by A R Kennedy
Cecilia was headed down the stairs before the bell rang. Ferris plodded down the stairs behind her, seemingly still feeling the effects of the drugs.
She opened the door, knowing who it was but not knowing what he could want. She had answered all their questions hours ago. What else could the Chief want?
He stood large in the doorway, blocking her from the reporters’ cameras. She was eager to let him in, not wanting to be seen on the news again. But she paused and looked at him closely. She hadn’t recognized him earlier in the day.
“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” she asked.
And he nodded yes.
Holden pulled up in front of the Chandler home the day of Joe’s funeral. He’d overheard a pair of ladies talking about how lovely the Chandler house was in the coffee shop this morning. They were discussing how much they’d love to call it their own. One had already called her real estate broker to let her know when Mrs. Chandler listed it for sale. The other feigned shock. Holden guessed she had also called. If she hadn’t, she soon would be.
“Only a matter of time,” the blond one had said. “Lady like that isn’t going to stay in this town. She has no reason to. Not with the husband gone.”
The other blond one added, “Bless her heart,” to assuage her guilt for coveting a recent widow’s house.
The husband wasn’t even buried yet and they were redecorating his home.
As he got out of the car, he agreed it was a nice-looking home. It was a two-story residence with off-white siding and a large porch. He guessed there was a large backyard as well.
Holden was surprised his car was the only one here. Joe Chandler was a town son. Born and raised in Folley. He’d returned when the family business needed him. He couldn’t believe no one had come to the Chandler home to pay respects.
Mrs. Chandler wasn’t a town favorite but he didn’t think she was disliked. She was just ignored.
His hands felt noticeably light as he walked up the walkway. He regretted not bringing something. But what does one bring? Food? Who could eat when your spouse recently died tragically? Flowers? That would be unwise. The divorced police chief showing up at the pretty new widow’s home with flowers. Tongues would wag.
His ex-wife, Annabelle, would have known what to bring. She knew all the manners and customs of country life. This was the first time in years he wished he could talk to her.
Holden walked up the two steps onto the porch, surprised the home was so quiet. He rang the bell, disturbing the silence.
A dog let out a dull bark and Holden waited.
Mrs. Chandler opened the door. She was wearing jeans and an oversized T-shirt. It wasn’t her usual stylish outfits that showed off her figure. It certainly wasn’t the mourning clothes he had expected.
She smiled at him. It was the fakest, saddest smile he’d ever seen.
“How can I help you, Officer?” she asked.
“I came to pay my respects for your husband.”
“Okay, thank you,” she answered.
They stood in the doorway. Neither knowing what to do. Remembering her manners, she asked, “Would you like to come in?”
Not wanting to but feeling obligated to, he agreed and stepped into the entryway. Again, neither knew what to do. They stood there in an awkward silence. The house was empty save the three of them. Ferris sat by Cecilia’s feet and watched Holden.
“I’m sorry. Am I early?” Holden asked.
“For what?” she asked.
“The funeral.”
He watched tears well in her eyes. She swallowed hard before she could answer. “It was yesterday.”
Holden mumbled profanities and then looked up at Cecilia, ashamed that he had cussed in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Chandler. I…I thought it was today. I wanted to pay my respects. Joe was a nice man.”
She smiled at the mention of his name. “He…” She paused and struggled to say, “was.” Cecilia walked toward the kitchen, turning away from Holden so she wouldn’t cry in front of him. Mother had taught her crying was a private activity. “No one needs to see your bodily fluids, dear,” she’d told her at her grandmother’s funeral when she was a child.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Okay,” he answered. He watched as she stood in front of the empty coffeemaker. It was as if she didn’t know how to use it. Not wanting to put her out any more than he had already, he said, “You know, something cold would be nicer.”
She turned to the refrigerator and, again, it looked like she had no idea how to use it.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” he asked, pointing to one of the kitchen stools. “I’ll get it myself.”
She plopped on a stool and Ferris plopped next to her. Holden opened the refrigerator and asked, “Can I take this?” holding out a can of Mountain Dew.
“You can take anything you want,” she answered.
Ferris barked. “I wasn’t talking about you. No one’s taking you from me.” She patted him on his head and smiled. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile genuinely and it was beautiful.
Cecilia looked up and caught him staring at her. She pointed to the full countertops. Every inch was food—casseroles, pies, cakes. He’d been right. The neighbors had done their neighborly duty and supported the widow. Many had probably visited with thoughts of how their furniture would look in the Chandler home.
“Lots of food. Everybody brings food.” She shook her head. “Like I can even think about eating.” She turned from the food to Holden. “Thank you for not bringing any food.”
“You’re welcome,” he responded, feeling awkward again that he had arrived empty-handed.
“And look at all those flowers.” She pointed to the dining room. The room was full of arrangements. Lilies, roses, carnations. Mostly white. “They’ll be dead in a few days. That’ll only remind me that everything dies. That he’s dead too.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for not bringing flowers.”
Holden hesitated, then responded, “You’re welcome.” The uneasy quiet returned until Holden opened the soda can. Fearing the house would reverberate with every sip he took, he asked, “Where is everybody?”
“Who’s everybody?”
“Your family. Joe’s family.”
“I asked them to leave.” She bit her lip. “Told them, actually. They were just so…annoying. I heard them talking about the lamest of things—the weather, the football season, how I need to take down the Christmas lights. Joey just put them up. He loves them. How can I take them down?”
Holden started to offer that he’d take them down but that is not what she meant. It wasn’t that she couldn’t take them down physically. It was that it was mid-December and Joe would want them up for the holidays.
The silence returned. Holden sipped his soda and Cecilia stroked Ferris’s back.
“You a big Beastie Boys fan?” Holden asked. He instantly regretted it. Cecilia would probably deem this question annoying and kick him out too.
“What?” she asked.
“Your shirt.” He pointed to the black tour shirt, which hung on her thin frame.
She looked down and smiled. “No, Joey’s the fan. He dragged me to more than one of their concerts. This was his favorite shirt.” She grabbed the collar and brought it to her nose. Inhaling deeply, she could still smell Joey. “He loved to walk around the house singing their lyrics.”
“Was he good?”
“Of course not!” she answered, with a smile on her face. The smile quickly faded and tears formed in her eyes.
He selfishly wondered if a woman would ever mourn him like Cecilia was mourning Joe.
He doubted it. Holden had once been hurt in the line of duty. When he woke up, he found Annabelle holding court outside his hospital room with dried tears on her face. Crocodile tears, as his grandmother would say.
“I…I don’t want to be rude. But I’m going to cry soon and I’d rather do that alone.” Ferris nuzzled against her leg
as she stood.
Holden scurried around, trying to find the garbage receptacle for the soda can. He decided to take it with him as he hurried after Cecilia to the door. She held it open and he walked out. He turned to say goodbye but she’d already closed the door.
Holden stood staring at the front door, wishing there were something he could do to help her.
Cecilia leaned against the door, using it for support. She wished she could hear Joey quoting the Beastie Boys one more time.
CHAPTER 14
“You know last time you were here, you never told me your name. I realized after you left. All I knew was that you were a police officer.”
“Chief Owens,” he answered. “Holden Owens.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you but not really under these circumstances, right?” He nodded. “Or last time either,” she added. He nodded a second time.
She started toward the kitchen. Again, she was trying to hide tears from him. He followed her into the kitchen again. As did Ferris, who hit her leg three times with his cone. She went to the refrigerator, got out two cans of Mountain Dew, and slid one to him.
Cecilia eased herself down, fearing the pain every movement caused. She sat on the same barstool and Ferris sat in his same spot as last time. She was again dressed in a band T-shirt that had been Joey’s. Motley Crue today.
Holden sat down at the barstool across from her. He marveled that the kitchen had been returned to the clean state he had seen during his visit last year. A significant change from this morning, when it was covered in blood.
“How’s he feeling?” Holden asked. He tried calling Ferris over but he had no interest in leaving his Cecilia.
“Fine,” she answered.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. The bruises on her face were beginning to show. Her movements were slow and controlled. She was clearly in pain and it wasn’t even twenty-four hours. It was going to get worse before it got better.
“Fine,” she answered. When Holden’s last girlfriend would answer “fine,” he knew an argument was brewing. He knew Cecilia was lying to him too but he didn’t fear a row. Until he went to arrest her. Then things could get ugly.
They both sipped their sodas and placed them on the counter. She turned the can around in her hands.
“You took down the Christmas lights, didn’t you?” she asked.
She caught him off guard. He had forgotten.
“Did the neighbors complain?” she asked. “Is that why? It was only the first week of January.”
“No…I…I just wanted to help.”
She took another sip and he did as well. “Thank you,” she told him. Before he could reply, she spoke again. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
“No,” he answered while staring at his soda can.
“Do you have more questions for me?” she asked.
His head still down, he shook his head and answered, “No.”
“I don’t want to be rude. Even though everyone in this town thinks I am. I feel we should get to the point.” They both looked up from their half empty sodas and looked at each other. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to arrest you.”
Cecilia took the news better than he expected. Better than he would have. She took the news better than he did when Briscoe had ordered him to arrest her.
She finished her Mountain Dew. “Last drink as a free woman. I really wish I had chosen something a little stronger.”
She threw the can in the recycling bin and held her hand out for his can. Holden marveled at her calmness. It was probably shock.
“Should I be doing something? I’m not really sure what someone does when they’re arrested. Although I am guessing most have not just shared a drink with the arresting officer in their home.”
Holden laughed, then realized how absurd that was. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You probably should call a lawyer to meet you at the station.”
She nodded. “True. Lawyer. I need a lawyer.” She considered it for a moment. “I’m guessing the business attorney wouldn’t be the right choice.”
“He’s probably the only choice you have to meet you at the station soon. You can hire a criminal attorney later.”
“Criminal attorney,” she mimicked back. “Never really thought I’d need a criminal attorney.” She pulled out her cell phone and placed a call to her lawyer. She cut off each of his questions politely. She hung up when he agreed to meet her at the station. She looked at the phone and mumbled, “How could he be dead? I’ve held a gun two times in my life. I’ve shot a gun two times in my life. How could he dead?” She looked up at Holden and asked, “Now what?”
“There’s a lot of media out there. I’m going to have to do this by the book.” He asked her to turn around and put her hands behind her back. She did as she was told.
“You’re not going to read me my rights?” she asked.
“I’m not questioning you right now so I don’t have to,” he answered as he placed the handcuffs on her, as gently as he could, trying as best he could not to cause any more pain. Ferris growled.
“Don’t worry, Ferris,” she told him. Cecilia looked over her shoulder, cringing when she did so. “What about Ferris?”
“I’m hoping you’ll be home tonight.”
Holden had let go of her and she turned to face him. “I hope so too.”
They stood looking at each other until a knock at the sliding glass door disturbed them. Office Pugliese was standing there and yelled, “What’s taking so long? I thought maybe she shot you too.”
“That’s not funny,” Owens told him as he approached the door. “Bring the car to the garage. We’ll take her out the back.”
“They’ll still see her,” he shouted back.
Owens opened the sliding glass door. “I know that, Pugliese. But they won’t see her face.”
Pugliese looked at Cecilia. He grimaced. “No one’s gonna want to see that face.”
“Pugliese!” Owens rebuked.
“I’m talking about the bruises and the swelling. She looks terrible.” Owens pointed to the door and Pugliese left via the side door.
“I haven’t looked in a mirror since this morning. Is it that bad?” Cecilia asked. “Because it feels that bad.”
Holden had learned any woman who asked a question about how she looked did not necessarily want the truth. But Cecilia didn’t seem like any woman. “Well, it’s not good,” Holden answered. He pointed her to the side door.
Cecilia nodded and did as instructed. She avoided her reflection in the mirror by the door.
Vinnie pulled the patrol car to the back and Holden hurried Cecilia out. There was a commotion in the front of the house. But the extra officers held the media back and no one got a clear shot of Cecilia.
Holden helped her in the car, placing his hand over her head. “Just get down and stay down.”
“Okay but—” she started.
“I’ll lock up the house,” he assured her.
Cecilia stayed put, and silent, in the back of the police car until Holden returned. “Drive,” Holden instructed Pugliese, as he hopped in. “And don’t hit one of those reporters! I have enough problems today without Briscoe having me arrest you for vehicular manslaughter.”
Cecilia stared at her fingers. They weren’t stained with black ink as she figured they would be when they took her fingerprints. The officer had taken her hand and placed it on a scan. Then, by the elbow, she took her to stand by a wall, with height measurements behind it for her mug shots.
And then she waited.
She sat alone in the holding cell until Chandler Construction’s attorney, Clayton Hindel, arrived.
“Are you alright, Cecilia?”
She didn’t bother to answer. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He looked over his shoulder. “They don’t know either. We haven’t had a murder in this town in decades.”
“It wasn’t a murder, Clayton. It was self-defen
se.”
“Okay,” he said, motioning for her to lower her voice.
They turned their attention to the approaching chief of police.
“Chief Owens, how are you?” Clayton asked.
Holden ignored him. “I found a judge for a bail hearing. I don’t know what bail he’ll set, but between the house and the business you should be fine.”
“Good, good,” Clayton said. “What are they charging her with?”
“Second-degree murder.”
“Second-degree murder!” Cecilia and Clayton shouted in unison.
“Have you lost your mind?” she asked.
“Cecilia!” Clayton rebuked.
“Not me. Briscoe. He’s the one pushing for this,” Holden explained.
“Good God,” Clayton mumbled.
“Briscoe? Who’s Briscoe?” Cecilia asked.
Someone called for Holden from the other side of the station before he could answer her. Holden acknowledged him and turned back to Cecilia.
“Okay, they’re ready. We’ll take you to the courthouse. Same as before. Okay, Cecilia? Keep your head down and stay down in the car.”
Owens placed the handcuffs on her again and escorted her to the patrol car. She moaned as she laid down on her side on the back seat. “I’m sorry,” Holden said, fearing he had caused her the pain.
“Not your fault,” she told him. “I’m bruised all over from last night.”
He looked her up and down and nodded understanding. “We need to get photos of that.”
She stared at him, hoping she’d heard him wrong. “I’m sorry?” she asked. She struggled to find a comfortable spot but there was none. Her beaten body would not find a good position scrunched in the back of the police cruiser.
“Evidence of the attack,” he explained.
She abandoned her attempt to get comfortable and tried to joke. “And not nudie pics for the station?” She laughed but quickly regretted it. Her body gripped in pain.
Owens winced at the sight of her in extreme pain and tried to assure her. “No, definitely not. I’ll talk to Clayton when we get to the courthouse.” In her house, he had smiled at her, but this was Chief Owens and not Holden having a soda. Chief Owens was all professional.
