Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  “Really?” She makes the word draw out—reeaaaalllyy?—then pauses again, pondering what I’ve said, probably. “That doesn’t sound like her at all,” she says finally.

  “I guess we’ll never know now.” I wish she’d go away. I’m tired of this conversation. “Hannah, I’m sorry, but I’m with Frankie now, so I should probably let you go,” I say regretfully.

  “Of course, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I wish I could help, but unfortunately, I’m as much in the dark as you are. If I ever think of something, I’ll let you know, and you do the same, okay?”

  “Before you go, there was another reason I called.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve started going through her papers—God, it’s awful to have to do this, it’s so depressing. But it’s important. She was a great writer and a great person—oh dear, sorry, I’m rambling now.”

  Yes, you are.

  “No, that’s okay, I understand.” I wonder if she wants to give me something of Beatrice’s. George hasn’t mentioned anything about a will, although it’s early days. Anyway, I doubt she’d have made any sort of bequest to me, considering.

  “Well, as I was saying, I’m going through her papers.” Hannah hesitates again. She’s repeating herself; she’s clearly emotional.

  If she wants to give me something, maybe an original manuscript of one of Beatrice’s books—and I’m sure she thinks that would be appropriate, considerate even—then I will accept it gratefully, with a voice trembling with emotion, moved by the prospect of owning something so personal and so quintessentially Beatrice. I can always use extra scrap paper to write my shopping lists on anyway. Recycling makes me feel virtuous.

  “And I found something . . . odd. I wanted to ask you about it.”

  I stiffen and sit still, like a dog that’s picked up a scent. “Ask away.”

  “It’s an outline—not even that, it’s very rough, a couple of scribbled pages really. I don’t even know why it’s in the office. She never submitted it to me properly, but she must have given it to me to read, to give her feedback, that sort of thing.” I can hear from the repeated intakes of breath that she’s about to cry, if she isn’t already. “We used to do that you know, discuss her ideas, talk over her plots . . .” She sniffs.

  A week ago I would have believed that, without question. But now that I know who Beatrice really was, the very idea that narcissistic, snobbish, patronizing Beatrice would consult Hannah about plot or narrative style makes me want to burst out in hoots of laughter. If there’s a stage of denial after the death of a loved one, then Hannah is well and truly in the grip of it.

  “Anyway, it’s just that, I don’t know how to say this—”

  Oh, spit it out, Hannah.

  “—but it’s awfully close to Long Grass Running.”

  23

  I am petrified into silence. “I don’t know why these notes are in your possession,” I blurt out once I’ve recovered myself. Frankie has returned and is sitting down. “But I know what they are.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course—she was helping me, remember? Lord, it feels like such a long time ago now.” I let out a little sob for good measure. “I used to go to her house; we’d work together. I gave her my outline. Is it my handwriting?”

  “Definitely hers, definitely.”

  “She took notes with me. She showed me how to put a story together, in bullet-point form. Can you imagine? What she did for me? Oh, I will never get over her passing away, Hannah. Just hearing about those notes takes me back.”

  “Oh. I see. It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, they were in an old folder, with some other tidbits, scraps of paper of hers, part of an old file. I’m surprised to find them there if they’re that recent.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, but that’s exactly what they are. Notes from the teacher.” I giggle at the memory. “You should hang on to them—they’ll be valuable one day,” I add.

  “No no, they’re yours. I’ll return them to you.”

  What a good idea.

  “I’m sorry to have brought all that up then. I can see it’s upsetting.”

  “Yes, it is, of course. But that’s all right, Hannah. I would like to have them, as a keepsake. If you could pop them in the mail for me, I’d be grateful.”

  “Of course. Well, I’ll leave you to it then. It’s good to talk to you, Emma.”

  “It’s good to talk to you too, Hannah, let’s do it again soon.”

  Not.

  I don’t think too much about my conversation with Hannah after that. It’s only been a few days and I figure she’ll send me the papers as we discussed, and that will be that. So I’m feeling pretty relaxed about everything—thinking about what to wear at the Poulton ceremony; looking at real estate online, because it’s high time we moved—when my phone buzzes a familiar chime. It’s a text from Frankie:

  Turn on the news, now!

  I reach for the remote and turn on the TV in the kitchen.

  “—in relation to the death of the celebrated writer Beatrice Johnson Greene. We spoke with Deputy Superintendent Price earlier this morning. Deputy Superintendent, can you tell us why George Greene is being interrogated by the police as we speak?”

  Sweet Jesus! George? I reach for the remote again and turn up the volume. My scalp prickles and feels cold.

  “To be very clear, Mr. Greene is assisting us with our inquiries; nothing more at this stage.”

  “Do you have reason to suspect there’s more to Mrs. Johnson Greene’s death than originally thought? It’s been widely reported as an accident. Has there been new evidence now to the contrary?”

  “Look, I’m not going into any of the details right now. Mr. Greene is helping us with our inquiries and that’s all I have to say. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Superintendent Price.”

  They cut from the interview to the anchor. “We have more from Juanita Sanchez. Juanita, you have some details for us, is that right?”

  “Yes, John, it seems that a neighbor who lived in the apartment below Beatrice Johnson Greene’s was about to leave on a trip overseas, and this person heard someone enter the apartment above. We understand this person was getting luggage out of their apartment at the time and heard distinctly—and I quote here: ‘distinctly’—someone open the door and go in. Now, up until now it has been understood that Mrs. Johnson Greene was alone in the apartment when she fell, so this puts that theory in jeopardy.”

  No no no no no—there was no neighbor. I was very careful, no one could have heard me. She’s lying. She’s lying!

  “So this person who went inside Mrs. Johnson Greene’s apartment had a key, is that what you’re saying, Juanita?”

  “Yes, John, that’s what seems to be the case. Someone allegedly let themselves inside Mrs. Johnson Greene’s apartment with a key. The neighbor in question didn’t think much of it. They left their own apartment and met Mrs. Johnson Greene downstairs, as she was waiting for the elevator to go upstairs.”

  “Do we know who that person is? Who entered Mrs. Johnson Greene’s apartment prior to her arrival?”

  “No, John, that’s the mystery. George Greene has always maintained he found his wife dead when he returned from work that evening, but it seems the story is more complicated now.”

  “Did the neighbor identify George Greene as being the person who entered the apartment?”

  “I don’t believe so, John, not at this stage. There has not been any definite identification of that person, but we believe that they had a key, from what we’ve been told. George Greene is at the station right now, speaking to the police. But that’s all we know for now.”

  “Thank you, Juanita. We will keep you updated on this developing story.”

  I turn off the television and throw the remote against the wall. I sit on the couch and slam the coffee table with both palms. Then I do it again, louder, then again, ha
rder still. I put my hands on my face and stifle a scream in them, gritting my teeth and tightening my whole body in frustration and fear.

  I screwed up. Did I screw up? No, they’re lying, they can’t have heard me come in. I was so careful. They’re just trying to get attention for themselves. That’s what people are like, they want to insert themselves into the story, there’s no way the neighbor heard me. I was so careful. I was so careful. What am I going to do?

  Okay, wait, they think it’s George. No one knows I had a key. Does George know Beatrice gave me a key? I don’t think so. They didn’t speak of little things like that. I don’t think he knows, and if he does, who cares. Why would anyone think I went to her apartment and killed her? They think it’s George. Let them think that. They’ve got him in custody. That’s what “helping us with our inquiries” means, doesn’t it? It means an arrest is imminent. They’ve probably arrested him already, he’s at the station—

  He’s at the police station.

  I need to get into that apartment again and find that stupid stupid stupid cocktail napkin.

  I want to rush out the door, but how can I do that when I have to run around for my stuff and I’m shaking so much I can’t keep things together? I finally get my bag. Beatrice’s key is safely tucked into the zipped pocket, where it’s always been. I grab my own keys, my phone, my coat, and now I’m finally out the door.

  I drive like a crazy person through midday traffic; I almost run over a woman and her stroller. I park the car one block away, and I run; I trip on the curb and graze my knee; the contents of my bag tumble into the gutter; I pick them up quickly, wave off the people who try to help me; I hope I have everything; I shove everything back in my bag; my knee hurts. I hobble over to the building where George lives, where Beatrice used to live.

  I’m at the street door when it opens. A man gives me a surprised look but he doesn’t stop me from coming in. The doorman is talking animatedly to someone; there are a few people in the lobby and he doesn’t notice me as I take the elevator to the apartment. The elevator door opens, and I stand on the landing. I’m holding the door key and just as I reach to open it, something stops me. There are sounds inside. I quickly put the key back into my bag just before the door opens and a woman stands before me, and I gasp audibly.

  She does not, however, and if she’s surprised to see someone standing there in front of the door, she doesn’t show it.

  She looks me up and down, and I do the same to her. She’s wearing what I’d describe as office attire: white shirt buttoned up to the collar, dark blue jacket and pants. It looks cheap.

  “Mrs. Fern?”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “What are you doing here, Mrs. Fern?”

  “I’ve come to see George. He’s a friend of mine. Is that all right with you?” I have recovered my composure and I’m petulant now. I crane my neck sideways and step forward to show I intend to come in, but she doesn’t budge. I can see the edges of people milling about in the living room. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “What are you doing in his apartment then?” I sound almost shrill now. I know exactly who these people are, of course, they’re the police, here to poke around the place.

  “Mrs. Fern—”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m Detective Massoud. We’re speaking to a number of friends and acquaintances of Mrs. Johnson Greene. We need to speak to you also, and since you’re here—”

  Again I make a move to walk inside. I can’t bear that the police are searching the place, because that’s what they’re doing, I know that already, and I need to watch them. They can’t find that fucking napkin before I do.

  “Should I go inside then?”

  “No, ma’am, there are detectives working in the apartment.” She turns around and looks behind her, pulls the door almost shut so that we’re both standing on the landing now. “We will come to your home shortly to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Fern. Why don’t you wait for us there?”

  “Questions about what? What do I have to do with this?”

  “It’s just a few questions, Mrs. Fern. My colleague and I will be over in about an hour. Does that work for you?”

  “I don’t understand what’s happening!”

  There’s a quick spark of frustration in her eyes, but it’s gone in a flash. She’s a professional.

  I need to calm down. My fists are closed and in my coat pockets. I’m trying to keep myself from trembling. I want to go inside now, but I accept that I can’t.

  “All right. I’ll be home. You know where to go?”

  “Yes, we do, Mrs. Fern. We will see you in an hour.”

  I turn back to the elevator and press the button.

  “Mrs. Fern?”

  She’s inside the apartment now, holding the door ajar.

  “Yes?”

  “How did you get into the building?”

  “What?”

  “The doorman didn’t buzz you up. How did you get in?”

  “Someone was coming out as I came in. The doorman didn’t see me.”

  She gives a little nod. “All right. We’ll be over shortly, Mrs. Fern.” She shuts the door.

  I could have told her: The doorman always lets me come up. Beatrice was my friend—she adored me, and if you did your homework you would know that. I was welcome in her home any time of the day or night.

  24

  “So? How can I help you?”

  We’re standing in my living room, the three of us. Detective Massoud has brought along a colleague, whom she introduced as Detective Carr. A big man, fair and freckled, as badly dressed as she.

  “Mind if we sit down?”

  “Sure.” I indicate the low couch for them while I sit on the very edge of the armchair, prim as a schoolteacher. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask suddenly. I feel off-kilter, here in my living room. I need a few more minutes to collect myself.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Fern, this won’t take long.”

  I sigh inwardly. I push myself back into the chair to show I’m willing to get on with this, whatever this is. Detective Carr retrieves a notebook from his pocket and pulls a pen from its pages. I hear it click. A signal between them that he’s ready to commence, I suspect.

  “Did you know Beatrice Johnson Greene?” Detective Massoud asks.

  “Of course I did! She was my friend, you know that already!” She gives me a surprised look. I guess she didn’t expect me to be defensive. I try to quiet the dread that’s rising inside me. I remind myself that everything I do or say is going to be noted in that little book. I need to act as normal as possible.

  “So you knew her well?”

  “Yes, extremely well. We’ve been close friends for, let me see, a year maybe. We always spent a lot of time together. What is this about?”

  “We’re looking into the circumstances of her death.”

  “Why? It was an accident!”

  “There have been some new developments recently that have prompted us to take another look.”

  “Oh, I heard that—the neighbor, right? Surely you don’t listen to every conspiracy theory spun by bored, nosy neighbors?”

  She looks at me askance again. I don’t know how I am supposed to behave, but clearly this is not what she expects.

  “We listen to everyone who has valid concerns, Mrs. Fern—that’s our job. Did you go to Mrs. Johnson Greene’s apartment on the day she died?”

  This comes very suddenly, no doubt to put me off balance, but I don’t hesitate, not for a second. “No! Of course not!”

  I have prepared myself for this question ever since that day. Not because I thought the police would come and ask, but as a precaution. Specifically, I wanted to be ready if the question ever came.

  I kept my eyes peeled that day, looking for the merest indication that someone was watching. I didn’t care if someone thought they saw a woman with a warm coat and her hood up buzz the apartment from the
garage, but when I punched the code on the panel to the right of that door, the security code that would let me into the building, I really made sure that no one was watching me. I walked up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. I did not pass anyone on the stairs. The landing on the third floor—Beatrice’s floor—has two doors, one facing the stairs and one to the right of the landing, both of which lead to her apartment. Of course, I was in shock when I left, but because of that I was even more careful. I did not see anyone and no one saw me. I am completely sure of that. They may have seen a woman in a parka coming out of the building, but no one would have known it was me.

  “How can you be sure?” She lifts an eyebrow, as if she’s genuinely curious. “It’s been a few weeks now. Do you know what you did every day since then?”

  The gall of that woman. If I said I didn’t remember, she’d no doubt ask me how I could forget what I did the day my close friend died tragically.

  “I know what I did that day because I got the news that evening that Beatrice had died. It was not a day like any other.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Mark Boswell called me. He’s the family lawyer.”

  “Not Mr. Greene then?”

  “He was too distressed. He found her, you know.”

  She nodded. “So you definitely did not visit Mrs. Johnson Greene on the day she died?”

  I wish I knew if the neighbor was able to describe me or say if it was a man or a woman.

  “Beatrice was supposed to be away for a few days. I didn’t think she was home anyway. I couldn’t have visited her if I’d wanted.”

  “Except she didn’t go away.”

  I sigh. “But I didn’t know that at the time.”

  Did I leave something behind? No, I know I didn’t, and anyway, even if I had, so what, I spent a lot of time there. If they’re taking fingerprints, then mine are everywhere. In her study, in the bathrooms, in the kitchen—I even slept in her bedroom, for God’s sake.

  “Are you saying it may not have been an accident?” I ask.

  “We’re saying nothing of the sort, ma’am. Just tying up a couple loose ends, that’s all.”