by P. J. Vernon
“No. I haven’t personally seen anything to suggest that,” she answered. “But there’s a first time for everything, and that night might’ve been it.”
“Was Paul also intoxicated?”
“Paul doesn’t drink,” Charlotte replied with an assuredness I’d expect from a spouse. Not a sister-in-law who lived in a different state.
“What do you think happened that night? Any idea where Paul is?” If Charlotte had a theory, it might provide insight into Gray’s relationship with her husband.
She answered quickly, perhaps eager to clear Gray of any wrongdoing. “I think he planned to hurt her. I think he was so upset, so angry, he planned to hurt my sister.” She pushed her empty cup away and spoke forcefully. “Then he thought better of it. If word got out he’d laid a hand on his wife, he could kiss a political career goodbye. I think he brought her home and then left for a motel. He didn’t trust himself near her so he put real distance between them.”
Her reply made perfect sense except for one glaring omission. “And what about the voicemail? The one from the woman calling herself Annie?”
She exhaled, gathering her handbag back to her chest. “I don’t know what to think about it. A prank call, maybe?”
“But the timing—”
“Yeah, I know. It’s really bizarre she called right after Paul took off.” She glanced out the window and then at the watch on her small wrist.
“Really bizarre.”
She shifted in her seat, making evident her patience was stretching. “Coincidences do happen, though. All the time.”
“One last question, Charlotte. I can’t count on Joanna for straight answers, and your sister seems too broken up to even consider the possibility. Do you think Paul was having an affair? Maybe with this woman, Annie?”
“No,” she answered, eyes lingering on mine. “I’ve never suspected Paul of an affair. And I’d know. I slept next to an adulterer for years.”
Charlotte dropped her purse on the table with a heavy thud that screamed our conversation was over.
“Excuse me, detective. Busy day. Kids,” she said and exited the café. As the door swung closed behind her, I began processing our discussion. Leaning back in my chair, I folded my arms. I didn’t believe Charlotte had been lying about anything she’d said. She never broke eye contact during her answers. Her jawline never even tensed. The only nervous fidgeting came when she discussed the state of her sister, but that simply indicated sincerity. Telling me how drunk Gray had been made her uncomfortable. When it came to her older sister, discussing matters that could be framed as disparaging wasn’t easy for her.
Most importantly, I’d verified Gray’s condition on the night in question. She’d been too intoxicated to carry out any sort of crime resulting in Paul’s disappearance. He weighed twice what she did and had been stone-cold sober. At least according to Charlotte.
Then there’s the voicemail. Annie’s message. Gray could’ve called herself from another phone to throw off suspicion. The thought had crossed my mind, but the desperation in Gray’s voice—the frantic search for answers in her eyes as she played the message for me? That was real. I didn’t believe that she’d called herself to muddy the waters.
Charlotte’s theory, too, had some weight to it. A drunk wife was an easy target for a guy like Paul. But he was too smart and had too much on the line to trust himself around her. Instead of striking Gray out of jealousy, he might have extricated himself from the situation. Worried over what he would do if he spent any more time with Gray than he absolutely had to, he might have even left his luggage behind.
It was certainly a possibility.
* * *
Back at the station, Sammie found me at my desk, poring through my interview notes from Gray and Joanna.
“Any luck getting contacts for the other folks at Ruby’s?” he asked, pulling up a swivel chair from the next cubicle over.
“I’ve scheduled sit-downs with Jacob and Frances. We’ve got a police record for an Elizabeth local named Jonas Hatfield. Disorderly conduct two years ago and public intoxication last spring. I’ve left him a message to get back in touch.”
“And Annie? Whoever the hell she is?”
I sighed. “‘Whoever the hell she is’ sounds like the right sentiment. No luck. No leads. We just have to hope she reaches out again.”
“How’d coffee with the sister go?”
“Okay,” I answered. “No new information beyond what Gray and her mother already told us. Charlotte was ashamed to speak about Gray’s intoxication, so at least that’s verified. Didn’t suspect Paul of an affair, either.”
“Speaking of,” he started, shifting his weight in the squeaking chair, “I’ve found some unusual stuff on Mr. Godfrey.”
“Oh?” I said, meeting his eyes. “What sort of stuff?”
“Well, debts. A startling amount of debt for somebody so well off.”
“Sometimes folks who look rich are just MasterCard-rich. Remember Greg Whitman of Whitman Autos,” I reminded him.
“I remember,” he replied. “Just, given his connection to the King family, it’s a bit surprising is all. Extensive debts.”
“Go on.” I put my interview notes back in a manila folder and pushed it away.
Sammie leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. “Well, for starters, he apparently has a bank account Gray ain’t privy to.”
“Gray gave me a list of their accounts. She was absolutely certain it was exhaustive.” Of course, well-executed lies inspire confidence in others. Especially spouses.
“She didn’t include it in her disclosure.” He pulled a flip pad from his back pocket and began to tick through his notes. “She gave us the joint checking and savings. And the Charleston firm holding her trust. A whopper of a trust, mind you. Three credit cards—all in her name with him listed as an authorized user. Not surprising after seeing his credit score. But she never mentioned Paul’s Navy Union account.”
“Paul never served. How’d he acquire a servicemember account?”
“His late father was a naval airman. Fought in Korea, I think. That makes Paul eligible for Navy Union banking. That’s the account the government garnishes his wages from.”
“Wait, Paul’s wages are garnished?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Yeah. And he does some accounting sleight-of-hand to keep Gray in the dark. His salary is direct deposited into two accounts. Their joint checking and the credit union account where Uncle Sam takes a slice back for the student loans he defaulted on.”
That’s unusual. “How and when did he default on student loans?”
“It turns out Paul lived the high life well before he married into the King family. Lavish dinners, three-hundred-dollar bar tabs on a regular basis. Get this, as a law student he shelled out almost two thousand bucks a month in rent. All from student loans he didn’t pay back.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“That honking diamond Gray sports? Another loan. Sixty thousand dollars borrowed against their D.C. townhome. Possibly fraudulent since only Mrs. Godfrey’s name is on the title, and the cash was disbursed into an account she doesn’t know exists.”
Another thought struck me. “Or does she know it exists? Maybe she lied to us.”
“What would her motive be?” Sammie asked.
“What’s the single thing the entire family—Paul, Gray, Charlotte, especially Joanna—is preoccupied with more than anything else?”
Sammie thought for a moment, answered, “Appearances.”
“If Paul’s hiding debt, Gray might not know or she might not want us to know. She may not have even tipped Paul off that she was onto his money moving. Easiest way to maintain a lie is to tell as few folks as possible.”
“Same for a crime.” Sammie added.
“Regardless, whether she knowingly or unknowingly bought her own ring, this doesn’t make sense. If Paul’s hiding debt, why would he run off from a wife who just so happens to be, oh, I don’t know, a ship
ping heiress?”
Sammie ran his hand through his hair. “No idea. Especially since his name is on the trust, too. He’s entitled to half of it if they divorce—so long as he doesn’t cheat. And half of it ain’t nothing to balk at. He gets it all if he outlives Gray.”
I thought about that for a moment. South Carolina marriage laws are antiquated, often filled with all kinds of morality clauses. Paul gets half of the trust if they divorced, but if he was unfaithful he’d forfeit the whole thing. If he and Annie were engaged in an affair, he’d be under intense pressure not to let Gray find out.
Pressure Annie might not feel so much. Or care about.
Sammie interrupted my thoughts. “Other things don’t add up, too.”
“What other things?”
“Well, his debts are bad, but they look paltry compared to the King trust. I don’t understand why they don’t just pay them off in one lump sum from his wife’s inheritance?”
Sammie asked a perfectly normal question, but somebody ambitious like Paul Godfrey didn’t operate under the same paradigm as normal folks. The more he gained, the more he had to lose. And the more one had to lose, the more warped his priorities became.
I offered an explanation. “If he rented a posh apartment as a broke law student, then Paul cares about appearances quite a bit. He didn’t rack up those bar tabs drinking by himself. Bills like that come from buying rounds. And people buy rounds when they’re flush with cash or want to look like they’re flush with cash. Combine that with an upcoming run for office, and you’ve got somebody who would do everything he could to keep debts hidden. Perhaps even from his own wife.”
“You mention the run for office,” Sammie replied. “Don’t political parties vet potential candidates? Especially for defaulting on something like a student loan? Hell, if that’s not showing disregard for government, I don’t know what is.”
I chewed on the cap of my pen. “The run hadn’t been announced, but you’re right. They would’ve requested financial disclosures from him. Or at least they would have very soon. If Paul was cheating on Gray, he’d be under severe pressure to keep it quiet. And if he planned to run for congress, he’d be under as much pressure to settle his debts.”
“None of it makes sense. His disappearing or running off or whatever. There’s no narrative to any of it.” Sammie was right about that, too.
“None of it makes sense if Paul ran off.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“Then he’s missing for some other reason, and we need to know who stands to benefit from his absence.”
14
Gray
Rain pelted the window like bullets. Hard and fast. It turned out the afternoon’s sunshine had been nothing but a spiteful trick. The night-light in my bedroom threw exaggerated shadows against the walls, sharp and violent.
Three days now. Three days without a drop to drink, and the third night was always fucking hell.
My sheets, soaked in sweat, twisted tighter around my legs as I turned from one side to the other over and over again. My phone sat facedown on the nightstand. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. I had no interest in knowing how little sleep remained for claiming. Assuming I even could.
It had never been this bad before. Of course, there’d been the sleepless nights. But having Paul next to me had always provided an inch of comfort. That tiny comfort would have been like oxygen to the drowning woman I’d become.
Now he was gone. Maybe even missing, whatever that meant. The renewed separation anxiety compounded my withdrawal, and my heart pounded away erratically in my chest. Sometimes it beat too slow, sometimes far too fast. Never like it should.
And there was no way to stave it off. I’d stolen away to Mamma’s bathroom again only to find the Valium removed from her cabinet. I should’ve grabbed more than a handful that first day. I was always so impulsive. Never thinking down the road. Never beyond the immediacy of the present.
I’d confirmed the wine cabinet had been locked. The same with the liquor in the dining room buffet. The police had the rental, and town was too distant to walk. No one, not Mamma, not Cora, not even Charlotte would lend me a car. I’d run out of fresh excuses to be dropped off in town alone.
All day, the calls had been relentless. Vapid messages from everyone that wasn’t Paul or Annie. Friends of ours in D.C. sending me their thoughts and prayers. I could hear the hesitation tainting each well-intended message, the inevitable pause before reminding me to stay strong. Not to let the “circumstances of life” get to me. I was unsure whether this referred to the affair they suspected Paul of having or my drinking. It became harder to distinguish the two. To pull them apart and keep them in separate boxes in my mind was impossible. Maybe I wasn’t as great at compartmentalizing as I thought.
Nothing more from Annie.
Paul’s Annie. That’s how I’d started to think of her.
How long had it been going on? My memories of Paul hunched over his phone became more detailed. Now, when I recalled each instance of peculiar secrecy, I plainly saw the screen of his device. Now it read “Annie.”
Perhaps I’d die tonight. A heart attack or cardiac arrest or whatever happened to the hearts of drunks. I’d read online withdrawals from certain drugs, even the most dangerous ones like heroin, were almost never fatal. But drink? You can seize up and die. The culmination of delirium tremens. DTs. The worst sort of shakes.
I’d used the threat of a seizure once as leverage in an argument with Paul. He’d come home from an overnight trip in Toronto to find me waking up from a particularly hard binge the day before. Whenever he left for business, I tended to overdo it even for me, but I usually managed to clean myself—and the house—up before he returned. This time had been different. I’d been caught off guard.
Purpled splotches of dried cabernet spattered the kitchen sink, slung across the counter, and pooled in places on the floor like a sweet-smelling murder scene. A cadre of fruit flies danced on the rim of a half-emptied wineglass. A take-out box of Pad Thai spilled out onto the kitchen table, leaving greasy imprints from a late night binge.
The waking pain was unbearable. Too severe to drive or walk to the liquor store. Too severe to do anything but drink. I could drink it away if only he’d bring me something.
“Do you want me to die, Paul?” I’d half screamed, half cried when he confronted me in our darkened bedroom. Coffered ceilings and fermented air. “The store is just around the corner. One bottle of wine.”
“Look at yourself,” he’d said, disgusted. He’d held the back of his hand to his nose as if the sight of me might make him vomit. “You’ve done nothing but drink since I left.”
“Please,” I begged, my dry eyes stinging with fresh tears. “One bottle. If I can just get to sleep tonight, tomorrow I can start clean, I promise. I can’t start over like this. I can’t.”
His brow remained creased, but he relaxed his hands and knelt by our bed.
“One bottle of wine.” I coughed, running quaking fingers through my knotted hair. “If I have a seizure, I could die.”
“Jesus Christ, Gray,” Paul whispered, stroking my wet cheek with the back of his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you running away from?”
I began to shake all over. Maybe from my hangover, maybe from fear, probably an unhealthy mixture of both—but I didn’t answer his question.
He stood, collecting his car keys off the dresser. “One bottle,” he relented. “You’re not going to the hospital, I promise,” he said with a small smile. I strained to take it for genuine caring, but I knew that the thought of an emergency room visit—and the publicity it’d invite—had been the real motivator.
As he left our home for the liquor store, I lay back on my satin pillow. The shaking stopped. My body still ached and an invisible vise tightened around my skull, but the trembling had vanished in an instant.
The answer to his question had been simple. Perhaps the most obvious thing in my life. Myself. I was runni
ng away from myself.
* * *
When I opened my eyes, I only heard stillness. I wiped my sticking eyelids and daylight broke through. My cheeks stung. They felt creased from lying motionless across crinkled sheets for hours. Hours.
I’d slept! I sprang for my phone. Ten fifteen AM. I didn’t care what time I’d finally drifted off. It no longer mattered. It could’ve been three in the morning, and I’d have still slept for seven whole hours.
And then I saw the missed call. “Unknown” at 4:28 AM. And the voicemail.
Annie.
Scrambling, I input my PIN and held my breath as I waited for the message to start. Should I be happy? Or terrified? She’d finally reached out again like she said she would. But why call so early? Here I was sleeping away while vital information waited in my phone’s mailbox.
Her voice was a near whisper. Lower than last time. “Hello, Gray. It’s me. It’s Annie. I’m sorry to call at such a crazy hour, but I still want to talk to you about Paul. If it’s possible, I’d like to meet with you.”
My heart pounded in my chest as adrenaline bolted outwards through my arms and legs. Annie wanted to meet me.
“Some place private. What I have to say is very…” she hesitated, “sensitive.”
I wasn’t sure what to think of that. Sensitive meant risky for Paul. But if taking unnecessary risks on Paul’s behalf was something this woman was worried over, that likely meant Paul was okay.
Annie continued, “The bistro on Oleander Avenue. The Italian place. Meet me there this afternoon at one thirty. Come alone. Don’t notify anyone. Not your family and certainly not the police.” Her voice lowered even further. I could barely make out what she said next. “This is incredibly sensitive, Gray. No one can know, or everything could be ruined. Paul’s future bid. Everything.” The message ended with a click as Annie hung up.
Annie was in Elizabeth, and I was going to meet her. My worst fears began to erode as I reasoned through her message. She wasn’t his mistress. She wasn’t Paul’s Annie. If she was, she’d have no reason to meet with me. And if she was afraid of harming Paul with whatever information she had, then Paul had to be alive. At least for now.
