"Any special reason?"
"No. Not really. Just busy. Go to work. Go to the gym. Go home. Go to bed. Get up and do it all over again."
"Yeah, I do a fair amount of getting up and doing it all over again, too, but there’s five kids and a hundred or so students in the mix."
"I’m impressed by what you do," McGrath told me.
"Thanks. I impress myself sometimes. Times like this, summer break, I get a chance to take a deep breath and look back and I’m amazed that I can do it. I’m pretty much a single mom since my husband’s gone about sixty percent of the time. It’s a miracle I haven’t lost my mind."
"So what do you do for fun?" McGrath asked.
"Swim. Run. Work out. That’s about it. My life is full. Full of responsibility."
"Sounds like it." McGrath nodded, waved over the waitress, and ordered two more beers.
The sun settled over the water, and we turned our chairs to the view.
"What about you? What do you do for fun?"
"Like I said, I pretty much work. I’m a cop. It’s all I know. There aren’t a lot of murders in Lexington, but I’m called in on federal cases every now and then, and I’ve served on several task forces over the years. Mostly bureaucratic nonsense, but it can be interesting." After another draw on his beer, he added, "Tell me about your husband. Why does he travel so much?"
He had this way of leaning into me when he talked, so close I could smell the spice of his cologne. I decided I liked the close crop of his hair. When he reached out and touched my arm, I ignored the shivers dancing down my spine.
"It’s his job. He’s a businessman. You know, global economy and all that. He’s quite the mediator. Whenever there’s a problem, Jon’s the go–to guy."
I suddenly didn’t like Jon’s intrusion into our conversation. "Jon’s a great guy," I continued. "All his travel is hard though, and it takes its toll, but I’m in it for the long haul."
"Too bad for me." McGrath stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.
"I’m flattered," I admitted, my baby blues alight with humor. I enjoyed his attention—this strapping, handsome guy paying attention to me, a simple school teacher with a gaggle of kids. He made me feel like a woman.
"Excuse me for a few minutes." I stood, surveyed the place, and spotted the ladies room sign. I retouched my lipstick, then inspected my attire. It would have to do. I reminded myself that I was indulging in an innocent fantasy.
McGrath sat right where I’d left him. Be still my hammering heart.
I noticed the fresh beers on the table. "I see that the beer gods have visited in my absence."
"Indeed," he said.
"You’re looking quite mellow."
He slowly nodded, his eyes fixed on my face. "This is one of the best afternoons I’ve had in a long, long time."
He did look content.
"Must be rare in your line of work."
"As in yours," McGrath said as I sat down across the small table from him.
"It does feel good," I conceded.
He asked, "Do you have time to just sit, have another beer, and enjoy this fabulous sunshine?"
All the tension left me. "Twist my arm."
We sat side by side, watching the lazy river and the boaters, who finished paddling and headed downstream to the livery. Neither of us said anything for a long time.
McGrath settled his arm on the side of my chair. His feet rested on the railing. I felt hungry again, but not for another meal. Enough beer. Married. Kids.
"Enjoying yourself?" I asked.
"Mmm–hmm."
"May I ask a question?" I continued.
"Shoot," he said.
"Do you think, considering all I’ve told you about this other Stitsill guy, that I really have anything to worry about?"
"Probably not."
"Then, why is it important for me to know how to shoot a gun?"
"Everyone should know how to use a gun," he answered.
"Everyone?"
He nodded. "The right people… people in possession of their wits. Better safe than sorry." He shrugged. "The anti–gun nuts are crazy, of course, but there’s nothing wrong with guns. It’s people who pose the risk." He seemed to shift mental gears.
"Frankly, I don’t think this identity thing amounts to much. I’ve read the coroner’s report. Nothing suspicious, but it’s odd that the state handled the suicide. Granted, it’s been eight years, but I don’t remember the case." He faced me, back in cop mode.
"Even though I’ve seen him?" I asked.
"And when did you see him? In the middle of the night? Were you sober?"
I blinked in surprise. "The first time," I admitted, "I might have been a little tipsy. The second time, however, I was totally lucid. Then, there are all the other weird things like the birth certificate not checking out, the matching name, birth date, and occupation. Remember? Same as my husband. And then there’s that attorney who claimed he’d witnessed a murder that night. True, he was a drunk then, but he’s not now."
I knew I sounded sarcastic, but I didn’t back down. How could I?
McGrath said. "I’ll keep poking around. If I find anything, I’ll let you know. I just don’t see how you tie into all of this. Has anyone bothered you? Have you had any unusual calls or correspondence recently?" he asked.
"No," I answered. "Not in quite a while."
"Probably nothing to worry about then. How about some coffee before we drive?"
I smiled at him. "How very responsible of you, Detective."
After our coffee, McGrath paid the bill. We strolled out to the parking lot as the sun set, the sky glowing golden across the river.
"Thanks for a nice afternoon," I said as we walked to my car.
"Believe me, the pleasure was all mine." McGrath took my arm and turned me to face him.
I felt my face heat as a frisson of sensation swept through my body.
He leaned over me, then hesitated.
"I’ve gotta go," I whispered, staring wide–eyed at him.
"Yeah, me, too. I’ll get in touch if I find anything out about your husband’s double."
"I appreciate it. Thanks." I turned, punched the unlock button, opened the driver’s side door, and hopped into the van. I rolled down the window to say goodnight to McGrath one last time. Between the coffee and the near kiss, I’d sobered up.
Chapter Thirty–One
I SLEPT LIKE a baby. Surprising, since visions of Jim McGrath danced in my head all the way home and throughout the evening. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to think about another man since marrying Jon. Sure, I’d flirted here and there over the years, but this was different. Unsettling.
The next morning, I jumped out of bed early, slipped into shorts, a T, and tennis shoes, and called Rex for a morning run. I felt rested and alive. Later, guilt set in. I began to miss the kids. I avoided the tug of motherhood and called Jack, remembering our pact. "Hey, how’s it going?"
"Good, Stitsill, how about you?"
"I became suspicious because of some things Rosie shared with me, so I had her drinking water tested." I blurted that tidbit without thinking twice.
"Go on." Jack waited.
"The water was tritiated, radioactive. Someone tainted her water, which probably caused her cancer."
"And you know this how?" Jack sounded pissed.
"I have a friend who’s a chemist, and he works in a lab. He checked samples of the water for me. There’s no mistake."
"Sam, their home is a fucking crime scene. You need to call the cops. It’s not safe for the boys or you. What the fuck? You didn’t even tell me, and we had a pact."
"Relax," I said.
"Relax? You may be an accessory to a crime. You could even be an accessory after the fact. Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? From now on, you’re calling me every morning. Checking in with me. Who’s gonna watch over you?"
"Shut up for a minute. Let me explain. I called the cops. In fact, the detective who first called me abou
t Rosita Stitsill. He’s in the loop. In fact, he took me to the gun range yesterday."
"Are you crazy?"
"Covering all the bases."
"And this is all on the up and up? This guy didn’t try to put the moves on you?"
"Jack," I tried acting cool. "Where did that come from?"
"Just saying, Stitsill. This detective, whoever the hell he is, has the hots for you."
"You’re being ridiculous. I’m married."
"Don’t be stupid. Guys don’t just take women to the range, not unless they’re interested in them. Trust me. If this guy’s acting gallant, and you’re buying into it, then you’re just being dumb. Geez." He really sounded disgusted.
"Hey, relax. We went to the range, and he showed me how to shoot. I excelled at target practice. End of story."
"Yeah, right. And he didn’t try to help you hold the gun, show you where your arm needed to be in relation to your body. You are one naive woman, Stitsill."
Jack so enjoyed yanking my chain. "You’re starting to piss me off," I told him.
"Heh, heh, heh. That’s the Stitsill I know and love."
"Fine. See you at work tomorrow."
"Day after that, you’re checking in with me. Each and every morning. All summer. I mean it."
"Records days are my favorite," I said. "And fine, I’ll call you every day." Sarcasm dripped off me like a melting popsicle.
I clicked off and spent my first day without children doing yard work. The raking and mowing kept me focused on all things home. Sort of.
∞ ∞ ∞
Jack appeared in the hallway as I entered school the following morning.
"Hey, Stitsill, what’s up? Enjoying your freedom?"
"Too bad Jon’s gone."
"Your husband is never home, Sam. You should be used to it by now."
"You’d think."
A voice over the loudspeaker interrupted. "Mrs. Stitsill, if you’re in the building, please report to the office for a phone call."
"Wonderful." I scowled. "Probably a parent wondering why their kid didn’t get credit for the assignment he turned in two weeks late. Last minute plea for a pass."
Jack slapped me on the back. "It’s that time of year. Just get through the next two days. I’m gonna focus on hitting some balls after work and then maybe play a round."
"Ah, the life of a single man. See you later."
I turned and strolled down the hall, thinking about how much I would not miss this place over the summer. Ten seconds later, I entered the office.
"Hey, Yolanda, you paged me for a phone call. What line is it on?"
"Hi, Sam. I took a message for you."
"No problem."
"It’s bad news, Sam."
I stopped breathing. "Rosie Stitsill?"
"Yeah, it’s Mrs. Stitsill." She rested her hand on my shoulder, the sadness in her eyes revealing all.
"Be right back," I choked out.
I reeled around the corner into the Ladies Room, locked the door, sat down on the toilet, and wept. I felt desolate. How could she be dead? A young mother. Joey’s mom. Gone. Before I’d told her the lab results on the water. I stood, lifted the toilet seat, and threw up. I couldn’t stop. It was as if I’d swallowed the tainted water, not Rosie.
I splashed cold water on my blotchy face, blew my nose, rinsed out my mouth, and finger–combed my hair back into place.
Yolanda sat at her desk as I returned to the office. She handed me a standard pink While You Were Out message slip.
"Sam, if you need anything, just let me know."
"Thanks."
Once I made it to my classroom, I looked again at the slip of paper Yolanda had given to me. The details were sketchy. Rosie had died during the night. Yolanda had noted the name of the funeral home, and its phone number. With my own kids away, I would be able to grieve without interruption. With Jon gone, I could avoid questions about my emotional state.
I recorded final grades in a fog, removed posters from the wall, stacked textbooks in bins, and left a message for McGrath. She’s dead. Once I arrived home, I dragged myself into the house for a shower, then dressed in sweats, poured myself a shot of bourbon, and joined the birds and squirrels out on the front porch. I had another good cry, unable to quell the responsibility I felt for Rosie’s death. Why hadn’t I figured out the water thing earlier?
Here I sat, thirty–eight years old, the same age as Rosie, and in the prime of my life. But my life was not my own. Ruled by schedules—career, kids, and, of course, Jon’s. He would never be the husband I wanted him to be. Not his fault, just the nature of his job. I would always be alone at times I didn’t want to be.
I weaved my way into the house, tripped over Rex, and added more bourbon to my glass. Food would be nice, but I couldn’t cook right now. The amber liquid would suffice.
Who could I tell about Rosie? Interesting question. Better yet, who would believe me? What would I say? I met a woman who believed I’d married her husband. I determined that her husband, who had probably stolen my husband’s identity, was responsible for her cancer, murdering her by tainting her personal water supply. Yeah, totally believable.
With the aid of the bourbon, I deteriorated further. I felt so fucking lonely, so fucking alone.
I refilled my glass yet again, realizing belatedly that I was too drunk to drive to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes. Damn it.
The next morning, I woke at 6:00 a.m. to blaring music from the clock radio. My head pounded. I slapped the off button, then staggered to the vanity drawer where I tossed back three painkillers with a stale sip of water. The image staring back at me from the mirror, vague but familiar, looked like hell. No amount of effort could repair the obvious damage. I did my best, filled my extra–large travel mug with hi–test, and headed out the door. It hit me again that I hadn’t checked the answering machine for a message from Jon. Yep, I was in bad shape. I retraced my steps inside and looked for the blinking light on the machine. I pressed play to listen to the single voicemail. It was my neighbor, Stuart James, telling me he’d arranged the trust and would contact Rosita Stitsill’s mother with the details. No message from my husband.
I called the funeral home mid–morning from work, asked about visitation and funeral details. It would hurt to see Joey and Emilio, as well as prove impossible to conceal my sadness. Tearing up, I wondered again if the other Jon Stitsill knew about Rosie’s death. Was he, even now, congratulating himself for his cleverness? This certainly put a damper on any possibility of an end of the year celebration. I simply drove home at the end of the day, avoiding my colleagues, and huddled inside my home like a hermit in a cave.
I slept fitfully that night, then rose early and readied myself for the visitation and funeral which immediately followed. As I drove into the mortuary lot, I noticed the police car outside. McGrath? He wouldn’t have driven a cruiser. Curiouser and curiouser. Joey had completed D.A.R.E. this year. Were officers there as a courtesy? I definitely needed to stay on my toes, alert to clues about Rosie’s dead husband or his friends. As I entered the visitation room for Rosie, Joey greeted me.
"Hi, Mrs. Stitsill." He walked into my open arms and held on tight.
"I’m so sorry about your mom, honey."
Joey nodded as he looked up at me, and then he handed me a prayer card. I scanned it.
"Your mom died on her birthday." My shock caused the words to burst out of me.
"We had her cake after dinner, and she even ate some. Chocolate’s her favorite. Grandma made it for her. The next morning, Grandma told us she’d died in her sleep." He spoke in a monotone.
Joey and I approached Rosie’s casket. She looked sound asleep, not dead. I quelled the impulse to shake her and make sure she was really dead. She looked so peaceful, her dress a youthful selection that suited her. Her worry lines gone, the perpetual frown that had seemed a part of her face no longer evident. Joey and I observed a quiet stretch of time that allowed for reflection and prayer.
&n
bsp; "I liked your mom a lot, Joey, and she loved you and Emilio more than anything."
"I know." He nodded. "She told us all the time. We’re going to miss her."
"Of course, you are, but your mom had a deep faith in God, and she’s happy to be in heaven with Him now." Stupid shit thing to say. What’s wrong with me?
"I know ‘cuz my dad died and mom told us not to worry about him since he’s in heaven with God, too."
"Well, that’s right, isn’t it?" I looked at him and saw the hope in his eyes. I turned away to keep from crying. As I drew in a deep breath, I took his hand and led him over to the couch. We sat, and I wished I possessed some pearls of wisdom to offer this twelve year old boy.
Wisdom escaped me.
"Maybe we could go for a bike ride, or your Grandma might let me take you for ice cream. I’d like to spend time with you this summer."
"I’d really like that, Mrs. Stitsill." He smiled. "You’d do that?"
I laughed and patted his hand. "Absolutely. I’ll call you. I have your number, remember?"
He hugged me again, holding on tight as I stroked the back of his shiny black head. Our D.A.R.E. officer, Todd Thomas, approached and shared with Joey that a donation of tickets to an upcoming baseball game had been made to him and Emilio. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Todd.
People began to emerge from the building and climb into their vehicles for the procession to church. I slipped behind the wheel of my van. We formed a long line, the tiny funeral flags magnetized to our car roofs, for the five mile drive to the church. I pulled out of the parking lot with tears obstructing my vision, checking out the people who stood outside the entrance to the funeral home. Nothing suspicious. I headed to the church, using my cell to call the kids as I drove. I learned from my mother–in–law that they’d all gone fishing with Grandpa, and she promised to have them call me later. Good, I thought. Safe and sound. I still hadn’t spoken to Jon yet, but I tried not to worry. At least, not yet. Rosie’s death was enough to cope with right now. I fooled myself into thinking that, for now, I could relax.
I sat in the rear of St. Timothy’s, which provided a fairly complete view of the crowd. Nearly a hundred people. Studying the mourners, I spotted two thick–necked goons. They sat directly in front of me. Just as Rosie had described them, including their crooked noses and gold chains. They spoke in gruff voices.
Identity Issues (The Samantha Series) Page 16
