The First Time I Died

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Can I have Blunt’s number?” I asked her.

  “You want to invite my brother to a reunion dinner?” she said, looking and sounding incredulous.

  “Sure, for old time’s sake! So, can I have it?”

  She rolled her eyes but sent the number to my phone as a business card. A quick glance confirmed it had a Vermont prefix, and that the second-last digit was a one. I needed to know if this had been his number ten years ago, what all of their numbers had been back then.

  “Good thing my number’s always stayed the same, else I’d never remember it,” I said, pulling a comical face at my supposedly bad memory. “Do you all still remember your old numbers?” The question was clumsy, but I couldn’t think of a better way to ask it.

  “Why would we want to?” Pete said.

  Feeling Ryan’s assessing glance on me, I quickly changed the subject to the closing of the local school campus and was still lamenting the loss I didn’t genuinely feel, when, of all people, my parents joined our group.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked my mother.

  “We were invited, dear, same as you, I imagine. Hello, Jessica! Long time, never see, Peter. Ryan!” She bestowed the smile of a mother with marital ambitions for her unhitched daughter on him, nodded politely at Ashleigh, and then continued, “We’ve just come from the hardware store.”

  “Getting new lightbulbs for the lights in your room,” my father added. “I discovered this afternoon that your bathroom mirror light has blown.”

  What had my father been doing in my bathroom?

  “I meant to ask you if you had a replacement for that; I couldn’t find any when I searched in the basement.”

  My father frowned.

  My mother continued talking as though there had been no interruption, “And what do you suppose old Hugo said?”

  Uh-oh.

  34

  NOW

  Wednesday, December 20, 2017

  “Hey, Dad,” I said quickly, trying to head my mother off at the pass, “maybe you should take Mom to get a drink and some snacks. The sushi’s great.”

  “Hugo said you’d been in his store this morning, looking for a charger for a ten-year-old I-telephone,” my mother said, loudly enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. “What the hicky-dick was that about, Garnet?”

  “Hicky-dick?” Ashleigh sniggered, but all other eyes in our group swiveled to me.

  Ryan, of course, guessed immediately. “An iPhone from 2007. That wouldn’t by any chance be related to Colby, would it? It wouldn’t, for example, be the very phone that belonged to him and that’s been missing all these years?”

  Pete gaped, and Jessica narrowed her eyes at me. “Reunion, my eye! That phone is the real reason you wanted our numbers, isn’t it?” she said.

  I could feel the heat rising in my face.

  “Where is it?” Ryan asked. “Do you have it with you right now?”

  I involuntarily clutched my handbag tighter under my arm, cleared my throat and said, “If, hypothetically speaking, I did happen to come into possession of a phone which might contain useful information — and I’m not saying I have, mind you, and I am saying you shouldn’t believe everything Hugo says, or anything my mother says” — I glared at her — “then I would be sure to hand it over to the appropriate law enforcement agency like a good citizen.” Nobody smiled. “I just want to know what happened to Colby, okay?”

  “Oh dear, did I put my mouth in it?” my mother asked.

  Before I could give her a piece of my mind, I heard a loud voice behind me say, “I think it’s time to get on with the formalities, Jessica, don’t you?”

  Turning, I saw Michelle Armstrong, Roger Beaumont and Nico Mantovani standing just behind me. Jessica joined her mother and husband, and we all shuffled over to the right side of the gallery while, with many giggles and the assistance of both Nico and an attractive young waiter, the closest thing our town had to a mayor climbed onto a footstool placed in front of the bar.

  Though Ryan stood close enough to me for our arms to touch, I studiously avoided making eye contact with him, sure that his gaze would be disapproving. Pete and Jessica were right behind us, and judging by the sound of my mother’s effusive thanks, someone had found her a seat up at the front of the crowd.

  Michelle Armstrong introduced her son-in-law’s latest collection of work with lavish praise and burbled on about how he added to the prestige of the town, and how she hoped Pitchford would become Vermont’s own art-central. Then she declared the exhibition open and stepped off the stool, inclining her head in acknowledgement of the applause.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute?” I said to Ryan.

  “We need to talk about that phone.”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m not leaving town tonight, Officer.”

  Before he could say anything more, I made my way through the crush and descended on Roger Beaumont, who was contemplating the same painting I’d admired earlier.

  “Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Please, call me Roger,” he said with a friendly smile.

  “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Garnet McGee. I’m– I was Colby’s girlfriend.”

  I extended my hand, and Colby’s uncle shook it. I didn’t like him, I decided at once. Was I getting the vibe via my supposed supernatural guide, or was it just because his grip was painfully firm? Men who needed to assert dominance through crushing the bones of a woman’s hand? Dicks.

  “I remember you very well,” he said. “You were such a charming young thing.”

  “Really?” I’d never been called charming before. Perhaps he was confusing me with Jessica.

  “Colby was very fond of you.”

  Patronizing jerk. Colby had been more than fond of me. I knew few things as certainly as I knew that.

  “Yes, he was,” I said, trying not to show my irritation. “May I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  Now that I had his attention, I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to ask him. And not at all sure where to begin.

  “Um, I’m chatting to people about Colby. Trying to figure out what he was doing in the last days of his life.”

  “I see. To what end?”

  “I, um, I’m hoping that finding out more about what happened will help me come to terms with his death. You know, get some closure.” Get closure — I loathed that phrase. I didn’t believe in the concept, and despised the way people thought grief was a time-limited process that you could shut down after a respectable period. “Not knowing exactly how he died, the case staying unsolved all these years, it’s been hard for me. And for his family and you, too, I’m sure,” I quickly added.

  He nodded. “You think solving the case will bring closure?”

  No, not really. “Yes, I think it might.”

  “And you want to be the one that solves it, that sets the world aright?”

  “Well, I’d like to see if I can help in any way.”

  “I think perhaps a therapist would tell you to simply accept your loss.”

  “Don’t tell me what a therapist would say,” I said, losing the battle to keep my annoyance concealed. “I am a therapist, for crying out loud.”

  “Are you? Your mother told me you’re still a student.”

  When I got home, I was going to kill her. Strangle her with one of her feathered dream-catchers.

  “Colby called you, on the phone I mean, the morning of the day he died,” I said. Then, belatedly realizing that my anger had betrayed me into saying more than I’d meant to, I added, “According to the records the police obtained from his cellular service provider.”

  “The police let you read their case file?”

  If Roger checked, he’d find out I was lying. But maybe he already guessed; both he and Michelle had been standing right behind me when my fool mother had spilled the beans about me and an old iPhone.

  “I wondered what you’d chatted about?” I pressed.

  He sipped his wine
— white, no ice. “I’m afraid I don’t recall exactly; it was a very long time ago. But we were having dinner together with his father that night — a sort of Beaumont Boys’ night out” — he smirked — “so we were probably talking through arrangements for that evening.”

  “For over twenty minutes?”

  “He was my nephew; no doubt we chatted about this and that, and things in general.”

  Bullshit.

  I felt the word as a sensation in my gut, but I didn’t need any paranormal nudging to know that Roger wasn’t telling the truth. What eighteen-year-old guy calls their uncle for a twenty-something minute chat about “this and that?” When I checked the phone later, I’d examine the call log to see if Colby was in the habit of calling his uncle, or if that last call had been a suspiciously unusual event.

  “Ri-ight,” I said, skepticism coloring my tone as the mustard-yellow haze again began coloring my vision. I blinked my eyes several times and found Michelle Armstrong had joined us and was giving me an unflattering once-over.

  “Garnet McGee! You’ve changed.” Her gaze flicked between my eyes, but she made no comment about their differing colors.

  “Hello, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  “You may call me Michelle. Here, you” — she caught a passing server — “take the lady’s handbag and put it with the others at the back.”

  I handed him my bag then, realizing what I was doing, snatched it back again. Trying not to let Michelle and Roger see what I was doing, I took out Colby’s phone and put it into my cardigan pocket. I wanted to keep that safely on me.

  “Give him your cardigan, too, Garnet,” she instructed. “You look unbearably hot in that thing.”

  “I don’t feel hot.”

  Actually, I felt kind of chilly. Goosebumps tightened the skin on the back of my neck.

  “You’re sweating,” she pointed out.

  Was I? I raised a hand to my forehead. I was.

  “I’m fine,” I told the server, and watched him carry my handbag off to the back of the gallery.

  “On behalf of the town, I’d like to thank you for assisting the Cooper boy at Plover Pond. Though, of course, help was already on the way.” Michelle took a ladylike sip of her red wine and then smiled archly at Roger and me. “So, what were the two of you discussing so earnestly just now?”

  “It seems Garnet here is looking into Colby’s last days,” Roger said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “For closure, apparently.”

  Michelle pinned me with her sharp gaze. “What’s this about?”

  “Colby’s death has never been fully explained. I just wondered if it was time to reassess the evidence.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes.” It came out more belligerently than I’d intended. Making an effort to soften my tone, I said, “Colby had a summer job as your assistant at the town clerk’s office.”

  “He did.”

  “That was at the insistence of his father and me,” Roger said smugly. “We wanted him to get some work experience under his belt before he joined the family business.”

  “As he told you more than once, Colby was never going to join the family business,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  I itched to wipe the supercilious expression off his face. “He wanted to do more with his life than sell bottles of water.”

  Roger’s face reddened. In that moment, he looked like a man whose emotions could slip the bonds of control. But almost as soon as it appeared, his anger cleared. He merely chuckled and said, “Colby was still very young and idealistic, and a little bit foolish. He would have come to his senses eventually and realized that when all is said and done, family must come first.”

  “I also wanted to ask both of you about the Beaumont Golf Estate,” I said, then hesitated, trying to think of how to ask the next question so it didn’t immediately set their backs up even more. But I wasn’t a trained detective or an experienced private investigator, and no one had ever accused me of being subtle. “There was some talk, at the time, about some aspects of that land deal not being entirely … aboveboard.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Michelle said, puffing up with indignation.

  Roger gave a humorless laugh. “What possible business is this of yours?”

  “Did Colby assist with the deal? Was he familiar with the contract? Might he have noticed any issues with it?” I asked quickly.

  “What ‘issues’?” Michelle demanded, and said something more which I couldn’t hear.

  My vision was starting to shimmer. Here we go again.

  35

  NOW

  Wednesday, December 20, 2017

  Michelle Armstrong’s outraged face, Roger Beaumont’s scowl, the entire gallery full of guests disappeared as the present slid into the past.

  “There is no official report that documents any reason why that land should not be developed!” Mrs. Armstrong’s voice sounds through her closed office door directly opposite my desk.

  I stare down at my work, pretend to be absorbed. I listen hard but can’t make out the words in the low reply.

  “That’s absurd.” Mrs. Armstrong again. “Since when have you paid attention to gossip?”

  Another urgent murmur.

  What’s going on? What’s the problem with the deal?

  “We’ll use French drains and floating foundations. It’ll be fine. I’ll get you your damn clearance certificate.”

  This time I do hear the reply. “You do that, or the deal’s off!”

  The door opens. My father and uncle stalk out, faces angry.

  Mrs. Armstrong comes to the doorway of her office, cheeks flushed, smiling. Nothing excites her like a good fight. Well, almost nothing.

  “Be a good boy and bring me a cup of coffee, Colby.”

  I rubbed my hands over my face, scrubbing away the vision. Michelle and Roger were staring at me, as though waiting for a reply to a question one of them had just asked me.

  Distracted and drained by what I’d just experienced, I blundered into my next question with all the tact and delicacy of that bull in the proverbial china chop. “Was the estate built on wetlands?”

  Michelle’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “No, it most certainly was not. There was nothing untoward or irregular about that development. I have the documentation to prove it, and you are welcome, as is any concerned citizen, to come inspect it at any time if you doubt the word of your elected town clerk!”

  I thought back to what I’d overheard. What Colby had overheard.

  “There were rumors …”

  “There are always those who lack the brains or the balls to seize an opportunity when it presents itself, and who, in their envy, will try to cast aspersions on the successful people who do,” Roger said.

  Michelle smoothed her hands down the skirt of her short dress. Wiping sweaty palms? “Now if that’s all …” she said, blurring away again.

  I take the cup of coffee into her office. She stands behind her desk, leaning on straight arms, examining blueprints on the desktop in front of her. Her neckline gapes. Full breasts. Red lace. She looks up, gives me a smile.

  That smile. The one I loathe.

  “Come see. It’s beautiful.” Taps the diagrams, but arches her back to boost the display.

  “I brought your coffee.”

  “Over here.” Nudges a coaster on the desk.

  I go around to her side, put the cup down, try to go. But her hand goes to my waist. Pulls me closer. Perfume, rich, sweet, turns my stomach.

  “Take a good look. Don’t you think it’s exciting?” Her hand slides down, squeezes my ass, moves around my hip, cups my groin.

  Revulsion.

  “No!” I shove her hand away, back up three steps. I want to throw up.

  Her face contorts — rejection, humiliation, fury.

  “Get the hell out of my office.” She pokes a red nail in my chest. “And keep walking. You’re fired.”

  “You can’t—”


  “I just did.”

  Blood pulsed in my head and bile rose in my throat as the gallery shimmered back into view.

  “You!” Shaking with anger, I pointed at Michelle and hissed, “You’re a sexual predator, and you put the moves on Colby. You think it makes a difference because you’re female and your victims are male? You’re disgusting!”

  She gasped and slapped my face with a loud crack that drew gazes from all around us. “How dare you?” she gritted out.

  “And he rejected you. You fired him because of that. Did you also kill him because of it?”

  She gaped, and then she hurled the ruby contents of her wineglass at me, and stormed off, declaring, “Never in my life have I been so insulted!”

  All around me, people stared and tittered, while I stood, dripping Zinfandel, with a hand pressed to my stinging cheek. A server passed me a wad of paper napkins, and as I blotted my face, a pair of hands began removing my cardigan.

  “Here, let me get someone to wipe this for you,” Roger said. “Soda water will get the stain out if we move quickly.”

  “No!” I clamped my elbows tightly into my waist to stop him pulling it off. “I’m fine!” I patted my pockets, taking comfort at the feel of the phone still safely there.

  Over Roger’s shoulder, I saw Jessica slipping away to the private area at the back of the gallery, followed by Pete Dillon. The furtive look he gave to check who might be watching their disappearance told me everything I needed to know about the status of their relationship. I might not know art, or chess, but I sure knew guilt when I saw it.

  Wiping myself with the napkins, I pushed my way through the crowd and headed out the front door of the gallery. I blew a plume of white breath into the frigid night air, wishing I smoked because right then I could have used something to soothe my frayed temper. I had calmed down only fractionally when Ryan exited the gallery and came to stand with me.

  “I’d offer you some wine, only, you know, it looks like you’ve had enough,” he said, grinning at my wet hair and stained clothes.