Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

  "Peter Burroughs went to dinner with John while they attended the conference in London and said John was severely upset about something you'd done. He used the word "betrayed." Do you know what he was referring to?"

  Davonna gaped at the man across from her. "I have no idea. The day he left, all we talked about was the list for the garden. Which I lied about, we didn't write it out together. John inspected the garden, wrote down what I needed to do, and said if the list wasn't finished before he got back there would be consequences."

  "I thought as much," Savva said. "Did you argue? Did you speak to someone or go somewhere he didn't like?"

  "No, I rarely say more than ‘hello’ to Ioannis and Theodora. I sometimes speak to Thanos when I'm waiting for the bakery to open. But John was always at work."

  Savva stuck his hand inside the pocket of his blazer. "I managed to get the phone records for John's office phone at the hotel. There's a call from the UN Interpretation Service."

  "What? I haven't spoken to them in years."

  "It was a three minute conversation."

  "What did they want? What did he do?"

  "Well I'm afraid that part becomes a little hazy. My sergeant called the office today and was informed that they had asked for your information because of a job opening. Because of how he reacted with Peter Burroughs, John must have taken it to mean that you had applied. I assume that was why he felt you had betrayed him and why he said you would pay for it."

  "But John never said anything about a call from the UN! When did he receive it?"

  "Three days before he left for London."

  "I swear he never said anything to me. I haven't applied or called about a job!"

  "Please relax, Davonna, I've already spoken to them. They wanted to approach you about a managerial position."

  "But what did he mean? Making sure I would pay … I haven't paid …”

  Her eyes filled with a terrible fear and they locked on Savva's. She went cold, as though her blood had turned to ice. She couldn't breathe. The walls had all fallen away and she was standing on the edge of an abyss, waiting for the monster within to devour her.

  Savva looked sideways at her for a moment and then his eyes went as round as a pound coin. He sunk back against the back of his chair. He deflated in the leather chair, as if the force of gravity had somehow doubled.

  "He killed himself," they said together.

  Savva left Davonna as quickly as he could and went straight to the police department. The question of what to do swung, like a pendulum, in his mind. He pulled himself out of the cycle to find himself sitting in his office chair, thumbing through files.

  "Have a minute?"

  Savva jerked his head around, in the doorway stood Rallis. Savva grunted and motioned him through.

  "Your handwriting specialist called me."

  "That was quick."

  "He called to say definitively they are the same person."

  "How on earth could he know that?"

  "He said, about the list for the garden, you can see it in the shape of the g's as well as the random letters which are written in cursive. Also the writer is, without a doubt, left handed."

  "He'll testify?"

  "Well, he said to give him a couple days to double check, but he's sure."

  "Damn …” whispered Savva.

  "Something wrong?" Rallis leaned forward and put his hand on the edge of Savva's desk.

  "John Fitzroy wrote the garden note. Mrs. Fitzroy told me,” Savva said. “But what's interesting is that Fitzroy's girlfriend swore up and down that Davonna wrote the second note—the one with all the demands."

  "She couldn't have done. Aside from the obvious fact that she's right handed, precluding ambidexterity."

  "John Fitzroy forged the note in order to cast suspicion on his wife."

  "You don't know that."

  "I spoke to a friend of his, an old colleague. Fitzroy ranted about his wife's ‘betrayal’ and vowed to make her pay. Then he goes on to show his mistress and his friend this 'note.’ He created the evidence to frame her."

  "You think he wanted her to be a suspect?"

  "I think he wanted her in prison."

  "Why?”

  "What started all of this was the situation with Anthony Goldstein. The hotel was failing, the evidence he was blackmailing Goldstein with was stolen: he was ruined.

  "Then he receives a phone call at work three days prior to the London trip. The phone call was from Mrs. Fitzroy's former employer. It's the proverbial ball drop, something snaps. The night before he leaves, Mrs. Fitzroy sees him go into the garage and stay there for an extended period of time. It fits with the evidence. Mrs. Fitzroy doesn't have any knowledge of the Morgan—she could have done something simpler, and more hotheaded, if she wanted to get rid of him.

  "So, John knows the gig is up. Who knows what Goldstein would do to him? He saws halfway through the brake lines, concocts a story, spreading lies about how awful his wife is. The friend I spoke to, Peter Burroughs confirmed John had been violent to a girlfriend before. It's not a leap at all to conclude that John Fitzroy cut the brake lines on his car in order to frame his wife for murder. He even turned around so he could go off the cliff and make it look like the car was out of control."

  Rallis whistled. "What a piece of work. But there's no way to prove it."

  "I'm going to give it all to her lawyer. Then I'm going to go upstairs to tell Kleitos about my reservations."

  "You could get fired."

  "What do you think this is about? Huh? This is about an innocent woman who is being traumatized by her husband—even after his death. This is about justice and the law. I don't care about my job. Let him fire me. I'll still be called as a witness. I'm the lead on this case."

  "You're talking about blackmailing Kleitos into dropping the charges."

  "No. Blackmail entails a ‘you do this so I won't do this’ sort of agreement. I'm going to call Sofia Gabris now. It's Kleitos' decision whether he sees the light or makes it harder for himself down the line."

  "Bloody hell, man," Rallis said, smiling as Savva frowned. "It's what the English say, isn't it?"

  The two men laughed before Savva remembered himself and sobered up.

  "I'll back you with Kleitos,” Rallis said quietly.

  "No."

  "Savva, you aren't the only one with professional ethics. John Fitzroy committing suicide with the intention of framing his wife for his death is the only answer that fits with all the evidence."

  "Yeah, well, thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  He picked up the phone, still pleased with himself, but worried about what Shayma would say. What would happen when he was fired and their income dropped to nothing? But he saw her smiling face, the woman who had come out of the sea, saw her clear belief in right and wrong, and in God's providence. He didn't believe in it; but she could. He was happy to support her.

  Sofia Gabris answered on the second ring, and was immediately furious that he'd spoken to Davonna alone. Savva had to shout before she fell silent. He laid out the facts. It was quiet on the other end of the line when he'd finished.

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I don't want an innocent person to be hurt."

  "I've heard rumors about you, Captain Savva."

  "Oh yes?" Savva replied, but he didn't care to hear. All he wanted was quick compliance.

  "I've heard that you're fair, that you follow the law, and that you're a bit of a loose cannon as far as the department is concerned."

  "Sounds about right."

  "I'll hire you as an investigator for my firm, if you get sacked."

  Savva blinked, "I'm not sure I'm ready to work for a bunch of lawyers just yet."

  "I'll owe you. You're a good man," she laughed and hung up.

  Savva rolled his eyes at the ceiling. He picked up the phone and called the desk sergeant.

  "Colonel Kleitos in?"

  "Yes, Sir. Shall I pass you on to his offic
e?"

  "Nah," Savva said. He scooped up Fitzroy's file and headed upstairs. "Afternoon, Sir," Savva said, as he strolled through the doors to the office.

  Kleitos looked up from his briefcase, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "What is it, Savva? I've got a meeting in ten minutes"

  "I'd like to let you know my thoughts on the Fitzroy case."

  "Oh, good god, man. Can't it wait?"

  "No, it can't, Sir. I have good reason to believe that Davonna Fitzroy did not, in fact, kill her husband."

  "Oh, you do, do you?" Kleitos said, slowly. His face turned sharp and he steepled his fingers as he spoke, "And precisely what makes you believe that? Hard evidence I suppose?"

  "Yes, Sir, evidence."

  Savva proceeded to lay out what he'd collected: the passport: Davonna's testimony about their marriage; John's time in the garage; the handwriting analysis on the notes; Anthony Goldstein's confession; and ended with Peter Burroughs and John's previous violence.

  "That's it?"

  "She didn't do it, Sir."

  "That's supposition."

  "Supposition, Sir, is what was used to arrest her. We have no hard evidence linking her to the crime. In fact," Savva said, working hard to control his tone, “… the only prints on the tool used to cut the brake lines are John Fitzroy's."

  "Which can be explained because he used the garage."

  "Yes, Sir, he used the garage, not Mrs. Fitzroy. She's rarely seen driving. The only explanation, which fits, is that John Fitzroy staged his death to look as though his wife had killed him. He was going to be ruined financially, if not worse, and he chose to get back at Mrs. Fitzroy after receiving a phone call from the UN."

  "You go too far," Kleitos sputtered.

  "Rallis will back me up on this."

  "I don't give a damn who backs you up, Savva! Davonna Fitzroy will be tried and found guilty and be sentenced with the maximum allowed."

  "Not with my help, Sir."

  "What? What did you say?"

  "I can't go against my conscience. I'll be frank, on the stand, about my reservations. All the defense has to prove is there's another explanation for what happened and Anthony Goldstein is sitting pretty on a silver platter just waiting to be served. The state has to prove beyond a doubt that only Davonna Fitzroy could have done it."

  "I'll have your badge."

  "Go ahead, Sir. I'll still testify the same way. Sofia Gabris has also been made aware of my thoughts on the case. I'm sure there's a high chance that Mrs. Fitzroy won't be found guilty. It'll look badly on you, Sir, when you could have dealt with this before trial."

  "God damn you," Kleitos sputtered.

  "Sir, respectfully, you don't have anything to threaten me with. You either remove the charges or not. It's up to you." Savva stepped back and enjoyed the delightful array of colors on Kleitos' face. It was like watching the sun set over a thick bank of clouds.

  He was in the parking lot when his phone rang. Kleitos' office. A wide, gleeful smile broke over his face.

  XVIII

  Τώρα που ζω, θέλω να γδω τα πιθυμάω κι ορίζω, κι άμα, σα φύγω να με κλαίς,χάρη δε στο γνωρίζω.

  Now that I am alive, I want to see, to wish and own, when I'm gone and you cry for me I won't know it.

  Savva pulled into the driveway of the Fitzroy House, but didn't bother to look up at it. He had it memorized the exact number of red shutters on the front (four), the number of marble pillars (twenty-four), and the number of feet between the garage and the kitchen door (one hundred). How long had it been on his mind, the pink house with its strange occupant? It was like the unfinished song that rolls around in your mind for days on end or the book you lost at the precise moment that the man stuck alone on a mountain was eating his last meal.

  But at least, here it was, the ending, the ever-elusive answer. Savva pulled up, directly in front of the huge glass doors. The day was closing; already the island had started to cool. The wind bore a faint hint of the sea. It rippled the hem of his suit coat, pulled at the dark green hedges like a lover, and bore the whistling merry tune of the waves and the cicadas across expanses of olive groves and fine houses and graffitied ruins.

  Savva pulled open the glass door and let himself through. Sharp, cool air blew softly in his face and he relaxed, letting his shoulders fall. He closed his eyes, just to take pleasure in the moment, and then he raised his hand, with a strange smile on his face, and knocked sharply on the door.

  Davonna sat, curled on a chair, where else but in the library, looking east, staring unseeing at the garden. How much more time was left to sit here in the stability of her books? Would she soon be tied to a prison schedule in a concrete room with nothing to keep her sane? Would she succumb to the uselessness of life behind bars? Would she ever survive? Would Savva just continue on, trying to solve cases without a second thought for her?

  Davonna put her hands over her face, horribly defeated. It was all too much ... too much for any mind to process. Why? Why? When had life gone so terribly wrong that her husband felt the only recourse she deserved was to go to jail for his murder? Why?

  But there was no answer. There was only heartbreak and silence. A knock sounded on the door, loud, insistent. Davonna rose mechanically and walked across the hall towards the front doors.

  "Captain Savva?" she said, uncertainly, as if she didn't know whether at this moment he was friend or foe. Was it possible for him to be both?

  "May I come in, Mrs. Fitzroy?"

  "Yes," she said. Her mouth had turned to sandpaper; she couldn't form a more polite response.

  "Where would you like to sit?"

  Davonna couldn't move her feet, all she could do was blink and pick at the hem of her white silk shirt.

  "May we sit in the library?" he asked.

  He led her gently, as though she was an injured wild animal. He took her hand in his and walked slowly, padding over the Persian carpets, past the marble busts and the expensive pastoral landscapes hanging on the walls, and through the thick doors to the quietness of Davonna's sanctuary.

  Even my own chair, Davonna thought, as he set her into it. Was this the behavior of a foe? Did they so softly lead you to your demise? Did they sit across from you with such a bright smile?

  “It's good to see you again.” Her voice was strained, as though her throat had been ravaged by a hacking cough.

  "I wanted to come and give you the news in person."

  "I'm going back to jail, aren't I?" Large, fat, painful tears slid down her cheeks. Tears of remembrance. Tears of frustration. Tears of fate.

  Savva half stood and scooted his chair close. Davonna cringed at the sound of the scratch marks on the pristine floors. He once more took her hand in his. His dark eyes were hung with sorrow, but suddenly his brows unfurled and his cheeks rose and his teeth appeared. He was lovely in a way she hadn't seen before. There was goodness about him like a light.

  "My boss," Savva began, but he couldn't help smiling hugely. "My boss and the prosecutor have decided there isn't sufficient evidence to charge you with John's death and the evidence in fact forces us to rule John's death a suicide."

  Davonna convulsed forward, her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked out at Savva with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He smiled and then his body too convulsed and in a moment they were laughing. Laughing like two old and very dear friends over a joke not heard for decades.

  She held onto his hand like an anchor. All around her something began crashing down, like a glass ceiling during an earthquake. Her head fell back against the chair and she met, whatever it was that was shattering, as though they were drops of rain on parched land or snowflakes caught on the tongue.

  How long did they sit there, holding onto each other, laughing, crying for joy, unable to contain the tide? Did Savva really pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes? Did people still carry those around? Did she really hiccup herself into seriousness only to collapse into laughter once mor
e?

  "Your sister will think we've gone mad," Savva said, with a tail-end chuckle.

  "That ship sailed a long time ago."

  "Maybe she'll be friends with mad people."

  "I'd like that."

  They looked at each other for a minute or two. Davonna grinned, amazed at the change in Savva. He looked a thousand times lighter and more peaceful, and there was a gleam in his eye as though any moment now he'd announce that he was off to travel the world: to drink margaritas in Mexico, climb Everest, and dive the Great Barrier Reef.

  "Have you talked to Sofia?"

  "I have. She offered me a job, but as I've managed to still retain mine; I had to give my regrets."

  "I'm surprised she didn't tell me."

  "I asked her not to. This is my way of making it up to you."

  "You were only doing your job, Captain."

  Savva waved his hand as though he was shooing away a pesky fly. "Alexandros, please, now that we aren't at cross purposes anymore."

  "Alright," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you came to tell me yourself. I don't think I would have laughed as well with Sofia."

  "Perhaps not. I'm happy to help."

  Another happy silence filled the room. Davonna finally let go of Savva's (no, Alexandros's) hand and curled back into the chair comfortably. She turned to look out the window. The slowly setting sun had turned the garden into a symphony of color, all pinks and oranges and blue-tinted green.

  "It's a beautiful view."

  "I was only ever happy in this room and out there."

  Alexandros looked up; a frown replaced the mirth and peace. "You don't have to tell me, but I'm here if you need someone to listen."

  Davonna didn't look at the police officer with his strange ways and kind heart. She looked out to the garden and saw herself, that week—the week before John died, toiling away. The dirt caked under her nails. The way her scalp burned, even under the hat. The sharp stings of rose thorns. The unending line of hedges to be trimmed and trees to be shaped. The burn in her shoulders as she wielded the heavy shears hour after hour.