Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (11 page)

“Look at me, Elle.” I’d looked, glaring. He’d looked back, directly into my eyes. “I didn’t take a woman there.”

Not a woman? Something had hopped against my rib cage. “You took a guy?”

Charlie’s mouth had opened, then closed. And exploded as he’d laughed out loud. Not a happy laugh. A sad, heartbroken laugh. But he didn’t answer.

“I don’t see what’s funny, Charlie.”

His demeanor had changed. He’d gone on the offense. “You really want to pick a fight with me? You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

I hadn’t answered.

His eyes had laughed. He’d darted away, dodged my questions, avoided the issue, made my suspicions seem like a personal flaw. Was I really that insecure? Didn’t I know that he loved me? Why was I checking his receipts, anyhow? What was next? Would I stalk him? Read his e-mail? Examine his phone records? His eyes had danced, enjoying himself as he’d turned things around, making it my fault that I’d found the receipt, that there even was a receipt, that I’d wondered why.

He’d escalated, mocking me until suddenly the wine bottle wasn’t in my hand anymore. It was flying. Aimed right at Charlie’s smug and smirking head. Which at the last moment, ducked deftly, so that the bottle missed him and smacked the cabinet behind him.

Amazingly, the bottle hadn’t broken. Charlie’d caught it before it rebounded off the cabinet and fell onto the counter. Without comment, he’d opened it, poured two glasses, handed me one. Toasted us, our commitment to each other. Our love. We’d eyed each other warily, silently declaring a truce. Then, tentatively, maybe reluctantly, we’d kissed. Neither of us apologizing.

And the night had moved on.

I wasn’t going to drink Charlie’s Shiraz. And I didn’t want to hear his voice in my head or see what else was in his apartment. I hurried down the hall, ignoring the art that had hung in our home, the bubbling aquarium, the new upscale furniture, the
lingering smell of Charlie’s Old Spice. I left the kitchen, passed a spare bedroom that was his home office. Found his bedroom at the end of the hall on the left. My breathing was shallow, heart rate too fast. Kept going, passing a new king-size bed. Why had Charlie needed such a big mattress? Never mind. Not my business who slept there. Or who’d inspired the new Ralph Lauren comforter and sheets. I avoided the bathroom, not wanting to see feminine toiletries. Or Charlie’s, either—didn’t want to remember him coming out of the shower, or standing in a towel by the mirror coating his face with shaving cream, or talking to me with a toothbrush in his mouth. So I crossed the room without turning my head, went straight past the dresser to the closet, had my hand on the doorknob before I stopped and looked back. At something on the bureau.

Our wedding picture? Charlie had it on his dresser? Good Lord, what for?

No. I wasn’t going to wonder about that. There was no point. I wasn’t there to ask unanswerable questions or drag myself yet again through the reasons we’d split. I was there for one reason: to find a suit. Determined, I made myself stop staring at the photo, turned back to the closet, and opened the door into a space larger than my kitchen. The midnight-blue silk robe I’d bought him last Christmas greeted me from a hook. I turned on the light and stepped in, faced a wall of shirts, shelves of shoes and sweaters, a rack of slacks, another of jackets and ties. Enough for a dozen men. But, strangely, there were only six suits.

Charlie had liked clothes, looked good in them: tennis whites, khakis, and polo shirts. But especially suits. Nobody wore a suit like Charlie. He’d had them in every shade: gray, black, charcoal, navy. Solids. Pinstripes. Jackets that were vented and not. Slacks that had cuffs and didn’t. Different shapes of lapels and numbers of buttons. Vests. Tuxedoes. Blazers in navy, forest-green, burgundy, tan, chocolate. And he’d had them in every texture and
fabric: tweeds, cashmeres, gabardines, wool, linen, flannel, corduroy, camel hair, even leather and suede.

But now, all that hung in his closet were half a dozen suits, and they looked new.

He still had his hundreds of shirts, shoes, sweaters, and jeans. I stood in his closet, surrounded by his clothes. Dizzied. Where were his other suits? They couldn’t all be out for cleaning at once. Had he given them away? Moved them into a girlfriend’s house? No. He’d have taken everything, not just suits. Never mind. It didn’t matter where they were. I needed to select one suit, only one. I closed my eyes, spun around, reached out. Found my hand on a black pinstripe.

“Seriously?” I heard Charlie complain. “That’s so somber. I’ll look like I’m going to a funeral.”

Funny. Very funny. “Okay, Charlie.” I may have spoken aloud. “Then tell me what you want to wear.”

No answer. Charlie would offer only vetoes.

I looked at a charcoal suit. Pictured him going to work in it, smelling fresh and spicy. The tailored jacket fitting his shoulders, cut just for him. The fabric reshaping itself with his movements, hinting at the muscles underneath. Stop it, I scolded myself. Just pick a suit and go. Damn. I shouldn’t have come alone. Should have brought Jen. She was good with clothes. Never mind. I could do this. I’d simply take the light gray.

“Not that one. Fabric’s too soft.” Charlie nixed it as I put my hand on the hanger.

Too bad. I wasn’t going to argue with the voice in my head. I simply replaced the light gray and grabbed a different suit, a darker pinstripe.

“Elle, that’s so boring—it’s the ultimate gray flannel suit.”

I ignored him. If he wasn’t going to tell me what he wanted, he’d have to deal with what I chose. I took a white shirt, red tie. Charlie whined. I changed the tie to a blue one. Pulled a pair of Jockey shorts—did they bury people in underwear? And some
black knee-high socks from the bureau under our wedding picture, which I refused to look at. I threw everything into a hanging bag, headed into the hallway without even glancing at the wedding picture. And stopped.

A key was rattling in the front lock, and the knob began to turn.

For a few rapid heartbeats, I considered greeting the person openly. I had every right to be there and to question theirs. Besides, it might not be his killer. It might be the police. Or Derek. Or his cleaning service. Or a girlfriend. But before I finished the list of possibilities, I was back in Charlie’s closet, the door shut behind me, huddling among his few remaining hand-tailored suits.

I don’t know how long I crouched there, not moving, barely breathing, listening. But it was long enough that my muscles began to burn and cramp. Charlie’s thick carpets muffled footsteps. And with the closet door closed, I’d have no way of knowing where the visitor was. Or who. Or what he wanted. Unless he was a she. It might, of course, be a she. I remembered the king-size bed. Did Charlie have a girlfriend? How long had he been seeing her? I tried to picture what she’d look like. Tall, like me? How old?

“You’re still jealous, Elf?”

No. Of course not. Wait—was Charlie reading my thoughts?

“Well, you don’t need to be. You never needed to be. You were the only one who mattered. The love of my life.”

Shh. I put my pointer over my lips, the symbol for quiet.

“Why? No one can hear me—”

“Somebody’s here,” I whispered. “It could be your killer—”

“My killer
is
here, Elle.” I could smell him, felt his breath on my neck like a shiver.

What? Where?

“We both know who killed me.”

“Wait—you think it was me?” My whisper was too loud. “How can you think that?”

He didn’t answer.

“It wasn’t. Charlie, I didn’t kill you.” Still too loud.

Still no answer. But, since we were talking, maybe I could learn something.

“Charlie, who has keys to your apartment?”

Charlie remained silent. He offered nothing. Not a peep. Great. I was crouched in a closet behind hanging fabric, talking to air. My legs were numb. My lower back burned. I had to move. And it occurred to me that, if I couldn’t hear the visitor, the visitor probably couldn’t hear me. So, slowly, I set down the hanging bag and emerged from the blockade of suits. Straightening my back, I stood, limped on feet I couldn’t feel to the door, and put my ear against it. Listening.

Hearing nothing.

More minutes passed. At some point, I realized that, if the intruder left, I wouldn’t know. In fact, he or she might already be gone. Sooner or later, I’d have to check. Which would mean opening the closet door.

I didn’t right away. As blood flowed back into my legs, I prepared, rehearsing various encounters. If the intruder were a policeman, I’d explain why I was there. No need to say more. If Derek, I’d find out what he wanted. I didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, didn’t want him sneaking around Charlie’s apartment. I’d tell him to leave. But what if it were the killer? Oh God. I looked back to the suits. Maybe I shouldn’t risk it. No. I had to, couldn’t stay in Charlie’s closet forever. But, just in case, I’d need a weapon. Maybe there was a shoebox? A small case that held a gun? Nothing. But wait—I was in a closet. Could make my own weapon. I grabbed an empty wire hanger and, despite the raw wound on my hand, untwisted it.

I bent the wire, winding it, doubling it, reshaping it, forming a dangerous tip. Imagined myself bursting out of the closet,
charging. And finding neither a killer nor a cop, but a woman. Crying, sobbing about her dead lover. She’d found out from the news, from TV. I tried, but couldn’t see her clearly. I pictured red hair—or, no. Brown. Olive skin? A tan? I kept shifting features, but none of the faces or bodies seemed right. Of course they didn’t; none of them were my own. Damn. Would I ever let go of him? Of being his wife?

The hanger had become a shiv. Maybe not sharp enough for a surgical incision, but good enough to do damage. One more time, I put my ear against the door. Heard nothing. Reached for the knob and, carefully, soundlessly, turned it. Cracked the door just an inch. Peeked out. Saw no sobbing woman. No masked murderer. No one at all.

Good. Another inch. And another.

Soon, the door was open wide enough for me to leave. I poked a tentative foot out the door. Another. Tiptoed into the bedroom, looking left and right, in front and behind. Listening, clutching my hanger weapon, ready to strike. Looking around, seeing nothing amiss. No rifled drawers. No tossed mattress or upturned furniture.

I moved into the hall, more confident. Almost convinced that the intruder was gone. That maybe there had been no intruder, that I’d imagined it, just as I’d been imagining Charlie’s voice. That the sound of a key, the sight of a turning knob had been nothing, just emotions, nerves. The effects of trauma and loss.

At the front door, I exhaled, realized I’d been holding my breath. I relaxed my shoulders and opened the door. Feeling foolish but relieved, I stepped into the hall. Where I stopped. Pivoted, catching the door just before it closed. Cursing.

The funeral clothes. I’d left them in the closet. I’d almost left without the stuff I’d come for.

This time, I didn’t stop to look around, just hurried back to the bedroom. Which is probably why I didn’t see the figure lurking in the office doorway.

I hit the floor hard. Felt the jolt of impact. Heard a scream. Mine? Pain bolted through me as someone grabbed me from behind, tugging, and I rolled, resisting, seeing, in my bandaged hand, a wire shiv.