Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  Emma forced herself to read the rest of the article, but there wasn’t much more to glean other than the leak itself.

  To calm down, she read the rest of the paper. The broadsheet was only twenty-four pages long. On the Obit Page, she saw that Mary Jackson had scheduled a funeral service for Ethan in four days, on Thursday at ten o’clock.

  At least that gave her something tangible. Like FBI agents who photograph license plates at a mobster’s funeral, she would attend just to see who else was there.

  22

  Geriatric Chubster

  At precisely 6:30 a.m., I turn off “New Day Sunday” with Christi Paul and Victor Blackwell. I go to my front door to pick up the Sunday Hampshire Chronicle and the Times. I take the papers in their plastic bags back to my breakfast table.

  I open the plastic bags and place them in the drawer that I have dedicated for newspaper bags. On the first of each month, I leave them outside for the paper girl to recycle them. I despise unnecessary waste. I regularly donate to the Natural Resources Defense Council, Inc.

  I sit at my breakfast table, open the paper, and the headline screams at me.

  I let out a banshee shriek. I throw the Chronicle across the room. Its pages flutter to the kitchen floor like angry butterflies. My fucking plan! So fucking perfect and now … wrecked. I smash my formidable fists on the table. Dammit, I shout. I am breathing as rapidly as when I do my barbell squats.

  Calm yourself, goddammit. Think!

  Eventually, I get on my hands and knees to retrieve the front page. I look for the name of the reporter who has rat-fucked me.

  There. Virginia Hobson. Never heard of you, but I fucking have now!

  I go to my laptop on the kitchen counter. My fingernails clack on the keys. The letters of the key tops I use the most—etaoin shrdlu—have already been obliterated by past use. I can’t help myself. I have a heavy hand on the keyboard. I find her on the interweb: Virginia Hobson Hampshire CT, and I find Hobson’s home address: 7 Waldron Avenue. I know the place. It is a new development in south Hampshire. Tacky houses all mish-mashed together with no regard for individuality or aesthetics, in short, puke-worthy architecture.

  My bedroom closet, however, is the epitome of proper order. I hired a professional team from California Closets to install it, under my supervision.

  I choose simple clothes. From the trouser section of my California Closet, I choose a freshly-laundered pair of Tom Ford blue jeans. From T-shirts, I choose a navy blue one. I check myself in the full-length mirror. Perfect. Except for the designer blue jeans, I look casually normal.

  In the basement, I cut off a hank of the same rope I used to hang Ethan. I have a revised plan—you have to adapt when circumstances change—which will give Emma Thorne something new to consider. “Adapt or perish,” H.G. Wells said. In my sports closet, I find my scuba-diving knife and insert the knife and its sheath next to the small of my back, covering it with my untucked T-shirt.

  Preparation lowers my respirations.

  Lastly, I place a Sharpie in my jeans’ pocket.

  Seven Waldron Avenue is, as expected, a cookie-cutter, builders’ house sans much-needed input from an architect. In a word, hideous. Just the kind of house I expect an impertinent reporter to own.

  Waldron was once a fine open area with a line of old growth maples lining the avenue. It is a damn shame how developers have torn the heart out of the neighborhood. And the trees.

  As I stroll inconspicuously past the house, I am still at a rapid boil. I can’t believe the damage this nosy-parker has caused.

  There are lights on in the living room. Unless Hobson is a climate-change-denier, there is someone home. I didn’t intend to re-use the phone I’d called Ethan with so soon. But, really, what better time? Knowing that the same cell phone was used in the murders of both Ethan and Virginia Hobson will drive Emma bat-shit. I dial Hobson’s number.

  Through the living room window, I see a plump, elderly woman pick up her phone.

  “Virginia Hobson.”

  I adopt a low-pitched, professional voice. I say, “Ms. Hobson, my name is Pat Roberts. I’m a reporter with the Hartford Courant, a professional colleague of yours.” I try to sound super-friendly, butter her up a bit. Not like a person who is about to garrote a geriatric chubster who’s poked her nose where it doesn’t belong. Anyway, flattery always works on the elderly. “Congratulations on your scoop. You’ve blown the Ethan Jackson case wide open. I wonder if I can have a quick interview with you?”

  “Since when does a journalist interview another journalist about the latter’s scoop?” Hobson says. Her words are reasonable, but the tone is icy.

  I realize I’m underestimating her. I try again. “This is a big deal, Ms. Hobson. Right now, you’re in the limelight, and I would like my article to reflect that. What do you say?”

  “It’s Sunday, Pat. If you want to talk about my article, why don’t you call me in my office tomorrow morning to set up an appointment?”

  My full fury comes to bear. I will not be thwarted by this biddy-bitch. “Look, Hobson, I’m from the Courant, not the Hampshire Chronicle, a rinky-dink newspaper at the best of times. Right now, I’m outside your house—”

  I immediately regret my error. Just before Virginia Hobson turns to look out her window, I step behind one of the few remaining trees. Hobson doesn’t know me, but I have to be careful. I peek from behind the tree and see Hobson’s fat face pressed to the window.

  “Whoops, Pat, could you please hold on a minute? I have another call. I must be popular today.”

  The change in Hobson’s tone makes me suspicious. Impulsively, I wait anyway. When Hobson comes back on the line, she is downright cheery. “That’ll be fine, Pat. Just give me a moment, I’m not even dressed yet. I’ll put some coffee on.”

  Again, I wait … until I hear an approaching siren. First one, then another. I race around the corner to my car. I’m barely behind the wheel when I hear the first police car skid to a stop outside Hobson’s house.

  As I drive my car away, I begin to calm down. That was a close call. I have to give Hobson credit. She was craftier than I would have guessed.

  I hadn’t particularly wanted to off the old biddy. Collateral damage doesn’t keep matters as tidy as I like them to be. Still, I would’ve done it if I’d gotten inside her house. I’m not the one who screwed up my plan. She was.

  I wasn’t alive when Eisenhower was president, but I studied him at Hampshire High. Except for D-Day, he never struck me as being all that smart, but he did say, “In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”

  Words to live by, I say.

  Re-analyzing the situation, I figure that I have accomplished my mission, since Emma will surely trace the call back to the same cellphone I used at Ethan’s. I wonder what Emma will make of that. I delight in toying with her. It adds an unanticipated, yet delicious dimension, to my scheme.

  I look forward to getting to know ma nouvelle amie, Deb Barger. Any friend of Emma’s is gonna be a pal of mine …

  Feeling more like my confident self, I follow Deb’s car as she drives it into Super Stop & Shop. I grab a shopping cart. I now have on a Red Sox ball cap, a pair of Ray-Ban shades, and a loose wind breaker. I’m traveling incognito, like people hope to when they’re surfing the web for porn.

  I load my cart with random items until I blend into the supermarket scene. Then I steer the cart in search of Deb. I spot her in Dairy, but I don’t let her see me.

  She’s not the prettiest girl I ever saw, but she has a curvaceous, sexy figure. Her dark hair is appealing, though, in an tidy sort of way.

  I watch her, thinking for a minute about where I am. Shopping means different things to different people. For Deb it is all about granola ingredients, tofu, and La Croix sparkling water. It’s different for me. I’m shopping for my next victim.

  A man walks up to Deb. He is nondescript with a broad smile on his face. They kiss on the lips. He
whispers something in her ear. Deb starts laughing. Soon they’re yukking it up together. I know Deb’s not married, so this guy must be a boyfriend. By his enthusiasm, I judge him to be a new boyfriend.

  I hope he is not a live-in boyfriend. It will muddy the old waters if I have to kill him, too.

  23

  Suzy Szarkowski

  On Wednesday, a gorgeous, breezy June day, Emma arrived at the office early.

  Pepper, as she always did, entered the room with her snout aloft. Each morning, her three hundred million olfactory receptors sampled the air, a continuation of her search for Archie. After a thorough investigation, she made a beeline for the desk chair, placing her front paws on the seat. Although Pepper knew Emma like a sister, the loyal hound mourned her true love, her master, her Chief.

  Emma threw open the office windows to let the air in, distracting Pepper with new smells to enjoy. Emma wasn’t quite sure why she was in such a good mood.

  She sipped her coffee, which tasted better than normal. Leaning back in her chair, she enjoyed the cool early morning breeze playing on her face. After a few indulgent moments, she opened her laptop and checked her calendar. Time for work.

  In the phone book, she found only one Henderson. A Matthew Henderson on Meadow Drive. Joe’s father? She knew the street. It was in a secluded area on the outskirts of Hampshire not far from where her sister-in-law lived. She was about to dial the number but stopped herself. Paying Joe an unexpected visit would better serve her purpose.

  With Pepper in tow, she drove out to Meadow Drive and found the long driveway which wandered up to the Henderson house. She knocked on the door of an obviously expensive, modern house with expansive views to the south and west. Henderson House, as a sign at the foot of the driveway announced, incorporated a series of black slabs at right angles separated by floor-to-ceiling windows. A big swimming pool dominated the front lawn.

  Joe Henderson answered the knock. He was better looking than she remembered. Taller than she, at about six-foot-one, his black hair was carefully barbered. He wore pale blue bathing trunks and no shirt. He had a monogrammed towel around his neck. Clearly, he worked out.

  With a cheery smile, he greeted her like an old friend. Joe had even, white teeth.

  “What an unexpected surprise! It’s my arresting officer. Come on in.” His words spelled sarcasm, but his tone didn’t. “What can I do for you?”

  Emma was nonplussed. She’d anticipated hostility.

  “Want to go for a swim? I’m sure one of my mom’s bathing suits would fit you.”

  This was too bizarre. “Your parents, are they home?”

  “No, they moved out about a year ago. They moved to an assisted-living facility outside of Boston. I have Henderson House all to myself.”

  Emma found herself saying, “They must be quite young for assisted-living.”

  “My mom has early-onset dementia. And my dad’s a dick. Honestly, I’m glad to see the back of them. Are you sure you don’t want to go for a swim?”

  Emma was tiring of this faux-friendly back-and-forth.

  “No, I don’t want to go for a swim. I’d like to ask you a few questions, though. About Ethan Jackson.”

  “Sure, shoot. But I can save you some trouble. I hated the dishonest, lying sonofabitch.” Joe was still smiling. “However, I didn’t kill the thieving prick.”

  “I see,” Emma said mildly. “Can you tell me where you were on the morning of—”

  “Sunday, May 13, yes I can,” he interrupted. “I know exactly where I was, because I was elated when I heard the news. Unfortunately, I don’t have an alibi. I was asleep, by my lonesome.”

  Emma looked around at his richly-appointed living room and the walls of windows. “You have a beautiful house.” It really was gorgeous. She was about to ask him how he could afford it, decided not to, and then changed her mind. “How do you afford the upkeep?”

  Joe graced her with another of his dazzling smiles. “I’m rich.”

  Emma shifted gears again. “Tell me about Sophie King. I figure that there are about twenty-two years separating you two in age. What were you doing with her the day you were arrested?”

  “Hey, what can I say? I was showing the girl a good time. No law against that. I like to show my girlfriends a good time.”

  “Sophie told me that you were planning to take photographs of her and introduce her to some of your friends. What kind of photographs? And what kind of friends?”

  For the first time, Joe averted his gaze and fidgeted with his towel. “Look, I’m trying to be friendly here, and you’re making some unpleasant insinuations … which I don’t really appreciate.”

  “Nude photographs?” Emma persisted.

  “No way. She’s just a kid. Just some portraits. Photography’s my hobby.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow, making sure Joe noticed. “Why would you want her to meet your friends? Did you plan on sharing her?”

  Joe took several menacing steps toward her, his face furious. He pointed at the door. “That’s enough! Get out of my house.”

  She decided to leave it for now, but she added Joe Henderson to her suspect list.

  At the door, she asked, “What’s the address of your studio?”

  “Get out,” he said. She left.

  From her lay knowledge of the subject, Joe had some of the earmarks of a sociopath: the charm, the menace, and an irrational take on the world. Going forward, she would keep tabs on Joe Henderson.

  Back in her office, Emma reached for the telephone, but it rang before she could pick up the receiver.

  It was her private detective, Mark Byrne.

  “Emma? Mark,” he said. “How are you? Listen, I’ve interviewed everyone on your list both in New Haven and in Hampshire. Got some time today?”

  “I’m impressed,” she said, but her heart started pounding. “Are you in Hampshire? If so, are you free to come over?”

  “I am, and I will.”

  Like the last time, Mark opened her office door without knocking. “Hey Pepper! How’re you doing, girl?”

  Pepper wagged her tail furiously. She clearly considered Mark an old friend. He spent a moment scratching Pepper behind her ears.

  Emma was impatient. “What have you found out?”

  “Bad news and not-so-bad news.”

  “Great.”

  Mark sat, laced his fingers behind his head, and stretched. “The not-so-bad news is that I am no closer to knowing what happened to Will. Which, as I said at our first meeting, shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to either of us.”

  Emma nodded.

  “If that’s your definition of not-so-bad news, I hate to think what bad news—”

  “Have you ever heard of Suzy Szarkowski?”

  “Of course,” Emma said, “she was one of Will’s teaching assistants—”

  She looked across the desk at Mark, who dropped his eyes. She said, “Oh no! Please tell me no.”

  Mark met her gaze. “I’m afraid so. If it’s any consolation, which I doubt it is, she never saw Will after his depression began. That much, she swore.”

  Emma felt dizzy, sick to her stomach, and angry. She lashed out at Mark. “So, you just marched up to Suzy Szarkowski and said, ‘have you been fucking Will Foster?’ ”

  “Not exactly. I know this sucks. No, I interviewed her because she was on your list. Remember? But, during the interview, I didn’t buy her affect. I guessed she was lying. That’s when I asked, to use your words, if she had been fucking your husband.”

  “Thanks, Mark, you just wrecked my day. Rather, my life.”

  Emma grabbed a pencil and tossed it up in the air. Surprising both of them, its point stuck in a ceiling tile and stayed there. “Well, I feel better now,” she muttered.

  Mark got up and came behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Emma, I feel shitty about adding to your troubles—”

  “Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

  Mark’s hands lifted off her shoulders like rocket
s. He went back to the seat on the other side of the desk.

  “You can’t possibly know how I feel,” Emma said. “I have fucking mourned that guy every second since he disappeared. I have cried my heart out. Will was my world, my everything. You know what’s funny? I would have forgiven him in a heartbeat if he’d ’fessed up. But to find out this way … really fucking stinks. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Well, yes, I am. I would still do anything to get him back. So much longing, waiting, so much heartache. What’s the point?”

  “You want me to leave?” Mark asked.

  Emma surprised herself, when she said no. She didn’t want to be alone.

  “Want to hear some more not-so-bad news?”

  “Sure, WTF.”

  Mark smiled. “On Monday, I enjoyed a martini with Mary Jackson—”

  “Mary Jackson,” she said incredulously, “as in Mary-I-haven’t-yet-buried-my-husband-Jackson?”

  “One and the same.”

  “What on earth were you doing with Mary Jackson? She has nothing to do with Will’s disappearance.”

  “I just like to cover my bases.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Emma didn’t like this. Mark Byrne had no right messing in the Ethan Jackson investigation. On the other hand, this came as important news. Maybe Mary did know about Ethan’s other life. Emma filed that away, without any intention of sharing her thoughts with Mark.

  She looked at him appraisingly. “Just a martini?”

  Grinning, he said, “Two martinis, actually. But I’m pretty sure it could have ended with a nightcap somewhere else.”

  Emma found his smugness annoying. She changed the subject.

  “Who else have you spoken with?”

  “I called Georgia Foster, your sister-in-law. She gave me a weird runaround, so I decided to give her some space. Try her again after a day or two. Then I called the Fosters. They agreed to meet with me, saying they would ‘do anything’ to get Will back. When I got to their house—nice house, by the way—Georgia was there, too.”