MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE
Monday, June 15, 2020
With the binder in hand, I stare up at the elevator ceiling. Dark splatters stain the tiles. My feet are swollen and joints ache and I’m ready to go home to Shaun and the cats. My phone vibrates and I press it to my ear. It’s Peg, the receptionist.
“You better get up here,” she says tensely.
The doors open and I see a Channel Four reporter and a camera operator standing in front of Peg’s desk. “Can I help you?” I ask and they turn.
“I’m Robert Shay. We’re here for the press conference,” the young reporter says. He is young and handsome with close-cropped hair and a disarming smile complete with dimples. I predict he’ll move on from Channel Four to greener pastures and a bigger TV market within the year.
“Press conference?” I repeat.
“Regarding the Eve Knox murder case,” Robert explains earnestly. “We got a call that there was going to be an update.” The woman holding the camera lifts it to her shoulder.
“Whoa,” I say. “Don’t turn that thing on.” I’m mindful of my wrinkled shirt and messy bun. “I’m not sure where you got your information but there isn’t going to be a press conference.”
“But you are reinvestigating the Knox case, correct?” Robert asks, pulling out a small notebook.
“No comment,” I say.
The reporter isn’t giving up so easily. “We have a source who tells us that new evidence was found. Is that true?” He nods toward the binder in my arms. I move my hands to cover up Eve’s name.
I repeat the mantra. “No comment. Where’d you get your information?” I ask.
“Anonymous tip,” the camerawoman says.
“We’re running a story,” Robert adds. “Don’t you think it would be better if the police department had an official comment?”
I sigh. I really didn’t think it would make the jump from gossip to news this fast, especially since we are such a small town and don’t even have our own local paper or TV station. “Give me a second.” I step away from them and tell Peg to get Chief Digby on the phone.
Peg rings Digby’s office then hands me the phone. I fill him in. I’m hoping that he will come down and deal with the press himself but it seems he’s perfectly comfortable with me making the statement.
I pull the press release from the binder and take a deep breath. “Okay, let’s get this over with,” I say and lead them to an empty conference room. “I’m just giving a statement, not answering any questions. Got it?” Both Robert and the camerawoman nod.
I tuck wayward strands of hair behind my ears and try to smooth the wrinkles from my clothes. I stand behind the podium and the camerawoman raises the camera to her shoulder and nods to let me know she’s filming.
“Twenty-five years ago, fifteen-year-old Grotto resident Eve Knox was murdered. Despite the tireless work of investigators, the case has not been solved. Yesterday, potential new evidence connected to the homicide was discovered. As a result, all the evidence is being resent to the state lab for testing. With the advancement of forensic technology, we are cautiously hopeful that we will be able to bring closure to this case and for Eve’s family. Thank you.”
“It’s been said that the new evidence is a shoe that the victim was wearing the night she was killed,” Robert says off camera. “Can you confirm this?”
“No comment,” I say.
“Have you spoken to the family? What is their reaction?”
“No comment.”
“Do you have any suspects or persons of interest at this time?”
“No comment. Thank you, that is all I have right now,” I say and step out from behind the podium and move toward the conference room door.
“Weren’t you one of the people who found Eve Knox’s body?” The reporter steps into my path and sticks his microphone in my face.
I try to keep my face impassive though I want to smack the mic out of his hand and tell him to get out of my way. Part of me also wants to tell him that the night Nola and I found Eve’s body was the worst day of my life. But more than anything I just want to get the hell out of that room. “No comment,” I manage to say with authority. When the reporter realizes that I’m not going to give him anything more, he shakes his head and the camerawoman lowers her camera.
“Will you give me a call if there’s something new to share?” Robert asks as he holds out a business card. “Anything at all?”
“Sure,” I say, plucking the card from his hand. “Thanks for stopping by,” I tell them. “You’ll be the first I contact if something comes up.” Once out of the room I rip the card in half and drop the pieces into the nearest garbage can.
As I head out of the police station to go home, I can see the headline now: FROM FINDING THE BODY TO FINDING THE KILLER: Twenty-five years later, detective hunts for clues in the slaying of best friend. I don’t want this kind of attention.
NOLA KNOX
Monday, June 15, 2020
After Maggie left, Nola opened each closet carefully, fearful that an avalanche of musty dish towels or cardboard boxes filled with old shoes would crash down on her. Nearly every nook and cranny of the house was crammed with their things. Nola hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she should dismantle her bone collections and stow each piece into its own hiding spot or keep each memento together.
She was overthinking this. There was no reason to think that the police would want to come back in and search the house after twenty-five years but it was prudent to be prepared. The discovery of her collections would be shocking and difficult to explain even among the miscellany that filled the house.
She finally settled on the basement. Dank and dark with its cobwebbed corners, concrete floors and exposed joints, it too was overflowing with items her mother had no room for on the other two floors and garage but wasn’t able to part with. There were garden tools, empty mason jars, sets of dishware found in thrift stores and boxes of baby clothes that Charlotte enthusiastically bought when there was still a chance that Nola might give her grandchildren. There were golf clubs and lawn chairs and garbage bags filled with empty cans of Diet Coke at the bottom of the steps creating a black barrier.
First, Nola taped old sheets over the small drafty windows with rotting panes that provided a ground level view of the yard. It wouldn’t do to have peering eyes.
Beneath a dimly lit, exposed lightbulb, Nola placed each group of specimens into bigger plastic bins, secured the lids, and then covered them with boxes filled with holiday decorations of red-and-green glass ornaments, sparkly gold-and-silver garland, and Christmas stockings cuffed with red velvet and embellished with felt snowmen and reindeer and elves.
Up and down the steps, Nola went, picking her way through boxes and bins and garbage bags, positioning her boxes beneath the stairs where they had less of a chance of being crushed by toppling junk. Over these boxes she set thick loops of fake Christmas garland.
Behind an old kitchen table stacked with empty cardboard boxes was a pocket door that led to a smaller storage room. Nola nudged the table aside, unlocked the padlock and slid the door open. Nola flipped the light to reveal a nearly empty room. In the center of the room sat a stainless steel table on wheels and against one wall was a large utility sink. That was all. The storage room was incongruous with the rest of the house; the walls were bare, the floor spotless. It looked completely out of place.
Nola dragged a few boxes into the space and set an old paint can and dirty brushes in the sink. Grabbing a broom with half its bristles missing she swept dust from the main storage area into the room. That was better, Nola thought.
She closed the door then pushed the table back into place. This time Nola didn’t lock the door. She looked around. It would have to do.
Back upstairs in the kitchen, Nola navigated around more newspapers and boxes of old mail. Cans of peas and beets and cor
n and every kind of bean imaginable filled every inch of counter space. The only clear space was the small kitchen table where they used to sit as a family. Nola rarely ate at home, preferring to grab her food while on the road.
She chose a can of green beans from the tower, popped the top and dumped the contents into a glass bowl. She wrestled to open a drawer crowded with knives and forks and spoons but gave up and took the bowl outside and sat down on the front step and began eating the green beans with her fingers.
She had been so absorbed in her work that hours had passed unnoticed. The humid night air felt good on her skin after the chill of the basement, the dark a welcomed camouflage from the eyes of her neighbors.
The Kennedy house was unlit and quiet. Nola knew that Colin Kennedy, Maggie’s brother, had recently come back to town to help care for their father. Alzheimer’s, Nola’s mother said and laughed bitterly. It’s not fair, she had said cradling one of the china dolls she collected. I’m the one who needs to forget. What bliss that would be.
The door to the Harper house opened and out stepped Joyce Harper with her dog. Curious, Nola watched from the shadows as the corgi mix sniffed the grass and circled the yard. Joyce Harper hadn’t changed much over the years. Austere and sharp-angled—just like her house. She had never been a fan of Nola’s. Not since that unfortunate incident with Riley. Or was it Rebecca? No, it was the boy. Nola wasn’t really going to push the kid off the edge of the bluff, she was just curious to see how far they could go. And anyway, what kind of mother doesn’t notice that her three-year-old isn’t in the house? So really, it was her own fault.
What a scene she had caused. Joyce Harper running barefoot through her perfectly maintained backyard, her long skirt gathered up in her fists so she wouldn’t trip over the fabric, sleek hair barely moving, a look of terror on her face. Joyce had struggled to open the back gate that led to the bluffs, her manicured fingers scrabbling at the latch. When she finally reached Nola and the child, Joyce had yanked the boy away from Nola so hard that the little boy’s head snapped back violently, snatching the air from his lungs. When he finally opened his mouth to take a breath, blood dribbled down his chin where he had bitten his tongue.
Joyce picked up the boy and clutched him to her chest and scurried to the Kennedy house, screaming bloody murder. When Nola caught up to her, Joyce was crying and ordering the chief to arrest her. Nola talked her way out of it. She always did. I saw him wandering around outside by himself, Nola said innocently. I was just trying to help.
Joyce Harper was having none of it. Stay away from my children! she had squawked. Stay out of my yard.
Nola laughed softly at the memory and the dog lifted her head as if catching a scent and cocked her head in Nola’s direction.
“Come on, Winnie,” Joyce urged. The dog ignored her and trotted away and began exploring the Knoxes’ burnt, brown lawn.
Nola set aside her bowl and clicked her tongue. The dog paused and looked at Nola.
“Winnie, come!” Joyce called. “Come here!”
“Here, Winnie,” Nola whispered in the tone she used with all the animals she worked with. They liked the sound of her voice. Calm, reassuring, mesmerizing. Winnie approached her cautiously and sniffed the back of her hand.
“Winnie, get back here, now!” Joyce yelled but Nola scooped her up and began stroking her fur.
“Good girl,” Nola soothed and ran her fingers across the soft hollow of Winnie’s throat.
“Winnie,” Joyce called again, her voice edged with panic.
Nola stood and started walking over to the Harper house, an austere Frank Lloyd Wright constructed of concrete and ribboned with lead glass windows. Commissioned by a wealthy newcomer to Grotto in the 1920s, the house was an anomaly around here. Modern and sleek, so different than the simple traditional Dutch colonial and ranch homes that most townspeople lived in. The original owners left and the house went through many owners until the Harpers purchased it in the early nineties.
“Hello, Joyce,” Nola said, emerging from the shadows and causing Joyce to jump.
“Nola,” Joyce answered, her eyes darting around the neighborhood as if in search of a friendly face. No one was around. “How’s your mother doing? We heard about her accident.” Joyce held out her arms for Winnie but Nola took a step backward, just out of reach.
“Holding her own,” Nola said though she hadn’t been to the hospital to visit or even called for several days.
“Tell her we’re thinking of her.” Again, Joyce reached for Winnie but Nola held tight, her fingers massaging the dog’s ears. The front door opened and out stepped Cam Harper. Above him moths banged their wings against the porch light.
“Nola,” he said. “Did Winnie sneak off again?” he asked, sliding an arm around his wife’s waist. Cam Harper was tall, handsome with a quick smile and eyes that snapped with mischief. Nola had always thought he was a pompous ass.
Nola forced a smile. “She just came over to say hello.” Nola craned her neck to peer inside the house. She’d only been inside a few times and the final time was when she was ten. She had never been invited back. Joyce tried to take a nonchalant step to the right to block her view but Nola loomed over her and could see that except for some new furniture, the interior was just as she remembered it: expansive maple floors, wood-encased radiators, the fireplace big enough to hide a body in.
“Why don’t you come on in for a minute,” Cam offered in a smooth voice. “Joyce and I were just sitting down for a glass of wine. Please join us.”
Joyce shot her husband a venomous glare. “Yes, please, come in,” she echoed tightly. Joyce would make Cam pay for this later.
Nola stepped inside. The air was so cold that even the honey-colored walls and the inviting glow of the wall sconces gave only the illusion of warmth. Again, Joyce reached out for Winnie. Nola finally handed her over.
“I’ll just go put her to bed for the night,” Joyce said, whisking Winnie from the room.
“How have you been?” Cam asked. “Don’t see you around much.” Cam Harper had to be about sixty years old now, Nola thought. Still trim and fit looking, Nola would see him jogging through the neighborhood in the early morning hours on her way to the clinic.
“I work a lot,” Nola said as she wandered around the living room following the progression of photos that chronicled the growth of their twins. First as newborns, wrapped burrito-style and tucked into each crook of their father’s elbows, as towheaded toddlers with matching outfits and as devilish gap-toothed seven-year-olds wearing T-ball uniforms. There were photos of the twins as high school seniors gazing importantly into the camera and a few years later with their spouses. Riley looked just like his father, Rebecca like her mother, Nola thought. If the photos were part of an art installation it would be entitled De-evolution.
“Cabernet okay?” Cam asked, coming up behind Nola, his breath in her ear.
“Sure,” Nola said, turning so that her back was against the wall, Cam just inches away.
“I heard on the news that some evidence in your sister’s case was found.” Cam handed her a delicate glass filled with red wine. “Is that true?”
So this was why Cam had invited her inside the house. He wanted the latest scoop on Eve’s murder. “Apparently,” Nola said, taking a sip from her glass.
“Eve was a nice girl,” Cam said reaching around Nola, brushing his hand against her shoulder to pull a photo of the twins from the wall. “Did you know we’re grandparents now? They have their own kids now. Rebecca has a five-year-old boy and Riley has girls, seven and nine. Eve was good with our kids. They still talk about her.”
“Eve was good at a lot of things,” Nola said, taking a step closer to Cam so that they were nearly nose to nose.
“She was,” Cam agreed. “So the reporter said something about a shoe. Is that the new evidence?”
“Her boot,” Nola answered.
>
“After all these years? That’s remarkable,” Cam marveled. “It’s a shame they never caught anyone. I’m glad to hear that they are looking into Eve’s case again.”
Nola leaned in until her lips were nearly touching Cam’s ear. “Are you?” she whispered.
Cam’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Of course I am.”
“What kind of recovery is your mom looking at?” Joyce asked, stepping back into the room, unaware of the tension between Nola and her husband.
“You know, hip injuries can be so unpredictable.” Nola eased away from Cam and waved her hand around as if to indicate the nebulous nature of broken bones. “Cam was just asking me about Eve’s case,” Nola said. “They’re hoping that they’ll be able to find some new forensics. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
“Oh? That’s good,” Joyce said. “I imagine it dredges up a lot of sad memories for your mother.” She paused. “And for you too, of course. It was such a frightening time. Not knowing what crazy person was out there killing people.”
Nola nodded in agreement. “I’m sure Maggie O’Keefe will be around to talk to you.”
“Why would Maggie talk to us?” Joyce asked. “We don’t know anything.”
“Just routine, I’m sure.” Nola smiled. “In fact, Maggie stopped over to talk to me today. I figure she’ll be making the rounds.”
Joyce steered the conversation to the weather and Nola quickly drained the last of her wine. “Well, I should probably get going.” Joyce looked relieved when Nola handed over her empty glass.
“I’ll walk you out,” Cam said. Cam closed the door behind them and walked Nola to the end of the driveway.
This Is How I Lied Page 9
