Memory of Murder

by Kathleen Creighton

  He nodded, muttered something ambiguous, and turned the page. And as he did so he heard a small voice somewhere in the foggy wilderness of his mind telling him, No-wait. There’s something there. Something… He paused, turned the page back, stared again at the photos of a chubby toddler in a pink jacket and purple mittens, dark hair sticking out in feathers from under a purple knit stocking cap, cheeks rosy with cold.

  What is it? What am I missing?

  But the answer eluded him, and the voice in his mind was silent. After a moment he turned the page again, with a small lingering unease that was just enough of a discomfort to make him constantly aware of it, but not quite bad enough to do something about. Later, he told himself. It’ll come to me.

  But a moment later, once again there was Richard Merrill’s voice calling from out in the hallway. Like a diligent chaperone, Alan thought irritably, nervous about leaving him and Lindsey alone together.

  Or me, alone in the house with whatever secrets he’s trying to hide.

  He and Lindsey both turned like guilty teenagers as her father appeared in the living-room doorway, his hands on the shoulders of a shivering and towel-wrapped Chelsea.

  “Somebody here needs a ladies’ room,” Merrill said jovially, while Chelse, naturally, looked as if she wanted to disappear.

  Alan shifted the album off his lap, but Lindsey placed her hand lightly on his shoulder as she got up. He watched her as she slipped her arm around his daughter, saying with a smile, “Oh, sure, honey, you come with me.” He watched Chelse leave without a glance at him, her dad. Her eyes, as she gazed up at Lindsey, seemed almost worshipful. And again he felt it-that weird pang he couldn’t identify. He wished to God he knew what it was he was feeling.

  He didn’t have much opportunity to dwell on it, however. Grinning and rubbing his hands together, Merrill plunked himself down in the spot recently vacated by his daughter and pulled the open album onto his lap.

  “Hah-I see Lindsey’s been taking you on a trip down memory lane. It’s been a long time. Boy, these sure do bring back memories! Look at this-her mother and I got her that riding toy. I think it was her third birthday. It looked so darn cute in the commercials, except they left out the sound effects. Damn thing made this squeaky-squeaky sound, nearly drove us nuts.” He shook his head as he stared at the old photographs, cheeks positively glowing with fatherly pride, gaze completely besotted.

  And Alan thought, My God, what am I doing here?

  Lindsey’s right, this is nuts. The guy couldn’t be any more straight arrow and genuine. Obviously a devoted husband and father. What am I doing here? Wasting my time, that’s what.

  By the time Lindsey and Chelsea came back, chattering together like BFFL-which his daughter had informed him meant Best Friends For Life-about things he had to assume were the latest and coolest in girl stuff because it was Greek to him, he’d all but convinced himself there was no case, cold or otherwise. Susan Merrill’s “memories” were the confusion of Alzheimer’s-end of story. Sad, but hey, it happened.

  He was even beginning to see a bright side to this new development. If he wasn’t working an investigation involving Lindsey Merrill, what was to prevent him from…well, from what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Asking her out, maybe? He wondered how she’d feel about that, and whether she’d be more receptive to the idea of making their “cover” arrangement real if he wasn’t looking at her daddy as prime suspect in a very old murder.

  And, he thought, she seems to like my kid.

  That seemed to him like a good sign.

  Predictably, Chelsea groaned and pouted when Alan told her it was time to go, evidently having completely forgotten how she’d groaned and pouted a few hours earlier when he’d told her where they were going to be spending the afternoon. He didn’t think he was ever going to understand what made his own daughter tick, and he’d been told he could only expect it to get worse from here on in. It was a pretty depressing prospect, making him wonder if that had something to do with the stomach-twisting pangs he kept experiencing whenever he saw the rapport that was evidently developing between Chelse and Lindsey. He was beginning to feel like a clueless bystander in his own daughter’s life.

  While Lindsey helped Chelsea gather up her stuff and Alan tried to herd her toward the door, Richard Merrill followed along, going through the usual song and dance routine of the gracious host. Telling Chelse how glad he was she’d come, she was welcome anytime, and he hoped she’d come back again real soon. Giving Alan a good firm handshake along with a warm smile and a clap on the back and telling him the same things. Meanwhile, Lindsey stood by hugging herself, smiling nervously and looking at the ground.

  And it occurred to Alan-a lightning bolt of realization, actually-that this was the moment. I have to kiss her goodbye.

  Of course he would. It would be expected. It would seem odd if he didn’t. Somehow, standing on her parents’ doorstep in the twilight of evening, under the watchful eyes of her father and his daughter, he would have to kiss her. And make it look like a casual thing, something he did often and without giving it much thought. God help him.

  The feeling in his belly reminded him of when he was about fourteen, getting ready for some school dance-he’d forgotten exactly which one, but it was the first time he’d actually asked a girl to go anyplace with him. He remembered walking up to Melanie Friedman’s apartment door while his mom waited downstairs, and his hands being so wet with sweat he had to wipe them on his pants before he could even ring the doorbell. Remembered the butterflies in his stomach.

  Terrific.

  The moment was here.

  “Well,” he said, smiling in that awkward way, “guess I’ll be seeing you…” And he still didn’t have an endearment that suited her.

  She nodded, her smile so stiff it made his own face hurt to look at her. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in close, and after the smallest hesitation she lifted her head, and her lips were there for his taking.

  So, he kissed her. And there was nothing even remotely casual about it.

  He felt-heard-the faintest intake of breath, then her mouth was soft and yielding, warm against his. He felt her hand trembling slightly where it touched his waist, just above his belt, and shivers spread out from that spot and rippled across his skin.

  He knew a moment of pure panic, fearing he’d lost track of time and that the kiss had already lasted much longer than it should. It should be-had to be-a brief goodbye peck, nothing more, he knew that. And yet he wanted it to go on and on, and ending it seemed the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  But he did end it, somehow. Pulled back, not breathing, and then, for some reason, touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers as he whispered, “Bye…call you later, okay?”

  She nodded again, and laughed-an uneven whisper of sound. Her cheek felt hot and velvety on his fingertips.

  Then he was walking away from her, walking down the driveway to his car, jangled on adrenaline and the alarm going off inside his head. Personal feelings-you’re letting them cloud your judgment! Back off! Back off!

  Chelsea was quiet on the way home, as usual, and for once he didn’t try to get her to talk to him. He drove with one hand over his mouth, half his mind on what he was doing, the other half lecturing himself, scolding himself for making what-for a detective-amounted to an unforgivable mistake-forgetting the Joe Friday mantra: Just the facts, ma’am.

  That’s what he had to do. Follow the facts. Investigate the facts. Wherever they might lead.

  Fact: Susan Merrill remembers an act of murder and/or attempted murder committed by the man now her husband, Richard Merrill. Whether the event actually happened or not, her memory of it is fact.

  Fact: There is no record of Susan Merrill’s existence prior to forty years ago, in San Diego, California.

  Fact: Richard Merrill’s background is unverifiable.

  The fact was, he was spinning his wheels, turning in circles, going nowhere. He needed answers, and there didn’t seem
to be any, anywhere.

  Except…maybe hidden in Richard Merrill’s desk?

  And there was that picture, the one of Lindsey playing in the snow. What was it about that photo that bothered him? Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?

  It would come to him. Eventually. He hoped.

  The ringing phone woke Lindsey out of a sound sleep. She reached for it, shaky, heart pounding. She was an insurance agent; a phone call in the middle of the night most likely meant disaster for someone.

  She propped herself on one elbow, cleared her throat and fought to produce a professional-sounding, if somewhat husky, “Yes-this is Lindsey Merrill. How can I help you?”

  She heard a soft grunt. “Well, you sound wide-awake. Don’t tell me you can’t sleep, either.”

  “Wha-who…Alan?” She lurched upright, shaking in earnest now. Adrenaline, she told herself. His voice was unexpected at that hour of the night. Woken out of a sound sleep-who wouldn’t be startled?

  “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to wake you.”

  “No problem,” she murmured, and put one hand over her eyes, gritting her teeth as she tried to slow her breathing. “What-”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was brusque, all business. She could imagine his eyes, hard and cold as flint. Cop eyes. “Hey, listen-I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She cleared her throat; her heart rate seemed to be returning to normal. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Did you ever own a snowsuit?”

  She laughed, and said, “I beg your pardon?” Whatever she might have expected, it wasn’t this.

  “A snowsuit-you know, one piece, zipper down the front, mittens on a string threaded through the sleeves so you won’t lose ’em. Oh, and a hood that cinches up tight around your face…your mom and dad ever make you wear something like that?”

  “Uh…no, I don’t think so. Why would they? This is San Diego!”

  “Even when you went to the mountains to play in the snow?”

  “No! We went like…once, that I can remember. Why would they buy me a snowsuit to play in the snow once? You saw the pictures. I was wearing a regular jacket. And I think I had on a knitted cap and mittens-they probably bought me those just for the occasion. Why on earth would you ask such a thing?”

  “Think about it.” His voice was rough, gravelly. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

  She gave a helpless shrug. “I…can’t. I don’t know what-”

  “Your mom-when she told you about Jimmy playing in the snow. You said she mentioned a snowsuit. Remember that? Are you sure-are you positive that’s what she said? She specifically said he wore a snowsuit?”

  “Yes…yes, I’m sure she said snowsuit.” She caught a quick breath, feeling in short supply, suddenly. “She said he looked like-”

  “-a penguin. That’s what I thought.” There was a long exhalation. “Okay, well, that field of haystacks we’re looking in just got a whole lot smaller.”

  “I still don’t-”

  “Lindsey, I grew up in Philadelphia. I remember snowsuits. I wore snowsuits. Hot-so many layers underneath you couldn’t move, and God help you if you had to pee or scratch an itch. Every kid who grew up where it’s cold had to wear snowsuits. Like you said-people who live where it’s warm don’t buy snowsuits just to go play in the snow once in a blue moon.”

  “So, that means…”

  “You’re obviously not awake yet. It means your mother remembers living someplace where there was snow in the winter-on a regular basis.”

  Lindsey drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, and felt steadier. “That narrows it down some, I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

  “More than you realize, actually. Remember what your mom said about floating? I think she was on a boat. Which means not only was it someplace cold in the winter, but it had to be near water. So, I’m thinking, the Atlantic Ocean or the Great Lakes. Anyway, it gives me a place to start. But in the meantime, Lindsey…I need a favor.”

  “Um…” She cleared her throat, listened to her hammering heart, and then herself saying, “Sure.”

  “I need to get back in your parents’ house. When your father isn’t home. Can you do that for me?”

  Lindsey couldn’t answer him. Her stomach felt hollow, and she was cold.

  After listening to her silence for several seconds, Alan said in a soft-gruff voice, “Look…Lindsey. I know how you feel-I do. Please believe me when I tell you, I’m not trying to railroad your dad. I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m just trying to find out what happened to your mom that she’s having these terrible memories. It could very well be that she’s mistaken about who shot her-if anyone shot her. It could be your dad is guilty of nothing more than trying to protect her. Be that as it may, there is something in that desk of his he’s nervous about. Maybe it’s nothing more than his personal diary, or…I don’t know, his secret stash of…whatever. But I really need to find out what it is he doesn’t want me to see. Okay?”

  He waited, and she still couldn’t answer. After a moment she heard him sigh. “Okay, look. If you don’t want to do this, just tell me now. Tell me you’ve changed your mind about wanting to find out whether there’s any truth to your mother’s nightmares, and I’ll back off right now. Is that what you want?”

  Yes! Oh, yes-I wish I’d never brought this to you. I don’t want to know! Her heart cried out in anguish, but she knew it was lying. The genie was out of the bottle, and there was no putting it back.

  She put her hand back over her eyes and, after unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, managed to croak, “No. No, it’s okay. I’ll…um. Okay. He golfs with Mr. Norwood, our-the next-door neighbor. On Mondays.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know-mornings, I think. No, wait-yes, it’s mornings, and they usually have lunch together afterward. So, anytime before noon should be good.” She pressed her fist tightly against her chest. “Let me know what time you want to go and I can meet you there.”

  Waiting tensely, she heard a long exhalation. “Okay, good. I’ll call you Monday morning once I know what my day’s going to look like. And Lindsey…thanks…I know this isn’t easy.”

  She didn’t know what she replied. All she wanted was for him to be gone so she could curl herself up in a ball underneath the covers and give in to the ache in her throat, her chest, her entire body. But once the connection had been broken, instead she went on sitting with the lifeless phone in her hand, listening to the far-off shushing of waves against the rocks below the cliffs.

  After a while she laid the phone back on the nightstand and unfolded herself, stiff as an old woman. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where she washed her face with cold water. As she patted herself dry, she stared at herself in the mirror, noticing the shadows under her eyes…the lines around her mouth she’d swear hadn’t been there before.

  Oh, God…what have I done? Mom’s illness is tearing our family apart, and now I have to destroy everything that’s left? And, as if that weren’t enough, I have to go and develop some kind of…something-a crush? Lord knows what this is, because it can’t possibly be love!-for the man who is the instrument of my family’s destruction? How could I?

  And please God, tell me…how can I stop it?

  She didn’t know how long she stood in front of the mirror, gazing into her own anguished eyes, before she felt it-the slow relaxing of tension in her body, the easing of the muscles around her mouth and eyes. A quietness came over her…a sense of something like peace-or acceptance, perhaps.

  Because, she thought, whatever else happens, I know Dad loves me, and I know he loves Mom.

  It doesn’t matter if I take Alan to the house, and it doesn’t matter if he searches Dad’s desk. He won’t find anything. Because my dad has nothing to hide.

  Alan stared down at the square of unfinished wood, not wanting to believe, not wanting to accept what lay there before him.

  “I don’t understand.” Lindsey spo
ke in the voice of a bewildered child, and he refused to hear the pain in it. Frustration vibrated through his insides and fury burned behind his eyes.

  Too late, dammit. Too late!

  “It was here,” he said flatly. “You can see it yourself.” He pointed to the dark rectangle of glue residue about half an inch wide, framing a space the exact size of a standard manila envelope. He gave the brush in his hand another twitch, and a few more grains of fine black powder sifted down onto the bare wood surface. “Something was taped to the bottom of this drawer-with masking tape, probably. But it’s gone now.” He exhaled slowly through his nose and reeled in his disappointment, allowing himself only a whispered, “Damn.”

  “It could have been anything,” Lindsey said, her voice now unsteady but defiant. She was hugging herself, he saw when he glanced at her. Had the shakes, probably.

  “Yes, it could. Anything at all. And whatever it was, your father couldn’t take even the remotest chance that a police homicide detective might get his hands on it.”

  “You don’t know that!” It was a cry of pain, as if he’d wounded her. “You can’t possibly know when-” She froze.

  An instant later, so did he. They’d both heard it-the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The creaking of a garage door rising.

  “I thought you said-”

  “It’s too early! Something must have-it’s not even noon!” Her eyes were huge above the hands clamped across her mouth. She moved them long enough to whisper hoarsely, “Oh, God-what am I going to do?”

  “Go-now. Stall him. I’ll get this cleaned up. Tell him-hell, never mind. Tell him anything. Just stall him.”

  She nodded and went, leaving the office door partly open. He had to admire her for that presence of mind, since the sound of the door closing and then reopening would have given him away for sure.

  He moved quickly, sliding the drawer back into place with as little noise as possible, then putting everything back in it, careful to put things exactly as he’d found them. Knowing that, if Merrill was as knowledgeable as he appeared to be, he’d have left some kind of “tell” that would let him know instantly that someone had violated his secret hiding place. Couldn’t be helped.