Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Maybe she’s too guilty.

  I’d floated “Ohio” because yesterday in the kitchen, me taking notes on the laptop, we’d also talked about her life there. Ashlyn hated Dayton, “a frickin’ map dot” with zero to do. She didn’t remember her dead father.

  “Sad,” she’d said, her voice softening, “how different my life would be…” She’d looked away from me, talked to the kitchen wall. “If he’d lived.”

  Her domineering stepfather, she sneered, spent his early retirement flying his private plane and having affairs. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get her back to the abuse. But I know she said it.

  Her mother, doting, traditional, and a fervent housekeeper, spent Ashlyn’s high school career grooming her daughter to be prom queen. And, because “Tom” was often out of town, smothering attention on her dogs.

  “Dogs don’t talk back, she always said.” Ashlyn mimicked a derisive falsetto, then took a bite of just-thawed condolence cookie, a few crumbs falling to her lap. She brushed them onto the floor. “Georgia. What a loser.”

  Now, Monday morning, the rumbling yellow school bus still idles at the corner. A millennial mom in pink kitten heels and a black suit, cell phone to her ear, kisses the top of her son’s head before he clambers on board.

  Where is Ashlyn’s phone? I haven’t seen her with one, never thought about it. Has she called her parents? Her pals? How about that boyfriend, or the babysitter?

  “Screw that, right?” Ashlyn says.

  “What?” I know I didn’t ask her anything. And there’s nothing unusual here at the crosswalk, unless you count a fluffy-tailed squirrel risking its life to scamper against the traffic. Road kill, I think, before I can help it.

  Ashlyn turns to me, adjusts her big sunglasses. “Oh my god, sorry, I am such a crazy person,” she says. “I was thinking about something else, and must have…” She shakes her head, the darkened lenses hiding her expression. “Nothing.”

  “Do you have a phone?” I ask.

  “The damn cops took it.” She flips her hand, annoyed. “Quinn’s still trying to get it back.”

  A block until Ristretto. It’s show-on-the-road time, whether Ashlyn likes it or not. They’re paying her to talk to me.

  As I predicted, only a few tables are occupied, some with summery umbrellas strategically unfurled, shading the filigreed metal tables and their occupants from the morning sun.

  “I’m nervous about our deadline, Ash.” I wave her through the wrought-iron entrance gate toward a square metal table in the corner, white tablecloth, a turquoise-striped umbrella in the middle open on a tilty metal pole. A bouquet of orange chrysanthemums teeters in a turquoise ceramic vase, wobbling on the uneven tabletop. “Can we fast-forward?”

  “No prob.” She pulls out her chair, its metal legs rasping across the concrete patio. She sits, picks up the plastic-covered menu, flips it to the back, then the front again. “That’s why we get the big bucks, right?”

  I think of my list as I sit across from her, and try to pick a topic. I’ll hold off on the big stuff—Tasha’s father, whoever that is. Why wasn’t he a suspect? And the elusive babysitter, Valerie. Why wasn’t she a suspect? And the strangely absent boyfriend Luke. Why wasn’t he a suspect? We both fiddle with napkins and silverware.

  “Can we talk about Ron Chevalier?” I’ll start there. She’d asked for him in that jailhouse call. She’d stayed at his apartment, so said the magazine. “According to Scoop Magazine, his nightclub Hot Stuff was—”

  “Did you know Hot Stuff was named that because everything in it was stolen? True story. But you’re so funny.” Ashlyn flaps her napkin onto her lap. “It’s been like two days now. Why don’t you ask me what really happened to Tasha Nicole?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ashlyn’s answer puts me as off-kilter as the stripey umbrella, as off-balance as that turquoise vase. I clean my knife, unnecessarily, with the white cotton napkin. “Well, sure,” I say, as if it had been my own idea. “I didn’t want you to feel as if I’m pushing you.”

  “Look. People love to hate me.” Ashlyn’s voice is soft, softer than I’ve ever heard. Her tone has changed. “I’m really grateful to you, Mercer. I know you’re doing this book to help me. And in a way, aren’t I just like you? A single mother. Trying to make the best of a bad deal in life. We both lost daughters. We’re both devastated. We’re both—”

  I feel my back stiffen, and my eyes narrow. I will not let her say “we’re both” anything on this planet. Her phony sympathy will not distract me. I force my face into a compassionate expression, and hope she can’t read how equally counterfeit it is.

  A waiter in a black T-shirt arrives. Ken, his name tag says. Thank goodness for the interruption. He settles our coffees into place, clattering white china saucers and then white china cups, and then a white china cream pitcher.

  Ashlyn has gone silent, and seems to be wiping her eyes under her sunglasses. She’s in the lee of the umbrella, half in shadow. After Ken finally leaves, there’s only the sound of her spoon as it stirs sugar into her coffee. Then a horn from the street. She looks up again.

  “At least you have a way out. No one blames you.” She points her spoon at me, one coffee drop falling to the white tablecloth. “At least you’ll be able to grieve, and get better, and someday, maybe, you’ll start over. But me? My daughter’s dead. Just like yours. But my life is ruined. Yours isn’t.”

  It isn’t? But I choke back my words, and I’m saved again by Ken’s next interruption. Now, “compliments of the kitchen,” he’s delivering a wicker basket of cinnamon rolls. Their spicy fragrance, usually divine, is sweetly sickening, too strong. I vowed I would not discuss Sophie with this woman. And now she’s brought her up. As if we live in the same world.

  “But how can I even tell people my name?” Ashlyn selects a cinnamon roll, unfurls the gooey spiral. Looks at it, not at me. “I know what they call me. ‘Murder Mom.’ And much much worse. No matter what the jury said, no matter what you write, no one will ever believe I didn’t kill Tasha. People still think, oh, she must be a disgusting horrible person. They want me to be guilty. They think ‘not guilty’ only means I, like, got away with it.”

  Didn’t you? And I want to ask: If you didn’t kill Tasha, who did? But stop myself. For now.

  “But I’m not guilty. I’m not.” She drops the doughy cinnamon-coated strip back on her plate, frowning. “I’m like Casey Anthony. She’s innocent, the jury said so. But she can’t even—I mean, can you imagine her saying her name? Hi, I’m Casey Anthony. People would either bolt, or throw up, or try to grab a Facebook selfie. She can never introduce herself with her real name again.”

  “Did you follow that case?” I ask. Please admit it.

  A lone tear falls down her cheek, emerging under the rim of her sunglasses. The first tear I’ve ever seen from Ashlyn. She swipes it away.

  “I know I agreed with Katherine,” she says. “I agreed to talk to you, and let you write the book. I need the money, just like you, right? I thought I could do it. And you’ve been so nice to me.”

  Little do you know, I think. But this is exactly what I wanted her to believe, so I nod, as if modestly agreeing to my own generosity. She ignored my question, but I can push her about Casey Anthony later, if need be.

  Ashlyn looks around, furtive, as if someone might overhear, but at this hour, nine-ish, the place is in a lull. Those who have to report to offices have gone; those planning a day in Boston are still herding their kids to daycare. She leans forward, reaching one hand toward mine, not quite touching it.

  “I’m so sorry for you,” she whispers. “Katherine told me exactly what happened to your family.”

  And, thud. But I guess I’m not surprised. So Katherine used me and my story as currency. Or better, ammunition. I’ve purposely not opened that personal discussion with Ashlyn, tried to avoid mentioning Dex and Sophie. I suppose it’s a line of connection, but I just can’t go there. Taking a delaying sip of too-hot coffee, I
realize this is how Katherine must have sold the tell-all book deal. Peas in a pod, or some manipulatively odious comparison like that.

  “I see.” Is all I can manage.

  “And thing is, that’s the reason I agreed to talk with you. Only Mercer, I told her.” Ashlyn has both elbows on the table now, her fingers holding her temples as her head barely swivels, eyes searching left, then right, then focusing on me. “You’d get it, she promised me. I could trust you, she said. But thing is, now, I’m not sure. About our book.”

  “Not sure?” I move the cinnamon rolls away from me. Dex craved them. We should never have come here.

  “You totally think I’m guilty,” she says.

  “What? I do not!” I almost choke on my coffee.

  “I bet your entire book is about how guilty I am. That’s just so … difficult for me. I keep wondering if I can trust you. Not to, you know, screw me.”

  “The book—it’s not—it’s only in progress.” I’ve got to steer her away from this. She’s got to be feeling me out, fishing, so I’ll use this time to reassure her. “Of course I don’t think you’re guilty. The jury said you weren’t. I’m just a writer.”

  “Yeah.” She fiddles with her spoon again, turning it over and over. “So can I see the whole thing? What you’ve written, so far? I’m just saying—everything you ask me sounds like you decided, jury or not, that I am guilty. You’re being very nice to me, but like you said. You’re a reporter.”

  “But…” I lean forward, trying not to make too much of it. Not be too defensive. Since she’s right.

  “No.” She puts up a palm. “I am not guilty. I did not do it. And…” She tilts her head, seems to have an epiphany. “It’s my book, now, too, isn’t it? And the whole point of it is to—yeah. I’m not sure you’re the person to write it.”

  Okay, Defcon 1. She’s serious. And this cannot happen. There’s a contract, sure, but it all hinges on her cooperation. If she balks, or tries to pull out—well, it’d be simple enough for Katherine, even with us being pals, to obey the command of the publisher and find another author. An author who won’t care about it as much as I do. An author who doesn’t need it as much as I do. An author who won’t care about justice as much as I do. I muster every scintilla of acting ability in my body.

  “Of course you can see it.” Old journalism technique, agree with whatever the subject wants, even if you don’t intend to do it. And—I just this second realize—I have a big fat ace in the hole.

  “And may I tell you something, in confidence, Ashlyn? You cannot ever breathe a word. But it’ll prove I don’t think you’re guilty. It’ll prove it beyond a—” I pause. She can fill in the blank.

  She looks puzzled. “Prove? Sure, okay. I won’t tell.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise,” she whispers. I take a sip of coffee, getting my story straight. A city bus thunders by, and I hear Ken taking orders from another table. My turn to look around, checking for eavesdroppers, but no one is paying attention to me and the murderer. “There was a juror who…”

  I pause. Savoring the guarded anticipation on Ashlyn’s face. And my own realization.

  The universe has provided me a pivotal insight. If I consider it a different way, I can create a new reality from the Juror G debacle. Turn it into a good thing. Use it as ammunition. My voice lowered and leaning toward her, I tell Ashlyn the whole story. About Carmendy, but not using her name. ‘So incredibly guilty,’ the juror’s quote. Which I may have exaggerated in the retelling. About my recon at the hardware store. And generically, so I’m not ratting out Quinn, I tell what I did as a result.

  “The dumpy woman who always gave me the nasty looks?” Ashlyn’s eyebrows go up. “Her?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” My coffee tastes perfect now. “I’ve never seen the jurors. They weren’t allowed on camera.”

  “She hated me.” Ashlyn’s poking the remnants of her destroyed cinnamon roll. “Hated. I could totally tell. I wondered what happened to her.” She sighs, as if playing it all out, envisioning the alternative verdict. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” I say, agreeing with the movie in her mind. “I knew she thought you were guilty. If I’d been hoping for a conviction, I could easily have kept quiet. If I had, and she’d stayed in that deliberation, you might be sitting in a cell instead of drinking dark roast in a suburban coffee shop.”

  Take that, Ashlyn.

  Ashlyn smiles. Toasts me with her coffee. “Okay. Well, that is—interesting. I must admit. So, okay. Okay. For now. Right? So I’ll … reserve judgment. So to speak. I’ll read the book as we go. And we’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Crisis averted. After our Ristretto détente yesterday, we agreed to start in earnest. No more coffee shop. I’ll transcribe what she says each morning, then craft it into the book while she goes off and sunbathes or watches TV or whatever. I’m happy she won’t be breathing down my neck as I write. I’m at the desk, laptop open. Somehow we’ve both decided to wear jeans and T-shirts this morning. Mine is white and hers is black, which is hilarious.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Go for it,” she says.

  We’re talking about a dead child, and she’s acting like it’s some celebrity interview. But this’ll be over soon.

  She’s appropriated the big wing chair in the study. Where Sophie and I used to read together. I’d put a blanket over it, the ombre pink one Sophie’s Grandmother Emily crocheted, to convince myself it’s a different chair. Ashlyn’s put her second mug of coffee on the mahogany side table. With no coaster. It’s that kind of stuff that makes me nuts. She’s—careless. But maybe I can use that.

  I start with the big one.

  “So, Ashlyn? Let me ask you again. And we can figure out how you want it to go in the book,” I lie. “What happened to Tasha Nicole?”

  She stops, her mug halfway to her lips. Her eyes widen. “Well, that’s the whole point, Mercer. Right? I mean, I don’t know.”

  Pants on fire. “Really?” I say. “That’s so—I don’t know—kind of incredible. Like, you have no idea? At all?”

  “No.” She shakes her head, and I see tears. She closes her eyes briefly. Opens them. “Can we start with a different question?”

  Right. And give you time to come up with a story? Sure, she had plenty of time in that cell to make up something, but maybe now she’ll have to work on a new version of reality. Now there’s been a trial. There’s evidence. And every bit of it has to match.

  “Okay, sure, and I hope this gets easier for you as we go,” I say, trying to look sympathetic. “I know it must be tough. But it’s all for the book, right? A good cause. So … when was the last time you saw your daughter? Was it in Logan airport? And why were you there together, by the way?”

  “We never were in Boston together,” she says, shaking her head.

  My turn to close my eyes. I flap down the laptop, trying to hide my annoyance. This is how it’s gonna go? Pulling teeth?

  “Oh, gosh, really?” I pull open my file drawer, flip through the green hanging folders, pull out the manila file labeled Rogowicz.

  “You know Detective Rogowicz,” I say.

  “Asshole,” she says.

  “Anyway, this police report he filed says he found surveillance tape of you and Tasha in Logan Airport. Just off a plane from Chicago. In some newsstand, playing with a puppy.”

  “Where’d you get that?” She makes no move to see it.

  “Research.” I flip through it, seeing Rogowicz’s sentences typed on the gridded police form. “So if you say you weren’t in Boston together—I mean, I’m so sorry, Ashlyn, but readers will wonder about that video.” Old writer trick, deflection, it’s not really me being pushy, it’s the demanding public. “How should we explain it?”

  “It wasn’t me, maybe? Maybe it wasn’t Tasha? Maybe it wasn’t either of us? How do I know?” Her voice rises with every question. “I wasn’t there. And if it’s such a huge deal, why didn’t they show it in co
urt? I mean, hey, if they have some tape proving I was in Boston, I gotta think they’d have showed it. Don’t you?”

  That had crossed my mind, I have to admit. “So you’re saying it’s not you? Were you ever in Boston during the time Tasha was missing?”

  “She was never missing!” Ashlyn stands, throws both hands in the air, paces to the bookshelves, paces to the door, undoing her ponytail and then banding it back in place. “That’s the whole point. That’s why I have no idea. She was with the babysitter, with—”

  She stops mid-sentence. Her chest rises and falls under her black T-shirt. “Valerie. With Valerie. Or, so I thought.”

  “Right,” I say. “And where’s Valerie now?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Ashlyn’s pacing again.

  “And how about Luke? Walsh? Was he your boyfriend before or after Ron Chevalier? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “How’d you know about Luke?” She stops in front of the bookshelves, faces me, eyes narrowing.

  My turn to pause. Luke’s been such a part of my consciousness through this whole thing—but how do I know? Oh. I heard about him from Quinn McMorran, which I can never divulge. And from Joe Riss, whose confidence I can’t break either.

  “So there is a Luke?” I go on offense, hoping it works.

  “There’s a Luke. But he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Who does, then?” I can’t resist asking. But then decide I should pull way back. Being antagonistic won’t do any good. I’m trying to tease out a confession. Get something. Anything. One juicy morsel. Before she realizes what she’s said.

  “You don’t understand at all.” She stomps to the study door, as if she’s about to leave.

  “Help me, then,” I say to her back. Spider to the fly. “Help me help you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY