by Merry Jones
“Susan’s housekeeper came and worked all day yesterday—”
“And Jen got the couch. And there were stains on the carpet, so we pitched in—”
“You did this? So fast?”
They had.
I didn’t know what to say. How to thank them.
“She’s FBA.” I knew that one: Fucking Blown Away. And Jen was right, I was. I remember hugs and tears. I remember flopping onto the sofa, taking my shoes off to feel the thick soft rug. I remember going to the bar, pouring drinks, ordering pizza, and laughing too much and too loud. And sometime in the middle of the raucous sisterly bonding, I remember Elvis singing, “We’re caught in a trap—” and picking up my phone.
Charlie’s body was ready for release. I was listed as next of kin, and the coroner’s office wanted to know when I would have a funeral parlor pick it up.
Becky offered to stay the night, but I couldn’t let her. She’d done enough, needed her own time. And, sooner or later, I had to face being in my house by myself again. And, truly, by the time everyone left, I was grateful for the quiet. I hadn’t been alone for days. Needed stillness and solitude. Time to settle.
And I had phone calls to return. My voice mail was overloaded. I’d put off answering for four days, but now there was no excuse. Charlie’s partner, Derek Morris, had called repeatedly. As had many of Charlie’s colleagues, clients, and acquaintances. I had to respond. And Lord. I had to get in touch with his mother, Florence, his brother, Ted, and sister, Emma. They’d have seen the news, read the papers. But I had to tell them personally what had happened.
I made a list and, Johnny Black in hand, I made the calls, one by one, repeating the same words. Yes, it was horrible and shocking. No, the police had no idea who did it or why. No, I hadn’t seen anything. Yes, I’d be fine. Yes, I would let them know if there was anything they could do, and when the funeral would be.
Derek, as usual, was frantic, aggressive. Intense. He barraged me with questions. “What time did you find him? Did he say anything before he died? Did he have anything on him that would explain what happened? Were things messed up? Was anything missing from your house? How did the killer get in? Who knew Charlie would be in your house?” He was worse than the police. No, not worse. But as bad. And he wanted to come over right away, help me go over details. I said I was exhausted. He kept pushing. Obnoxiously. Until I told him that he needed to back off and that I’d talk to him later. Intending not to.
After Derek, the only people I had to call were Charlie’s family. As his undivorced wife, I was still next of kin. It fell upon me to contact them. These calls would be the most difficult, so I’d saved them for last. I called his mother first, but spoke to Tina, her caretaker. Charlie’s mother, Florence, lived nearby, in Center City. She was eighty-one years old, a widow who suffered from severe dementia, had no short-term memory whatsoever. There was no point in telling her that her son was dead, she wouldn’t remember it. But Tina needed to hear what the other callers had. There were no suspects yet. I hadn’t seen anyone. I’d let her know about the funeral.
Next call was to Ted, Charlie’s brother. Ted was fifteen years younger than Charlie, lived in Virginia Beach, hadn’t seen Charlie in years, but contacted him often to borrow money. I thought he gave water-skiing lessons and did body piercing, suspected he sold drugs and used more than he sold, needed the money to pay for them.
Ted answered on the first ring. His voice was a croak. “Ch-Charlie?”
Charlie? Why would he think it was—oh, of course—caller ID. He’d recognized the number on his cell phone screen.
“Is it you?” He sounded incredulous.
“No, Ted. It’s Elle.”
“Elle?” I could hear his burned-out brain whirring, probably trying to figure out who ‘Elle’ was. He sounded stoned. Shaky.
“Charlie’s wife.” Ten years earlier, at our wedding, Ted had been the best man.
“Okay. Right. But technically—no offense—you’re not his wife any more. I mean you guys split up.”
“That’s right.” I bristled, decided not to react. There was no point. “We split up, but we weren’t divorced yet—”
“What are you talking about? Of course you were—he called you his ‘ex.’”
He did? “Well, I am his ‘ex.’ But legally, I’m still his wife. Divorce takes time.” Why were we talking about the status of my marriage?
“Oh, man.” Ted sounded wasted. And disappointed. But not even a little curious about why I was calling. “Damn it—Charlie said he was single.”
“Ted.” I interrupted, not sure why he cared about Charlie’s marital status. “I have some bad news.”
“What. Somebody die?”
Good guess. But then, why else would I call? “Yes.” I swallowed Scotch, took a deep breath. “Charlie.”
“Charlie? For real?”
I thought he’d already have heard. But the murder might not have been on the news in Virginia Beach.
“Yes, for real.”
“Well, son of a gun.” He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ask what happened.
“Ted—” I took a breath. The words didn’t have meaning any more. I’d repeated them so many times that I felt like a recording. A computerized voice. “Charlie was murdered.”
Ted made a sound, kind of a cluck. “Murdered? Huh.” He stopped talking. “So did anyone—do they know who did it?”
“No.”
“No suspects? Really?” He didn’t ask any more questions. Not how Charlie was murdered. Not when. Not if he suffered. Nothing.
“He was stabbed. Thursday night.” For some reason, I felt compelled to tell him. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Ellen.”
“Not Ellen. Just Elle.”
“I thought it was Charlie calling when I saw the number on my phone.” Ted coughed, deep and hoarse. “I couldn’t believe it. That it was him. But I really thought it was.”
Charlie never called Ted. It was the reverse. Ted called Charlie. Regularly. Whenever he needed money. Whenever he was desperate.
I pictured Ted, rubbing his tangled hair, his eyes. Hanging his head. Brain fried from whatever he’d smoked. Or swallowed or injected. Probably more upset about losing his cash cow than about losing his brother. “So. Will you come to the funeral?”
“In Philadelphia? You mean go up there?” The thought seemed to baffle him. As if he’d forgotten there were roads.
“Well, Charlie was your brother.”
“Yeah. I don’t know, Elle.” He remembered my name. “It’s a long way and gas costs a lot of dough.”
Silence. I had nothing to say. Did he expect me to pay for his trip? Should I?
“So. Do you think—are they going to have like a reading of, you know, his will?”
What?
“Because there’s a chance he might have left me something. Do you know? Would I have to be there for that?”
I said I didn’t know. I didn’t pressure him to come up. Hadn’t expected him to. Didn’t know what I’d do with him if he showed. I said something about keeping in touch and refreshed my drink before placing the final call.
Charlie’s sister, Emma, and I had never been close. She lived in Connecticut with her insurance company CEO husband, Herb, had a busy social life, sat on the boards of philanthropic organizations, belonged to a variety of book, garden, and country clubs, sent her kids to prestigious private schools. She and Charlie had been tight, but she and I hadn’t spoken at all since the separation. In fact, I wasn’t sure when we’d last talked—at least a year ago. Probably two. Even so, she wasn’t surprised to hear from me, answered the phone, saying, “Derek already called.”
“Derek? Really?” Well, okay. At least I didn’t have to break the news to a second sibling. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner, Emma. It’s been crazy. You must be pretty shaken up.”
Emma didn’t confirm or deny her condition, didn’t ask if I were shaken up, too. She didn’
t ask for details about the murder either. What she asked was, “So, do they have any suspects, Elle?” Her voice had an edge. And when she said my name, the edge sliced, razor-sharp.
“None that I know of.” I didn’t like her tone. And I was tired. Had repeated the story of Charlie’s death eight or ten times in an hour. I swallowed Scotch.
“So, Elle,” again the cutting tone, “don’t you think it’s odd that they found him in your house?”
“What? Of course I do—”
“And that the murder weapon belonged to you? Derek said Charlie was killed with your knife? Have they read his will? Who was Charlie’s main beneficiary? You, right?”
Her implications were as subtle as a hatchet blow. Obviously, she thought I’d killed him. I sat up straight, indignant. “Emma. Is there something you want to say to me?”
She paused. “Yes. Actually, there is.” She drew an audible breath. “Honestly. I’ve never especially disliked you, Elle. But I never especially liked you, either.”
Okay. I didn’t like her either, but that wasn’t news.
“If Charlie wanted to be married to you, that was his business, not mine. But what was my business was that after he married you, my brother changed. Especially these last few years, Charlie became someone I didn’t know. Morose. Troubled. Something happened to him, Elle, and it happened on your watch. First, his joie de vivre got taken. And now, his life.”
“Wait just a goddamned second, Emma—” I was seething. “Who the hell do you—”
“So, bottom line, here’s what I want to say to you.” She continued evenly, calmly, as if I hadn’t interrupted. As if immune to my anger. “If you played any—and, Elle, by ‘any,’ I mean even the remotest, minutest most indirect part in my brother’s death—forget inheriting his estate. Forget his life insurance. Forget getting one cent of his money. I swear I’ll see to it that you rue the day your sorry eyes first fell on him. I’ll make your life so unbearable, so full of misery that a mere knife in your back will seem like tender mercy.”
When she finished, I was sputtering. Stuttering. Unable to come up with a coherent syllable, much less a fitting response. Emma, with her porcelain skin and delicate tea sets, had just bitch slapped me, and, frankly, I was stunned. Maybe I said goodbye. Maybe I simply hung up. But afterward, I stayed in my kitchen, holding my drink, seething, staring at the phone.
Clearly, Emma was convinced I had something to do with Charlie’s murder. But why? We’d separated, true, but that didn’t mean I wanted to kill him. I mean I’d talked about it, but jokingly. Privately, with my friends. No one would take those conversations seriously.
“Women usually use poison,” I remembered. Who’d said that? Becky? Susan? Jen had suggested staging a robbery gone bad. And someone had warned against making repeated stab wounds, I forgot why. But Emma didn’t know about the conversations I’d had with friends. Couldn’t know. Maybe her suspicions arose from her dislike of me. Or wait—she’d talked to Derek, Charlie’s partner. Had Derek told her I might be involved? Did Derek suspect me, too?
And if they suspected me, other people must as well. Including everyone whose phone calls I’d just answered. And the police.
Oh God. Obviously, people would assume I’d killed Charlie. I was the spouse. Worse. The estranged spouse. And statistically, spouses were guilty. And, as Emma had so graciously reminded me, Charlie had been killed right here—with my knife. I pictured the detectives, how their eyes had narrowed, studying me. Oh God. I wasn’t just a suspect. I was Suspect Number One.
But how could people honestly think I’d kill Charlie with my own knife in my own house? Did they think I was that stupid? Of course not. At least the police didn’t. Did they?
I stood, needing to move, woozy from the Scotch. I put my glass in the sink. Opened the fridge, took out bread and Swiss cheese. Made a sandwich. Added a pickle and mustard. Picked it up. Put it down. Wondered why Charlie had been in the house. And who had been with him. Who’d killed him. But I had no idea. Charlie had known a lot of people.
I carried my sandwich back to the table, set it down. Realized I wasn’t finished yet, had one more call to make. Picked up the phone again, hoping the place was still open.
For all of her fierce familial loyalty and sisterly venom, Emma hadn’t offered to help with Charlie’s funeral. Nor had any of his shocked and caring friends. Nor had his concerned partner. No, that part was left to me, Suspect Number One.
And so, I called W. J. Sloane, the parlor that had handled Susan’s mother’s funeral and made an appointment for the next day. Turned my phone off. Swallowed my sandwich, still bristling about Emma. How had she dared to speak to me like that? Why had I simply sat there taking it? And how could I prove I hadn’t murdered Charlie?
I thought about my alibi—Jeremy’s bar. That guy Joel, the magician, if I could find him, he’d confirm that I was there. And Becky, of course. And the cab company could confirm my ride home. I could prove I’d been out, no problem. Even so, Emma’s assumptions and implications riled me, and I headed upstairs reciting things I should have said to her. Like, “Emma. Your head’s up your ass.” Or, “Charlie didn’t change, Emma. He just stopped pretending to tolerate you.” Or, “Emma, you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll do to you exactly what I did to Charlie.”
Even as I muttered those feeble comebacks, though, I realized Emma had been right about one thing: Charlie had changed. Especially over the past few years. Sorrow washed through me as I remembered the old Charlie, my Charlie. But I couldn’t dwell on that, and hurried upstairs to quiet my mind.
I ran the bath, added jasmine-scented bubbles. Finally sank into warm water, relaxing, soaking in silence. Lying back, closing my eyes. Again, I thought of Charlie, how he’d sometimes kept me company when I’d bathed. Brought bubbly wine or bonbons. Sometimes, he’d lit candles and turned out the lights. Sometimes, he’d put on music. Sinatra. Beethoven. The Stones. Whatever suited his mood.
Oh God, why was I remembering those times? They were finished. Even if Charlie weren’t dead, those times would be. It was the bath, probably. The tiny popping of bubbles, the embrace of hot water. The jasmine scent. Memories were linked to those sensations. Or maybe it was even deeper—maybe the house itself held memories. Maybe the walls, floor, stairway, bathtub—maybe they all held images of what had happened inside them. Meals, music, laughter, lovemaking. Maybe not just bubbles, but also memories floated in the tub.
I closed my eyes, engulfed in quiet and warmth, and let the memories surface, almost feeling Charlie beside the tub, leaning against the wall, holding his drink. Almost hearing his voice.
“Derek brought in big bucks today. I mean big. Somerset Bradley.”
I’d never heard of him.
“Guy owns half of New England. Hotels, commercial real estate. He’s giving us the whole enchilada. He says he’s done working, just wants to travel. So Derek—got to give him credit—he lured him in by putting a whole trip together for him. Russia. The Far East. It cost a wad, but it was worth it.”
Lord, why was I remembering that conversation? It was boring, had no significance. Why, when I let my mind drift, wasn’t I remembering steamy sex? Or spooning cozily in our sleep? After all, these were my memories, too. Why was I resurrecting Charlie talking about business? And out of all his clients, why a twit like Somerset Bradley?
The water cooled; the bath ended. I wrapped myself in a terry robe that had been Charlie’s and went to bed. It was barely nine o’clock. But I lay down, clean, on fresh sheets, turned out the light, and lay quietly listening, watching. Maybe he’d say my name again. Or put the rose somewhere. Or kiss me. Or brush by, leaving his scent.
For a long time, I didn’t let myself sleep. I lay still and alert. Waiting for Charlie.
No kisses. No scents. No rose. No voice. No Charlie. At least, not while I was awake, which was, I think, until after one.
But then, I remember walking into the study, stepping on something sharp—a tack? Wincing. Loo
king down at the floor, seeing not a tack. A rose. Thorns. A speck of blood on my foot. And, in the shadows, a man.
“Charlie?” I was surprised. Delighted. He was back. Home. Everything was okay.
“You’re smiling.” He didn’t move, just turned his head my way. “Don’t smile, Elle. Don’t pretend.”
But I was glad to see him and felt my smile widen. “See, I thought you were—” Wait. What had I thought again? It flittered away, but I knew it had been something bad. Something awful.
“Oh, please, Elf. There’s no need to say it.” He looked pale, and I wondered if he’d been drinking again. He’d been drinking so much lately.
I went to him, sat beside him. Leaned over for a kiss.
But Charlie didn’t kiss me. He sighed, but didn’t move. Didn’t even put an arm around me. Dread washed through me. Why was he being so cold? What was it I had forgotten?
His expression was blank. “Please. Don’t make it difficult. Don’t pretend.” A slow, twisted smile.
I was cold. Shivering.
“You were the love of my life. But I could never make you happy.” Charlie stood, towered over me. “Goodbye, Elf.” He leaned down, his lips brushing mine, tickling like butterfly wings. And then he turned away. Leaving me.
I opened my mouth to call him, but could make no sound. Charlie was going. Almost gone. No—no way. He couldn’t leave me.
A knife was in my hand. I raised it. Drew a breath. Closed my eyes. Felt a rush, a thrust. And distinctly, independently: The taut resistance of fabric, the smooth separation of flesh. The scrape of steel against bone. The handle slipped. The blade cut my hand as I adjusted my grip and tugged at it until with a sucking sound it came suddenly free. Then another plunge. And another.
I tried to open my eyes, to shake my head, to say “no,” but couldn’t. I tried to sit up or move my legs. But couldn’t. In fact, I could move nothing, not my toes, not my eyelids. I was paralyzed. You’re asleep, I told myself. Not awake. Stuck in a dream. But blood was warm and sticky on my hands. And I still heard gurgling, the rasps of Charlie’s dying lungs.
