Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  Emma said, “I’ll bet you got an earful from that trio.”

  “So, you know how they feel about you …”

  “I don’t have to guess what they said, if that’s what you mean. Georgia, in particular, hates my guts.”

  “Then there’s no need to rehash my conversation with them.”

  “Not really,” Emma said. “So where does that leave us? Is Will out there somewhere banging Suzy Szarkowski?”

  “I’m pretty good at this. I believed her when she said she had no idea where Will was.”

  Emma watched Mark across the desk. Again, he laced his fingers behind the back of his head as he stared back at her. She got the unmistakable vibe that his look had lost a certain professional distance. Not gonna happen, Mark, she thought. Never going to happen.

  “Are you free for lunch today?”

  Instead of answering, Emma got her checkbook out of her bag. “How much do I owe you?”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  As soon as Mark was out the door, Emma smacked her forehead on her desk. Her tears came as expectedly as a hard rain in April.

  The phone rang again. Ruby Sato said, “It’s Mayor Wardlaw on the line for you, Chief.” Emma considered trying the runaround but decided that was cowardly.

  Angrily, she said, “Put him on.”

  “Emma, my dear, how are you on this fine June morning?” His voice boomed. “What you say you and I meet up for lunch today, say around 1:00?”

  “I’ve had a pretty crappy day already,” she said. “I’m not in the mood for lunch.”

  “Oh, Emma,” he said, “you would be making a big mistake to turn me down. Besides, this would be a business lunch … although, of course, if it became more, that would be fine, too.”

  Emma could almost smell his bad breath over the phone. “The answer is still no.”

  “Listen up, Emma, I’m going to give you ten minutes. Then I’m going to call you back, and I will expect a different answer.” He disconnected.

  Emma called Pepper out from under her desk well. She leaned over and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “What the hell am I going to do, Sergeant Pepper? I will never let him touch me again. What do you think? Will that cost me my job?”

  Pepper replied with an inconclusive moan.

  She called down to the dispatcher. “Can you cut a tape of my last phone call? And send it to my iPhone?”

  True to form, Dick called her back after ten minutes. He said, “I’ll meet you at Group Therapy at 1:00. Why don’t you call Phil and ask for a quiet table in the back?”

  Before she could reply, he rang off.

  Emma again asked Pepper for her opinion, but this time Pepper answered with a yawn.

  “Well if losing our job doesn’t matter to you, why should it matter to me?”

  She wasn’t sure what to do next. But then she did.

  Joe, Mark, and Dick had put her in a confrontational mood.

  She got Ruby on the intercom and asked her to send Stella Weeks up to her office. Emma waited impatiently. Ten minutes passed before Stella knocked on her door.

  “Come.”

  “What’s up, boss?”

  Stella helped herself to a seat facing Emma’s desk.

  “I want to know how the Chronicle learned that Ethan was murdered. Before we had a chance to fully investigate and before the whole goddamn world knew. I made it very clear to the entire department, yourself included, what my wishes were. Someone inside our family leaked this to Virginia Hobson, and I want to know who. I think—”

  “Um, Chief—”

  “Let me finish. I think it was you.” The chances that Stella was not the leaker were slimmer than an anorexic model.

  “That’s ridiculous. Why the hell would I do something like that?”

  Emma studied her smug expression. Stella averted her eyes, and, at that moment, Emma knew she was lying. Trouble was, she couldn’t prove it.

  “I think you’re lying to me,” she said.

  Stella smiled a nasty smile, arched an eyebrow, and looked at Emma square in the face. “You know what, it’s shit like this that makes you such a crappy chief.”

  Angry as she was, Emma was stunned by the insult. She stood and went to the window, to conceal how she felt. She knew her face would give her away. Looking out at the alley below, she took a deep breath and said, “You and I are going to have to get on the same page here, or we are not going to be able to work together.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “No, not yet. But I’m considering it.”

  Stella said, “If I were you, I would stop considering it. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You fire me, and I guarantee that you will regret it.”

  Emma regained her composure. She said, “Now that is definitely a threat. Please leave.”

  Whining Shit stood. She pulled down her uniform shirt so that it was even tighter over her stare-at-me chest. She lifted her right hand, its back toward Emma, and raised her middle finger.

  “Later, Chief,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

  Emma shook her head. Slowly but surely Stella was whipping up a storm, like the first rolling pebbles which telegraph a landslide.

  She sat, staring at Archie’s picture on the wall, until she decided to put Shining Wit on the back burner, for the moment. But she left the gas on High.

  One o’clock came and went. She blew off Wardlaw, who didn’t call her a third time. At least she had that for which to be grateful.

  Shortly after 3:00 p.m., Emma slapped Pepper on the butt.

  To the dog she said, “Fuck this,” and they went home.

  24

  “Where are you, Chief Thorne?”

  Dominating a hill above Main Street stood the larger of the two Catholic churches in Hampshire, St. Michael’s. The tip of its copper-clad bell tower was Hampshire’s highest point. Though its infrastructure was at risk, the interior was vast, ornate, and slathered with gold. Emma wasn’t religious. But she had been inside the church many times, for weddings and, in this case, her second funeral in a matter of weeks.

  She arrived early. She stationed herself inside a secondary doorway at the top of the stone stairway leading to the ogival-arched front doors. Concealed, but, she thought, not overtly furtive, she watched the arrival of Ethan’s friends and relatives.

  She still felt crushed by the previous day’s body-blows, but she had resolved to bury her emotions until Ethan’s funeral was over.

  She saw Officer Larry “Buzz” Buzzucano watching from across the street. He’d clearly had the same idea as she. Good for him.

  Mayor Dick Wardlaw arrived with his wife on his arm. Emma couldn’t remember her name. Hizzoner glad-handed everyone within reach as he mounted the steps. Emma spied her sister-in-law Georgia Foster in the distance. She was surprised to see her there, since Georgia didn’t get out much. Perhaps she was friends with Mary Jackson.

  Vanessa Mack spotted Emma, and she came over and gave her a hug and a kiss. She was with her husband, Dave, who shook Emma’s hand.

  A lot of people she didn’t recognize arrived. Ethan had drawn an impressive turn-out.

  She checked her watch. It was time to go inside.

  So far, her investigation had not advanced a millimeter.

  Emma dutifully signed the Book of Condolences and took a pew in the rear.

  She was beginning to chafe at the interminable service when Julian Jackson rose to speak. He thanked everyone for attending. He mentioned that all were invited to a reception in the Parish Hall afterwards. Emma’s attention wandered until Julian paused for a long silence. His demeanor changed, and his expression grew hard.

  “As you all know,” he said loudly, “folks accused my father of committing suicide.” Emma sat up in her seat. “That accusation was vile and despicable and hurtful.”

  Julian no longer seemed like the sniveling boy pressed ag
ainst his mother’s bosom. And he had the full attention of the congregation. There wasn’t a cough or a fidget.

  “My Dad was happy, loving, warm, and successful. He never did anything to hurt anyone. Then, out of the wild blue yonder, some vicious felon violated our home and murdered my Dad.”

  People gasped. Pews creaked.

  “This criminal, who has not been caught, faked a scene to tell a different story. Only an ignoramus would have fallen for it. Guess what folks? Guess who bought it hook, line, and sinker? That’s right folks. The cops. Hampshire’s Finest. Led by Chief Emma Thorne. They questioned my mom and me while my dad’s body was still inside our house.” Julian wiped tears from his eyes. His voice rose. “We tried to tell them that Dad was a good guy, who would never hurt himself or us. But they wouldn’t believe us. They wouldn’t believe us. Do you know how much that hurt? And then—hold on people, it gets worse—they actually, like, accused my dad of fucking around!”

  Louder gasps. People throughout the church were speaking aloud.

  “And now we know how wrong and cruel they were,” Julian bellowed from the pulpit. “And how sick. Well, I say, cops, it’s time to do your goddamned job. Where are you, Chief Thorne? Oh, there you are…” He pointed his finger right at Emma. “…is there anything you would like to say?”

  Emma was horrified. She felt her face turn a deep red. Nearly everyone in the church turned in their seats to stare at her. Since there was no place to hide, she kept her head high.

  Dick Wardlaw, who was sitting in the front pew, stepped toward the pulpit and put his arm around Julian to guide him back to his seat. Emma couldn’t hear what he said, but, as Julian shoved the Mayor roughly aside, everyone heard Julian shout, “You’re no better than they are. Let me finish, you fraud!”

  At that moment, Father Ben intervened and managed to shepherd Julian, now crying, off stage and into the privacy of his sacristy.

  While every attendee’s eyes stared at the sacristy door, Emma seized the moment and made a bee-line for her car.

  She drove a few blocks away from church. She pulled into the anonymity of a Burger King parking lot. Julian’s speech in church shook her to her core. He had a right to call her out. Just as he had the right to say that her search for the killer was no further along than it had been eleven days ago. Emma knew that she had caused the boy and his mother considerable pain.

  She felt crappy. Worse, now, because she knew she owed Dick Wardlaw a word of thanks.

  She restarted her car, forcing herself to attend the reception. She had to confront the firestorm head on. She drove to the Parish Hall and was one of the last to arrive.

  Everyone stared at her when she walked in. None of the stares was friendly. She didn’t meet the eye of a single person who communicated sympathy, or even empathy.

  Too proud to appear to be hiding, Emma strolled over to the refreshment table where a churchwoman poured her a glass of punch.

  Remembering why she was at Ethan’s funeral in the first place, she forced herself to scan the room.

  She spied her sister-in-law moving through the crowd. Why was she here? When Georgia stopped to chat with Deb Barger, Emma was further surprised. She felt certain that Deb would have mentioned it if they were friends.

  Emma couldn’t stop watching Georgia.

  The next person Georgia huddled with was none other than Sergeant Stella Weeks. The surprises continued. Heads pressed together, they appeared to know each other well. They clinked punch glasses. What could they have in common? Emma decided that they must be discussing Julian’s outburst. Everyone else was talking about it. Could it be more, though?

  She looked for Julian. She spotted him through the crowd. He was standing by himself for the moment. His eyes were still red-rimmed. He took a quick slug from a flask, which he quickly replaced into his suit-jacket pocket.

  While she was thinking, however inappropriately, that she too could use a pop, she felt someone’s presence directly behind her.

  In her left ear, she heard: “You never should have stood me up for lunch, Emma. I’ve warned you that there will be consequences.”

  Before she could turn around, Wardlaw goosed her right in her butt. Right up her butt, in fact. She couldn’t believe it. Livid, she spun around to see his back moving through the crowd. The pig was actually holding his wife’s arm with his other hand.

  Emma tore after him, funeral be damned. Everything that had already happened be damned. She grabbed his free arm and wrenched him around.

  “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she snarled.

  Wardlaw’s wife sputtered, “What in heaven’s name is she talking about?”

  Wardlaw ignored Emma.

  To his wife, he said, “It’s nothing, honey. I’m sure the chief is just reacting to being called out in public.” He took his wife’s arm and led her away.

  No thanks for you then, perv!

  Emma felt dirty and violated. She shuddered and freed the wedgie he’d inflicted. She felt more threatened than ever. Her job, her existence, her self-respect. What should I do now? Wardlaw could fire her as capriciously as he’d hired her. Maybe, she no longer wanted the job. Maybe, she really wasn’t cut out for it. Maybe, she should call in the state police for help. Why hadn’t she? Hubris, she ashamedly admitted. Misguided pride. Maybe Dad would have already solved Ethan’s murder.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe…a scribbled list of fucking maybes.

  She couldn’t go back to the office. Not now. Instead she drove home.

  She’d been doing a lot of going home early recently.

  On the way, anger shoved her doubts aside. I will solve this case! I will figure out who killed Ethan Jackson! she told herself. Screw the odds, I will prevail.

  25

  Sherwood Forest

  Although she was generally a beer and wine drinker, Emma bought a bottle of Lagavulin on her way home from the debacle at St. Michael’s.

  Pepper greeted her at the door with a welcome that would have cheered most anyone.

  By sunset, Emma was sloppy-drunk. A half-empty bottle proved it. She remembered Phil Masters telling her at Group Therapy that being chief meant you could never get shit-faced. Ha-ha!

  Next, she tried very, very hard not to think about anything. Without success. Every horror of the last month-and-a-half haunted every sip. At least, the scotch was good.

  Deb Barger rang, but Emma let it go to voicemail. Deb offered to come over, “if you need a friend.” Vanessa called to say that the whole funeral-thing had made her furious. That, Emma heard on voicemail, too. She wished they would leave her alone.

  She paced, stumbled really, around her house cursing at anything and everything. She noticed that her glass was empty again. She poured another, not bothering with ice.

  Emma passed a picture of Will hanging on her living room wall. She raised her glass, bitterly toasting him, “Here’s to you, my darling husband, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, for whatever.” She took the photograph off the wall and threw it into the fireplace. Pepper leapt to her feet, startled by the shattering glass. Pepper looked inquiringly with her soulful brown eyes. Emma looked away.

  Despite the booze, Emma remembered inadvertently knocking the same picture off the wall the day Will had disappeared. She had replaced the glass and repaired the broken frame. This time, why fix it? What was there to fix?

  The damn phone rang again. She checked caller ID. Caroline Stoner was calling. Odd.

  “Emma Shorn speaking.” She realized she was slurring, but she didn’t give a shit.

  “Chief, it’s Caroline Stoner. I’m sorry to call you at home, but I thought you might want to hear some news.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to call me Emma?”

  “Um, Emma, have you been drinking?”

  “You bet your ash I have. Didn’t you hear about my latest humiliation?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry about that, what you had to go through. Maybe this can wait until morning.”

  Em
ma took another gulp. “You called. I answered. So, get on with it.”

  Caroline said, “Right. You’ll remember that I told you about my interview with Virginia Hobson? After someone called her? She was convinced that that person meant to do her harm. I wasn’t so sure, but I ran the phone anyway with my tech buddy—”

  “It was the same phone used to call Ethan Jackson.”

  “How the heck did you know that?”

  Emma felt a little more sober. But she said, “Probably because I’m drunk.”

  Caroline chuckled. “Maybe you should get drunk more often.”

  Emma couldn’t summon a chuckle. “Shanks for the heads up,” she told Caroline.

  Then she hung up on her.

  Emma didn’t know what to make of Caroline’s news. She knew it was important, but at the moment she didn’t really care.

  Emma turned the TV on. Good Christ, there was another school shooting, this time in Florida. She watched for a while, and then she decided to issue every teacher at Hampshire High with an assault rifle.

  She looked at her watch. The hands looked like eels swimming in a round fishbowl. It didn’t really matter what the time was. She half-walked, half-crawled up the stairs to her bedroom. Still in her funeral dress, she fell over the bed and passed out.

  In the distance, Emma heard a hornpipe. It was “Sherwood Forest.” Robin Hood was in her bedroom.

  She lifted her head off the pillow and immediately regretted it. A chorus of pounding drums joined the tune. Except for the drumming, there was a brief moment of silence before “Sherwood Forest” played again and before she realized that her iPhone was telling her that she had an incoming text.

  Supporting herself with her elbow, she reached for her iPhone and knocked it to the floor. Fuck it. She let her head fall back onto the pillow, which felt like she’d hit a sturdy piece of plywood. Ouch. But she was back asleep in seconds.

  “Sherwood Forest” played a third time.

  She leaned over the edge of the bed, sweeping with her outstretched hand, feeling for the phone. Eventually, she gripped it.