by Liz Turner
“Margie.” It was Ray’s voice.
“What can I do for you?”
“That knife, the one that Camelia’s attacker dropped. It is Mr. McCarthy’s murder weapon. It came from the restaurant where you work.”
Margie’s stomach dropped, and her veins turned to ice. “How do you know?”
“It wasn’t cleaned very well. He must have been holding onto it as a keepsake, Margie.” Ray sounded like he hadn’t slept. Margie wondered if he was running on coffee and pure stubbornness. “I would like you to come down to the station to give a statement.”
“When?”
“Now, Margie.” There was something in his voice that Margie couldn’t place. Ray hung up without another word. Margie pulled the receiver away from her face, staring at it with wide eyes.
“What’s going on?”
Margie blinked, turning the heat off on the oven. “I’m not entirely sure. Are you up for a road trip?”
After a few minutes of coaxing, Margie managed to convince their two police watchdogs to drive them to the precinct. Margie was right when she figured Camelia wouldn’t want to be at home alone, so they rode together in the back of the police car, nothing but silence between them. There were whole worlds running through Camelia’s head that she didn’t mention. All Margie could think about was the murder case. It had gotten personal now; she needed to know who the murderer was and to help lock him away for a very long time.
No one hurt her friends, few and far between as they might be.
Ray was waiting for them and took both women to an interrogation room. A huge mirror took up most of one wall, surrounded by a sill that was a very dirty white or a very faded yellow. Everything in the room looked and smelled dusty as though it had been untouched for years. A single table rested in the center of the gray, out-of-fashion linoleum floor. It was a cheap press board folding table surrounded by even cheaper, gray plastic chairs. A lamp with a light bulb sat on the table. Apparently Bristol had yet to adopt the fluorescent tube lighting that most of the world had been using over the last few years. Margie was still somehow surprised at how old fashioned everything was in Bristol.
He handed them both halfway decent cups of coffee with extra creamer and sat down in his chair backward. He ran his fingers through his short, muddy brown hair, making it stick up a little in the back. Camelia, who normally would have been amused by his hair, stared blankly at him, her eyes hardened and cold. “Is this necessary? I haven’t even gotten a chance to rest.”
Ray pulled a tape recorder from his jacket, put it on the table between them and pushed the button. “Confirm your names and that you know you are being recorded on the tape please.” There was no emotion on Ray’s face as he pointed to Margie.
“Margaret.” She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Margie Lauderdale, and I know this is recorded.”
Camelia made a noise in the back of her throat that sounded almost like a forced laugh. “Camelia Grace Jacobs and I know this conversation is recorded.”
“First, Camelia, can you tell me everything you remember on the night of the 3rd of April, 1965?”
Rolling her eyes, Camelia sat back in her chair. “We’d had a slow night and were released from early work. We had been having pretty good business this last week and a half since Mr. McCarthy was killed at the restaurant where I work because people are sick and wanted to see where he died. After Larry had got busted for drugs, though, I guess people started seeing it as bad luck; no one came in that night. We get 20% of the waiter’s tips, but 20% of nothing is nothing.”
Camelia lit up a cigarette, blowing smoke to the ceiling. The smell of it burnt Margie’s nose, but she ignored it. “We usually get out at about 10 PM, but we got out at 8 PM instead. We decided to get coffee at our favorite diner, the Big Easy over off of Canary. We’d already walked by it, so we had to backtrack and come from the east. It wasn’t a big deal. When we rounded the corner, one of the streets lights was out. It was weird, but not weird enough to set off any red flags. Then we were attacked.”
Ray wrote something on his paper without looking at either of them. “How much of the attack do you remember?”
“In all honesty, not a bit,” Camelia said, her emerald eyes blinking up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember. “I remember rounding the corner, noting how dark it was, then-” She shook her head, frowning.
Margie worried about the gaps in her memory. How hard had she hit her head?
“So you don’t remember who attacked you or why.”
“Not at all.”
“Do you know if your attacker was male or female?”
Margie took a deep breath to answer, but Ray held up a finger to silence her. “Wait just a moment please, Ms. Lauderdale.” He turned back to Camelia, who was staring at him as if she didn’t know who he was.
“No, I can’t say who it was. I remember none of it.”
“So it could have been Ms. Lauderdale here, could it not?”
Camelia paled, all of the blood rushing from her face in a second. “No, it could not have.”
“You had a large bruise on your head, and she had a broken umbrella.”
“Margie didn’t hit me, Officer Brighton.” Camelia snapped.
Margie froze, her blood ice in her veins as Ray kept asking Camelia questions.
“Is it, or is it not true, that Ms. Lauderdale is the only person in the restaurant that heard or saw anything the night of Mr. McCarthy’s death?”
“It’s true, but really-”
“Could Margie have murdered Mr. McCarthy?” Ray was yelling by now.
Camelia screamed wordlessly in his face. “What is wrong with you?” She cried, tears spilling over the edges of her eyes. “Why would you even think she could do such a thing?”
“Are you aware,” Ray said watching Margie like a cat at a mousehole, “that Margaret Lauderdale of Lakeshore doesn’t exist? There’s no record of her being born.”
Camelia looked over at Margie, blinking. “You’re what?”
Margie laughed a little, but there was no humor in it. “Lauderdale is my mother’s maiden name,” she said, quietly, her voice echoing in the sudden silence of the room.
There was silence for a long time. Camelia's eyes blinked several times like she was clearing her vision. “Why didn’t you tell me that, Margie?” The cigarette had burnt down all the way to her fingers and would start burning her soon, so Margie took it away, putting it out in the ashtray in the middle of the table. Camelia was still staring at her.
“I didn’t think to,” Margie answered, honestly, holding her hands out in front of her, palms up. She glanced at Ray. “I didn’t think you would be looking into my past. I didn’t want my father or ex-fiance to know where I was, in case my name turned up in the newspapers about the case. I didn’t want the police contacting them either, scaring my family into coming to find me. So I gave you my mother’s last name instead.”
There was silence for a long time, everyone frozen in their seats. Margie cried silently, hanging her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I didn’t think it would matter.”
“With a fake driver’s license and mob ties on the victim, Margie, you didn’t think a fake last name would matter?” Ray’s voice was thick with incredulity. “You are the sole witness to both crimes, and you never thought for a split second that it might matter?”
Wide-eyed, Margie almost laughed. It was so unbelievable simple of her to have forgotten such detail. “I am sorry, Officer Brighton. I don’t even know what to say.”
Ray turned off the recording. He stood up, stretched, and walked towards the door, the weight of the last few days still heavy on his shoulders. “You can call me Ray, Margie.”
There was silence in the interrogation room for a long time. Eventually, Margie stood up. Camelia stood up too, and they walked out, silence echoing between them. They ignored the two police officers that followed them out of the building and got in their car, following them around the block
as they walked.
“Coffee?” Margie said, finally, bracing herself. She prayed that Camelia wasn’t angry at her.
“Oh thank God, I never thought you were going to ask.” She hooked her arm in Margie’s leaning on her for support. “I’m exhausted. I just want to sit in our booth and pretend everything is normal again.”
“At least for a little while.” Margie helped to hold her friend up. Camelia looked pale by the time they reached the diner, but she seemed to be okay. Margie insisted she drink some water before delving into her coffee, just in case.
“Yes, mother,” Camelia said, downing a whole glass of water like it was nothing at all before starting in on her first sips of creamer-logged coffee.
Chapter 17
Over the next twenty-four hours, Margie and Camelia debated back and forth the merits of returning to work. Margie was for it; she wanted to face whoever tried to jump them and give him a taste of his own medicine. Camelia was more cautious, wondering if perhaps they should let the police catch whoever it was before they tried going back. She was still recovering, and it seemed like a bad idea to push her health in any way.
Part of Margie agreed, but the other part, the part that had dragged her away from a certain future in Lakeshore, was yelling at her to act. But she didn’t know what exactly to do.
Camelia, tired of the arguing, decided to change the subject. “So, what do we know?” She asked, taking out a pen and some paper. Suddenly, Camelia was a lot more invested in the crime than she had been. Margie understood completely.
They went over the clues again and again, taking down notes until her hand was aching.
“We know it was not Lee,” Margie said, finally, her voice rough from speaking so long. “The man who attacked you was too short. Lee is a very tall man.”
Camelia rubbed at her hand. “I agree; you would have known if it were Lee, for sure. He’s one of a kind. I’ve never in my life met anyone so wide in the shoulders.”
Margie pondered over what was on their list. “If we know it’s not Lee, who don’t we have him keep an eye on us while we work?”
“Why are you so desperate to go back to work?”
“I’ve never had a real job before; I like being at the restaurant and being paid to be useful,” Margie replied. “Also, I know we’re not going to get any closer to whoever this guy is without confronting the situation head on; either we can cower at home, or we can try to do something about it.”
Camelia draped herself over the back of the couch. She ran her hands over the soft, white fabric, again and again, her eyes unfocused. The sun was setting; it was time to make a decision on whether or not they would be returning to work in the morning. But it was best not to press Camelia; she would make a decision soon enough without her prodding. So Margie cleaned up the kitchen after their dinner and scrubbed all of the dishes clean. She made a list of grocery essentials and put it by the front door, on the tiny table where their purses and keys rested.
Camelia was still contemplating the couch, so Margie started on the rest of the house, dusting, scrubbing and sweeping. A breeze blew in from the open windows, bringing with it the undeniable scent of spring and the beginning of the season. It felt wonderful blowing through her curls.
Once Margie had finished cleaning the living room, she started the bathroom. She heard Camelia get up and speak to someone briefly on the phone. Once Margie got to the tub, she climbed inside to scrub a little better and noticed Camelia standing in the doorway. She looked dazed, as though she’d never seen this room before. “We’ll go to work then. I think you are right. I don’t want to cower in my house and wait for the police. We need to do something.”
“Thank you, Cammy,” Margie answered, trying to smile. She was scared of how this was going to end, but the fear part seemed so tiny in comparison to the excited and the determined parts of her.
“Here; I’ll lend you a hand. Hand me that rag there, would you?”
Margie handed it over in silence, and they finished the rest of house before setting off to their bedrooms. Margie slept easier, knowing the house was clean and that, for the first time in days, she would be doing something the next day. Even if that something was one of the most stupid, bravest, silliest things, she’d ever done.
Chapter 18
“Yes, father. I know I am due in the city soon. I did find a temporary job to earn me a little more money, remember? I’ll go to the city the day before my new job starts.”
“Yes, I told my cousin. I called her last week, Father.”
“No, father, my temporary job knows it is temporary.”
“Of course not, father; the woman I am staying with has me help a little with the cleaning and the rent.”
“No, father; she is a very kind woman.”
“Of course, father.”
“As you say, father.”
Margie sighed heavily after hanging up, her eyes locked on the phone. She couldn’t keep doing this. There was a part of her, a very small part; that wondered if moving to the city was what she truly wanted.
If Lakeshore was a cage, wouldn’t the city be just as bad? She would still be stuck with her family members, distant as her cousin was. It would just be more of the same. Pressure from all sides to get married, have a million children and live in the house for the rest of her life. The thought was debilitating. As much as she liked children, she wanted to do something else. For now at least. She was tired of the pressure, tired of the whispers behind her back.
Bristol wasn’t like Lakeshore. It wasn’t a tiny apartment in the city. It wasn’t like anywhere else in the world. No one expected anything of her here. No one asked when she was getting married or how many children she wanted. Not a single soul had asked her if she had someone or she were still looking. No one cared about her past, and no one cared about her broken engagement.
She wanted to stay here, in Bristol. Live with Camelia and get coffee after work. Shop on Mondays and sleep in until their shifts started. But Margie wasn’t sure she had the guts to do it. What would her cousin say? What would her father do? What would her mother think?
Her plan of moving to the city had been just barely approved by the family; she didn’t know how they would react to another sudden change. How would they react to her being here, all alone, in a town they didn't know?
Sighing, Margie pulled on her uniform, fixing her curls in the mirror and adjusting her uniform. Now was not the time to think of such things; no, now she had to focus on finding out who murdered Mr. McCarthy.
Camelia looked ready for battle when they stepped out of the apartment. The expression on her face was the look of a soldier ready for the killing field. I knew she’d hidden one of the kitchen knives on her body somewhere; I’d watched her swipe it from the butcher’s block on the way into her room. Margie had thought about doing the same but had found nowhere to hide it.
They walked to work. The evening was unseasonably chilly. They knew the unmarked police car was right behind them, but both of them refused to acknowledge the cops’ presence. They would probably report to Ray where they had gone, and he would probably flip his lid. But that wasn’t Margie’s problem. It might be a stupid idea, but she would not hide.
Mr. Carter greeted them both as they walked in the door. “How are you feeling, Cammy!?” His big, sausage fingers closed over Camelia’s shoulders, his ugly gray eyes lighting up with concern. “You look better than I expected, eh? A little knocked around is all. You poor dear. Did you fall?”
Margie was careful not to look at Camelia as she lied. “Yes, sir. Right down on the sidewalk on Canary. I tripped over my own feet. Smacked the hell out of my head and passed out. Lucky Margie was there; she saved me for sure.”
Mr. Carter grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket, running it back and forth over his bald spot. “Oh, Camelia! You have to be careful. You’ll give an old man like me heart troubles.”
“No worries; I think you’ll outlive all of us, Mr. Carter,” Camelia said, charm
ingly.
“And what a good luck charm you have turned out to be! Saving our Camelia’s life.” Mr. Carter laid a big, wet kiss on both of her cheeks, European-style. “Dinner tonight for both of you, eh? On me!”
A few of the kitchen staff came out, each looking concerned. Nervous Pierre was there, asking after her. Lee and Marc of course. Jacob called from the back the he was glad she was okay. Kevin, the other waiter, came out to hug them both. Even Jeffrey offered a handshake to both of them, his hand squeezing Margie’s a little too hard. Cindy had left messages with Marc that she was happy they back to help, and she had taken the night off to catch up on some missed sleep, doing all three of their jobs! Everyone seemed happy to see them, even though Margie studied each of the faces to see which looked the least happy. Not a one stood out from the others. No one was favoring an injured shoulder either, which made Margie wonder if she had done any real damage at all.
