by Merry Jones
Don’t fight it, I told myself. Go back. Change it. Make it so you didn’t kill him. Because you didn’t. You know you didn’t. Charlie, my mind called to him, and I saw him, stumbling onto the sofa in the study, staring at me. It wasn’t me, I told him. I didn’t kill you. You must know that. Didn’t you see who did? Tell me, who was it?
But Charlie blinked at me, stunned, as if surprised to be dying.
And he mouthed a word. Only one syllable: Why.
Why? Why what? Why, as in, why am I dying? Or as in, why did you kill me? Didn’t he believe me? Did Charlie think I killed him? He stared at me from the couch with accusing eyes as I blithered my innocence. So far, going back into the dream wasn’t going well. But it was my dream. Shouldn’t I be able to steer it the way I wanted? It wasn’t me, I repeated. I didn’t kill you, but Charlie was gone, and I was lying immobile in my bed, struggling to open my eyes. This time, I insisted, pulling myself out of a well of deep sleep, making my eyes open, my limbs come back to life. Even when I could move, I didn’t get up right away. I lay there, actually checking my hands. My cut was healing, and they were both free of blood. Finally, my mind still immersed in the dream, I looked at the clock, remembered my appointment. Made myself get up to make coffee. My left foot was tender. When I looked, I saw a tiny red sore there, as if I’d stepped on the thorn of a rose.
Nonsense. The mark on my foot was probably just a scratch. Not a prick from the stem of a rose. But some dreams are so vivid, so intense that coming out of them is like pulling out of quicksand. As I brushed my teeth, I could still feel the knife in my hand, still smell Charlie’s blood. And, as I made coffee, I was still shaking off the accusations in his eyes. I knew the dream was merely that, and that I had to get on with the day. Meet with the funeral director. Make plans for Charlie’s body to be picked up and buried. I was thinking about epitaphs when the doorbell rang.
It couldn’t be Becky. She was teaching. Maybe Jen? I opened the door still wearing Charlie’s robe, my hair disheveled, face unwashed. And faced Detective Stiles, the handsome one with the scar. Married to Susan’s friend.
No Swenson this time; a uniformed officer was with him. A woman. They had yet more questions to ask. Could they come in?
“Coffee?” I offered. “I’m just having some.”
They followed me into the kitchen. On the way, I realized that the kitchen might not be a good idea. Charlie had crammed it with expensive appliances—a fridge bigger than my closet, stainless steel top-of-the-line everything, but the room was tiny. Before we’d added the study and powder room, it had been the back end of a row house in Fairmount. Sitting down together would mean crowding chairs around a protrusion of granite just big enough for Charlie and me. Not built for three. Three would mean that at least two have their knees or even thighs bumping each other, depending how the bodies were arranged.
When they saw the room, the officer—her name was Moran—hung back, standing at the door, declining coffee. Detective Stiles and I sat.
I refreshed my mug, poured his. Offered milk and sugar. Stiles drank it black. He sipped it. Complimented it, said it was nice and strong.
Good. So he liked my coffee. I sat, trying to seem relaxed. As if I hadn’t just committed murder in my sleep.
“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Harrison.”
“Elle—please call me Elle. We were getting divorced. I don’t think of myself as Mrs. Harrison.”
“Okay, Elle. I know it’s a difficult time for you. But chances are we’re going to be showing up here repeatedly during this investigation.”
“No problem. I understand.” I sipped coffee. He had clear, blue eyes. Penetrating.
“Good. So. Let’s begin by going back to last Thursday. The day of the murder. You said you went to Jeremy’s bar that evening. What did you do before that?”
Before going to the bar? “Nothing. I took a shower.”
“I mean, all that day.”
All that day? Why? I heard Emma’s accusing voice, saw Charlie’s eyes. Stiles probably believed I’d killed Charlie, too. I held onto my mug, eyeing the handcuffs on Moran’s belt. Suspect Number One.
“Should I call my lawyer, Detective?”
The side of his face without a scar smiled. “You can, of course. But that will slow things down. All we need for now is a timeline.”
Just a timeline. Well, there was no harm telling them what I’d done on Thursday. Besides, calling my lawyer would antagonize them; that’s how it was on every cop show that ever aired. “I worked. Left the house about seven thirty a.m. Came home from school about four.” I paused, trying to remember. What had I done next? Probably reviewed the next day’s lesson plan—that’s what I normally do. “Oh—I remember. I was upset. It was Benjy’s birthday, and his mother sent chocolate cupcakes. Well, Aiden and Lily, two of the kids in the class, are allergic to chocolate.” Why was I telling him about the cupcakes? “Anyway, I remember writing a memo to all the parents about being careful with birthday snacks.”
“And then?”
And then? Why couldn’t I remember? “I think I graded some arithmetic papers.”
“You think?”
I stiffened, not accustomed to having my language examined. “No. I know.” I did, didn’t I? “I graded some arithmetic papers.”
“Where were you while you did all this? In what room?” His eyes drilled into mine. Almost punctured my corneas.
“Probably the bedroom.” Damn. I sounded unsure again.
“You’re not sure?”
“I was in the bedroom.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.” Kind of.
“Okay.” Stiles glanced at Officer Moran. Just the tiniest, quickest glance. “So. You graded arithmetic in the bedroom. Then what?” He set his mug down, empty. Crossed his legs with some difficulty; they were long, didn’t fit easily under the extension of granite.
“I was tired. I took a nap.”
He nodded. “And what time would that have been?”
What time? I didn’t know. If I’d come home at four, written a memo, graded papers, it must have been—what? Almost six? “I’m not sure. Six?”
“When did you cut your hand?”
I had no idea what time it had been. “Right before I left for Jeremy’s, I was slicing fruit—”
“And the knife slipped?”
“Yes. I’ve already told you what—”
“And what time was it when you left the house?”
He’d asked all these questions before. Several times. Why did we have to go over all of it again? What difference did it make? “Detective, really—I don’t see—”
“We’re trying to establish a timeline, Elle. That’s all.”
A timeline. Okay, of course. That made sense. “I met Becky about a quarter to nine. Left here about fifteen minutes before.”
Stiles didn’t say anything. He sat still, legs crossed. Watching me. Officer Moran also watched me. Armed, guarding the door. I cleared my throat, drained my second cup. Needed to go to the bathroom. Shifted my weight, deciding whether to excuse myself. “So, is there anything else, Detective?”
He uncrossed his legs, slowly leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. His face was too close. I wanted to move back. “Well, Elle. There’s likely to be more. Because it turns out that the time of your husband’s death was between six and ten p.m. Which means, he might have been killed after you left for Jeremy’s.” Stiles paused, making me anticipate the finish. “But also, he could have been killed while you were still home.”
While I was home? Asleep upstairs?
“No way. I couldn’t have been here. I’d have heard him come in—” Wait. Stiles was implying that I must be the murderer. Oh God. Was he going to arrest me? The handcuffs on Moran’s belt—were they for me?
“Did you go into the study at all, Elle?”
I tried to remember. But now, everything that happened on Thursday seemed dim. My only vivid memory was of finding Charlie’s body. Everyth
ing else—even being at Jeremy’s appeared in momentary flashes, like snapshots. “No. I didn’t. I had no reason to go in there.”
“You’d need a reason?”
“I didn’t go into the study.” Had I?
Of course not. But if I had, would I have seen Charlie in there? Was he already there when I came home? Why didn’t he say anything? Unless—was the killer in there, too, keeping him quiet? Killing him?
“Again, Mrs. Harrison—sorry. Elle. Do you have any idea why your husband was here?”
No idea. I’d already told them that.
“Is anything missing?”
Nothing I’d noticed.
Stiles went on, eyes piercing, his voice hammering. He had questions about Charlie, his business acquaintances, his will, his insurance policies, his women and friends. I floated away inside, overcome with the sense that my life had stopped being real. That it was a bizarre play being enacted on stage. I watched myself talking with police. The scar on the detective’s face darkened, looked dangerous, sinister. I remembered my dream. The stiffness of the knife, the penetration of clothes and skin. The streaming of blood, the slicing of my hand. Don’t let on, I told myself. Act like nothing’s wrong. It was just a dream. Remain in character. Smile, be normal. Wait, no. Smiling wouldn’t be normal, not in this situation. Not when the detective’s thinking I killed Charlie. Not when he’s zeroing his attention on me, studying my reactions.
Instead of smiling, I offered Detective Stiles more coffee. He declined. If he was going to arrest me, he ought to get it over with. But he didn’t. He just kept questioning me until, finally, I made myself tell him I had to get to the funeral parlor, that I had an appointment there. Instead of arresting me, he apologized for taking so much time. Stood up to go as if it had just been a friendly visit. He thanked me for the coffee, said he’d see me soon. His smile was crooked, eyes sober.
I watched them go as if they were exiting the stage, as if I were sitting far up in the second balcony.
After they left, I told myself that Stiles didn’t really think I’d killed Charlie. He couldn’t. The police were just being thorough. I rinsed out the cups, went upstairs, showered. Stood under the stream of hot water, replaying the visit, over and over again. No matter how I tried to deny it, though, it was clear. The police suspected me. Otherwise, why the multiple questionings? Why the intense stares? Why all the questions about my hand, my activities on Thursday?
Oh God. I closed my eyes. Why had answering those questions been so hard? I’d given my best guesses, made assumptions about what I must have done. Didn’t have complete concrete certainty. My memory was misty. And it had gaps; the chain of events lacked links.
Obviously, that was to be expected. I’d been in shock on Thursday. Suffered a trauma. Memories of minor tasks I’d performed earlier had been blown away by the murder. It was understandable that I couldn’t recall details. Wasn’t it?
Hot water pounded my face, my hair. And thoughts pounded my head. Someone had killed Charlie. In my house. The police had narrowed the window of time of the murder. I’d been home at least for part of it. Even had that damned knife wound on my hand. Obviously, they thought I was guilty, were gathering evidence against me. Probably weren’t even looking at anyone else. I was the spouse, and it was almost always the spouse. Especially the estranged spouse. As soon as they could build even a circumstantial case, they would arrest me.
Oh God. Really? They’d arrest me?
I saw Officer Moran’s handcuffs closing around my wrists. Felt the cold metal, heard the locks clink. Would they come for me here at home? Before work? Surely, they wouldn’t take me out of school, not in front of twenty-four second graders. But maybe in the parking lot—
Stop it, I said out loud. Startling myself. Realizing that I was no longer standing, but curled under the streaming water against the shower wall, on the floor. Hiding.
No. Shaken, I climbed back to my feet, turned off the water. Smoothed my hair. No one was going to arrest me. They didn’t have evidence, not a scintilla. They couldn’t, since I didn’t do it. It was that simple.
Good. So why didn’t knowing that make me feel safe?
Maybe because innocent people had gone to jail before. For years. For decades. For life. Lord. Innocent people had even been executed.
No way was I going to sit passively and watch the cops weave a web around me, trapping me in a net of suspicion. Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, faced myself in the mirror, met my own wary eyes. And understood. There was only one sure way to get the police to back off and accept the fact that I hadn’t killed Charlie. And that was to find the guy who had.
But first, I had to plan a funeral.
“Shit, Elle. I cannot believe you didn’t call me. You just let them in?” Susan was exasperated. She’d called as I was about to leave for the funeral parlor, and I’d told her about the visit by Detective Stiles. She scolded me, furious. “And you served them coffee and chatted like you were best friends. And told them everything they wanted to know. Please, Elle. Do not tell me that.”
Why? Had talking to them been so wrong? “But I thought Detective Stiles was your friend.”
An audible sigh. “Yes, Elle. Nick Stiles is my friend. Mine. Not yours. To you, the man is a homicide detective.” She spoke slowly, as if to a moron. “Elle, listen to me. Detective Stiles did not come to your house to socialize. He came to interrogate you. Swear to me you will not let the police in again without a warrant.”
She stopped, waited for a reply.
“Okay.”
Not good enough. “No. Not just ‘okay.’ Swear.”
“Okay. I swear.”
“And do not answer any more of their questions, not a single one. If they have questions, tell them to contact me. Get it?”
I got it. “So I guess you think I’m a suspect?”
A pause. A tsk. I pictured an eye roll. “Elle. You’re kidding, right? Yes. Definitely. You. Are. A. Suspect.”
“That’s insane—” Something hot flew up my rib cage. “Susan, I didn’t—”
“I know that. Anyone who knows you knows that. But the cops don’t know you and don’t care. Unless they have compelling evidence leading them elsewhere, they’ll go after the easiest, most likely person.”
“Which would be me?”
“Sad to say. The estranged spouse.”
I shivered. Sat on a step in the hallway. The police seriously suspected me. The facts pointed my way. I looked down the hall, saw the door blur. Felt tears pool around my lashes. What the hell was happening? Nothing seemed real. Not the murder. Not the suspicion. Not my life. I grabbed the banister to make sure it was solid.
Susan was still talking. Asking questions.
“Sorry.”
“What exactly did they ask?”
My nose was running now, and tears were sliding down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw. I needed a tissue. Didn’t want to get up and look for one. “They were making a timeline, they said. Checking what I did all day, what time I left, what time I came home.”
“Okay.”
“Turns out I might have been home during the murder.” My voice sounded unfamiliar. Like a cough or a choke.
“What? Time of death was while you were—”
“That’s what they said. I was here only for part of the window, but still—”
“Shit. If you knew the time of death, why did you tell them you were home? Why didn’t you call me?” She was yelling.
“I didn’t know the time of death, Susan. How was I supposed to know why they were asking me what time I got home? Besides, that wasn’t the only thing they asked. They wanted to know what I’d done when I got home. What rooms I’d been in.” And why couldn’t I actually remember all of it? I stood, desperate for a tissue, headed into the kitchen.
“Okay. Whatever. The damage is done. Damn, you’re crying, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. Stop crying, Elle.” Her voice softened
, became maternal. “I’ll do damage control. We’ll get through this.”
I took a deep breath. Swallowed. Nodded. Yes, we would get through this.
“So what did you tell them you did after school?”
I grabbed a tissue from the box on the windowsill. Paused to blow my nose. Told her what I’d told the police. And then, I told her the truth.
“Wait, you don’t remember anything? But you said you wrote that memo—”
“I know I wrote it because I have it. So I must have written it that afternoon. But I don’t remember writing it. Same with the arithmetic papers. They got graded. But I don’t remember doing it.”
“It’s shock, that’s all. It’s normal.”
I let out a breath, slowly. Letting Susan reassure me.
“People don’t process memories in traumatic situations. That’s why eyewitnesses are so unreliable. The brain shuts down in crises. Memories get distorted or don’t get recorded at all.”
I nodded, dried my face. She was right. Just as I’d suspected, the gaps in my memory were normal. The result of a traumatic situation. My mind had been scrambled.
“Besides, you probably weren’t paying attention to what you were doing. Lots of times, we do stuff on automatic, without thinking. If you ask me whether I did laundry yesterday, I’ll have trouble remembering. I don’t pay attention to laundry. I just do it. Sometimes, I’m amazed that I have clean underwear in my drawer because I have no recollection of putting it there. So, you came back from school and did what you normally do. You didn’t know you’d have to remember it, so you didn’t pay particular attention. You were tired and your mind wasn’t recording. That’s why your memories are so vague. No big deal.”
No big deal. Good.
But Susan wasn’t finished. I pictured her pushing her hair behind an ear, straightening her posture as her tone became formal, businesslike. “We have to meet, Elle. Attorney and client. We need to get to work and to get you off the suspect list.”
I wrote the appointment on my calendar: Susan. Wednesday. ten a.m. My handwriting looked strange. Unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. But then, so did the rest of my life. And I couldn’t stop to think about strangeness. I was late for my appointment at the mortuary.
