Knickers in a Twist

by Kim Hunt Harris

  “Of course.”

  “And did you ask God for forgiveness?”

  “Yes, Tony, but—”

  “Then you're forgiven. This isn't on you anymore. You've made atonement.”

  “Have I? Tony, seriously, if you could have seen how she still agonized over it.” I would never forget the day I'd met Trisha again after ten years. The pain in her eyes was still so raw.

  “But nothing happened.”

  “A lot happened. She faced an entire wedding party, with guests and everything, and told them the wedding was off. How awful must that have been?”

  “Salem, I understand that you have so much sympathy for Trisha. That's admirable. But you should be clear on your motives.”

  “I want to help Trisha. I want to make up for—”

  He lifted his hand and stopped me. “You want to make up for.”

  I studied him for a moment. “But...why is that bad, Tony?”

  “It's not bad. It's just...Salem, it's an exercise in futility. For one thing, nothing you could do would ever make up for that. I think you know that. You can't undo what was done. You could work for the rest of your life and it wouldn't undo whatever Trisha and Scott felt that day. That year.” He took my hand back and touched my cheek with his other hand. “And for another, you're forgiven. It's washed clean. Not because of something you did, but because of grace.”

  I didn't say anything, but my frustration must have shown on my face, because he smiled and kissed the tip of my nose. “Salem. You're a Christian.”

  “I know that.”

  “Every Sunday you say the Apostle's Creed. Come on. Say it with me. I believe in the forgiveness of sins. Come on. Say it.”

  I rolled my eyes, then grudgingly said, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins.”

  “What's that? Did you say you believe in the forgiveness of sins, except for Salem's?”

  “Tony, stop. You sound like a hip high school Sunday school teacher.”

  He laughed. “No, this is taking it out of Sunday school. This is it, where the rubber meets the road. Do you believe what you said or not?”

  “Sure, but...”

  “But what? It doesn't count if you just say it and don't live it.”

  “I am living it. Did I not just this very day talk to my mother on the phone for fifteen whole minutes? I practice forgiveness.”

  “Not for yourself.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Turns out I had nothing to say to that.

  He kissed me again. He put his hands on both sides of my face, his nose less than an inch from mine. “You asked me one time if I could forgive you. I can. I have. It doesn't mean that memory of the time we spent apart doesn't hurt. But when I look at you, there's no doubt in my mind. I forgive you.”

  Not much I could do except sniff back tears and hope my nose didn't start pouring snot.

  “But Salem, I don't see how we're going to make this work if you can't forgive yourself.”

  “I have.”

  “Bull.”

  “Okay, but I know I should. That's a first step, right?”

  He was right. I knew he was right. From the perspective of hindsight, I could see how so many of my crazy actions had been motivated by guilt. Guilt for conceiving the baby that had made Tony and me a teenage bride and groom, meaning he had to forfeit his bright future. Resentment when that guilt welled up. Anger that he insisted that we were still married and could still make it work, after my car was t-boned and I lost the baby. Guilt that I hadn't been strong enough to keep that baby alive in me. Guilt that his heart was broken, too, that I'd ripped his future away, then ripped his family away, even though by the time of the accident, I was also half in love with that still-nameless baby.

  I dealt with it the only way I knew how. When he pushed for us to stay close, to help each other heal, I pushed him away. I did everything I could to make him angry, make him hate me the way I knew I should be hated. When he refused, I left, and set about burning every bridge I could find.

  Guilt had created a lot of destruction in my life, so I knew he was speaking wisdom. I did have to forgive myself. But how?

  “I don't know how,” I finally whispered.

  “I know,” he said. He kissed me, once on the lips, then softly on each eyelid, now wet with tears. “But promise me, we'll figure it out, okay?”

  “Okay.” More sniffing.

  “One thing I know, it's not going to happen with you running around devoting your life to making up for stuff.”

  “You do know I kept you out of jail by trying to make up for what I'd done to you?”

  He gave me a flat look that made me laugh.

  “Okay, yes, I'll give you that one,” he said.

  I giggled and sniffed again, drawing back to swipe at my nose, then reached behind me for a box of tissues on the bar.

  He studied me while I wiped away tears. “Look, Salem. I worry about you chasing after bad guys. I don't like the idea of you facing down another guy with a gun and only Viv there for protection.”

  “Viv carries a gun, too.”

  “That's not supposed to give me comfort, is it?”

  “It doesn't comfort me,” I admitted.

  “But you're a grown woman and you can make your own decisions. I mean, it's not like I'm going to forbid you from doing it or anything.”

  “Oh, come on. You're not?”

  “Mmmm, of course not. What exactly would you do if I did forbid it?”

  “Use your unreasonable authoritarianism as an excuse to do it anyway.” I swatted at him. “You've totally messed up my plan.”

  He grabbed my hand and brought my fingers to his lips. “I worry about you. How much danger do you think there is in this thing with Browning?”

  I shrugged. “Probably none. The odds are on suicide, so there's no other bad guy with a gun to find. But apparently, Trisha has a whole list of possible suspects we can go through. Scott said he found a bunch of files and searches on her computer.”

  “This is starting to sound like a lot more than none.”

  “I tell you what. We'll look through the notes Trisha has collected. It's probably nothing—just Trisha trying to process something very difficult at a time when her hormones are out of whack. We might talk to some people, but only in open spaces in broad daylight. We won't meet anyone in dark alleys.”

  “Or abandoned houses.”

  “That was one time, and I learned my lesson.” I held my palm up. “Promise.”

  Viv was recovered enough from her 'near-drowning' experience to be raring to go by noon the next day.

  “I have four more dogs to finish,” I said. I'll be done around 3:00.”

  “Shoot. Well, I guess I'll have to just do more research while I wait.”

  “Did you get ungrounded?”

  She made a noise that could have meant anything, but actually indicated nothing. “Pick me up behind the miniature golf course.”

  “You're sneaking out?”

  “Salem, a woman's life is at stake here, and the life of her child. This is no time to worry about what these medical professionals are going to say.”

  She was making air quotes again, I could tell. “So you're sneaking out.”

  “I'm sneaking out. Text me when you're close and I'll meet you there.”

  I swung by Trailertopia to drop Stump off with Frank, then headed to Belle Court. The miniature golf course was on the back side of the campus, deserted in the mid-November chill. I slowed the Monster Carlo and looked for Viv.

  Nobody I knew had a more beautiful “obviously incognito” look than Viv Kennedy. I pulled into the miniature golf lot and didn't see her. But as I circled the lot, she came running out from behind the big windmill. She had tied a scarf around her hair and wore sunglasses with lenses as big as coffee cans. She high-step ran toward the Monster Carlo, darting glances behind her as she went, giggling.

  She threw herself into the passenger seat and shouted, “Go go go!”

  I
went.

  On the ride to Channel 11, I briefed Viv on the important points while she got her act together. “Scott doesn't want her to know he talked to me.”

  Viv nodded, her face set. “Totally on the down low. Got it.”

  “We need to make it seem like this is her idea.”

  “Right-o.”

  “She's convinced Peter Browning was murdered, so we need to find out exactly why she thinks that, and we need to reassure her that we're going to get to the bottom of things.”

  “He was, and we will.”

  I glanced over at her. She'd taken off the scarf. “You're wearing a fascinator under your scarf?”

  “Yep. Change in costume, you know. Mix things up a bit. Keep people on their toes.”

  “Nigel?” I asked.

  “He was coming in from the miniature golf course as I was getting ready to go out. I don't think he even saw me, though. Too busy acting all concerned for Anne, who apparently forgot how to play miniature golf.”

  “Anyway. What makes you so sure Browning was murdered?”

  “Demons, Salem,” she said. “The man was wrestling with demons.”

  “Okay. And what makes you so sure we'll get to the bottom of things?”

  “We always do.”

  I had to allow that. So what if we'd had less than half a dozen “things” to get to the bottom of? We did, indeed, have a 100 percent success rate.

  The receptionist at Channel 11 didn't even bother asking why we were there. She looked up from her phone long enough to take in the fascinator, then motioned toward the offices with a tilt of her head.

  Tri-Patrice was in her office with her feet up, issuing orders over the phone and in person to one employee after another. Viv and I took a seat.

  Viv didn't waste any time getting to the point as soon as Trisha didn't have a phone to her ear or an intern at her door.

  “Listen, you're obviously busy, so we won't keep you. It's just that Salem and I have been talking about this Peter Browning thing, and something seems very...chalk and cheese about it all.”

  “Chalk and cheese?” I drew my head back. “Is that another one of your British things? What does that even mean?”

  Viv looked at her lap and frowned. “I don't actually know.”

  Trisha threw me an amused look. “Like, things don't add up?” she offered.

  “Exactly! Do you get the feeling the Lubbock PD isn't really investigating this as thoroughly as they could?”

  Trisha's feet dropped to the floor and she said, “Yes! Right? I mean, they find a note, and it's not even a full note, it's one sentence that could have meant anything. And immediately they're like, 'Case closed!' and move on.”

  “We keep hearing about this note,” Viv said. “Where did they find a note?”

  “Bitsy said they told her it was in the car. And it said almost nothing. I didn't mean it to turn out like this. I mean, come on. That could mean anything.”

  “You said the police have moved on. But, have they? Have they said the case was closed?”

  “Who knows?” Trisha said with evident scorn. “I call every day and I get no information. They asked a few questions at first, but then nothing. It's as if it didn't even happen.” She shook her head. “Poor Bitsy.”

  Viv and I waited in silence for a few seconds, waiting for her to realize there were two somewhat seasoned investigators sitting immediately across from her.

  Finally, I said, “So the police are saying nothing? Even though you guys worked with Peter and knew his schedule and everything?”

  “Exactly. I mean, most of us spend more time at work than we do at home, and we know all about each other's lives. But all they'll tell me is they're waiting for the report from the medical examiner. Which could take weeks. And in the meantime, whoever did this has plenty of time to destroy evidence and get away.” She shook her head in disgust. “I gave them a list of messages I had taken in the last few months, people who'd called in or emailed to complain about a story Peter had done. I don't think they've followed up on any of them.” She parked her feet back up on the box beside her desk and settled her hands over her stomach.

  I couldn't help myself—I had to come to Bobby Sloan's defense. “It could just be that they don't want to share that information with you. They might be doing all kinds of interviews.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. They didn't even ask me for the list, you know. I volunteered it. And I added a couple of ringers—my hairdresser, for one. I said she'd called to complain about a story Peter had done about that police toy drive at Christmas—you remember that whole mess with the Space Cop toy? I thought they might follow up on that, but they never called her.”

  “Maybe they just haven't gotten to her yet. I mean, doing the kinds of stories he did, he had to have a lot of enemies,” I said.

  “He did.” Trisha nodded. “People hated him. I know. I got to handle a lot of the complaint calls.”

  “You definitely don't need to be dealing with stuff like that. Not in your condition. And you shouldn't be worrying about Peter Browning, either.”

  “You sound like my husband.”

  I hid my cringe.

  “It's true,” Viv said. “Besides, Salem and I are in a better position to look into this a little more. We could follow up on those names, if you want.”

  I gave her the side-eye. So much for letting Trisha think it was her idea. I supposed the main thing was, though, that she not know Scott had put us up to it, and there was very little chance she'd even think of that.

  Trisha leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Then she turned back to us, her eyes intense. “I suppose you could. I mean, the police haven't asked me not to share the information I have. Would you conduct a whole investigation, like you did with CJ Hardin and Lucinda Cruz?”

  “And the High Point Bandits,” Viv reminded her.

  “And the Braswell Maltese kidnapping,” I added, for good measure. What's the point in having a 100 percent success rate if you can't brag about it?

  Trisha twisted her mouth like she was thinking about it, then she turned to her computer and clicked a few things. Behind her, a printer began to whirr.

  “I'm going to print up what I have. It's probably a mess, but it made sense to me. The first file is all transcripts of stories that Peter did that were somewhat controversial. Basically, it comes down to two events, though—the Space Cop thing and the school collapse. Well, the school collapse and all the fracking earthquake stories. That all kind of ties together.”

  I watched with a faint sense of trepidation as the stack of printer paper grew. She clicked a few things. The printer beeped and kept going.

  “Okay, I'm sending some instructions to your phones,” she said, her fingers clicking away at the keys. “This will explain things as you're looking through the notes.”

  Viv and I watched silently, and I realized that this was what it must be like to be one of Trisha's co-workers. Those junior reporters probably sat just like this while she handed down their instructions. No, they probably stood at full attention.

  Trisha sat back and studied her screen, her brow creased. She clicked a few things and scrolled her mouse, then picked up her phone.

  “Jessica, will you come in here, please?”

  Before I could have counted to three, the door opened and the camera girl who had been at the Veterans Day ceremony entered. “Yes?”

  “I sent you that list of names and notes to organize and send to the Lubbock PD, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Monday, I think.”

  “Can you send that back to me, please? I can't seem to find it.”

  Jessica nodded. “Sure. No problem.” She left without appearing to notice that Viv and I were even there.

  Trisha stood and pulled the papers out of the printer, tamped them together and then slid them into a manila folder. Her computer dinged softly, and she bent to look at the email she'd just received. She studied it for a second, then printed it as well.

 
“Okay, I'm putting the list of names on top. Here's the thing. We rarely take down messages from disgruntled viewers because we get disgruntled viewers all the time. People are mad because they want us to cover their kid's school event and we don't. They're mad when we release names that they don't think should be released, or when we don't release names that they think we should. Sometimes, I swear to you, sometimes they're mad at us when the news is bad, and sometimes they call up here and want to talk to Matt Lauer.”

  “Seriously?” Viv said. “What do you do then? Ask them to look out their window and ask if they're looking at skyscrapers or wind turbines?”

  “If they're nice, we give them the number to the NBC studio in New York. If they're rude, we put them on hold, and eventually they give up. My point is, there were probably calls we should have noted and didn't. Hindsight, you know. But when things get especially hairy, I try to take as many notes as I can, just in case. Those two events were two of the hairier ones I can remember in the recent past, so I started asking for contact information when people called about those two events. Sometimes they won't give it to you, of course, and I don't always have time to write everything down anyway. Even when I do write it down, I can't always read it or understand what it means when I'm typing up notes later. So it's entirely possible that I missed something significant because I didn't recognize it at the time.” She frowned.

  I took the folder from her. “No problem. We'll start with this, and we'll see what floats to the top. Maybe if we can narrow down a few leads, we'll meet with you again and see if that triggers any more memories.”

  She sat down with a sigh, looking a little relieved. “I'm so glad you guys came by. I think everyone thinks I'm crazy. I know Scott does.”

  “I'm sure he doesn't think you're crazy,” Vi said. “He's probably just concerned about your health and the baby's health. Now that we're on the case, promise me, Love, that you'll relax about this and take care of yourself.”

  Trisha raised her eyebrows at me. Love?

  Then I remembered how Viv had spent the past few days. “Miss Marple?”

  “Oh, I love those!” Trisha said, grinning. Then she gave Viv a look. “You make an awfully hip Miss Marple, though.”