Third Time's a Crime

by Diana Orgain

  “The historical society’s done a good job of keeping up the castle,” I said. “At least the exterior.”

  “Yeah,” Scott agreed. “The interior will never be the same. Looks like they knocked out the roof several years ago. That’s the best way to destroy a building. The third and fourth floor are probably beyond repair,” he said.

  “That’s sad,” I said. The idea of something being beyond repair bothered me. I looked into Scott’s dark eyes for comfort, but he averted his gaze.

  “How’d you know about the roof?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact our conversation seemed clunky.

  He shrugged. “Just a little online research I did earlier.”

  I nodded. The discomfort between us was palpable. Ordinarily, we’d be finishing each other’s sentences and now there were large gaps of silence. A gust of wind blew around us, leaves rustling at our feet, my hair whipping at my face. This was the impending storm the blackbirds must have sensed.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked Scott.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well, it’s just that you’re very quiet,” I said.

  He shrugged again. “Aren’t I normally quiet?”

  “No,” I said. “Not normally.”

  He got a distant look in his eye. “Not since the accident?” he asked.

  I nodded sympathetically. “How do you feel about stuff in general?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “What stuff in general?”

  I meant me.

  How do you feel about me? That’s what I wanted to say, but I didn’t have the courage to put my heart out on the line, so instead I shrugged and the futility of the gesture made my skin itch.

  Suddenly, he grabbed my hand. “Georgia, I know we’re in love . . .” His voice cracked with emotion and he swallowed. “But I have a . . .” He sighed. “I have a problem. I’m not feeling in love. I don’t know how to explain it, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. I’m so sorry.”

  Fear wrapped around my heart and my breath caught.

  What was he saying?

  Was he breaking up with me?

  Oh, God. After everything we’d been through, he was going to break up with me.

  He squeezed my hand harder. “I don’t know what to say. I just need you to be patient with me. I . . . Like I said, my brain knows that we were in love. I’m just trying to tell my heart that.”

  “You don’t feel like you’re in love with me?” I asked. The question sputtered out of my lips. I hadn’t wanted to say it, hadn’t wanted to confirm what he was telling me. Now I wished I could stuff the words back into my mouth.

  He nodded. “I . . . I like you a lot,” he said. “I know that. You’re funny and you’re smart, and you’re beautiful. I know you’re going to figure out this mystery, and win the contest and all that. I just . . . I’m just trying to keep up with stuff,” he admitted.

  My chest suddenly hollowed out and tears burned at my eyes.

  He doesn’t love me?

  My heart ached so much, it was difficult to breath.

  Scott’s head hung down and for a moment he looked so lost, I thought I’d weep. I wrapped my arms around him and said with more desperation in my voice than I’d planned, “Scott! Scott! Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Part of me wanted to tell him, “You’ll remember being in love with me! You’ll fall in love with me again, won’t you?” But I couldn’t say it.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  He wiped my tears, his warm hands on my face only making me feel more desperate.

  “Just give me time,” Scott said. “Just give me a little bit of time.”

  Another burst of wind tore at us, howling and whipping around us, almost separating us with its icy bluster.

  “I want you to know, if I’m different, I don’t mean to be,” he continued. “I’m just being the only way I know how to be right now . . . I’m trying to remember things.”

  I nodded, pulling away from him. I rubbed at my eyes and face, and tried to keep my head from exploding. This had come as such a surprise. I’d known things were awkward between us, but I never suspected he didn’t love me anymore.

  Before Scott, I’d been left at the altar and now all the feelings of betrayal came rushing back at me, hitting me squarely in the solar plexus. I sucked air in greedily, hoping it would calm my racing heart.

  “Not remember things exactly,” Scott said, barely noticing that I was practically hyperventilating. “That’s not the right word. I remember things, but it’s as if those memories belong to someone else. As if I’m not invested in them somehow.”

  He’s been in a severe accident, I reminded myself.

  He’d been in a coma. Head injuries take a lot of healing time. We’d been so lucky he’d mostly recovered quickly. The doctors had all said it might take time for life to return to normal. I just hadn’t thought that that diagnosis had included our relationship.

  There was life before the accident and life after the accident.

  “I’m like Humpty Dumpty,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Not Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Yes,” he said. “They couldn’t put him back together again.”

  Before I could argue, footsteps sounded behind us. I turned to look, but no one was there.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Hear what? Are you listening to what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes! Yes!” I grabbed his hands. “Of course, I’m listening,” I said. “You’re . . .” And then my mind went blank. I’d been about to say, “You’re breaking up with me,” but he wasn’t really, was he? He was only asking for a little bit of time. He was asking to have some space to figure things out.

  I could give him space. I could do that.

  “I can give you space,” I said, offering him my most reassuring smile.

  Disappointment flashed through his eyes, then he narrowed them at me. “Right. Yeah. Space.”

  “Space,” I said. “Isn’t that what you asked for? Space?”

  “I asked you to be patient,” he said.

  “Yes. That’s what I meant. Patient. I won’t rush things. I . . .” I stuttered and looked at the ground. Nothing I was going to say in this moment would make anything right. All I could do was be patient. I grabbed for his hands, but they remained at his sides, so I dropped mine awkwardly. “I love you, Scott, and I remember everything and I can feel the love for the both of us. I can love you enough for the both of us.”

  He stepped away from me. “No, Georgia, you can’t. Don’t you get it? That’s what I’m saying! You can’t love me enough to make me feel in love. It just doesn’t work that way.”

  “What?” I asked. Panic clawed at my throat. The conversation was going all wrong. I wanted to say something to make it better, but I was speechless.

  “Never mind,” he said. Annoyance flashed across his face, his jaw tightening. “Nothing’s right, right now. It’s me. It’s not you,” he said. “Okay? It’s me. I’m so sorry.” His dark eyes turned stormy with sorrow and my heart broke even further. Then, he turned on a heel and walked away from me.

  I made to follow him, to call out to him, and then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to follow. I was supposed to give him space or be patient or whatever it was that two people who were in love did when things weren’t going right.

  My eyes burned and I wanted desperately to sit down and have an ugly cry. I glanced around the garden, searching out a space. There was a stone bench near some rosebushes that looked like the right kind of spot to have my meltdown. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and crossed the garden.

  Some defensive part of my brain scanned the shrubbery for interlopers. It would be just like Cheryl to send
a cameraman out here to film my demise.

  Ugh. The show.

  Scott and I were supposed to be partners on the show for the next few weeks, and now what?

  We were supposed to pretend everything was fine between us? Act like a couple or just good friends?

  My head ached just thinking about it and a sob escaped my lips. Just as I was about to reach the solace of the stone bench, footsteps sounded again behind me.

  I whirled around to look. I was sure there was somebody out there, but only the empty garden lay in front of me.

  The hair on my neck rose.

  I was alone here in the garden, wasn’t I?

  Or did I have company? Either the human or paranormal kind . . . ?

  No, that was ridiculous. I was letting the spooky mansion get to me.

  Rustling sounds came from the bushes.

  It could be the wind . . .

  I cautiously followed the sound, stepping silently toward it. In the distance, I could hear a pair of voices arguing. What was going on? Somebody was having a fight. I tried to follow the sound, but hedges divided us.

  I circumnavigated the hedges, walking back to where the swimming pool lay. I passed the decaying empty swimming pool and headed toward the voices.

  Then suddenly, Dr. Arch appeared from behind a hydrangea bush.

  I leapt back and covered my heart with my hand.

  “Georgia. I’m sorry. Did I alarm you?”

  “No, no,” I lied. The stubborn ex-cop part of me would never admit to being alarmed or caught off guard.

  “What are you doing out here? Taking a little walk?” he asked.

  I took a step back. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing out here?”

  He smiled broadly, baring his overly whitened, large teeth at me. “I’m having a little walk myself. Getting some fresh air, exploring the castle and the grounds. I assume you’re doing the same?”

  His question hung in the air, giving me the creeps. How long had he been out here? Had he been following Scott and me? Had he been listening to our conversation?

  I turned away from him. “Um, yes. Although I think I’ve had enough air for one night.”

  Four

  I stormed away from Dr. Arch and headed back toward the pool area. I walked around the cracked concrete, imagining the pool and the castle in their heyday. It had been created in the Victorian era with medallions and wainscoting and all sorts of chandeliers that must have made it charming in its time. It was difficult to imagine it as a reform school. It seemed more like the sort of place that would have housed a royal family.

  Although, I knew full well the juvenile delinquents had been relegated to the basement. These same delinquents would have been sent to San Quentin before the castle was built. And then during the Depression, families had dropped off children here they couldn’t provide for.

  The reform school had been run military-style. The program had been very successful, with an extremely low recidivism rate. The young adults had been given skills of tailoring and woodworking and they’d learned farming.

  I admired the view of the rolling acres. This fertile land had been able to provide for the hundreds of people living in the castle and the outlying buildings that surrounded it. Still today, there were small outbuildings where some of the historical society’s current staff lived.

  The historical society’s main mission was to renovate the castle and its grounds. Restore its former glory. I imagined the pool renovated and filled with clean water.

  A romantic vision of Scott and me sitting poolside, sipping margaritas, sprang into my mind, only to be accompanied by a hollowness in my belly. What if what Scott and I had . . . had been lost forever? Our loving relationship left to die and decay, like the castle.

  Could there be a restoration for us?

  As I stood there lost in thought, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot startled me. I whirled around to see Becca approach.

  She wiggled her fingers at me. “Hey, you.”

  When I nodded without speaking, she asked, “What’s going on? We haven’t even had a chance to talk.”

  “Yeah,” I offered halfheartedly.

  A frown creased her delicate skin as she evaluated my mood. I knew she could tell something was wrong, but apparently she’d decided to try to sidestep the issue by asking, “What’s up with Bert? Do you know anything about him? He’s so cute.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If you like lumberjack psychics.”

  She giggled nervously. “Yeah. He’s hot.”

  “If you like hair,” I countered.

  She laughed. “Well, obviously, you don’t.” Being that Scott was bald, it was fair of her to say that. But instead of laughing, I looked at the ground, fighting the feeling of misery that threatened to envelop me.

  “Hey,” she said, closing the distance between us, until her face was right up to mine. “What’s wrong? I’m sorry about the sensitivity crack—”

  “It’s not that,” I said. I relayed to her what Scott had said.

  She put her arm around me. “Oh, honey. Don’t listen to him. He’s just being a guy. They’re commitment-phobes. You know that from Paul. Scott will be himself in no time,” she said.

  Paul was my former fiancé, the one who had stranded me at the altar. After having been burned so awfully in front of family and friends, I’d been hoping my relationship with Scott would have a better, more happily-ever-after type of ending.

  I shrugged. “It’s all different this time. Scott is different.”

  I hated to admit it, but after being in a coma, after his head injury in Spain, he was different. Did I still love him? I searched my heart. Undoubtedly, I did, but was I in love with who I knew Scott had been? Was I being realistic about who he was now?

  Becca poked me. “Hey, don’t go there.”

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “In your head. I know where you’re going, off to some dark place.”

  I looked at her, my mouth agape. “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve known you for a long time, silly,” she said. “You’re wondering if you even love him, and you do, okay?”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  “So, tell me about the cast,” she said.

  She was changing the subject to prevent me from going off the deep end of dismal. I took the bait. “What can I tell you? They’re crazy.”

  “Well, not any more so than you.” She laughed.

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  “Cheryl did a good job casting. I think Dr. Arch and Karen are going to be your most formidable competition,” she said.

  “Dr. Arch is creepy.” I told her about him sneaking up behind me earlier.

  She quirked an eyebrow. “I saw him leave the dining room after you and Scott. I didn’t really think anything about it, but maybe he thought you guys were out to investigate a little, or explore something. You know there are parts of the castle off limits, right?”

  “Everywhere’s off limits, unless Cheryl gives us an explicit okay.” I stood with my feet shoulder-width apart and placed one fist on my hip and the other hand midair with a stern finger pointed outward, in a mock imitation of Cheryl’s stance when she lectured us.

  Becca laughed. She knew Cheryl’s lectures better than I did.

  “So, you think Arch followed us?”

  Becca frowned. “I don’t know. He’s kind of a strange cat. It’s hard to get a read on him.”

  “Well, he’s from L.A.,” I said. “What do you expect?”

  Becca smiled. “Yeah, everyone in L.A. is pretty strange, aren’t they? Well, maybe not L.A., but Hollywood, definitely.”

  Together we crossed the pool area, the gravel path turned to sand, and we took a seat near some potted plants that overlooked more of the castle’s acreage. “Are you going back to Da
d’s farm soon?” I asked.

  “Yes. Your Dad has a nice harvest coming in. I asked Cheryl if she’ll let me have a little bit more time off and . . . you know she’d do anything to help Gordon out. So he and I are planning on driving back tonight.”

  “Get to work in the morning bright and early that way,” I finished for her.

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I wish Scott and I could go, too . . .”

  We shared an awkward silence. I wanted to rewind my life. Go back to the simplicity of farm life. Feel the gratification of a great almond harvest, but mostly just to feel secure with where Scott and I stood.

  After a moment, Becca asked, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  She meant Scott. I knew what she meant and I wanted to tell her no, but instead I asked, “What would you say?”

  She shrugged. “I can offer to show him clips of himself on Love or Money. Show him how over-the-moon in love he was with you.”

  I laughed. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “It’ll come back to him. I promise,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She squeezed my elbow. “I have news for you.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Good news, I hope.”

  “Well, I got a message from the Globe Tracker show.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know the show. They explore different phenomenas around the world. They usually have a cast of experts trying to explain away the weird stuff they see.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It’s one of my favorite shows. I loved the Stonehenge special.”

  Becca smiled. “I know. Well, they have an opening for a subject matter expert.”

  I stared at her. “What does that mean? What are you saying?”

  “I think they want to make you an offer to be on their show. To go on various different episodes and be, you know, a talking head.”

  Her message took me by surprise. I had no career plans for after this show, and now another show was making me a full-time offer?