Unlawfull Alliances Page 9

  “What brought you around to the back of the house?”

  “I had seen Amy about an hour before, given her a brochure of my classes. I’d mentioned them to her at a party recently,” I threw in for good measure.

  “Go on.” He was taking diligent notes.

  “She seemed upset. She’d been crying.”

  “Did she tell you why?”

  I shook my head. “She wasn’t feeling well, and wanted to lie down. So I left.”

  “But—?”

  “But I was concerned so I came back to check on her. When she didn’t answer, and I saw that her car was still here, I walked around to the back of the house.”

  Jerry nodded. I knew that nod. It meant, okay—for now.

  Jerry turned his attention from me to Charlie. “And why are you here, Professor?”

  “Jenny called me right after she called the police,” Charlie explained, a tad inaccurately. His was the first number I had dialed.

  Again Jerry nodded. Still handsome after all this time, I thought. Maybe more so. The specs of grey in his dark hair had done nothing to harm his good looks. They only reflected the stressful hours he spent as a police detective.

  Twenty years I had known Jerry, ever since we had met in my father’s criminology class at the college. I always knew he would make it as far as he had. He was persistent if nothing else. How many times had he asked me out before I finally had convinced him that I was in love with Joe Campbell? Upward of ten, at least. I smiled at the memory. And that playful gleam in his eye that had almost made me say yes.

  But none of that charm or playfulness was apparent now. I wondered if it had been lost along the way of a police detective. I was tempted to press my fingers into and make smooth, the furrowed skin above his eyebrows. As if reading my thoughts, Jerry reached up and did it for me.

  His assistants and some technicians from the crime lab were milling about now, looking for clues, dusting for prints, taking photographs and measurements, speculating here and there.

  “So, what do you think, sir?” one of his deputies asked.

  “I think we’ll keep looking,” he said rather curtly, driving the rookie back to work. Under his breath, he added, “And we won’t rule out suicide.”

  Charlie’s eyes met mine.

  “What makes you say that?” Charlie asked the detective.

  “Found an open bottle of tranquilizers in the upstairs bathroom.”

  I too had seen the open but not empty bottle. Before the police arrived, and after I had pulled Amy’s body from the hot tub and confirmed that she was indeed dead, I had made a quick survey of the scene, from hot tub to living room, to kitchen, to bedrooms. Not a single sign of a struggle. Among the few things to catch my attention was the carafe of brandy that seemed to have its permanent spot on the dining room wet bar. One glass had evidence of a splash of tanned liquid. Only one. A set of golf clubs leaned against the wall beside the front door, as if waiting to be used or to be put back in the closet. Perhaps what was most noticeable was that everything else was in perfect place and order. Not everything, I reminded myself. Three library books sat on the floor beside the fireplace. All romances. And three CD’s had not been returned to their proper place. Billie, Ella and Louis, and Sidney Bechet.

  Still stuck in my mind was the sterile decor and furniture that seemed so out of place in a warm and quaint home such as this. The cold leather and metal were incompatible with the warmth of the wood. The solitary overstuffed floral chair in the corner was all that seemed in harmony with the house. And the baby grand piano—a Steinway—across the room, keyboard exposed and at the ready to fill the solemn house with music.

  Even the baby’s room felt sterile. But for a hanging mobile above the crib, with its black and white shapes, the room was empty of decor. No colorful pictures of lambs and puppies. No quilted balloons or rainbows. Only a changing table, a dresser, a stack of cloth diapers—I was happy to see—and the crib.

  I could not pick up the slightest energy of a baby and wondered how much time Scott and Amy’s son actually spent in this room. Perhaps they could not resist his tears and took him into their own bed. I smiled, but a moment later remembered. This poor infant was motherless, never again to be held in the arms of his young mother, never again to be raised into the air as his mother’s lips pressed against his bare tummy. Never again.

  The only room to have a personal aura was the den, Scott’s home office. Trophies occupied the ledge that encircled the room. Soccer from his childhood years, college rugby and basketball, more recently tennis and golf. Most valuable player several times over, the best at everything he did. Still not good enough for his father. I had no doubt that he had graduated Bolt with honors. But it wasn’t Harvard.

  The white walls were covered with framed posters of ferries. Bainbridge Island, Whidbey, Vashon, Bremerton, Orcas. A ferryboat lover, like me.

  A quick survey? How long had it taken the police to arrive? I had, after all, spent some time studying the photographs that lined his desk. Judging from those, rugby was his favorite sport, or at least made for the most interesting pictures or perhaps they provided the best memories. There were as many pictures of Scott swirling beer with his teammates as there were on the field. From my assessment, he played wing, and from the fierce look on his face in more than one photo, either he found the sport a healthy release for his anger or he was highly competitive by nature. Another large frame stood out, containing a collage of theater performances. It seemed that Scott always had the lead role. I wondered if he had sacrificed his passion in order to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  But two other memories held center stage, set in matching silver frames. Amy had looked beautiful in her white silk gown with pearls lining the sleeves and neck. Scott’s arm lay gently around her waist, and they were smiling at each other. How long had the smile lasted? Until the honeymoon? Until the birth of their son? She was smiling, after all, at the silver framed infant in her arms—the other photograph. A different smile though—one of relief? How hard was the labor? Or was it simply for the benefit of the photographer, who was no doubt, her son’s father?

  “Was there a suicide note?” Charlie’s question interrupted my wandering thoughts.

  “Nope,” Jerry answered.

  Charlie took my hand and led me away from Jerry and his band of detectives.

  “Are you okay, luv?”

  I shrugged. As well as could be expected. “What do you think?” I asked him.

  “Could have been so upset about Jake, she took some tranquilizers and let herself slip into a sound and permanent sleep in the hot tub,” Charlie said.

  “Possible.”

  “Or she took some tranquilizers to calm herself, and accidentally drowned herself in the hot tub.”

  “That too is possible,” I said.

  “But you don’t think so, do you?” Charlie said.

  I shook my head.

  “What is it, Jenny?”

  “Not sure.” I walked along the garden path, the same path that had led me to Amy’s body. Stopping adjacent to the garage, I closed my eyes for a moment. There was nothing I could hold onto, no images or even thoughts, but something was gripping my attention. I opened my eyes and walked back toward the hot tub, stopping again.

  “What are you picking up?” Charlie asked in a voice softer than his usual.

  “Nothing really, just—” I closed my eyes again. When I opened them, I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “You think she was murdered.”

  “But it’s nothing more than a feeling.” Or was it my imagination? If it was suicide, there was something I needed to know and probably would never know. Had she killed herself out of grief over losing Jake? Or had I driven her to it, out of fear. Either way, I was the one person who could have prevented it. I could have stayed with her, whether she wanted me to or not.

  “You’re not blaming yourself, Jenny.”

  I leaned into Charlie’s sturdy shoulder. “Practicall
y the last thing I said to her was that the police would find their way to Scott. She could have been so upset that everything—whatever that is—would come out, that she took the quickest escape route she could find.”

  “If it’s suicide, Jenny, it was her choice.”

  “But you don’t think it was, do you?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like it to me either.”

  “What about Jake? Do you think the hit and run was deliberate?”

  “We should know soon. No witnesses, but they’re interviewing people who were in the vicinity.”

  “Your intuition?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Don’t like to bank on that.”

  “You bank on mine every chance you get.”

  “Yours is more trustworthy.”

  I punched Charlie gently in the side of the arm. “When it’s not jangled and running upside down and backwards.” Then a sudden chill ran down my spine and back up again. “No.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think Jake’s death was an accident.”

  “If we’re right, then this really doesn’t look good for Scott.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I sat down on the stone wall beside the rose garden. “But I can’t believe it. I don’t believe Scott Morrison would murder anyone.” I inhaled the scent of the spring roses—just a reminder of what it felt like to be alive. Then I looked up at my father. “But, Charlie, does that give us an excuse to withhold information from the police?”

  * * *

  It is one of those things I have never grasped about life. How we go on with our daily living after someone else’s daily living has stopped. But we do it. Even when it is someone close to us, someone we love and cherish.

  I was there when Scott Morrison found out his young wife’s life had come to an end. That is, assuming he didn’t already know. From my assessment, he did not. That was why I was there, to observe his reaction.

  The devastation as the life seemed to slip from his own body, the energy draining from his complexion, was not something one could fake. Nor could the obdurate shaking head, as if denying it was so, erase the truth.

  “Jenny? Why are you here?” Scott asked, noticing me ten minutes into his grief.

  “I found Amy.”

  He looked bewildered. “I brought her a brochure of my classes, and—”

  “Jenny is working with me,” Charlie told him.

  “With you?”

  “She’s my daughter,” Charlie said.

  Scott was not able to process this. It might be something he thought about later. Or maybe not. Maybe nothing of these past few moments would stay with him. Beyond the grief. What thoughts go through someone’s head at these times? Do they stay in the grief? Do they tell themselves over and over that this person, this beloved fixture in their life is gone, forcing the pain so that they can grasp its truth? Or do they offer their heart some relief with thoughts that fluctuate between facing the truth of this loved one’s absence in their life, and mundane thoughts such as did they remember to pick up their suit at the laundry and do they need to add dog food to their shopping list? Or is it different for each person? Are the methods of processing grief as individual as ones thoughts, and yet universal in its stages of shock, denial, anger, grief, and acceptance.

  I hugged Scott and gave him another one of my cards so that he might think to call me if he needed someone to talk to, and then I went home to fix dinner for my healthy and intact family. There was some relief in that, overshadowed slightly by the guilt I felt for the good fortune in my life.

  Holly was studying and, according to a message on the answering machine, Joe was late. Running on automatic, I peeled off my coat, washed my hands, and poured myself a glass of water from my homemade ceramic pitcher that seemed even more beautiful than usual tonight. Then I set about the nightly task of feeding my family, nourishing them, keeping them healthy.

  What would Scott have for dinner tonight? I wondered. What would he wear tomorrow? Would it be an outfit deliberately chosen from his closet, or would it be the trousers nearest to the bed, and the shirt on the top of the stack?

  I washed the chicken breasts, poured my favorite salad dressing on top for a marinade, and popped it, along with three potatoes, in the oven. Then I washed and chopped the broccoli and slid it into a pot to be cooked later. The easiest meal I ever cooked, one I could prepare with a blindfold. That was necessary tonight.

  Then I settled down on the couch in the den and dialed my son’s dormitory telephone number.

  “What’s up, Mom? Do you have news about Edinburgh? Has Charlie talked to anyone?”

  “Oh, no news. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Hear my voice?”

  “I love you, honey.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah, me too.”

  “Are you coming home this weekend?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “I’ll see you then.” There were tears brimming in my eyes when I hung up. Tears of relief that yes, if all stayed right in my Universe, I would see my son this weekend.

  When Joe still wasn’t home by seven, I called Holly down to dinner. It wasn’t that I was hungry. It wasn’t even because I was concerned about my daughter’s being hungry. It was more that I wanted to lose myself in the comfort and routine of everyday life and conversation.

  “Any tests tomorrow?”

  “History. Why do we have tests anyway, Mom? They’re so idiotic.”

  “I guess so they can assess whether or not you know what they think you should know.”

  “Stupid. There must be a kinder way.”

  I liked her choice of words.

  “You’re not eating much.” She had noticed.

  “Not very hungry.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I stared at my daughter before speaking. It took a moment to see past the baby face. She was practically grown up. Eighteen last month.

  “The wife of a friend died today,” I told her.

  “Oh, my God. Who?”

  “You don’t know them. A colleague of Dad’s.”

  “How awful. Was she old?”

  “No, actually, she was quite young.”

  “That’s terrible. How did she die?”

  “I don’t have all the information yet.”

  “Will you talk about it at your women’s circle tonight?”

  “Oh, no!” I jumped up from the table and asked Holly to put a plate of food in the oven for her dad and to clear up for me. Then I hurried into the living room to make sure that no stray bras or dirty socks were peeking out from beneath the overstuffed couch cushions.

  Now I knew what people did when someone died. They forgot things.

  In five minutes approximately ten women would walk through that door expecting me to be coherent and present for them.

  I ran my hand across the hand-carved pine coffee table, as if checking for dust. But it was comfort I was after, the comfort of soft, warm wood, familiar wood that had been handed down to me from my great aunt.

  “Jenny?” Joe came into the living room. He must have pulled into the garage without my hearing him.

  I walked into his welcoming arms. More relief. More solace.

  “I have some terrible news, Jenny.”

  I pulled back so I could look up at him, my husband, still safe and sound. “I know.”

  “You heard about Amy Morrison?”

  “I found her.”

  “My God! Jenny!”

  “I’m fine. I’m perfectly okay, Joe.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Dropping off a brochure of my classes.” The lie caught like a dry bone in my throat.

  He sat down on the chair behind him, his hands covering his face. “I just can’t believe it. She was so young.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “She drowned in the hot tub. Apparently she’d taken a tranquilizer. They think it might have been suicide bu
t they’re investigating all possibilities.”

  “Suicide?” He shook his head in disbelief. It had never been something Joe could comprehend, why someone would take their own life.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Find out?”

  Something else we did when processing death. We slowed down—our reactions, our comprehension.

  He looked up slowly as if seeing my face would help him understand the question. “Oh. Jane. She was talking to Anthony when Rosemary called the office. She needed some information about George Maxwell. You know, the head of Maxwell and Hammond. Anthony knows him, so she thought . . . ” He was searching for details that didn’t matter, especially at moments like this, but perhaps it was those inane details that helped us get through moments like this.

  The doorbell rang and we both turned and stared at the door. “My group,” I murmured.

  “Can’t you cancel?” Joe asked.

  “I think it’s too late.”

  * * *

  I led the meditation, slipping into the protective shield of my words, finding more solace. My voice was not my own. There was comfort in that as well. It happens when I ask for support. And if I open my heart, I receive it.

  I talked about creating our own reality. We are after all, the Creator’s creation. “Co-creators,” I tell my circle of women. I am still in awe that they listen.

  “Like creating a garden,” Julia offers. “We do the labor, but we know that without the earth and the air and the sun, it would not grow.”

  And in its right time it dies. I have told them about Amy’s death. It is the only way I can be present with them.

  “Why is it that some of us have overgrown gardens and others have rows of lilacs and roses?” Marianne asks.

  “And others have gardens that are filled with thorns and prickles or gardens that wilt and die?” I close my eyes to allow the answer to come. “Why do some of us choose the comedy or the romance, and next door someone else, is watching the horror film? And who is the creator of our personal screenplay? Do we write it ourselves by our choices, our thoughts?”

  “Do you think so?” Judith asks.

  “Actually, I think we’re not only the writer, but the producer, the director, editor and actor.” My laugh is weak, as is my spirit at this moment. “The protagonist and the antagonist.”