by Bill Noel
I heard a muted voice on the other end and Charles said, “Yes.”
The low hum of the tires on the Interstate kept me from hearing much. Charles finally said, “When will they know?” More silence. “What happened?” He moved the phone to his other ear and tapped on the armrest with his other hand. Finally, he said, “How could that happen?” His pause wasn’t as long this time. “Yes, as soon as … okay, yes.” He hit End Call and closed his eyes.
I returned my hand to his shoulder. He looked at it. “She’s alive, but …”
I waited. He didn’t say anything. “What?”
He looked over like he just noticed me in the car. “They don’t know if she’ll make it.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t know much. He thinks she sneaked a plastic water cup from dinner to her cell. She broke it in pieces and slashed her wrist with a sharp edge. They didn’t find her for a long time and she lost so much blood that she was almost…you know.” He paused and wiped a tear from his cheek. “They got her to the hospital …”
“She’s alive.”
“Yeah. Edelen promised to call when he knows more.”
It took passing three exits before I convinced him he needed to eat. He kept saying he wasn’t hungry. He had to be and I said I needed food and while we were at the Interstate McDonald’s he should order something. He huffed then ordered two cheeseburgers and pushed me out of the restaurant so we could get on the road.
An hour later, he had chewed on the cheeseburgers and fidgeting less. He said, “I knew she couldn’t handle a cell. She told me years ago, she almost didn’t rent her apartment because she was claustrophobic and thought it was too tiny. She didn’t have enough money to get anything larger. Chris, she still had to leave the bedroom door open all the time so she could see sunlight from the windows.” He paused. “Every time she came to my place she had to sit near the window. It bothered her.”
“Did she say anything about the cell?”
“Only every time. She shouldn’t have been in there—not one day, one hour, one minute.” He shook his head. “What did she do to deserve that? All she wanted to do was become a singer. What, Chris? What?”
We had reached the outskirts of Nashville and the attorney hadn’t called. Charles took the phone and hit redial. Edelen had called from his cell phone, so Charles didn’t have to go through his office gatekeepers to reach him. Charles asked if there was an update and Edelen must have said no. Charles asked what hospital, paused for the attorney to respond, and said, “I’m going there anyway.”
Charles slammed the phone down on the console. “Edelen didn’t have anything and didn’t think the hospital would let me see Heather.” He hesitated, looked out the side window, and mumbled, “Let them try to stop me.”
If the automatic front doors at the hospital hadn’t opened as fast as they did, Charles would have knocked them out of their track when he barged through the entry. I thought the elderly women sitting behind the information kiosk was going to fall out of her chair as he stormed up to her.
“Heather Lee. Room number?” he shouted at the startled woman, Hazel according to a name tag that also read Volunteer.
Hazel regained her balance and checked the computer.
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have anyone by that name.”
Charles stepped back like the women had rammed her fist in the stomach. “Oh, my God. She’s dead.”
I moved beside Charles, looked at the volunteer, and gave my best calming smile. “Hazel, would, by chance, you have anyone registered under the name of the jail?”
She looked at me like I was getting ready to spring a prisoner. I didn’t pull a gun or flourish an IED, so she tapped more computer keys, glanced at Charles who was still traumatized, and turned to me. “Sir, if you go to the fourth floor, there should be a police officer near the elevator. He may be of assistance.”
I smiled, thanked Hazel, and led Charles to the bank of elevators. A uniformed officer greeted us as we arrived at the fourth floor. Hazel must have called while we were on the way up.
The officer smiled—the practiced smile he would use when asking a speeding motorist for his license and proof of insurance—and pointed us to an empty waiting room. “I’m Officer Neil. May I be of assistance?”
Charles eyes darted around the corridor. “Is she alive?”
“Please be seated, sir.”
Charles started to protest, and instead flopped down in the chair. I sat beside him.
“Sir,” Neil said as he remained standing. “Are you referring to Ms. Lee?”
Charles hands balled into fists and he looked like he was going to pounce out of the chair. “Of course, I am.”
“Sir, please dial it down. Are you related?”
Charles’s fist tightened. I was afraid he was going to lash out against the man who was simply doing his job. Charles took a deep breath before saying, “She’s my fiancé.”
Neil must have decided that was close enough to a relative. “To answer your question, Ms. Lee is alive, but in critical condition. The doctor says it’s touch-and-go. I wasn’t here when they brought her in, but I’ve heard she’d lost a lot of blood. It was a long time before the jail’s medical staff got to her.”
Charles sighed, and yanked his head up and stared at Officer Neil. “Why in the hell did it take so long?”
“Again, sir. I wasn’t there. No one can keep a constant eye on the prisoners. Your fiancé was in her cell several hours after supper between routine rounds. They don’t know when she tried to…umm, when her injuries were sustained. I’m sorry, sir. It’s all I know.”
Charles said, “Can I see her?”
“I don’t believe that will be possible, sir. Not for a few days.”
“What—”
The officer stopped Charles. “Sir, her condition is critical, and even if she was able to have visitors, someone from the jail must authorize it. My suggestion is you work through her attorney. He or she will know the ropes and what you need to do.”
Charles started to stand. “Is she on this floor?”
“Sir, I can’t—”
I put my arm on Charles shoulder and pushed him back down in the chair. “Charles, why don’t we go to your apartment and call her attorney?”
Neil said, “That would be a good idea, sir.”
29
I was afraid I was going to have to drag Charles out of the hospital until he turned to putty and I helped him to the car. I kept reminding him Heather was alive. By the time we reached his apartment, he’d regained some energy, yet relied on the handrail to support him up three flights of stairs.
I got him a beer as he moved to the couch. “Think it’s too late to call her lawyer?” he said, before taking a sip.
It was eleven o’clock. I told him it would be okay. I didn’t want to hear him mention it a hundred more times, and besides if he didn’t call now, he would want to make the call before sunrise.
Edelen must keep the phone by his side. He answered on the second ring. Charles, as usual, dove into the middle of the conversation before the attorney had time to ask who was calling. Charles switched on the phone’s speaker so I could hear. To the attorney’s credit, he didn’t hang up on Charles, was sympathetic, pleased his client was still among the living, and assured Charles he would contact the jail first thing in the morning and see if he could get Charles approval to see Heather once she was out of immediate danger.
My friend was somewhat relieved and finished off his beer and hinted for me to get him another. I got him the second bottle without pointing out he was as close to the refrigerator as I was. He finished the second drink and I asked if he thought he could sleep. He said he doubted it and wanted to take a walk. I asked if he wanted me to come, and he said he needed to be alone. I was exhausted and didn’t try to change his mind. Before falling asleep, I realized I hadn’t finished telling Charles about Edwina’s past and my increasing suspicion about her guilt. I also decided that since
we were in Nashville, I should meet with the detectives and lay out my thoughts and what I’d learned. None of that would matter if Heather didn’t make it through the night.
I heard car horns on the street below. I blinked a few times and glanced at the time on my phone. It was nearly nine in the morning. I padded to the kitchen and found Charles at the table staring in his coffee mug. His eyes were bloodshot, but alert. He wore a blue, long-sleeve University of New Haven Chargers T-shirt, tan shorts, and considering what he had been through, a close replica of a smile.
He held up his mug and tilted his head toward the Mr. Coffee machine. “Sleeping the day away?”
I fished through the cabinet and found a clean cup and filled it and refilled his mug. “Sleep any?”
“Not a wink.”
I nodded toward his phone. “Any word?”
He shook his head. “Expect it to ring any second.”
I wondered how many seconds he had been sitting here waiting for a call. “No news is good news,” I said, and hoped it was true. Heather could have died, and I doubt anyone would have thought to contact Charles, and wouldn’t have called her lawyer until a reasonable hour this morning.
“Please be right.”
I didn’t see anything good coming from me staring at Charles staring at the phone, so I began filling him in on what Cindy had found about Edwina and that the chief was going to interview her once she returned from the tradeshow.
I had his attention. “We’ve got to tell the Nashville cops. They’ve got to start looking at Edwina. Chris, she’s the killer.”
He said it so quickly that I wondered how much coffee he’d already had. Before I could tell him that it didn’t prove anything, the phone rang.
He hit the speaker icon and said hello. The first thing Heather’s lawyer said was he just got off the phone with the hospital and she was alive.
“Thank God. When can I see her?”
“Not so quick, she’s not out of the woods. It’ll be tomorrow, maybe later, before anyone could get in. I’ll have to coordinate your visit. Let me call you around nine in the morning.”
Charles leaned toward the phone. “Tomorrow, no—”
“Mr. Fowler,” Edelen interrupted. “That’s all we can do. They promised to call if there's any change. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Charles slumped in the chair. “Okay.”
He stared at the phone, walked to the window, and returned to stare at the phone. I wanted to do something to help, if only I knew what it could be.
He saved me when he said, “Let’s call the detectives and tell them about Edwina. The sooner they figure out she killed Starr the quicker Heather gets out.”
Charles jumped up and went to the bedroom to find the detective’s card, and had punched the number in his phone before he was back in the kitchen. I wasn’t certain we had enough to talk to the police about, but it would get Charles’s mind off Heather’s condition. Detective Lawrence answered and Charles told him who he was. It took the detective a few seconds to remember Charles, who then said he had some information that would help the police catch the “real killer.” A few seconds later, Charles said, “Great, we’ll see you then,” ended the call, and smiled for the second time in two days. “He’s on his way.”
The detective wasn’t in as big a hurry to get to us as Charles thought he should be. It was an hour before he knocked on the door. Charles had it open before the detective had a chance to knock a second time. He stepped in. Charles held out his hand to shake. The detective ignored it, and glanced around the room. I gave a halfhearted nod to the visitor.
“So, what’s so all-fired important?”
Charles looked behind the detective. “Where’s your partner?”
“Not here.”
I figured that out, and I’m not a detective.
Charles seemed disappointed he didn’t have the full complement of detectives to share his wisdom with. He got over it quickly and motioned for Lawrence to follow him to the kitchen.
The detective sighed, and took one of the chairs. “I heard about your girlfriend trying to kill herself. Hope she’s okay.”
Charles scratched the side of his head. “They say she’s going to make it.”
“Good. What’s so important?”
“Chris and I just got back from South Carolina,” Charles pointed to me. “We’ve learned some stuff that’ll put you on the right track to find the guy’s killer.” He abruptly turned to me. “Tell him, Chris.”
Thanks, Charles. “It’s about a woman named Edwina Robinson. She’s a singer from Charleston and Starr was her agent.” I proceeded to tell him about her contact with Starr and how he ripped her off; her relationship with others in the Charleston area; why we suspected she was in Nashville when he was killed; how she could have been mistaken for Heather in a poorly lit bar; and, how she could have killed Starr.
Lawrence had started taking notes, set his pen on the table, closed his notebook, and glared at me. “Is that what you took me away from my job for?”
I thought finding killers was his job. Instead of pointing that out, I told him it was.
He turned to Charles. “I don’t blame you. If I was in your shoes and my girlfriend was in jail, I’d do anything to get her out. I’d look for anyone with the most tenuous connection to the dead guy.” He put both palms down on the table and leaned to within a foot of Charles. “Let me tell you what I see.”
Charles leaned closer to the detective and said, “You’ve got the wrong—”
“What I see is the person who killed Starr is cuffed to a hospital bed. She has motive. We have a witness who has no reason to lie. Her gun shot him. And, because she was overcome with guilt, she tried to kill herself. Case open and shut. Unless you have something that means something, I’m out of here.”
Lawrence grabbed his pen and notebook, pushed away from the table, smoothed out his sports coat, and headed the door.”
Charles was quick to follow. “Assho—”
Lawrence pivoted and glowered at Charles. “What?”
I stepped between them. “Detective, my friend’s upset. We apologize for any inconvenience. We thought you should have the information about Ms. Robinson.”
Both Charles and the detective glared at me.
“I’ll give him a pass this time. I’m sorry about the suicide attempt. She’s guilty. Period.” He slammed the door on his way out.
Charles walked to the kitchen and back in the living room where I was standing. “Thanks a hell of a lot. Couldn’t you have given me a tiny bit of support. He’s convinced Heather killed the son of a bitch, and all you offer is ‘my friend’s upset.’”
I reached out to pat my friend’s arm. He jerked back, went into his bedroom, and slammed the door shut. I lowered myself on the couch, lowered my head, and massaged my neck.
30
Twenty minutes later, another knock on the door disturbed my feeling sorry for Charles, Heather, and to be honest, myself. I wondered if Detective Lawrence had second thoughts about what we'd shared, or if he had returned to either arrest or berate Charles for his mini-temper tantrum. What I didn’t expect to see was Heather’s friend Gwen.
“Oh, it’s you.” She looked past me into the living room.
Nothing like being welcomed. I invited her in and said I’d get Charles.
“Is the famous old guy here?”
“No, sorry.”
“Me too. It’s pretty thrilling to meet someone who was really, really big way back when.”
I thought it was the same thing she could have said about a dinosaur, as I tapped on Charles’s door.
“What?”
I opened the door a crack and told him Gwen was here. I closed the door and said he would be out and told her she could wait on the couch.
After a couple of minutes, I was afraid Charles wasn’t coming out and I was running out of chit-chat. He saved me when he opened his door. “Hi, Gwen.”
“Sorry to drop in like this. I didn’
t have your phone number and was down the street, so I took a chance you’d be here.”
“That’s, umm, okay,” Charles made the switch from anger to hospitable. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“I was worried about my friend sitting in a jail cell and wondering how she was doing.”
Gwen wouldn’t have known about the suicide attempt. I waited to see how Charles handled it.
Charles shook his head. “She’s not happy about being there. She’s doing as good as anyone would.”
That’s one way of dealing with it.
“It sucks that she’s locked up. She’s such a sweet gal. What do you think the cops have on her?”
Charles tilted his head toward Gwen. “The gun.”
“That’s all?”
Charles shrugged.
I knew there was more. Charles didn’t want to elaborate, so I jumped into the discussion. “Gwen, let me ask you something. Do you remember a singer named Edwina Robinson? She performed a few times at the Bluebird. You might have been there when she was.”
She rubbed her chin and gave a slight nod. “Don’t know for certain. There’re a lot of singers every week and they start running together. I might know who you’re talking about. I think the gal’s name is Edwina. I don’t know her last name. The reason I remember the name is because Heather said she’d been meeting her for coffee. Why?”
I wanted to say, how many Edwina’s could there be at the Bluebird. Instead I said, “Remember if she ever had anyone with her?”
“You’re asking some mighty hard questions, Mr. Landrum.”
“Sorry, it’s important.”
“Most of the singers have someone with them.” She grinned. “Somebody’s got to clap after they sing.”
“Yeah, but did she?” Charles asked. He had stayed out of the conversation too long for his liking.
“I don’t remember. Not saying she didn’t; just don’t recall.”
I nodded and smiled to indicate we understood. “You said Heather mentioned having coffee with Edwina. Did she say anything about it?”
