Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (10 page)

‘But I have an alibi. There's no way I could possibly have—'

‘They're going on the premise that you paid to have it done.'

I take a step backward. ‘Like I hired a hit man? That's ridiculous.'

‘That's right, it is, but that's where they're heading. I need to find out if they've got anything else.'

‘But how bad is this, Smitty? Are they going to put me under arrest?'

Smitty takes some time to think the question over. He squints his eyes tight, which means his mind is in high gear. ‘You're not without influence, Joy. You're a well known religious leader, your ministry is known for its good works and contributions to the community. And hit men don't just fall out of trees. They're going to have to connect you up with the actual killer, or they're not going to have a case. You don't know any professional killers, do you, Joy?'

‘No,' I shake my head. ‘Of course not.'

Smitty is thinking out loud. ‘If I were them, I'd be looking at people you counseled, people in your congregation. Crazies drawn in by your show. I'm surprised they didn't ask for a handwriting sample, but they will. Look, let's be prepared for three things. Turning over the records of your counseling clients—'

‘I can't do that. Those files are confidential.'

‘… a sample of your handwriting.'

‘They got one already. From Marsha.'

He stares. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I forgot.'

His expression tells me that this sort of thing has happened with clients before, and he still doesn't understand it. But he recovers quickly and moves on.

‘I want you to agree to a lie detector test.'

‘
No.
'

He puts a hand on my shoulder, and his voice is soothing. ‘We got somebody who can coach you through it, Joy. We'll use our people, not theirs.'

‘I don't trust those things. I'll be nervous and that will screw it up.'

He hesitates, gives me a second look. I recognize the lawyer-sidestep, that little dance an attorney does when he thinks the client may be guilty of something. The legal profession is almost as judgmental as mine.

‘How about we discuss this when we have more time? I've got to be in court.'

‘Fine.'

Smitty gives me a second look. He hears the edge in my voice, and he's been in Kentucky long enough to know that when a southern woman says
fine
it's code for
fuck you
.

He takes two steps backward. Gives me a little wave. ‘I'll give you a call.'

I know I've given him something to think about. I didn't mean to.

T
raffic is heavy for a Wednesday, which means that as I sit daydreaming and the traffic light turns from red to green, I am pummeled with a cacophony of horns. The people behind me have places to be. I'm content right where I am. I don't want to go home.

True tragedy can be measured by the scars of those of us who are left behind – the sleepless nights, the loneliness, the memories, good and bad. I used to think I had caught things in time. That Carl's death, however tragic, had freed my son and me from the darkness that my husband always brought in his wake. And I think we came close, Joey and I. I was not blind to the uneasy ripples – all those years with Carl had affected us both. It wasn't until afterward, and the things that happened with Caroline, that I understood my mistake – that standing between your child and a bad parent is never enough. That the damage had already been done.

I have always believed that Joey would have turned the corner – if things had happened differently, if the entire ugly mess could have functioned as a wake up call and a chance to heal. If he had not come home from work early that particular night, if he'd survived the gunshot wound, if I'd had the brains to boot Carl out of our lives from the very first moment I saw how dark he was, and felt that first flood of despair.

Those days have stayed distant, and in time a wall of fog slowly settled in my mind, acting as a barrier, dividing the bad times from the now.

But fog is nothing more than mist. It drifts. And images come to me as if someone is flipping a Rolodex of days gone by, with a live-wire clarity that
puts
me there, and every detail is revealed.

It is the old police file that worries me.

I can see the kitchen clock in the back of my mind, the face reading three a.m. I was wrapped in a worn pink terry-cloth bathrobe, drinking coffee and thinking. I had to have a story. I needed a story before anything else. Lying to the police would be like public speaking. Know your subject matter, but don't over-rehearse, and stick as close to the truth as you can.

Even though I was expecting it, the ring of the doorbell sent a feeling like electrical fizz jingling along the small of my back.

There were two police officers on the front stoop, both male, burly in their black leather jackets, an intimidating amount of equipment on their belts. The one who spoke first was older, early forties, trim. His shoulders were straight, his posture correct. He had grey hair cropped very close.

‘Is this the Miller residence? Could we come in, please, ma'am?'

‘Of course,' I said. I sounded worried. Who wouldn't? I waved them into the living room.

The older officer, Calhoun was his name, opens a notebook. ‘When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Miller?'

I take a minute to get control of my voice, which wants to go high and tight. ‘I would appreciate it very much, officer, if you would say whatever it is you have come to say.'

‘Ma'am, your Jeep Cherokee was found in the parking lot at the lodge at Natural Bridge State Park. A man's body was found on the rocks beneath the bridge. We think this man is your husband, Carl Miller, and we think he may have jumped to his death.'

I open my mouth, close it. Take a step backward. ‘There must be some mistake. This doesn't make any sense.'

Calhoun looks like he's in pain. ‘He was seen by one of the housekeepers heading up the trail alone around dusk. She states that he was alone. And there was no sign of a struggle. We believe your husband made a point of waiting until it was almost dark, so he could be sure there would be no one else up on the bridge. He was not registered as a guest of the lodge. We think it's likely that your husband chose to end his life.'

‘We'll need someone to identify the body,' the younger officer says. ‘You may want to have a friend or another relative take care of that, or come with you at least. The remains are not in good shape.'

Unexpectedly, I scream. I'm not sure which of the three of us is more surprised. The tears come easily after all. I never needed to worry.

A female officer is immediately called in for backup, proving that even the bravest men fear emotional women. They also call my friend Barbara James. I will learn that Calhoun questioned Barbara in great detail. That she confirmed that my son Joey had been at her house the last two nights. She told them I had been terribly distraught the night I dropped Joey off. She gave the opinion that our marriage was in trouble, and that I was planning to divorce my husband. She felt that the impending divorce would have affected Carl's state of mind greatly.

Barbara James was with me when I went to identify the body. She held my hand and waited beside me in the hall. We stood in front of the viewing window, just outside the refrigerated unit where what was left of my husband Carl lay motionless on a metal gurney. A woman in green hospital fatigues waited for my nod before she unzipped the heavy plastic baggie that was used to transport the body from the mountain to the morgue.

It is here, at this moment, that the first weight settles over me. It is the first time Carl's death actually seems real. His head is smashed like a rotten pumpkin from his long and terrible fall. The coroner's report will note massive internal injuries, a broken pelvis and shattered left femur. He will rule the death a suicide and the jointly owned life insurance policy, no more than six months old, will not pay a death claim on a suicide because the requisite two years have not passed.

But the suicide ruling suits me. I did not want to profit from Carl's death.

‘That is Carl,' I tell them, and Barbara pulls me away. She leads me to the car and helps me when I fumble awkwardly with the seatbelt, telling me that Carl undoubtedly died upon impact and swearing that he did not suffer, lying through the night with his head smashed, his bones broken, bleeding from the inside out. She is kind. The possibility that Carl suffered should affect me, but does not.

I stare out the window at the familiar landscape of my town, and fumble for the sunglasses in my purse. I know that things will get better. My son and I will not only survive, we'll be better than we've ever been. And though I will never escape this curious heaviness that sits like a ring of dread around my heart, the shock will fade, like it always does, and Joey and I will feel normal again. I will find contentment in my work, in being a mother to my son. If I've lost a treasured part of myself, I accept it as a pretty fair trade. In every tragedy, one gains experience and completes a predestined lesson. I've certainly learned what my priorities are, and that there is nothing I will not do, or sacrifice, to do what is best for my child.

Even when it means doing the smart thing, instead of the right one.

I
t surprises me, pulling into the driveway, finding Marsha is still at the house. It does not surprise me that she has parked so I cannot get into my garage. She is on the phone when I go inside, her desk piled with papers, my Rolodex in the middle of the mess. Leo barks and runs in circles, and Marsha gives me a look.

‘Put him out, will you, Joy? I can't hear myself think.'

Leo sits suddenly, knowing there will be no petting until he does, and I stroke his ears, and study my cousin. For the first time in a long time, I really look. She waves me away, preoccupied and industrious, and fury rises inside me like helium. I put Leo outside.

Marsha's dirty coffee cup is on the counter top, along with a spray of coffee grounds, an open package of Pecan Sandies and a dirty, coffee-stained spoon. She has left the carton of half and half out, and when I put it back in the refrigerator, I find it warm to the touch. I wonder how long it has been sitting there. Has it gone bad – should I throw it away? As always, Marsha leaves these tiny messes behind. I throw the spoon across the kitchen and into the sink. The amount of noise it makes is absurd.

‘Yes, yes, I'll tell her. Thank you, Brice. I'll wait for your call.' Her tone is syrupy, like it always is when she talks to members of the board. I am her boss, but they cut the checks for her salary. Marsha rounds the corner, patting at her hair, which is still in place from the day before. She must use a lot of hairspray, and sleep very carefully in her bed.

‘What on earth is all the noise in here, didn't you see I was on the phone?'

‘
You
,' I say.

Marsha's mouth hangs open. She breathes heavily, chest rising and falling, and the pink drains out of her cheeks. ‘What in the hell is up with you?'

I head out of the kitchen to the living room, and she follows me, calling my name over and over and asking me what's wrong. I glance into the fake gilt mirror, then turn around, because I don't like the look of my face. I stand with my back to the ugly faux cherry console, another example of Carl's execrable taste.

‘I spent over three hours with the FBI this morning.'

Marsha is in her stooped-forward stance, which means she is thinking instead of posing. ‘But why are you mad at
me
? Look, you're not angry that I gave them that handwriting sample, are you? They said it was just a formality, and I figured it would be OK. I thought it would get them off your back.'

She chatters on and on about the sample, and how she knew I'd want her to cooperate so the authorities could bring Andee and Caro home safe. I wait for her to wind down, and eventually she is silent. She stares at me, unhappy, but she finally stops talking and is still.

‘We covered a lot of ground this morning, Agent Woods, Agent Jones and myself. And Smitty was there, of course. Three straight hours of questions takes you everywhere. The here, the now and the past.'

Marsha looks at me sideways, genuinely bewildered.

‘They had Caroline's diary. Agent Jones found it amusing to read it out loud. Just a couple of stupid pages where Caro oh-so-casually mentioned how hard it was on Joey to walk in on his father when he was cheating on his mother. Especially when the other woman was Cousin Marsha, and they were doing it on the living room couch.'

Marsha's mouth opens and closes, and she looks around the living room like she has dropped something tiny on the floor. She sits finally, on the edge of the couch, stands back up like she's been burned, and moves to a chair.

Her voice is oddly soft. ‘I thought you knew.'

‘Why?
Why
would you think that?'

She slides deeper into the chair as I cross the room and stand over her.

‘Do you think I would have kept you around if I'd
known
about it? Do you think I'd still give you this
job
? I'd have drop kicked your butt to the curb, which is what I'm doing right this minute. Do you hear me, Marsha? Do you understand?'

At this point, anyone within five square miles can hear me. She starts to get up, but I'm not through with her yet.

‘Just answer me, Marsha. How could you think that I knew?'

She takes a breath, and tears cascade down her cheeks. Her nose is starting to run. ‘Carl
told
me you knew. I didn't believe him until you came to me about the money.' She whispers so softly I have to lean closer to hear. ‘You remember, Joy. You came to me about the eleven thousand that was missing and asked me to cover it up.'