The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Why hadn’t I been more curious? I had asked, of course, but I’d been ready enough to move on when she changed the subject, explaining that the past was too painful to dwell on. In truth, and it embarrassed me now to acknowledge the fact, I wasn’t all that interested. We both came to the marriage with what psychologists are fond of calling “baggage,” and I could barely handle the weight of my own.

  But I did try sometimes. I remembered we’d been driving past the high school once when I started to reminisce about my youth. We were living in my hometown, after all, and I wanted her to understand a little of what my life had been growing up.

  “Ira was a wild man then,” I told her. “I was a wimp.”

  She gave me a playful poke in the ribs. “You were never a wimp.”

  “I was. I would have been a total washout without Ira’s prodding. He was always the one who got us the six-pack or the grass. I only cut school when Ira tempted me. And the time we got caught TP-ing the algebra teacher’s house—”

  “You really did that?” She laughed.

  “Well, he was a pretty awful teacher. He never explained anything, just gave us assignments and sat at his desk reading the newspaper while we worked. But it was Ira’s idea. And he tossed most of the toilet paper. I didn’t even get through a whole roll. I was too afraid of making a mess.”

  “Sounds like you had a good time in high school.”

  It hadn’t always seemed like fun at the time, but looking back, I remembered those years fondly. “Yeah,” I told her. “I liked high school. What about you?”

  “I hated it.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “You know, dull. So you and Ira have been friends practically forever?”

  “Since grammar school, though we aren’t as close as we used to be. I miss it sometimes, the ‘best friend’ thing, I mean.”

  We’d continued to talk about Ira and my youth, and I’d never learned why she’d hated school.

  Now I sat down on our king-sized, cherry-frame bed—the one my wife had picked out and adorned with colorful comforter and pillows—and thought about what I did know. Maureen (it was the only name I’d known her by) was by nature aloof, but she could be warm and affectionate and kind. She worried about her weight—unnecessarily, in my opinion—loved romantic comedies and anything with Johnny Depp. She was terrible at spelling, terrified of rollercoasters, and dreamed of renting a house in Italy someday. She had a lovely voice and a sense of humor, though as I thought about it now, I realized it had been dormant these last few months. She’d brought joy into my life at a time I’d pretty much forgotten there was such a thing. Despite the tensions in our marriage, I’d loved her.

  But I hadn’t really known her.

  Finally, I got tired of waiting for the phone to ring and went to see Jesse at the nursery. Maybe my brain was so rattled I was missing something obvious. Something Jesse would see straight off.

  I found him watering the roses on display. The sweet fragrance of the blooms took me back to my childhood, when my mother tended to her rose garden as if it were her third child.

  “You sure there’s not some mistake?” he asked when I told him about my conversation with Ted Brown.

  “Not likely. Her date of birth, her father’s name, the city where she went to high school, they all match.”

  He whistled softly. “Wow.”

  “Why did she lie? If she loved me, why couldn’t she trust me?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a matter of trust.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do people use false identities? Usually because they’re in hiding, right? Maybe they’ve got money problems, or a deranged ex, or they’re being stalked.” He paused. “Or maybe they’re hiding from the law.”

  I shook my head. “A crazy ex-boyfriend I’d buy, but not the law. Maureen wasn’t like that.”

  “But she wasn’t Maureen either,” Jesse pointed out, not unkindly. He shifted the soaker nozzle and pulled a couple of dead leaves off one of the plants. “It could be something innocuous like bad debts.”

  “That’s innocuous?”

  “Relatively speaking. Have you told the cops?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You going to?”

  “I don’t know. They’re closing in on me, Jesse. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me.”

  “At least they stayed away from the memorial service.”

  I nodded. I’d been sure they would show up, if only to rattle me. Although they never came out and said in so many words that I was their prime suspect, the fact was apparent to anyone who listened to the news.

  “I guess I’d like to know a little more about what’s going on first,” I said.

  “Smart move. You don’t want to dig yourself into a deeper hole.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “On the other hand, this might get you out of the hole.”

  I nodded. “Trouble is, at the moment I don’t know which it is.”

  Jesse moved the hose again. Surprisingly, for a Sunday, the nursery was quiet. There was only one customer that I could see, and she was over by the annuals, slowly making her way down the aisle of pansies and impatiens. I hadn’t known Jesse when he was a public defender, and I couldn’t imagine him in any work environment but this.

  “I’ve got to unravel this soon,” I told him.

  “Yeah, I think you do.”

  “If I don’t hear back from Ted Brown tonight, I’m going to Rochester myself.”

  “What if he still won’t talk to you?”

  “I guess I’ll have to make sure he does.”

  Molly was thrilled at the prospect of staying at my dad’s—a special treat given that it was a school night. And Dad, needless to say, was equally thrilled.

  “I’ll call you when I get there,” I told Molly. “I’ll only be gone a day or two.”

  “Why do you want to meet Maureen’s father, anyway?”

  I’d debated how much to tell her. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to confuse her either, especially not until I got it sorted out myself. “I want to know more about her,” I said. “Her childhood, her family. You sure you’re okay with my going?”

  “I’m going to be staying with Grandad.” Her tone made it clear I shouldn’t worry.

  I gave her a hug. “Don’t wear him out. Remember, he’s not as young as me.”

  She laughed. “Dad!”

  I caught the first flight out the next morning, walking past a Boston-bound plane in its final stages of boarding on my way to the gate. As I settled into my seat, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia rolled through me.

  Boston. Lisa.

  God, I missed her. I missed our quiet talks, the way she ran her hand through the hair at the back of my neck, the scent of herbal shampoo in her hair. The way she understood what I was thinking and feeling, even when I didn’t. She’d helped me grow in so many ways.

  I remembered again that I’d been dreaming about her that Sunday morning two weeks ago when I’d woken in my car, lost in the hills, and returned home to find Maureen gone. Why had I dreamed about her then, when I so rarely did anymore?

  Coincidence? Or was it because I knew deep inside that Maureen and Lisa had suffered similar fates?

  I hadn’t killed Lisa. I knew that. And I was hoping—no, I was reasonably confident—that I hadn’t killed Maureen. But I was a link between the two murders. Had I inadvertently caused them? Was someone deliberately trying to cause me pain? Or maybe there was no connection at all.

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes as the plane taxied down the runway. If my wife wasn’t Maureen Brown of Rochester, finding out who she really was had to be a step in the right direction.

  Having subjected my stomach to a soggy airline omelet and bitter coffee on the first leg of the trip, and pretzels on the second, while my rather large seatmate snored in my ear, I arrived in Rochester feeling queasy and exhausted. I thought about checking into the hotel and calling on Ted
Brown in the morning. But I was too antsy to wait any longer.

  With the aid of a street map I picked up at the airport newsstand, I found the Browns’ house with little difficulty. It was an older, two-story brick structure of modest size in a neighborhood of similar houses. None of the properties was run down, but they all showed their age.

  It was only eight-thirty in the evening, but because of the northern latitude the sky was lighter for the hour than it would have been in Monte Vista. Still, it wasn’t the best timing for calling on a stranger.

  I rang the bell, my stomach in knots. The man who answered appeared to be in his fifties. He was solidly built, with bushy eyebrows that formed a prominent ridge across his forehead.

  “Mr. Brown?”

  His scowl deepened. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Sam Russell.” I’d have offered my hand, but the screen door prevented me.

  “Russell ...” His face pinched in thought. “You’re the one who keeps calling about Maureen.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Whatever it is, it doesn’t concern me. Maureen’s dead.”

  “May I come in? Please. I’m as confused as you are, and it’s important. I flew here from California just to speak with you.”

  “Then you wasted your time.”

  I wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. “Someone claims to be your daughter, and you aren’t even curious?”

  The eyebrows furrowed again. “Your wife really told you she was my daughter?”

  “My wife and your daughter had the same name and birth date, and both went to the high school here in town.”

  “Where was she born?” he asked.

  “New Orleans.” It was what she’d put on our marriage license.

  His bushy brows knit together into a single line. “She told you I was her father?”

  “She said her father was named Ted.”

  He didn’t respond one way or another.

  “And her mother’s name was Annette.”

  His face registered surprise. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes closed momentarily. Then, with a sigh, he unlatched the screen and stepped back. “Might as well come in. Looks like you won’t leave me alone otherwise.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped inside. The house was comfortable but dated. Like my dad’s house. The carpeting was kelly green, as were the two recliners in front of the television. The couch was a brown and green plaid. Above it was a gilded frame holding a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.

  “What is you want from me?” he asked.

  “To start, I was hoping you could tell me about your daughter. Maybe that will help me figure out why my wife took her identity.”

  “Why not ask her yourself?”

  “She’s dead. She was murdered almost two weeks ago.”

  He drew in a breath then gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat. I’m sorry about your wife.” He picked a framed photograph off the mantel and handed it to me. “That’s Maureen at fourteen, with her mother. Both of them gone now. There’s just me left.”

  The photo showed a young girl with wispy blond hair and a round, cherublike face. She bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Neither of them looked anything like my wife.

  “She was lovely,” I told him. She was, in an all-American, girl-next-door way. I knew also it was something he’d want to hear, and I wasn’t above using whatever means I could to gather information.

  “She was the light of our life.”

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  Ted Brown shook his head slowly, like he didn’t relish going there again, even in his mind. “In an auto accident.” His voice was tight. “A boy was driving. Someone we didn’t even know. He’d been drinking.”

  Every parent’s nightmare. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a daughter myself. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  “She’d been at a party. We thought she was spending the night with a girlfriend.” His eyes grew moist, and he turned away, replacing the photo on the mantel. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked after a moment. “It’s decaf. I was just about to pour myself some.”

  My stomach hadn’t fully recovered from the coffee I’d had on the plane, and what it really needed was something solid, like dinner. But I didn’t want to appear ungrateful. “Thanks. Just black.”

  Brown excused himself to the kitchen and returned a short while later with two cups of coffee. China cups with saucers, not the earthenware mugs I was used to.

  I showed him a photo of my wife that I’d brought with me.

  “She doesn’t look anything like my daughter,” he said.

  “No, I can see that now. There must be some connection though.”

  He set the photo on the coffee table in front of us. “How long were you married?”

  “Two years. My first wife died when my daughter was a toddler. Maur ... my second wife told me she was estranged from her family, and I never pushed the matter. I guess I wanted to look forward instead of backward.”

  “So what led you to me?”

  “Our marriage license listed her parents as Ted and Annette Brown, and she mentioned going to high school in Rochester. It was pure luck that you still live in town.”

  Brown pressed his fingers together then glanced down again at the photo. He picked it up and studied it. “You know, your wife looks a little like a friend of my daughter’s. A girl by the name of Eva Flynn.”

  A tingle of excitement worked its way across my shoulders. A dead friend was the near-perfect identity if you were going to assume one other than your own. Eva would not only have known Maureen’s vital statistics but also her personal and family history.

  “Eva’s the one who got Maureen hooked up with the wrong crowd,” Brown added. His eyes bored into me. “If it hadn’t been for Eva, Maureen would be alive today.”

  I wasn’t sure how to react. It could well be my wife he was talking about. “Eva was a bad influence?” I asked lamely.

  “The worst.” Brown’s tone was bitter. “She was a schemer and a manipulator. The only person she cared about was herself.” He paused. “Does that sound like your wife?”

  “Not at all.” But the little voices inside my head were already taunting me. She’d managed to deceive me, hadn’t she? How could I say what she was really like?

  “Were they good friends?” I asked. “Eva and Maureen.”

  “They spent a lot of time together, but like I said, Eva didn’t think about anyone but herself. Maureen didn’t have many friends. She was a quiet girl. Shy, unsure of herself. We moved around a fair amount while she was growing up, and she never really had a chance to build relationships with her peers. When we moved here, Eva took my daughter under her wing. For the first time in her life, Maureen was part of a crowd. We, my wife and I, didn’t know the kids at school very well, and we were glad Maureen had friends. When we began to see what was going on, we tried to keep Maureen away from them, but it was too late. She fought us and went behind our backs.”

  “It’s hard with teenagers.” Another lame response. I felt slightly nauseated, whether because I’d skipped dinner or because of what I was hearing, I wasn’t sure.

  “There was a little group of them. They spent a lot of time at the house of one of the boys. He lived with his older brother. No adult supervision at all.” Brown’s expression was pained. “There was lots of drinking, partying, some drugs. All the things you don’t want for your child. We’d forbid Maureen to go there, but she’d go anyway.”

  “What about Eva’s family? What were they like?”

  “They seemed like decent enough people, but I think they’d more or less given up on being parents.”

  “Eva was that difficult?” I asked.

  “I imagine she was, but that’s not what I meant. Her parents were older. I thought at first they might be her grandparents. The father was a respected businessman, and the wife was quite active socially. Their names were often in the pap
er in connection with civic events and charitable affairs. But I don’t think they gave their daughter much supervision. I’m not even sure Eva graduated from high school. There was some talk about trouble with the law, as I recall. This was after Maureen was gone. I wasn’t much interested in keeping up with her classmates.”

  “Do Eva’s parents still live in town?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. You thinking about going to see them?”

  I nodded. “Since I’ve come this far, I might as well. I have to say though, Eva sounds nothing like my wife.”

  “They had a house on Brookdale,” Brown said. “A big yellow house on the corner where Brookdale intersects Meadow.”

  “Do you recall their first names?”

  “The father was Lou, I think. Or Len. Something like that. I can’t remember the wife’s name.”

  “Thanks.” I rose to leave. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

  “I could be wrong, you know,” Brown said. “About the photo. There was just something about the eyes that made me think of Eva.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I wanted him to be right or not.

  CHAPTER 33

  By the time I finished talking with Ted Brown, it was almost ten o’clock. Too late to go knocking on the door of strangers, even if the strangers turned out to be my in-laws.

  I drove to a local hotel, ordered a club sandwich from room service, then called my father and talked to Molly. They’d just dished up sundaes with my father’s special hot-fudge topping and real whipped cream, so our conversation was brief.

  “How was your day?” I asked her.

  “Terrible.”

  The word every parent dreads. “What happened?” When she didn’t respond, I tried again. “Are you upset about Maureen?”

  “No. It’s not that.”