The Butterfly Sister (16 page)

I bolted from my chair to find Heidi, who was on the opposite side of the room schmoozing financial backers of the college, as she'd been directed to do.

“He's here,” I whispered. “And so is Meryl, his wife.”

“Bastard,” Heidi whispered back.

I spent the following hour in a tense, deliberated state, acting like an undercover cop. I watched Mark's and Meryl's every move but pretended not to, engaging in polite conversation with my friends, exchanging
hellos
with a few of my former professors.

As the night proceeded, Meryl, who at the onset of the evening had rolled beside him like some sort of ball and chain shackled to a prisoner's foot, stood several feet away from her husband. She dug her long red fingernails into Mark's chest, a litany of words falling from her equally red-tinted mouth. Presumably reaching a breaking point in the argument, Mark pushed her away, but she pushed back, knocking him hard enough to stumble and spill the remains of his gin and tonic. After that, she beelined to the door.

Once Meryl left, I saw Mark scan the room for judging eyes, and soon, his gaze landed on me. I swallowed hard but matched his stare. I thought my knees might buckle under me. I thought I might smile or cry or even laugh inappropriately. But oddly, I didn't feel anything. Maybe it was the three glasses of wine at work, but I stood my ground.

And then he looked away, without a note of recognition; no smile, no head nod, not even a sour purse of the lips.

It was as if he hadn't seen me.

J
ust before ten o'clock, I saw Mark give a half bow to a group of colleagues before heading for the door. Following, I was almost to the doorway when I felt a tug on my sweater.

“You're not going after him, are you?” Heidi asked, still holding a patch of gray wool. She seemed out of breath, as if she'd chased me two blocks, not through a half-crowded room.

I nodded and tried to keep walking. Heidi held me back.

“What about his wife?” she asked.

“Meryl left an hour ago.”

“Do you think you're up for this?”

I nodded again, even though a voice in my head begged to differ.

Heidi finally let go. “If you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm coming to look for you.”

I pushed the swinging door with force, as if to prove my strength. And just before it closed behind me, I heard Heidi whisper something like “be careful.”

Of course, there was no sign of Mark in the lobby of Newton Center. Heidi had held me back long enough to lose his trail. Which way had he gone? I wondered. He was drunk, and he knew it. He wouldn't get behind the wheel of a car, at least I hoped not. He would need to sober up first by taking a walk or a nap.

Where could he sleep on campus undisturbed?

I headed toward the north doors then, cutting through Newton Center by squeezing past a few L-shaped couches. I banged my knee on the wooden edge of one and whimpered into the empty lobby, but kept going. And once outside, I saw someone walking in the distance on the sidewalk, heading toward Langley Hall. I followed.

Once I stood outside Mark's office door, I noticed it boasted a new nameplate: Mark Suter,
Associate
Professor
of English. Below that, he had posted a copy of his course schedule. He was still teaching some of the same classes, like Classics. He had added a special course on Arthurian Legend, though, and his office hours had changed.

I heard a bump then. Pressing my ear to the door, I listened for evidence of life, a snore. But what I heard was the sliding of a drawer, then the slamming of a drawer, and finally the sound of breaking glass. He hadn't gone to sleep, I thought. He'd gone into a rage.

I turned the knob.

Meryl was crouched on the floor near the filing cabinet, picking up shards of glass from a broken photo frame. She muttered profanities under her breath. I stole a peek at the rest of the room, which looked like it had been jostled by a tornado. The papers on Mark's desk—his disorganized piles—had avalanched to the floor. The cushions of the couch had been upturned. Several books had been knocked from the shelf.

I pulled the door back slowly, but it creaked, and Meryl spun around to face me. Holding a gleaming, cleaverlike piece of glass, she approached me. I diverted my eyes to the floor but found no solace there. The sharp toes of Meryl's black heels pointed at me like accusations.

“Sorry.” I feigned confusion. “I think I'm in the wrong place.”

With her pointed shoe, Meryl stopped the door from closing and let out a cross between a laugh and an exasperated breath. “You're one of them, aren't you?”

She was so close, I could smell her breath. It was sweet, as if she'd just drunk a glass of iced tea. But her lipstick looked untouched: a smooth, satin red.

“I'm not,” I snapped, realizing a second too late that the correct response was
One of whom?
I looked again at the floor but could still feel Meryl deconstructing me with her eyes.

“Honey, you're a horrible liar.” She stepped back, relaxed her shoulders. “Now, my husband? He's got his Ph.D. in bullshit. Knows just what to say and how to say it. Knows the precise amount of detail to add to any story to make it believable but not far-fetched. Knows the right questions to ask, to make you think he gives a shit.”

I said nothing but listened for the sound of footsteps down the hall, for a door opening, something to distract the woman's attention. Then I eyed the shard of glass still in Meryl's grasp. It looked sharp enough to kill someone.

Meryl looked down at the glass too and shook her head in disbelief. “For heaven's sakes, I'm not going to hurt you.” She tossed the shard carelessly into the wastebasket. “My guess is you've already been hurt enough.”

“I'm so sorry,” I blurted.

She didn't respond. Instead she returned to the pile of broken glass on the floor. I stood there, frozen, wondering if I should leave while her back was to me. But I moved only a step before she said, “I didn't mean to break it. Honestly. It fell from my hand.” She blew a dusting of glass from the photo and held it out to me. “I barely recognize myself.”

Perhaps it was the slight shaking of her hand as she reached out to me, or the resignation of sadness lacing her voice, but I decided to accept the photo. It was the picture I remembered seeing in Mark's office, of Meryl in a teal shirt standing by a redwood tree. I'd studied the picture countless times when Mark wasn't looking. I'd gravitated toward it, hoping to see something ugly, something marred and tainted. But each time, I always saw something I was not, something just beyond my reach. I stared now at the photo, then back at Meryl's blond hair and red fingernails.

“You look different.” I regretted the comment immediately. It was girl-talk, evidence that I wanted to continue the conversation.

She shrugged and swept her bangs out of her eyes, streaking blood across her forehead. She must have cut her hand on the glass. “I'm trying to save my marriage.”

The guilt festered in my stomach. It had been so easy to be with Mark without Meryl around. It was as if she'd existed only by name, like some fictitious character who lives inside the story after you shut the book. But here she was, standing before me, flesh and blood.

Bleeding.

“Do you know where I found this?” she asked, taking the photo back, running her finger along the frame. “In the file cabinet. Under
M
too. For
Meryl
. He literally filed me away.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said again, seeing Meryl for what she really was, the victim. I wanted to tell her how much I'd been hurt too but knew it would solicit no pity.

She shrugged again, as if she no longer cared, as if she had no fight left in her, or rather, it had been beat out. “I bet you thought you were pretty special,” she said. “That you were the first. But the fact is my husband's been fooling around with his students for years. I'm not sure what number you are.” She laughed again, as if crying had done her no good in the past. “And you're just one of the girls who said
yes
. How many said
no
?”

She was right. I had thought I was the first. I knew Beth and possibly Julie Farris had come
after
me, but I had yet to think that anyone had come
before
me. From my perspective, Mark and I happened unexpectedly. A meeting in his office had simply spilled into a cup of coffee. It had all been so new, so surprising, so forbidden. For me, at least.

“I guess I was naïve,” I said.

“He's manipulative,” she went on, setting the frame on the desk before grabbing tissues from a box and winding them around her hand. She'd finally noticed the blood. “He told me working at different colleges so far apart would allow us to focus on our careers. If our marriage took a backseat, so what? When you're educated, when you're mature and secure, you don't need someone to hold your hand, caress your cheek, and whisper
I adore you
. If your husband doesn't dote on your every word, it doesn't mean he's having an
affair
.” She applied pressure to her wound. “Now that's naïve.”

She looked resilient to me, despite what she said. And I wanted to know how she did it; how she stayed with him, knowing he'd been unfaithful. I'm not sure I could have stayed, and yet I wondered if I'd have been strong enough to leave.

She stared at me, long and hard. “You're wondering why I didn't leave him.”

I nodded.

“I knew in my heart it was just sex, not love. Until . . .”

“Beth.” Her name dribbled from my mouth.

“So you know about her? Mark's
one true love
?” She snickered, the resignation suddenly absent from her voice. “No one compared to
her
. He even told me so. Right to my face when he asked for a divorce.”

My mouth dropped open—Mark had never spoken of divorcing Meryl when he was with me—but I camouflaged my surprise.

Meryl wasn't looking anyway. She was pulling the tissue, soiled with blood, off her hand. “He was ready to throw it all away for her. But karma's a bitch. Turns out, she didn't want to marry him. When she threw his ass to the curb, he came groveling back to me. And like a fool, I took him back.”

Her words struck me, because I hadn't considered the scenario, that Beth had broken things off with Mark and not the other way around.

“But he still loved her,” Meryl continued. “He was obsessed.” A sudden flash of horror crossed her face. “And I keep thinking about that saying, something about a fine line between love and hate?” She looked me squarely in the eyes then. “Did you hear? That Beth Richards is missing?”

I nodded.

“Missing girls don't usually turn up, do they? And who's the first person they suspect?”

“The husband,” I answered. “Or the boyfriend.”

She nodded solemnly. “I thought I knew my husband. I thought I knew what he was capable of. But now . . . I don't know.” She tossed the broken photo frame into the wastebasket. “I don't know anything.”

December Diary Four

December

How is it possible? That I could feel so connected, that I could tie my life and my body up with someone so cold?

How could he make love to me one day, and the next, tell me it's over?

How does he sleep at night? Does he ever think of me? Does he ever feel guilty?

If I knew that, if I knew he boasted one shred of humanity, just enough to make me a thought—even a fleeting one—then maybe I could forgive him. Maybe, one day, I could love again.

But I fear he has already forgotten me, forgotten what I look like, forgotten the curve of my face, the shape of my eyes. He has erased me from his memory to the point that he could pass me on the street or see me across a crowded room, and not even recognize me. He could look right at me, then look away without any note of recollection.

Then again, I don't recognize myself.

Chapter 12

T
he next morning, I decided to call Detective Pickens.

Maybe I had watched too many episodes of
CSI,
but it was possible, I reasoned after my discussion with Meryl, that Mark was responsible for Beth's disappearance. Could Beth have gone missing—or worse, died—in the most cliché, soap opera kind of way? In a crime of passion? If Mark couldn't have Beth, then no one could?

As much as Mark hurt me, I didn't want to consider him a suspect. I didn't want to think I'd ever been in love with a man who was capable of murder. And yet I felt a responsibility to speak up, to tell the detective what I knew. I couldn't handle the guilt of wondering anymore.

I was fishing in my purse for his business card when Heidi came through the bedroom door, her expression grave.

“I think you better come out here,” she said, her voice flat and lifeless.

Running a hand over my bed head, I followed her into the living room, where the television flickered.

“It's all over the news,” she said.

Still groggy, I didn't understand what she meant at first. Then it dawned on me. “Beth?”

Heidi nodded, then flipped from channel to channel until a picture of Beth Richards filled the screen. It was the same photo Janice had shown me. Beth was smiling; a small dimple marked her right check. She looked wholesome, the girl next door.

“ . . . has been missing since last week,” I heard the reporter say in a voice-over. “The Milwaukee native flew to Pittsburgh for a photography workshop but never arrived.”

I stared back at the screen and realized one of two things had to have happened overnight: they either found Beth Richards's body or the suspect confessed.

“Police have had this man, John C. Grenshaw of Pittsburgh, under surveillance for an undetermined amount of time. They arrested him yesterday after finding a gun and other suspicious items in the trunk of his blue Chevy Camaro.”

I turned my head when they showed the man. He was Caucasian, average-looking, but with bright orange hair and a mustache. His green eyes pierced mine, even through the television screen.

“Last night, Grenshaw confessed to raping and killing Beth Richards,” the reporter continued, “telling authorities he dumped her body in the Monongahela River. Divers are currently searching for the body. Police believe Grenshaw is linked to two other homicide cases in the Pittsburgh area. Chief of Police Jack Blumberg will provide a statement today at noon. We will continue to update you on this breaking story.”

Heidi raced through more channels. “All of the major stations are running it, if you want to see more.”

I placed my hand over her trigger finger. “I've seen enough.”

Heidi turned the television off and shivered. “Did you see his hair? Like a leprechaun.”

I shivered too.

“You okay?”

I nodded. Unlike Heidi, I'd been prepared for this impending news, but somehow it stung harder than I had expected. My emotions about Beth Richards had run the gamut—from indifference to sorrow, from jealousy to anger. And now, I felt a deep pit of regret and loss in my stomach. But I also knew one thing for certain: Mark was innocent. I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't called the detective only moments before to point an accusatory finger at him.

“I guess this changes the nature of the prayer vigil today,” Heidi said.

“We were supposed to pray for Beth's safety.”

Heidi nodded. “Now, we have to pray for her salvation.”

H
eavy and still, the air inside Frieburg Chapel was pregnant with the news of Beth Richards's murder. Everyone had either watched the news or heard about it over coffee and powdered sugar doughnuts in the lobby. I noticed people bowed their heads lower, their gestures contained and voices solemn. It was as if a storm cloud had fallen from the sky and seeped indoors, muting everything, even the vibrant hues of the chapel's stained glass.

A few hours earlier, when the newscasts began, Tarble administrators had considered canceling the vigil, because by definition, a vigil is a state of wakefulness, a watch. It implies hope. But President Monroe, who had personally telephoned Heidi to confer about the issue, insisted the ceremony still take place. Beth's murder, she said, was all the more reason for the Tarble community to come together and pray.

The vigil-turned-memorial had not escaped the attention of local newspaper reporters, who had jumped on the story of a young, beautiful woman murdered. Journalists from the Kenosha- and Milwaukee-area newspapers were on hand that morning with notepads and digital recorders, interviewing Beth's former classmates and professors. Technically, I should have been doing the same. Come Monday morning, I was supposed to submit an article to Craig about Beth's disappearance. No doubt he would expect one on her murder instead. But I knew there would never be an article. It was the epitome of conflict of interest.

As Heidi and I sat in the first pew, I watched the people—I estimated there were almost 150—enter the chapel. No one talked, and the silence magnified their heavy footsteps on the wood floor. I saw Sarah Iverson, holding a tissue up to her red, swollen eyes, take a seat a few rows behind us. The other girls from my class were there too, as well as Professor Barnard.

“It is customary to address you with Good Morning,” President Monroe finally said from the pulpit as the crowd settled. She wore a black pantsuit instead of her telltale red or blue. “But it is a morning of great sorrow. Today, we were to pray for Beth Richards, to send her the strength and the courage she needed to find her way back home. But we have learned unfathomable news. A sick, misguided man has confessed to taking her life.”

The president lowered her eyes to the podium and sighed. A wave of response trickled through the rows of people as they sighed too.

The president seemed to struggle for words, her face contorted in what seemed to be utter shock. “How can we make sense of this tragedy?” she asked, regaining composure. “I assume it will require reflection and prayer and perhaps, forgiveness. And that requires time. For now, we must remember Beth for her life, not her death.”

The president went on to describe Beth Richards as an “intelligent, graceful student who was passionate about science and life.” Then she invited Beth's former classmates and professors to come forward and speak. Many people did. One professor shared an anecdote; another a warm memory. Even Sarah Iverson spoke, telling the crowd in a shaky voice about the time she and Beth pulled an all-nighter before finals junior year, only to find out later Beth had already aced her exams.

While Sarah spoke, I saw Mark stand up across the aisle. No sign of Meryl. I hadn't known he was there. Was he daring to offer a speech about Beth? No. I watched him wrestle with knees and feet as he scooted out of the pew with his head hung low. And then, he disappeared into the lobby through the glass doors.

When the room grew suddenly silent and microphone vacant, President Monroe said a simple prayer, then encouraged us to begin a dialogue about ways to find peace among men.

Heidi and I met up with the other girls in the lobby, where we hugged and cried and stood in silent circles, still trying to wrap our minds around the news. We'd all taken a cup of coffee and a doughnut hole and a paper napkin on which to hold it, but no one seemed to eat or drink. Instead, we babbled small fragments of thought.

“Hope he gets the death penalty,” Joy said.

“Her poor mother,” Amanda added.

Janice
, I thought.
Poor Janice
. How had she taken the news? Did she pass out, or collapse or scream at Detective Pickens and beat his chest with her fists? I could imagine her repeating the word “no” a thousand times, as if saying that simple word would negate the truth about her daughter's fate. At some point, she'd have to accept the loss, and do things she never thought she would have to do, like picking out a casket and burial plot, setting a date for a wake and funeral, running obituaries in the local newspapers. I had stood beside my mother through that entire process for my father, and remembered it only as a lucid dream, a wakeful nightmare.

I was about to take a bite of my doughnut hole, or at least lick off some powdered sugar, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Tia Clark, the leader of the student protesters. I recognized her from Professor Barnard's classroom on Friday.

“Sorry to hear about your friend,” she said, tugging self-consciously at her too tight T-shirt, which read
WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY
. She guided me by the elbow away from my circle of friends. She held my arm so tightly, I winced, but I thanked her for the kind words.

Tia's mouth appeared clenched though, as if holding back what she wanted to say. “Look, it may not be the most
appropriate
time, but I'd like to talk to you about this Beth Richards girl.”

“I can't think of a more appropriate time,” I told her. It was, after all, Beth's vigil turned memorial.

Tia's expression turned sour. “It doesn't have anything to do with her murder, per se. It's just kind of weird. I thought you should know, that's all.” She pulled a paper from her back pocket, the creased program from that morning's service. “I talked to Beth Richards about two weeks ago,” she said. “I didn't know it was Beth at the time. But when I saw her picture today . . .” She pointed to the program with Beth's senior picture gracing the front. It was the same photo they'd plastered all over the news. “I'm positive it was her. She came to talk to Julie last week.”

A thud sounded in my chest. “Julie Farris?”

“We were protesting in the grove, and she walked up asking which one of us was Julie.”

“Did Julie talk to her?”

“She was at class.”

“Did Beth say what she wanted?”

“Nope. Don't think I didn't ask. She said it was private.”

I stared back at Tia's blond pigtails and hard expression and wondered about the direction of our conversation. “I'm not sure I understand,” I said.

“Seems sort of strange, doesn't it? That Beth would go looking for Julie and then, well, end up dead? Right around the time Julie tried to kill herself?”

It's stranger than that,
I thought, considering Mark's connection to both of them.

“I don't understand why you're telling
me
this,” I clarified.

“You're Ruby Rousseau, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, when I talked to Beth, she had something in her hand, something I assumed she'd brought to show Julie. And, you know, I tried to see what it was, because I'm nosy.”

“What was it?”

“A magazine of some sort. Not a glossy one, something more professional-looking. I only made out the words
Midwest
and
Council.
The rest was covered up by a yellow sticky note.”

“Okay?”

Tia tugged at her shirt once more. “She'd written some girls' names on the sticky note. Four names. Julie's name was at the very top.”

I shrugged, as if to say I still didn't understand.

She hesitated. “And your name was written directly below it.”