Never Tell a Lie

by Hallie Ephron

  Detective Blanchard watched her through the windshield. Ivy’s heart pounded, and blood thrummed in her ears.

  “Stay calm. You with me?” Theo said.

  “I’m with you,” Ivy whispered through gritted teeth.

  “Take a deep breath,” Theo said. “Get out of the car and hear what he has to say. Don’t hang up, okay? Keep me on the line.”

  “Okay.” Clutching the cell phone, Ivy opened the car door.

  Blanchard sprang to attention and held the door open for her. Ivy peeled her sweat-drenched back from the seat and got out. She ignored the hand he offered.

  “Mrs. Rose, I’m here to take you in for questioning,” Blanchard said.

  “Ask him if you’re under arrest,” Theo said in her ear.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Just want to ask a few questions. You don’t mind coming with me, do you?”

  “I heard that,” Theo said. “Okay, go with him. But don’t say anything unless I’m with you. Don’t answer any questions. Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll meet you there.”

  Detective Blanchard let her unload the groceries, even offered to help. Waited while she locked up the house again.

  Ivy rode to the police station in the back of the Crown Vic, buffered from the world by tinted glass. Through the square and on past blocks and blocks of suburban homes, she had the odd sensation that the car was stationary and that houses and trees were being pulled past like panoramas painted on sheets hung from a clothesline.

  The car turned into the long driveway leading to the police station—a sprawling white-shingled building that looked like a country club. She’d often driven past but never gone inside.

  Blanchard continued past a Do Not Enter sign and pulled up behind the building at a multi-bay attached garage, parked the car, and got out. Ivy groped for a door handle but found none. No window control either.

  She willed herself to sit back as the garage door slid open to reveal a mundane interior, much larger but otherwise no different from the average garage. Blanchard got out. He stooped, his face close to the glass, and looked in at her.

  This time when he opened the car door, he didn’t offer her a hand. Didn’t say a word.

  Ivy got out and let herself be herded into the garage. A sign on the door to the building read CAUTION: DOOR LOCKS AUTOMATICALLY.

  Blanchard pressed an intercom button. There was a whirring from overhead. Ivy glanced up. Two cameras swiveled toward them, and a moment later the door clicked open. Blanchard followed her in. With a thud, followed by a loud clank, the door closed behind them.

  The first thing Ivy noticed was the smell—pine cleaner, sweat, and shit. She gagged and then swallowed bile that backed up in her throat. She could feel Detective Blanchard behind her, not pressing, allowing her to take in her surroundings.

  There were no windows, just an anonymous, monochromatic space with whitewashed cinder-block walls and cement floors. Below a gray countertop, two pairs of handcuffs dangled from foot-long chains bolted to the wall. That had to be where they booked prisoners.

  Ivy’s vision seemed preternaturally clear, so much so that a pair of men’s sneakers and a pair of muddy brown work boots in the corner seemed outlined, as if she could Photoshop them out of the scene.

  Blanchard came around to the opposite side of the counter. “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions.” He adjusted a video monitor at elbow level beside him. Her face was on the screen, the angle from above. She found the camera mounted on the wall, just over Blanchard’s shoulder.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t arresting me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why—” she began. But Blanchard continued, intoning the familiar Miranda warning she’d heard a trillion times on TV and waiting for her to respond after each piece of it.

  Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong—Theo’s words and the knowledge that she was not under arrest did little to reassure her.

  Finally: “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”

  Ivy took a breath. “No.”

  “You’ll wait for Mr. Spyridis?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “That’s fine. He’s already here. With your husband.”

  “With my…?”

  “We brought your husband in for questioning a few hours ago.”

  Ivy knees started to buckle. Hours ago? Why hadn’t David called to tell her? Why hadn’t Theo said he was with David at the police station?

  Ivy glanced at the disembodied work boots. Those were David’s. She slid over to an open doorway and peered in at what looked like a bank of holding cells. The two that she could see into were empty.

  “You know, in my experience”—Blanchard had shifted to his “Uncle Bill” tone of voice—“it’s not always wise for a husband and wife to share the same attorney. There can be a conflict of interest, if you know what I mean.” He chewed his lower lip.

  “Please just let Mr. Spyridis know I’m here,” Ivy said, choosing her words carefully, making sure she spoke in a complete sentence and gave the impression at least that she wasn’t the slightest bit freaked out by what was happening. “I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  15

  Ivy followed Detective Blanchard up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and to a door at the end. She wondered if David was behind any of the closed doors they passed.

  He opened the door and ushered her in.

  Ivy had expected to find herself in some kind of an interrogation room, but this seemed to be Detective Blanchard’s office—assuming that the pleasant-looking older woman whose framed photo was on the desk was his wife and the young man in a military uniform was his son.

  Blanchard sat behind the desk. Ivy perched on the edge of a straight-backed wooden chair across from him. He glanced at the phone on his desk. Its red light was on.

  The office was comfortably furnished, with a curtained window overlooking the parking lot. The desk blotter was bare. Bookshelves lined one wall, and on the opposite wall was a large mirror. Beside that was a framed diploma from Suffolk University, 1970. Albert—that was Blanchard’s first name.

  Sweat beaded on Ivy’s upper lip and forehead. She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. It occurred to her that the warmth in the room might be deliberate.

  “I thought you told me my attorney was here?” she said.

  “He is. I’ll go see what’s holding him up.”

  He went out, leaving the door open behind him. Ivy heard his departing footsteps. Then, from down the hall, a knock.

  “Where is she?” It was David’s voice. “I want to see my wife.”

  Ivy stepped to the door and peered into the hall just in time to see Blanchard disappear into the adjacent room. She could hear voices, but the words were indistinct.

  She hesitated for a moment. He hadn’t ordered her to stay put. She slipped into the hallway. He’d left the door ajar to the room he’d entered. She approached it.

  “You bastards.” David’s voice again, hot and angry. “Can they do this?”

  She heard a low voice next, probably Theo’s. Then a woman’s voice.

  Through the door opening, Ivy could see a room, approximately the same size as the one she’d just left. It was dimly lit. She pressed closer, taking in the details in a rush: unadorned walls, a table covered with papers and manila folders along with a phone and a tape recorder, a half dozen chairs.

  The woman was young, wearing a dark pantsuit. Not a uniform. David and Theo were huddled together at the table, deep in a heated discussion, unaware of Ivy’s presence. Officer Fournier, the tall cop who’d questioned them about the trunk outside their house, leaned against the wall.

  What brought her up short was the glass panel on the wall—it was a window through which she could see a desk and a
chair with her jacket draped over the back. One-way glass.

  The woman spoke. “Detective Blanchard is going to interrogate your wife with her attorney present. You’re welcome to stay and watch. Or if you prefer, we can take you to a holding cell.” Ivy realized she was probably the D.A.

  They were going to observe her being questioned without telling her?

  “David,” Theo said in a low voice that Ivy was just able to make out, “I’d advise you, in the strongest possible terms, it’s not in your best interest to stay. Let me take care of this. You have to trust me on this.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I need to be here for Ivy.”

  “But you won’t be. You’ll be in here where you can’t do her any good. And I can’t be in here advising you and in there advising her at the same time.”

  Ivy caught the eye roll Detective Blanchard directed at the woman.

  Theo and David continued to argue, oblivious to her presence. Theo’s exasperation grew as David became more and more adamant.

  “Mrs. Rose,” Blanchard said in a strong voice. “I thought I asked you to wait in my office.”

  David turned. When he saw her, his face filled with dismay. Then his look hardened as he shifted his gaze to Detective Blanchard. “You sons of bitches,” he said.

  Blanchard and the woman exchanged knowing looks, and Ivy realized that they’d intended to lure her from the office next door, wanted her to overhear David facing this difficult choice. They’d wanted her to discover that she’d be watched while she was questioned. They were taking advantage of the fact that she and David shared the same attorney, and Ivy had played right into their hands.

  Divide and conquer, pit husband against wife—it was a tried-and-true winning strategy.

  Feeling like a passenger on a runaway train, Ivy let Blanchard propel her back to the office next door. She sat at the desk, her fingers knitted together, kneading one thumb over the other.

  A minute later Theo entered the room. He’d recovered his usual patina of confidence.

  “The speakerphone,” Theo said, indicating the phone on the desk. He turned to Blanchard. “Could you turn it off, please, while I confer with my client?”

  Blanchard punched a button, and the red light went out.

  “Five minutes,” Blanchard said, and left the room.

  Ivy felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. “David?” she asked.

  Theo tipped his head in the direction of the room next door. “He’s there. Watching. I couldn’t convince him not to.”

  Ivy stood and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. She walked around the desk and put her face close to the glass, pressing her palms hard against it. She hoped David was on the other side, doing the same.

  “Ivy.” Theo’s voice was low and sharp. “We need to talk.”

  He turned her chair so her back would be to the mirror. She sat, and he pulled another chair beside her.

  He covered his mouth with his hand. “It’s very important that you take your cues from me. Understood?” Ivy forced herself to nod. “These guys don’t have a clue what happened to Melinda White,” Theo went on, his voice a harsh whisper. “Right now all they have is some clothing and blood evidence. If they had a case, they’d be going for an indictment. They’re not. They’re fishing.”

  “Fishing.” Ivy repeated the word.

  “You haven’t been arrested, and neither has David. But if they find the smallest chink, believe me, they’ll exploit it. They’re going to try to manipulate you, to manipulate the facts. It’s not going to be easy. These guys are smart. They know just where to stick it and how to twist it.”

  Ivy felt numb. She had to force herself to concentrate on Theo’s words.

  “They’re going to ask you questions. They’ll tape-record what you say, and the D.A. is going to be on the other side of the one-way glass, listening and observing along with David. Whatever happens, check with me before you say anything. Then stick to the facts. Don’t speculate. Don’t offer information that hasn’t been asked for. Understood?”

  “I think so.”

  “I need you to be sure.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Can you do this?”

  Ivy nodded.

  A few moments later, there was a tap at the door, and Blanchard returned. He sat in the desk chair and pressed a button on the phone. The red light came back on. Next he opened a drawer, pulled out a small tape recorder. He clicked in a fresh tape and turned on the machine.

  He began, “Detective Sergeant Albert Blanchard, Brush Hills Police, Wednesday, November fifth…”

  The first questions were innocuous enough. Ivy’s name. Her age. Where had she grown up? How long had she and David been married? How long had they lived in the house? As Ivy provided the answers, it felt as if none if this were real, as if the room were a stage set and Ivy were reading lines that Theo had composed for her.

  Were there problems in their marriage? Theo nodded to answer that one, too. Ivy gave a firm “None.”

  Blanchard moved on to Ivy and David’s relationship with their neighbors. Finally, how well had she known Melinda White?

  Ivy told him they’d grown up in the same town, gone to school together but never been friendly.

  “So when had you seen her last, before your yard sale?”

  Theo’s look gave her permission to answer. “I honestly don’t remember seeing her, not since we graduated high school.”

  “Melinda White didn’t graduate,” Blanchard said. “She dropped out in her senior year.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Ivy said.

  “Completed her final semester and got a GED a year later,” Blanchard said, throwing out the information as if it were inconsequential.

  He went on. “Mrs. Rose, could you tell me what happened Saturday, the first of November, and your interactions that morning with the vic—with Melinda White?”

  Theo hesitated, then nodded. Ivy told, in as much detail as she could muster. Blanchard took an occasional note but didn’t seem to be listening.

  “We’ve questioned your neighbors and quite a few others who were at your yard sale, and although we can find people who say they saw Ms. White go into your home with your husband, not a single person has come forward who saw her come out. Can you explain that?”

  Ivy was about to answer when she caught Theo’s head shake. Don’t speculate.

  Blanchard continued. “If we could find even a single person to corroborate your story that Melinda left your house that morning, then we’d be pursuing other avenues. So I guess it boils down to your word…against everyone else’s.”

  Ivy couldn’t stop herself. “She arrived. She left. That’s all I know.”

  Blanchard shrugged. Then he started in on the wicker trunk. Ivy told him that it had come from Mrs. Bindel’s garage. She enumerated what they’d found inside.

  “Before you left the trunk out at the curb, did you or your husband put anything into it that hadn’t been there when you opened it up?”

  Ivy didn’t wait for Theo’s nod. “No. We just put things back.”

  “After you put the trunk out at the curb, did you put anything more into it?”

  “No!”

  Theo cleared his throat, a subtle rebuke. Stay calm.

  Blanchard leaned back and contemplated Ivy. “Mrs. Rose, we have a reliable witness who saw you outside later that night, alone, placing something in that trunk.”

  There it was. Ivy had known that it would be coming, but still she felt blindsided. “That wasn’t me. You’re making it sound—”

  Theo’s emphatic “Ivy!” shut her up.

  Blanchard went on. “This witness will testify that you and your husband dragged the trunk out to the curb Sunday afternoon. That you left it there. And that, at around ten o’clock that night, you went outside, opened that trunk, and—”

  “That’s enough,” Theo said, cutting him off. “Mrs. Rose has answered your question. Move on to something else.”

  Blanch
ard reached into his desk drawer and brought out a manila folder. “It doesn’t matter, really. We have an overwhelming amount of evidence.”

  He pulled out a photograph and set it on the desk in front of Ivy. It was a picture of the blue and yellow flowered maternity blouse and a pair of denim jeans. “This top and these pants were found in the trunk in front of your home. Those stains are human blood, and the blood type matches Melinda White’s.”

  Ivy didn’t need Theo’s frown to know not to respond.

  Blanchard set down another photo—the glass swan head. “You know about this. We found more glass fragments in a vacuum-cleaner bag in your garbage. I wonder what the jury will say when we tell them you were vacuuming your attic after the victim disappeared. Or that we found the vacuum-cleaner bag slit open and the insides picked through.”

  Theo was acting relaxed, unimpressed, as if all this circumstantial evidence proved nothing. But Ivy’s heart raced as Blanchard droned on, outlining the evidence the way a prosecuting attorney would to a jury. She could see how damaging it all sounded.

  “You know what we found yesterday when we searched the premises of your husband’s business?” He flipped over another photograph. It was a white canvas bag, just like the one Melinda White had been carrying at the yard sale. Sitting on top of it was a wood-handled knife with a long, straight-edged blade that tapered to a point. Ivy winced and looked away.

  “Recognize these items? We found them in a Dumpster behind the barn at Rose Gardens. What if I told you that the fingerprints on the handle are yours?”

  Ivy’s gaze was drawn back to the photograph. She had a set of knives in a wooden block on her kitchen counter. One of them was just like that one in the picture. If the knife in the picture were hers, from her kitchen, then it stood to reason that her prints would be on the handle. David’s, too.

  “Would it surprise you that we found traces of human blood on this knife?” Blanchard’s mouth was set in a grim, satisfied line. “We also found traces of blood in your husband’s truck. What would you say if I told you that the DNA from this blood evidence matches the DNA from the toothbrush we collected from Ms. White’s apartment?”