by Merry Jones
From far above in the rooftops, I saw myself leave the ground and fly. Saw myself hit the pavement. Heard a passerby ask, “Miss, you okay?” And struggled to my feet too late to watch the cyclist with the purple helmet pedal away.
The bruises didn’t seem bad at first. Not as bad as the scrapes on my knees from tiny glass shards and pebbles and whatever else coats the pavement on 9th Street. Or the raw patches of skin on the heel of my right hand and along my forearm.
The good news was that I caught the cab I’d seen. He stopped along with the other cars, as drivers gawked at the woman who’d been knocked down by a hit-and-run bike rider. Pedestrians offered help. A woman took my arm, guided me out of the gutter. My body was tingling, rattled. But nothing was broken; my parts moved. I gathered up my handbag. Checked myself, saw that my khaki Capris were dirty and stained. Brushed them off with sooty, prickling hands. People were staring. The woman asked if I needed an ambulance. Someone suggested calling the police.
No. No thank you. No ambulance. And certainly, definitely no police. Thanking the woman who’d helped me, I hopped into the cab and recited my address, felt the vibration of the engine as the cab took off. As we drove, I watched out the window for a cyclist with a purple helmet. Didn’t see one.
A few blocks later, it sunk in that someone had just tried to kill me. Or at least to mess me up. But who? Why? Was it the same person who’d killed Charlie? My hands stung. I kept reliving the moment before the impact. Trying to see the person’s face. But all I could recall were the whooshing of wheels and the sense of flying. And the image of watching myself fly. My dissociative disorder. Lord.
Blood oozed out of my scrapes, but the driver asked no questions, made no comments. He simply drove. His license, posted above the meter, showed his photo and name. The name had lots of consonants. Looked foreign. Maybe he was quiet because he didn’t speak English well. Or maybe he didn’t like fares who’d been lying bloody in the gutter. I saw his dark eyes watching me in the rearview mirror. Maybe checking to see that I was all right. Or to make sure that I wasn’t bleeding onto his upholstery. I understood how he felt, having lost a sofa to blood myself.
The initial numbness of shock was wearing off. Sharp pain began stinging my hip, my arm, my elbow, the palms of my hands, my cut, which had ripped opened yet again. And the cab jerked and wove, bouncing over potholes, swinging around double-parked trucks, skirting SEPTA buses, lurching to sudden stops for pedestrians or red lights. Hurting all over, I clung to the armrest, hoping to survive the two- or three-mile ride from Chinatown to my home in Fairmount. I needed to get inside, figure things out. I looked outside the window, watching the street numbers increase, still watching for the bike rider and the purple helmet.
Finally, we pulled onto my street. Home. I wanted to pay the driver, dash into my house, sink into the bathtub, soak my wounds, and try to figure out who’d just run me down. But I didn’t do any of that.
Because when the cab stopped in front of my townhouse, Susan was on the doorstep, dressed in a lawyerly green suit. I’d forgotten. She was waiting to give me bad news.
“Where’ve you—” she began but stopped as I emerged and she got a look at me. Her mouth opened. “Now what? You look like you’ve been rolling in the gutter.”
How odd.
“Hit-and-run. By a bicycle.” My jaw felt stiff. All of me did.
“Seriously?”
I paid the silent driver, took my keys out of my bag, limped up the front stairs. My right hand stung and trembled.
Susan took my keys, unlocked the door. Inside, she looked me over, assessing the damage. “You’re bleeding. You’re a mess.”
She threw me into the shower. Moments later, wrapped in a soft oversized towel, I sat wincing and whining on the toilet seat as she tweezed gravel out of my scrapes and examined my bruises. The bloody cut on my left hand balanced the oozing scrapes on my right. Both knees, my right arm, and left hip were darkening, blossoming with varying shades of red, purple, and blue. Contrasting with the yellow-green tones on my forehead.
No question. Susan was right. I was a mess.
“So where were you? What happened? Someone just rode past you and knocked you down?”
Again, I pictured stepping onto 9th Street. The rider speeding up. And then, the taste of gutter dirt.
Hot water, the rough washcloth stung on my elbow.
“Think back. Do you remember anything about the bike? What color was it?”
The color of blur.
“Or the rider? Was it a man or a woman?”
“No idea. But the helmet was purple. And the cyclist wore black spandex with yellow accents.”
“There. That’s something.”
Well, not really.
“Were there witnesses? Did you get their numbers? They might have seen—”
No. I didn’t get any numbers.
Susan fretted. She scolded. Finally, she took out her cell phone, made a call. Told me the police would look into it, though we both knew there was nothing, not a piece of evidence to lead them anywhere.
“What’s wrong with you, Elle? Why didn’t you get the witnesses’ information?”
I was shaking. Cold. Had no idea what was wrong with me. No, not true. I had a list of defects. And Dr. Schroeder had just identified two more.
Annoyed with me, Susan finished her doctoring. Told me I’d live. Asked if I wanted some tea.
I was still braced for her to give me the news she wouldn’t say on the phone. I opted for something stronger.
At the bar in the study, Susan poured two generous servings of Johnny Walker Black. I looked before I sat, but didn’t see Charlie on the sofa. Of course I didn’t. Charlie was gone, buried. Hadn’t shown up since the funeral.
“Want an ice pack?” Susan offered from the bar. “It’ll stop your swelling.”
“No, I’m okay.” I wasn’t. I sat gingerly, protecting sore spots, took a long swallow, leaned back, felt soothing heat slide down my throat.
And braced myself to hear whatever Susan was about to say.
She sat beside me. Sipped. Held her glass on her lap. Her suit was a soft hunter green. Professional silk blouse. Her heels low, practical. I had rarely seen Susan in lawyer garb. She sipped again. Put her glass down.
“So.” She pushed hair out of her eyes. “Two things. About Sherry McBride.”
I swallowed booze. Picturing her with Charlie, her fiery hazel eyes.
“Here’s the thing: According to Detective Stiles, there’s no definitive evidence that Sherry McBride ever dated Charlie. No evidence that the two ever even had a drink together. Or a hot dog. Nothing.”
“What kind of evidence would they expect?”
“Witnesses. Friends who’d seen them together, or whom they’d talked to about seeing each other. Or souvenirs. Or e-mail. Or phone records. There’s nothing.”
“But she acted as if they were involved—”
“Yeah. Because, more than likely, she wanted to be involved with him. Knowing Charlie, he encouraged her. Smiled, took an interest. Talked to her. Charmed her. You know how he was. But he was probably an unwitting participant in what limited relationship they had. Probably had no clue about her fantasies.” She took another drink. Set it down again. Leaned back, stretching her arms out on the back of the sofa. Loosening up.
Charlie had the gift of remembering not just everyone’s name, but their stories, as well. Their details. As if each one he spoke to was the most important person in his life. It was how he got people to trust him. Hell. It was how he got me to marry him.
“Bottom line,” Susan continued, “no one who knows either of them says they ever saw each other romantically or even socially anywhere outside of work.”
“But they must have.” At the viewing, Sherry McBride had commented on my wedding picture. She must have seen it. “She’s been in Charlie’s bedroom.”
“Elle. I’m sorry. How could you possibly know that?”
I told her about the remark. A
nd about the wedding picture on Charlie’s bureau.
She tsked. “Really? Do you seriously think that the photo in his bedroom is the only wedding photo Charlie had? He probably had one in his office. On his desk. For all you know, he papered the walls with pictures of you.”
“Okay.” I got it. Took a sip. Another.
“Elle, the fact that she saw a picture of your wedding doesn’t mean she saw it in his bedroom or that she was involved with him. In fact, even if she did see it in his bedroom, we can’t conclude that they were involved. Knowing her, she could have been stalking him and broke into his place.”
I was unconvinced. “It doesn’t mean anything that nobody knew. People see each other secretly all the time. Especially if they work together.”
“Elle. Seriously.” Susan frowned. “Why would Charlie bother to sneak around with her? He was single again. Could date anyone he wanted. No reason to hide.”
True.
“But beyond that, think about it. About Sherry McBride.”
I did. Saw her cornering me at the viewing with fury in her eyes.
“Look how she behaved at the viewing. How she dressed. The woman has no class. She’s loud and foulmouthed. Cheap. Crass.”
Sherry McBride was also long legged, athletic, womanly. With an ample bosom. Actually, men like Charlie might consider her amusing. Or wait, no. Not men like Charlie. What was I thinking?
“Trust me. Charlie wouldn’t as much as look at someone like her.”
Actually, she was right. Charlie wouldn’t as much as look at Sherry McBride. But not for the reasons Susan had listed. Sherry McBride was simply way too womanly. Way too adult.
I swallowed Scotch, thinking of Charlie. How many times had we had sex? A few thousand? More? During all those times, had he been fantasizing that I was a child? Oh God. I took another gulp. Another. How was it possible that I hadn’t suspected anything? Hadn’t seen any signs? Obviously, I hadn’t suspected because Charlie hadn’t wanted me to. Had been good at keeping secrets. Well, the secret was out. I was going to tell Susan, show her the pictures. But she was still talking. I needed to pay attention, find out why she looked so upset. So animated.
“—bad news. Her alibi checked out.”
Wait, whose alibi?
“She was seen. Just like we thought, she followed Charlie to your house. But she didn’t go up to the door or ring the bell. He didn’t open the door to let her in.”
Oh. Sherry McBride’s alibi. I put my cup down, closed my eyes. “How do you know?”
“Your neighbor, Charlotte Fox, came home from work around five thirty and took her dog out. The dog found Sherry on their property and, being a guard dog, he did his thing. Went crazy. Of course, Mrs. Fox made her leave. But the important thing is when she found her, Sherry was crouching behind a planter, watching your house. She insisted that her boyfriend was in there, that she was just waiting for him to come out.”
I knew Charlotte Fox. She took great pride in her horticulture, didn’t like people messing with her planters. But wait. The encounter didn’t necessarily give Sherry an alibi. “Susan. You said Charlotte took the dog out at five thirty. Charlie wasn’t killed until after six. Sherry could have come back without Charlotte seeing her.”
“Well, no. She couldn’t have.”
Susan sighed, met my eyes. More bad news was coming.
“Stiles and Swenson did their homework. Records at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital emergency room show Sherry McBride showing up at 5:55 p.m. and being discharged at 8:15 after receiving twenty-two stitches on the ankle and calf. For dog bites.”
Damn. Sherry wasn’t a suspect in Charlie’s murder. I lifted my Scotch. Winced as the cool glass touched the raw spot on my palm. “So. Sherry McBride’s off the hook.”
Which put me more firmly onto it.
“I don’t suppose that, while she was surveilling my house, she saw the killer go in or come out?”
Susan looked glum. “Stiles asked.”
“And?”
“Not a soul.”
My cell phone rang. I picked it up, saw the name on the screen. Ted Harrison. No way I was going to talk to Ted. He hadn’t bothered to show up for the viewing or the funeral. Had nothing to say that I’d want to hear. I let the call go. No sooner had it stopped ringing than it started again. This time: Derek Morris. I cursed, grimaced, let him go to voice mail. Wasn’t going to talk to him, either. Was not going to deal with his desperate search for the porno flash drive.
Susan saw my reaction, tilted her head. It was time to tell her. But when I opened my mouth, I didn’t mention the flash drive. Instead, I asked, “How about lunch?”
I stalled. Made use of my refrigerator full of cold cut trays from the funeral. We would eat sandwiches in my kitchen, talk about normal stuff. How I missed my class. Who was feeding the hamsters. If the substitute was being good to my kids.
Susan talked about her daughters. How Lisa and Julie were like pit bulls, fighting constantly over nothing.
We stood at the counter where I’d heard my dead husband call my name, felt him kiss my neck. I recoiled at the memory. The thought of his touch now repelled me. Susan saw me twitch, raised an eyebrow as she spread mustard.
“I mean, all siblings fight. It’s not unusual.” She assumed my twitch was a reaction to her daughters.
“I’m sure it’s just a phase.” I tried to look calm.
Susan smirked. “Like my brother and me—we really fought. Remember when Scott broke my arm?”
“No, I remember that you fell out of a tree while you were trying to lasso him.”
She laughed. “I got him, too.”
“If you don’t count the part where he pulled on the rope and you fell.”
She dished out potato salad. Roast beef and cole slaw on rye for me. Baked ham and Swiss for Susan. Dessert of brownies with walnuts and dark chocolate chips. Cream sodas. Heavy, comforting food.
But eating ended. Chitchat was over. It was time to tell her about the porn. I didn’t know how to begin, how to bring the subject up. We had, after all, just finished eating. Lunch didn’t seem an appropriate time to say I had a dozen or so computer files full of naked children. Maybe I should start by talking about Derek. About his assertion that Charlie had stolen client information. How he’d come over, asking to look around the house for missing files, maybe for a flash drive.
But I didn’t. Because it didn’t matter how I got around to it, I’d still eventually have to talk about the porn. I’d have to admit that Charlie had possessed it, brought it into my house, hidden it there. Might have died trying to protect it. And, even though the porn wasn’t mine, even though Charlie, when he’d brought it into the house, had no longer been my husband except technically, even with all of that, I was still ashamed to tell Susan about it.
After all, Charlie had been my husband for a long time. I’d loved him, and somehow, his secret—his depravity—felt personal. As if it reflected on me.
I drank more Scotch. Tried to build up nerve. I’d known her forever, but wasn’t sure that our friendship could withstand my connection, however indirect, to something as vile as child pornography. Susan was, after all, the mother of three. A home-room mother at the school. An officer in the PTA. The mom whose house all the neighborhood kids played at.
No. Susan would not be tolerant of abusers of children. Or of those who tolerated, let alone, married them.
“So,” she swallowed a gulp of soda, “why do you think Derek Morris keeps calling you?” She took another drink. “Knowing him, it’s about money. Did the firm have life insurance policies? Or death benefits?”
Not even close.
“By the way, did Charlie have a will?”
A will?
“Do you have a copy of it? Because you should.”
I didn’t have a copy. In fact, I didn’t even know if he had a will. Nor did I know if Charlie’s firm had death benefits or life insurance.
“We never discussed dying.” Hadn’t p
lanned on doing it in the short term. Wills, life insurance—none of it had seemed important yet.
Susan shook her head. “Seriously? Never? Lord, Tim and I already have our burial plots. We have everything—a funeral bank account, life insurance, trust funds for the house and investments, wills. The whole enchilada.”
Good for them.
She shrugged, still amazed at my poor planning. “I’ll call his divorce lawyer. Maybe he knows. Hell, maybe he drew up Charlie’s will.”
I swallowed the last of my Scotch. And decided to just get it over with. Time to tell her. Friendship aside, Susan was my lawyer. She needed to know about the porn. After all, Charlie might have been killed because of it.
And so, I took a deep breath. “Did you like him, Susan?”
“Who, Charlie?”
I nodded. Yes. Charlie.
She stuttered. “Of course. Well, I … I mean, in a way. He was charming. Not that I liked the way he lied to you. Or how he stole your inheritance—”
“But he seemed decent?”
“Basically.”
I took her by the hand, then, and led her to the study. And opened my computer.
Before I opened the files, I asked Susan to take a seat on the sofa and told her about Derek. “He told me that Charlie had stolen private client files. Important information that could ruin prominent lives.”
“Wait, what?”
I sat sideways, so I could face her. “He indicated that Charlie was going to blackmail one of their clients. And he thought Charlie might have hidden the information here. He asked if he could look around.”
“Tell me you didn’t let him.”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I don’t trust him. So what are you going to show me? You found the pilfered files?”
I nodded. “I found the flash drive after the funeral. Charlie hid it on the bar.”
“So?”
“Susan. It’s pretty—”
“No, I’m asking if you told Derek that you’ve found it.”
I shook my head, no. “See, the stuff on the drive isn’t what Derek said it was. It’s not private client information.”
