She'll Never Tell

by Hunter Morgan

  "Hello."

  "Claire?"

  "Kurt." She settled back in her redwood lounge chair that she'd stained herself.

  "Got your message. And no, for your information, I hadn't taken off early. I was out on a case."

  "Anything big?" She was stalling. Now that she had Kurt on the phone, she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to him about Patti Lome. Albany Beach was her town. This was her case, her murder.

  The minute that thought passed through her mind, she realized how ridiculous it was.

  "Nah. Car theft. What do you need?"

  She checked her watch. She needed to leave to pick up Ashley. "The mayor's really on my back with this murder."

  "You couldn't expect any less of the Rug Man, could you?"

  She smiled. Kurt had always been able to make her smile, she'd give him that. "When I admitted I had no real leads right now, he actually suggested I table the whole thing until after the summer season. To keep the publicity down, I'm sure."

  "You think he had something to do with the girl's murder?"

  "Nah." She ran her hand over her Virginia Tech T-shirt, brushing off a sandwich crumb. "He's too fat to have been able to carry Patti's dead body; he gets out of breath mounting the diner steps."

  "Evidence of a struggle?"

  "Not really, which is strange. There were ligature marks at her ankles and wrists, tape adhesive residue around her mouth, but that's understandable. He had her tied to something. A bed. A chair. Used a ninety-nine cent roll of duct tape to keep her quiet."

  "No evidence on her body?"

  "Nothing recoverable. No skin under the fake nails. No foreign fibers. Everything we found was from the dump site."

  "Sounding premeditated to you?" Kurt asked.

  "Yup."

  "Someone she knew."

  "My guess is that she climbed into a car with the wrong person."

  "Anything else stand out? Anything at all?"

  "Not really, except that apparently this sick SOB didn't kill her straight off. ME sets time of death two to four hours before her body was found. She was last seen leaving the bar more than twenty-four hours before we found her."

  "Did you locate her car?"

  "It was in the shop. She didn't take it to Calloway's that night; she got a ride with a girlfriend there. Friends say she had a history of hitchhiking home from bars late at night."

  "Nice friends. Couldn't be bothered to give her a ride themselves and keep her from getting murdered?"

  "She was last seen leaving Calloway's." Claire grabbed the book she'd been reading and headed into the house. She took the time to lock the double glass doors and then drop down the wooden bar that would prevent anyone from sliding it open. "She'd been drinking, but she wasn't too wasted, according to said friends."

  "And no one saw her after that?"

  "Nope. Not until she was lying beside that trash can." She dropped her book on the counter and padded down the hall to her bedroom to get her sneakers.

  "And no sexual assault?"

  "Nope."

  Kurt made a sound of empathy. "Sounds like it's going to be a tough case to crack."

  "Tell me about it." She dropped onto her bed to pull on her shoes.

  "I hate to say this, but your best bet is going to be that someone talks."

  She frowned. "Exactly my thinking."

  There was a pause between them.

  "Well..." Claire cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she tied her sneakers. She hated these silences between them. It made her think about how much she missed him. "I've got to get into town to pick up Ashley. I just wanted to run this all by you, make sure I was thinking clearly."

  "Sounds good to me. I mean, I'll look over your evidence if you want, Claire, but so far, this sounds like good police work. I don't know what TV shows you're watching, but in real life, we don't always get the bad guys the first time out of the gate."

  And sometimes we never get them, Claire thought.

  * * *

  "Dad. What are you doing here?"

  Katie burst into the family room, and Marcy got up off the couch where she'd been sitting with Jake. They had the TV on, but they hadn't been watching it. They'd been talking. She glanced at the clock over the mantel. Apparently longer than she realized. She felt guilty for not getting rid of Jake before the kids arrived home. She didn't want to make separation any harder on them than it had to be.

  "Your dad just gave me a ride home. That's all." She swept up the two wineglasses, headed for the kitchen. "Give him a kiss. He's got to go. Work tomorrow."

  Phoebe followed Marcy into the kitchen. "What's he doing here?" She eyed the wineglasses as Marcy rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher.

  "Who are you? My mother?"

  "You two talking about getting back together?" Phoebe sounded agitated.

  Marcy busied herself cleaning up the kitchen. She put the frying pan in the sink to soak. Returned the carton of eggs to the refrigerator. "We were just talking, that's all. He's the father of my children, Phoebe."

  "I understand that," she whispered. "I just think you need to be careful what kind of signals you send Ben and Katie. This was a big step for you. Realizing you were unhappy and asking Jake to move out. You don't want to undermine your decision." She glanced in the direction of the family room. They could hear Jake and the kids talking. Laughing. "You don't want to let Jake undermine your decision," she whispered. "You know how manipulative men can be."

  Marcy rinsed off the utensils and dropped them into the basket in the dishwasher. All Jake had done was give her a ride home. They'd just had some dinner and some wine. She'd enjoyed the evening. She didn't feel manipulated. "He's leaving now, Phoebe. Don't worry about it."

  In a rare demonstration of affection, Phoebe reached out and rubbed her sister's shoulder. "I'm worried about you. Dr. Larson said these first few months would be stressful. You've only been out of the hospital two weeks, hon."

  Something about her sister's touch made Marcy uneasy, but she didn't push her away. She was stressed out. That didn't mean she didn't know what she was doing. "Drop it, Phoebe." She closed the dishwasher and, grabbing a towel to dry her hands, walked back into the family room. "Kisses around," she announced. "Dad's out of here."

  Jake hugged and kissed the kids and promised to pick them up after work for their sleepover the following night. Marcy walked him to the front door as Ben and Katie filed upstairs for bed.

  Marcy stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door behind her. Phoebe was supposedly out on the back porch having a smoke, but her sister wasn't always where she was supposed to be. She was a great one for eavesdropping. "Thanks for giving me that ride home," she said lightly.

  "Thanks for dinner. It's lonely eating by myself." Jake turned to face her. "I miss you," he said quietly.

  She gave a half smile. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she missed him too, because standing here, she realized she did. But then she thought about what Phoebe had said about men and their manipulation. The truth was, she didn't always feel that she was thinking clearly. She would make that appointment to see Larson. Just to go over the blood tests. Maybe let him order another CT scan.

  "You should call some friends," she said. "Go out with them."

  "You are my friend." He brushed her bare arm with his fingertips, then let his hand fall.

  She looked over his shoulder at the dogwood tree on the front yard. They had planted that dogwood together when Katie was a toddler. "You sure this isn't about losing a good-looking wife?"

  He met her gaze, his mouth drawn tight. "That's unfair, Marcy, and you know it. Do I think you're beautiful now? Of course I do. Do I find you desirable? What man in his right mind wouldn't? But you seem to forget who I fell love with. And that was you." He poked her in the chest above her breast. "Who you were... are inside."

  He lowered his gaze, and a part of her felt ashamed. Jake had been so good to her all these years. And after the accident, he was th
e one who had insisted she have the plastic surgery; he was the one who had driven to Baltimore every night to be at her side.

  She reached out to him in a feeble apology, grasping his arm, then letting go. "Jake, I can't do this right now." She rubbed her temples, realizing suddenly that she had a terrible headache. "I just can't."

  "Fine," he said stiffly. She could tell he was angry with her. Angry and hurt. "We don't have to do it now. But we have to do it at some point." He turned away and walked down the sidewalk.

  Marcy stepped in the front door, practically running into her sister. "Were you listening to our conversation?" she snapped.

  "Of course not. I was going to bed." Phoebe started up the staircase. '"Night."

  She was lying. Marcy knew she was lying.

  "Good night," Marcy called after her. Watching her mount the stairs, hips swaying, she realized that she did need to see the doctor, just to be cautious. But right now, the best thing for her mental health was going to be getting Phoebe out of her house.

  Chapter 6

  Marcy sat on the edge of the examining table, her feet dangling over the edge. Now that she was here, she was beginning to feel foolish. She had a lot to do today; she didn't have time for this. "I didn't mean for this to sound like an emergency this morning, Dr. Larson. I really didn't have to come in today. This fuss isn't necessary."

  "There's no fuss." He was leaning over a small desk built into the exam room wall, studying lab reports in her medical record file that was thick enough to be a dictionary. "Apparently I had a cancellation this morning." He offered a quick smile she was certain was meant to be reassuring. "You're just lucky. If you'd called a minute later, you might have had to wait until September to see me. You know how I like my tennis in the summer."

  She exhaled, unable to resist a grim smile. "But you said yourself, I'm fine. You said you found nothing wrong in the examination."

  He removed his reading glasses, turning to give her his full attention. George Larson looked like a smalltown doctor in a made-for-TV movie. Mid-sixties, graying hair, he had a friendly, weathered face. But Marcy had heard his grandfatherly looks were deceiving; he had a mean backswing for a man of retirement age.

  "You look great. Blood pressure is good. Heart rate, pulse. Perfect. Your jogging seems to be making you younger by the day." He lifted his hand, pausing. He still wore his wedding band though his wife had passed away more than two years ago. Marcy admired his devotion.

  "But," she urged.

  "But you didn't call me for any physical ailment, did you?" He folded his arms over his chest. Waited.

  She focused her attention on the spotless tile floor. "No, I guess I didn't."

  "So what's up?"

  She hesitated, then lifted her gaze to his kind brown eyes. "Is it possible, due to the brain trauma I suffered, that I could be experiencing episodes of... paranoia?"

  "Paranoia?"

  She gestured lamely. "You know. Thinking someone is watching you when there isn't anyone there."

  "Who do you think is watching you?"

  She shrugged.

  "Well, I mean is it the KGB, or our guys?"

  She looked up to see him smiling. He didn't seem to be terribly concerned. She chuckled and realized it felt good to laugh at herself. It had been a long time since she'd been able to do that. Maybe she never had.

  "It's hard to explain. I just get this weird feeling that I'm being watched." She brushed her hair back, choosing her words carefully. "Dr. Larson, I'm not a woman easily spooked. I lock my doors at night and I check the backseat of the car before I get in, but I'm not one of those women who imagines the boogey man or a rapist around every dark corner."

  "But you're feeling that way now?"

  She shrugged, trying to find the right words to express the peculiar feeling she'd been experiencing. It had happened on the beach that night with Jake, on the porch, on the road running, and a couple of times in town. Now it was right out in public places, not even necessarily in the dark. It was just so unlike her—at least unlike the Marcy she had known before the accident. "It's not all the time. Just every once in a while I feel like someone is watching me. But no one is there."

  "Trouble sleeping?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Feeling the need to drink more heavily than your usual glass of wine or cold beer on occasion?"

  She shook her head.

  "And you're not taking any drugs, not even anything over the counter? No diet pills to keep your girlish figure?"

  She smirked. "No drugs, Dr. Larson. So far, the jogging and pushing away from the table is working."

  He studied her for a moment, his arms still crossed over his chest. "You know," he said after a moment. "In a way, you are being watched."

  She frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, since your recovery, you've been a bit of a town celebrity. Especially with your plastic surgery and weight loss. People are naturally fascinated by stories like yours. They're watching you. Some maybe even wishing they were you."

  She laughed at the absurdity of his comment.

  "Marcy." He stepped closer, dropping one hand into his white lab coat pocket. "You can't be entirely immune to the attention. Some people are more sensitive than others. Maybe you're just sensing it."

  "You mean like picking up vibes?" she asked, not completely buying it.

  "Sort of."

  She looked away, her gaze settling on the old-fashioned black-and-white eye chart on the wall. "So you don't think I'm crazy?"

  "Do you think you're crazy?"

  She scowled. "Certainly not."

  "Good then. Now, I don't mean to put my nose where it doesn't belong, but I'm going to do it anyway. What's going on with you and Jake?"

  She considered telling the physician that nothing at all was going on, or just saying it was none of his damned business. Instead, she answered honestly. "I don't know. Things weren't going well between us before the accident. We seemed to have grown apart." She made herself look him in the eye. "Separation seemed a logical step."

  "And this is what you really want?"

  She sighed and slid down off the examination table. "You know, Dr. Larson, I don't know what I want. I just know I want more than I had before the accident. I want to be happy."

  "Because you're thin and beautiful now?" he questioned pointedly.

  She hesitated. He was expressing the very thought that had been spinning around in her head for days. "No," she answered, firm in her resolve. "Because I deserve it."

  He smiled. "That's what I was hoping to hear." He picked up her medical file and started for the door. "I want you to go ahead and have those couple of tests that we talked about done at the hospital. No hurry, just in the next week or two. And please, try to relax a little. You don't have to make up for the six months you lost in the next six weeks."

  She nodded. "I'll do that."

  "And you really should consider seeing Dr. Dubois or at least a counselor. Just to give you an outlet to talk through some of what you're going through."

  "Thanks, Doc. Sorry I bothered you. I knew it was nothing."

  "No bother at all. Take care."

  He left the room and Marcy stepped behind the curtain, her confidence strong again. Seth had left a message on her answering machine last night asking if she'd like to get together for dinner tonight. He hadn't said if it was for business or pleasure.

  She picked up her handbag. She'd call Seth back when she got out to the car and accept his invitation. Why not? Ben and Katie would be with Jake tonight. And Dr. Larson had said she needed to relax. Maybe a date with a man who seemed to be genuinely interested in her was just what the doctor ordered.

  * * *

  That evening, Marcy found herself at a candlelit table at her favorite seafood restaurant in town, sitting across from Seth Watkins. It was the first date she had had since she was in college.

  "More wine?" he asked, already filling her glass from the bottle.

&n
bsp; "Whoa. That's enough." She took her glass from his hand, her fingertips brushing his. His touch brought a certain excitement to her. A little thrill of something akin to forbidden fruit.

  He refilled his own glass, emptying the bottle. They'd had a nice evening. A great meal with a luscious dessert to share, and now, wine, a soft breeze off the bay, and the romantic lull of music in the background. Despite her hesitation, Marcy had found it easy to talk to Seth, or at least listen to him. He was only two years younger than she was and had attended a rival high school. He'd kept her entertained half the night telling her tales of his high school days as the starting quarterback of the varsity football team.

  Seth took a sip of his wine and leaned forward on the table. "I've had a nice time tonight, Marcy."

  "Me, too." She set down her glass, thinking she'd probably had enough. "It was so good of you to do all that extra leg work on the shopping mall property."

  "I'd like to say it was all part of my job, but I have to admit, I did it partly because it was for you. I just couldn't wait to see you again."

  She moistened her lips, not quite sure she was comfortable where this was going. Maybe it was the expensive gold chain around his neck, or the fact that his haircut probably cost more than hers. There was just something about him that made her feel she should take a step back.

  But then she told herself she was being silly. It was only natural to feel this way after being with the same man for so many years. Having the same dull conversations, eating the same dull meals every night. Seth was just different from Jake, maybe not a he-man, but what was wrong with that?

  "You know." He took her hand in his and turned it over, caressing her palm. "You're a very beautiful woman, Marcy." He gave her a boyish grin. "I just can't seem to stop looking at you. Marveling."

  Seth was saying the things she thought she wanted him to say, things she'd dreamed her whole life of hearing, but somehow they didn't ring quite right in her head. "Seth," she said, "You understand, I'm just separated. I'm still married."