me, with only her eyelids moving, blinking rapidly. “Listen to me, Elle. I don’t know about the stupid rose. Maybe you moved it, maybe not. But of one thing, I’m very sure: you did not kill Charlie.”

  I wanted to believe her. “How do you know that?”

  She smiled. Tentatively. “Because I know you. You’re an air-head, yes. You float in and out of conversations like dandelion fluff. But you are not violent or dangerous. You’re simply not a killer.”

  “Tell that to Somerset Bradley.”

  A tsk. “That was different.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Truth is, I don’t remember.”

  Her head tilted. “You don’t remember that either?”

  Slowly, without disturbing my mildly bruised brain, I shook my head, No. “Not a second of it.”

  A sigh. A silent moment or two. “Well, the evidence leaves no doubt. You acted in self-defense. But I get what you’re saying. If you really don’t remember, maybe it’s about trauma. When you’re under extreme stress, Elle, maybe you just check out. Some kind of defense mechanism. Part of your brain shuts off, maybe, and your memory stops recording. Actually, to some degree, that happens to everyone. Eyewitnesses to traumatic or violent events can’t remember anything accurately. People watching the same event will swear that the getaway car is green and that it’s also silver. And the perp is both fat and skinny, black and white, old and young, even male and female.”

  I knew about eyewitnesses. But they didn’t forget what they did after work. Didn’t find roses moving around their homes. Didn’t forget killing a man.

  “Do you want to see a shrink?”

  I blinked. A shrink? Lord. Tears gushed, rolled over my eyelashes. I smeared them across my face.

  Another tsk. “Elle. Don’t cry—” Susan put a hand on my arm. Tenderly.

  “But Susan—” My chin wobbled. “What if—” I swallowed, finding my voice. “What if I’m not who we think I am?”

  “Who are you, then?” She sounded maternal, soothing.

  “I don’t know. Some multiple personality? Somebody with a killer living in my body?”

  “A serial killer living in your body? Really?” She chuckled. It did sound pretty wild. “Poor Elle. You’ve been all alone with this, giving this some serious thought, haven’t you?”

  I sniffed. She handed me a tissue.

  “Well, you’re not alone with it anymore. You told me. And I’m glad you did. Feel better?”

  Not much. Maybe a little. But I said, yes, I did.

  “Good. Now, here’s the deal. If you want, we can get you evaluated by a psychiatrist. I’ll even arrange it for you. But at least for now—and I mean this seriously, Elle, don’t talk about this to anyone—I mean anyone but me. Not Jen. Not Becky. Not a soul. Get it?”

  I did. Susan didn’t want the police to find out about my memory gaps. Because the gaps invalidated my statements about what had happened. Made it look like I’d lied about the events surrounding Charlie’s murder and Somerset Bradley’s death. Which, actually, I had.

  A woman in green came in for my dinner tray. “You not like?” She eyed the untouched chicken.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. You feel better, missus. God bless.” She smiled, took the tray, waltzed out of the room.

  I looked up. Pat Sajak was saying goodnight. Wheel of Fortune was over. We’d been talking for a whole half hour.

  Susan stood. “Look, I’ve got to go—Emily’s bedtime. But I don’t want you lying here thinking you’re Jekyll and Hyde. You’re not a serial killer and you don’t have a multiple personality. What happened today was that your survival instincts kicked in. If Bradley hadn’t attacked you, he’d be alive. You are a beautiful, kind woman and good-hearted, generous friend who has always been there for me.”

  “Susan, please—”

  “No. Who took me to the hospital when Tim was away and Emily came early? You. Who helped me breathe through labor? You. Who drove me to my father’s when my mom had her stroke? Who stayed with Julie when Lisa’s camp bus—”

  “Okay, Susan. Enough.”

  “Point is you’ve always been there for me, Elle. You’re not some murderer—you have gerbils in your classroom, for God’s sakes.”

  Hamsters, actually. Romeo and Juliet. But Susan’s voice was husky, impassioned. Reassuring. I smiled. I thanked her. We hugged.

  “They’re going to keep waking you up all night, so don’t expect to get much sleep.” Like a mom, she tucked me in and kissed my forehead, near my lump.

  I lay there after she left, in and out of sleep. The nurse came in sometime later, checking my vitals. And asked me about the envelope I was clutching in my hand.

  Becky showed up, carrying a dry cleaning bag, just as breakfast arrived. I’d already been up, and I’d managed to get around all by myself. Feeling much less wobbly, I’d stepped into the shower. Washed my hair. Scrubbed my body. Wondered how I would make it through the day. And the next.

  She examined my so-called food. “Yum.”

  I was actually hungry. Held a forkful of scrambled eggs in my hand.

  “I guess you’re better.”

  I chewed, nodded. Regretted the nod when the walls kept bobbing after I’d stopped.

  “Good.” Becky sat on the foot of the bed, watching me eat.

  “Want some?” I offered her a pancake.

  She shook her head. “Already ate.” But she kept watching me.

  Never mind. I shoveled eggs into my mouth, chugged the juice. Wanted comfort, settled for eggs.

  “So I have your clothes. The black suit, like you said.”

  I didn’t remember telling her what I wanted to wear, or asking her to bring it. But the suit is what I would have chosen, perfect for a viewing. Why didn’t I remember? Another memory lapse? No. It was normal. I had a head injury, after all. Had been groggy.

  I swallowed fruit cocktail. “Thanks, Becky.”

  “So,” she pointed at the table, “was that anything interesting?”

  I followed her gaze.

  “Love letters? Or a wad of hundred dollar bills?” She was looking at the envelope.

  Oh, the envelope. I tried to sound indifferent. “Just some travel documents.”

  “Charlie was going somewhere?”

  I chewed, swallowed. Told myself the itineraries were nothing. “No. They’re actually not his. They’re for Derek and some other people.” Other people like Somerset Bradley. Whom, in fact, I’d just killed. But I didn’t want to talk about that.

  “Must be business.”

  “I guess.” Except Charlie and Derek had never done business anywhere near where the flights had been going. As far as I knew, Somerset Bradley hadn’t built any malls in Moscow. Or condos in Kiev. I remembered Charlie telling me that Derek had wooed his new client with a fancy travel package. But the travel plans didn’t matter. Not any more.

  “Wow, Becky—” Jen whooshed in, decked out in black Gucci. Dismayed. “Elle’s still eating? She’s got to get ready. We need to get her to the—”

  “Relax. She’ll be fine.”

  “Are you kidding? Look at her. Her forehead is purple. And her hair—”

  “Jen, please.” Why did my friends so often talk about me as
if I were inanimate? “Let me eat. Then I’ll do some makeup and fix my hair. We have time.”

  Jen huffed, pouted, crossed her arms, tapped her foot. Looked at Becky, eyed her deep-purple floral dress. “Ann Taylor?”

  Becky reddened. “On sale. Forty off.”

  “Nice.” Jen’s fingernails tapped the wall. She watched me and the clock, waiting. Impatient.

  I hurried. Wolfed down a wad of pancakes, gulped some tea. And sat passively while Jen and Becky swirled around me, styling my hair, understating my makeup, covering my bruises. They doted on me, pampering, fussing as if they were preparing a bride for her wedding.

  But, that day, there would be no wedding. That day, I’d dress in black.

  Edward greeted us at the family entrance, guided us into the comfortable waiting room for the bereaved. Several plump leather sofas and easy chairs. Lots of tissue boxes. Hard candies. Coffee, tea. A private bath, stocked with soft towels, mouthwash, amenities. Soft-green walls, a few innocuous paintings. A plush carpet. No windows. It was a room where people whispered, if they spoke at all.

  Edward asked how I was doing, took my hands in both of his. I introduced Becky and Jen, told him to let Susan in when she arrived. Hesitated when he asked if I wanted to see Charlie alone before doors opened for the viewing, which would go on from noon until four.

  “You don’t have to, of course—”

  “No. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  And then, he led me through the double doors into the viewing room. To the walnut box I’d selected. And the floral arrangements I’d picked out. And Charlie. Wearing his pinstriped suit.

  Edward left us. He closed the door to the family room, blocking Jen’s and Becky’s views. Leaving Charlie and me alone.

  He didn’t look dead.

  Then again, he didn’t look alive. Cheeks were noticeably, artificially rouged. Lips shut too tight. Had they sewn them closed? It looked like maybe they had. Or glued them? Charlie smelled of heavy makeup, sweet and unnatural. And the skin on his forehead was too pale, too still. No blood running through it, massaging it from within.

  “Charlie?” I whispered, lest someone hear me talking to a dead man. “Charlie.” His name was all I could think of to say. I put my fingertips on his cheek, tried to rub away some of the makeup. Gave up. Let my palm rest on his face. Felt the absolute quiet of his skin. His coolness. Empty as a rock.