About That Night (9 page)

“What did the two of you do on Sunday after you got up?”

“I helped my mom make brunch—waffles and syrup.” Her mom adored Derek too. She went all out whenever he came over. “We ate. Derek and Carly cleared the table and did the dishes. Then we went outside and fooled around in the snow for a while. Then cocoa and supper and
TV
. We played Rock Star.”

“And after that?”

“After that?”

“Derek went home that night, correct?” Tritt says.

Jordie frowns. How does he know that?

“Mrs. Maugham told us that you told her you were pretty sure Derek went home that night to get something,” Tritt explains.

“Did you go with him?” Diehl asks.

Jordie shakes her head. “I didn't even know he was going.”

“Then how did you know he went home? Did you see him leave your house?”

Again she shakes her head. “I figured out later that that's what he must have done. He said he had a present for me. I think—well, I thought—he might have gone home to get it.”

“Mrs. Maugham also says you told her the route you thought Derek took,” Diehl says. “How did you know that?”

“It's the way he usually goes.”

“We searched the area behind his house. We didn't find anything. How did you know where to look?”

“I guess I just got lucky.”

Diehl leans forward. “Are you sure you weren't with him that night, Jordie?” His eyes are drilling into her.

“No. I mean, I wasn't with him.” She wishes he would stop looking at her like that. Jesus, what does he think? Does he think she had something to do with it? Does he think
she
killed Derek? “I was at home. I was asleep when he left the house. I didn't know he was gone until the next morning.”

“How about you and Derek?” Diehl asks.

Another question out of the blue. “What about us?”

“How were the two of you getting along? Did you fight at all—maybe a lovers' quarrel?”

What? Is he serious? “You don't seriously think
I
killed Derek, do you?”

“Did you?” Diehl asks. There is nothing joking in his voice. It's a serious question, and it unnerves her.

“No!” She wishes her father was back in the room with her. “I would never hurt Derek!”

“We have to ask these questions, Jordie,” Tritt says, which is when Jordie sees what's going on. It's like a cop-show playbook—Diehl is bad cop, Tritt is good cop. These things really happen—at least, that's what Jordie is concluding. “We're just trying to get a fix on what happened.”

“We were getting along just fine,” Jordie says. So what if she and Derek had had a spat? That was nobody's business but their own—well, her own now.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Derek?”

“Like what?”

“Who he hung around with. Where he liked to hang out. Anything at all, even if you don't think it's important or relevant.”

She tells Diehl and Tritt who Derek's friends were—mostly the guys on the hockey team—and what he did in his spare time—mostly hanging out at the arena or on whatever ice he could find. He wasn't a complicated guy. He loved to play hockey, watch hockey, talk hockey. He liked to eat; he had a teenage hockey player's appetite. And he liked her. He liked to be with her and touch her and have her touch him. But that part she leaves out. It has nothing to do with anything.

“Well,” Diehl says finally, “I'd like to thank you for taking the time to come down here. And if you think of anything at all, Jordie, call me or Sergeant Tritt. You'll do that, right?”

She says she will.

Her father is waiting for her outside the small room. He's standing there, away from the wall, his coat over his arm, like a man waiting for a bus or a train. He waits for her to come to him and they walk out of the police station in silence. They don't talk on the way home.

Twelve

M
idmorning the next day, there's a knock on her door.

“Jordana, can I come in?”

Jordie slides off the bed to admit her mother, who is holding a tray on which she's put a cup of tea—it looks like green tea; if it is, it's spiked with organic honey—and two slices of buttered raisin toast.

“Are you okay, honey? I thought you might want something.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Jordie takes the tray and sets it on her bedside table. She sits on the bed again. Her mother hovers in the doorway. “I'm fine, Mom. Really.”

“It's so terrible,” Mrs. Cross says. “I can't imagine why anyone would want to do such a thing. His poor parents.”

Jordie doesn't know what to say.

“Honey, we're going to Elise Diehl's funeral. Do you want to come?”

Jordie knows that going would be the right thing to do. But she shakes her head. The funeral may give her the opening she has been waiting for.

“Are you sure?” her mother says. “You always liked her.”

Jordie turns watery eyes on her mother. “Derek is dead, Mom. I'm going to have to go to that funeral, which is something I never in a million years thought I would ever have to do. Please don't make me go to another one. I'll send a card to Lieutenant Diehl. I promise.”

Mrs. Cross hesitates. She had the kind of upbringing that stressed social and community obligations. She remembers her father telling her on more than one occasion,
Always go to the funeral
. But her daughter's boyfriend has just been found dead in the woods. According to the police, he's been murdered. Maybe Jordie is right. Maybe one funeral is the most anyone can expect under the circumstances.

“We'll be gone for a couple of hours. If you need me—”

“I'll be fine, Mom.”

“—you can always call.”

Jordie nods. She wishes her mother would go.

But she doesn't go. “Do you want me to find out when Derek's funeral is?” she asks.

“I'm sure his parents will tell me,” Jordie says. She feels almost guilty that she isn't nearly as upset as her mother is. She supposes that tells her something, either about her own temperament or about her feelings for Derek. She feels guilty about that too. She was going to break up with him. Yes, he was a sweet guy. Yes, he was kind and attentive and thoughtful. But did she love him? Maybe she would have if she hadn't already experienced the head-over-heels whirlwind-tornado-cyclone-hurricane of emotions that couldn't have been anything else but genuine, passionate, true and what she had believed at the time was timeless love with Ronan.

“Well then.” Her mother is still in the doorway, still hovering, probably wondering what she can do to make everything better. She's that kind of mom, the kind who can't bear to see her children sad or hurt or wounded or upset, the kind who believes that if she says or does the right thing, it will have the magical effect of a kiss on a bruise, it will make everything better, make it whole again, banish whatever pain her children have suffered, as if suffering is operated by an on-off switch that only she can throw.

“Thanks for the tea, Mom. It's just what I wanted.”

Her mother smiles. Her work done, she withdraws, closing the door carefully and silently.

Jordie sinks back against the pillow to wait. She hears the murmur of her parents' voices as they dress for the funeral. She hears Carly ask if anyone has seen her black sweater. She hears Carly again: “How come I have to go and Jordie gets to stay home?”

“Because of Derek,” their mother says. That's it, the whole explanation. Maybe there will be more outside in the car. Or maybe Carly is finally—praise the Lord—old enough to understand that treating one's children equally does not always mean making them do the exact same thing.

Jordie hears her parents and Carly down in the front hall as they pull on coats and boots, scarves, hats and gloves. She hears the front door open and close. She hears the key turn in the lock. Then…silence.

She gets up, goes into her parents' room at the front of the house and stands close enough to the window to watch as the car pulls out of the driveway and starts down the street, but far enough away that no one can see her. She waits a full five minutes after it goes around the corner and vanishes from sight. Then she races back to her room, changes out of her pyjamas and goes downstairs to get into her coat and boots.

» » »

Ronan's car isn't in his driveway. It isn't behind the hardware store either, which means he isn't working today. So Jordie heads down to the lake and trudges around the point, where all the big houses are, and then hikes along the shore toward the old part of town, the part that was settled back in the 1800s, where many of the houses are originals and where, so far, none have been torn down to make room for some hideous monster house. If someone even thought of it, they'd have a fight on their hands, because the local historical society is vocal, and even the Chamber of Commerce recognizes that history sells.

There's a stretch of lakefront between the point and the old town that in summer is a public beach and in winter is more or less deserted. It is here that Jordie spots a figure on the ice. It's Ronan, taller than ever in his hockey skates, dressed in black jeans and a black jacket, a black tuque on his head. He's pushing a snow shovel, skating behind it in a straight line, up and down, up and down, cleaning off something roughly the size and shape of a hockey rink. He doesn't see her until she is close enough to touch him and she speaks.

“Getting ready for a game?”

Ronan jumps. When he sees who it is, he doesn't smile.

“What are you doing here?” His tone and the look that goes with it irk her. They're supposed to convey indifference. Whether they reflect his true feelings is anyone's guess. But Jordie, remembering how she used to feel about him, is reluctant to accept that they do.

“Maybe I came to give you back the bracelet,” she says. “You know, the one you gave me and that now you want me to return.”

Aha! There's a flicker of emotion in his eyes. The only trouble is, she can't figure out which one. Hurt, maybe? Or anger?

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Is that why you came?”

She has to admit that it isn't. “I haven't found it yet.” Ronan wraps his hand around the shovel handle again. “But Derek didn't have it,” she adds.

“That's what he told you, huh?” Spoken like she's an idiot to believe that.

“It happens to be true.” She's annoyed that he would say something like that now, given what's happened. “You heard what happened to him, right?”

She's stunned when he shakes his head.

“You're kidding me!”

He leans on the shovel and stares deep into her eyes. “Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me guess?”

“You really don't know?” She isn't sure if she believes him. It's been in the local paper. It's been on the news. “He was missing.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And they found him, Ronan.”

“So, he's not missing anymore. Problem solved, right?”

Jesus. She wants to slap him. How can he really not know?

“He's dead, Ronan. Derek is dead.”

The surprise on his face strikes her as genuine. But is it? She wants to believe she would recognize deceit, but going out with Ronan has taught her how little she knows about him. She was blindsided when the relationship ended. It's the kind of thing any girl should have seen coming. But she didn't. She was no better at reading Ronan at the end than she was at the beginning, when he stunned her by suddenly becoming interested in her, then friendly.

“Dead?” he says now.

Jordie nods. “You didn't have anything to do with it, did you, Ronan?”

“What?” Also genuine, at least on the surface. “Me? What are you talking about?”

“Where did you go after you left my house?”

“What are you, the cops?”

“Just tell me, Ronan.”

“You think I killed your boyfriend?”

“Did you?”

They stare at each other, both of them looking shocked by the words that have just come out of Jordie's mouth. Is she really accusing Ronan of murder? Does she think he's capable of that?

Ronan blinks first. “Why would I do something like that?”

“You said you saw him with your bracelet.” It's what she's been thinking. She might as well say it.

“You think I killed your boyfriend over a bracelet?”

“I was there when the police found him,” she says. It's close enough to the truth. “They also found a button, Ronan. A military button.”

“So?”

“I recognized it. It's from your jacket. The one you were wearing that night.”

There is no emotion at all on his face now.

“There are a lot of buttons like that around.”

She stares at him. He stares at her. Why did she come here? What did she think was going to happen? What did she think she would accomplish?

“I just thought I'd let you know,” she says finally. “They found the button. They asked Derek's mom about it. If they ask around enough, they'll find out that I used to go out with you and they might want to talk to you.”

“Why?” As if he can't possibly imagine.

“They might think you have something against Derek.”

He's quiet for a moment, thinking this over. “You mean,” he says at last, “they might think I was jealous that you were seeing him instead of me and might think I killed him?” She doesn't answer. “Interesting theory. Except for one thing. I'm the one who broke up with you. You remember that, right? So why would I be jealous?”

Jesus, he's such an asshole sometimes. He just can't miss a chance to rub it in. She turns to go. As she takes the first step away from him, she realizes she's waiting for him to grab her arm and hold her back. Or tell her to wait. But all she hears is the scraping of the snow shovel against the surface of the ice as he goes back to clearing a skating rink.