What She Deserved

by A. L. Jambor

  "I'm not ready."

  "Not ready for what?" Cassie asked. "Helping another human being in pain?" She slid her hand across the table, but Mari folded her arms. Cassie's eyes pleaded with Mari to listen. "I hear things. He lost his job and now he's losing his house."

  Mari narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

  "Why?! Because he killed someone and he can't get over it, just like you can't get over it. That's why you need to see him. He might be the only person who can really understand how you feel." Mari kept her hands firmly in place and tightened the grip on her arms as Cassie continued. "I know you want to move on. I'm sure he does too. That's why he called me, because he wants to move on."

  Mari shook her head. "I wish you'd let this go." She was shaking as she got up from the table.

  "Stop it, Mari. Come back here."

  But Mari was already out the door.

  Joey came into the kitchen wearing a new shirt. His hands were clean, and he smiled broadly as he held them up for inspection. His face, though, was still covered in ice cream. Cassie smiled and got up, wet a paper towel, and Joey closed his eyes as she ran it over his face.

  "Now, that's better," she said. "Why don't we go for a walk to the beach?"

  "Where's Mari?" he asked.

  "She was tired and went home. You'll see her tomorrow."

  Cassie locked the door and followed Joey down the driveway to the sidewalk. She looked at the apartment and thought about Mari. Cassie loved her, but she was also concerned about Mari finding a job, or a permanent home, and wondered what would happen to her if this was the way she would be for the rest of her life.

  Sometimes Cassie wondered if she had done the right thing in bringing Mari to live with her, but then she'd see some progress in Mari, and knowing that she had no one else made Cassie feel that this was right.

  As she watched her son run across the beach chasing sea gulls, she thought about his father and how much he had missed by walking away from his son. Anger threatened to fill her heart, but she refused to let him steal her joy. No, he had made his choice, and now she would be both mom and dad to this wonderful miracle, a boy whose inner light touched everyone he met.

  Mari

  When Mari left Cassie's kitchen, she saw Celia standing at the edge of the yard. She ran past her and up the stairs. She still had Constance's books and grabbed them before sitting on the bed.

  The newspaper photos of Celia Morton were grainy, but Mari saw the forlorn expression she wore in every photo taken of her during that time. Her severe hairstyle must have been easy for her to manage, but it only made her look more forbidding. Despite her sadness, Mari felt drawn to her. She wanted to know more about her and why she had been accused of such a terrible crime.

  There was one family portrait of Celia with her husband and daughter, Isabelle, and her expression was the same -- she still looked like a glum, haunted matron.

  Her thoughts went to Philip Curry and his desire to talk to her. She sighed and lay back on her pillows. Was she just being stubborn? As much as she disliked the idea of meeting with him, she wanted to know more about the night of the accident. If it had been Celia in the road that night, then Curry was the only one who could confirm what she saw.

  She closed the book and sighed. She had treated Cassie badly. She was only trying to help.

  Mari got up and went back to the kitchen, but the door was locked. She walked down the driveway and went toward the beach. Cassie was sitting on a bench watching Joey dig a hole in the sand. When she saw Mari, she put out her hand.

  "Sit," Cassie said.

  Mari did as she was told, and Cassie grabbed her hand.

  "I'm sorry," Cassie said. "I know I shouldn't push you."

  "No, you were right. It was an accident and he deserves to be heard."

  "It was a terrible accident."

  Cassie kept holding Mari's hand and encouraging Joey's efforts as he tried to dig a deeper hole. She often had trouble reading Mari's thoughts, but was floored by what Mari said next.

  "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  Cassie smiled. "No."

  Mari hesitated. Would Cassie think she was crazy? No, Cassie was her friend.

  "I've been seeing Celia Morton."

  "Who is Celia Morton?"

  "She's the one who killed Charlotte Johnson."

  Cassie watched Joey.

  "Do you believe me?" Mari asked.

  "I don't know if I believe you're seeing an actual ghost. It might be your brain healing, but it doesn't matter what I believe. Do you believe it?"

  Mari sighed. "She's so real." She looked at the waves rolling in. "I keep thinking she wants something."

  "Like what?"

  Mari leaned closer to Cassie.

  "I don't think she did it. There was no proof tying her to the crime, but the cops never looked for anyone else. Maybe she wants me to find out who really killed Charlotte."

  Cassie was quiet, and then she thought of something.

  "Philip Curry said he saw a woman standing in the road that night."

  "I know," Mari said. "I thought about that."

  "So, does that mean you'll meet with him?"

  Mari nodded and Cassie smiled. They watched Joey and as twilight fell, Mari's stomach grumbled.

  "Let's get a pizza."

  Cassie raised her eyebrows.

  "You sure you can eat right now?"

  "Oh, come on, you must be hungry. Those were little cones."

  Cassie laughed. "All right, I know he'll eat pizza." She stood and waved at Joey. "Come in."

  They walked back to Cassie's and she got the pizza menu from the drawer next to the refrigerator. Joey clapped when he heard her order the pizza, and then he and Mari played a game of blackjack as they waited for the food to arrive. Without provocation, Joey got up from the table, went to Mari, and put up his arms. She bent over so he could hug her.

  "I love you, Mari," he said.

  "I love you, too, kid."

  The warmth in Cassie's kitchen had worked on Mari all winter, hammering at the shell that had been forged that terrible day, and now a crack appeared in her armor. Soon, pieces would fall like stones from an old dam, but for now, this was enough. As she allowed the warmth to penetrate her soul, she felt hopeful. Maybe she would be all right after all.

  Mari

  Mari used her wooden stirrer to draw a star in the foam of her cappuccino. She had chosen the table next to the window so Philip Curry would see her when he came through the door. He had left it up to her to choose where they would meet, so Mari had chosen the café because it was usually empty at this time of day.

  She had waited a week so her mind could adjust to the idea of meeting him. He sounded nice on the phone and she tried to imagine what he would look like. As she waited for him, she held her coffee mug and noticed her hands were shaking.

  A tall man with thinning blond hair and glasses entered the café. He was slender, but not skinny, and his body language suggested that he'd rather be left alone. He looked around and then spotted her, let himself smile, and then ordered a small coffee. It was the man who always avoided looking at her eyes whenever he saw her on the street.

  She watched him take change out of his pocket to pay. His reluctance to let go of the coins as he counted them out was familiar to her. Mari watched him walk toward the table with his head hung low, and his eyes on the floor. She had the advantage here, but seeing how sad he looked, would she finally be able to forgive him?

  His eyes met hers for a second, and even though he knew the answer, he said, "Are you Mari?"

  "That's me," she said.

  He put the coffee mug on the table and sat, always looking at something other than Mari. He fidgeted in his seat, and ran his fingers up and down the mug.

  She observed him over the edge of her mug as she took a sip of her cappuccino, and felt guilty. She'd let this go too long. She should have met with him a long time ago.

  She began to squirm as the silence between them deepened and
began to rap on the table with her fist, and then used both hands on it like a bongo drum. Phil bit his lower lip and focused on his mug, gripping it with white knuckles. She tried to think of something to say, but she wanted to hear what he had to say first. They were drowning in the gulf between them, and as the seconds passed, Phil gathered his courage and what little dignity he had left, and spoke.

  "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "I'm so very sorry."

  She leaned back in her chair and looked at his face. He hadn't looked up, so she wasn't sure his apology was sincere. Mari had interviewed important people, real assholes if the truth be told, and she'd maintained her composure, but his shoulders were shaking now, and his voice weak. He was hurting, and seeing that he, too, had sunk to such depths of despair touched her.

  She looked away from his face to the window and focused on the foot traffic on Main Street as she tried to think of something to say, but it seemed that only the truth would suffice.

  "It wasn't your fault," she said.

  She glanced at his face and saw that his eyes were gray, blue's watery cousin, a color that left the bearer looking washed out. Poor Phil -- even his genetics seemed to be working against him. His features gave him such a lack of distinction that he could easily walk through life without anyone knowing he'd been there, yet there was something about him that made Mari feel at ease.

  "I want to tell you the truth," he said, "but I know you'll never believe me."

  Mari thought of Celia Morton and the mention of a "her" in the police report.

  "Let me decide."

  Phil felt soft vibrations and glanced out the window. She stood on the sidewalk across the road and he watched people pass her, some walking through her, but she never moved. She wore the same sad, weary expression that haunted him.

  "Can you see her?" he asked.

  "See who?" Mari followed his gaze. "Yes."

  Now he looked at Mari. "She was standing in the middle of the road. I was on my way home from work and the road was so...slippery, and the snow, and then I saw her. I thought she would move. She's the reason I swerved."

  A chill went up Mari's spine. This ghost, this apparition, had brought them together, and again the idea that a ghost would have the presence of mind to do such a thing made her cringe.

  "Is she the only one you see?" Mari asked.

  Phil nodded, and Mari felt foolish.

  "Why? Do you see others?" he asked.

  "Yeah. It's weird, and I thought that's why I saw her, but if you don't see anyone else, than there must be something special about her, like she wants something from us, you know, me and you."

  "I see her all the time." His confession hung in the air, more meaningful now that he knew Mari saw other ghosts. "Can they do that?"

  "Can they do what?" she asked.

  "Can they control who sees them?"

  "Hey, this is all new to me. I have no idea how they work."

  A comfortable silence settled between them now as they thought about Celia. Mari studied his face. The lines around his mouth could mean he liked to smile, but they could also mean he clenched his teeth as he tried to hide his true feelings. The lines above his brow were more troubling. They indicated he worried a lot, and she needed a partner who could handle stress.

  What partner? she thought. Slow down. You just met this guy.

  Phil attempted a smile, but it faded when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Celia was still there. Anger replaced fear and he shook his head.

  "I hate her," he said.

  "She is annoying, but maybe she has a good reason for being that way." Mari grabbed her mug. "Do you know who she is?"

  He nodded. "I've done some research."

  "Well, what if she didn't kill Charlotte Johnson? What if she wants us to find out who did?"

  They looked at each other. Could she trust him? Could she share her thoughts with him without having him turn on her, taking her most private thoughts and using them against her?

  Could he trust her? If they worked together, they'd have to see each other a lot. Would he be able to let someone into his life after being alone for so long?

  Paranoia was new to Mari. She had always just gone along, trusting her intuition, and if it didn't work out, it was no big deal, but now she wasn't sure she could trust herself. The little nuances and ticks she'd relied on to indicate which way a conversation was going weren't as obvious as they'd been before her brain was damaged. Phil seemed like a nice guy, but was he? He did see Celia, and she believed there had to be something to that. She took a moment to take a closer look at him as if he were one of her research projects.

  Phil was like a cup of black coffee. No nuance, no ticks, just a blank page full of notes written in invisible ink. She knew what others must have thought of him, that he was someone who never objected to being given lousy shifts at work, or having to work a holiday because he was single. No, Phil never complained, but Mari would bet that there was anger simmering beneath his placid surface, and one day, Phil would walk into a music festival with an AK47 and a bomb strapped to his chest.

  "I wonder if they can make plans," she said.

  "I don't know about other ghosts, but I know she did this. She made this happen." He glanced out the window again. "She has to want something." He paused and gripped his mug. "I went to that town meeting about your show. I had never heard of Charlotte Johnson or Celia." He looked into her eyes. "But I've spent a lot of time reading about that case. There was no evidence linked to Celia, just the word of her husband and the sheriff." He looked at his coffee. "So I agree. I don't think she did it."

  "Okay, so we agree, but how do we prove she's innocent?"

  Phil's eyes lit up. "I've thought about that." He leaned toward her. "It wasn't that long ago. There has to be someone left alive who remembers her."

  Mari sipped her coffee. She had a vague recollection of talking to Harry about finding people who remembered Charlotte and Celia. Harry. Thinking of him made her chest hurt.

  "I guess we could ask around."

  Phil smiled again. "We?"

  Why had she said we? "I usually work alone, but you probably know this town better than I do, so I guess I could use your help."

  "I'd only be able to help you at night because I got a job for the summer. It comes with a room so that's where I'll be living until Labor Day."

  He was working a summer job at his age. It comes with a room. He knew exactly what Mari was going through.

  "I'm broke," she said. "I was fired because they didn't think I could do my job anymore."

  Shut up, Mari.

  They sat in silence again, each wondering why the ghost had chosen them, each hoping they would find the real killer. The clock in the café struck three and Mari jumped.

  "Geez that thing is loud."

  She giggled, and the sound warmed Phil's heart. Maybe she would be good for him. Maybe he could finally crawl out of his lethargy.

  "Why do you think they chose her?" Mari asked. "Celia I mean."

  "She had mental problems."

  "Yeah, but that wouldn't be enough to hang a murder on her."

  "It would be in the forties, especially if her husband didn't like having her around."

  Mari's eyebrows rose and she grinned. "Why Philip, that's an interesting point." She watched the rosy hue go up his neck to his cheeks and suppressed the grin. "What if he had been waiting for something like this so he could get rid of her? Or, maybe he killed Charlotte and used Celia as a scapegoat?"

  "Why would he kill Charlotte?"

  "Because she refused his advances and he got pissed."

  "Maybe, but that murder was pretty gruesome. He'd have to be really pissed."

  Mari was impressed with his knowledge of the case.

  "Yeah. His name never came up during the investigation either. So Celia is the perfect patsy. She doesn't talk, never says a word in her own defense, and she is locked away so her husband can have his freedom."

  "She was mentally unstabl
e," Phil said. "Everyone in town knew there was something off about her. They would believe she did it."

  She tapped her mug. "Her daughter went to live near her after she was locked away." She looked up at Phil. "She didn't believe her mother did this. I wonder if any of Isabelle's classmates still live here?"

  "The woman at the historical society might know."

  "Maybe."

  They sat in silence for several seconds as they watched Celia, and Mari sensed that Phil had something on his mind.

  He sighed. "I knew Harry. We would have a drink now and then at the inn. He was a nice man."

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  "We were just getting to know each other," she said. "I liked him very much."

  Phil wiped the tear away with the back of his hand and looked at Mari.

  "I think the library has copies of old high school yearbooks."

  "That's a good idea, Phil, or do you prefer Philip?"

  "Phil is fine."

  "And I'm Mari."

  She reached across the table for his hand, and he took hers. They shook, sealing a partnership that neither of them had sought nor desired. Across the street, Celia watched them shake hands, and she smiled as she faded into the mist.

  Mari

  The public library was housed in an old Victorian that had been donated to the town for that purpose. It was wired into the state's digital system so when Mari found more books about the crime in other branches she ordered them, and then went to the section containing the local high school yearbooks.

  As Mari turned the pages of the 1940 Fulton High School yearbook, she noted how much older the young people looked than teenagers today. Their clothes and hairdos reflected their parents' style rather than their own. When Mari found Isabelle Morton, she was taken aback by how beautiful she was, like a movie star, and her smile was radiant.

  Mari had read most of A Murder in Cape Alden and had learned about Jack Womack, a sailor who had been linked to both Isabelle and Charlotte. The photos of him showed a handsome young buck who reminded Mari of Clark Gable, but at 26, he was too old for Isabelle. The "official" police report narrative of the crime stated that Celia was avenging her daughter's honor when Jack dropped Isabelle for Charlotte, but that theory of the crime had never set right with Mari. If anything, Celia would have wanted him to leave her young daughter alone and would have been thrilled when he dumped her.