by Merry Jones
Well, obviously, he felt empty. Charlie was gone. Not in his body. I remembered his body, its weight on me, its heat. Oh God, Charlie. I could almost feel his breath on my face, half expected him to open his eyes and profess his love again. Or accuse me of killing him. But Charlie just lay there, looking almost, but not quite, like Charlie. Doing nothing.
“I don’t understand,” I told him. “What happened? Why are you dead? Who killed you?” I stroked his stony forehead, as if it might soothe him. I asked questions he couldn’t answer. I apologized for my part of our problems, promised that I’d loved him and probably always would. I was leaning over the casket, kissing him goodbye, when the double doors swung open, and children barreled over, surrounding me.
Emma and her family had arrived.
“I’ve brought Mother,” Emma announced, brushing past me, dabbing a tissue at her eyes, peering with what looked like disappointment at her dead brother. Two of her children wriggled in front of her, pressing against the coffin, gaping at Charlie’s body. “She thinks she’s at church. Has no idea what’s going on. She thinks I’m her sister. It’s just as well. This would kill her. Is Ted here?”
I said, no, I hadn’t seen him. Didn’t think he was coming.
“Because it’s time for us to line up for the viewing. People are in the lobby waiting to come in. There’s quite a crowd. We ought to get started—I’ll tell the director to open the doors. Kids, say goodbye to your Uncle Charlie.”
The kids looked at each other, wide-eyed. “Goodbye, Uncle Charlie.”
Emma gazed at him for a moment. Dried a tear. Sniffed. “We’re closing this, aren’t we?” She meant the casket.
Were we? I hadn’t thought about it.
“We don’t want people gawking, considering how he died.” Emma met my eyes, squinting slightly, as if to intimidate. “I’ll go get Mother.” And, taking her children by the hands, wordlessly stomped away.
Edward joined me shortly after Emma left, asked me if I was ready. My head throbbed as I nodded that, yes, I was, and I watched Charlie’s profile until the lid went down, forever sealing him in.
Susan stood close by, near the reception line. With Becky and Jen. My shoes pinched, and I wondered how I’d bear standing in them for the next two or three hours. I greeted Florence, who called me by her dead sister’s name and asked where I’d been for so long. I took a spot in line as far from Emma as possible, putting Florence and her wheelchair, Herb and the children Gavin, Ashley, and Liam between us. Emma, however, moved at the last minute, stepping right beside me with an air of entitlement. As if she thought proximity to the coffin was an indication of rank.
Edward opened the doors, unleashing a throng. Like a mall opening the day after Christmas. The parlor filled with Charlie’s people, all greeting each other, mixing, talking. Like a party. Florence apparently assumed it was a wedding, asking repeatedly, “What’s taking the bride so long?” and, “Maybe she’s not coming. Maybe she’s had second thoughts.”
I glanced around, still a bit unsteady, recognizing only a few people. Derek, of course, was at the head of the line, red-eyed and gaunt. And Mort and Andy, from tennis, looked bereft. Andy quipped that Charlie had only died so he wouldn’t have to lose to them in the upcoming tournament. Mort leaned close, whispered, “No matter what they say, I know you didn’t do it, sweetie,” and then he moved on.
The principal of my school was there, and a bunch of my fellow teachers. Even a big cluster of my students’ mothers—including Benjy’s. Oh, dear. I hoped she wasn’t mad about the cupcake memo.
The line kept moving, a convention of everyone Charlie had ever known. And some he hadn’t, like Detectives Stiles and Swenson, who stood near the entrance, observing, all but snapping photos. People stopped at the casket, some talking or praying, some silently touching it. Tons of strangers, leaning over to hug me, leaving traces of their scents. Chanel No5. Burberry. Opium. Some of the faces belonged to old friends—like Charlie’s college roommate, Jake. He’d gotten fat. And our neighbors from our first apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Shannon. They’d aged well. Mike, the guy who worked on Charlie’s car, was there. And Sophie and Lauren and a woman whose name I didn’t know from my spinning class at the Y.
Lots of people. They knew Charlie from his investment firm or from charities, professional organizations, health clubs, favorite restaurants, civic groups, childhood, school. Everyone was upset, offering sympathy and support. Despite the warm wishes, I was aware that many, if not most of them, suspected I’d killed Charlie. And more than once, I wondered if the murderer was there, in line, offering heartfelt condolences like a friend. Which one was it? Would I know by his eyes? His scent? For a while, I watched, but people kept flowing by, a river of whispers and touches, and I got lulled into a rhythm of nodding and thanking, of drifting along semiaware, returning hugs. Not focusing on details, not differentiating faces.
So when Joel came by, offering a sympathetic squeeze, and a warm whisper not to lose hope, to remember that life could suddenly change for the better, I didn’t react in any particular way. But my face tingled where his cheek had brushed it, and I found a silk handkerchief in my hand. By the time my mind registered who he was, he’d already moved on, past Emma, Herb, and Florence. Out of reach.
Flustered, I twisted, searching, trying to find him in the crowd. Messed up the timing of my responses to well-wishers. Had that really been Joel? The magician from Jeremy’s Bar? What was he doing here? How had Joel found out that Charlie had been my husband? Or heard about his death?
What was I thinking? The story of the murder, as well as my name and picture, had been all over the news. Joel must have heard about it the same way half the other people at the viewing had. But still, why had he come? I mean, we weren’t friends. We’d met only once. That didn’t give him cause to come to my husband’s viewing. Gooseflesh rose on my arms. Traveled up my back. I recalled the rose he’d given me. His cryptic words—he’d said them twice now. About how life could suddenly change. Was Joel—with his teasing eyes and strong jaw—was he interested in me?
I greeted one of Charlie’s clients—Jonas Walters, returned his hug. And felt my face heat up. I was at Charlie’s viewing, thinking about Joel. About flirting with another man. What was wrong with me? I focused, got back into the flow.
At least until a few minutes later, when the woman came up to me. She was dressed wrong, in black leggings, a tight, belted red sweater, too-high heels. Dark-blue eye shadow. Long, dyed platinum hair. She didn’t take my hand or express any sorrow. Still, I thanked her for coming, expecting her to move on. But she didn’t. She remained there, staring at me, silently halting progress, blocking the line. Did I know her? I wasn’t sure. Couldn’t place her. She was tanned, with good cheekbones, strong jaw. Maybe thirty. And determined to remain where she was indefinitely.
Finally, Emma reached an arm out to guide her along.
Fast, like a springing cobra, the woman slapped Emma’s hand. Emma yelped.
“Ma’am—” I stepped forward, protecting Emma.
The woman met my eyes. “You didn’t really know him. Not like I did.”
What?
Emma walked in circles, indignant, looking for help. “Herb—do something. Where is Edward? He should be here.”
“Still, I had to see you, face to face.”
Emma’s kids wanted to know what was wrong, why she was whirling. “Mom?” They followed her like baby ducks. Or a dog’s tail. Around and around. Herb saw his kids and wife fluttering, began fluttering, too. Wringing his hands.
I faced the woman. “What for? Who are you?”
“Just tell me. Why couldn’t you let go and let him move on? Why couldn’t you let him be happy?”
“Excuse me?” Who was this woman? Why was I being so polite?
People in line stirred, confused by the commotion and the bottleneck. Detectives Stiles and Swenson stepped over from across the parlor as Susan intervened, Becky at her side. “What’s going on?”
“This—that person assaulted me, that’s what’s going on!” Emma sputtered. “Where is the help? Why is nobody here to supervise—”
“I’ll find Edward.” Susan seemed to think Emma was exaggerating, but she went off, Becky trailing, while Jen reassured the people still in line, and Herb calmed Emma. Stiles and Swenson moved to escort the woman away, but she resisted.
“You’re not like I expected.” The woman was oblivious to the detectives standing at her side. Wouldn’t budge. “In the picture you were much younger.”
The picture? “What picture?” Who the hell was she? What was she talking about?
“From the wedding.”
I blinked. My wedding picture? This woman had seen my wedding picture? When? Where? And then, I knew: the picture at Charlie’s. I’d see it there, too. On the bureau in his bedroom.
So, this woman had been in Charlie’s bedroom? Who was she?
She had huge hazel eyes. Fiery. Fixed on me. “You stand here like a grieving widow, but I know better. I know the truth—”
Detective Stiles took her arm. “Let’s move on, ma’am.”
“Get that person out of here—” Emma was squawking. “Who is she? She’s disrupted the entire viewing!”
Edward appeared from nowhere as Detective Stiles took her by the arm and led the woman away.
“Look!” Florence pointed as she cried out, delighted. “There she is! The bride! With the groom! Finally.” She clapped her hands, singing the wedding song. “You want to know the truth? I thought she’d flown the coop.”
Gradually, the line dwindled. By four o’clock when I left, my feet were burning and swollen, head aching, and hand sore. I was still bothered by, and Emma was still ranting about, the woman. But out of all of us, only one had any idea who she was: Florence, who was disappointed that she hadn’t caught the bouquet.
Thank God for Becky. I was too exhausted to move, and the doorbell kept ringing. Neighbors, stopping by with casseroles and lasagnas. Or fruit bowls. Delivery men bringing flowers. Derek hand delivered a gigantic sweet tray from Tartes, laden with delicacies of crusty tortes and nutty brownies and buttery pastries that put pounds on if you even glanced at them. He wanted to talk to me. Becky took his tray, told him I was resting, that he could talk another time. He persisted, said he just wanted a minute.
“It’s okay,” I called from the living room sofa. My feet were up. I was sprawling on red leather.
I heard Becky warn him not to tire me as he strode in on spindly long legs which, as always, reminded me of a spider. I didn’t move to make room for him, so he sat on the chair beside me.
“Something to drink?” I had no idea why I offered. I wasn’t going to get up if he wanted anything. But my mama, rest her soul, had raised me properly. When someone came to your house, you offered something to drink.
Derek didn’t want anything to drink, though. He wanted to ask questions.
“I know this is an awful time for you, Elle.”
I waited for the “but.”
“But I’m probably just as upset as you are, in my own way.”
And?
“And I’m going over it and over it. What was Charlie doing that night? You said last time we talked that you hadn’t expected him. So why did he come over?”
Really? The day of Charlie’s viewing, the evening before his funeral, Derek wanted to discuss the circumstances of the murder. Typical Derek. Whatever was on his narrow self-absorbed mind was all that mattered.
“I have no idea, Derek.” I bent my knee, rubbed the ball of my foot, let out a small moan. Those shoes needed to go.
“You said he still had keys.”
“Yes.”
“So he let himself in. Why?”
I kept massaging.
“Was he meeting someone here? Doubtful. Why would he arrange a meeting here of all places? He wouldn’t. And you said—and, by the way, I believe you—that he wasn’t here to see you. So, scratch both those possibilities, and what do we have?”
We? I didn’t know what Derek had, but I had a headache, sore feet, and a dead not yet ex-husband to bury. I let go of my foot. “You tell me.”
The doorbell rang again. I saw Becky hurry to answer.
“I think he was here for one of two reasons, Elle. To get something he’d left here. Or to leave something hidden here.”
Really? “Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Have you seen anything missing? Or found anything new?”
“The police went through everything. They’d have seen anything unusual—”
“But this might be something they wouldn’t notice—something small, maybe. A detail, like a computer flash drive. It might be tucked away. Have you noticed any—”
“Look at this!” Becky poked her head in. “What an incredible cheese platter. From the school—everybody signed the card. Oh my God—even Lois.” Lois was in charge of the cafeteria, never contributed to birthday cakes or shower gifts. Her participation was a big deal.
“Wow.” My voice was flat. “How nice.”
“I’ll try to make room for it—the fridge is full.” She hurried off.
Derek cracked his knuckles, impatient.
I sat up. “Derek, what are you saying? Why would Charlie have to hide something here? Or anywhere, for that matter? There are safety deposit boxes for valuables—”
“Maybe he didn’t have time to get to the bank. Most banks close at three—”
“You’re not making sense—”
“Okay. I’ll be frank. There’s no polite way to say this, Elle. Charlie took something. From the business.”
Something hot hit my rib cage. Seared it. “That’s absurd.” Why was I defending him? “Charlie would never cheat you.” Well, I wasn’t absolutely sure of that. But Derek was probably among the last people Charlie would cheat.
“I don’t mean it that way. He didn’t take money.” Derek leaned forward, clasped his hands. Lowered his voice. “Okay. He took client information, Elle. Highly confidential information. Potentially, very damaging information.”
I took a breath. My chest felt raw. Why would Charlie take client information? Unless—wait. Was Derek accusing Charlie of blackmail?
The doorbell rang again. I didn’t want to know who was there. I was thinking about blackmail. And about Charlie. Not for even one second did I jump to his defense. Not a single breath protested that he’d never stoop that low. I simply accepted the word of Derek, a man I’d always found too slick and more than a little slimy, and his implication that Charlie was a blackmailer. Maybe because I was tired. Maybe because Charlie had disappointed me too many times. At any rate, I didn’t defend him. Didn’t throw Derek out of the house for maligning my newly dead, not yet buried never-to-be-ex-husband, who couldn’t dispute the accusations.
Instead, I thought about what he’d said. “How did Charlie get the information?”
“By accident. A client trusted me. Charlie found the records. It was quite a while before I realized what had happened.”
“So. Why are you telling me this?” I knew very well why. He wanted me to find the stuff.
“Because you might be able to find what Charlie left here. And return it. Elle, if this stuff gets out, not just investments and careers, but actual lives would be destroyed. The results would be—irreparable.”
Irreparable?
Bad enough to kill over? Was that what had happened? Had someone killed Charlie because he’d been threatening to expose their secrets?
“Which client was it, Derek?”
“What?” His smile was twisted. “You know I can’t tell you that, Elle.”
“But you have to. Think about it. If Charlie was blackmailing someone—someone powerful and important—they might actually have—”
“Have killed him?” He was laughing. “Seriously? Elle, if people like our clients wanted to kill Charlie, believe me, it wouldn’t have been so clumsy or so messy. He wouldn’t have turned up bleeding all over your house with a carving
knife in his back. No. It would have been delicate. An undetectable event. In fact, I doubt his body would ever have been found.”
His voice had a thin, vibrating timbre, sounded like a threat. Was Derek implying that, if I didn’t come up with the information he wanted, I could encounter some delicate, undetectable event? Smug, slick bastard. I’d never liked Derek.
“You know what, Derek—” I was about to say that I didn’t appreciate his implications about Charlie or care about his precious client’s information, and that I would appreciate it if he’d remove his slimy butt from my house, but I didn’t have to. At that very moment Becky came in, handing me a small envelope and a mug of steaming tea. Scolding him.
“You have to see the flowers that this card came from. Who sent them? They’re amazing—”
“Open it.” I had no interest in flowers.
She opened it while scolding Derek. “Elle needs to rest, Derek. Can’t you see that? Leave her alone. Visit another time.”
“You’re right.” Derek looked my way, raised an eyebrow. “As I said, this is a difficult time for all of us. Thanks for the talk. And let’s keep in touch on this matter, Elle. Keep an eye out, will you?”
On his way out, he pecked my forehead. I tasted bile.
Becky held the card up, reading. “If some roses on a cloudy day can make your troubles lift away, then let them come from whom they will, and go outside, and see the sun—” She stopped and looked at me, brows knit. “Elle? Who’s Joel?”
“Her name is Sherry McBride.” Susan talked with her mouth full of a corned beef on rye from a deli tray someone had sent over. She’d just rushed in from an informal off-the-record talk with her pal Detective Stiles, who’d done some research about the woman who’d been removed from the viewing. I wanted to take her aside. To tell her in private about Derek and what he’d said about Charlie, but she was bursting with news. “She’s single, thirty-three years old. And a receptionist at Multicor.”
