The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Who among them though would have a motive for killing Maureen?

  Hannah turned the omelette out on her plate and sprinkled it with Tabasco. She ate standing at the counter, her mind again locked onto the building evidence.

  Maureen’s blood on the towel with Sam’s laundry. The bruise Hannah had noticed on Sam’s face the evening he reported his wife missing. The buckle from Maureen’s shoe found in Sam’s trunk. The car like Sam’s the gardener had seen at Albright’s house. The missing wedding ring—she’d checked after talking to Donahue, and Maureen’s ring was missing from the body just as Lisa’s had been. The pieces of Sam’s story that didn’t add up.

  Sam. It always came back to Sam.

  It angered Hannah to think she’d believed in him.

  She poured herself a third glass of wine and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. How could she be sad over someone who’d killed his wife?

  But it wasn’t really about Sam, was it? Hannah was feeling sad for herself. For believing in jerks, which she did far too often. For being attracted to men who would betray her. For all the things she wanted out of life that seemed forever to elude her.

  CHAPTER 31

  “I could use a drink,” I told Jesse as we stepped from the cool interior of the church into the bright afternoon sun. Now that the memorial service was over, I faced the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.

  Jesse pulled on a pair of dark glasses. “Too bad, you aren’t going to have one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jesus, Sam.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “Because you’ve got too much riding on not drinking,” Jesse snapped.

  “Not anymore.” I’d lost a second wife, and the odds were good that I’d once again be charged with murder. What did it matter if I took a drink?

  Jesse draped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me aside. “Look around you, Sam. These are people who love you. You want to let them down?”

  “It’s my life.”

  “And Molly’s.”

  “Sometimes I think she’d be better off without me.”

  He dropped his arm in disgust. “Wait until she’s all grown up before you piss away everything you have going for you, okay?”

  A man with a camera—one of the anonymous press hounds—jumped in front of us and snapped a couple of photos before I had time to react.

  “Dr. Russell,” he called out. “Quite a coincidence that both your wives have been murdered, don’t you think?”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Jesse shouted.

  The photographer stepped away, but he didn’t let up. He raised his voice. “Is that a ‘no comment,’ Dr. Russell?”

  Several of the other mourners turned to watch. I could hear a buzzing in my ears.

  “This was a private service,” I yelled. “Have you no sense of decency?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew exactly what he’d fling back.

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself the same question, Dr. Russell.”

  I lunged toward him, but Jesse grabbed me and dragged me to his car. It was parked at the curb, and he more or less shoved me inside. “Don’t make it worse,” he muttered.

  “Is that possible?”

  “Snap out of it, Sam.” He wasn’t about to feed into my self-pity. He turned back toward the church. “What about Molly? Shall I get her?”

  “She’s going to ride with my dad and Chase.” In fact, I could see my dad’s Buick up ahead, already pulling away from the curb. I was glad they’d missed the scene with the reporter.

  But the rest of the small gathering hadn’t. Even from inside Jesse’s car, I could sense their discomfort. I wasn’t sure if it had to do with the reporter’s intrusion or the unspoken allegation in his remark. Despite the outward show of support, I knew that privately many of them were wondering what I’d done.

  My picture had been on the evening news several nights in a row, as well as on the front page of several local papers. The tragedy of Maureen’s death had become the real-life equivalent of a soap opera. And I had the leading role.

  I leaned my head back against the seat and pressed my palms to my forehead. “Shit, Jesse, what am I going to do?”

  He handed me a Reese’s peanut butter cup. I waved it away. “I don’t mean about the drink, I mean about my life.”

  “Same as with the drinking,” he said, starting the engine and putting the church behind us. “You’re going to keep going forward, one day at a time.”

  AA had stood me in good stead, but sometimes I got sick and tired of their homilies. “The cops think I killed her,” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me. Dallas is practically salivating at the idea.”

  “Dallas doesn’t run a one-man show.”

  I started to protest. Jesse held up a hand. “I know you two have issues ...”

  “He has the issues, not me.”

  “So you’ve said. All because he was an insecure kid and you some small-town baseball star.” Jesse unwrapped the peanut butter cup I’d declined and popped it into his mouth. “That was high school, Sam.”

  I nodded glumly. Jesse was smart, probably one of the smartest people I knew, but he’d grown up in Chicago and gone to a high school that served close to three thousand students. Growing up in Monte Vista was different.

  “It’s more than just that,” I explained, not for the first time. “My dad was a doctor. My mom a teacher. Dallas never knew his dad, and his mom scraped by working in the school cafeteria.” And the petty meanness of teenage boys was not a pleasant sight. While I never initiated any of the teasing and taunting, I never rose to Dallas’s defense either.

  Jesse shrugged. “My dad was no prince. I’d have been better off not knowing him. But there’s no one from high school I even care about anymore, much less have it in for.”

  “That’s because even if your dad wasn’t a prince, you are.”

  Jesse grinned, flashing his gold front tooth at me.

  “History or not, Dallas thinks I’m guilty.” I closed my eyes. “Hell, maybe I am.”

  “Don’t even go there, Sam.” His voice was sharp.

  “Why? Because as an attorney you don’t want to know the truth about what I might have done?” I’d known that much from watching television, but until I stood trial for Lisa’s murder, I’d never fully understood how circumscribed lawyers were about what they wanted to know.

  Jesse shook his head. “Because I’m your friend, and I know what you didn’t do.”

  “Hell, even I don’t know what happened that night. You can’t be sure of anything.”

  “If you killed her, how do you explain the ransom call?”

  “Some opportunist who saw Maureen’s disappearance as a chance to get his hands on easy money.”

  “But you heard Maureen’s voice when the kidnapper called, right?”

  In hindsight, I was having trouble remembering what I’d heard. “It could have been a recording.”

  “How would a random opportunist get a recording of your wife begging for your help?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was someone who sounded like Maureen. It was only a second or two, not a real conversation. And I was already a nervous wreck. I could have heard what I wanted to hear.” I pressed my palms to my forehead, exhausted by trying to make sense of it all.

  “Possibly. But I think the kidnapper is somehow implicated in her murder.” He turned in my direction. “Which means you aren’t.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t prove any of it.”

  “Well, in theory, the cops are the ones who have to prove something.”

  “That’s a crock, and you know it.” They’d almost been able to prove I killed Lisa, which showed how far off base they could be. “I wish I knew what happened that Saturday.”

  “If you didn’t suddenly fall off the wagon,” Jesse reasoned, “and I can’t see why you would, then someone either got you drunk or drugged you.”
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br />   “Unless the amnesia stemmed from head trauma.”

  “Bottom line is, you’re not at fault for Maureen’s death.”

  I stared out the window at the familiar sights of my hometown. Growing up, I’d sometimes yearned for the glamor and action of a big city, but I’d come back from Boston four years ago longing for the quiet refuge of home. Now even that was denied to me.

  “I’m thinking of sending Molly east to see her grandparents,” I told Jesse.

  He gave me a sideways glance. “I thought you were afraid they’d try to regain custody.”

  “She’s interested in knowing her mother’s side of the family. Hell, she might be better off with them. She lived with them, you know, during the trial and after, while I had my head in the toilet.”

  “You’re not going to get me to feel sorry for you, Sam. I’ve been there too, don’t forget.”

  “They’re not warm people,” I told him, “but they seemed to do a fine job raising Lisa.”

  “Except that Molly is your daughter.”

  “Which is why I need to do what’s best for her.”

  Jesse shook his head. “Jesus, talking you out of taking a drink was a piece of cake compared to talking you out of this pit of self-pity.”

  My dad had invited mourners back to his place for coffee and dessert following the service. Several of the neighbors had pitched in, and the food was already set out by the time Jesse and I arrived. It was a small gathering—Ira and Debbie, of course, along with a few of the other doctors in town and a handful of women Maureen knew, mostly mothers at Molly’s school.

  I didn’t feel much like coffee or dessert, nor was I in the mood for comfort and sympathy. What I really wanted was a dark corner to myself and full bottle of scotch. Which may have been the real reason my dad had organized this gathering.

  I was standing apart, leaning against Dad’s fireplace, when Sherri approached and handed me a cup of coffee. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “I was so hoping she’d turn up alive.”

  The sentiments were echoed by another woman, who took Sherri’s place at my side when she left.

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  And again and again as each of the guests offered condolences. Not a single one even mentioned the article in yesterday’s paper that named me as a “person of interest,” which is legally cautious jargon for “potential suspect.”

  Finally, Ira made his way over. “This has got to suck,” he said.

  “Big time.”

  He was wearing a dark wool suit that had to be too heavy for the warm afternoon. His face was flushed, and he looked miserable. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I feel like I’m in some fog-shrouded alternate universe. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and find it was all a dream.”

  “I gather the cops have their sights on you.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Have they said why?”

  “Aside from the fact that I’m her husband, and I seem to make a practice of killing my wives?”

  He wiped his brow and gave me a look of pained commiseration. “For what it’s worth, I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Ira and I were partners and had been best friends in high school. What else was he going to say? Still, I was touched. I felt myself choke up. “I appreciate that.”

  He shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, it’s the truth.”

  I saw that Chase had found a beer somewhere, probably the back of his own car. I was tempted to ask for one for myself, but if I was going to blow it, I wanted better than one of his cheap beers.

  I turned back to Ira. “I appreciate your picking up so much of my load at the office. I know it’s not easy for you.”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “No problem. I’m glad to do it.”

  “I’m going to start carrying my weight again. I mean, if I’m in jail there won’t be much I can do—” I tried to make light of it and failed. “But short of that, you can count on me. And as soon as this thing is over, I’ll cover your patients while you take that two weeks in Hawaii you’ve been talking about.”

  “Yeah, sure.” His voice lacked enthusiasm.

  “I mean it.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at his feet. “In the short run though, maybe it would be better if you ... well, if you stayed away.”

  “You mean not come to the office at all?” I stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Just until all this blows over.” He cleared his throat. “Or whatever. The patients are uncomfortable with all that’s going on. You can’t blame them really.”

  But I did. I felt utterly betrayed.

  These were people for whom I’d gotten out of bed at two in the morning. I’d given up my weekends, cut dinners short, left in the middle of movies, all to attend to their fevers and pains. They knew me.

  “They’ve said as much?” I asked.

  “A lot of them, yes. The others, well, I can tell.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Sam. I mean, there is the practice to consider. We need to be realistic about that. But I should think you’d want some time away regardless. You’ve got more important things to deal with right now than sore throats and stomachaches.”

  Just then another neighbor appeared to offer her condolences. When I looked for Ira again, he was nowhere to be found.

  It was only five o’clock by the time everyone had gone home, but I was beat—and beaten. I declined Dad’s offer of dinner and company and took Molly home. We made toasted cheese sandwiches and crashed on the sofa to watch a rerun of The X Files.

  “Do you think Mom and Maureen will be friends?” she asked during a commercial break.

  “Friends?” I was lost.

  “In heaven. Since they were both part of our family. It’s weird, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t put a lot of stock in heaven, especially not the “happily ever after with angels and clouds” kind of heaven that Molly had in mind. But what she needed right then was comfort, not a diatribe about life after death.

  I put an arm around her and pulled her close. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t be friends. They’ve both loved us, after all. And we loved them.”

  “But wouldn’t that make them jealous of each other?”

  I gave her a hug. “Not in heaven. It’s different there.”

  I didn’t check the day’s phone messages until Molly had fallen asleep on the couch. There were three. One was a hang up, one was from a reporter, and the third was from Ted Brown, the man I was hoping was Maureen’s father.

  It would be almost eleven in New York, but I decided to call anyway. It might well be his daughter we’d buried that day.

  Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone and dialed. I was about to speak for the first time to a man who could be my father-in-law.

  He answered on the second ring. It didn’t sound as though I’d woken him, for which I was grateful.

  “Mr. Brown? This is Sam Russell. I appreciate your getting back to me.”

  “I was out of town for a while or I’d have called sooner. Your message said it was urgent. What’s this about?”

  “I know this is out of the blue, but I ... we ...” I took another breath. “Do you by chance have a daughter named Maureen?”

  I could feel the winds shift. His tone became decidedly cool. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a doctor in California, sir. I’m married ... was married, to Maureen Brown of Rochester, New York. I’m looking for her father.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “I don’t know what the hell kind of scam you’re pulling here, but I’m not interested. I’ve had enough of your type to last me a lifetime.”

  He hung up on me.

  I was stunned. Estranged from her family, indeed. With good reason, from the sound of it. But I wasn’t about to give up. I dialed the number again.
r />   “Mr. Brown, please. Just give me a minute. It’s about your daughter.”

  He waited in silence.

  “Maureen is your daughter?”

  “Was my daughter.”

  “Whatever might have happened between you ... well, I loved her. We got married two years ago.” I was rambling, trying to convince him I was legit and maybe putting off delivering the bad news as long as I could. Not that I expected him to care. “She’s really a wonderful wom—”

  “My daughter is dead,” he said, interrupting me. “She died eleven years ago at the age of seventeen.”

  I felt as though the air had been knocked out of me. For a moment, I couldn’t even think. Then my brain kicked in. His daughter would have been twenty-eight now. The age was about right.

  “What was your daughter’s birthday?” I asked him.

  “September fifteenth.”

  “That’s my wife’s birthday.”

  “Whoever you married, Mr. Russell, I can promise you it wasn’t my daughter.”

  CHAPTER 32

  I played the words over and over in my head all night long, trying to make sense of them.

  But there was no sense, and no sleep.

  My daughter died eleven years ago at the age of seventeen. Whoever you’re married to, it isn’t my daughter.

  I was beyond stunned. It was as though science had just discovered that the Earth was indeed flat or that the sun occasionally rose in the west.

  If my wife wasn’t Maureen Brown of Rochester, who was she?

  Why was she using Maureen’s name?

  Did her true identity bear on her murder?

  The questions were clear. What I was feeling was not nearly so coherent or focused. A whole cast of emotions vied for center stage: hurt, betrayal, confusion, grief.

  First thing the next morning, I called Ted Brown again. When he didn’t answer, I left a message. As the day progressed, I tried several more times. He never picked up, and he didn’t return my calls.

  While Sherri took the girls to the local pool, I spent the day sifting through Maureen’s—my wife’s—closet and bureau drawers, her papers, books, files, everything I could get my hands on. I found nothing I hadn’t seen before. But I saw with clarity what I’d so blithely glossed over during the two years of our marriage. There were no mementoes, photographs, letters. No hint of her life before she’d moved to Monte Vista.