Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “Joleen Champion, Justice of the Peace,” she said. “I feel as if I’m in an alternate universe.” Things like this didn’t happen to people in Cynthia’s family. They happened to other people.

  Moments later, walking up the cobblestone path to the front door, Charlie pressed his hand to her lower back. Then they stood at the door, ringing the bell. A united front. Cynthia couldn’t shake the feeling that they were there to question a witness. The neighborhood, and the rundown quality of the house, shouted meth, not matrimony.

  Charlie knocked, and a lace curtain moved aside, revealing a small woman, mid-sixties, brunette, with short, curly hair, peering back at them through the top glass panel of the door. It opened, hitting a high-pitch bell at the lintel and revealing a quaint, cabbage flower-upholstered waiting room that smelled of roses. And cats. Lots of cats. They rubbed against their legs, mewing for attention as Cynthia and Charlie walked inside. He’d had to duck to get through the door, and the room was small, and the JP was small, and Charlie was so big. It made everything seem like they were in a life-size dollhouse, and she and Charlie were the toys. Suddenly, Cynthia felt faint, and it was hard to breathe.

  More cats greeted them. More mewing. Cynthia’s eyes welled up. She sneezed.

  Ten minutes later, Charlie was finishing up paperwork with quick strokes of the borrowed pen, and then all Cynthia had to do was sign. Cynthia Deming. Her married name. Rather than Cynthia Deming, her maiden name. She didn’t know how she felt about the whole marriage thing—hadn’t had time to process it—but she did know it was necessary. JP Champion put her seal of approval on the form, smiled brightly, and then Charlie and Cynthia were officially married. Boom.

  Cynthia could have cried. Felt like she still might.

  “Okay! The dry, legal part of the wedding is over. So congratulations! You’re married,” the JP said, her brown curls bouncing as she vibrated with excitement. “Now for the fun stuff. Have you prepared vows to exchange?”

  Cynthia sneezed. By now, her nose was red and drippy, and so were her eyes. She looked at Charlie, who stood frozen, staring at the little woman as if she’d suggested a three-way. It took Cynthia a moment to understand what was happening.

  Charlie was choking under pressure. Vows? What vows? He was living the nightmare of taking a test without having studied.

  Six gory, bloody bodies? Being framed for murder? Compelled to marry? None pushed Charlie beyond his ability to cope. Yet the idea of reciting hackneyed vows historically repeated ad nauseam by multitudes of romantics over the course of millennia? That was a bridge too far. Charlie choked. He was panicking.

  For some reason, Cynthia felt no sympathy.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “No. No vows. We’re good.”

  Cynthia snatched the paperwork from the surprised woman’s hand as she walked out of the office and left Charlie to pay the fee. When she reached the walkway, she tilted her face up to the sun and wiped her tears, needing a moment to compose herself. She didn’t get one.

  “Hey.” Charlie carefully closed the door behind him, ringing the bell overhead again. He hurried to her side. “I didn’t know you were allergic to cats.” She wasn’t. “You okay?”

  No. She wasn’t okay. She was married. She hurried toward the car, needing to escape before she had a meltdown in a JP’s front yard. “Let’s go.” She was Mrs. Charlie Foulkes. “I’m keeping my name.”

  “Me, too.” He winked, but it was more of a “keep your chin up” wink, rather than a teasing wink. They got in the car, each silent, neither exhibiting an iota of the happiness usually associated with a wedding. She found it depressing. “Hey, I’ve been thinking,” he said, turning the engine over. “We could simply be a diversion for the killer. While Benton is looking at me and you, the real killer is getting away with murder. Think about it. If we’d confessed immediately, all eyes would rightfully be on us. How could the killer predict we’d stay quiet? It’s not like either of us.”

  “Planted evidence shows intent,” she said. “But we’d have to prove it was planted. Good luck with that. Confession or not, we’ll be screwed either way. At least now we can participate in the investigation.”

  “You shot six rounds,” he said. “We’ll find your casings, the slugs, and hopefully we’ll discover you hit someone. I mean, the killer. Not one of the vics. And the killer’s blood will then be on a slug.”

  “Or in all six vics. Nice try, Charlie. I’m screwed. You’re screwed,” she said. “Our one defense is this wedding.”

  Charlie grimaced, nodding. “We are totally screwed.”

  “All because I went to the gym last night.” If she’d gone home instead, she wouldn’t be Mrs. Charlie Foulkes. Be still, my heart. She glanced at him, saw he was deep in thought, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. She told herself not to be hurt that there was no pomp or circumstance to their wedding, no flowers or relatives throwing rice. What had she thought would happen? Platitudes? This was Charlie; their marriage was a practicality. She needed to be practical, too.

  She dropped her gaze, noticed her nail polish was worse for wear. “What if the print on your gun is of a blond woman, five-six,” she said, “weapons ready, has a penchant for manicures, high heels, expensive Kate Spade pocketbooks, can’t cook, and is recently married?” Her description started out as a joke, but ended by depressing her. It was a real concern. “Bet you never thought you’d marry a woman who couldn’t cook.”

  Charlie didn’t smile as he hit his turn signal and pulled into the right lane. “I’ve survived worse.” Yes, he had. Ten minutes later, he was parking at the curb in front of his house.

  “What the hell? Benton will be waiting, Charlie.” She’d been so distracted by the shit storm that had become her life that she hadn’t noticed where he’d been taking her. Some investigator she was.

  “I have to feed Socks, and we still need to eat,” he said. “Lucky for you, you married someone who can cook.” He released his seat belt with a snap.

  “I’m not hungry.” She opened the door and stood, slamming it after her.

  “You’ll eat,” he said, catching her gaze over the car’s roof. “And we have things to discuss.”

  “Such as?” This morning, she’d have assumed it was about their kiss, and her ghosting him and his parents. Now, it could be anything. He glanced up and down the street, as if he feared they’d be overheard, making her think that whatever it was, it was confidential.

  “We’re married,” he whispered. “There will be questions.” He stepped off the sidewalk onto his cobblestone walkway, heading up the stairs to his restored white Victorian. “And I need to hear this unsub’s profile. He’s targeted us; I want to target him.” He no longer whispered, so she had to assume the sensitive topic had been their marriage and potential questions. “I know you and the task force are full-throttle looking for this guy, but it couldn’t hurt to keep me apprised of what information you have. Knowledge is power. I want to help.”

  She frowned, annoyed, hurrying up the stairs onto his porch. “Why’d you whisper ‘we’re married’?”

  He inserted his key into the door, using his hip to keep the intricately carved wood screen door open. “Huh?”

  “Do you think people won’t notice we’re married?” She lifted her left hand, scowling as she walked through his now open front door. “This ring is huge.” His MIT school ring had to be clutched in her fist to keep it in place or it would slide from her finger. “People will notice.”

  He not-so-subtly avoided her gaze as he stepped inside, too, closing the door behind him. “It’s temporary.”

  “Damn right it is.” As soon as this case was closed, she was getting a quickie divorce. No way she was any man’s ball and chain, and certainly not Charlie’s. Just thinking about how he must feel trapped by their circumstances was enough to make her die of humiliation.

  “He
y,” he snapped. “I was talking about the ring, not the marriage, but duly noted. You don’t want to be married to me. Message received loud and clear. But we’re married.” Charlie rarely raised his voice, but now it echoed in the foyer and hall beyond. She turned to face him, unhappy to see the sun backlighting him, giving him a glow and putting his face in shadow. It put her at a disadvantage, because he could see her face crystal clear. “We’re really married, Cynthia. It’s not pretend.” Fists at his side, feet shoulder width apart, he seemed poised to fight. Then he stepped toward her and flipped on the light. His eyes were focused on her lips.

  They’d kissed twice. Once because of tequila, and the second time at a crime scene. He’d given her notice, walked her through the steps. “Get ready” he’d said. “Don’t punch me,” he’d said. But without an audience to convince, and bereft of tequila, she didn’t imagine his eyes focused on her lips meant more than she probably needed lip balm.

  “The marriage isn’t real,” she said. “It’s not consummated.” Cynthia batted her eyelashes, daring him to keep talking about something that was clearly making him uncomfortable.

  He stepped closer, and Cynthia had to squelch an urge to step back. He was so big, and his presence overwhelmed her. Suddenly, Cynthia got the feeling Charlie’s laser focus on her lips wasn’t about chapped lips.

  “Are you suggesting an eventual annulment,” he said, “or that we consummate the marriage to make it real?” All in a tone like a waiter offering decaf or full-caf. The man was not luring her into sin.

  “I’m just saying—” The words popped out of her mouth, because she couldn’t allow his words to hang there, unchallenged, but she had no idea how to end her sentence. What the hell did she want to say?

  He stepped even closer, so close she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. “I, Charlie Foulkes, take you, Cynthia Deming—” His expression was inscrutable. “To have and to hold, from this day forward.” She searched his eyes, hoping they’d give her a hint as to his purpose. “For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health.” He cheek kicked up, and she saw self-deprecation in his gaze, though he remained guarded. “Sound familiar?”

  “To love and to cherish, from this day forward,” she said, feeling confused. “Wedding vows.” That she didn’t get. “What’s your point?”

  “It’s you and me.”

  She looked around the hallway, saw all his family photos lovingly hung and showcased with expensive frames. She was in a few of them. She saw the sun streaming in through the front door, still backlighting Charlie, putting his features in sharp contrast. And she heard the silence in the house, reminding her they were alone.

  “We didn’t exchange vows,” she said.

  “No. We never did.” He compressed his lips. “But we’ve lived them for ten years now. We’re best friends, Cynthia. Nothing will ruin that, not even marriage. I promise.”

  “Me, too.” But she still wanted him to kiss her. “Is that your point?” Because he was looming over her, looking as if he was hungry and she was red meat. It seemed contradictory if all he wanted was to reaffirm they were BFFs.

  He shrugged. “You deserve better than a JP ceremony at lunch.”

  “It’s what I got.” She shrugged back, and then noticed a growing sense of panic about him, as if whatever was bothering him, he was about to drop his bomb now.

  She braced herself.

  “You deserve vows, Cynthia.” He stared deep into her eyes, gathering her hands into his, squeezing gently. “You deserve to be kissed at your wedding.” He watched her as if he’d asked a question, but she had no idea what response he wanted. “What I’m trying to say is, you deserve more, Cynthia.” He said it quickly, measured, like it was a punch line.

  His implication, of course, was she deserved more than Charlie. He didn’t want her, was trying to let her down easy. And it hurt.

  She had to clear her throat to talk. “Don’t worry, Charlie. We’re on the same page.”

  “What page?” His face scrunched up.

  She pulled her hands from his. “Didn’t you say something about feeding your cat?”

  “Oh, right.” He shook his head, as if dazed. Then he stepped into the living room, walked by the worn leather couch, the heavy green tweed-draped windows, the coffee table with a year’s subscription of Sports Illustrated on it, and disappeared into the adjoining room. “Socks! Here kitty, kitty.”

  Cynthia followed him into the kitchen, having a hard time wrapping her brain around such a low, masculine voice saying the words “kitty, kitty.” It sounded more like flirty sex talk than caretaking. “I’m so tired,” he said, “it’s hard to hold a thought.”

  She dropped onto a kitchen chair, exhausted, and couldn’t agree more. Then she propped her elbows on the table and rested her head on her palms. “If we make it through this day, Charlie, I’m going to sleep until I can’t sleep anymore, or I won’t survive. Maybe sleep will prompt my memory to return. Maybe I’ll remember the murders when I wake.” She heard cabinets opening and closing, but kept her eyes shut, giving in to fatigue.

  “I wouldn’t wish those memories on anyone,” he said. “You think you’re sleep deprived now? Try lying in bed, thinking about six executions.” That got her eyes open, and she saw Charlie’s commiserating smile. “I guess I could read you Lord of the Rings until you slept,” he said, “though from my experience, that is more likely to keep you awake.”

  She smiled back. “We never did finish the series.”

  “I’ve read it three times over since then. Ham and cheese?” he said. She nodded.

  “Benton will be itching for my profile of the unsub,” she said. “And when I give it to him, he’ll distribute it to every active investigator on the case, every pertinent individual and organization with something resembling a database.” They both knew once she’d handed in the profile, her culpability would be official. There would be no turning back. “Tell me we’re doing the right thing.”

  He opened a bag of bread and laid out the slices on two white plates. Then he assembled two ham and cheese sandwiches. “The unsub knows what we know.” Charlie shrugged. “At the very least, we’re his get out of jail free card.” He pulled a bag of chips from the cupboard and put it and the plates on the table, but didn’t sit. He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a Mountain Dew can and a water bottle. Cynthia reached for the soda and popped the top, taking a swig.

  “I needed that.” She looked at the food and wasn’t sure she had the energy to eat it all, but she knew she should try, if only for the energy it would give her.

  “Socks,” Charlie called out, turning his face toward the kitchen door. He waited, peered out the doorway. When the cat didn’t appear, he sighed and picked up his sandwich. “Damn cat never comes when I call.”

  They didn’t talk much as they ate. Cynthia was formulating her profile in her head, and Charlie was keeping his thoughts to himself, periodically calling to his cat. Twenty minutes later, he opened a can of cat food and Socks came ambling into the room.

  “Figures,” Charlie grumbled, smiling as the cat stuck his face in the dish, sniffed, and then began to eat. Cynthia could tell he’d grown attached to the stray. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving her to finish eating alone. Or rather, with Socks, who continued to gorge on salmon. When the cat’s plate was licked clean, Socks scurried under the corner jelly cabinet just as Charlie returned. Though still unshaven, his hair was damp and slicked back, and he’d changed into fresh jeans and a shirt, so she assumed he’d had a quick shower.

  “Socks!” Charlie went on all fours, peering under the jelly cabinet. “He’s a hoarder. I’m missing one of my favorite socks, and I suspect—” He pulled a bunch of odds and ends from under the cabinet. “He’s stolen it.”

  Cynthia wiped her hands on a napkin, then joined Charlie, squatting in front of the jelly cabinet. “Well, what do we have h
ere?” She saw a chess piece, a purple heart charm with an attached broken link, a black magic marker, and… Cynthia yelped and fell back, landing on her butt as Socks ran into the other room with a meow. “Charlie! That’s a dead mouse.”

  Pushing off from the white and black checkered tile, she retrieved a broom from its place next to the sink as Charlie had a good laugh. “Go wash your hands,” she admonished, sweeping the dead rodent into a dust pan and dumping it into the trash. “If this is what marriage to you is going to be like, it will never last.” He used his wrist to turn on the faucet, still laughing, though he was smart enough to scrub with soap. After drying his hands, he gathered the other items from the floor.

  “This yours?” He held up the one-inch purple leather bracelet charm from its broken ring, and it dangled there. Cynthia shook her head. “I don’t recognize it,” he said. “Maybe it’s my mother’s.”

  She studied it closer. “A little purple heart with Socks’s teeth marks gouged in it.” Her lower lip pooched out, and her face melted into all sorts of sappy contortions. “If that’s not a perfect cat-owner allegory, nothing is.”

  “Hey. No picking on cats.” He laid the items on the counter. “We should go. I’ve got six bodies waiting to be autopsied.”

  She looked around, trying to picture the woman—rather, women—Charlie dated coming to his house. “You’ve never brought other women here? Not even girlfriends? Dates?”

  “Just mom.” He tilted his head to the side, suppressing a smile. “If you want to know about the women I’ve had sex with, just ask.”

  “No!” She scowled, hands on her hips, trying not to stare at his amazing arms and flat abs. Or notice how his jeans hung on his muscular legs like they loved their job. “Stop laughing at me.”

  “Fact is, I haven’t—” He stopped, as if second-guessing his decision to share whatever he’d been about to say.