Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (21 page)

The bruises didn’t seem bad at first. Not as bad as the scrapes on my knees from tiny glass shards and pebbles and whatever else coats the pavement on 9th Street. Or the raw patches of skin on the heel of my right hand and along my forearm.

The good news was that I caught the cab I’d seen. He stopped along with the other cars, as drivers gawked at the woman who’d been knocked down by a hit-and-run bike rider. Pedestrians offered help. A woman took my arm, guided me out of the gutter. My body was tingling, rattled. But nothing was broken; my parts moved. I gathered up my handbag. Checked myself, saw that my khaki Capris were dirty and stained. Brushed them off with sooty, prickling hands. People were staring. The woman asked if I needed an ambulance. Someone suggested calling the police.

No. No thank you. No ambulance. And certainly, definitely no police. Thanking the woman who’d helped me, I hopped into the cab and recited my address, felt the vibration of the engine as the cab took off. As we drove, I watched out the window for a cyclist with a purple helmet. Didn’t see one.

A few blocks later, it sunk in that someone had just tried to
kill me. Or at least to mess me up. But who? Why? Was it the same person who’d killed Charlie? My hands stung. I kept reliving the moment before the impact. Trying to see the person’s face. But all I could recall were the whooshing of wheels and the sense of flying. And the image of watching myself fly. My dissociative disorder. Lord.

Blood oozed out of my scrapes, but the driver asked no questions, made no comments. He simply drove. His license, posted above the meter, showed his photo and name. The name had lots of consonants. Looked foreign. Maybe he was quiet because he didn’t speak English well. Or maybe he didn’t like fares who’d been lying bloody in the gutter. I saw his dark eyes watching me in the rearview mirror. Maybe checking to see that I was all right. Or to make sure that I wasn’t bleeding onto his upholstery. I understood how he felt, having lost a sofa to blood myself.

The initial numbness of shock was wearing off. Sharp pain began stinging my hip, my arm, my elbow, the palms of my hands, my cut, which had ripped opened yet again. And the cab jerked and wove, bouncing over potholes, swinging around double-parked trucks, skirting SEPTA buses, lurching to sudden stops for pedestrians or red lights. Hurting all over, I clung to the armrest, hoping to survive the two- or three-mile ride from Chinatown to my home in Fairmount. I needed to get inside, figure things out. I looked outside the window, watching the street numbers increase, still watching for the bike rider and the purple helmet.

Finally, we pulled onto my street. Home. I wanted to pay the driver, dash into my house, sink into the bathtub, soak my wounds, and try to figure out who’d just run me down. But I didn’t do any of that.

Because when the cab stopped in front of my townhouse, Susan was on the doorstep, dressed in a lawyerly green suit. I’d forgotten. She was waiting to give me bad news.

“Where’ve you—” she began but stopped as I emerged and she got a look at me. Her mouth opened. “Now what? You look like you’ve been rolling in the gutter.”

How odd.

“Hit-and-run. By a bicycle.” My jaw felt stiff. All of me did.

“Seriously?”

I paid the silent driver, took my keys out of my bag, limped up the front stairs. My right hand stung and trembled.

Susan took my keys, unlocked the door. Inside, she looked me over, assessing the damage. “You’re bleeding. You’re a mess.”

She threw me into the shower. Moments later, wrapped in a soft oversized towel, I sat wincing and whining on the toilet seat as she tweezed gravel out of my scrapes and examined my bruises. The bloody cut on my left hand balanced the oozing scrapes on my right. Both knees, my right arm, and left hip were darkening, blossoming with varying shades of red, purple, and blue. Contrasting with the yellow-green tones on my forehead.

No question. Susan was right. I was a mess.

“So where were you? What happened? Someone just rode past you and knocked you down?”

Again, I pictured stepping onto 9th Street. The rider speeding up. And then, the taste of gutter dirt.

Hot water, the rough washcloth stung on my elbow.

“Think back. Do you remember anything about the bike? What color was it?”

The color of blur.

“Or the rider? Was it a man or a woman?”

“No idea. But the helmet was purple. And the cyclist wore black spandex with yellow accents.”

“There. That’s something.”

Well, not really.

“Were there witnesses? Did you get their numbers? They might have seen—”

No. I didn’t get any numbers.

Susan fretted. She scolded. Finally, she took out her cell phone, made a call. Told me the police would look into it, though we both knew there was nothing, not a piece of evidence to lead them anywhere.

“What’s wrong with you, Elle? Why didn’t you get the witnesses’ information?”

I was shaking. Cold. Had no idea what was wrong with me. No, not true. I had a list of defects. And Dr. Schroeder had just identified two more.

Annoyed with me, Susan finished her doctoring. Told me I’d live. Asked if I wanted some tea.

I was still braced for her to give me the news she wouldn’t say on the phone. I opted for something stronger.

At the bar in the study, Susan poured two generous servings of Johnny Walker Black. I looked before I sat, but didn’t see Charlie on the sofa. Of course I didn’t. Charlie was gone, buried. Hadn’t shown up since the funeral.

“Want an ice pack?” Susan offered from the bar. “It’ll stop your swelling.”

“No, I’m okay.” I wasn’t. I sat gingerly, protecting sore spots, took a long swallow, leaned back, felt soothing heat slide down my throat.

And braced myself to hear whatever Susan was about to say.

She sat beside me. Sipped. Held her glass on her lap. Her suit was a soft hunter green. Professional silk blouse. Her heels low, practical. I had rarely seen Susan in lawyer garb. She sipped again. Put her glass down.

“So.” She pushed hair out of her eyes. “Two things. About Sherry McBride.”

I swallowed booze. Picturing her with Charlie, her fiery hazel eyes.

“Here’s the thing: According to Detective Stiles, there’s no
definitive evidence that Sherry McBride ever dated Charlie. No evidence that the two ever even had a drink together. Or a hot dog. Nothing.”

“What kind of evidence would they expect?”

“Witnesses. Friends who’d seen them together, or whom they’d talked to about seeing each other. Or souvenirs. Or e-mail. Or phone records. There’s nothing.”

“But she acted as if they were involved—”

“Yeah. Because, more than likely, she wanted to be involved with him. Knowing Charlie, he encouraged her. Smiled, took an interest. Talked to her. Charmed her. You know how he was. But he was probably an unwitting participant in what limited relationship they had. Probably had no clue about her fantasies.” She took another drink. Set it down again. Leaned back, stretching her arms out on the back of the sofa. Loosening up.

Charlie had the gift of remembering not just everyone’s name, but their stories, as well. Their details. As if each one he spoke to was the most important person in his life. It was how he got people to trust him. Hell. It was how he got me to marry him.

“Bottom line,” Susan continued, “no one who knows either of them says they ever saw each other romantically or even socially anywhere outside of work.”

“But they must have.” At the viewing, Sherry McBride had commented on my wedding picture. She must have seen it. “She’s been in Charlie’s bedroom.”

“Elle. I’m sorry. How could you possibly know that?”

I told her about the remark. And about the wedding picture on Charlie’s bureau.

She tsked. “Really? Do you seriously think that the photo in his bedroom is the only wedding photo Charlie had? He probably had one in his office. On his desk. For all you know, he papered the walls with pictures of you.”

“Okay.” I got it. Took a sip. Another.

“Elle, the fact that she saw a picture of your wedding doesn’t mean she saw it in his bedroom or that she was involved with him. In fact, even if she did see it in his bedroom, we can’t conclude that they were involved. Knowing her, she could have been stalking him and broke into his place.”

I was unconvinced. “It doesn’t mean anything that nobody knew. People see each other secretly all the time. Especially if they work together.”

“Elle. Seriously.” Susan frowned. “Why would Charlie bother to sneak around with her? He was single again. Could date anyone he wanted. No reason to hide.”

True.

“But beyond that, think about it. About Sherry McBride.”

I did. Saw her cornering me at the viewing with fury in her eyes.

“Look how she behaved at the viewing. How she dressed. The woman has no class. She’s loud and foulmouthed. Cheap. Crass.”

Sherry McBride was also long legged, athletic, womanly. With an ample bosom. Actually, men like Charlie might consider her amusing. Or wait, no. Not men like Charlie. What was I thinking?

“Trust me. Charlie wouldn’t as much as look at someone like her.”

Actually, she was right. Charlie wouldn’t as much as look at Sherry McBride. But not for the reasons Susan had listed. Sherry McBride was simply way too womanly. Way too adult.

I swallowed Scotch, thinking of Charlie. How many times had we had sex? A few thousand? More? During all those times, had he been fantasizing that I was a child? Oh God. I took another gulp. Another. How was it possible that I hadn’t suspected anything? Hadn’t seen any signs? Obviously, I hadn’t suspected because Charlie hadn’t wanted me to. Had been good at keeping secrets. Well, the secret was out. I was going to tell Susan, show
her the pictures. But she was still talking. I needed to pay attention, find out why she looked so upset. So animated.

“—bad news. Her alibi checked out.”

Wait, whose alibi?

“She was seen. Just like we thought, she followed Charlie to your house. But she didn’t go up to the door or ring the bell. He didn’t open the door to let her in.”

Oh. Sherry McBride’s alibi. I put my cup down, closed my eyes. “How do you know?”

“Your neighbor, Charlotte Fox, came home from work around five thirty and took her dog out. The dog found Sherry on their property and, being a guard dog, he did his thing. Went crazy. Of course, Mrs. Fox made her leave. But the important thing is when she found her, Sherry was crouching behind a planter, watching your house. She insisted that her boyfriend was in there, that she was just waiting for him to come out.”

I knew Charlotte Fox. She took great pride in her horticulture, didn’t like people messing with her planters. But wait. The encounter didn’t necessarily give Sherry an alibi. “Susan. You said Charlotte took the dog out at five thirty. Charlie wasn’t killed until after six. Sherry could have come back without Charlotte seeing her.”

“Well, no. She couldn’t have.”

Susan sighed, met my eyes. More bad news was coming.

“Stiles and Swenson did their homework. Records at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital emergency room show Sherry McBride showing up at 5:55 p.m. and being discharged at 8:15 after receiving twenty-two stitches on the ankle and calf. For dog bites.”